by Jane Jackson
‘Because, my dear, I know for a fact he had an affair with Martha Kennington last year.’
‘No!’
‘It’s the truth. Martha was dreadfully cut up when he ended it. Alfred took her down to Hong Kong to help her recover.’
‘I thought they went because of the cholera outbreak.’
‘That’s what they told everyone. But I know differently. I’d tried to warn her. But she wouldn’t listen.’ The laugh was brief and bitter. ‘Martha’s a fool. We all know Lowell Hawke has a heart of solid ice.’
‘You mean – you too? Oh Geraldine.’
Lowell? His name had the impact of a slap. Then shock forced all the breath from her lungs. Lowell – married? She gripped the counter for support. Why hadn’t he said –? Why should he? It was none of her business. Even so … There was a pounding in her temples and her heart hammered against her ribs. Married. Of course. It explained so much.
‘All water under the bridge, my dear. But you can’t tell me Marjorie doesn’t know. So why does she put up with it?’ Her tone grew impatient. ‘Where is the man. Ring the bell, Sarah.’
Straightening up Susanna lifted her chin and swallowed hard. The woman was wrong. Lowell Hawke was not a cold man. She had glimpsed in his eyes a warmth that reminded her of toast in front of a winter fire, summer sunshine, – Stop. Catching her lower lip between her teeth Susanna opened the door behind her and, to pretend she had just entered, closed it with audible firmness. Carefully expressionless she walked out behind the counter.
‘Good morning.’ She watched the women’s eyes widen and their mouths drop as she anchored the sheaf of invoices under a roll of scarlet silk. ‘How may I help you?’
‘Where is Mr Prakash?’ This was the one who had done most of the talking, the one whose caustic tone betrayed pique and relish at a rival’s misery. The one called Geraldine. Her striking looks made it obvious why Lowell had found her attractive. Susanna cleared her throat as jealousy knifed deep.
‘He’s had to step out for a moment. Perhaps I might be able to help you?’
‘That remains to be seen.’ Geraldine looked down her straight nose. ‘Who are you?’ Her chic lemon jacket was adorned with dark green braid in a mock military style. The matching overskirt, gathered into a full bustle, was looped up with rosettes of green braid to reveal fluted frills of pale cream silk. Black hair, dressed in an intricate arrangement of curls, was crowned with a narrow lemon hat decorated with dark green egret feathers.
Glancing down at her plain brown dress with its simple white collar and cuffs Susanna felt like a sparrow alongside a bird of paradise.
‘What are you doing here?’ the other woman enquired. Though less striking than Geraldine she was prettier, softer-looking. She too was stylishly dressed in shades of bronze, gold, and cream. Though her tone was one of intrigued amusement her eyes reflected the same wariness and disapproval apparent at the Consulate.
Susanna smiled politely. ‘My name is Elliot. I am Mr Prakash’s assistant.’
‘His wife usually helps him in the shop,’ Sarah observed.
‘My dear, she’s expecting again,’ Geraldine turned to Susanna. ‘So where is James?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘James Napley. Mr Prakash’s secretary.’ Geraldine tapped one elegantly shod toe impatiently. ‘He usually assists us when Mr Prakash is not available.’
It seemed James Napley’s detention in custody was not yet public knowledge. ‘As you see,’ Susanna gestured, ‘Mr Napley is not here this morning.’ Impulsively she indicated the rolls of silk. ‘These only arrived yesterday. You are the first to see them.’
Both women immediately switched their attention to the silk, fingering it, comparing colours, discussing possible outfits. Susanna assumed the self-effacing pose perfected during her youth and was quickly forgotten.
As she listened to them gossip she realised that despite their sighs about never having a moment to catch their breath, their lives were essentially frivolous, selfish, and without purpose.
For the first time she understood that though her father had carried his principles to suffocating extremes, without that discipline she might have been one of these women.
‘I’ll have fifteen yards of the crimson and another fifteen of the ivory.’ Geraldine’s imperious voice sliced through Susanna’s thoughts, and she stepped forward to set the silk aside for cutting.
‘Have you been in Shanghai long, Miss Elliot? I don’t recall seeing you at church.’
‘My cousins and I arrived only a few days ago.’
