After stowing the discreet envelope, which bore nothing but Paul’s name, in her skirt pocket, she left the room. Mai had gone to see one of the dressmakers in the city, as Rose’s dress had suffered a slight mishap when she undressed the evening before. Rose had instructed Mai to wait until the dressmaker had repaired the split seam, giving her enough time to reach Paul undetected.
It had not been difficult to find out in which hotel he was staying—the city had one hotel that the English preferred and recommended to one another. She had even heard the name on frequent occasions while at Mrs. Faraday’s in London. The Newcastle Hotel was by the harbor, one of the few that had an English name. Her own hotel, the Batang, stood right in the city center and was run by local people. Carmichael had also wanted to stay at the Newcastle, but there had been no vacancies, and Rose had actually been pleased that she could spend some time in the heart of the city, her old home.
Having made sure that Carmichael wasn’t loitering in the vicinity of the hotel—he must be either in his room or out on some business or other—Rose went out through the glass doors and threaded her way through the stream of passersby. Many of them were locals, the women carrying either children bound to their bodies in pouches, or baskets of rice, sweet potatoes, or fruit. The Dutch, most of them wearing suits or frock coats, were engaged in lively conversations, their wives chatting with their neighbors. Rose was still familiar enough with the streets of her hometown to know all the shortcuts. Since she did not have to pay too much attention to her clothes, she hurried along narrow alleyways. The smell of spices and garbage filled her nose as she jumped over a rivulet of water someone had tipped out onto the street and flicked the hem of her skirt against a small dog who had settled down comfortably on a street corner.
And there it was before her. The hotel was one of the grandest in the whole of Padang. Its white facade would not have looked out of place in London and was punctuated by balconies, on some of which men in light-colored clothing stood watching the world go by, or women in wide-brimmed hats sat whiling away the time until lunch.
The local people, who knew how keen the English were on taking souvenirs back with them, had laid out cloths on the sidewalks and dotted them with jewelry, decorated boxes, pictures, and carved figures. A few people, Europeans judging by their appearance, lingered before them, while the passing locals did not even spare them a second glance.
Rose took the letter from her skirt pocket and strode up to the hotel doors, which were a masterpiece of carved timber and glass.
The interior of the hotel was like those in London and Paris and, apart from the Sundanese bellboys, there was very little to suggest that they were actually in Sumatra. The crystals and lamps of the magnificent chandeliers were reflected in the polished marble floor, the middle of which was covered by red carpets. The aroma of coffee and tea hung in the air, but there was no trace of the spicy smell that pervaded the corridors of her own hotel.
Giving every appearance of being nothing but a messenger, a servant of some anonymous mistress, Rose handed the letter to the red-liveried porter.
“Can you please give this to Lord Havenden—to him alone and no one else.”
She emphasized her words with a bill, which she pushed discreetly across the reception desk. The porter gave her a questioning look but nodded as the money disappeared beneath his hand. He tucked the letter carefully into a drawer; Rose thanked him and turned to go.
Outside, one of the English browsers, who had clearly been persuaded to buy some jewelry, turned and smiled at Rose. She returned his smile noncommittally and hurried on.
At that moment she saw Paul, who had also paused before one of the merchants’ displays. The woman on his arm was without doubt his fiancée. She was wearing a cream-colored dress that looked like it had come from a Paris fashion house, and her face was flushed with the heat. In the hand that was not tucked into Paul’s arm she held a delicate white parasol. That won’t offer you much relief from the heat, Rose thought somewhat maliciously. Once she was back in England, her skin would either be as brown as a nut or ruined by sunburn.
Yet she felt a pang of jealousy to see the way Maggie leaned affectionately on his arm and whispered something in his ear. Paul didn’t seem unhappy with this woman—in fact, he only had eyes for her. He didn’t once look at the street scene or notice Rose.
And if he did, would he acknowledge me? Would he come over to me, introduce her to me, talk to me? Or would he walk past as if I were any other woman? Is he only interested in my fame?
Carmichael’s words came back into her mind, and she was angry with herself for letting them. A normal life . . . All she wanted was a life at the side of a man who loved her. Could Paul be that man? She didn’t know. At that moment she began to doubt, and her doubts were soon so strong that she felt like running into the hotel and taking back her message. If she failed to get in touch with him, if she simply forgot him . . . But he was bound to find another excuse to be seen by her. And then she knew she wouldn’t have the willpower to send him away.
As she was still wrestling with her doubts, the couple moved on. The Englishwoman’s parasol blocked Paul’s view of the street, preventing him from noticing Rose. In any case, it was too late now for her to return to the hotel. If she did, he would see her, and she didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself in front of him and his fiancée. She continued on her way and turned into the next side street, away from the spell of the sight of him. Things were now in his hands. If he changed his mind, she would drive him from her mind.
As she came to the street where her hotel stood, she saw Mai nearby, talking to an elderly Chinese woman. There was no reason for her to be afraid of her own servant, but nevertheless Rose felt butterflies in her stomach as she hurried across the street, hoping that Mai wouldn’t see her.
