by Dilly Court
Stranks gave him a savage dig in the ribs with his elbow. ‘Don’t overdo it,’ he muttered. He turned back to the nurse, who looked as though her knickers were starched as well as her pristine white cap and apron. He knew that she was suspicious and that she was looking down her long pointed nose at them. He’d like to get that one on her own down a dark alley – he’d soon have her cut down to size and begging for mercy, or maybe for more. Perhaps that was what the sad old virgin needed.
‘Have you any proof of identity?’ Sister Demarest demanded. These two ruffians might have fooled the almoner, but then Miss Parry was an innocent and thought the best of everyone. Sister Demarest folded her arms across her flat chest. ‘Well, have you?’
‘All lost when the ship went down, Sister,’ Stranks said, meeting her stern gaze with a straight look. He was good at lying. He had learned to lie as soon as he could talk. With a drunken scoundrel of a father and a mother who was no better than she should be, life had been hard in the slums of Hoxton, and Norman Stranks had existed on the streets since he was eight years old. Cheating, lying and stealing had come easily when it meant the difference between survival or the less attractive alternative. A brief spell in the workhouse had further hardened him and a year in Pentonville prison had completed the process. It was there that he had met the simple-minded Guthrie and for good or ill they had been accomplices in crime ever since. Now he could see a way out of the vicious circle of reoffending, capture and imprisonment and he was going to grab it with both hands. The only problem was that the answer to all their problems lay close to death on the bed before them.
Stranks fell on his knees and buried his face in the snow-white coverlet. ‘Don’t die, little Lucy. Oh, my duck, please don’t leave us.’ He looked up at Sister Demarest and the tears that trickled down his cheeks were real. ‘Get her better, Sister. Us wants to take our little angel home.’
The girl’s eyelids fluttered and her lips parted in a long sigh. Her eyes opened and she stared uncomprehendingly at Stranks. For a moment it seemed that the fever had abated and Sister Demarest pushed Stranks aside so that she could take the patient’s pulse.
‘You must leave now,’ she said firmly. ‘You are disturbing my patient.’
Stranks scrambled to his feet, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. ‘Is she coming round, Sister? Is she going to get well?’
‘I can’t say, but she must be allowed to rest. If you don’t leave I will have to summon a porter to escort you from the ward.’
Guthrie took Stranks by the arm. ‘Come on, mate. Do as she says.’
‘All right, but we’ll be back later,’ Stranks said grudgingly. ‘But you ain’t going to keep us from our sister now we’ve found her.’
‘Keep your voice down, and go,’ Sister Demarest said, pulling the curtain around the bed. ‘Come back tomorrow and with God’s grace you might find that the fever has broken and the patient will be able to recognise you.’
In the dim recesses of her fevered brain, Lucetta could hear the murmur of vaguely familiar male voices and an inexplicable fear seized her. Then there was the unmistakeable clink of brass rings as the curtains were drawn around her bed and she forced her heavy eyelids to open, but a shaft of fear ran through her body. Everywhere was white, except for the flower print on the curtains. She had no idea where she was – or who she was. She closed her eyes and drifted off to another place and another time. A place of safety and calm – somewhere achingly familiar – somewhere else.
Chapter Two
The scent of the Spice Islands was not the sweet, nutty aroma of cinnamon and cloves or the spicy tang of pepper, cardamom and ginger that Lucetta had romantically expected it to be. The cloying odour of rotting vegetation, hanging like a steamy mist in the tropical heat, had come as a shock after months at sea with nothing to breathe but the cool salt-laden air. The first sight of the mountainous, palm-fringed island, bright with exotic blooms of frangipani and hibiscus had hit her senses in a flood of colour. Everything here was so dramatically different from the pale northern watercolour landscape of England or the sepia tints of London that it had left her breathless with wonder.
Now, after three months in this island paradise, she was used to the strange smell of the jungle that permeated the stuccoed walls of the British consul’s residence in Denpasar. The odour was all-pervading and even managed to seep into the sandalwood chests that contained her clothes. When she dressed, with the help of Naomi, the flower-like Balinese girl who had been assigned to her as a personal maid, Lucetta had been horrified to find that her new gowns, which had cost a small fortune in London, felt damp to the touch and hung limply from her slender body.
