The Emerald Affair

by Trotter, Janet MacLeod

  Esmie bit her lip to stop her tears. Her heart was heavy with sorrow at the loving, desolate words. How Tom had loved his Mary! In that moment, she doubted whether he could ever love another as much – neither Lydia nor her.

  ‘Oh, Harold, it’s so sad,’ she said, reaching out for her husband and wanting to feel his warm presence. But he wasn’t looking at Mary’s grave. He was staring at the one beside it. A smaller stone with an angel statue placed beside it. He turned to her, his face ashen. Esmie’s heart thumped.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, dread knotting her stomach.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said in bewilderment. ‘Tom never said anything about . . .’

  Esmie went quickly to his side and read the second gravestone. She gasped in shock.

  In memory of Amelia Mary, infant daughter of Captain T. Lomax. Born 5th January 1913, lived four days.

  ‘My flesh shall rest in love. Safe in the arms of Jesus. Of such is the kingdom of heaven.’

  Esmie grabbed on to Harold to steady herself. She gaped at him.

  ‘Tom had a daughter?’

  Harold’s jaw was clenched; he could only nod. Esmie looked at the grave again; the words seared her heart. His baby girl – his own flesh – buried here next to his wife. Had he returned from duty in time to see his daughter alive? Had he ever held her in his arms? If not, who had looked after his child for the four days she had lived? She could hardly comprehend Tom’s suffering in this double loss.

  Bernie said gently, ‘Your friend’s wife must have died in childbirth – the date matches that of the child.’

  Esmie looked again at Mary’s stone. January the 5th. Her eyes welled with tears. Tomorrow would be the seventh anniversary of Mary’s death – and her baby’s birth.

  She heard Harold swallow a sob. ‘My poor dear friend!’ His voice was hoarse with sorrow. ‘I never knew. I never knew.’

  Esmie clutched his hand and squeezed it. She was too overcome to speak. She thought of Tom’s uncontrollable weeping on the night he had learnt that Lydia was pregnant. Now she understood. He had been crying with happiness at this second chance of being a father – and in grief for the daughter he had lost.

  Chapter 27

  Early the next morning, before leaving Peshawar, Esmie and Harold returned to the cemetery to lay flowers on the graves of Mary and Amelia. The clouds had broken to reveal a topaz sky. The snow-capped mountains of the Khyber Pass looked close enough to touch. To Esmie there was a raw beauty about this resting place.

  She had hardly slept for thinking of Tom’s young wife and daughter. Had Mary gone into labour early? Had she sent for Tom, frightened it was all happening too soon? Did she live long enough to know she had given birth to a daughter and to cradle her to her breast? Esmie’s heart ached for this woman she had never known but felt a connection to; they had both grown up in Ebbsmouth, ventured out to India as young brides and both fallen in love with Tom Lomax.

  But it was the infant grave that made her heartsore. Beneath the tiny plot lay Amelia – named after Tom’s beloved mother – who had only drawn breath for four days. Had she been born with Tom’s dark hair and startlingly blue eyes? Who had nursed her and comforted her cries? Had she been born too prematurely and weak to survive or had she succumbed to some sickness that was passing through the cramped and heavily populated cantonment?

  It was fruitless to wonder, for the end result was the same; Amelia had followed her mother swiftly to the grave and left Tom stunned in grief. He had been so traumatised by the double tragedy that he had told none of his family or friends – not even his closest friend Harold – that he’d had a daughter. Harold had not even known that Mary had been with child.

  Esmie, Harold and Bernie had sat up late talking about it the previous night. The last time Harold had seen Mary had been before embarking on leave to Scotland at the end of the hot season in 1912, four months before her death. Mary and Tom had been in good spirits – perhaps in retrospect she had seemed a little tired – but there had been no mention of a forthcoming baby. If Harold had noticed nothing then it was probably because the pregnancy was not far advanced – and therefore more likely that Mary had gone into labour prematurely.

  Esmie pressed her fingers to her mouth and swallowed down tears as Harold said prayers over the two graves.