It was similar to the time in London when she had secretly ventured out into the city by night with a few other girls, even though they had been warned of the dangers posed by the riffraff roaming the streets. As they walked, they had told each other wild tales of Jack the Ripper, who had terrorized the neighborhood years ago but had never been caught, and they had delighted in the creepy feelings aroused by the light of the gas lamps. Their feelings had intensified when they returned and crept down the corridor that led past Mrs. Faraday’s bedroom. They had managed not to wake her—and now, back in her hotel, Rose realized that Mai had not seen her either. With a smile of relief she turned to climb the stairs, ignoring the porter’s look of amazement as she charged up.
“Oh, look at those darling little elephants!” Maggie cried out, pointing to the carved figures spread out at the feet of a tanned boy in traditional dress.
Paul looked at her with amazement. She was like a different person today. The heat was still wearing her down, but she had not complained once during their walk through the city. She had not objected when Paul had suggested stopping to watch the fishermen hauling their nets from the sea, even though she must have feared getting sand in her shoes and a film of salt on her lips. Was she getting used to this place? Or did she instinctively sense his dissatisfaction, his inner conflict that had increased since his night with Rose?
“Yes, aren’t they lovely?” he replied as he tried to conceal his unease. “Would you like one?”
Maggie nodded, and Paul bought the small, smooth figure with fine lines carved into its back.
“It looks a little Indian,” he said as he passed it to her.
“I hope it will bring us luck,” Maggie said as she stroked the surface with gloved fingers.
“Elephants always do.” Paul kissed her temple lightly and led her to the hotel entrance.
“Sir, there’s a message for you,” the porter said as soon as he saw them come in, handing him a small envelope. At first Paul was baffled, but as he took the letter, he recognized the handwriting and was hardly able to stop himself from smiling.
“What’s that?” asked Maggie, who had noticed him slipping it quickly int
o his pocket.
“Nothing special. Only a message about the plantation.”
Maggie’s expression darkened again as if she had forgotten until that moment why they were there.
Paul tried to ignore it as he led her toward the staircase. Not a single word passed Maggie’s lips until they were in their room.
“Do you really have to buy that plantation?” she asked after removing her hat.
Paul raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“What do you mean? That’s why we made this journey. And in any case, I’m not buying the plantation. I’m acquiring a share.”
“Even a share will mean you’ll have to keep coming back here, won’t it?”
“Of course. I have to keep an eye on my business interests. And the owner will expect me to be involved. What else are partners for?”
Maggie pressed her lips together. However relaxed she had been before, she had now changed completely. It was as though a storm had rolled in to drive away her happiness. Did she suspect . . . No, that was impossible. The evening he went to the puppet show with Rose she had gone to bed early, and she was still asleep when he got back. In any case, there was no way she would creep around the streets of a foreign city alone, spying on him.
“What’s the matter, Maggie?” he asked in an attempt to pacify her, although his heart was thumping, and he wondered again if it had been a good idea to make her his wife. His mother had always supported his father in all he did, but he couldn’t be certain his own wife would do the same. If something like the investment in a plantation, and the income it represented, could cause an argument between the two of them, how would it be with any other matters that arose?
“I just don’t want to be here a moment longer!” she burst out angrily. “I hate this country! I hate this heat! I hate these people! Have you seen the children? You can’t get rid of them. They hover around like bluebottles. And then there’s that dreadful stink everywhere! I want to get away from here—that’s all there is to it!”
This outburst came as such a surprise to Paul that he was momentarily unable to reply. Her eyes gleamed with fury in a way that did not belong to the Maggie he knew. When had this incredible rage taken hold of her?
What she had just said rendered him speechless, but the anger in him soon boiled up like a pan of milk forgotten on the hot plate.
“This country that you hate so much has made my family wealthy! And I don’t see why I should forgo the chance of establishing a successful business here! The only mistake I’ve made about Sumatra is believing that you would support me. I should have left you at home, in the gray fog of London. That would have suited you better, and I’d have been spared your constant childish whining!”
Maggie stared at him as if he’d slapped her; then her face crumpled and she burst into tears. She might have hoped this would soften him, but Paul made no move to comfort her. On the contrary, he felt that all his accusations were confirmed. In many respects Maggie was still a child, and behaved as one. He almost expected her to stamp her foot when she didn’t get what she wanted. No, he didn’t want a wife like that. He needed a strong woman, one who would stand behind him in his enterprises.
Paul let her stand there for a moment longer before realizing that he would have to do something if he didn’t want to listen to her complaints all afternoon.
“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to be so heavy-handed,” he said, and approached her to take her in his arms. As if she were waiting for this move, she leaned on him, and he stroked her hair, trying to ignore the tears soaking into his shirt. But his thoughts were constantly drawn to the letter in his pocket, and how long he would have to wait for an opportunity to open and read it.
