“Yes,” she’d said, “a very good sort.”
Richard had smiled tiredly. “Peter certainly holds him in high regard,” he’d said, picking up his candle. “Am I right in assuming you don’t want to take your mother with you as chaperone?”
“Quite right,” she’d said.
“Hmmm,” he’d said, with another smile. “I’m not sure what she’s going to think about that.”
Maddy wasn’t either.
She turned on her pillow, looking sideways at the painted stone on her bedside, mood dipping, just a little, at the prospect of going downstairs, finding out. Even given the recent thaw in Alice’s manner, Maddy wasn’t looking forward to speaking to her about Luke. She could have done it the night before—she’d seen the light burning in her window, known that she, too, was awake—but, after Della making her talk the entire way home (“Don’t even try telling me that you’re too tired,” Della had said. “I want to know everything.” “Oh God,” Peter had groaned. “Must we?”), the draw of disappearing into her bedroom, being alone with her own spiraling thoughts, had been too strong to resist. Besides, it was her mother; aside from that one interlude painting in the garden, Maddy couldn’t remember the last time they’d spoken about anything more personal than the heat.
However, since there was no other way around it, she rose, too quickly, feeling the warm room spin, and, seeing the time, registering how little she had left, until tomorrow, went to her closet, impatient now to dress, get the inevitably stilted exchange over with.
After a breathless half hour bathing, pulling stockings onto her damp legs (never easy), pinning her hair, fastening a white lace tea gown (Would Luke like it? She didn’t know, she just didn’t know), she found Alice embroidering in the shade of the veranda. The breakfast table had been cleared; only a plate of food remained, waiting for Maddy beneath a fly net. (She wondered if it meant Cook was still talking to her.)
She hovered awkwardly, unclear why she was thinking about Cook, listening as Alice stiffly remarked on how surprised she’d been to learn Maddy had a new acquaintance.
“Father told you?” Maddy asked, even though it was patently obvious he had.
“Yes,” said Alice. “He said he’s a friend of Peter’s.”
At her clipped tone, Maddy wondered what else Richard had said to her, whether he’d warned her not to be difficult about letting Maddy go out without her. Alice, expression closed, tensely moving her needle in and out of the cloth, was certainly doing a good impression of someone who’d been told they mustn’t make a fuss.
Was it just about Maddy refusing to let her be chaperone? Maddy didn’t think so. She didn’t ask either. She suspected it was as much to do with her going anywhere with someone other than Guy, but would rather not have it confirmed. She’d been working, very hard, to ignore her creeping misgivings about what her mother had started to hope for there. Just as she preferred not to dwell on the possibility that Guy really had come to think of himself as something more than an uncle (all those bottles of boiled water).
And now Alice was talking again, saying that she’d like Maddy to reconsider her plans for the afternoon and remain at home, let Luke have tea here.
Maddy told her that she had no intention of reconsidering anything.
“You can’t just run around like we’re nobody in this city,” said Alice. “Think of your father. His position.”
“He really didn’t seem worried,” said Maddy.
“There’ll be gossip,” said Alice.
“There’s always gossip,” countered Maddy, well used to it in any case. (Thank you, Uncle Fitz.)
Alice’s forehead pinched, like she might be thinking of him, too. She didn’t say, of course. She never spoke of him, or Edie.
She simply snapped her thread, then folded her sewing, standing. “I have a headache,” she said. “I’m going to rest. I won’t come down when he gets here.”
“What?” Maddy stared, nonplussed. She hadn’t expected that. “You won’t even meet him?”
“It’s clear you want to be left alone,” said Alice.
“But—” Maddy began, then stopped.
Did she want to be left alone?
Part of her did. But there was another, surprisingly larger, part that didn’t, that wanted her mother to say hello when Luke came, perhaps even smile. Like she’d smiled the other evening, painting in the garden.
It hurt, actually, that she wasn’t going to at least try.
But before Maddy could say that, Alice turned from her, told her to make sure to eat something before she went anywhere, and left.
Mouth open, Maddy watched her go, too disorientated by the speed of her departure to call her back. By the time she realized she wanted to, it was too late.
She dropped into the chair nearest her. What had even just happened? She had no idea. Or why she should feel so deflated. Had she really been foolish enough to hope that Alice might be curious about Luke, want to know who he was, where he was from? Be pleased, even, that she, Maddy, was happy?
Sighing, at herself more than anyone, because she had, and she really should have learned by now, she reached out, lifting the net from the plate of fruit and bread, only to drop it again without taking anything. She couldn’t manage a bite.
Trying to push Alice from her mind, don’t let her ruin this, she leaned back, peering through the doorway at the drawing room clock. Less than an hour to go. She drew a nervous breath, picturing Luke in one of her father’s polished boardrooms, handsome in a shirt and a waistcoat, talking about those classified things (getting the Indian Army ready for a war, if one should happen; Peter had told her on the drive home); she saw him leaving the office, running down the grand front steps, out onto the chaotic street, getting into a staff car, on his way to her. Her.
She stood, without knowing she was going to, and with no idea of what she wanted to do. But she couldn’t just sit where she was, staring at the inedible food. She left it, sending Cook a silent apology, and went back indoors.
