The Colonel was on his feet. ‘Good God, so it is. We didn’t expect you, Gus.’
The newcomer was beaming. His resemblance to his mother was marked, for both of them had the same tightly curling blond hair, flushed complexion and round cheeks, the same blue eyes set in folds of fat. They looked like a pair of happy porkers as they hugged each other. When the hugging stopped a woman’s lilting voice came from the doorway. ‘Introduce me to your parents, Gus dear,’ it said. All eyes swivelled to the darkness of the hall, where the slim outline of a female figure could be seen silhouetted against the candlelight cast down by the wall-braziers.
This stranger stepped forward and revealed herself to be a dark-haired young woman dressed in a well-cut, claret-red travelling costume and a little hat with a swirling feather that lay against her cheek. Romantic Hannah, who was closest to the door, blinked at the sight of this apparition, revealed as dark-haired and ivory-skinned with merry triangular eyes above prominent slanting cheekbones and a sweetly curving mouth. She was by far the best-looking young woman anyone in the room had ever seen.
Gus stepped towards her and announced without much enthusiasm, ‘This is my wife Bethya.’ The young woman beamed on the company. It was obvious that she had boundless confidence and was not a bit abashed at being introduced to her new parents-in-law in such an unconventional and half-hearted way.
The Colonel was the first to speak. ‘Well done, boy! She’s a beauty,’ he said. Then he walked across the floor and took the girl’s hand. ‘Welcome to our home, Bethya. Come and sit down. You must be hungry after your journey. Allardyce, bring more chairs. My daughter-in-law will sit by me. D’ye like champagne, my dear?’
She flirted at him from her lovely eyes. ‘I adore champagne,’ she said, peeling off her ivory-coloured gloves and unpinning her little hat, which she handed to Hannah who happened to be standing nearest. With the hat off she looked even prettier because her hair was thick, very black and glossy, tumbling round her neck in glorious ringlets which she tossed back to fetching effect not wasted on the open-mouthed men around her.
One person in the company was not impressed, however. Gus’ mother sat staring bleakly at her son’s new wife with her eyes narrowed and her mouth pursed tight. Bethya smiled down the table and walked its length to plant a kiss on the pink cheek but Mrs Anstruther flinched at the contact between them. This insult did not seem to make any impression on the pretty stranger, who swept back to her seat beside the Colonel and sat herself down prettily in the chair that the servants carried in for her.
It said a lot for Allardyce’s organisational abilities that the dinner was re-started and ran as smoothly as clockwork. Throughout it, the new Mrs Anstruther chattered and flirted, smiled and conquetted, casting her spell over all the guests except her mother-in-law. The more Maria Anstruther gazed at the stranger the more her eyes hardened, and from time to time she patted her son’s hand as if in commiseration. ‘Where did you meet her?’ she whispered to him at last.
‘Bombay,’ he said in reply.
His mother sat back. ‘I thought so. Oh Gus, you shouldn’t have done it.’ He said nothing but lifted his wine glass and swigged down an immense draught of best Bordeaux before calling for the glass to be refilled.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the table Bethya had everyone under her spell, drawing them out with artful, innocent questions, never appearing challenging or clever but always eager to listen to the opinions of those older and wiser than herself. When the man opposite her was introduced as Falconwood, she smiled and said, ‘What a pretty surname. I’ve never heard it before.’
‘Oh, it’s not our name. It’s the name of his place. We’re called Raeburn,’ said Falconwood’s wife, leaning forward.
‘Raeburn – like the painter?’ asked Bethya, but it was immediately obvious that neither of the Raeburns had ever heard of their famous namesake.
Sir Geoffrey Miller, sitting two places up from Bethya, was an art connoisseur, however, and his eyes glittered with interest as he asked her, ‘Are you interested in art, Mrs Anstruther?’
‘Oh, very much so,’ cried the girl, clasping her hands. ‘I’m so looking forward to touring the exhibitions. I hear there are some very good galleries in Edinburgh. I didn’t have much opportunity to see great European art in India, but I’ll remedy that now I’ve come home.’