‘Have you come to stay with relatives then?’ Sarah enquired, determined not to be overlooked.
‘No. My cousins are missionaries.’
Geraldine eyed Susanna shrewdly. ‘You’re not though. So why are you here?’
Suppressing anger at the women’s impertinence Susanna gave a bland smile. ‘As I said, I am assisting Mr Prakash –’
‘Quite so,’ Geraldine interrupted, tight-lipped. ‘Perhaps I should point out that while we may be a long way from England we do pride ourselves on maintaining certain standards.’
Susanna’s bemusement was genuine. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘My dear, it just won’t do.’ Sarah leaned forward. ‘One cannot blame Mr Prakash. Being of a different culture he cannot be expected to understand. But your cousins should have realised. A young, unmarried Englishwoman working? And in a godown?’ She shuddered. ‘It’s totally unacceptable.’
‘I see.’ Tempted to ask if having an affair with a married man constituted acceptable behaviour in Shanghai, Susanna resisted. The answer was self-evident. ‘Then perhaps you could advise me. What are we to live on if I stop working?’
Above her sympathetic smile Geraldine’s dark eyes were as hard as pebbles. ‘My advice? I think you should go back to wherever you came from.’ She started towards the door. ‘Have the silk delivered to my house. Come, Sarah.’
‘Your name, madam?’ Susanna’s polite enquiry was met with a faint sigh of exasperation.
‘Wilbury. Lady Wilbury. Mr Prakash has the address.’
‘Honestly, Lucy, she was horrible. But apart from that I really enjoyed my day. It’s all so interesting. Did you know –?’ Susanna stopped, realising Lucy’s thoughts were elsewhere. It was just after nine o’clock. Meredith, who had somehow managed to procure a fresh bottle of chloral hydrate, was already sound asleep.
‘What about you?’ Susanna asked. ‘How did you get on?’
‘We visited several of the missions.’ Lucy shook her head. ‘I’m reluctant to condemn. After all we are newcomers and know nothing of the difficulties. But I have to say the missionaries here seem far more concerned with their own petty squabbles and rivalries than with saving souls. I gather they rarely leave the Settlement. Certainly none want to be away overnight. Very few speak any of the Chinese dialects. And even fewer know anything about Chinese culture and beliefs.’
Susanna pulled a wry face. ‘It sounds as though they are in need of missionaries themselves to remind them why they came to China in the first place.’
Lucy shook her head. ‘There is nothing for us here. We must go upriver to Anqing.’
Susanna stiffened. ‘Why Anqing? And what if Mr Hudson Taylor is not there?’
‘Anqing is Mr Hudson Taylor’s furthest outpost. If he is there it will be a privilege to meet him and receive his blessing and guidance. If he is not, at least we can establish contact with his people and offer them our assistance.’
Susanna didn’t want to go. She was enjoying her work at the godown. It was her first true taste of independence. As well as being a challenge – which was how she had chosen to view her encounter with Lady Wilbury – the job had many aspects, all of them interesting. ‘How does Meredith feel?’
‘She would prefer to remain in Shanghai,’ Lucy admitted. ‘I think she’s worried about the prospect of more travelling. And about being unable to obtain her medicines.’ Lucy gestured helplessly. ‘I didn�
��t know … She said we needed soap. When I saw the bottle … She’s taking too much. But she says she can’t sleep without it.’
Lucy’s drooping bony shoulders filled Susanna with compassion. Every decision was fraught with complications because of Meredith’s increasingly fragile state of health.
‘I’ve an idea. Why don’t Meredith and I stay here and you go up to Anqing by yourself?’
Lucy straightened. ‘What?’
‘I don’t mean remain in the hotel. We’ll rent a small house. I’m earning quite enough to keep us both. And it would give you the –’
‘No,’ Lucy shook her head firmly. ‘It is a kind offer, Susanna, but no. What would Meredith do while you were at work? You couldn’t take her with you and she couldn’t possibly be left alone all day. She has to come with me. And it’s out of the question that you should remain in Shanghai by yourself.’
