The Secret Mandarin. Sara Sheridan

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СКАЧАТЬ eh?’ he commented. ‘I expected you to be battered and walking with a limp! Half drowned when the Regatta went down and look at you. You’re some gal, Mary!’

      I stared. What on earth was the fool trying to say?

      ‘William, why are you here?’ I asked.

      His eyes fell to the carpet.

      ‘It was a boy, I heard,’ he said. ‘We have only daughters. My wife has never borne a son.’

      My heart sank and I felt a rush of anger. A female child would not have prompted the visit and, clearly, neither had I.

      ‘The claim of a natural child in such circumstances is strong. I will recognise him, Mary. I have discussed him with Eleanor.’

      I got up and poured the tea after all. It would occupy me at least.

      ‘Eleanor is one of seven girls, you know,’ William continued. ‘It runs in the family.’

      It seemed impossible I had ever kissed the mouth that uttered these words. Of course, a wiser woman might have flattered him. A wiser woman might have tried to woo him back. A wiser woman might not have felt anger rising hot in her belly or at least might have ignored it. Not I.

      ‘And so you plan Henry to be your heir?’ I said, ‘and I will be nothing to either of you. I will sail again for Calcutta. Henry will stay in this house.’

      ‘Oh, of course,’ William said. ‘Certainly until he is old enough to go to school. I have no objection to it.’

      ‘You have no objection! No objection! You have never seen the boy, William. In point of fact you have not seen me since last summer and by God, you were not a man of honour on that occasion!’

      I was working up a fury. A vision of Henry at twenty-one visiting his half-sisters. Him being whispered of as the bastard child of his wealthy father. ‘To some actress, I heard,’ they would nudge and wink, my name unknown. I saw William an old man, paying the bills, passing on a lesser title. While in Calcutta or Bombay I would outlive a husband I was unlikely to love. I would not matter to anyone.

      I thought I might pelt William with the shortbread that Harriet had placed on the tray. Perhaps pick up the poker by the fire and smash something, hit him, anything. Had I survived the shipwreck just for this? I was searching for the words to shame him, ready to launch an attack, when, like the angel she is, Jane swept into the room. She probably saved me from a charge of murder.

      ‘Your Lordship,’ she curtseyed to William.

      ‘Mrs Fortune,’ he smiled.

      ‘I have asked Harriet to bring down the baby so you might see him,’ she said. ‘I hope I have done the right thing?’

      It was so like my sister to easily fit in with whatever was going on and simply make the best of it. William looked relieved.

      ‘Yes, yes. I have told Mary that I will own him. It is all decided.’

      ‘I have not decided,’ I said.

      Jane sat down next to me.

      ‘Shush, Mary,’ she soothed, before turning her attention to business. She was right, of course. This was the best thing that could have happened for the baby even if William’s offer was somewhat late. Scarce more than a year ago he had said he loved me. He had sworn on his life.

      Jane picked up the plate of shortbread and began to serve, passing the biscuits smoothly as she spoke. She, at least, was thinking with logic.

      ‘Now, your Lordship, might I ask how much you were thinking of annually?’

      Money was always tight. When Robert had his first appointment at the Royal Horticultural Society he earned a hundred pounds a year. Before my disgrace I was paid three times as much at Covent Garden—and then there were the gifts. Trinkets, baubles and fancies. Frills and sparkles. A dressing room so full of flowers it made you sneeze. I was never a star but I had admirers, a retainer and a portion of the receipts.

      After Mother died I began to give money to Robert and Jane. Five pounds a month sometimes. Robert kept an account so he could repay me. He had an eye to the business of plants. Once when I had scoffed at his obsession, his ridiculous interest in soil types and root systems, Robert pulled out the newspaper and read a report of an auction—prices paid for tropical flowers arrived the week before from the East Indies. It ran into thousands.

      ‘Rubber, tea, sugar, timber,’ he enumerated, leaning over the dining table counting on his fingers. ‘They’ve all been brought back to London. Tobacco, potato, coffee, cocoa beans. I will find something,’ he muttered, ‘and it will pay.’

      At the time Robert’s ranting seemed like the crazy ramblings of a Lowland Scot. Not that Robert had kept his accent. It diminished daily.

      ‘I will not end up like Douglas,’ he swore, ‘mad, penniless and alone.’

      I nibbled the cheese on my plate. You could not argue with Robert about plants and my interest in any case was limited.

      The thirty guineas a year most generously settled on Henry was the first money that had come from my side of things in eighteen months. It had been difficult for Robert and Jane, I knew. As in any household, extra money was a boon. So this windfall provided a nanny, covered all Henry’s expenses and, with what William had referred to as his ‘dues for the last several months’, Jane paid for another ticket to send me back to India, for, unspoken as William rose to leave, was the understanding that I was troublesome and the money would only be forthcoming if I was removed. If I had daydreamed of dallying in London, I had been squarely woken from it.

      The Filigree was due to sail at the end of the month.

      I found myself restless and unable to sleep. Things weighed uncomfortably on my mind. One night, some days after William’s visit, I was late and wakeful. I visited Henry in the nursery but at length I grew tired of watching him and had it in mind to cut a slice of bread and have it with some of Cook’s excellent raspberry conserve. I sneaked down to the kitchen like a naughty child, barefoot in Jane’s old lawn nightdress. I had not bought anything to wear after the wreck and had only the clothes kindly provided for me on the island—Parisian cast-offs, well worn—and some hand-me-downs from my sister.

      The slate was cold on my feet. The air in the house heavy and silent—not even the ticking of a clock. The bread was wrapped in cloth and, as I unwound it, I jumped, spotting Robert, red-eyed, crouching beside the stove. He looked worn out—far more than I. His skin was as white as the nightshirt he was wearing over his breeches and the curl of hair that protruded at the top of his chest, clearly visible above the linen collar, looked dark against it.

      ‘Sorry, Mary,’ he said. ‘I could not sleep. I have not rested properly in days.’

      The house, it struck me, was a shell and we were restless spirits within it, seeking respite. Though I could not see what reason Robert had to prowl about in the dark.

      I had planned on opening the heavy back door and sitting on the step while I ate. Everyone in the family had done that from time to time. It was something of a tradition. That night it was too cloudy to see the stars but the moon was almost full. It cast an opaque light through the misty sky.

      ‘Well,’ СКАЧАТЬ