‘To any niece or daughter in particular?’
‘Oh, Bel!’ Hugely, Rayner yawned. ‘Do stop teasing him! Owen, she wants to hear you admit you were unfaithful to my sister.’
‘Rayner, I protest! Of all the defamatory, slanderous — ’
‘I never saw any woman who could equal Jane, in India or anywhere else.’ Taking his cousin's hands in his, Owen held them. ‘The whole time I was away, I thought constantly of her. I remembered all of you, of course. But she was never out of my mind.’
* * * *
Owen had arranged for a consignment of Indian silks, cottons and calicoes to be delivered to Easton Hall. When they arrived, Jane, Maria and Isabel fell upon them with delight, unrolling bale after bale and trying the fabrics against one another, draping them and criticising the various effects.
Maria wished her sister to be dressed in the very height of fashion on her wedding day. So, although their own perfectly competent local seamstress was busy stitching wedding clothes for everyone else, Maria insisted that Jane should go with her to Birmingham, to visit the town's finest dressmaker and there to bespeak her wedding gown itself, some exquisite underclothes, and a scarlet riding habit of the best Yorkshire cloth. The day after the Indian silks had arrived, therefore, the sisters ordered the carriage and drove into town.
Isabel had intended to go with them. But that morning, she woke with one of her sick headaches. So she sent a note over by the boot boy, pleading indisposition.
Jane and Maria were not unduly upset. Isabel was a fidget and a fiddler, who advised and interfered and argued all the time. They would get on much better without her.
* * * *
After spending the morning languishing in bed, by afternoon Isabel felt better. She ordered the barouche–landau, then drove over to Easton Hall, meaning to sit with Mrs Darrow for an hour or two.
But when she arrived, she was informed that Rebecca was resting. Ellis had gone fishing with Mr Graham, while Rayner had called in but disappeared again about some business of his own. Mr Morgan also was out.
Isabel decided to take a stroll in the gardens. By the time she had walked herself into a stupor of boredom, the others might have returned.
She met Owen coming from the direction of the stables. ‘Mr Morgan!’ Delighted to see him, she beamed. ‘Oh, isn't it close?’ she demanded, fanning herself. ‘So horribly, stiflingly hot! Although I dare say this heat is nothing at all, when compared with that of India.’
‘I must admit, the day seems only pleasantly warm to me.’ Owen smiled back at her. How pretty she was! Today, she wore a white muslin gown with a scooped but modest neckline and very short sleeves, which became her beautifully. Her creamy skin looked soft and dewy, and her coppery hair shone.
‘Have you finished your walk?’ he enquired.
‘I thought I had.’ She linked her arm through his. ‘But now you are here, I could be persuaded to take another turn through the rose gardens. Provided we stay in the shade, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Owen agreed.
‘Tell me some more about India,’ she said, as they strolled.
‘What do you wish to know?’
‘Anything. Everything! I love a story, you see.’
So Owen told her tales of danger. Of horror. Of narrow escapes and difficult journeys. Of splendour and squalor, and of magnificence she could hardly begin to imagine.
‘But I spent much of my time poring over files and documents,’ he admitted, as she shook her head and sighed over his description of the wonderful Turquoise Palace at Azrapur, where golden fountains gushed sea green water, and where even the servants were dressed from head to foot in a hundred shades of blue. ‘I sat in my office scribbling, and positively sweltering in the heat. While the monkeys quarrelled in the peepul trees, and my servant swished the punkah to and fro, to and fro.’
‘Even that sounds romantic to me,’ whispered Isabel. She glanced up at her companion. ‘How alike you and Rayner are!’ she cried, shaking her copper curls and sighing again. ‘Well, of course, you always were very similar. But whilst you have grown tall and handsome, he's merely grown stout.’
‘He was always rather more stocky than I.’
‘Nonsense. He indulges himself at the table. So, naturally, he has become fat. His passion for sweetmeats far exceeds his lust for cards and dice.’
‘Don't mock my cousin.’
‘He's my husband. I shall mock him all I please.’
But, after pouting crossly for a few moments, Isabel smiled again. How pleasant it was, to stroll in the gardens of this lovely house with such an interesting, good–looking young man! How fortunate, too, that her headache had disappeared...