Though bitterly disappointed Susanna had to concede Lucy was right. Lady Geraldine Wilbury had made it abundantly clear that arriving in Shanghai unsponsored and unspoken-for was definitely not the done thing. A young Englishwoman on her own, especially one refusing to conform to expectations, would swiftly find herself a total outcast. Quite apart from the difficulties that would cause her, Mr Prakash’s business might suffer. Which was no way to repay his kindness. She tried to put on a brave face.
‘So how are we to get to Anqing?’
Lucy pushed herself to her feet. ‘I’m not sure yet. I’ll make some enquiries tomorrow. Goodnight, dear.’
‘Lucy?’ Susanna blurted the question that had haunted her all day. ‘Did you know Lowell was married?’
‘Is he?’ Lucy’s eyes rounded in surprise. ‘I don’t think he’s ever mentioned – at least, not that I can remember – Are you sure?’
Susanna nodded, oddly comforted. If Lucy hadn’t known then she needn’t feel quite so stupid. ‘Quite sure. Lady Wilbury was talking to her friend about Lowell’s wife. Apparently her name is Marjorie.’ She turned away so Lucy would not see how much it hurt. That he was married had been shock enough. To learn he had mistresses as well … Lowell Hawke’s lifestyle was none of her business. But knowing that didn’t stop the sword-thrust of grief and jealousy when she imagined him with Lady Wilbury.
Clad only in a crimson silk dressing gown, his wet hair combed back from his forehead and curling thickly on his neck, Lowell returned to his bedroom. Apart from the large bed with its deep feather mattress and crisp clean sheets, the furnishings were spartan: a wardrobe, a tall-boy, a chair, and a lacquered table, its glossy surface almost hidden beneath letters and papers. It was, he realised, as impersonal and anonymous as a hotel room.
Scooping up a fistful of correspondence he pulled the pillows from beneath the counterpane and bunched them against the polished brass bedhead. Leaning back he opened the first envelope. He tried to read but the words wouldn’t register. Susanna. Where was she? What was she doing? Stop. He tried to focus on the schooner’s turnaround time. How long to unload, fumigate, deal with repairs, then re-load with a fresh cargo to cover the costs of carrying the guns up-river to Ellis? But silent as a shadow she kept returning. Her image was crystal clear. Willow-slender, graceful, and always so serious that he counted each smile a treasure to be horded. No! Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed he buried his face in his hands. Sweat trickled down his chest.
Roused by a knocking on the door he glanced up. ‘Yes?’
The door opened and Marjorie came in. But this was a Marjorie he had never seen before, giggling, breathless, her face flushed and dewy. As he slowly straightened up she closed the door and leaned against it. She had brushed her hair out. Fluffed about her head it made her neck seem shorter, her face more rounded. She was wearing a filmy froth of pale blue silk and white lace.
‘Lowell, d-darling,’ she stammered over the endearment and it sounded strange on her tongue. ‘I’m sorry about … earlier.’ She waved one hand airily. ‘Tha’s all in the past now. Nothing to be afraid of. Not with you. You’re my husband.’ Her bosom heaved as she sucked in deep breaths and she seemed unable to look at him. ‘This time’s going to be all right. I promise.’ She rushed forward, arms outstretched. He rose to his feet. It was the first time in the whole of their marriage that she had approached him.
Taken aback, trying to summon delight, telling himself it was what he wanted, he held her. As he felt the soft fullness of her breasts and her body’s heat through the fine fabric he was unable to control his physical response. Battling feelings of treachery, he drew her gently down onto the bed. Stretching out beside her he pressed his lips to her neck, feeling the rapid beat of her pulse against his mouth. She smelled strongly of lavender water. He would have preferred to discover the natural scent of her skin. But now was not the time to mention it.
Fighting his own need for release from the tension that had plagued him for weeks he prepared himself to take as long as she needed. If this was to work she must be led slowly, with subtlety and kindness.
At least she was not trembling with fright as on previous occasions. Nor as he caressed her lightly, tactfully, did she shrink away. But after a few moments he realised that despite her breathless sighs and the heat radiating from her body there was no real response. Something wasn’t right. He struggled with his doubts, telling himself to be patient. That the rewards would be worth the effort. As he shifted to a more comfortable position his fingers brushed her lower belly. She gasped, her doll-like face contorting in a spasm of fear and pain. ‘Please don’ hurt me, Papa.’
