Now Latonia could see only too clearly how stupid she had been.
India then had seemed far away and she had merely thought that, when she returned to England, anything that had happened in that far-off Continent would be forgotten.
Instead she should have worked out in her own mind that Lord Branscombe was far too important a man not to be watched, gossiped about and, not unnaturally, envied.
She told herself reluctantly that, horrifying though it might seem to her, he had done the only thing possible in the circumstances he found himself in.
He had been very clever about it too.
She was sure that the Missionary in the small village where they had been married was not likely to read either the newspapers from England or those that were published in India.
She had felt that he was a man dedicated to the conversion of souls and that the Social world was something that would never encroach upon his mind because it would not be of the least interest to him.
To him, Kenrick Combe was just an ordinary Englishman and he was unlikely to connect him in any way with the pomp and grandeur of the British Raj.
‘Lord Branscombe has been clever,’ Latonia thought, ‘while I have been half-witted and deserve the punishment that has been meted out to me.’
Her feeling of humility lasted throughout the evening and, as they drove back to the Guest House, she wondered if she should tell Lord Branscombe how sorry she was.
But when they stepped into the sitting room there was a servant to ask if there was anything they required and before he could leave the room Lord Branscombe said abruptly,
“Goodnight, Latonia! I hope you sleep well.”
As he spoke, he walked towards his own bedroom. Latonia realised that they were next door to each other but she thought that as far as their minds and hearts were concerned, they might as well be a world apart.
As she undressed, she saw that their bedrooms communicated.
There was a door, which she had not noticed when she was dressing because it was covered by a curtain of glass beads.
Beyond it she could faintly hear Lord Branscombe moving about.
She sat down at the dressing table and, looking at herself in the mirror, wondered what her mother would say if she knew that this was her wedding night and she was spending it not only alone but also in disgrace.
Her mother had often spoken of how happy she had been on her honeymoon.
“Your father was the most handsome and attractive man I had ever seen in my life,” she had said to Latonia once, “and when I was married to him, I felt as if we were in Paradise together and there was no one else in the whole universe except ourselves.”
“That is what I want to feel,” Latonia told her reflection and she knew that entirely through her own stupidity it was lost to her forever.
When she was in bed, she found it impossible to sleep but lay listening to the soft sounds outside her bedroom window.
She thought that she recognised the creak of a well-wheel, the distant bark of a pariah dog, a baby crying and an old man, perhaps a night watchman, clearing his throat. The sounds were mingled and mixed with the scent of orange blossom and jasmine and the smell of warm dust and sun-baked stones.
‘If I loved somebody,’ Latonia thought, ‘India would be a perfect background for our love.’
Two hours later she was still awake and was tossing and turning on her bed because she felt hot and sticky.
She thought that she would go to wash in the bathroom that was connected to her bedroom. Although the water might be tepid instead of cold, at least she would feel more comfortable.
She climbed out of bed and pushed open the door and as she did so she heard a voice speaking in a whisper.
It was an eerie sound that held something of a faint hollow echo.
For a moment she stood very still with her hand on the door, shivering and feeling a little frightened.
Then she realised that the voice was speaking in Urdu and the ghostly echo was accounted for by the fact that there was a wide stone sluice pipe that carried off the water from the bath.
She had heard the sound before at the first Guest House they had stayed in and she had been startled by it although then it had been daylight.
Now she realised that somebody was talking on the far side of the bathroom wall, unaware that the sluice was acting as a kind of speaking tube.
The voice continued and now Latonia picked out some words she could understand.
“He will – die!”
“Is that wise?” another voice asked.
“It is necessary. If the Lord Sahib find what we – hide, there will be trouble – big trouble!”
“Big trouble if Lord Sahib die.”
“No, datura not like gun or knife. Give datura at breakfast to Lord Sahib – then he die in train.”
“Good idea!”
Latonia drew in her breath then, very softly, moving one foot behind the other, she retreated from the bathroom back into the bedroom.
Now as the full horror of what she had heard swept over her, she remembered what datura was and how they intended to kill Lord Branscombe.
She had read about it in several of the books that she had studied while coming over in the ship and had learnt that it was a plant that grew wild in many parts of India and had lily-like flowers that were sweetly scented and very beautiful. But the seeds, which were brown and green, were known as the ‘apples of death’.
Very poisonous, it had, Latonia read, been used for centuries as a handy method of disposing of unwanted husbands, surplus wives and elderly relatives.
One book, which had been most specific on its use, had told her that it was the commonest of all poisons and when ground into a powder and mixed with food, bread being the usual choice, it was fatal.
And death, Latonia remembered now, depended entirely on the manner in which datura had been eaten. Swallowed quickly, even a little bit was fatally effective.
