They travelled for several days, stopping at wayside inns, making for London.
That first night, their wedding night, she sat in the bedroom, tense and fearful, waiting for him to come to her. She sat by the window, shivering and staring out into the darkness, seeing nothing, but determined to stay as far away from the big double bed as she could. She kept her eyes averted from it, trembling at the thought of what she must endure.
Carrie was no maiden, afraid of the unknown. Her fear lay only in that, having known the joys of loving with Jamie, she must now submit to the passions of a man she did not love.
They had been welcomed into the inn by the beaming landlord, who, though she could see the question in his eyes, politely ignored the incongruity of a well-dressed gentleman accompanied by a gypsy girl.
“I’ll be wantin’ a double room,” Lloyd Foster had said firmly, and Carrie had felt a twinge of revulsion at the thought of what was to happen that night. “An’ mind the bed is clean and warm for my wife, an’ a fire in the grate.”
“Of course, sir. Mary Ellen,” the landlord had shouted to one of the kitchen maids, “ away and prepare the room, girl – the best front bedroom.” He had turned back to Lloyd. “And you’ll be wanting refreshment, sir, I don’t doubt. Now we have a nice roast veal, and some of the best wine this side the Channel, sir.”
Bowing, he had ushered Lloyd and Carrie to high-backed bench seats in a secluded corner. Two brass candlesticks with lighted candles stood on the table. They sat opposite each other and waited for their meal to be served. Carrie’s violet eyes were dark, the soft candlelight highlighting her beauty, but she was unaware of her own appearance. All her senses prickled at the nearness of the man sitting so close, his knees accidentally touching hers beneath the table. Though the meal was such as she had never tasted before – tender veal, sparkling wine which tickled her nose as she raised the glass to her lips, a sweet of delicious meringue and fresh cream, and coffee, real, steaming hot coffee, fresh and fragrant – Carrie could not enjoy it. She felt as if she could never enjoy life itself again.
Now, as she sat in the bedroom, she felt such a loneliness that she had never before known. Always, she had fought for survival. She had been the strength her weaker brothers – and even her mother – had leaned on. And now, plucked from their midst, even with the promise of security and comfort, she felt bereft. Torn away from all she knew, all that was familiar and – worst of all – torn from the very first man with whom she had fallen in love …
The bedroom door opened with a scrape and she jumped and turned to see Lloyd Foster standing in the doorway. He came in and closed the door behind him and stood looking at her. The silence between them lengthened until it grated on her nerves. She turned back to gazing out of the window, even though she could see nothing through the blackness. She was acutely aware of him standing behind her. She felt a shiver down her spine as he crossed the room and moved close to her.
He reached out and touched her shoulder and she flinched from his touch. He sprang away as if burned. “ So, that is how it is to be, is it?” His voice was low with emotion. “ Rough I may be, but I’m no ignorant brute. But you’re my wife, and, by God, you’ll be my wife!”
Gone was his joviality. There was no mistaking the steel in his voice. Carrie shuddered. She had heard it before, but never directed at herself until this moment. He turned and strode from the room, banging the door behind him. As she heard his feet clatter down the stairs, Carrie could only feel relief.
Lloyd Foster made his way to the saloon bar, where he drank steadily through the night until drunkenness dulled his frustrated passion for his bride.
The following day, much to Carrie’s surprise, Lloyd Foster seemed to have recovered his usual cheerful spirits. He laughed loudly with the innkeeper, tipped the stable boy lavishly for looking after the horse and was courteous towards Carrie. She avoided meeting his gaze and so did not see for herself the pain deep in his eyes, hidden by his outward show of good humour. She was quiet, withdrawn into her own private misery, repulsing all attempts Foster made to reach her.
They travelled on, Carrie sullen and silent, Foster singing Irish folksongs at the top of his loud and surprisingly tuneful voice. They stayed in a pleasant hotel in London, though where Foster slept Carrie never knew nor cared to enquire, for each night she slept alone.