Perhaps this exotic place was not paradise after all, and if the truth were told she had not wanted to come to this strange land, but Papa must be obeyed in all things. He had decided that a sea voyage would be beneficial to her mother’s delicate constitution, and there was no question of leaving sixteen-year-old Lucetta alone in London with only the servants to care for her. The only alternative had been to invite Aunt Eliza and Uncle Bradley to stay with her in Islington, and that meant enduring the company of their son, spoiled, spotty-faced Jeremiah. Lucetta had disliked him intensely when they were younger, and although they had seen little of each other while he was away at boarding school, she doubted whether he had changed very much and if he had, then it was probably not for the better.
Lucetta had reluctantly opted to accompany her parents, and she had not regretted her decision. She had fallen in love with what she had seen of the island and its gentle people. If only she had more freedom to explore its mysterious interior she would have been content to stay longer than the intended four months while Papa toured the neighbouring islands in search of merchandise to stock his wholesale warehouse in London. But she soon discovered that the same strict rules applied even though they were so far from home. It seemed to Lucetta that Queen Victoria’s influence had spread from the outposts of the British Empire to the Dutch East Indies. The British consulate was dominated not by the consul, Sir John Boothby, but by his wife, Pamela, who observed all the niceties and traditions of English upper class life, even down to afternoon tea with cucumber sandwiches and toasted muffins. Despite the tropical heat, steaming bowls of brown Windsor soup were served at dinner, followed by a fish course and then the inevitable roast meat with at least two boiled vegetables. Lucetta would not have been surprised if suet pudding and custard had appeared on the table as a dessert, but this was either beyond the scope of the Balinese cook, or Lady Boothby had been persuaded that fresh fruit was more palatable after a heavy meal.
Lucetta would have liked to learn more about the Balinese culture and she tried desperately to communicate with her maid Naomi, but as the girl only spoke her native tongue and a few words of Dutch, and Lucetta spoke neither, they had mostly to resort to sign language interspersed with inevitable fits of the giggles. Naomi’s given name was Nyoman, but Lucetta had such difficulties with pronunciation that she opted for a more English-sounding alternative. When this seemed to delight rather than to offend Naomi, Lucetta gave her a hug and presented her with a bead necklace by way of setting a seal on their friendship, to which Naomi responded by taking a spray of frangipani from her sleek dark hair and tucking it behind Lucetta’s ear.
The days of enforced leisure passed pleasantly enough but Lucetta longed for a little excitement. There were occasional trips into town with Lady Boothby, when the good woman was not otherwise occupied with her charity work, but these were infrequent and Lucetta was not allowed to explore unless chaperoned by Miss Dodd, Lady Boothby’s steely-eyed maid, who complained bitterly of the heat which made her feet swell and played havoc with her varicose veins.
Other than this, Lucetta spent most mornings attempting to entertain her mother, either by reading to her or taking her for short walks in the rose-scented gardens before the heat became too oppressive. Once a month the wives of minor officials and senior clerks were invited to the consulate to ta
ke afternoon tea, and there were occasional card parties in the evening, but the guests were mostly middle-aged and Lucetta longed for the company of young people, although she knew better than to complain. She was only too well aware how important this business trip was to her father, and she would not upset Mama’s delicate constitution for all the tea in China, or even all the spice in the Spice Islands. She resigned herself to another few weeks of idleness, and resolved to make the best of things.
On a morning that was indistinguishable from any other, breakfast was brought to Lucetta on the vine-shaded veranda outside her ground floor bedroom. She sipped her coffee wondering what she would do today. Papa would almost certainly be off somewhere on the island buying up all the intricately carved teak-wood, seagrass and rattan furniture that he intended to ship back to England and sell for a handsome profit. Lucetta had heard him tell Sir John that he had already purchased enough to fill the entire hold of the Caroline, the clipper ship that would take them home when Papa was satisfied that his business was done. She sighed, thinking of London and the pleasant life that she had left behind. She did not often allow herself to yearn for home, nor would she have admitted the truth to her mother, but Lucetta missed the trips to the theatre, the outings to the Zoological Gardens and Madame Tussaud’s and meetings with her old school friends from Miss Milton’s Academy for Young Ladies, which she had left last spring.
