Miss Charlotte Walden’s bosom was always the first thing that any new acquaintance remarked about her. Inevitably so, for it was the nearest thing on view and placed firmly in their line of vision. It was pale pink and had always been carefully protected from the sun. It was interestingly proportioned: twin volcanoes with a deep cleft between. Pale slopes rose towards the hidden cones, simmering, dormant, awaiting the fortunate lover who could kindle their tips into eruption.
Captain William Boaden was not above peering down into this delightful landscape as he bowed and kissed his partner’s hand, complimenting her upon her singing as politely as he could without actually telling lies.
He caught James’s eye at once and, with another courteous bow, abandoned Miss Walden to the queue of officers forming behind him and picked his way through the gossips hugging the sofas and the flat green baize spaces of the whist players.
‘You lucky fellow,’ muttered James, as soon as they could hear one another above the chatter. ‘What a handsome girl.’
‘Tickle that fine tenor of yours into action with a few lessons and you too can get a close view of the treasures,’ said Boaden affably.
William Boaden did not much like Sir Edmund’s daughter. He suspected, on the basis of her singing, that she was ill-tempered and spoilt. He liked women who were honest and humorous and had no pretensions. He had carried on a very successful affair with a married woman, who had since left the colony, much to his regret. This had been an ideal arrangement, which had resulted in many pleasant afternoon picnics and musical evenings. The husband was a liberal chap, much older than his wife. They had both lived in Naples and regarded the arrangement as positively Italian. The spinsters of the colony had been less enamoured of the mores of the south, and, once the affair became a matter of public knowledge, they cut Boaden’s mistress dead in church. She pretended not to care. But she did. Boaden was irritated. He liked women who genuinely did not care.
‘Do you want to be introduced to her?’ he asked James, whose gaze was still fixed upon the Vesuvian landscape.
‘Yes. At once.’
They sauntered back across the crowded drawing room towards the piano, carefully avoiding the trailing shawls and delicate hair arrangements, which presented themselves as obstacles at every turn. James flung out his chest and filled his red coat to good effect. He was sweating with anticipation.
No man likes to feel that he is being used to pass the time, before the real object of interest enters the room. But that was what James did feel and his irritation increased. Miss Walden laughed and smiled at all his jokes. But she was watching the door. The dancing had already begun and he was trying both to interest her in a mazurka, which would animate the bosom to delicious advantage, and to field the constant interruptions from other men trying to catch her eye, when he felt her body tense like a hound spotting the prey and her attention fix on the doorway.
‘Will you excuse me for a moment, Captain? I have my duties to fulfil as the hostess.’
She slid out of his grasp and vanished into the morass of fashionable silks and lace. When she resurfaced beside her father in the frame of the main doors to the drawing room, like a swimmer reaching land, her generous figure prevented him from discerning who it was that she was greeting so effusively. Boaden appeared at his elbow, out of breath from dancing.
‘Well, man? Where is she? Not lost to the opposition already? I was expecting you to persuade her to dance.’
James stretched up and peered through the crowd. He saw Charlotte Walden’s ample magnificence leaning towards a tiny, dwarf-like, red-haired creature with pursed lips, who was half her size. The mannikin was carefully groomed, impeccably dressed, and dainty in his manner, if somewhat tightly buttoned. He looked like a shrunken dandy, and a little ridiculous. He nodded at Charlotte’s animated queries and shook hands warmly with the giant Deputy Governor as if they were on cordial terms. One or two other ladies, perceiving his arrival, abandoned their sofas to greet him. There was a little stir around the room. His entrance had caused a mild, but enviable, sensation.
‘Who in God’s name is that?’ snapped James, already jealous.
‘Ah. The famous doctor,’ Boaden smiled. ‘He’s a great favourite with the ladies. That’s James Miranda Barry.’
And Boaden proceeded to inform his friend, in a surreptitious undertone, of the incident upon the esplanade. Something in Barry’s manner had made the redoubtable Boaden back down. He sketched this out for James.