He took her to the shops and insisted she should buy herself a trousseau, but Carrie had no idea how a lady should dress and was at the mercy of the dressmaker. All manner of clothing was laid before her, such items as she had never seen, let alone possessed. Flannel vests, cotton chemises, petticoats, corsets, cotton drawers, white thread stockings, coloured silk stockings, kid gloves, silk gloves, morning dresses and afternoon dresses of silk cashmere, black silk skirts and bodices, two evening gowns and a white lace ball gown, so beautiful it took Carrie’s breath away. Shawls and cloaks and hats, even a parasol edged with lace. Neat button boots and shoes for day and evening wear which Carrie’s feet had never known.
“I can’t accept all this,” she hissed at Lloyd Foster, gesturing towards all the garments being wrapped by the willing assistants.
“Ah, so you can find it in you to speak to me,” Lloyd said, his mouth smiling but his eyes reproachful. It was the first time she had spoken to him since their marriage – except to answer his questions in sullen monosyllables. “And you will accept it. It is a husband’s duty to provide for his wife, is it not, now?”
Her violet eyes flashed – the first time she had shown any spark of life since leaving Abbeyford.
“I’ll not be bought!” She glared at him, standing facing him in the centre of the fashionable shop, her hands on her hips.
“Oh, an’ I love you when you’re angry,” Lloyd Foster’s booming laugh rang out, causing the dressmaker to ‘tut-tut’ and her young assistants to giggle to each other. Carrie stamped her foot, causing the girls to give little shrieks of horror. It was the behaviour they were not accustomed to seeing in their shop – not the behaviour of a lady!
“I’m serious – even if you’re not,” Carrie cried angrily.
“Oh, me darlin’, I was never more serious in the whole of me life.” The hint of steel was in his eyes again. He took hold of her wrist, and though he only held her lightly with one hand, she could feel the strength in his fingers. “You will accept these gifts, my lovely wife!” The accent on the last word was audible only to Carrie.
Thwarted, she flounced out of the shop and stood waiting for him in the street outside. He sauntered out in due course, now seeming quite unperturbed by her outburst.
As they walked along she stole a glance at him. Wherever he was, she thought, he seemed at ease. Whether it was amongst the navvies, covered with dust, or with Squire Trent playing cards, or here in the fashionable quarter of London, he was equally at home and – amazingly – accepted. Whilst she felt a misfit, a dirty, dishevelled gypsy with no manners and no idea of etiquette.
She was quiet now and as they walked along she looked about her at the shops, at the grand carriages, at the coachmen and footmen in their smart liveried uniforms, and at the noblemen and fashionable ladies inside the carriages. Lloyd walked at her side, smartly dressed as ever in a well-cut suit, a brightly coloured waistcoat, his watch-chain looped across his broad chest, and swinging a cane.
Suddenly he reached down and took her hand and drew it through his arm. She could feel the curious glances of the passers-by and the colour rose in her cheeks.
“You see, me darlin’,” Lloyd was saying in his lilting brogue. “I want to see you dressed in fine silks and satins. You’ve the beauty of a fine lady already, me darlin’, all you’re needin’ is the fine feathers. Do y’hear me now? There’s so many places I can take you. Now, wouldn’t you like to play the fine lady?”
Carrie was silent.
She supposed she should feel gratitude to him for his generosity, but she could not forgive him for having aided her father in tricking her into this marriage, tearing her from the arms of her lover. But as the days passed into weeks and months, she found she could not help being caught up in the excited bustle of the vast city. The shops fascinated her, the fancy carriages, the beautifully dressed ladies in the silks and velvets. She even had a maid of her very own now – a young girl who helped her dress her hair and bedeck herself in her new finery.
Away from Abbeyford, away from all the squalor and hardship of her former life, away from the anguish of losing her brother, Luke, of seeing her mother weary and beaten, away from her brutish, obsessed father and with so much that was new to interest her, she found the pain begin to lessen and her natural vitality slowly reassert itself.
Carrie Smithson Foster was a survivor. She was strong and blessed with a natural zest for life that could not, would not, be beaten or bowed for long.
In the company of Lloyd Foster’s jovial spirit, she could not remain locked in her private misery for ever, so resolutely she raised her head, accepted his gifts and determined to make the best of the situation. She could not forgive him or give herself to him willingly – but between them, on the surface at least, there was an uneasy kind of truce.
