A Multitude of Sins

by Margaret Pemberton

  Her elation died. At the thought of the news she had to break to him she felt physically sick.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, seeing the expression in her eyes and frowning in concern. ‘Is it the Brahms? Was it too much for you?’

  She shook her head, turning round on the piano stool so that she was facing him. ‘No,’ she said stiffly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. ‘I have something to tell you…’

  He stared at her in disbelief, listening, immobile, as she told him that she would be unable to fulfil her coming concert engagements. That she would not be in Europe when the Brussels Competition took place. That she did not know when she would be in Europe again.

  ‘It is not possible!’ he kept saying. ‘I do not understand! It is incredible! Unbelievable!’

  ‘I am sorry, Professor,’ she said at last, her voice tight with pain.

  ‘Sorry?’ He pushed his chair away from him violently, jumping to his feet. ‘Sorry? Don’t you realize what you are doing? The chances you are forsaking? Good God, girl! You are one of the most gifted pupils I have ever taught! You are almost certain to win the Brussels Competition. Even before the International Piano Competition promoters will be hammering on your door!’

  She rose unsteadily to her feet, her face so white that he thought she was going to faint.

  ‘I know,’ she said bleakly, unable to bear any more ‘Goodbye, Professor Hurok.’

  ‘Elizabeth, wait!’ He jumped from his chair, concern replacing his rage. ‘Are you ill? Is there something terrible that you are not telling me?’

  She shook her head, finding his concern far more distressing than his rage. ‘No,’ she said, her voice choked. ‘Goodbye, Professor.’ And before he could restrain her she hurried from the room, running down the corridor, half-blinded by her tears.

  Two weeks later they left Four Seasons under the care of a housekeeper and closed the Kensington house. They left the keys with Adam’s London solicitor, and without any farewell-party, any goodbyes to anyone at all, left London for Southampton and the docks.

  ‘You don’t mind about not having a crowd coming down to the docks to see us off, do you, Beth?’ Adam asked as they sat in the rear of their chauffeur-driven car, driving across Waterloo Bridge towards Waterloo Station.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  He took her hand in his. ‘Luisa wanted to come, but she’s at a christening in Derbyshire and there was no way she could cry off. It would have caused too many hurt feelings.’

  Luisa was the only person Elizabeth would have liked to say goodbye to, but Luisa had already explained to her about the family christening.

  It was late afternoon when they reached Southampton, and in the mellow sunshine the Orient Princess looked magnificent. For the first time in weeks Elizabeth felt her spirits stir. She had never been on a long sea-voyage before, and a shiver of expectation ran down her spine as they walked up the gangplank and were greeted by the purser.

  ‘She’s a magnificent ship, isn’t she?’ Adam said enthusiastically as a steward led them towards their cabin. ‘We’re going to have a wonderful time on board her.’

  Elizabeth, her hair falling softly to her shoulders, her figure slim and svelte in a biscuit-beige suit with wide fashionable shoulders and a chocolate-brown mink wrap over one arm, smiled in agreement. The steward had just turned round in order to tell them that all the bars on the ship were already open, when he caught sight of her smile and his voice faltered. My God, but she was lovely! He glanced hurriedly down at his passenger-list. She was surely much too young to be Mr Harland’s wife. Perhaps she was his daughter … his niece. He found their names, and his hopes of a romantic diversion fell.

  ‘Here is your cabin, sir,’ he said to Adam, throwing open the door for them and envying him for a lucky devil. ‘I hope you have a good voyage, sir. Madam.’

  The cabin was large and spacious, with beds instead of bunks, a small bathroom, and ample cupboard space for their luggage.

  ‘Three and a half weeks at sea,’ Adam said to her exultantly. ‘It’s going to be a second honeymoon!’

  She laid her mink wrap on one of the beds, and he stepped towards her, sliding his arms around her. ‘I love you, Beth,’ he said, his mouth closing over hers, warm and demanding. She knew that he was about to make love to her, and she knew that she did not want him to. Not now. If he made love to her now, she might not be able to pretend. He might realize that, though his caresses were agreeable, even stimulating, she did not crave for them in the way that he did hers. He would be dreadfully distressed, and their three-and-a-half-week cruise would be ruined.

  ‘Let’s go up on deck until she sails,’ she said coaxingly. ‘I want to feast my eyes on England while I can!’

