The Emerald Affair

by Trotter, Janet MacLeod

  ‘But you play the most divine waltzes on your violin, darling.’

  Tom turned towards the voice and saw a tall elegant woman descending the staircase in a midnight-blue velvet evening gown and a headband of ostrich feathers. Stella, the Dubois’ daughter, rushed to help her, holding up the train of the old-fashioned dress so the woman didn’t trip as she descended.

  Ansom exclaimed, ‘Ah, there you are, baroness!’

  ‘We have your drink ready,’ Fritters called out, twiddling his moustache excitedly. ‘Come and toast our new arrivals.’

  Tom watched, entranced, as the slim woman made a regal entry down the remaining steps. Up close she looked much older, her porcelain features lined with tiny fissures around her eyes and mouth, and her neck was scrawny under a glinting emerald necklace.

  ‘I am Baroness Hester Cussack,’ she announced with a smile and a trace of a Middle-European accent. She proffered a bony bejewelled hand to be kissed.

  With only a moment’s hesitation, Tom raised her hand to his lips. He heard Lydia stifle a snort of amusement. The baroness turned and bestowed a smile on Lydia.

  ‘What a beautiful wife you have, Captain Lomax,’ she said. ‘Madame Lomax, I can see you are a woman of style. Our hotel has been sadly lacking a woman’s touch – the thankfully departed bachelor Littleton had no taste whatsoever. We look forward to seeing you enhance our home – I’m sure you and your handsome husband will return the Raj to its former glory.’

  Tom, seeing Lydia quite lost for words, had to suppress his amusement. The baroness talked as if the hotel was hers and she was inviting them to stay. In fact, all the guests seemed completely at home. He wondered how long they had been living there. Littleton had indicated there were only one or two long-term residents. No doubt the amiable Charlie would brief him soon enough.

  Ansom and Fritwell began fussing around the baroness, settling her into a chair at their table.

  ‘Will you care to join us in a chota peg, captain?’ asked Ansom.

  ‘Umm, take away the taste of that god-awful nimbu pani,’ added Fritwell.

  Tom had a sudden craving for a strong drink but a quick glance at Lydia’s tight expression made him resist.

  ‘Perhaps after we’ve had time to wash and change,’ he said.

  At once Charlie snapped his fingers. ‘Sunil, take the Lomaxes’ luggage up to their flat.’ He gave a deferential nod to Lydia. ‘Please allow me to show you upstairs, Mrs Lomax. We have everything ready at your disposal. My good wife has chosen the linens and furnishings which I hope will meet with your approval and delight.’ He waved her forward. ‘Please, please; come.’

  Tom followed Lydia and Charlie up the stairs and down a long dimly lit corridor, to a door at the far end. To Tom’s relief, the room they were shown into was a large and airy sitting room with a veranda on either side. Through a further door he glimpsed a bedroom.

  While Charlie supervised Sunil in placing their luggage onto racks in the bedroom, Tom studied the photograph of some ancient ruins hanging over the mantelpiece.

  ‘Is that Taxila?’ he asked the manager when he reappeared.

  ‘It is indeed,’ Charlie said with enthusiasm. ‘I took the photograph myself. I am greatly interested in its history – I have a huge thirst for Indian archaeology.’

  ‘I’ve never managed to visit Taxila,’ said Tom, ‘but I’ve always wanted to.’

  ‘Then if you will permit me, sir,’ said Charlie, ‘I would be honoured to accompany you and Mrs Lomax and show you the jewel in Rawalpindi’s crown.’

  Lydia gave a short laugh. ‘You can count me out. One set of fallen stones looks much the same to me as another whatever country it’s in.’

  Charlie looked crestfallen as he retreated to the door. ‘Then I shall leave you in peace and tranquillity,’ he said. ‘Please ring the bell if you have any wants or requirements.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Dubois,’ Tom answered. ‘You’ve made us feel most welcome.’

  ‘Please, call me Charlie.’ He stood in the doorway, smiling tentatively and smoothing down his oiled hair.

  ‘Charlie it is then,’ said Tom.

  Charlie continued to hover. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?’

  Tom glanced at Lydia. She shook her head. ‘No thank you, Charlie.’