Carrie still slept alone and never troubled to enquire where, or how, her husband spent his nights.
Lloyd was true to his promise. He introduced her to a life she had never dreamed existed. True it was not the life of aristocratic Society – those doors were closed even to Lloyd Foster. But they found their niche amongst the middle-class, well-to-do, ‘respectable’ Victorians. Carrie began to enjoy her new role, laughing secretly at the thought of the astonishment on the faces of these fine ladies if they knew of her past life – her impoverished childhood and harsh living. Now she mimicked their manner of speaking, their elegant way of walking, their affectations, yet she never lost her earthy honesty, her strength of will.
Yet, deep in her heart, she was lonely for sight of Jamie. Gladly she would have forsaken all this luxury – and more – for one kiss from her lover.
“Now, you sit here at this table, me darlin’, and I’ll be fetchin’ you some ginger beer.”
Carrie sat down at the table in the tea-garden to which Lloyd had brought her. It was April, over four months since she had left Abbeyford – and Jamie. Amidst the hustle of the tea-garden, Carrie felt the loneliness steal over her. She looked about her at the happy families – mothers in their beribboned bonnets, their wide crinolines spread about them, leaning down to tend their small children. The gentlemen in their pink shirts and blue waistcoats seemed to gravitate to one corner of the garden, where they smoked their cigars and leant on their canes, with their tall silk hats at a rakish angle.
“Here we are, me darlin’,” Lloyd placed a glass of ginger beer on the table before her and a dish of winkles. “Now – you’ll be all right for a moment, I just have a little business to attend to,” and, weaving his way between the tables, avoiding two boys chasing each other across the grass, Lloyd went to join the other gentlemen.
Carrie saw them greet him like a friend – he was obviously known to three or four of them.
It was a huge place where they were, on the banks of the river Thames. Far in one corner, Carrie could see a crowd clustering round a balloonist who was making ready to begin his ascent. She did not join the crowd but watched with casual interest from where she was sitting. The spring day was surprisingly warm here in the sheltered tea-garden. In her wide-skirted crinoline with its numerous petticoats and the close-fitting bonnet beneath which her hair was arranged into a neat chignon, she felt uncomfortably restricted and hot. In that moment she longed for the freedom she had known last summer, her black hair flying loose, her bare feet running through the long grass to the abbey ruins to meet Jamie.
Tears prickled her eyelids and she sighed. Now it could never be. She was here in London, dressed in fine clothes, trying to ape the lady, married to a man she hated.
But did she really hate him? Carrie turned her gaze to where her husband stood. At that moment he threw back his head and laughed at something one of the other men had said, a loud, infectious sound that caused those nearby to smile too.
He was certainly a fine figure of a man, a man any woman could be proud to marry – any woman but Carrie, whose heart belonged to another!
She turned her eyes away again and watched the balloonist as he rose, a little jerkily at first, above the ground. The crowd ‘oh’ed’ and ‘ah’ed’ and then he was soaring above their heads and drifting away from them across the Thames.
You are married to Lloyd Foster, Carrie told herself sharply. He treats you well and your life is more comfortable and luxurious than you had ever believed possible for the gypsy Carrie Smithson. You had better make the best of it! But her heart longed for Jamie to see her dressed in fine clothes. How much more worthy of being his wife she was now than she had been a year ago.
That evening, back in their hotel room, Lloyd suddenly said, “Now, me darlin’, how would you like to be goin’ to Paris?”
Carrie swung round to face him, unable for once to prevent him seeing the joy shining in her eyes. “ Paris? Do you mean it?”
“Now would I be jokin’ about a t’ing like that?”
She put her head on one side and regarded him thoughtfully. “We’ll be coming back, won’t we?”
Lloyd Foster avoided her gaze. “Ah, well, now, an’ that’s a little difficult to be sayin’. You see, I’ve got to earn a livin’ for us, haven’t I now?”
Carrie’s mouth tightened. “ I thought you’d made your fortune at the expense of others. Twisting people out of their inheritance by taking advantage of a drunkard seems to be your way!”