  He grinned. ‘The only bit of England you’ll see at the moment are the grubby docks of Southampton!’

  ‘The docks will be quite satisfactory,’ she said, sliding her hand into his. ‘Come on, we’re missing all the fun.’

  They walked back along the mahogany-lined corridors and up the wide central staircase to the ship’s lounge. A huge fanciful mural of Father Neptune decorated one wall, and the room was full of passengers and their visitors, all saying noisy, exuberant and sometimes tearful goodbyes. Up on deck the breeze was chilly, and Elizabeth shivered, wishing she had remembered to bring her wrap.

  ‘The last of the luggage has been swung aboard,’ Adam said to her, pointing out the crane that stood on the dock-side, its big empty net hanging limp.

  ‘All visitors ashore, please!’ a loudspeaker blared out, and they leaned against the deck-rail, watching as the visitors disembarked and the gangplank was lashed into place.

  ‘Only another few minutes now before we up anchor,’ Adam said with boyish enthusiasm. As he spoke a taxi-cab hurtled on to the cobbles, squealing to a halt. The door flew open, and an elegant figure stepped out, her long legs clad in sheer silk stockings, her shocking-pink wool suit unmistakably Parisian, her fox furs swinging, her little hat of feathers perched at a preposterous angle over one eye.

  ‘It’s Princess Luisa Isabel!’ Elizabeth cried, waving furiously. ‘Luisa! Luisa!’

  The Princess ran towards the ship, saw that the gangplank was up and laughed up at them with an expressive gesture of her hands and a shrug of her shoulders. ‘It is too late for me to come aboard,’ she called, ‘but good luck, Elizabeth! Good luck, Adam! Bon voyage!’

  The siren hooted, drowning their answering shouts, the thick hawsers were cast, and slowly the ship eased herself away from the dockside.

  ‘Goodbye, Luisa!’ Elizabeth cried, waving furiously. ‘Goodbye!’

  She waved until her arm ached, until they were so far away that the Princess was no longer discernible. Tears stung the back of her eyes as she finally turned away from the deck-rail and accompanied Adam below decks. She would miss Luisa. Apart from Adam, Luisa was all that remained to her of the past.

  The only piano on board was in the first-class lounge. The ship’s resident pianist was delighted to allow her to use it, and every morning, early, before too many people were about, she played Chopin and Mozart and Bach on an instrument that had previously only pounded out Irving Berlin and Duke Ellington.

  The majority of their fellow-passengers were expatriates, returning to Hong Kong after leave in England. She soon discovered that Leigh Stafford had been correct when he had said that no one in Hong Kong regarded Japan as a potential threat.

  ‘Japan!’ an elderly colonel had said to her when she had tentatively suggested that it was a possibility. ‘Japan! Who on earth has been filling your head with that idea? It’s one thing for the Japanese to fight the Chinese, my dear, but they would never dare to presume to come into contact with British steel!’ And he had laughed heartily at the very idea.

  Even Adam seemed to have given up all thought of impending warfare. He relaxed visibly as the Orient Princess steamed her way through the Mediterranean towards the Suez Canal, sunbathing on deck, playing tennis and deck quoits
, dancing with her in the ballroom till late every night.

  It was a casual remark from one of their fellow-passengers that made her wonder if she had discovered, at last, the real reason for Adam’s obsession with being part of any action, if war broke out.

  Mrs Smythe was elderly and partially disabled, and Elizabeth often joined her on deck, sitting in an adjoining deckchair and keeping her company. One day, as they approached Port Said, Adam joined them in his tennis whites. ‘So pleased to meet you, Mr Harland,’ Mrs Smythe had said. ‘Your daughter is such a pleasant companion. I shall miss her immensely once we reach Hong Kong.’

  Elizabeth had smiled, taken Mrs Smythe’s arthritic hand and said unperturbedly: ‘Adam is my husband, Mrs Smythe, not my father.’ And as Mrs Smythe began to make hasty apologies, she had looked up at Adam, laughing, expecting him to be as amused as she had been.

  He was not amused at all. The lines around his mouth were white, his jaw clenched as he said tightly that he was on his way to a tennis match and would see her later.