It would be autumn by the time she returned to London and there was much to look forward to. She thought longingly of her blue and white bedroom on the second floor of the elegant townhouse in Thornhill Crescent, one of the best parts of Islington. All the memories of her happy childhood were encapsulated in that bright, sunny room. Her dolls with their beautiful wax faces still sat on the sofa beneath the window, although it was several years since she had played with them, but they were too well loved to be packed away in tissue paper and stored in the far recesses of the attics. Her favourite books were neatly displayed on the white-painted bookshelves and a rosewood escritoire awaited her return in the alcove next to the fireplace. It was there she wrote in her journal every evening before she went to bed. She had brought it with her, but there was little enough to write about. Life in the consulate was comfortable but hardly exciting.
A waft of frangipani from the blossom tucked into Naomi’s glossy black hair brought Lucetta back to the present and she turned her head to see her maid tipping the contents of a china jug into the bowl on the washstand.
Lucetta acknowledged her presence with a cheerful smile. ‘Thank you, Naomi.’
Naomi moved gracefully to the cedar chest and opened it. She held up a sprigged muslin morning gown. ‘Yes, missy?’
‘Not that one, thank you,’ Lucetta said, shaking her head. ‘I think I’ll wear the blue silk.’
Naomi’s eyes clouded and her lips trembled. ‘Saya tidak mengerti, missy.’
‘No, I’m sorry. Of course, you don’t understand me and I haven’t the slightest idea what you just said.’ Lucetta swung her legs off the teak steamer-chair and stood up. Even this early in the morning her flimsy cotton wrap clung to her skin where perspiration had pooled between her shoulder blades. She reached for her leather shoes and found that they had sprouted a white fungal bloom overnight. She sighed, handing them to Naomi. ‘I’d be grateful if you would clean them.’ She made a polishing motion with her hand and Naomi nodded, smiling as she took the shoes.
‘Blue silk dress,’ Lucetta repeated slowly. She pointed to the azure sky. ‘Blue – like sky.’
‘Ah! Blue.’ Naomi repeated the word triumphantly and disappeared back into the relative darkness of Lucetta’s bedchamber.
Shuffling barefoot across the grass matting, Lucetta followed her into the cool room.
Naomi selected the gown from the cedar chest and held it up for Lucetta to see. ‘Blue dress for Missy.’
‘Well done,’ Lucetta said, clapping her hands. ‘Thank you, Naomi.’ She reached out to take the dress but it felt damp and the strange jungle odour emanated from its folds. Lucetta would not have been surprised to find mushrooms growing from the seams, but a few minutes in the hot sunshine would put that to rights. It would be too complicated to explain this to Naomi and she went outside to drape the garment over the wooden railing. She returned to the room to find Naomi watching her with a worried frown puckering her smooth brow.
‘Missy no dress?’
‘No, thank you. I can manage on my own. You go and get your breakfast, Naomi.’
‘Breakfast?’
Lucetta raised her hand to her mouth, making a pretence of eating, and she rubbed her tummy. ‘Yum, yum – breakfast,’ she said, chuckling. ‘You go now, Naomi.’
Naomi’s lips parted in a wide smile and her almond eyes danced with laughter. ‘I go now, missy.’
When she was alone, Lucetta allowed the cotton wrap to fall to the floor. She stretched her arms above her head, revelling in the caress of the cool air that wafted through the open French windows. Padding over the marble tiles to the washstand, she dipped her flannel in the bowl of water scented by rose petals floating on the surface. She shivered with pleasure as the liquid streamed down her neck, trickling sensuously between her firm young breasts.
She repeated the action again and again, taking delight in the relief of feeling fresh and clean, although she knew that by noon she would be just as hot and sticky and in desperate need of another wash. But first she must go through the motions of dressing and putting up her hair, after which she would seek out Lady Boothby and make polite conversation, enquiring about her hostess’s health and her charitable work at the hospital in Denpasar. By that time Mama would have left her room and be comfortably ensconced on the chaise longue in the drawing room while Naomi’s seven-year-old sister fanned her with a palm leaf. Lucetta would read to her mother or simply sit and listen while Evelyn Froy reminisced about her idyllic childhood in the Hampshire vicarage where she had been born and raised. After taking luncheon in the dining room the ladies would retire to their rooms for an afternoon nap, to be awoken by their maidservants at four o’clock in time to dress for tea. The day ahead was as predictable as sunrise and sunset and not nearly as exciting.