Owen had been riding. He smelled of stables, of horseflesh, and of clean but perspiring human being. Isabel sniffed greedily. It was such a long time since she'd smelled a man! For Rayner was so lazy and fastidious that all he ever smelled of was Hungary water and fresh linen. Exactly like a woman, in fact.
Leaving the rose gardens, they entered the laburnum walk. Here, the trees were in full summer leaf, so concealed the walkers completely. Bees buzzed contentedly, and butterflies fluttered to and fro in the limpid green shade.
Half way down the avenue, Isabel's lace shawl caught on a branch, tugging the neckline of her gown awry and revealing one creamy shoulder, in all its ivory beauty. ‘Please,’ she murmured softly, ‘can you help? The fringe is tangled, you see.’
‘Don't pull, then. You'll tear it.’ Carefully, Owen went to work. Easing the silken threads from the branch, one by one by one, he eventually shook the shawl free. He held it out to her.
Helplessly, she smiled. She had no free hands, for her parasol was in one, and her net purse in the other. So Owen had no choice but to go to her and drape it round her shoulders himself.
The sun filtered through the leaves and branches, casting a cool, somewhat eerie light on the people below. Isabel's skin was as white as milk anyway, but in this light it had an almost greenish tinge, a cool, maromoreal hue.
Owen looked at her. Standing stock still, Isabel wore a half smile, of the kind seen on the faces of nymphs or goddesses in classical statuary. He drew a deep breath. He wanted so much to touch her! Just once.
He gazed into her cool, green eyes. Still, she smiled at him. ‘Of course you may,’ she said.
Uncertainly, wonderingly, he reached out to her. He stroked her face. He was surprised to find it warm and yielding.
‘Go on,’ she whispered.
He could not help it. He kissed her, very lightly, on the lips.
He started back at once. Surely she would strike him now? Scream, even? But no. Instead, she closed her eyes. Dropping her parasol and purse, she wound her white arms around his neck. ‘I knew, of course,’ she whispered, murmuring into his ear. ‘I knew the very moment I saw you again.’
‘What did you know?’ he demanded softly, afraid to break the spell.
‘I want you.’ She kissed him, opening his mouth with hers. ‘You want me.’
‘No!’ Coming to his senses, Owen pushed her away. His heart pounding, his brain on fire, he strode off down the laburnum walk, leaving Isabel standing there.
* * * *
That evening's conversation was insipid and dull. In Birmingham, Maria had overspent her allowance, so she was fretful and irritable. Owen was almost completely silent, and Jane was tired, disinclined to chat. Feeling stronger today, Rebecca had come downstairs for the whole evening, but at nine o'clock she rang for her maid and the party broke up.
Pleading a headache, Owen also took himself off to bed, where he spent a sleepless night. By the morning he realised that the world had tilted. He was in love with his cousin's wife.
He loved Jane, it was true. Respecting her, admiring her, he would probably even have died for her. But she had never inspired the kind of racked and reckless longing which Isabel Darrow had kindled in his heart!
Lying on his stomach, actually in pain, he pictured Isabel's white sho
ulders. Then, he recalled the kiss, remembering the taste of her lips and how her little pointed tongue had flicked back and forth across his teeth. Such a kiss — and so unlike the chaste kisses he had exchanged with Jane that those decorous embraces surely deserved a completely different name.
Owen was not without experience of women, or of the world. He had lost his virginity to a servant when he was just turned seventeen. In India, he had even visited brothels. There, half–caste women, European in dress and manner but truly Oriental in every other way, had taught him how to give a woman pleasure, as well as find it for himself. There had been a brief affair with the wife of an army officer, too. Mrs Sydenham had been a complaisant mistress, and he had learned a great deal from her.
But this intolerable ache in his heart, and the feeling that he was burning alive and nothing could put out the fire, was new to him.
He knew Rayner went to Warwick every Wednesday morning, to meet his friends at a little private club. Here, they drank, gambled and swore like the blades they'd secretly have liked to be. But for a few hours only, before they went meekly back to their comfortable lives and tedious rural obligations on their country estates.
So now, telling Jane's maid that he was going out for an hour's exercise, which he hoped would blow the lingering remnants of last night's headache away, Owen borrowed a black mare and rode over to call on Isabel.