At this point Mrs Anstruther senior spoke in a sarcastic voice. ‘Home? Which part of the country do you come from exactly, my dear?’
Bethya’s smile did not falter but she knew the knives were out between them. Coolly she replied, ‘My papa comes from Somerset and my mama’s family are from Wales.’
‘That explains your accent,’ said Maria. ‘I expect you know Wales well.’
‘I’ve never been there,’ said Bethya flatly.
The Colonel’s lady lifted an eyebrow. ‘So you grew up in India?’
‘Yes, in Bombay. I was born there.’
‘And your mother?’
‘She was born in Bombay too…’
‘Aaah, I thought so. Two generations Bombay-born…’ Mrs Anstruther sounded pleased. A dangerous light flashed in Bethya’s eye but her sweet smile remained in place. Like a dog worrying a bone, Gus’ mother returned to the attack. ‘Tell me about your family,’ she said in honeyed tones.
Bethya’s face became serious. ‘I’ve five sisters and my parents are both alive. I miss them all very much.’ There was genuine sadness in her voice as she spoke, for to even think of her absent family gave her a pain in the heart that took all her ebullience to conceal.
‘Your father is Army?’ asked Mrs Anstruther.
A shake of the head was the reply. ‘No, he’s a merchant.’
‘Selling what?’
‘Carpets.’
‘Trade.’ It was spoken like an accusation. Then Mrs Anstruther furrowed her brow. ‘But how did you meet Gus? Trade and military don’t usually mix.’
A tinge of colour rose in Bethya’s pale cheeks but she maintained her coolness as she said with a fond smile at her silent husband who had done nothing to prevent his mother grilling her, ‘Dear Gus and I met at a military review. We were introduced by my cousin’s husband who is in Skinner’s Horse.’
The situation was saved by the Colonel, who attempted to end the inquisition by crying out, ‘Skinner’s Horse? A great regiment! I once met Skinner himself when I was a young chokra!’
His wife glared at him. ‘It’s an irregular regiment. It’s not a regiment for gentlemen.’ Then she sat back, satisfied.
Colonel Anstruther could see how the situation was developing between his wife and his new daughter-in-law. He glanced at Gus who sat slumped in his chair, head down, determinedly drinking wine. It was obvious he was not going to step in to prevent Bethya from being savaged by his mother. The Colonel’s eyes were sharp as he detected signs in his son that he would have counted against any junior officer in his regiment – the slack mouth, the pouched eyes, the shaking hands, all signs of a drunkard. The last time they had met, Gus was a junior officer fresh from school but even then, his father had to admit, he was idle and slovenly. Now, he told himself bitterly, his only son was a wastrel. That was why he had come home without any warning. ‘I wonder if he was told to go?’ he asked himself uneasily. ‘I wonder if he was cashiered? And why has he come home with this pretty piece, when he appears to have no interest in her at all?’
The remainder of the meal went off smoothly because the Colonel’s wife caught a glance from her husband that warned her to draw in her claws, and since he was the only person in the world of whom she was afraid, she behaved more temperately until, as dessert was being served, her son suddenly slumped forward in his chair and his face fell into the creamy confection on his plate.
The Colonel’s wife gave a half-scream. ‘Poor Gus has fainted! He’s tired out, that’s what’s wrong.’
Allardyce the butler rushed forward and righted the unconscious figure. He knew very well what was wrong with Gus. Sin
glehandedly the Colonel’s son had managed to dispose of a bottle of champagne, three of claret and two of port. His expression gave nothing away, however, as he indicated to the footmen to lift Gus from his chair and carry him out of the room while his father, who had also been noting his son’s intake of alcohol, watched with unconcealed distaste.
Gus’ collapse was a signal for the women to leave the table and they clustered in the doorway while the men stood up. ‘We’re going to discuss business now so perhaps it would be best if you don’t expect us to join you in the drawing room,’ said the Colonel. Most of them didn’t mind at all. Lady Miller looked exhausted, Bethya was tired and Mrs Anstruther furious. Only Raeburn’s wife was disappointed that the evening was to end so abruptly, but she put a good face on it by saying cheerfully, ‘I’ll take myself off home, then. Come when you’re ready, Raeburn old boy.’
