The Emerald Affair

by Trotter, Janet MacLeod

  How else could he get through each day seeing so much of Esmie? Having her at the hotel was sweet torture. He craved the sight of her slim figure and attractive smile and yet could hardly bear the turmoil she stirred inside him. Whenever she regarded him with her mesmerising grey eyes he felt winded. He longed to touch her soft cheek and wrap tendrils of her wayward hair around his fingers. In his pocket, he ran his thumb over the lace of Esmie’s handkerchief that he had failed to give back to her in Scotland. It gave him a strange comfort.

  As they’d sat alone in his car the day before, Tom had found it almost impossible to resist kissing her button nose and full lips. Then, seeing her in the dazzling emerald gown, his longing for her had shaken him to the core. Apparently it had belonged to Lydia but he couldn’t even remember his wife wearing it, yet on Emsie it showed off every curve of her lithe figure. At the dance, holding Esmie in his arms, he was sure that she had felt the same desire as he had. Why else did she tremble at his touch and gaze back at him with a similar look of longing? The memory of it set his pulse racing. Yet she had stopped him from declaring how he felt. And she had been right to.

  Tom was gripped with guilt towards Harold. His friend was the most decent and principled of men; it wouldn’t occur to him that Tom might covet his wife. How ironic that Tom had been the one to encourage Harold to propose to Esmie. Why had he done so? Was it possible that even before he married Lydia he was frightened of his feelings towards Esmie? Having her married off to Harold would keep her beyond his reach.

  The nurse had unsettled him and at times made him angry. He had feared she had been assessing him as a mental casualty and so had belittled her radical ideas about treating shell-shocked men. But in the light of what Harold had told him about Esmie’s work both at Vaullay and here in India, Tom saw how humane her methods were and he’d been ashamed at resorting to ridicule in his attempt to deflect her scrutiny.

  If he was honest with himself, he realised that he had been attracted to Esmie from the very beginning; her simple beauty and dreamy self-sufficiency, her occasional outspokenness and her warm empathy. But Lydia had dazzled him with her voluptuous fair looks and her energetic drive. He had thought she was a far more suitable wife to take to India. With her sociability and gregarious nature, the Templeton daughter had been everything he thought he would need to start a new life in Rawalpindi and help him run the Raj Hotel.

  Above all, Lydia was nothing like Mary. He could leave behind his old life in Peshawar – the army, the rigours of the Frontier and the grave of his beloved first wife – and reinvent himself as a hotelier and bon viveur with Lydia at his side. Now it appeared that Lydia had no real interest in the hotel or being a hotelier’s wife. They had married far too hastily.

  He had been deluded; it was impossible to shake off the past. The tragedy of losing Mary – the guilt he felt that he was away on patrol when she died so suddenly – and the traumas of the War would not go away just because he had changed occupations and remarried. He could drown his dark thoughts in drink and in trying to convince himself that he was in love with Lydia but neither gave him peace of mind. Back in Ebbsmouth, Esmie had told him as much when she’d gently cautioned him for drinking too much. No doubt she would tell him to talk about the things that haunted him – and to take regular exercise.

  Tom stifled a sigh. The only person who came close to knowing about his demons was Harold. He had been the one man who had stood by him throughout the difficult years since Mary had died. But how could he talk to Harold when what now troubled his mind the most was his hopeless desire for Esmie?

  He lit up a cigarette and tried not to keep glancing across the field at the Guthries who were making a leisurely circuit of the cricket pitch and in no hurry to return. At least he and Lydia had made up their differences last night. She’d finally returned to the hotel an hour after he had, to find him drinking with Charlie. He’d followed her swiftly upstairs to demand why she’d taken so long to come home but she’d immediately gone on the defensive.

  ‘Because I knew you’d be having a nightcap with Dubois.’

  ‘So are you having a fling with Dickie Mason?’ he’d accused.

  Lydia had laughed it off. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’s far too young. You know how I like my men much more mature.’

  She’d grabbed hold of his face and kissed him forcefully on the lips. Within minutes he was completely disarmed by her sudden appetite for sex. They had shed their clothes as fast as they could and made love on the Persian carpet. Lydia had given him a cat-like smile of satisfaction as she’d left him catching his breath while she pulled on her nightdress and climbed into bed. Their love-making had been brief but it had lanced the boil of resentment building between them.