  Charlie bowed. ‘May I just take this opportunity, Captain Lomax, to say how very pleased we are that you have purchased the Raj. We hope that you and Mrs Lomax will have many happy years here. I speak on behalf of the Dubois family when I say that we are at your service, night and day.’

  Tom was touched. He had a sudden feeling that everything was going to be all right and that he had done the right thing in buying the hotel. He thanked Charlie again and the manager bowed and left them alone.

  Lydia flopped into a wooden armchair and winced. ‘Goodness, this is uncomfortable! I thought the man was never going to leave. He’s got the oddest way of speaking, hasn’t he? I bet that timid little wife of his doesn’t get a word in edgeways.’ She pulled off her hat and sighed. ‘And who are all those extraordinary people downstairs? Aren’t there any normal guests? They look like part of the furniture. Do they live here permanently?’

  ‘It would seem so,’ said Tom with a rueful smile, discarding his jacket and pulling off his tie.

  ‘Well, we’ll have to see about that,’ said Lydia. ‘There’s so much needs doing, it’s overwhelming.’

  ‘This room is nice,’ Tom said.

  She grimaced. ‘The furniture’s terrible. It’ll all have to go. Mummy will need smelling salts when she sees the décor.’

  ‘Well, that’s something you can do together,’ Tom suggested. ‘I want you to decorate it exactly how you like.’ He unbuttoned his shirt and grinned. ‘Shall we go and inspect the bedroom, Madame Lomax?’

  Lydia gave a huff of amusement. ‘Madame Lomax indeed! Do you think that woman is really a baroness?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t she be?’

  ‘I thought her accent a bit false and that grand entrance was so calculated – she’d been hovering in the shadows waiting for her moment to impress.’

  Tom pulled Lydia to her feet and kissed her hand. ‘Allow me to show you to your boudoir, madame.’ He began planting kisses up her arm and nuzzling her neck.

  ‘Oh, Tom, really,’ she said, ‘we don’t have time for this.’

  ‘We’ve plenty of time,’ he murmured, nibbling her ear and beginning to undo the hooks at the back of her dress. ‘I’ve been longing to get you alone for ages.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Lydia stiffened. ‘I thought you liked having my parents around.’

  ‘I do,’ Tom said. ‘They’re delightful company. But I want your company more.’

  He couldn’t tell her how much he craved the leisurely days of intimacy that they’d had on honeymoon and hadn’t had since. On the long sea voyage every minute of the day had been taken up with socialising and keeping the Templetons entertained. That’s why he had encouraged Lydia’s parents to spend a few days in Lahore before joining them in Rawalpindi. It had taken till now to get Lydia on her own.

  Tom sensed her reluctance. He braced himself for her to push him away and say it wasn’t the right time of day.

  Abruptly she started to giggle. ‘You should have seen your face when that baroness held out her hand to be kissed. Priceless! I thought you were going to drop on one knee!’

  Lydia shook with laughter. Tom began to laugh with her.

  ‘Put your arms around my neck, Madame Lomax,’ he ordered.

  In one swift movement, he pulled her off her feet and into his arms. Lydia squealed but wrapped her arms around him. Tom carried her into the bedroom and pushed the door closed with his foot. They collapsed onto the bed together with a squeak of springs.

  Lydia laughed. ‘That’s something else that needs replacing.’

  ‘Anything you want, my darling.’

  As Tom began kissing her, he thought how lucky he was to have married such a bea
utiful woman.

  Chapter 13

  Three weeks after leaving a grey and wet Liverpool, the SS Galloway Castle was docking at the Ballard Pier in Bombay. Esmie stood at the rail transfixed by the teaming harbour as an army of stevedores ran up and down the gangplanks unloading luggage and carrying trunks that dwarfed them. The air rang with the clank of chains, blast of funnels and the general hubbub of disembarking passengers and cries of vendors. Beyond the chaos of the wharfs, shimmering in the morning heat, was the Gateway of India. Esmie was disappointed to see the triumphal archway was only half-built. She’d read about King George laying the foundation stone in 1911. War must have stalled the imperial project.

  ‘Come on, my dear,’ chivvied Harold. ‘Time to set foot on Indian soil.’

  Galvanised out of her reverie by the thrilling thought, Esmie followed her husband off the ship.