When they were all in the hall bidding goodnight to each other, the footmen staggered past bearing Gus’ lifeless body and Bethya turned to give them orders. ‘Put him in a dressing room or somewhere on his own. That’s how he usually sleeps it off.’
No one else had admitted that Gus was drunk, and his mother glared at the girl in fury but all the young woman did was smile sweetly, bid them good night and run upstairs after her drunken husband as if Gus collapsing in the pudding was an everyday occurrence. She was jubilant at having discomfited the horrible woman who had taunted her so cruelly throughout the meal.
Once inside her bedroom however, Bethya stood stock still for a moment and then raised both clenched fists above her head in a furious gesture. Her eyes were flashing and she radiated a kind of electrical energy that filled the air around her. ‘I hate that woman! I really hate her. I wonder if this has been worth the trouble. Perhaps Papa was right,’ she hissed.
Her dark-clad maid was standing at the toilette table where she had been arranging her mistress’s brushes, combs and unguent bottles. She looked up and revealed a strange, triangular-shaped face with very wide-set eyes, a long flaring-nostrilled nose and a tiny mouth. When Bethya first saw Francine she thought the maid looked like a cobra, and some long-forgotten racial memory of reverence for snakes stirred in her. Out of all the demure girls sent for her inspection by the London agency when she and Gus had disembarked from the ship that carried them home, the reptilian-looking young Frenchwoman was the one she chose. It proved to be a good choice, for the two rapidly became friends, and were far more intimate than would usually have been the case between maid and mistress – but Bethya was lonely. Her husband ignored her, she had no friend and she sorely missed the company and confidences of her sisters. Francine became the only person she could talk to.
Seeing her mistress fuming in the middle of the room, the maid asked in her strongly accented voice, ‘What did your father say when you wanted to get married?’
‘He told me not to marry Gus. He said I’d regret it.’
Francine nodded. ‘But you married him anyway. Did you think you were in love?’
Bethya calmed down a little and looked at her maid as if she were simple-minded. ‘Love? Of course not. You don’t imagine I could fall in love with someone like that, do you? Anyway, I think love’s just a feeling silly women have for equally silly men. Gus is my laisser passer to the great world. I’m a Bombay chi-chi girl, so who was going to marry me and take me out of India? Nobody. They’d bed me quick enough, they’d make me a mistress but they wouldn’t marry me. He married me because he had to find a wife quickly to save his face. There was some scandal about drummer boys and talk of him being disgraced. What with the drink and the other things, he was in deep trouble. Oh, don’t look like that. I knew what I was doing. I wanted to go to a place where people wouldn’t point a finger at me and whisper “coloured”, “half-Indian”, “chi-chi”. God, I hate that word! You know what it means, don’t you? It means dirt, shit – merde in your language. That’s what they call us in India. Indians and whites both call us that. It’s so horrible and unfair. If you could see my lovely sisters and compare them with those women downstairs and hear them called chi-chi!’ The fists went up in the air again in an impotent gesture.
Fervently the maid said, ‘But you’re so beautiful! How can they call you a name like that?’
Bethya shrugged. ‘There’s girls as beautiful as me walking the streets of Bombay as whores. When I was fifteen I looked in my mirror one day and I saw that the way I look is all I’ve got, and I swore then that I was going to use it. I’m not going to stop using it till I’ve got where I want, and Bella Vista with Gus Anstruther is only a small step on the way. I wish I could tell his hideous old mother that. She might not be so horrible to me if she knew I’ve no plans to stay around for long.’
‘What did she say to you?’ asked Francine curiously.
‘The usual memsahib type of things. Where do your parents come from? Why do you speak with such a funny accent? Insinuations, jabs. She more or less said that I was a native.’
The maid raised her eyebrows. ‘But…’
‘You’re going to say I am. But nobody here knows nor cares – only her. The old man likes me – he’ll be no trouble. She’s a bitch, though, a typical Colonel’s wife – down on everything and everyone.’
