The Distant Kingdom Read online

  ‘Do you mean that it has happened before?’ he demanded.

  ‘Not really,’ came the answer, ‘at least not like that.’ She raised her eyes to his face and was reassured by the steadiness in his expression. ‘But Uncle George used to kiss me, like that. I had thought he was angry with me because he always looked accusingly at me and then he would hold me and kiss me, and I could not breathe. I always tried to push him away, but he would go on and on, and then once when I thought I should faint he stopped and he started to weep. It was horrible. He begged my forgiveness, but then as I was trying to think what to say he changed and told me that it was my fault. It was just like tonight. Papa, what am I to do?’

  She shrank from the blaze of anger in his eyes. He came to her chair, took the glass from her hand and, kneeling in front of her, put his hands on her shoulders. He said:

  ‘You must not think of it. That uncle of yours sounds quite appalling, and if he were here I should give him the thrashing he so clearly merits. Blandfield was a little different: he wanted to marry you. That was reasonable, even if you would not have accepted him. The thing is that you are far more beautiful than you realize, and if you look pleadingly at men they may well become inflamed by you, especially out here. After all, my dear,’ he added in an attempt to make her smile, ‘the poet did write:

  What men call gallantry

  And the gods adultery,

  Is far more common when the climate’s sultry.‘

  She looked away, inexpressibly distressed that even her father should joke about such things. When she could command her voice not to tremble she said:

  ‘I expect you are right, Papa. I think I shall go to bed now. Goodnight.’

  Over the next few days she tried to put the horror out of her mind, but she could not succeed. The only thing that could banish the memory of those gross, wet lips and groping hands was the knowledge of Marcus’s kindness. He and Juliana had called on her the day after the ball to enquire after her health, and, if she had recovered from her headache, to persuade her to ride with them. She had gone – anything was better than sitting doing nothing but remember – and she was passionately grateful for their friendliness. Naturally, neither mentioned Mortimer Blandfield, but Marcus showed his solicitude for her in innumerable little ways, and she was able to look at him, knowing that she would never see in his dark eyes the look that spelled such vileness.

  When they returned to her father’s house, as usual laden with flowers to press and sketch, he left her and Juliana in order to keep an appointment. He had been so relieved to see the extent of Perdita’s recovery from the shocking distress that as soon as he reached Thurleigh’s bungalow, he said:

  ‘She seems a little better today, but I am afraid that it will take some time before she entirely forgets last night’s scene.’

  Captain Thurleigh, who was standing in front of a small fire warming one of his booted feet, looked across the room, his handsome face dark with anger.

  ‘Are you talking about that Whitney woman? What business is it of yours if she flirts with some dam’fool of a collector and gets more than she bargained for?’

  Marcus stopped halfway across the room, his brows contracted together. He said slowly:

  ‘None of my business, perhaps, but I found her in great distress and I was sorry for her. I know what it is like to be pawed like a piece of matrimonial meat by people who seem to think that the touch of their repellent flesh is what one desires above all else. I was sorry for her,’ he said again.

  ‘Well, I can’t understand why you should cherish such a fondness for a poor miserable thing like Miss Whitney.’

  Marcus did not care enough to argue and he hated scenes. He dismissed the subject of Miss Whitney and called for two burra pegs from Thurleigh’s bearer before sitting down in one of the old brown chairs and stretching his booted feet towards the fire.

  They were talking happily as they waited for the other guests, and James had just leaned forward to refill their glasses, when the bearer came back bringing a chit for Marcus. The handwriting was strange to him and he opened the folded half-sheet curiously. There was a single line: ‘Please come at once to your mother’s house. She needs you. Perdita Whitney.‘

  He handed it to James, who said:

  ‘That woman again! Must you go?’

  ‘Yes. Whatever you think of her, you must do her the justice of believing that she would never write such a note if my mother were not in need of me.’ He clasped his friend’s hand briefly and strode out of the room, calling for his horse.

  Ten minutes later he walked up the steps of his mother’s house, to find Perdita waiting in the hall. She said to him urgently:

  ‘They are in the drawing room. I shall be in Juliana’s room if you should need me.’ He looked after her puzzled, but went quickly to find his mother lying back on a sofa, her feet wrapped in a dark shawl, and her eyes uncharacteristically reddened with weeping.

  He knelt beside her, patting her hands, and listened appalled as she told him that the overland mail had arrived that afternoon, bringing a letter from her lawyers with the news of his brother’s death from typhus. Her hands seemed terribly cold, and he could hear Juliana gulping behind him, but he could think of nothing to say. He understood at once that the news was catastrophic and he tried to flog his mind into a proper regret for the elder brother he had hardly known, but he could not. He could not even be sure if it was his mind or his mother’s voice that spoke the sentence:

  ‘You will have to sell out now, at once, and come back to England.’

  He sank forward, until his forehead was lying on her lap. She lifted one of her hands and smoothed the hair back from his broad brow, over which the skin was stretched so tight. She said quietly:

  ‘I know that you want to stay in this country, but it is your duty to leave. Augustus had no children; you have no heir yet. You must return to Beaminster.’