It was the first time they had spoken of it, although always it lay like a barrier between them.
“I’ll not suffer your reproaches the rest of our lives,” he growled. Carrie said nothing and the silence between them grew as they glared at each other, challenging. Suddenly, as if unable to bear it any longer, Lloyd strode towards her and took her in his arms. His mouth was upon hers, his hands tearing at her clothing. For a moment she struggled, but he was too strong for her. He took her, not brutally as she had feared, but demandingly, possessively.
“You are mine,” he muttered against her cheek, “all mine. God knows how I’ve waited this long!”
Afterwards he left her abruptly without another word. She lay in the double bed, her emotions in a turmoil. She knew now what it must have cost Lloyd Foster these past months to stay away from her bed. Since that tentative approach the very first night when she had cringed from him he had never again made any attempt to touch her. Not until now.
Now, finally, as they had quarrelled openly his passions had boiled over and he could no longer hold back.
“Possess my body he may,” she promised herself, “ but my heart – never! He took me away from Jamie,” she told herself fiercely. But Lloyd is your husband, her conscience reminded her, and he has been good to you.
In Paris they stayed in a fine hotel. Lloyd took her dining in the best restaurants and courted her with gifts. “Didn’t I say you’d be the fine lady, me darlin’? You’re every bit as lovely as these Society ladies, so you are.”
Paris was a truly romantic city. Carrie was caught up in the whirl of the life there. Everything she saw she committed to memory and learnt from it, so swiftly that soon she was able to move in the middle-class society with ease as if she had been born into such circles and not bred in a mud hut, with bare feet and scarcely a wrap to keep her warm in winter!
She heard no news from England. Not of her family, nor of Jamie Trent. Though Lloyd came to her often now, many nights she still slept alone. Occasionally, she wondered where her husband went when he was not by her side.
He took her through France and, as winter encroached, they moved south until they reached Cannes.
Cannes was fast becoming a place where it was fashionable for the wealthy British to buy a piece of land and build a villa. Then when the English winter became too chill they could travel to their ‘winter resort’ on the Mediterranean coast.
“Do you know,” Lloyd pointed out the villas to her as they drove by in a hired carriage. “ Do you know that they even have turf shipped from England – renewed every year if they need it. Can you imagine a fellow bein’ rich enough to be able to do that?”
Carrie looked at the magnificent villas, white and shining in the sun, surrounded by groves of orange and lemon trees. “ No,” she said soberly, “I cannot imagine it!”
Lloyd laughed and put his arm about her slim waist. “Ah, me darlin’, we’ll be rich one day. You’ll have everything you ever dreamed of!”
Carrie glanced down at the green silk crinoline she wore, at the fine gloves, at her feet encased in satin slippers. Already she owned more than she had ever thought possible. But how swiftly she would abandon it all to be back in her coarse skirt and bare feet, to be back in the abbey ruins in Jamie’s arms. That was all she had dreamed of!
Lloyd rented a villa and they stayed in Cannes. Almost against her will, Carrie grew to love the pretty town nestling in a bay, the beautiful blue sea, the mountains. She blossomed in the warmth of the sun and in the clear air. Her thinness was gone, the pale, half-starved look. Her skin glowed with health and she matured from a young, passionate – yet undernourished – girl into a beautiful woman, serene yet somehow remote. Always, deep in her violet eyes there was a sadness.
“You know what dey’ll be wantin’ here, all these wealthy Englishmen, is a railway – a passenger railway from Paris to the south coast,” Lloyd said standing on the balcony of the villa overlooking the blue sea. He glanced back into the bedroom where Carrie was lying on the bed, fanning her face vigorously. It was the first time the word ‘railway’ had been mentioned between them.
“Really,” Carrie’s tone was non-committal, bored almost, as she flapped at an intruding mosquito.
“There’s only about four hundred miles of railway in the whole of France,” he was saying, suppressed excitement in his voice. “And that’s mainly for the carrying of coal.”
“Really,” Carrie said again and closed her eyes, not noticing the expression on Lloyd’s face as he looked at her and sighed and then went back to gazing out to sea.