Calmer now that she had unburdened herself, Bethya sat down on a stool before the looking glass and the maid began unpinning her wonderful hair. As she worked Francine said, ‘The servants downstairs have been telling me that your husband’s father is very, very rich. Perhaps his mother thinks you married her son for his money. They say the house is full of treasures brought home from India, some very wonderful things.’
Bethya nodded. ‘They’re right. I’ve seen some of them already, and I knew Gus’ father was rich. Colonel Anstruther was famous in India for his avarice. He took bribes from all the princes – jewellery, gold, ivory, silks – anything that was valuable. He was a byword in the Army: ‘As greedy as Anstruther or a man-eating tiger’, they used to say. Of course I married Gus for his fortune! Even a girl who looks like me can’t make her way in the world without money. I have to get some before I start, and I’ll get it from Gus.’
She knew she should not be talking like this to a maid, but even though they had only been together now for a month, she trusted the strange, quiet French girl completely. They were allies. Putting up a hand she touched the maid’s arm and said confidingly, ‘Stay with me, Francine, and you’ll share in my fortune – I promise.’
A starry look came into the maid’s large eyes. ‘I’ll stay with you,’ she said. Her hands stroked the torrent of glossy hair and she added, ‘I’m sure you’ll succeed. You’ll take the fashionable world by storm. Look at your hair – it’s glorious, so thick and glossy and such a wonderful colour.’ She held up a strand that shone like blue-black silk in her fingers.
Bethya laughed. ‘I’m lucky. When I was small my ayah used to rub coconut oil into my head every Saturday night. I hated the smell and the way it felt, but it worked. My sisters wouldn’t let her do it to them and their hair isn’t nearly as thick as mine.’
‘I’ll rub oil into your hair if you want,’ said her maid eagerly but Bethya shook her head.
‘Oh no, there’s no need for that now. What you can do for me is gather all the gossip you hear in the servants’ hall. Tell me everything. Information is always useful.’
‘Of course,’ agreed the maid, and bent to her task of brushing out the lovely hair. The expression on her face was like that of an acolyte at the temple of a pagan goddess.
* * *
After the ladies left the dining room, Colonel Anstruther’s manner changed and he became again the formidable character who had cut a swathe through many Indian battlefields and squeezed gold out of countless reluctant princely fists. ‘Don’t let’s dicker about any longer. You came here to talk about the railway, didn’t you? What’s in it for me if I decide to throw my hand in with yours?’ he abruptly asked Sir Geoffrey Miller.
Their eyes met and Miller looked at the line
of tired-looking serving maids. Anstruther beckoned the butler. ‘Let the girls go, man. Only keep what you need to serve our wine, and make sure they’re discreet.’
Allardyce ushered his staff out of the room and told them, ‘I need one maid and one man to help me. Who’ll volunteer?’ It was a rhetorical question for he’d already made up his mind who he wanted, a quick young lad called Allan, and Hannah Mather, the bonniest and brightest of the maids. He pointed to them. ‘You and you, come back in with me. I’ll make it up to you. You can both have a day off tomorrow.’
When they returned to the dining room, the men were smoking cigars and the Colonel was asking the party from Edinburgh, ‘Let’s get started. What sort of bundobust have you got to offer me?’
Miller’s eyebrows went up. He did not know the meaning of the Indian word and he wished Anstruther would speak plain English. The Colonel saw his confusion and repeated, ‘What sort of deal will you offer for my land?’
‘A very good one,’ said Miller.
Anstruther leaned forward with his sharp little eyes fixed on his opponent’s face. ‘Tell me exactly why I should throw in my lot with you and not join up with my aristocratic neighbours to freeze you out.’
‘We’ll give you a directorship. We’ll give you shares. When it’s finished, this line will be one of the most profitable in the country because there’s no opposition and the manufacturers in Maddiston are crying out for a railway. So are the big farmers – they want to reach more markets.’
Anstruther nodded. ‘How many shares for me? I’m not going into anything where I’ll only be a toady bacha. I want to be one of the main men in the company. I want to be a major shareholder.’
A Bridge in Time Page 5