  ‘. . . and commend them both into your loving care, Lord, until the day of resurrection when we will be reunited with the dearly departed – all the great company of saints that dwell with you in heaven and that we miss so much here on earth. And comfort our friend Tom. May he turn to you in times of darkness and doubt and know that you walk with him and that he is loved. May he know that you hold his precious Mary and Amelia in the palm of your hand – safe and at rest – until he meets with them again in the life ever after. For Jesus’ sake, Amen.’

  Esmie could not stop the tears rolling down her cheeks at Harold’s tender, comforting prayer. Seeing his eyes swimming with tears too, she took his hand and held it tight.

  ‘Thank you, Harold.’

  Without further speech, they left the cemetery, the only sound a solitary bird trilling unseen in the trees.

  Esmie was sad to say goodbye to Bernie; he had been a kind and attentive host and Harold had been relaxed in his company. After a long day’s travel by train and motor car – Bannerman picking them up in Kohat again – they were back in Taha by nightfall.

  Despite being tired and queasy from the car journey, Esmie went straight to the compound to see Karo and Gabina. On catching sight of Esmie, the girl threw out her arms in delight and toddled towards her. Esmie scooped her up and cuddled her tight.

  ‘How I’ve missed you!’ she cried.

  She tried to banish thoughts of Amelia’s grave as she clung to Gabina. The girl was even more precious to her in the light of her discovery of Tom’s dead daughter. How fragile new life was in this place and how easily Gabina too could have died if Karo hadn’t come to the clinic. Then it struck her that the Waziri girl was still vulnerable to disease; so many of the graves in Peshawar had been for children who had survived infancy only to succumb to sudden illness in early childhood. She felt her old fear of motherhood gripping her with renewed force.

  That evening, after a late supper, she broached the subject with Harold.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about my longing to have a child,’ she said quietly.

  He shot her an anxious look. ‘Dear girl, I thought we’d—’

  ‘Let me finish,’ Esmie interrupted. He nodded for her to continue.

  ‘Finding Mary’s grave – and seeing Amelia’s – has been a profound shock to me. And I think to you too, Harold.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘A terrible shock.’

  ‘It’s made me realise that my desire for a child is a selfish one,’ Esmie admitted. ‘I came here to nurse and help serve the people of the Frontier. What good am I to them if I die in childbirth like Mary? My wish to be a mother is still as strong but I must accept that my path in life may be to care for other people’s children and not my own.’ She gave Harold a sad smile. ‘And I know that you don’t feel the same way about having a family as I do. It would be wrong to force fatherhood on you – even though I think you would make a loving father – so I won’t bring up the subject again.’

  She saw his eyes glinting with emotion, reflecting her own regret. And yet she also thought she saw relief in his expression. He reached across the table, took her hand and pressed it tenderly to his lips. With a pang of affection, she wished he could be as demonstrative as this more often.

  After that, Harold rose and, bidding her goodnight, retreated to his bedroom. Heavy-hearted, Esmie went to her own room and bedded down between chilly sheets, alone but resigned to making the best of her platonic marriage to Harold.

  Soon Esmie was once more immersed in the day-to-day running of the clinic, working long hours alongside Harold, Rupa, Alec Bannerman and the orderlies. Rumours flew around the bazaar and cantonment about tribal uprisings
and raids against British outposts. But the violence was happening further south and west from Taha and the mission carried on working and trying to ignore the tension.

  Esmie resumed Sunday lunches at their bungalow for their friends and while they shared meals, Brigadier McCabe kept Harold and Esmie abreast of developments on the Frontier.

  ‘The Gurkhas took on the Mahsuds at Ahnai Tangi – Punjabis of the seventy-sixth fought their way through to support. A bloody eight days of battle, by all accounts. Mahsuds have taken heavy casualties.’

  From the brigadier they learnt that Dickie Mason’s regiment had been sent south to relieve the garrison at Razmak and help hold back the rebellious tribesmen. Esmie wondered how Lydia and Tom had taken the news of Dickie’s departure. The fuss over the Christmas flirtation must surely seem of no consequence now that they were looking ahead to the birth of their child.

  Esmie had wanted Harold to write to Tom and tell him that they had visited Mary’s grave and laid flowers – and done the same for Amelia.