  Lydia’s good mood had lasted all morning until their spat about the poor Duboises. Tom was pained by his wife’s dismissive attitude towards the Anglo-Indian family; to him they were the closest he had to friends in Pindi. Now Tom’s doubts about Lydia and Dickie were beginning to grow again. Tonight they were all invited to a party at the cavalry’s mess and he would have to watch his wife flirting with the young officer again, while pretending that he wasn’t persona non grata among the army elite. Perhaps he would make an excuse not to go. Then he chided himself for being a coward. A man who had faced attack by Afridis in the Khyber Pass shouldn’t be afraid of a clique of standoffish sahibs and memsahibs in an army town.

  The nausea came on abruptly. Before Esmie and Harold had completed their walk around the boundary, Esmie was rushing towards a bush and vomiting into it. Harold was full of consternation. Esmie was embarrassed but could do nothing to stop the retching. She felt dreadful. Harold rubbed her back and handed her a large handkerchief.

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ he said. ‘That’s just how I was yesterday. I hope I haven’t passed something on to you.’

  Esmie felt sick and dizzy. Harold said, ‘I’ll get a chair from the pavilion.’

  Esmie stopped him. ‘Can we just go back to the hotel?’

  ‘Of course,’ he agreed. Taking her arm, he steered her back towards their friends and explained why they were leaving.

  Lydia looked dismayed. ‘I bet it was Myrtle’s Christmas pudding – far too rich. I hope you’ll be all right for the party tonight.’

  ‘Perhaps if I have a lie down . . .’ said Esmie, fighting down another swell of nausea.

  ‘I’ll run you both back in the car,’ Tom offered at once.

  ‘Thank you, Lomax,’ said Harold. ‘Very decent of you.’

  Esmie avoided Tom’s look as Harold ushered her into the front passenger seat where she had so recently delighted in sitting next to Tom. They said little as they drove up the Mall, Esmie pressing Harold’s handkerchief to her mouth in an attempt to stem her biliousness.

  Back at the hotel, Esmie retreated to bed at once. ‘Please don’t stay,’ she said to Harold. ‘I just want to sleep.’

  He nodded, stoking up the fire in the grate with logs of wood. ‘I know just how you feel. You’ll pull the bell if you need anything, won’t you? I’ll be downstairs reading.’

  Esmie crawled under the covers, feeling clammy with sweat but shivering with cold. She couldn’t believe how suddenly she’d fallen ill. Within minutes she was asleep.

  It was dark when Esmie awoke. She heard a soft tapping at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ she croaked.

  Stella appeared, concentrating on carrying a tea tray. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Guthrie?’

  ‘A little better, thanks,’ said Esmie, switching on the lamp and attempting to sit up. She was less nauseous but her stomach was tender and she felt weak with lethargy. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘About nine o’clock. Dr Guthrie and the Lomaxes have gone to the party at the Mess. Dr Guthrie thought it best if you carried on sleeping.’

  ‘Goodness, I didn’t even hear him getting ready.’

  ‘Mummy thought you should try some ginger tea,’ said Stella, carefully placing the tray on the bedside table. ‘Cap
tain Lomax asked her what would help a sick tummy.’

  ‘I’m not sure I could manage anything yet,’ said Esmie. Even sitting upright had made her feel faint.

  Stella ignored this and began to pour tea from the small china pot into a delicate cup. ‘Just try a few sips, Mrs Guthrie,’ she encouraged. ‘Shall I stay and keep you company?’

  Esmie was touched by the girl’s concern. ‘That’s kind but you should be with your family on Christmas night.’

  ‘We’ll have our fun tomorrow,’ said Stella. ‘Captain Lomax has given us the day off so we can go and see our Dixon cousins. They always have a party on Boxing Day. Auntie Rose gives us lots to eat and we play games. My favourite is charades.’

  ‘That’s very grown-up,’ Esmie said with a wan smile.

  ‘I’m good at it.’ Stella giggled. ‘I love acting.’

  ‘Tell me about your family,’ said Esmie. ‘Do you have many relations in Pindi?’