This life of high-living was all very well, he was thinking, but I’m beginning to miss me railways. He couldn’t push the matter too far – not yet. He must give Carrie time to forget. But, some day, somehow, somewhere, he knew he must once again build a railway.
It was in his blood!
As the months stretched into years Lloyd Foster grew increasingly restless. Between himself and Carrie the uneasy truce remained. She was his wife in every sense now and yet always there was a shadow between them, the shadow of her love for another man and of Abbeyford and all its memories.
“We’ll have to go back to Paris,” Lloyd told her. “That’s the centre of things. We’ve been here in Cannes three years and I’m missing what’s happening. Louis Philippe passed an Act in 1842 for the construction of a great network of trunk routes from Paris over the whole of France. I could be part of all that. Damn it – I want to be part of it!”
So back they went to Paris. Unfortunately for Lloyd, things did not work out as he wanted. For another two years he tried to find employment as a railway builder, but once again there was confusion in Paris and although a network of railways had been approved in theory, the actual construction was a different matter. Economic difficulties in France and the air of unrest, which at any moment might erupt into revolution yet again, made investors wary and the capital required for the railways was not forthcoming.
“Damn it all!” Lloyd burst out, striding up and down the hotel bedroom whilst Carrie sat at the dressing-table, arranging her hair in readiness for a ball they were to attend. “There’s nothing here for me. The whole city is in a turmoil! They’re never at peace, these people! Now, they’re wanting to be rid of Louis Philippe!” He paused a moment and then said, “They’re so wrapped up in their political intrigues, there’s going to be no progress for the next year or so. There’s no railways for me to build here! We’ll have to look elsewhere. I must find work!” And he punched one clenched fist into the palm of his other hand.
Carrie stopped brushing her hair, her brush suspended in mid-air, and turned to look at him, suddenly interested. “You mean you’ve come to the end of your ‘ fortune’?”
Lloyd’s laughter filled the room. “ Me darlin’, there never was a ‘fortune’. How do you think I’ve made us a livin’ these past five years, eh?”
Carrie shrugged. “I thought it was the money you’d made building railways in England. You always seemed a wealthy man.”
Again he laughed. “Ah, me darlin’, there’s still much you don’t know about me. Where do you think I spend me nights when I’m not beside you?”
“I neither know nor care.”
The pain was fleetingly in his eyes, then he said. “ For your information, madam, the money which buys you all these fine fripperies,” his fingers touched the lace on her white shoulder, “comes from gambling.”
She swivelled round quickly on the stool to stare at him in amazement. “Gambling?”
“Aye, whilst you’re sleepin’, I’ve been playing at card-tables here and in Cannes, earning us a livin’.”
“Well!” Carrie was speechless. “ Well!” was all she could say again.
“But I’m tired of it now. I’ve had enough of the high livin’, the drinkin’ and gamblin’. I want to get back to railways.”
Carrie’s lips parted and her eyes shone. “If there’s nothing here, then – then – we’re going home? Back to England?”
Lloyd’s eyes darkened with anger, his mouth became hard. “ No, I don’t mean dat at all,” he said harshly, her joyful anticipation bringing back all the antagonism between them. “We’re never going back to England, d’ye hear me?”
As the look of hope died in her eyes now, Lloyd’s tone softened a little. “I’ve met this man, a captain in the British Army in India. Stationed at Calcutta, he is. He’s been on furlough – enjoying himself in Paris,” he grinned. “ Well – he tells me they’re planning to build a railway from Calcutta. There’s a lot of wrangling goin’ on, so it seems, but I’ve got used to that this past two years in Paris. He reckons if I was to get out there, maybe have a look at terrain, I could persuade the powers that be to hurry things along a little, y’know. Captain Richmond’ll be at the ball tonight. Now, ye’ll be nice to him, won’t you, for my sake?”
Carrie turned back to the mirror and resumed brushing her hair with sharp, angry strokes. “ India! That’s the other side of the world. I don’t want to go. I won’t go!”
“Well, me darlin’, we’re going!”
“This is Captain Richmond,” Lloyd introduced a gentleman in military uniform to Carrie.