* * * *
‘I knew you would come,’ she said, as she took his hand and led him indoors. ‘It's as if I have in my hand an invisible silken thread. It's wound about your heart. When I twitch it, you must pay heed to me.’
‘Must I?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Isabel smiled up at him. ‘I've sent my girl to Warwick, to buy ribbons for my new gown. The kitchenmaids are busy cleaning the silver. The footman is on an errand for Rayner.’
‘Where is Rayner?’ asked Owen, half hoping that his cousin was at home, after all.
‘He's gone to Warwick, too.’ Taking Owen into her private sitting room, Isabel closed the door. She turned the little gilt key. Then, she pulled off the muslin cap which covered her hair. Shaking loose the coppery strands, she began to unlace the bodice of her gown.
‘Not here!’ began Owen, panicking. ‘Isabel, for God's sake not here!’
‘No?’ Isabel's gown was gaping open. She wore no shift or stays. ‘You wish me to cuckold your cousin in his own bed?’
‘No!’ Turning away, Owen folded his arms. Tears came into his eyes. ‘I don't want you!’ he cried. ‘I don't — I mean, I can't — ’
‘But of course you can. That's why you came.’
‘On the contrary. I came here to apologise. To tell you how sorry — ’
‘Nonsense.’ Isabel's voice was like melting honey. ‘Turn round,’ she whispered.
‘I think I should leave.’
‘Owen!’
The urgency in her voice made him start. He spun round. He met Isabel's great, green eyes, which flashed like emeralds on fire. Then, of course, it was too late.
* * * *
They reclined on the floor of Isabel's charming sitting room. Both naked, they were nevertheless perfectly comfortable, for they lay on a soft Turkey carpet and an Indian throw. ‘I'd thought you might be a virgin,’ murmured Isabel, offhandedly.
‘Did you?’ Offended, Owen frowned.
‘But of course, that was stupid.’ Creamily, Isabel smiled at him. ‘A man like you, so handsome, so clever, so infinitely desirable — you must have lost your innocence a long time ago.’
Owen made no comment.
Isabel took his hand in hers. She laid it on one breast. ‘How fortunate it is,’ she mused, as she encouraged his fingers to massage her, ‘that we discovered it in time.’
‘Discovered what?’
‘That we adore one other, of course. How fortunate, too, that only one of us is married.’ Isabel stroked Owen's shoulder. ‘How beautiful you are,’ she sighed. ‘So smooth, so brown, so strong. Rayner is white, hairless and fat. Just like a woman, in fact.
‘God, he disgusts me! In bed, he grunts and groans like a sow in farrow. He pushes and he heaves — ’
‘Bel, we must not hurt Rayner or Jane.’
‘I can't see how hurt is to be avoided.’
‘If we are careful — ’
‘You don't still intend to marry her?’ Isabel sat up. A wild–eyed, wild–haired fury, she glared at him. ‘You can't wed her now!’ she cried.
‘But, Bel — ’
‘I shall leave Rayner. My parents will cast me off, it's true. The Darrows will certainly be baying for your blood! But I have a little money of my own — and you have a fortune.’
‘A rather small fortune.’
‘You have enough.’ Leaning towards him, Isabel brushed his lips with hers. ‘Do you love me?’ she whispered.
‘Yes.’ Owen hung his head. ‘Against my will, against my inclinations, against my honour, I do.’
‘Then we will go away together.’
‘But how — ’
‘We'll find a way.’ Isabel kissed him again. ‘Promise me one thing.’
‘What is that?’
‘You will not marry Jane.’
Chapter 9
As the family was finishing dinner, Owen made his excuses and left the table. He went into the drawing room and lay down on a sofa. Closing his eyes, he tried to go to sleep.
Only a few moments later, however, he became aware of someone sitting by his side. All tender concern, Jane was stroking his hand. ‘Owen?’ Anxiously, she smoothed his hair back from his forehead. ‘What's wrong?’
‘Nothing!’ Starting guiltily, Owen stared at her. ‘Nothing at all. Why should there be?’
‘It's just that you look like a little boy who's been caught with his hand in the jar of sugar candy.’ She smiled at him. ‘What have you been doing today?’