  ‘Quite a lot,’ said Stella. ‘There’s Auntie Rose and Uncle Toby and their two children – well, three now counting baby Sigmund. And Uncle Toby has a brother, my Uncle Ziggy, who helps in the bicycle shop and Auntie Lucinda and they’ve got three girls and two boys.’ She counted them off on her fingers. ‘So I’ve got eight Dixon cousins all together. Baby Sigmund is named after Uncle Ziggy. Then I’ve got relations on Daddy’s side but they don’t live in Pindi so we don’t see them very much.’

  ‘What a lovely big family you have,’ said Esmie.

  ‘Do you have lots of cousins too?’ asked Stella.

  Esmie shook her head. ‘Sadly not. I don’t really have any family left alive. I have a very special Aunt Isobel – she’s not a blood relation but I love her like one. She’s a doctor in Scotland.’

  Her eyes prickled at the thought of how her kind guardian would have fussed over her had she been there.

  ‘So you and Mrs Lomax aren’t related?’ queried Stella.

  ‘No, we were friends at school. Her parents, the Templetons, were as kind to me as if I had been their daughter.’

  Stella nodded. ‘I liked them. They always said good morning at breakfast and Mr Templeton gave five rupees each to me and Jimmy when he left. Jimmy bought a cricket ball and I got a bell for my bicycle. We’re saving the rest.’

  Esmie smiled. ‘That was kind of him.’

  ‘Yes,’ the girl agreed. She tilted her head in thought. ‘I wish Mrs Lomax was more like that. She’s all right with me and Jimmy but she’s bossy to Mummy and sometimes shouts at Daddy.’

  Esmie was dismayed. She’d heard Lydia’s catty comments about the Duboises in private but was embarrassed to think her friend had been openly rude to the manager and his wife – enough that Stella had noticed.

  ‘I’m sorry if she’s been unkind to your parents,’ said Esmie. ‘She’s not usually like that.’

  Stella sighed. ‘I wish it was you, Mrs Guthrie.’

  ‘Wish what?’ Esmie puzzled.

  ‘I wish you lived here and ran the hotel with Captain Lomax instead of Mrs Lomax.’

  Esmie was completely taken aback. ‘You shouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Well, it’s true,’ Stella insisted. ‘And Mummy thinks the same. I heard her say to Daddy after she met you. “The captain picked the wrong wife.”’

  Esmie flushed. ‘You must never repeat such a thing, Stella. Especially not to the Lomaxes. Promise me?’

  ‘Try the tea,’ urged Stella, ignoring her plea. ‘It won’t be too hot now.’

  Esmie took the cup in shaking hands and blew on the pale golden liquid. She braced herself to take a sip, thinking it might make her retch. Stella’s frank words had set her pulse beating erratically. But the smell of ginger was calming and it tasted pleasant. When it didn’t irritate her stomach, Esmie took further sips.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘Please thank your mother for me.’ She sank back from the effort and closed her eyes, wishing she hadn’t been told about Myrtle’s comment.

  ‘Do you want me to go?’ Stella asked.

  ‘No,’ said Esmie, not wanting to be left alone. Stella’s chatter might distract her from thoughts about her and Tom. ‘Tell me more about your family. I like to hear you talk about them. I’m still listening even though my eyes are closed.’

  She felt Stella sitting down on the end of the bed as she began to talk animatedly about her relations in Lalkutri bazaar. Soon Esmie was asleep again.

  She had no idea what time it was when Harold crept back into the bedroom. Stella had gone and so had the tea tray but the side lamp had been left on. Harold peered down at her.

  ‘How are you feeling, my dear?’ he whispered.

  Esmie realised she no longer felt sick. ‘A lot better, thanks. Stella gave me spicy tea which helped.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘How was the party?’ Esmie asked.

  Harold pulled a disapproving expression. ‘Too much drinking.’

  Esmie became aware of raised voices from the next room; Lydia’s was querulous and Tom’s angry.

  Harold explained. ‘Lydia spent most of the evening in the company of young Mason. I’m sad to say, Tom caught them kissing under some mistletoe.’

  ‘Oh, Lydia.’ Esmie sighed with impatience. ‘Why can’t she just be satisfied with what she has? Is Tom very hurt?’

  Harold regarded her. ‘Difficult to say. I got the impression he would have ignored the kiss if I hadn’t witnessed it too. Mason looked embarrassed but Lydia just laughed it off as a little holiday silliness. They’d all had too many champagne cocktails.’