“I’m happy to make your acquaintance, ma’am.” The Captain took her hand in his, bent over it with a show of gallantry and raised it to his lips. As he lifted his head, his eyes looked into her face with bold audacity.
“Captain,” she murmured.
He was undeniably handsome. Tall and slim, with fair hair, bright blue eyes and a small, neat moustache. He was indeed resplendent in his scarlet coat, with its white sash across the chest, the gold braiding and shining gold buttons. He was elegant and his whole manner and bearing exuded confidence – the kind of self-assurance that only comes from having been born into a wealthy family, of accepting the place in life as a leader of men as one’s natural right.
“May I have the pleasure of this next dance, ma’am?” Carrie inclined her head and she moved gracefully on to the dance floor on his arm.
“You dance exquisitely, Mrs Foster.”
She smiled at his compliment. How his face would alter, she thought mischievously, if he knew my background and my upbringing.
“I was fortunate enough to learn to dance here, in Paris,” she told him.
“Ah, then that explains it.”
They danced for a short time in silence, then the Captain said, “Your husband is a delightful fellow. Unique, one might say. I’ve played cards with him several times and don’t he have the devil’s own luck …?” He paused as the steps of the dance took them apart. “He never seems to lose!”
“Really,” Carrie said with an air of complete uninterest.
“But, then,” the Captain smiled, his blue eyes intent upon her, “perhaps it’s the charm of all his Irish blarney. Is that how he came to capture such a prize as yourself, ma’am?
The smile died on Carrie’s lips, her violet eyes were dark with sudden misery and her steps faltered in the dance, causing her to miss a sequence. His question had evoked unhappy memories. The Captain seemed faintly amused. “Forgive my audacity, ma’am, but amongst these fair, milk-white maidens your dark beauty is so striking. Your eyes are like the spring violets …”
“Pray, sir, your compliments are extreme!” Carrie, once more in control of her emotions, smiled.
His eyes were upon her face, his smooth voice low and intense. “Indeed they are not, ma’am, I assure you!”
The dance ended and he led her back to where Lloyd Foster waited.
Captain Richmond was the epitome of politeness, yet in his eyes there was danger when his gaze rested on Carrie. If it were not for the protective presence of the huge figure of her husband, Carrie thought, I should have need to fear this man. She put her arm through Lloyd’s and smiled up at Captain Richmond, believing herself secure in the thought that a man of such good breeding would not encroach upon another man’s preserves.
“Have you decided, Foster?” Captain Richmond addressed her husband but his gaze never strayed from Carrie for long.
“Well, now, I’m thinking I’ve nothing to lose by comin’ out to India. Me only concern is for me lovely wife here. Will it be possible to find a comfortable place for her, d’ya think? Havin’ never been to India, I just don’t know what to expect. D’you understand me now?”
“Indeed I do,” the Captain smiled. “There are many European inhabitants in Calcutta, wealthy merchants and the like. We should have no trouble in finding suitable accommodation for your good lady,” he gave a slight bow in Carrie’s direction and added, almost as an afterthought, “and for yourself.”
At that moment another gentleman requested Carrie to dance and she left her husband and the Captain eagerly planning the proposed trip to India. Carrie sighed inwardly. Lloyd had become animated at the thought of being once more involved with the building of a railway. After all the disappointments he had met here in Paris these last two years, now his hopes were rekindled.
She guessed his self-imposed exile from the work he so obviously loved had been entirely on her account. He had wanted to remove her from the environment of railway building that would always remind her of Abbeyford – and of Jamie! But now, after five years of living off his wits and his dexterity at cards, the man hungered for useful, constructive work once more.
The dance ended and as the young dandy led her back across the floor to her husband and she saw his eyes seek out her face, for the first time since her marriage she felt a flash of genuine fondness for him.
If only, she thought half-regretfully, I had not already given my heart so irrevocably to another, maybe I could have found real happiness with Lloyd Foster.
