Dear Deceiver. Mary Nichols

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      ‘Work. At least, I will and you must find yourself a rich husband with a title.’

      She managed to laugh, though it sounded hollow. ‘I tried to find work, but no one would give me any. And there are no rich men with titles out in India…not unmarried ones, anyway.’

      ‘Then we’ll go to England, but not to our uncle. We’ll manage without his help. We’ll make our own way and when we’ve done it, we will force him tell the truth. Papa would never do a dishonourable deed. Never.’

      His anger was preferable to his misery, she supposed, but she was beginning to wonder what devils she had unleashed in telling him about their father’s exile. He had suddenly turned from a grieving boy to a very angry young man. And who could blame him?

      ‘No, of course he wouldn’t,’ she said, deciding to say no more about their uncle for the present. Later she would try and talk to him again. ‘But we cannot go until we’ve raised the passage money.’

      ‘You’ve got jewellery, haven’t you?’

      ‘A little, yes. Not enough.’

      ‘And there is the furniture and the…’ He gulped suddenly, but he was too angry for sentiment. ‘The horses. Prime beasts they are.’

      ‘Teddy, are you sure?’

      ‘Yes.’ He kicked at the tigerskin rug. ‘This should fetch a few rupees.’

      ‘But Papa shot that.’

      ‘So he did, but what is it good for now, when very soon we will not have a floor to lay it on?’

      It had taken time to wind up their father’s affairs, to pay off the servants and make sure they had good positions to go to, to sell the horses and every last stick of furniture, though Emma drew the line at parting with the tigerskin. She would take it with her as a memento of her father. Long before their preparations were complete, they were obliged to take Mrs Goodwright up on her offer.

      Within a week Emma was thankful that it was only a temporary state of affairs. The good lady, while meaning well, was dictatorial to say the least, and full of advice about what Emma should and should not do in England. She even gave her a little book of etiquette which afforded her guest a great deal of merriment.

      ‘And we must do something about your clothes,’ she said. ‘I have one or two gowns I no longer need, they are far too warm for this climate. I am sure with a little deft needlework, we can make them fit you.’

      ‘It is very kind of you, ma’am, but—’

      ‘No buts. I shall not miss them, I assure you, and you certainly cannot travel to England in a sari. People will think you are half-Indian.’

      Emma did not think that was of any consequence, but the matter of a wardrobe had been giving her some problems. The more she spent, the less there was left to live on and telling herself that beggars can’t be choosers, she accepted gratefully and set about her sewing, with the help of a pattern book Mrs Goodwright had had sent out from England.

      It was well into the new year before they said goodbye to all their friends, both European and Indian, and paid a last visit to their mother’s grave in the English cemetery. ‘We will come back,’ Teddy said, hiding his distress behind anger. ‘When I have avenged Papa.’

      Emma did not remonstrate with him; it would have done no good and she was too choked with tears to speak.

      Later in the day, they went aboard the Silken Maid for the voyage to England and a new life with a new name.

      Unsure if the scandal attached to their father was still remembered and not wishing to draw attention to themselves, they decided to change their name. So it was Miss Emma and Mr Edward Woodhill who sailed up the Thames to the East India Dock that misty April afternoon.

      Emma saw the revenue man and the health inspector leave and knew it was time to go. She could see her old black-painted tin trunk sitting on the quay not far from the gangplank. It looked lonely and isolated, just as she felt. She sighed; it was no good standing there, waiting for a miracle. She turned slowly and made her way along the deck to the gangway but before she could begin the descent, she became aware of a man starting up towards her.

      He had evidently not seen her for otherwise he would have stood aside to allow her to come down first, there being no room to pass. It was difficult to see his face because at that angle his top hat obscured it, but he was young and lithe, judging by the way he dashed up the plank. He was dressed in a brown frockcoat and beige pantaloons and was certainly not one of the dockers.

      He checked himself when his head reached the level of the deck and he saw her feet, clad in soft black kid. Looking upwards, past a voluminous burnous, he met the gaze of a pair of amused green eyes. In one bound, he reached the deck and stood to doff his top hat, revealing a shock of fair curls. He was also very tall. ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am, I did not see you waiting. Pray, forgive me.’

      His voice had a warm quality matched by his brown eyes, eyes that held her in thrall. She stood motionless, unable to turn away. It wasn’t like meeting a stranger; it was as if she were being reunited with an old friend, someone she had known forever. She could have told anyone who asked, that he liked his fellow human beings, that he was always gentle with them, that his favourite food was pork and apple pie; that he enjoyed a glass of wine, but was by no means a drinker; that he was chivalrous to women and honourable to men; that he disliked humbug and hated racial prejudice.

      She smiled suddenly at her fantasy, realising she had been describing her father, but that didn’t alter the fact that she was sure she was right. Pulling herself together, she put her palms together in front of her face in the Indian manner, and bowed towards him. ‘Think nothing of it, sir.’

      For a moment he was taken aback. She had a graceful carriage which reminded him of pictures he had seen of Indian girls in saris, balancing jugs on their heads. Her complexion was smooth and golden, but her eyes were green and the wisp of hair which had escaped from the hood of her cloak was a warm chestnut brown, almost auburn, and though her voice had a soft lilt, it had no accent. He smiled. ‘May I escort you down?’

      ‘No, thank you, my brother is with me.’ She looked about for Teddy, but he had disappeared. Trust him to wander off, just when she needed him. ‘I expect he has gone to fetch our hand baggage from the cabin.’

      He bowed and left her, making for the companionway and she went down the gangplank, setting her foot upon English soil for the first time, wondering who the young man was. The ship’s owner, perhaps, then she should have taken the opportunity to speak to him of the poor accommodation.

      On the other hand he might be a passenger, intent on the outward journey and in that case they were bound in opposite directions. Or he might simply be a friend of the Captain. She turned to look back but he had gone from sight.

      Dominic made his way down to the Captain’s day cabin, musing on the encounter and wondering what was beneath that all-enveloping cloak. The girl was not a beauty by accepted standards, nor was she dressed in anything like the latest mode, but there was something about her that made her out of the ordinary. It might have been her grace; that simple movement of her hands had charmed him. But those green eyes! They were speaking eyes, if such a thing existed.

      They told of humour, sadness, pride СКАЧАТЬ