‘Cross that fellow on something he cares about and you’re a dead man.’
And then, following his usual cautious procedures, Boaden abandoned the drawing room to the doctor and took refuge on the dance floor, leaving James Loughlin with matter for thought.
Nevertheless, in the weeks that followed, the young captain paid court to the Governor’s daughter. He was far from penniless and he knew that he looked terrific in his uniform. He was very tall. And this ensured that Charlotte’s tender glance would rest upon him. Indeed, she did find Captain James Loughlin to be a very proper man, and quite charming. Unfortunately, his hesitant tongue was nothing like as entertaining as that of the waspish and observant Dr Barry. Captain Loughlin made general comments. He saw the world as everybody else did. Dr Barry had an asperity and originality which made him teasing, piquant and desirable.
* * *
James Loughlin did everything in the correct order. First of all he flirted with Charlotte in so public a manner that the connection began to be generally remarked. They were placed side by side at dinner tables, so that their whispered giggles could be observed by her father and the spinsters with knowing indulgence. No one, certainly not Charlotte, told him to desist. Then he made a formal call upon the Governor during his office hours. Sir Edmund was excessively affable. He had a large desk, a mass of documents and a very imposing polished crystal paperweight, which he employed to keep his bureaucratic importance stable and in order. The sea breezes were encouraged to enter the room, but not to depart with confidential reports. The steps leading down from his French windows into his gardens were still fresh from their morning dousing with cold water. The world was exceedingly pleasant, the wars were a long way off, and if this young officer, who had inherited quite enough money to keep his daughter comfortable, was willing to take her off his hands, so that the projected trip to England could become a wedding journey and a triumph of visits, rather than a husband-hunting foray, then, well, so much the better all round.
‘Come in, my boy,’ boomed the Governor. And smiled.
Captain Loughlin was hesitant and embarrassed, which was as it should be. He presented a portfolio of credentials and assurances of high regard and filial duty. He exactly matched the Governor’s expectations of what his son-in-law should be. This young chap looked the part and here he was, saying all the right things. The Governor tried to look grave and thoughtful, but a cheerful smirk greeted the finale of Loughlin’s speech.
‘Well, my boy,’ the Governor’s approval illuminated the room, ‘if you have her consent, you have mine.’
He had seen Charlotte strolling down the esplanade, twirling her parasol, with Captain Loughlin in assiduous attendance and he therefore harboured no suspicions that his daughter might be of a mind different from his own.
But she was.
Captain Loughlin was not obtuse. He knew that Charlotte was fascinated by James Miranda Barry, but, he believed, no more so than half the ladies on the island. And he had observed Barry’s ironic, guarded distance whenever Charlotte flung herself into her flirtation with the doctor. The two men had hardly exchanged a word, but Loughlin had not missed Barry’s twinkle of amusement when, white-gloved, pale-cheeked, not a curl disturbed, the doctor handed the flushed and gleaming Charlotte into his arms for the next dance. It was obvious. Barry was leaving the way clear for him. A Mediterranean dance floor is a stifling and noisy place, upon which misunderstandings could easily be generated. But there was no misunderstanding in this case. The two men
may not have discussed the matter, but they bowed to one another across Charlotte’s scented ringlets and came to a perfect agreement.
No sooner had he spoken to the Governor than James Loughlin leaped onto his horse and trotted the half-mile down the esplanade from Government House to the residence, on fire with sexual expectation. It never entered his head that she would refuse him.
When he was shown into the drawing room he found his lady strewn across a chaise-longue and giggling. She was in the company of one of her friends, a pert young woman, recently married, much given to flaunting her rings and boasting about her husband. She spewed forth an endless torrent of rumour and gossip and had earned the nickname ‘News of the Nation’. This lady, upon seeing a young man hell-bent on making love, scrambled to her feet and excused herself at once.