Quite suddenly, Lucetta had the urge to escape from the confines of the compound and an irresistible need to do something different and even dangerous. With droplets of water still glistening on her skin, she pulled her fine lawn shift over her head and rang the bell for Naomi.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said as Naomi came through the French doors with the blue silk gown draped over her arm. ‘I’m going riding, Naomi. I’ll need my riding habit, please.’
* * *
Outside the cool interior of the consulate the heat was so intense that it hit Lucetta with a force that took her breath away. She hitched up the long skirt of her riding habit and made her way through the gardens safe in the knowledge that the morning parlour, where Sir John and Lady Boothby took breakfast, was on the far side of the building. Mama would not have risen from her bed, and Papa would have left for the north of the island at dawn. There was no one apart from an aged gardener to see her making a bid for freedom.
She crossed the gravelled compound, making her way to the stable block where the little mare she normally rode whinnied in recognition at the sight of her. The head groom hurried to greet her, and although he eyed her doubtfully he was too well trained to question the consul’s guest when she asked for her mount to be saddled. Lucetta stroked the horse’s soft muzzle and spoke softly to the animal. She had taken a chunk of sugar crystals from her breakfast tray that morning and secreted it in her pocket. She offered it now to the mare on the palm of her flattened hand. She smiled at the gentle touch of the horse’s velvet lips on her skin, and her heartbeats quickened in anticipation of doing something as daring as leaving the consulate unchaperoned. She waited while the groom saddled the mare and led the animal to the mounting block. He held the reins while Lucetta climbed onto the side-saddle.
‘Thank
you,’ she said, acknowledging his assistance with a smile. ‘You can let her go now.’
But the groom held on to the reins, shaking his head. ‘Missy not go alone.’
‘It’s quite all right,’ Lucetta said firmly. ‘Sir John said I might take the horse for a short ride. I won’t go far.’
‘No, missy. Not safe.’ The groom signalled to one of his underlings who led a heavy-looking mule of an animal from the stables and prepared to mount.
‘No,’ Lucetta said, snatching the reins from the startled groom’s hand. ‘Thank you, but I will go alone. There is no need to trouble your man.’
She could see by the groom’s set expression that he had not understood, or if he had then he was feigning ignorance. ‘Thank you, but I don’t need an escort.’ She urged the mare forward using her riding crop to tap the animal gently on its flank. They were off at a smart trot before any of the startled stable hands could stop them. By chance the consulate gates had been opened to admit a despatch rider with a satchel of mail for the consul, and Lucetta rode through them before the gatekeeper had a chance to obey the shouts from the stables.
A triumphant cry escaped her lips as she encouraged the little mare to canter along the road that led away from the town. Soon they were galloping along the edge of a palm-fringed beach. The white sand and the sparkling turquoise sea looked so inviting that Lucetta was tempted to stop and tether her mount in the shade of the palms, but there were people around: local farmers leading donkeys laden with panniers filled with rice for the market; fishermen dragging their nets in the lagoon where the distant sound of thunder was not a threatening storm but the crashing of breakers on the coral reef. Lucetta was not bold enough to go on the beach unattended; at least not until she found a place that was completely deserted.
She rode on, heading inland and pausing for a moment to gaze in wonder as the land dropped suddenly into a deep valley where narrow terraces had been carved out of the hillside to form paddy fields for the cultivation of rice. Shaded by tall palms, the lush green land was misted with heat haze. Lucetta remembered having come this way once before, with Papa and one of Sir John’s grooms. If memory served her correctly, there was a fascinating Buddhist temple not far distant from this place. She had spotted it then and had asked to be allowed to explore, but the groom had shaken his head, murmuring something in his native tongue, and Papa had been in too much of a hurry to reach a workshop where he had hoped to make trade.