Depressingly well-versed by now in the art of making endless minutes pass, she set to her usual activities: a lackluster spell at the piano, filling the steamy villa with her clunky chords; into the study to find, then abandon, a Brontë; up to her room, to check her hair; past Alice’s room, to listen at her silent door.
With only a quarter of an hour left to go, unable to bear another moment’s drifting, trying not to stew over her mother, waiting for the sound of a motor that felt like it would never come, she pinned on her hat, pulled on her gloves, and went to sit on the villa’s terra-cotta front steps.
It was hot, too hot really to be outside without any shade. Insects screeched everywhere. The long dusty driveway blurred in the haze.
Where is he now? she thought, and instantly felt more nervous. She pressed the backs of her hands to her burning cheeks. Calm, she told herself, just be calm. Birds pecked at the lawns, enviably nonchalant. Even the poor, persecuted peacocks, over by the hibiscus beds, looked more relaxed than she felt.
She wondered again where he was going to take her.
She closed her eyes against the glare, sweat beading on her forehead, and hoped, really hoped, that wherever it was, he’d get here to take her soon. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could bear to wait.
* * *
He saw her, sitting pensively on the sunny steps, white dress reflecting the light, before she saw him. He stopped by the gate, stilled by the sight of her, the strange reality that she, hands clasped in her lap—hands he’d held, however briefly, the night before—was waiting for him. Him.
All that morning, he’d been so impatient to get to her. He’d sat in her father’s office, Ernest Aldyce going on and on, rationalizing why he mustn’t be sent anywhere near Europe, in any circumstances, but was needed in Bombay (“We’re meant to be discussing current reserve numbers,” Luke had reminded him, more than once), seeing her in his mind’s eye, thinking of her voice, her laugh, all the countless things he still didn’
t know about her—what she liked, didn’t like, read, all of that—more desperate to leave with each passing hour.
Her father at least had been very genial, very straightforward, not giving any argument when Luke had told him where he wanted to take her. “Peter’s vouched for you,” he’d said, “and my daughter clearly thinks you’re none too bad. That’s all I need. So long as she’s happy, so am I.”
There’d been a lightness in his voice; relief, Luke thought. He hadn’t been entirely surprised to hear it. Peter had, after all, told him how much Richard had been worrying over Major Guy Bowen’s interest in his daughter. That had been the day before, when Luke had asked Peter why Fraser Keaton thought Maddy engaged to Guy.
“Probably because Keaton hasn’t yet learned not to believe everything he’s told here,” Peter had replied, before going on, saying that Keaton had better be careful not to repeat the gossip in front of Richard. “Alice kept writing while we were away, telling him about these trips Guy’s been taking Maddy on.”
“He doesn’t approve?” Luke had said, not approving much himself.
“He just doesn’t think it’s right,” Peter had said, “for Maddy.”
Luke hadn’t pressed him to say more. He hadn’t wanted to talk about Guy Bowen, or what was right, or not right.
He certainly didn’t want to think about him now, standing at the head of Maddy’s driveway, looking in at her, oblivious, in the sunshine.
He still hadn’t moved.
It came to him that he was waiting, just as he’d waited at the bazaar yesterday, for her to look up, notice him.
This time, she did.
He saw, even from a distance, how her face broke into a smile.
It did something to him, her smile.
Not holding back, not anymore, he walked, faster, closing the distance, unsure, now he was on his way, how he could have waited at all.
* * *
She stood as he approached, straightening her skirts with shaking hands, eyes moving, taking him in: the first time she’d seen him in daylight. He wore a gray suit, and had his jacket open, the top button of his shirt undone. His waves, beneath his panama, were darker than she’d thought; his skin was fairer: a light tan, rather than the deep burn of so many here. His face, though, his face was the same, just the same.
Calm, she told herself, do just be calm.
She wasn’t calm at all. She heard it in her own taut voice as she called a hello.
His in return was low and warm, carrying through the sticky gold air. “I wanted to bring flowers,” he said, drawing to a halt. “But I’d have been late.”
“Then I’m glad you didn’t bring flowers,” she said.
He smiled, the skin around his eyes creasing. It did something to her, his smile. She felt the tension in her ease. Just a little.
“Are we going in?” he asked, looking up at the villa.
“Only if you want to,” she said, thinking again of her mother; she’d forgotten her there for a second.
“We don’t need to,” he said, and she, replaying what she’d said to him the night before—It’s not my father you have to worry about—wondered if he was thinking about Alice, too.
If he was, he didn’t say.
He asked her if she was ready to leave.
“I think so,” she said. “I still don’t know where we’re going, though.”
“Then let’s find out, shall we?”
* * *
There was no motor waiting for them on the road. No rickshaw or carriage either. Luke didn’t stop on the road at all, but carried on, toward the dense trees on the other side, holding a branch back for her to pass under, into the vegetation.
She hesitated, brow creasing: half smile, half frown of bemusement. “Where are we going?” she said.
“Only one way to find out,” he said.