She told herself that she must warn Lord Branscombe at once, but, as she moved quickly towards the door that communicated between their rooms, she thought of something else.
It was a soft movement that alerted her, a movement so slight that, had she not been awake and standing up, she might not have heard it.
But she knew exactly what it was, and that servants, doubtless on the instructions of the Rajah, were sleeping outside their rooms.
It was customary in India for a distinguished guest to be protected in such a manner, but now Latonia realised how vulnerable they were and how difficult it would be to warn Lord Branscombe of what was happening when anything they said could be overheard.
There was a wide verandah outside their bedrooms and there would doubtless be servants sleeping out there too. But they would not be able to hear so well as those inside, who had their ears against the doors, which, warped with the heat, did not fit close.
She stood, irresolute, feeling for a moment as if she was besieged on all sides by an enemy who had coiled himself around them like a snake.
She could, of course, wait for the morning and then suggest to Lord Branscombe that before they ate breakfast they should walk in the garden and admire the flowers.
There they would be able to talk without it reaching the ears of those who would listen.
‘But suppose,’ she reasoned to herself, ‘the poisoners strike before breakfast?’
The English habit of being called with tea and several thin pieces of bread and butter had been introduced into India by the Sahibs and their wives.
Here in the Guest House, an unsuspected piece of bread and butter could easily kill Lord Branscombe before she could warn him.
‘I have to tell him now – now at this moment!’ Latonia thought.
She knew it would be impossible for her to sleep until she had told him what she had overheard.
Resolutely, because she was feeling both afraid and shy, she walked towards the door that was covered by the bead curtain and, putting her hand t
hrough it, found the handle.
For one terrifying moment she thought that perhaps the door was locked, but then it opened and she walked into Lord Branscombe’s room.
It was larger than hers and, by the faint light that shone through the uncurtained window, which came from a light that remained burning all night on the verandah, she could see the outline of the bed.
The mosquito-curtaining heaped high above it had not been lowered as they were so far North.
Latonia stood where she was, trying to see where she was going and to think of what she should say.
Then she tiptoed towards the bed, her bare feet making no sound on the native woven mats that covered the wooden floor. She had actually reached Lord Branscombe’s side when, with the alertness of a man used to danger, he awoke.
He moved and, although Latonia could not see clearly, she knew that his eyes were open and that he was aware of her standing beside him, silhouetted against the faint light from the window.
“What is it? Who are you?” he asked.
Then, with what was undoubtedly an incredulous note in his voice, he exclaimed,
“Latonia!”
There was no doubt now, Latonia thought, that the servant outside would be listening and she said quickly and loudly enough for him to overhear easily,
“You – forgot to – come and say – goodnight to me as I – expected you to.”
Because she knew that he must be staring at her incredulously, she added quickly,
“I-I fell asleep – or I would have – come to you before.”
Lord Branscombe did not speak and Latonia thought despairingly that she would never make him understand.
Then, because she knew that if she failed he would die, it was almost as if a voice told her what she must do.
Without thinking, without even considering anything but the horror of what she had overheard, she moved forward and lay down on the bed beside Lord Branscombe.
As she did so, she was aware that he stiffened, but the only thing that mattered was that he should know there were plans to kill him.
In the swiftness of a second Latonia was beside him, her head was on the pillow and her lips were close to his ear.
“I have – something to tell – you,” she whispered.
Her voice was so low that she could barely hear it herself, but, as if at last he understood, he said aloud,
“I am glad you came to me. I thought you would be asleep. It has been a long day.”
As he finished speaking, Latonia whispered,
“There is – danger! They – intend to – kill you!”
“How do you know this?”
His voice was as low as hers.
“I overheard, through the sluice pipe, two men talking,” she whispered.
Again speaking aloud, Lord Branscombe said,
“You must not overtire yourself. I was afraid that the party tonight on top of the long journey would be too much for you.”
“I am all right.”
“How do they intend to kill me?” he whispered.
“With datura,” Latonia replied. “Either at breakfast or it might be in something you eat earlier. Please – be careful!”
“I will be,” he murmured, and then aloud, “there will be another long journey tomorrow, so I think you should go back to your own bed and I hope I don’t wake you when I get up early.”
“I expect I will sleep soundly.”
Latonia lowered her voice as she said,
“Suppose they – try another – method? Please – please stay here until we – leave.”
Her voice rose a little because she was agitated.
Then as if she remembered the servants outside, she added in a whisper,
There is – somebody – listening outside the – door.”
“I know,” Lord Branscombe replied, “and so we might as well give them something to listen to!”
As he spoke, he raised his head and then his mouth came down on hers.
For a moment Latonia was too astonished to feel anything but surprise.