  ‘Oh, my dear, I do hope I haven’t caused any offence,’ Mrs Smythe said agitatedly as he strode away from them. ‘Whatever could have possessed me to think that you were father and daughter? Of course you are married, anyone can see that. What a silly stupid mistake.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t cause any offence,’ Elizabeth said soothingly, but as she gazed after Adam there was a small furrow between her brows and her eyes were thoughtful.

  Adam was such an emotionally well-adjusted person that it had never occurred to her that he might be sensitive to the difference in their ages. It was an intriguing thought And it might explain why he was so eager not to be classified as being too old to fight for his king and his country.

  That evening, as they dined, she caught sight of their reflections in one of the wall mirrors. Over the last few months Adam had gained weight, and his tough body had begun to take on middle-aged contours. His hair, though still thick, was heavily sprinkled with grey, and the lines around his nose and mouth had appreciably deepened. She was wearing an eau-de-nil silk dress, the skirt draped into a river of tiny, impeccably executed pleats, the neckline softly cowled. Her hair was held back from her face with two tortoiseshell combs, falling softly and smoothly to her shoulders. She was twenty-four and she didn’t look a day over eighteen.

  Next morning, when she brushed her hair, she didn’t leave it loose. She swept it all off her neck, piercing the neat twist she created with long ivory pins, determined that Mrs Smythe’s mistake would not be repeated.

  Despite all her feelings at leaving London and not fulfilling the prestigious concerts that had been arranged for her, she enjoyed the passage to Hong Kong. Once they were beyond the Bay of Biscay the sun shone steadily, and aboard the Orient Princess there were no rumours of war or depressing daily newspaper bulletins about Hitler and his bully boys, or Mussolini and his blackshirts. British expatriates returning to Singapore and Hong Kong were reassuringly adamant that nothing would happen to disturb their way of life out there.

  ‘Your husband is quite wrong about the Japanese, my dear,’ Mrs. Smythe said to her. ‘Whatever happens in Europe, it won’t have any repercussions in the East.’ She had smiled serenely. ‘Life will go on in Singapore just as it has done ever since Raffles snatched the island from under the noses of the Dutch in 1819, and in Hong Kong just as it has since Captain Elliot annexed it from the Chinese in 1841. You will have a lovely time there, my dear. Hong Kong is a magic island. There is nowhere else quite like it anywhere in the world.’

  At the end of March they steamed into the Indian Ocean, and a week later Elizabeth woke to the knowledge that within hours they would be in sight of the island that Mrs Smythe regarded as so magical.

  She sat on deck, binoculars in her lap, as the Orient Princess threaded its way through hundreds of deserted islands, the offshore breeze heavy with the fragance of flowers. Adam joined her, watching with her as hills and mountains began to take on distinctive shapes.

  ‘This is the way to approach Hong Kong!’ he said with relish, standing by the deck-rails. ‘In another hour or so we’re going to hit her slap on the nose!’

  ‘Can you smell the flowers in the air?’ Elizabeth asked him with pleasure. ‘Isn’t it the most marvellous smell? Mrs Smythe says that the words “Hong Kong” mean “fragrant harbour”.’

  Adam grinned. ‘From what Stafford tells me, there’ll be lots of other smells when we draw nearer shore. Not all of them quite so pleasant!’

  Elizabeth laughed. The strain that had existed between them for their last few weeks in England and their first days aboard ship had now dissipated. She was quite sure that their stay in Hong Kong would be short and that within a few months they would be on their way back to England. Adam’s restlessness would be satisfied, and she would once more be able to concentrate wholeheartedly on her music. In the mean time she was determined to be patient and to enjoy the experience as much as possible. ‘I have it on very good authority that the more unpleasant smells are nothing more than the tang of burned sugar,’ she said mischievously.

  Adam’s grin deepened. ‘I will allow you to keep your illusions,’ he said. ‘Just look at those mountains! I’d never imagined them to be so magnificent. That one over there must be five thousand feet at least!’

  A tall well-built man strolled across the deck and joined Adam at the rails. ‘That is Victoria Peak’ he said in amusement. ‘The highest mountain on the island, though there are some others that come very near to it. That’s Mount Butler over there to the west, and that one over there, on the right, is Mount Nicholson. I always like to believe it was named after an ancestor of mine. My name is Tom Nicholson.’ And he held out his hand, his handshake firm.