The ship was moving, under the direction of the Pilot, the last forty or so miles through the Ganges delta towards Calcutta on the east bank of the river Hooghly. Carrie stood on deck between her husband and Captain Richmond. The three months which this voyage had taken, throwing the three of them into close proximity, had rendered a subtle change in the relationship between them. Carrie had, with each day that passed, come to fear Captain Richmond a little more, and in so doing had drawn closer to Lloyd for security. Her husband had seen nothing amiss and the Captain was careful not to let him see the lust which flashed in his eyes when he looked at Carrie, but she had seen it! Lloyd did not feel the underlying challenge in Jeremy Richmond’s mocking tone. He accepted the Captain as a man who would introduce him to the right people in India, on whom his future depended. So Carrie remained silent.
“Will yer look at dose swamps?” Lloyd was saying. Carrie saw the treacherous swamps, with palms and mangroves and sticky mud. Birds rose from the trees and they could hear the sounds of the undergrowth. She shuddered. “I don’t like it,” she murmured. “It’s so hot and – eerie!”
“Not many dare to venture in there, Mrs Foster,” Captain Richmond glanced down at her. “ There’s all manner of snakes, tigers, monkeys – to say nothing of the crocodiles!”
Carrie glanced down over the side of the boat, as if fearful of seeing one of the monsters sliding by. She looked up again towards the bank, and then cried out in surprise. “Why, there’s a village. I thought you said the place was uninhabited?”
“That’s a native village, ma’am.” His tone was condescending and Carrie pursed her lips.
“They’re people, none the less,” she replied sharply.
“A little farther on you will see a clearing where a European indigo planter has his bungalow and factory, and later still an area called Garden Reach, where rich European merchants and officials have their homes. It’s quite the ‘little England’,” Captain Richmond added, his tone heavy with sarcasm.
Eventually, Carrie saw the place he mentioned – houses with verandahs and flower-beds and trees. She could see children running on the well-kept lawns with their ayahs – their Indian nursemaids. There were even one or two pet dogs barking playfully.
Then as they rounded the final curve Carrie’s attention was caught by the busy harbour. It seemed crammed with boats of all descriptions – barges, fishing-boats, clippers, and all manner of small boats. Set high above were the ramparts of Fort William.
“Will that be where you are stationed, Captain?” Lloyd asked.
“It is indeed, sir,” was the reply.
Carrie saw that amongst the Indian coolies on the dock side, amidst the bustle of bullock carts, camel carts and barrows, stood a few British or European people, men in top hats and women in fine crinolines. There were even a few British landaus pulled by shining horses. Behind the teeming dockside, rose a skyline of magnificent towers and domes.
After they had left the ship, Captain Richmond found lodgings for them in the Garden Reach district.
“This house belongs to – er – a friend of mine. He is away at present, but I know he would not mind you having the use of it.”
“We are most grateful to you, Captain, to be sure,” Lloyd laughed and slapped his new-found friend upon the shoulder, but the Captain’s gaze was upon Carrie as if it were her gratitude alone he sought.
“Pray make yourselves comfortable,” he said, bowing, his insolent gaze never leaving her face. “ There are servants to do your bidding. I must report to Fort William, but I shall return tomorrow to see that you have all you need.”
Carrie inclined her head, but she could not bring herself to enthuse over the Captain’s seeming kindness. She felt instinctively that one day, somehow, he would demand repayment.
Her husband made up for Carrie’s lack of gratitude. “ I don’t know what we should have done without the Captain, me darlin’, in this strange land.”
“But for the Captain, we should not be in this strange land!” Carrie retorted sharply and flounced out of the room.
That night Carrie lay in a huge bed under a mosquito curtain. England seemed so very far away now. She had had no word from her family since her marriage. Nor had she had any news of Jamie. Was he still in Abbeyford? Was he married, with children? Though her homeland and family were far removed, Jamie’s face was still vivid in her recollection. His face was before her, tender, loving, and then finally filled with the desperate misery of their final parting.
Lloyd Foster lay a few feet from her in his own bed, flapping occasionally at a stray mosquito which had found its way in, but Carrie’s thoughts were many hundreds of miles away. They had left England in the early spring – now it would be high summer there. She fell asleep dreaming of that wonderful summer when she had fallen in love …