All she felt at first was the hardness of his lips. Then his kiss seemed to soften and become more compelling and at the same time more demanding.
She had never been kissed before and yet strangely enough it was exactly how she thought a kiss would be, a feeling of being captured and conquered.
Then his lips gave her a strange warmth that seemed to tingle through her body and become almost a river of flame moving upwards through her breasts, through her throat and into her lips.
It was so wonderful, so different from any emotion she had ever felt before, that she felt her whole being respond to it and as she did so she knew that this was what she had been seeking, what she had been longing for.
This was love and she had not realised it.
Love for a man of whom she had been vividly conscious for the last days and weeks and who had filled her mind, whether she was aware of it or not, from the first thing in the morning until the last thing at night.
Her fear of him or what had at first been a hatred, had changed, without her knowing it, to love – the love that now made her feel as if he carried her away into the starlit darkness outside and they were no longer human.
Even as she wanted him to go on kissing her more than she had ever wanted anything in her whole life, she was free and he said in a strange voice,
“Go back to bed, Latonia. It is too late for love-making tonight. But I am glad that you came to me.”
As he spoke, Lord Branscombe put his head back on the pillow and turned his back towards her.
She was dismissed and Latonia felt as if she fell from the very highest peak of a mountain down into the darkness of the valley beneath.
For a moment it was impossible to move, impossible to adjust herself to reality.
She had touched the Divine, but, she thought despairingly, it had only been play-acting on his part, for the servants who were listening outside the door.
Slowly, feeling as if for the moment her limbs would not obey her, she slipped off the bed.
As her feet touched the ground, she wanted once again to beg Lord Branscombe to be careful.
How could he die now when he had taught her what really being alive was like?
Then, with a throb of her heart that was like the stab of a dagger, she realised that he did not feel for her what she felt for him.
They were back exactly where they had been before. He was hating and despising her and the wonder he had given her with his lips had meant nothing to him.
Slowly, because suddenly she felt that she was moving in a nightmare, Latonia walked across the room.
Only as she reached the door did she look back.
It was impossible to distinguish clearly in the darkness, but she thought that Lord Branscombe was lying as she had just left him, with his back to where she had been, his head turned sideways and he was not even watching her go.
“Goodnight,” she murmured.
He did not answer and she went through the bead curtain and heard it jingle into place behind her.
*
In bed again, Latonia lay for a long time looking at the door that now divided her from the man whose name she bore.
She knew now that what she wanted to do was go back, lie beside him and ask him to kiss her again.
It would be an outrageously immodest thing for her to do and yet, because the servant was listening, he would not be able to refuse her.
She felt as if a voice was tempting her to do just that, telling her that this might be the last chance and once they were alone again they would sit in silence as they had after they were married.
She had felt then as if Lord Branscombe could not bear to look at her and she thought that he had been feeling not only angry but appalled that he had been tricked into having as his wife the last woman on earth he would have chosen for such a position.
‘The last woman but one!’ Latonia corrected herself wryly, for she was certain that
Toni was even lower in his estimation than she was herself.
And yet there was little to choose between them!
They had both behaved in an outrageous manner, they had both been irresponsible to the point where their plot had resulted in unforeseen repercussions to which there appeared to be no ending,
‘But only for me!’ Latonia thought.
Toni was safe. Toni was married to the man she loved. Toni –
Latonia stopped suddenly.
She too was married to the man she loved. The only difference was that he did not love her.
How could she have guessed, how could she even for a moment have anticipated that she would fall in love with Lord Branscombe despite his feelings for her?
His lips had not only made her aware of her love for him but had brought her a rapture that was beyond anything she had ever imagined.
She closed her eyes to feel again that strange warmth rising through her body until it became a flame.
‘No wonder,’ she told herself, ‘that the Indians worship the God of Love – and sing songs in homage to him.’
Love for them was part of their very lives, but Latonia was sure that to Lord Branscombe it was something that was of little importance.
“I love him!” she whispered into the darkness and wondered what she could do about it.
How could she ever make him love her in return? How could she evoke in him the rapture and wonder that he had given her?
Last night in bed she had cried bitterly and despairingly and she had thought it was because, having discovered her deception, he was angry with her.
But now she knew it was much more than that. It was because she wanted him to admire her, to trust her and most of all, although she had not been aware of it, to love her.
He had always seemed so magnificent, especially in his uniform. But it was not only his looks that drew her and held her, but the aura of power and authority that he exuded and something else – something that she knew was in every way the opposite of what she had felt coming from the Rajah’s palace.
It was in fact an aura of all that was honourable, good and upright. Perhaps ‘noble’ was the right word.
Punished with Love Page 12