  By the time they had claimed their luggage and Harold had completed the paperwork for their trunks to be sent on by train, Esmie was perspiring heavily in the humid heat. She longed to dive off the pier into the shimmering sea, though from the rank pervading smell of oil and effluent she would probably be ill if she did. Instead, she mopped her brow and climbed into a tonga beside Harold, waving farewell to Bernie who was going to stay at a friend’s club.

  Soon she forgot her discomfort as she took in the sights of tree-lined streets and dazzling buildings which reminded her of the Mediterranean, yet with the added vibrant colours of sari-clad women and men dressed in long white coats and tight-fitting trousers who thronged the pavements.

  They passed the ornately decorated hotels close to the sea front and drew up outside a more modest three-storey building down a side street and next to a church. At the door of the mission house, their cases were taken by a skinny young man with a startlingly red-toothed smile, who staggered down a dark hallway with his load and disappeared up a flight of stairs. Esmie welcomed the cool interior. Upstairs, she wiped her face and neck with a damp flannel before they joined half a dozen other guests – all men – in the dining room for lunch.

  Harold knew a couple of the other missionaries, one of them a headmaster and seasoned India-hand who had just seen his wife onto a boat home to visit family. Augustus Tolmie was a wiry balding man of middle-age who ran a mission school in Murree.

  ‘Murree’s near to Rawalpindi in the north Punjab, isn’t it?’ asked Esmie.

  ‘It is,’ said Mr Tolmie. ‘We get a lot of British escaping the hot season in Pindi – especially the army-wallahs. The town doubles in size and becomes quite lively – too lively at times,’ he said with a roll of the eyes.

  ‘In what way?’ asked Esmie.

  He grunted. ‘Well, I think some of the young officers think it is their duty to drink the Murree Brewery dry. Then they get up to all sorts of pranks like walking on bridge walls with sheer drops. Just this year, one drunken young subaltern fell to his death, poor misguided fellow. We try and keep them occupied with coming to church and playing sport but there are often too many temptations in the card rooms and dance halls of the cantonment.’

  Before Esmie could ask him more about the hill station, the men were turning to talk of the recent unrest in the North-West Frontier.

  ‘You show great pluck, Mrs Guthrie,’ Tolmie said. ‘I wouldn’t be letting my wife go to such a place.’

  Harold flushed. ‘But I’m told that things are quiet again among the Waziris,’ he said. ‘My friend Bannerman said it was safe to return.’

  ‘Are things ever safe among the Pathans?’ the headmaster questioned. ‘We heard some terrible tales from the garrison at Murree about attacks on the outlying British forts. The area is awash with weapons the Afghans left behind and the tribes are making the most of the Indian Army being weakened by our best troops still being overseas – or dead in the recent war.’ He leaned forward and dropped his voice. ‘I have it on good authority: this summer, some of the sepoys defected to the Afghans and took their firearms with them. Our frontier is being defended by inexperienced soldiers led by young officers who are just as green behind the ears. Those crafty Pathans sensed the upper hand and struck.’

  Esmie remembered Tom saying something similar earlier in the summer.

  ‘You may be right,’ said Harold, looking anxious. ‘But the danger has passed and the tribes have signed a treaty.’

  Tolmie shook his head. ‘The treaty signed last month was with Afghanistan, not the Frontier tribes. The Pathans are a law unto themselves.’

  ‘I know these people,’ said Harold stoutly, ‘and they trust us at the mission.’

  Tolmie looked sceptical. ‘Be cautious in trusting them, dear chap. From what I heard, they showed no mercy in the raids – especially to their own kind. Mutilations and burnings. Some of the women—’

  ‘Please, Augustus,’ Harold cried, holding up his hands in horror. ‘You are upsetting my wife.’

  ‘Please forgive me,’ Tolmie said at once. ‘That was not my intention. I merely thought it best that you know what you and brave Mrs Guthrie are returning to.’

  Esmie was alarmed by his words but she could see that it was Harold who was the more distressed. She jumped to his defence.

  ‘We appreciate your concern for us, Mr Tolmie. But Harold and I are following our calling. We are doing God’s work – just as you are in Murree – so nothing you say will put us off going to Taha. The good Lord will protect us.’