  ‘Adam Harland,’ Adam said, and then turned, introducing him to Elizabeth, ‘and my wife, Elizabeth.’

  ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs Harland,’ Tom Nicholson said sincerely. He had been aware of her ever since the Orient Princess had slid out of Southampton Water and into the Channel. It would have been impossible not to have been aware of her. She had the kind of beauty that was luminous, that turned heads in the most crowded of rooms. He wondered where Harland had met her. She didn’t look much older than twenty or twenty-one, and Harland was easily in his late forties, and lacked the sophisticated glamour that was usually the attraction in such marriages.

  ‘Is this your first trip out here, or are you an expat?’ Adam asked, and reluctantly Tom Nicholson turned his gaze from Elizabeth to her husband.

  ‘An expat,’ he said with an easy grin. ‘I’ve been out here since nineteen thirty-two. I’m a minor government official, for my sins. My major worry in life is how to avoid being posted anywhere else!’

  Adam’s interest quickened. ‘This is our first trip out here. What’s the government’s line towards the Japanese? I’ve heard they’re casting their eyes towards the Philippines and Malaya.’

  ‘They’ve been doing that for centuries,’ Tom Nicholson said dismissively. ‘It won’t get them anywhere. If they want to enlarge their empire, they’ll have to be content with appropriating what they can from the Chinese.’

  Adam would have liked to discuss the matter further, but they were nearing land now and the deck-rails were becoming crowded. ‘Isn’t it fabulous?’ Elizabeth said, leaning her bare arms on the rails. ‘Can you see all those boats? What are they? Sampans? Junks?’

  ‘The small ones are sampans, the three-masted ones are junks,’ Tom Nicholson said, smiling across at her. ‘A vast majority of the population lives, eats, sleeps and dies aboard them. I’ve never understood where the Chinese get their reputation for being impassive from. They live as noisily and gregariously as Italians!’

  Elizabeth laughed, and he felt his interest in her deepen. She had a low husky laugh that was as entrancing as her looks.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ he asked Adam, wondering how long they were visiting for and what the purpose of their visit was.

  �
��The Peninsula Hotel, though as we intend to be here for an indefinite length of time I shall be looking about for a suitable property to rent.’

  ‘The Peak is the most popular residential district,’ he said, sensing that money for the Harlands was not a problem. ‘My own house is up there.’ He took a gilt embossed card from his breast pocket and handed it to Adam. ‘Perhaps you would join me for dinner when you have settled in? Next Thursday, or Friday perhaps?’

  ‘Friday will be fine,’ Adam said agreeably, pleased that the social ball was rolling even before they had stepped on dry land. ‘We would like that, wouldn’t we, Beth?’

  But Elizabeth wasn’t listening to them. She was gazing rapturously at the sight of Hong Kong, its thickly foliaged steep slopes rising almost sheer from the sea, its glittering harbour massed with junks and sampans and a hundred different-coloured sails.

  Adam felt a surge of satisfaction as he looked across at her. Here, in Hong Kong, they would be together in a way that hadn’t been possible in London. There would be no concert schedules to prevent her from spending time with him. No long hours of arduous practice. His decision had been the right one. Hong Kong was going to be good for them. He breathed in deeply. He was looking forward, with zest, to the next few months.

  Chapter Six

  She awoke next morning to the sharp white light of a Hong Kong dawn. She stretched luxuriously in her twin bed and then, being careful not to make a noise that would wake Adam, swung her feet to the thickly carpeted floor and slipped her arms into the sleeves of her chiffon néligée. It was barely five-thirty and, as she opened the french windows leading out on to the balcony, the air was cool and fresh, thick with fragrance.

  The Peninsula Hotel was situated in Kowloon, on the Hong Kong mainland, overlooking the harbour. Across the shimmering wedge of water lay Hong Kong Island and the bustling teeming city of Victoria and, over and above it, the great granite rock that Tom Nicholson had referred to as ‘the Peak’. She could see the houses clinging to its slopes, spacious white mansions surrounded by carefully tended, lush gardens. Tom Nicholson had suggested that was where they should look for a house to rent, and she felt a ripple of pleasure run down her spine. She was exiled from London and London’s rich musical life, but it seemed there were going to be compensations. She couldn’t think of a more wonderful place to live than the dizzy exotic heights of Victoria Peak.