She stared a moment longer, then, more curious than ever, ducked down, feet sinking on the thick bed of leaves.
It was much darker, beneath the canopy. The branches obscured the light; the air smelled green, of heat and damp earth, a hint of salt from the sea below. He walked on, and she followed, becoming breathless as they clambered down the rugged incline toward the beach.
“I think there might be snakes,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied, grinning over his shoulder, “we’d better be quick.”
There was no one else there; the only sound came from their shoes sliding on the loose dirt, the birdsong, and their voices as she asked him about his morning, whether he had to return to work that afternoon, feeling her excitement grow as he said that no, no he didn’t.
“Peter’s told me what you’re doing here,” she said, slipping on a steep bit, stopping herself from falling just in time.
He caught her elbow anyway, grip strong, firm, and she felt all the muscles in her arm tense.
“Then now you know,” he said, not letting go. “Like I said, very uninteresting.”
“I think that’s a matter of opinion,” she said.
“Perhaps you’d feel differently,” he said, pushing back another branch, “if you’d just spent the morning with Aldyce.”
“I spend enough time with Diana,” she said.
He laughed. She liked his laugh so much.
They were almost at the beach. The soft lapping of the water carried up from the shore. She bent over, peering through the lush foliage at the sand.
“Are we having a picnic?” she asked, the idea occurring to her.
“Not here,” he said.
“Somewhere else then?” she said.
“An excellent guess,” he said, jumping down the last drop, onto the beach.
She jumped, too, leaving the shade, squinting at the rush of sunlight. Hand shielding her eyes, she looked out to sea, blindingly blue in the glare, then along the coast, toward the city, wondering where he meant to take her.
“Are we going to swim there?” she said, trying for a joke to cover her befuddlement.
“If that’s all right?” he said, smiling, playing along.
She smiled, too. “How far are we going?” she asked.
“Only a mile or so.”
This time, she laughed. “Oh,” she said, “just a mile.”
“I knew you’d be game,” he said. “But just to be safe, I’ve also borrowed a boat.” He gestured down the sands, past where some fishermen in cropped trousers and salt-crusted shirts were laying their nets to dry, toward a small sailing dinghy bobbing at anchor a few yards from shore. Quite a few yards. She took them in, then glanced dubiously down at her skirts, thinking of her boots, her stockings beneath.
It took her a second to realize he was watching her, seeming to fight another smile, as though thinking of them, too.
“Don’t look so worried,” he said, sitting down on the rocks, removing his shoes, rolling up his trousers, “you’ll stay quite dry.”
“You’re going to pull the boat in?” she asked, willing the burn in her cheeks away.
“We wouldn’t be able to get out again,” he said.
“But…” she began, then stopped as he stood, setting off toward the sea, and it dawned on her what he meant to do.
“Are you coming?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, gathering her wits, “of course.”
He went out to the boat first, dropping his shoes and hat into the hull, then taking off his jacket, throwing that in, too. She waited by the water’s edge as he rolled up his shirt sleeves, his eyes cast down on his cuffs, the sun making a silhouette of his dark profile. Then he turned, and she swallowed, trying to force her body loose as he waded toward her.
“Ready then, Maddy?”
It was the first time he’d called her that. It was very distracting. Before she could say anything in response, or her heart had had a chance to miss its beat, he slipped his arm around her waist, his other beneath her legs, and scooped her up. She reached around his neck reflexively, tensing even more at the shock of his skin.
“Is the w
ater warm?” she asked, for something to say as much as anything.
“It’s beautiful,” he said. “You haven’t been in?”
“No.”
“We’ll have to do something about that,” he said.
She didn’t think he meant now. But he tipped her, making her squeal, and then gathered her back to him, letting her know he’d never have let her go. He waded on; she felt the rise and fall of his chest, and found herself thinking back to her mother’s suggestion they stay in for tea, freshly incredulous at the idea, the possibility that she might have missed this. Let the gossips do their worst. All she cared about was that she was in Luke’s arms. All she wanted was to let her head drop against him, feel the beat of his heart. She was aware, so very aware, of how much she wanted to do that.
Far too soon, they were at the dinghy. He set her down, and she wished he hadn’t, but then it didn’t matter, because he climbed in beside her, asked her if she’d ever sailed before (she hadn’t), and then told her to consider this her first lesson. He showed her how to unfurl the sail, tie the rope, explaining something about the wind, and the tiller, which she didn’t follow (“Useless,” he said, “where’s your attention?”), and she laughed, her attention every bit with him, then exclaimed, falling back as he pulled the tiller round (so that’s what he’d been trying to tell her), sending them off, scudding across the swell.
“Fun?” he said, shouting above the wind, the spray. “Yes?”
“Yes,” she shouted back, hot air rushing over her face, into her eyes. “Yes.”
Her hat blew free; she reached out in vain, trying to catch it, watching as it floated, so much slower than them, up, then down, dipping into the sea. She leaned over the edge, peering into the deep blue, at the hundreds of fish swimming beneath the surface, racing them. She looked up once more, at his smile, his shirt billowing, holding her hair back with both hands, tilting her face to the beating sky.
Meet Me in Bombay Page 10