  He looked surprised by her intervention but she knew that he couldn’t argue against her uncharacteristically pious words. The headmaster bowed in acceptance.

  ‘Harold, I see you have married a lady of spirit,’ he said. ‘I hope, when you next get leave, and Margaret returns from England, you will come and stay with us in Murree.’

  Harold flashed Esmie a look of admiration and nodded in acceptance. Swiftly, he made their excuses and left. Yet for the rest of the day he was subdued.

  Later, after they’d shopped for medical supplies and returned to their room, Esmie sat him down and asked, ‘Are you worried about what Mr Tolmie was saying?’

  ‘I suppose so, yes,’ Harold admitted.

  ‘He strikes me as the kind of man who rather likes to overdramatise events.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he said with a ghost of a smile. ‘But maybe I’ve been too ready to believe Bannerman that things are calm again and the danger is over.’ He glanced at her anxiously. ‘I’d never forgive myself if you came to harm because of my eagerness to get back to Taha.’

  Esmie felt a surge of tenderness. ‘I’m not going to come to any harm. I won’t do anything rash, I promise.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m thinking of leaving you in Rawalpindi with Lydia while I go and recce the situation at the mission.’

  Esmie was alarmed by the suggestion. ‘Certainly not,’ she replied. ‘You’re not going to leave me behind anywhere. Besides, Lydia has her parents staying and any free time she has from the hotel she’ll be wanting to do things with them. I mustn’t encroach on their precious time together. And Tom will be busy setting things up at the Raj.’

  She stood and went to look out of the window so he wouldn’t see her cheeks reddening. The sun was already setting and the street was in shadow. She was momentarily distracted by how quickly night was falling in the tropics; so different from the long twilight in Scotland.

  Harold was flustered. ‘Esmie, you must do as I say. If I think it’s too risky then you will have to stay with the Lomaxes.’

  She turned to face him. ‘Harold, I’m your wife, not your employee, and I have a say in this too. I haven’t come all this way to be left twiddling my thumbs among the leisured classes of Pindi. I’m here to nurse and work alongside you, wherever I’m needed. If it’s too dangerous for me then it’s too dangerous for you. We either go together or not at all.’

  He sat on the sagging bed, cracking his knuckles in agitation, floundering for a reply. She felt a lick of evening breeze and heard a call to prayer in the distance that reminded her vividly of Albania
and the relief of surviving the retreat from Serbia. How very long ago that seemed now and yet, to Esmie, this arrival in India was somehow a continuation of that journey, a quest to find her real calling in life.

  Finally, Harold said, ‘We’ll travel as far as Kohat on the train. I’ll send a telegram to Bannerman to meet us there in two days’ time. If he says it’s safe, then you can continue with me to Taha.’

  Esmie was triumphant that she had won this concession from Harold. She was discovering that he could be quite stubborn and she feared that once he had got the idea of leaving her behind in Rawalpindi he would not be shifted from it.

  ‘Thank you, husband,’ she said with a smile. He gave her a rueful smile back.

  In the gathering dark, Esmie moved back across the room and sat on the bed beside him, sensing that now was the moment for intimacy. Harold, with his jacket and tie discarded and shirt open, was looking boyish and virile in the gloom. She was glowing from the heat of the day and felt desire curdle in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘Why don’t we . . . you know . . . before supper?’ she whispered. Then leaning towards him she kissed him full on the mouth for the first time. His lips were firm and dry. She slipped her hands around his neck and continued to kiss him, her heart beginning to thud in excitement. But Harold sat rigid and didn’t respond.

  Esmie pulled away. ‘Don’t you want to?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s not that,’ he answered, looking away. ‘But I thought I’d made it clear that I don’t want to risk bringing a child into the world at such a time. Especially now I fear that the danger up north may not be past.’

  Esmie put a hand to his hot cheek. ‘We can take measures to avoid that, Dr Guthrie,’ she said, gently teasing. ‘We’ve both studied anatomy and know what to do to prevent conception.’

  He glanced at her, his expression scandalised. Esmie burst out laughing.

  ‘Harold,’ she said in affection. ‘I find you most attractive when you’re blushing like a schoolboy.’

  ‘I thought we were in agreement about not having children,’ Harold reminded her. ‘At least not yet.’