  ‘It might comfort him to know that we know – and that we’d paid our respects to them both,’ she’d reasoned.

  ‘I really don’t think we should intrude on his grief,’ Harold had replied. ‘If he’d wanted me to know, he would have told me.’

  ‘Perhaps it was all too much at the time,’ Esmie had said. ‘But that was seven years ago and he might now be ready to have his daughter acknowledged by his most trusted friend.’

  But Harold had been uncomfortable with the idea. ‘He’s got Lydia now as his helpmate and a new baby on the way. Best not to dwell on the past.’

  Esmie didn’t press him further; he knew his friend best. She looked out for the young lieutenant passing through Taha – she was sorry for Dickie having to cope with the death of his sister and thought his dalliance with Lydia had possibly been his way of cauterising his feelings. In war, she had seen people dealing with death in unpredictable ways and she would not judge the bereaved. But Dickie and his fellow officers never appeared.

  It was on an early February morning, as Esmie and Harold were eating breakfast, that they heard a faint droning noise. By the time they had gone out onto the veranda to see what it was, the noise had grown to a loud buzzing. Looking up, they saw aeroplanes, engines throbbing, crossing the pale sky like giant birds.

  Karo came tearing round the corner, her face a mask of terror, a wailing Gabina in her arms.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Esmie called out, going swiftly to them. She put her arms around the petrified woman and the child. ‘They’re planes – British planes. They won’t hurt you.’

  But Karo would not be reassured. She babbled incoherently, her speech too fast for Esmie to understand. Harold came over.

  ‘She doesn’t understand what they are,’ Esmie said. ‘How can I explain?’

  Harold gave her a harrowed look. ‘She does understand. She’s seen them before when they dropped bombs near her village.’

  Esmie felt punched in the stomach. ‘Oh, the poor woman,’ she gasped. All she could do was hold on to Karo and Gabina until the planes had passed overhead and disappeared south-west into the mountains. She thought of last summer and Tom’s angry cynical words about dropping bombs on Kabul. Tibby had told her that Tom had challenged his father about modern warfare and riled him with his riposte, ‘What is honourable about bombing men on horseback from the air?’

  A few days later, news came through about the success of the RAF air raid. Dozens of villages had been destroyed. The Mahsuds, however temporarily, had been subdued. Harold and Esmie couldn’t share in the general relief and celebration in the cantonment. All they could think about were the scores of casualties that must have resulted from the bombing. The only way to deal with their leaden feelings was to redouble their efforts at the mission hospital and do what they could for their patients.

  The cold crisp days and occasional fog of January and February gave way to unpredictable sudden storms in March as the temperatures began to climb and the southerly winds of winter switched to those from the north-east.

  By April, the midday temperatures on Harold’s glass thermometer were already showing over eighty degrees. Esmie knew they had a gruellingly hot season ahead in Taha. While spasmodic unrest among the border tribes continued, there was little chance of getting back to Kanki-Khel and the mountains. Baz refused, point-blank, to provide another escort for the missionaries and the army had more pressing priorities.

  Her thoughts turned more and more to Lydia and the imminent birth of her baby. Her friend had written frequently about life in Rawalpindi. She was happy in the Buchanan Road house and hosted regular lunches, games of bridge and tea parties with her friends while Tom was at the hotel.

  ‘I’ve no idea what he does there all day,’ Lydia had written in her most recent letter, ‘but it keeps him from being under my feet. He’s been very sweet but I must say, he can be a complete bore about me resting and not overexerting myself. He treats me like an invalid which I’m not – though I am finding it harder to move around. My legs have swollen and my bump is enormous. I look and feel like an elephant. It’s already horribly hot here and I can’t wait to get up to Murree. I go at the end of the month. Tom’s renting a cottage on Pinnacle Point but wants the birth to be in hospital, which I think is ridiculous as I’m perfectly healthy and would rather have the whole thing done discreetly at home. We’ve employed an ayah for the baby. Geraldine recommended her – she’s a younger sister of the ayah that the Hopkirks used – or maybe it’s a daughter or cousin, I’m not altogether sure. But she seems capable and doesn’t squabble with the other servants which is a relief.