  He could not speak.

  It was many days before Perdita heard from any of the Blagdon family. Although she had written a letter of condolence to Lady Beaminster as soon as she had heard the news, she was not at all surprised that she received no acknowledgement; but she wished that she could have done something useful for Juliana at least, who must have been devastated by what had happened.

  When Juliana did emerge from seclusion to seek comfort from Perdita, she poured out stories of the late Lord Beaminster’s goodness, his virtues, the way he had filled her world. Perdita, understanding that he had been more of a father to her than the old statesman, felt poignantly for the child in her misery and tried to comfort her. But Juliana was inconsolable.

  Her grief had been exacerbated by her mother’s endless arguments with Marcus. She told Perdita that Lady Beaminster was determined to make him return to England with them, while he was equally determined to stay in India.

  ‘Now that he has inherited he has responsibilities, you see,’ confided Juliana tearfully. ‘It would be different if we had any other brothers. She says he has to come home; but he could never take Guster’s place, and he says he hates England. He wants to live here and he won’t say why. I don’t see why he shouldn’t if he wants it so much, but Mama does not accept that life in England can be just as dangerous as out here. She gets so angry when Marcus reminds her that he is still alive and Guster who never risked this climate is dead and she says such terrible things. Oh, Perdita, what is going to happen?’

  Perdita could not answer and was aghast at the selfishness of her unspoken protests. Overiding even her sympathy for Juliana was a rebellious question that returned again and again: ‘Must I lose these two friends, the only ones I have ever had, just because some stranger contracted typhus thousands of miles away?’

  The answer to both questions came dramatically a week later when Marcus Beaminster came to Whitney House to ask Perdita to marry him.

  Almost dizzy with incredulous delight, Perdita stood in her father’s library looking at Marcus, searching his face for some sign th
at he really had said the words she thought she had just heard. She thought he seemed unhappy, and in wondering whether she would ever be able to banish the look of strain from his dark eyes, she forgot her early-morning fantasies of just such a scene and all the things she had once longed to say to him.

  He watched her too, in gentle surprise that she did not answer. Then he kissed her hand and repeated his question. Perdita could feel a hot, disfiguring blush pouring into her face, but her voice was nearly steady as she said:

  ‘Of course I will, Marcus … if you truly wish it.’

  The humility of her answer touched him, and the tenderness in her expression seemed to assuage part of the hurt his mother had dealt him. Remembering some of the things she had said to him as she tried to force him to accept his new responsibilities, he closed his eyes for a second or two. Perdita watched a deep line appear between his dark brows and misinterpreted the source of his pain. Thinking that he was grieving for his dead brother, she touched his hand and tried to help.

  ‘It is only so bad for a little time, Marcus. Sorrow eases, and I shall help you all I can. Please do not let it hurt you too much.’

  Hearing her low, tranquil voice, so different from his mother’s, Marcus forgot that Perdita could have no idea of the accusations his mother had made. The bitter words she had flung at him had left him aching for the comfort that Perdita seemed to offer. For that moment it hardly even mattered who she was. He walked forward into her arms and felt one of her hands stroke his hair.

  ‘It will pass, Marcus, I promise you. Everything will be all right.’

  Chapter Five

  Perdita’s short engagement was a time of indescribable happiness shot through with moments of devastating anxiety. She had never expected anyone to marry her and it seemed miraculous that a man like Marcus Beaminster should want her. At first it was not the disparity in their worldly positions that preoccupied her, although as the wedding day approached and Lady Beaminster subjected her to a course of rigorous instruction in the obligations and duties of her new position, she became more and more aware of her lowly status. In the beginning the contrast seemed to be between her solitary position looking in at the world from outside and his secure place in its centre. She had only her father; Marcus had friends throughout India and always would have, no matter where he went. He was at ease everywhere; she, only in the protection of her father.

  But once she was married, she knew it would be different: there would be no more excruciating shyness or terrifying loneliness. She would be Marcus’s wife, part of the world. In marrying her he would be putting her once and for always beyond the reach of the things that threatened her.

  Wherever she went, whomever she had to meet, she was able to forget her fears, because Marcus was with her. They were rarely alone together, but to see him smile at her across a dinner table could illumine a whole evening; feeling the softness of his lips on her hand as they parted seemed to be a code to remind her of the time when he had stood with his head on her shoulder, his arms about her, his heart beating against her breast.

  It seemed impossible that he should love her as much as she loved him; but that did not matter. He cared enough to want to make her his wife and she knew that she would never be able to repay him for what he was giving her. She felt that she had reached the end of her journey. She would be able to rest now, secure in the knowledge that she would never have to struggle again.

  Her father watched her flowering and was aware of an emotion that was almost jealousy. He laughed at himself for it and hoped that it was not the reason why he was suspicious of Beaminster’s motives. The proposal had been so startling that Edward had not been able to help wondering what lay behind it. It was easy to see why the new earl should feel he had to marry, but not why he should have chosen someone so unlikely. Edward’s first thought had been of his money, but he was quickly able to discard that suspicion; the extent of the lands and fortune Beaminster had just inherited would have satisfied the most extravagant man and he was not that.