When Maggie finally disappeared into the bathroom to wash the tears from her face, he seized his moment. He tore the envelope open and felt a pang of disappointment as he saw nothing but a row of figures on the page. A secret code? He would have found it appropriate, but then it occurred to him what they really meant: the dates of Rose’s concerts. She was free on the days in between them, and as it turned out, there were three days, shortly before his departure, on which she could accompany him.
Against a background noise of water splashing into the bath, he sat down at the bureau to compose a reply. Maggie might hate this country, but Rose didn’t. He couldn’t imagine a better companion than her. She would make the journey a pleasure, telling him stories and possibly even casting him in a more sympathetic light in the plantation owner’s eyes—none of which he could expect from Maggie. He fixed a date and then wrote another message to the plantation owner, who had given him free rein to arrange the appointment.
On the day they were to set out, Rose was incredibly nervous. Neither Mai nor Carmichael knew where she was going. She had explained her absence with the excuse that she was traveling inland with her mother to visit her grandmother during the three days’ grace period before she had to prepare for the next concert. She was still unsure of her feelings for Paul Havenden. The reply he had sent her consisted of more than mere figures; in fact, it had been written with feeling.
Although it had been nearly a week ago, she could not rid herself of the mental image of Paul with his fiancée. What if he was only playing with her? Or was it the beautiful Englishwoman he was deceiving? What did he really feel in his heart?
She had not seen him since at her concerts; either he had been otherwise engaged on business or had to look after his fiancée.
“Miss, begging your pardon, but you wanted to leave at seven.”
Mai, looking rather sleepy, tore her from her thoughts. Rose had not returned from her concert until after midnight. She was due to give only one more, the day before she set off for India. And then, during the crossing, Rose would have to try not to think about Paul on his way back to England and the fact that she might never see him again.
“Yes, you’re right. I should be going,” Rose said. Dressed in her most elegant green riding habit, she picked up the carpetbag filled with everything she would need on the trip. She had to smile as she felt the weight of the bag. As a child, when she had traveled through the jungle with her mother, she had needed a fraction of all these things. And even now, she could manage in the wilderness with just a few provisions. But she had Paul with her, and there would probably be a guide and others accompanying them. She had to appear as civilized as possible, as it was actually anything other than moral to travel in the company of a man without a chaperone.
“Take care of my things, and look through my dresses,” she instructed Mai, to ensure she didn’t waste time daydreaming. “If you find any stains or damage, make sure that they’re all seen to by the time I return. I’ll be checking!”
“Yes, miss, I’ll make sure that everything’s in good shape.”
Rose nodded. After betraying her to Carmichael, her servant had given her no other grounds for displeasure.
“Very well. Take care of yourself, behave properly, and keep Mr. Carmichael happy so he doesn’t start getting ideas about coming after me and fetching me back for a last-minute engagement in some bar.”
“I’ll do that, miss,” Mai replied, smiling. “And you look after yourself in that wild jungle.”
“It’s not as wild as you think. If you keep to the tracks my people have followed for many years, there’ll be no risk of being eaten by tigers.” Rose was surprised at herself. Since when had she thought of the inhabitants of Sumatra as her people? “And the men of the forest wouldn’t harm anyone.”
“Men of the forest?” Mai’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Orang hutans, as they’re called in the local language. Large apes who were once taken for people. I’ll tell you about them when I get back.”
With that, Rose took her leave and left the room. She had hoped that Carmichael would have forgotten to come and say good-bye, but there he was, coming toward her down the corridor.
“Have a good trip,” he said. They were the first words spoken between them since their arg
ument. She had even let him know she was going in writing, and when they met, she barely had a word of greeting for him. “Look after yourself. Especially your hands. Without them . . . ”
“I’m worthless. I know,” Rose replied, a little indignant. “Don’t worry. This is my homeland—I know my way around. I’ll be back in two days.”
As she moved to go past him, his hand shot out and stopped her. Carmichael’s eyes bored into hers.
“How long are you going to sulk? Wasn’t I right that you’re not an ordinary woman? You should hear how full of praise people are for your concerts! Many of them are comparing you to an angel. And when this region’s newspapers finally catch up, I can show you the reviews. They’re going to be better than ever before.”
Rose extricated herself from his grip. She was flattered to hear that she was well received by the people here, but it also confirmed that romance, or even love, did her nothing but good.
“Then perhaps you should apologize to me,” she replied coolly. “Or save it until I return. I’ve done nothing wrong—my playing is as brilliant as ever, so the scene you made with me was completely unjustified. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I don’t want to keep my mother waiting.”
With that she turned, and without looking back at Carmichael, she knew he would be staring after her with a sour expression.
In case her agent was unable to resist spying on her, Rose had made detailed arrangements with Paul. She was to go to the harbor so that anyone following her would get the impression that she was heading for her parents’ house. Shortly before she got there, she would turn off into a small alleyway, where he would be waiting for her.
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