  DO say you will come up to Murree after the baby comes. I’ll need some company for those dreary weeks when I’m not allowed to go far or socialise too much. Come even if Harold can’t.

  Mummy and Daddy continue to be thrilled about the imminent arrival of baby Lomax but as yet they haven’t said when they’ll be coming out again. Daddy has business to take care of – he never stops – and Grace is staying for the summer with her brood so Mummy will be busy too. I haven’t given up on them coming out for Christmas though.

  Tom says to tell you that Stella is missing you and wants to know when you’ll be back. You certainly made an impression on the girl, though I’ve never seen her playing with that Indian doll you gave her! I don’t go to the hotel much – just pop in once in a while for a sundowner with Fritters and to show my face – can’t have Myrtle Dubois thinking she’s got the rule of the roost!

  Give my love to Harold as always – and to you of course.

  Your best friend, Lydia xx’

  In the evenings Esmie would read out Lydia’s letters to Harold. He always blushed at the messages for him.

  ‘Is it any surprise that Tom is fussing about Lydia being near a hospital?’ said Esmie. ‘He must be so anxious that everything goes right this time. Do you think I should tell Lydia about baby Amelia so that she’ll be more patient with Tom?’

  Harold was adamant. ‘You mustn’t do that without getting Tom’s permission first.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Esmie conceded. ‘And I don’t want to make Lydia alarmed about women dying in childbirth. No, you’re right – best not to say anything.’

  ‘All we can do is to keep them in our prayers,’ said Harold. ‘And if you’d like to visit Lydia in Murree then you must do that.’

  Esmie’s heart leapt. ‘Of course I’d like to go. Would you come with me?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s you that Lydia wants, dearest. My time is better served here.’

  ‘Well, as long as you can spare me?’

  Harold gave her a tired smile. ‘I’m sure we can manage for a couple of weeks. As long as you don’t stay away forever.’

  Esmie shot him a look. She knew he was teasing but his words startled her. Did he harbour doubts about her and her commitment to him and the mission? Did he fear she wouldn’t come back to him?

  She put out her hand and shook his
arm gently. ‘You know I won’t leave you.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, patting her hand in affection.

  Chapter 28

  Rawalpindi, May

  A telegram came for Tom at the hotel. Tom’s stomach lurched and his hands shook as he tore at the brown envelope.

  ‘Labour has started STOP Lydia at home STOP Come soon STOP Geraldine.’

  Charlie, who was hovering at the reception desk, asked anxiously, ‘What has happened, sir?’

  Tom took a large breath. ‘Lydia’s gone into labour.’

  Charlie’s eyes widened. ‘That is a cause for great excitement,’ he beamed.

  Tom stood there stunned. Lydia was in the throes of childbirth. He felt panic rather than excitement.

  Charlie said, ‘You must go hot-foot to Murree, sir. Leave everything here to us.’

  Tom stared at him, trying to calm his palpitating heart. ‘Yes, yes, I must.’ Still he felt paralysed, unable to move.

  Charlie came around the counter. ‘Shall I drive you up to Murree, sir?’

  His manager’s concern galvanised Tom. ‘No, no, I’ll be fine.’ He ran a hand across his sweating face.

  Charlie said, ‘I’ll make all necessary arrangements. Bijal will pack you a case and I’ll get Cook to make up a tiffin basket. I’ll prepare the motor car. All will be shipshape and ready within the hour, Mr Lomax.’

  Tom nodded. ‘Thank you, Charlie.’ Suddenly, he felt a surge of nervous excitement. ‘It’s happening, Charlie. It’s really happening, isn’t it?’

  Charlie grinned. ‘And if you get your skates on, you shall be there for the birth.’

  Tom remembered little of the forty-mile drive up to the hills. Bijal sat in the back with a scarf tied over his mouth against the rising dust and nursing the tiffin basket. Tom chatted to him to take his mind off what lay ahead. Bijal, a Pathan from near Attock on the Indus River, had been in his employment since Tom had first come to India. Older than Tom – he was around forty but still fresh-faced – he said little but had a deep soft chuckle that had kept up Tom’s spirits on many an occasion.