Lowell froze. Papa? He reared up on one elbow.
She blinked slowly and smiled at him, unaware she had spoken. Lowell’s breath stopped. Her pupils had shrunk to tiny black pinpoints. ‘‘S all right now,’ her voice was soft and breathy, the words slurred. ‘Not afraid. Not like before.’
In that instant he understood. It was all suddenly horrifyingly clear: her mother’s cowed behaviour, his own father’s warnings, Marjorie’s terror of physical intimacy. Hurling himself away from her he sat hunched on the far side of the bed shaking with rage as he contemplated the wasteland that was his marriage, the trick she and her family had played on him. But gradually his fury lost its edge, tempered by overwhelming sadness. If she needed to be drugged before she could bring herself to approach him Marjorie was as much a cripple as the malformed beggars by the old city walls.
Fastening his dressing gown he grasped her shoulders and shook her. ‘Marjorie?’
Her lids fluttered and she forced her eyes open. ‘Mmmn?’
‘The drug, what was it?’
‘Jus’ li’l something the chemist gave me. Don’ worry.’
Lowell shook her again harder, then hauled her up. Her head lolled sideways. ‘What did you take?’
She frowned and her chin began to quiver. ‘Don’t be cross. I did it for you. It’s what you wanted –’
‘No, I didn’t. Not like this. What sort of a man do you think I am?’
‘But you said –’
‘Marjorie, I wanted a wife who loved me, wanted me.’
‘But I do, Lowell,’ she cried piteously. ‘I do love you. Why else would I – Haven’t I just proved it?’ She clung to him. ‘Why are you so angry? I’m trying to give you what you want.’
Tearing himself free, he jack-knifed off the bed and stood in the centre of the room every muscle knotted with tension. ‘If you have to try so hard I don’t want it.’ He swung round. ‘In God’s name, Marjorie, why didn’t you tell me?’
Huddled against the pillows she drew her legs up, hiding them beneath the filmy negligee. ‘Tell you what?’
Tired to his soul he sat on the edge of the bed, careful to leave an expanse of white cotton bedspread between them. ‘About your father. About what he did to you.’
She huddled lower. The drug-induced euphoria was evaporating leaving her pale and drained. ‘Would you have believed me? And if you did would you have married me?’
Unable to answer he looked away. What had hap
pened wasn’t her fault. But if he had known then the effect it would have on her … She started to cry. Part of him was touched by her misery but searing rage forbade him offering comfort. Rage at the way she had used him, hiding behind the status of being his wife while giving him nothing in return. Not even honesty. Yet he had been warned. Only he’d chosen not to listen.
‘Wh – what are you g-going to d-do?’ she sobbed.
‘I don’t know.’ He cradled his head in his hands. ‘I need time to think.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mr Prakash. I had hoped to be with you until –’ Susanna broke off, realising that the merchant might prefer his secretary’s impending court case to remain unmentioned. ‘But as my cousins’ arrangements have now changed I thought you should know at once.’
Soman Prakash’s limpid brown eyes made Susanna think of a spaniel that had just been kicked.
‘I really am terribly sorry.’ She wanted to tell him how much she would rather stay here and continue working for him. But to do so would imply criticism of her cousins. Her debt to Lucy was too great to permit that.
‘This is very great shame as I am being most impressed by your work.’ He sighed. ‘So when do you leave?’
‘I’m not sure. Perhaps within a week. But if you wish I could continue working until the day before we sail?’
He nodded, beaming. ‘I am agreeing most heartily, Miss Elliot. Now I must go. My wife is needing me. Last night I am describing to her your great efficiency and she is most relieved and happy.’ His smile faded and the corners of his mouth turned down. ‘It is not good that she will start to worry again –’
‘Don’t tell her yet.’ Susanna suggested. ‘Wait until you’ve found someone to replace me.’
‘You are most sensible young lady.’ With a flash of white teeth he disappeared through the office door onto the Bund.
As she sat down behind the big desk, Susanna couldn’t help contrasting the Indian merchant’s trust and gratitude with the lack of either from her father and uncle. Pulling the tray of invoices forward she opened the big ledger and picked up her pen.