Dear Deceiver. Mary Nichols

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СКАЧАТЬ good man, and surely Chinkara is with him there, looking after him still. You must look to Teddy-Sahib. He is the master now.’

      ‘Yes, he is, isn’t he?’ Emma attempted to smile, for the idea of Teddy, the schoolboy, taking over the management of their lives would have been amusing in other circumstances. There was no doubt in her mind who would have to pick up the reins and make the decisions. And for that, she must remain strong and not give way to the grief which was eating away at her heart and mind, making thinking objectively almost impossible.

      But when she forced herself to try, her head was filled with a thousand questions, the most important being: how could they manage without Papa? It was not the housekeeping that troubled her, for she had been doing that for years, but whether they would be allowed to remain in the bungalow which belonged to the East India Company and, if not, where would they go? She imagined her papa had left some money, but was it enough to keep Teddy at college? Was there a pension?

      There was also the vexing question of Calcutta Society, which might turn a blind eye to her living alone when her father was simply away campaigning; but when the officers’ wives learned he was never coming back, they would be round like flies, giving her gratuitous advice, the gist of which was that she should not live alone with no one for company but her brother and a handful of Indian servants; it was unseemly and she would earn a ‘reputation’.

      She was twenty-two, well past the age of needing a chaperon, if she ever had; she dressed as she pleased, went where she pleased within certain practical limits and felt perfectly safe. In her view, her totally loyal servants would be far more help to her in a crisis than any hidebound European woman, concerned only with protocol and etiquette. If they had their way, they would marry her off to one of the newly arrived officers within a month of the poor man’s arrival.

      Her fears were confirmed when Mrs Goodwright arrived by ekka which she drove herself, just as soon as the rain ceased. The temperature had dropped a few degrees, but the little garden steamed, so that the trees, shrubs and outbuildings were seen through a haze with no clear outlines. A palm frond near the door dripped on to the wooden steps of the verandah.

      ‘You must come and stay with us,’ she said briskly, removing her gloves and lifting her veil. Emma wondered why she persisted in dressing as if she were still in Europe, which must have made her unbearably hot. ‘We will have to find you a husband. I’ve no doubt there will be several eligibles coming out from home to replace the men we have lost.’

      ‘It is very kind of you, ma’am,’ Emma said, wondering if the woman would be quite so cold-blooded if her husband had been among those who had perished, instead of staying behind a desk at headquarters. ‘But I am not ready to think of such things yet…’

      ‘Oh, surely you are not still grieving for John, child? That was four years ago—it is foolish to go on mourning.’

      It wasn’t mourning, it was prudence. She had met John when she was eighteen and he had just arrived from England. He had swept her off her feet and in no time they became engaged. And though she was sure she loved him dearly, she had soon realised he adhered to the widely held view that the British in India were a blessing for which the natives ought to give thanks.

      ‘We are not here as conquerors,’ he had said. ‘We came to trade, but how can trade be properly carried out if the kings and princes are always warring with each other over who should succeed whom and who pay tribute to whom? It has been necessary to preserve law and order and that means having a military presence. You are a soldier’s daughter, you must surely understand that. Besides, the natives are no more than children, needing education and guidance.’

      She had hoped that when he had been in India a little longer, he might come to know and love the country and its inhabitants, as she, her father and brother did. Whether he would have done she was never to know, for he had died of sandfly fever during his first summer. When his parents came out from England to visit his grave, they had not bothered to hide their disapproval of her; she was too free and easy and did not behave like a lady, which had made her laugh, in spite of her grief.

      She realised she would never have broken down their antagonism. She and John would probably have regretted marrying if he had lived and taken her back to England. She had mourned him sincerely, but she was determined that if she ever fell in love again, she would be careful that it would be with someone who understood her love of all things Indian.

      Such a man had not materialised and now, though still slim, exceedingly healthy and independent, she was almost an old maid.

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘I meant I would not marry for expediency’s sake.’

      ‘Then I strongly suggest you go home to England. There is nothing like family when you have a bereavement. I am sure Viscount Mountforest will be delighted to receive you.’

      Emma doubted it. There had been bad blood between her father and his older brother and they had never corresponded in all the years Papa had been in India. As far as she was aware, her uncle did not even know of the existence of his niece and nephew.

      She had asked her papa once why that was. She remembered it clearly because it was just after her mother died. He had returned from the Poona campaign in 1802 too late to see Mama alive and the effect on him of her untimely death had been distressing to watch. He blamed the climate; he blamed the way they were always being separated by campaigns which he felt were due to British expansionism and nothing to do with defending The Company’s people and property which was what he was paid for. But most of all he blamed himself.

      ‘I should have taken her home, no matter what,’ he had said, when he came out of his anguish sufficiently to speak of his wife at all. ‘The doctor said the climate would kill her…’

      Emma, then eight years old and grief-stricken for her beloved mama, had not tried to placate him, she had simply demanded, ‘Why didn’t you? Take her back to England, I mean.’

      He had looked at his little daughter and sighed. ‘It is not so easy, sweetheart, I am an exile, your mother understood that. She knew the whole story.’

      ‘What does exile mean?’

      ‘It means I was sent away and cannot go back.’

      ‘Not ever?’

      ‘I do not think so. Not unless certain people are prepared publicly to admit the wrong they did me and I do not think they will ever do that.’

      ‘Why not?’

      He had smiled and taken her on to his knee, rubbing his chin across her hair, which had not yet taken on the auburn tones it now had and was a soft light brown. ‘Why all the questions? Do you wish to go to England?’

      ‘Not without you, but I think I might like to go on a visit, just to see what it is like.’

      ‘One day, perhaps, you will, when you are grown up and very rich, then it will not matter what the gossips say.’

      ‘What do they say?’

      He had said nothing for a whole minute and she had begun to think he did not intend to answer her; when he did, his voice was so low she could hardly hear him. ‘They say that I have besmirched the name of a noble family, that I am responsible for a man’s death, that I am a coward, that I have no honour.’ He paused and then added softly, ‘But it was honour which bound me as surely as chains.’

      She hadn’t understood then, nor even now when she was old enough to comprehend СКАЧАТЬ