  ‘The sooner they move into a home of their own, the better,’ said Esmie.

  ‘Well, I don’t think they’ll be getting any more invitations to the mess this holiday. He’s told Mason to stay away from Lydia. That’s probably what they’re arguing about. For myself, I hope it’s the last tedious party of the week. Tom and I are going fishing tomorrow.’ He patted her hand. ‘It will give you a chance to spend some time with Lydia and talk some sense into her – remind your friend of her wifely duty.’

  Esmie’s heart sank at the prospect. ‘What makes you think Lydia will listen to me? She never has before.’

  ‘Because you’re a good woman,’ said Harold. ‘Lydia is too – but she’s been too quick to adopt the loose morals of the shallow people she’s mixing with here.’

  Esmie felt her throat dry. If only her husband knew how much she struggled to be faithful to him – how in her thoughts she had failed to be.

  ‘Harold, I’m no saint—’

  ‘She chose to marry Tom,’ Harold interrupted, ‘and she must live with her choice. It pains me to see my old friend made a fool of. You must remind her of her vows to Lomax before she succumbs to further temptation.’

  Esmie turned away, her cheeks burning with shame. Harold’s words might just as well have been directed at her. She was no better than Lydia.

  Chapter 24

  The men left immediately after breakfast to go fishing. Before he went, Harold ordered Esmie breakfast in bed. She felt hungry but still weak and was content to stay in bed longer than usual. By the time she had washed, dressed and ventured downstairs, there were only the baroness and Mrs Shankley, the lady with the ear trumpet, sitting in cane chairs in the reception area.

  ‘My little friend Stella has gone to Lalkutri with her family,’ said Hester. ‘Ansom and Fritters are out somewhere. I think they’ve gone to watch polo.’ She turned to Mrs Shankley. ‘What time did they go, Mrs S?’

  Mrs Shankley pressed her brass trumpet to her ear. ‘I haven’t got a watch. But the clock says it’s nearly eleven.’

  The baroness gave an exasperated laugh. ‘So it is. Thank you, Mrs S.’

  Esmie sat down with them and began to chat. Minutes later, Lydia appeared on the stairs and joined them.

  ‘Feeling better?’ she asked.

  ‘Much better, thanks,’ Esmie replied. ‘Even managed some kedgeree for breakfast.’

  Lydia pulled a face. ‘More than I did.
Do you feel up to a game of tennis? I thought we could go to the Club. Have a bite of tiffin afterwards.’

  Esmie would rather have sat quietly with the other women and leafed through the newspapers but she knew how much Lydia loved tennis. It would give them a chance to talk too.

  ‘I’ll give it a go,’ she said, ‘but I haven’t played since leaving Ebbsmouth.’

  ‘Not even at Taha?’ Lydia cried.

  Esmie shook her head.

  ‘Well, we’ll just have to find a couple of chaps to play doubles with, won’t we?’ She winked. ‘Come on, Esmie.’

  To Esmie’s surprise, it was Lydia who tired more quickly on the tennis court. The sun was warm and she was soon out of breath.

  ‘Sorry,’ she panted, ‘I need to sit down.’

  Their fellow players – Dempster and a colleague from his oil company – made polite excuses for her.

  ‘It’s very warm today. Perhaps we could order you up some lemonade?’

  A puce-faced Lydia accepted, fanning herself and going to sit in the shade.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Esmie asked in concern as she sat beside her on the bench.

  ‘Absolutely fine,’ Lydia said.

  ‘Too much partying last night?’ Esmie teased.

  Lydia shot her a look. ‘I suppose Harold told you about the mistletoe. Tom got it all quite out of proportion. Just a brotherly peck of a kiss, that’s all.’

  ‘Harold thought it was more than that,’ Esmie said quietly.

  ‘So I’m not allowed to have fun anymore?’ Lydia was indignant.

  ‘It’s not about having fun – just not putting Tom in an awkward position.’

  ‘Well, what am I to do if my own husband won’t take me out and give me a good time? Dickie knows how to enjoy himself.’

  ‘You have been spending a lot of time with him,’ Esmie pointed out. ‘Why don’t you try and do more with Tom? Play tennis or golf or go riding together.’

  ‘He wouldn’t want to,’ Lydia huffed. ‘He never has time for me.’