The Secret Mandarin. Sara Sheridan

for all I could partake of it. I had nothing to do apart from spend time with the children for a few hours in the morning but I accepted that, for Henry’s sake.

      ‘He has your smile, Aunt Mary,’ Helen said.

      ‘I am not sure I am pleased by that,’ I told her. ‘Henry has no teeth yet.’

      And this set us giggling. We drew pictures with coloured pencils and I kept Helen and Thomas amused with stories. I liked to hold Henry. I allowed myself to dote on him for hours until Harriet came to take him out in the perambulator after lunch.

      Then, most afternoons I read an old copy of Moll Flanders and pondered on a woman, fallen like me, and attempting to be practical while indulging a hopeless love. I ran over again and again what had happened and cursed the unfairness of it. Damn William and his upper-class sang-froid that had left me abandoned like this. And yet I did not believe I was capable of settling for what Jane had. My spirit is too unruly. I loathed Robert and his like—their grasping, scraping self-righteousness. The lack of passion. The awful fear of what Others May Think. It seemed to me preposterous that Jane should love him—a man who calculated every step from a very high horse. To Robert what I had done was incomprehensible. For myself, I regretted what had happened, but running over the events in my mind, I knew why I had made my choices. I had been unlucky.

      The night Henry was conceived William had been courting me for a year with what gentlemen call ‘no satisfaction’. He took me to his private rooms for dinner. The hangings on the wall glowed sumptuous red in the candlelight. We ate roasted boar with pear relish and crisp parsnips studded with rock salt, all served on silver platters that seemed to dance as the light flickered down from the sconces on the wall. As he downed French burgundy, I sipped champagne and William wove a wonderful spell. He would keep a house for me, he said. Anything I desired. Anything. Of course, such promises of devotion fired a passion in me that was blinding. I lived to be adored and here was a Duke’s son, on his knees.

      When I surrendered he kissed me all over and I hardly blushed. In the end he was so gentle that it surprised me. William was a large man and so much of the world that I expected him to make a hearty lover. Instead, ‘You beautiful woman,’ he moaned, the sweat dripping off him as he fumbled like some schoolboy. I should have known then how weak he really was. Instead, his vulnerability touched me and excited by the jewels and promises I took pity on him and forgave his physical frailty. I trusted him completely.

      Now, in the cold bedroom at the back of my sister’s house, the pale walls blue in the fading light of the afternoon and my cheeks already wet with tears, I cried for myself and my poor baby boy—whatever might become of us. I was sequestered—all respectable doors bar these were closed to me, and though Drury Lane would have welcomed me back with open arms, I had Henry to consider. It was a sacrifice all right and a shock to find that in six months nothing had changed. Still, I comforted myself that there is always hope and I did not wish for one second that the storm had done its job.

      One afternoon about a week after I returned to Gilston Road, Harriet knocked on my bedroom door. She curtseyed, unwillingly, I thought, and held out a tiny salver with a calling card. I expected no visitors and eagerly turned it over to see who might have arrived. My stomach lurched as I read the name—William. A warm surge of hope fired through me. Perhaps everything would be all right after all. I told Harriet that I would come down shortly.

      ‘Where are the children?’ I asked as she left.

      My voice was casual—at least I hoped it sounded so. My hands shook.

      ‘Upstairs, Miss Penney.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      In the mirror my colour was high, my heart racing. Of course, I had rehearsed this moment—meeting William by chance in public, perhaps in Hyde Park, or seeing him on the other side of the street. But since his absolute abandonment, my letters returned, the long hours of waiting, the humiliation of being shunned, well, I had never imagined that he would actually call. All my thoughts had been directed to being beautiful at a distance. Of taking him by surprise and prompting him to adore me once again. The father of my child was downstairs. And Jane—Jane was out.

      I laid my palms on my cheeks and took as deep a breath as I could, confined by my corset. Usually when I acted I did not tie my stays so tightly. The night I met William I had not worn a corset at all. I was Titania, Queen of the Fairies, all flowing chiffon and trailing beads. He had kissed my hand and remarked that the part had become me—henceforth he would think of Titania no other way.

      ‘Do you think of Titania often, your Lordship?’ I drawled, all confidence.

      ‘From now on I shall,’ he bowed.

      Now, blushing, I hurried downstairs to the drawing room, my confidence much dented since my fairy days. William was standing by the fireplace. He looked as handsome as ever. As I entered, Harriet brought in a tray of tea things and laid them on the table next to the sofa. She curtseyed and left. I kept a steady gaze on the tall figure by the mantle. William did not meet my eye. I would not, I swore inwardly, take him back unless he begged.

      ‘You are well?’ he enquired at length.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You look well.’

      I waited and in agony indicated the teapot. ‘Might I offer you…’ My voice trailed off.

      William nodded. My hands were shaking too violently—I did not want to attempt pouring the tea so I crossed the room and sat down instead. I couldn’t bear it.

      ‘Monsoon, 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