  Unlikely it might be, but Edward had to fall back on the idea that Marcus Beaminster had discerned beneath the shyness and gaucherie Perdita still displayed in company the qualities he himself admired. And yet, he would ask himself, what man in Beaminster’s position ever married a woman of such an age for her intelligence, honesty and courage when he could have had youth, fashionable prettiness, gaiety, confidence and suitable breeding? Even in India there were plenty of such girls, any of whom would have given her eyes to marry him.

  Edward concealed his thoughts from Perdita, determined that they should not impinge on her delight, and reminded himself that whatever Beaminster’s motives for the marriage, there was no doubt that as his wife Perdita would be secure in a way she never could be as plain Miss Whitney. Grateful for that at least, he discussed dowry and settlements with Marcus and made arrangements for a suitable wedding with Lady Beaminster.

  They agreed that in view of the groom’s mourning the marriage itself should be a simple service held at Whitney House with a formal reception afterwards for only the most important of Simla’s residents. There was to be no music at the service, no extravagant display at the reception, and immediately afterwards Perdita was to go into half-mourning for the brother-in-law she had never known.

  Lady Beaminster had fortunately already purchased several lengths of silk for herself in muted greys and lavenders, which could be made up for Perdita to wear in the evenings, and the Simla bazaar provided plenty of muslin for morning dresses. Lady Beaminster was able to assure herself that the bride would at least be suitably clad for all occasions even if there were no guarantee that she would behave as she should. But at least her mistakes would be made in India where they would not matter very much, and by the time Marcus came to his senses and returned to England she would probably have learned enough to pass.

  His mother never put such thoughts into words, but she did not hide them as well as Edward Whitney hid his, and Perdita was well aware of them. At first they did not matter at all: if Marcus cared for her, what did it matter what his mother thought? But the obvious disapproval began to wake Perdita’s imagination and she started to invent wild anxieties. The first time she wondered whether she had misheard Marcus’s proposal she mocked herself, but as the wedding day came nearer and nearer she managed almost to convince herself that he had never asked her at all and that only his undeniable chivalry had prevented him from pointing out her mistake. When she forced herself to think rationally and recreate in her mind the day when he had proposed to her she knew her anxiety was fantastic, but she could not get it out of her head that there was something wrong.

  Marcus had never shown that kind of emotion again, or taken her into his arms even when they were alone, and she wished that he would so that she could be sure. Perhaps then she could tell him of her silliness and they could laugh over it together. Instead, he treated her with all his usual gentle civility, shielding her from the intrusive curiosity of the Simla ladies, doing his best to see that she was not overpowered by his mother, and giving her not only endless small presents but also a lovely, delicate necklace of pearls and diamonds, as a token of his esteem, he said.

  Edward saw the slow diminution of her radiant happiness and wondered what it was that was worrying her. He wished he knew how much she understood of the physical aspect of marriage and whether she was frightened of that, but he did not manage to broach the subject with her. He hated the thought that she might be going to Beaminster ignorant of the meaning of physical love, but with the memory of her reaction to Mortimer Blandfield’s very mild advances in his mind, he could not think of any words that would not shock her. In any case, he believed that only a woman could tell her what she should know, and the only woman he could have asked – or trusted to tell her the right things in the right way – was Aneila, and she could not do it. As she had explained to him when he talked to her about it, if Perdita was as innocent as he feared, she would never be able to accept advice on s
uch a subject from a stranger, and a foreigner at that.

  In the end he had decided that he would have to trust Lady Beaminster to include that lesson in all the others that she was delivering, and comforted himself with the thought that at least the boy seemed gentle enough.

  But there was one day when he almost broke his silence. He found Perdita walking aimlessly round the garden one morning, occasionally bending down to pick some of the violets that grew in fragrant purple pools under the trees. He watched her for a while as she stopped beside a large carved stone urn that stood against a background of cypresses. She made a charming picture there, tall and slim in her pale grey gown, with one hand resting in unselfconscious grace on the stone and the other holding the violets by her side, but he was worried by the pinched frown on her face. She looked almost as though she were rehearsing a speech; then a blush welled up and she covered her face with her hands. At once he went to her.

  ‘Perdita, tell me: are you unhappy about something? If there is anything you want to know, you will tell me won’t you? Are you having doubts about the marriage?

  Perdita tucked a little bunch of sweet-scented flowers into her lace-edged corsage and turned her head.

  ‘How could I have doubts, Papa? Lord Beaminster is charming, very kind, and I … I have a great affection for him.’ At her father’s questioning look, she revised her cautious statement and said in helpless truth, ‘I love him, Papa. Don’t you like him?’

  ‘Of course I do. He is a splendid fellow, and a very good match as they say, but …’

  She interrupted with a small, wise smile:

  ‘But you wonder why he should have chosen me. So do I.’

  ‘Believe me, my dear, if he has come to know you as well as I know you, he has shown the best of good sense in choosing you.’ He stroked her warm cheek and liked the way she leaned towards him. Perdita took courage from his obvious approval.