‘Nothing much.’ Owen shrugged. ‘I went for a hack on Gryphon, as you know. I called in to see Rayner. But he wasn't there.’
‘He always goes into town on Wednesdays. But surely Isabel was at home?’
‘Yes, she was.’
‘So at least you were given a dish of tea.’
Owen took a deep breath. The urge to confess — to tell the whole story, then go down on his knees and beg Jane's forgiveness — was overwhelming.
But then he remembered what he would be confessing. He had betrayed his fiancée, cuckolded his cousin, and debauched his cousin's wife. Rapidly, he blinked. ‘I still have a headache,’ he began. ‘I — ’
‘Let me bind it for you, then.’
‘No. That old–fashioned remedy does no good at all. In fact, it does considerable harm.’ Owen drew another deep breath. ‘I used to get this sort of thing in India. If I lie down for an hour or two, in a darkened room, I expect I shall improve by and by.’
* * * *
Owen was downstairs again by teatime. Relatively composed now, he found he was able to look his cousin in the eye without blushing in shame. But when Maria remarked that Rayner and Isabel were expected for supper that same evening, he grew pale. His tea slopped in the saucer. He thought he might faint.
‘He wasn't well this morning, or yesterday.’ Jane looked anxiously into Owen's eyes. ‘Mama? What do you think?’
Rebecca felt her nephew's pulse. ‘Racing,’ she murmured. ‘My dear Owen, you're not at all well. Shall I send for Dr Henchard?’
‘It's nothing. Indeed, it's nothing at all.’ Owen tried to smile. ‘I do know what I'm talking about,’ he continued, valiantly. ‘My dear aunt, you forget that I spent many years in an apothecary's house, learning his trade. Believe me — this slight indisposition may be troublesome, but it will soon pass.’
‘Well, if you're quite sure.’ Rebecca was still concerned. ‘I shall mix you some of my special powder,’ she said. ‘Just a teaspoonful, in a glass of water. You shall drink it down.’
* * * *
That evening, Isabel looked so ravishing that Owen's fever returned in earnest. Bu
t he tried to control it. He avoided her society, and at supper he contrived to sit as far away as possible from his cousin's wife.
After supper, Rebecca proposed cards, and Ellis agreed to play. Jane and Maria had muslins and chintzes to talk over, Charles Harding and Rayner were still sitting over their port, discussing business, and Isabel had her needlework. Owen alone had nothing to do. So, excusing himself, he went for a walk.
As he strode off through the dusk, he became steadily more confident that he had got the better of this — this fit of temporary insanity. He would put that morning's work behind him, he resolved, and never think of Isabel Darrow again.
But then, he heard someone call his name. To his dismay, he realised Isabel had followed him. Catching his hand, she strolled at his side. Then, taking him down a mossy byway, she led him towards a little temple which Ellis had built many years before to serve as a summer house — but which was nowadays hardly ever visited by anyone, so had become green and damp with decay.
The lovers met one other's gaze. ‘Please, Isabel!’ cried Owen, as they stood in the warm summer twilight, ‘please go away!’
Isabel stood her ground. ‘Have you told her what happened this morning?’ she enquired.
‘I've said nothing.’ Owen looked away. ‘Nor do I intend it.’
‘Then the task will fall to me.’
‘Isabel, you mustn't.’ Owen was aghast. ‘You can't!’
‘Can't I?’
‘No. Isabel, what passed between us this morning was lunacy! We were both mad, and — ’
‘You mean to forsake me?’
‘For God's sake, Isabel! You're married! I myself am engaged, to a woman whose love for me is the most unselfish, the most tender — ’
‘You're engaged to a nun.’ Isabel's pretty mouth puckered in scorn. ‘Yes, I admit she waited for you. Of course, you flatter yourself that she hungered for you, too. You imagine all those years of self–denial were as painful for her as they were for you.’
‘Isabel, don't mock Jane. She — ’
‘I know all about it, you see. I've even heard extracts from the journals. The famous Indian diaries — those daily affirmations of undying love, sent on their way across thousands of miles of ocean, damp with salt water and lovers’ tears.’ Isabel was positively sneering now. Her expression was sour with disgust. ‘Those passionate epistles. Those frantic, reckless — ’
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