James remained standing. Charlotte turned pale and sat up straight, her little slippers firmly together and her knees tense, as if she were about to execute a sequence of pirouettes. James presented a hesitant string of clichés. He was alarmed at how much harder it was to ask her than to ask her father.
‘. . . in short, Miss Walden – Charlotte – I am asking you to make me the happiest of men, that is, I should be, if you would agree to become my wife.’
Charlotte bit her lip, raised her chin, and said, ‘I am very sensible of the honour you do me, Captain Loughlin, and I am very sorry. But I can never marry you.’
There was an awful silence. James went cold all over. He was unable to say anything. He knew that he should say something regretful and distressed, but he was unable to do so. Instead, he stood utterly still for a full two minutes, during which time Charlotte began to bite her nails in fright. Had he stood there any longer she would have begun sucking her thumb. James suddenly found that he was enraged.
‘There is someone else.’ He spoke in a very low voice, chilly with rejection.
She nodded, terrified.
‘Yes. There is.’
‘Dr James Barry.’
She was unable to say anything, or even to raise her eyes to his.
‘I beg your pardon for having intruded my feelings upon you,’ James snapped.
His anger was out now, the genie had escaped from the lamp. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, forgetting himself so far as to bang the door behind him. He almost knocked Charlotte’s friend down the short flight of steps in his hurry to leave the residence. She had been loitering in the hallway, behind one of the potted palms, as close to the doorway as she dared.
James snatched his horse from the servant in the stableyard and rode straight up to the hospital at a speed which was remarked from every window and shop doorway. Something was going on. Wasn’t that Captain Loughlin, leaving the residence and taking the hill at a pace that was certainly precipitate, if not actually dangerous? Where is he going? Up to the hospital? But he isn’t on especially friendly terms with Dr Barry, is he? Really rather the opposite. Has there been an accident? I must ask the Deputy Governor.
By the time James reached the crest of the windy white hills, he was sweating and trembling. This was the first time he had ever ventured to propose and he had been confident of his ground. He had no coherent plan. He simply wanted to hit someone. He wanted to vent his frustration by wrecking Dr James Barry’s immaculate toilette.
George Washington Karageorghis saw him coming and met him in the tiled hallway, which smelt of ammonia and alcohol.
‘Where’s Dr Barry?’ James found himself shouting.
George Washington Karageorghis was very taken aback.
‘He’s not here, sir.’
‘Then where the devil is he?’ roared the injured Captain Loughlin.
Fortunately, the doctor was, at that moment, many miles away, at the bottom of a ravine, setting a broken leg and dealing with a bloody gash across the forehead of a man who had suffered a serious fall and was already badly dehydrated, having lain for two hours in the morning sun before he was discovered by hysterical relatives. The wound was nasty and covered with flies. The man’s wife was screeching in the doctor’s ear and the neighbours were taking far too long to construct a makeshift stretcher from green boughs. The doctor’s careful red curls were damp with sweat, and upon his pale cheeks the freckles had become magnified by the heat. By the time he regained his quarters, exhausted, not having returned to the hospital, it was quite dark, and Captain James Loughlin was lying insensible with drink and rage on the floor of the officers’ mess.
* * *
‘You refused him? Have I heard you correctly, young lady? Are you telling me that you refused him?’
Silence.
‘Are you out of your mind? His elder brother is dead. He’s just inherited a fine estate in Berkshire and enough money to buy you every damned trinket that takes your fancy.’
Silence.
‘You may never get another offer like that. What can have been going on in your head, Charlotte?’
Silence.
‘And you gave him no hope whatsoever, you idiotic creature?’
Silence.
‘What can have possessed you? I gave my full accord. You’ve danced yourself out of slippers in that man’s arms. I had no idea that you wouldn’t welcome an appeal to your affections.’
Silence.
‘You’re seventeen, girl. You’ll be eighteen in October. I married your mother when she was years younger than you.’
Silence.
‘What the devil . . .’
Silence.
‘Oh no! Oh no, I don’t believe it. You haven’t set your cap at Barry, have you?’
Silence.
‘My God, Charlotte, if your mother was still alive I’d have her permission to put you over my knee and spank you till you bellowed. Heaven help us all. You really are a greater fool than I ever thought you were. Do you have any idea who Barry is? You’ve no idea, have you? Nobody has. He’s either the bastard son of old Lord Buchan or that crack-pot revolutionary general from Venezuela or Argentina or wherever. He has his salary to live on and damn all else, so far as I know. Barry has no family, land or relations. He’s as good as the Wandering Jew. You couldn’t possibly contemplate a life travelling the world with that man. You’d be dead in three years. Barry lives in climates where white men drop like flies. He only survives because he’s as cold as a lizard. Don’t get me wrong, my girl. I admire the man, of course I do. But he’s not the kind of man you marry. Anybody can see that. Or at least anybody who isn’t as silly as you are. He’s a loner. He’s . . . well, God knows what he is. But he will never marry anybody. Neither you nor any other woman. Men like that don’t marry. And I don’t believe that he’s given you the slightest encouragement. He never says anything that isn’t ironic. Charlotte, if you think that Barry will ever marry you, you’re a greater fool than I took you for. You’ve sent a handsome young man about his business, who had no greater ambition in life than to cut a fine figure and to make you damnably happy.’
Silence.
‘I simply cannot understand your stupidity.’
Charlotte burst into tears.
* * *
She was still a little red-rimmed when she greeted Barry on Friday night, and he kept an eye on her across the card tables. The gossip had already hurtled round the colony. Yes, made her a wonderful offer. And she refused him. Ah, but there’s another player in the game . . . I can’t believe he’s encouraged her. But she’s not the only person wild about him. She may well have missed her main chance, for I really can’t believe . . . The Governor and his colony were of one mind. Charlotte gazed pathetically at Barry from time to time, but she was also watching the door with slightly more anxiety than is generally considered suitable for a hostess to manifest if the evening is going well.
But in fact she missed Captain James Loughlin when he slunk through the door, too familar a figure to be announced. James had drunk more than was good for him and had puffed up his emotions so that they were all thoroughly out of proportion. The residence was full of l
aughing people, the dancing had begun and almost everyone had already served themselves at the supper tables. James was fortunate enough to find Barry on his own confronting the cold meats and savoury jellies.
The young officer appeared to be calm, but there were small beads of perspiration on his upper lip. Nevertheless, his hand was steady as he drew Barry aside from the supper table. The doctor was so small that once they were standing side by side James found himself gazing down onto Barry’s pale-red curls. He stepped closer so that their exchange would be inaudible to anyone else. He had heard the rumours, of course, but was inclined to think that the surgeon’s fine, elegant and carefully manicured hands were largely responsible, because the eyes which met his own were the eyes of a man who was unafraid and in control of himself and his world, a man who would never insult another idly or without deliberate intent. James felt his anger rising as he contemplated the insolent interrogatory stare of this mutant dwarf, a little pool of aggression, far below him. The waltz encircled the two men. But naturally, they were observed. Several people noticed their conversation. The doctor and the officer were the subject of immediate speculation.
‘I must speak with you, sir.’
‘Do you desire a private consultation?’ Barry realised at once that the man was drunk, and his tone of condescending irony became a shade more infuriating. James lost his temper.
‘Declare yourself to her, man – or leave the field clear for somebody else.’
The gossip had not reached the hospital, but Barry understood the situation in an instant. Loughlin must have proposed to Charlotte and the silly girl had refused him.
‘Carry on, Captain Loughlin. I can assure you that the field, as you put it, is quite empty of my presence.’
‘That’s not what Charlotte says.’
‘Then you may assume that Miss Walden is mistaken.’
‘How dare you trifle with a young lady’s feelings!’
James wanted to quarrel and set about it with energetic determination. His moustache quivered. Barry’s voice was calm and firm.
James Miranda Barry Page 23