When Marrying a Duke.... Helen Dickson

      ‘Please don’t worry about me, Papa. Here I am, safe and sound. I am sorry to have caused a fuss and I hope you are not too cross with me. I’m sorry. I know my behaviour doesn’t reflect well on you.’

      Relief at seeing his daughter unharmed following her tumble caused the blood to return to Monty’s cheeks and he gave rein to his feelings. ‘You naughty child, Marietta! What have you been doing? Ever since Mrs Schofield called I have been so anxious.’

      Marietta grimaced. ‘Oliver’s mother! I might have known she would seek you out to inform you of my latest misdemeanour. She hates it that Oliver and I are such good friends.’

      Having stopped off at his club for a reviving drink after extensive negotiations with business associates at his office, which had taken up most of the day, Monty had arrived home to find Mrs Schofield—a tiresome busybody who minded everyone’s business but her own—waiting in the hall to relate his daughter’s latest escapade. She had gone on to list all of Marietta’s shortcomings and insisted that he kept stricter control on her at all times.

      It was one of those occasions when Monty felt a twinge of guilt over not having remarried, because it meant that Marietta had been left to the care of her amah, Yang Ling. Yang Ling was like all Chinese, industrious and cheerful, and Marietta was extremely fond of her. She acted as her companion and personal maid and accompanied his fun-loving daughter everywhere.

      ‘I thought you must have been injured,’ he went on. ‘As for Julian Fielding—it is singularly tiresome of him to cause so much trouble. I shall speak to his parents. He should not have ridden off with you like that. It was totally irresponsible—of you both,’ he added as an afterthought.

      ‘Julian isn’t to blame. It isn’t his fault,’ Marietta said defensively. ‘It was my idea to race. I took a tumble on Oliver’s mount, that is all. I didn’t mean to make a scene and it was nothing serious. Unfortunately I happened to land at Lord Trevellyan’s feet and he was none too pleased.’

      Monty glanced at her sharply, his interest peaked. Lord Trevellyan never failed to make a big impression on those he came into contact with. He had a clever financial brain and was possessed of one of the finest business minds he knew. As with everything in his life his business affairs were conducted like a well-oiled machine. Those he dealt with were in awe of him, regarding this cold, frighteningly unapproachable deity whom, because of his wealth and the benefits of being associated with such a clever, powerful man, they strove desperately to please.

      ‘So you have spoken to the formidable Lord Trevellyan.’

      ‘Yes—although what he had to say wasn’t at all pleasing. What does he do? Is he very rich?’

      ‘I’ve made a lot of money, Marietta—I won’t go into the intricacies of it because you wouldn’t understand—but the days of the small shipping businesses are over. This time belongs to financial wizards with money, power and authority—men like Lord Trevellyan with grand ambitions. It’s about economics and insurance and industrial development. What did he say to you?’

      ‘He gave me a dressing down for muddying his shoes.’

      ‘Then I can only assume that coming from Lord Trevellyan it was well deserved.’

      ‘I suppose it was. I tried to apologise. His wife was more forgiving, though. How does she put up with him? She has my sympathy. She’s very lovely, isn’t she, Papa?’

      ‘Yes, she is. But—things aren’t always what they appear to be on the surface.’

      Marietta looked at him with sudden interest. ‘Why, what do you mean?’

      ‘Never mind,’ he said airily.

      She didn’t ask him to explain, but it left her wondering.

      Arriving at Marietta’s house the following morning, Oliver didn’t recognise the girl dressed in loose black trousers and a long-sleeved, green-and-yellow-patterned tunic, round-toed slippers and one thick pigtail hanging down her back waiting at the gate. She had pencilled thin kohl lines around her eyes to alter their shape. It took him a moment to realise it was Marietta, waiting for him to take her to the native quarter. He was about to walk past her and, seeing his intent, she broke out into peals of laughter. Failing to see what was so entertaining, Oliver turned and looked at her stiffly.

      ‘I had you there, Oliver. Did you not know me?’

      ‘Marietta!’ Oliver was deeply shocked. ‘Why are you dressed like that? And whose clothes are they?’

      ‘I’ve borrowed them from Yang Ling. You said yourself that the native quarter is not a fit place for an English girl to visit, which is why I’ve adopted this garb. It’s going to be such fun. No one will recognise me.’

      ‘Yang Ling? You have told Yang Ling?’ He sincerely hoped she hadn’t.

      ‘Of course not,’ Marietta laughed. ‘I wouldn’t dare. She is convinced that Europeans lose face by visiting the native quarter and she would have a fit if she were to find out. Now come along! We are wasting time and if we loiter any longer someone may see us and ask questions.’

      Oliver wasn’t enthusiastic about taking Marietta in disguise to the native quarter, but saw no way of making this plain to her without throwing her into a tantrum which would draw unwelcome attention to them. So without another word, they set off on his proposed tour in a light carriage driven by a coolie and drawn by a skinny horse, instead of the more common mode of transport of sedan chairs, which were carried up and down the steep roads of the island. Neither the grilling heat, which beat down on her little flat hat with relentless force, nor Oliver’s attempts to tell her how she should behave when they reached the native quarter and that she must remain silent could dim her enthusiasm.

      Their conveyance made good speed, eventually entering the seedy area of China Town, an area where not many respectable Westerners ventured. The streets were lined with shabby establishments with palm-leaf walls and thatched roofs. Bamboo curtains hung in doorways and Chinese writing was on boards dangling above buildings. The streets were narrow, steep and densely packed. The strong smell of hot oil mingled with spice, garlic and incense wafted above the general odours of dirt and decay. Washing was draped like bunting across the streets and heavily laden donkeys trundled along while barefoot children played.

      At last the vehicle stopped in front of a large framed house with an open veranda. Marietta followed Oliver inside. The air was oppressive. Several men were taking their ease—Chinese and European—stretched out or sitting cross-legged on heaps of cushions with long pipes before them. The room into which they entered was dimly lit. Marietta’s eyes opened wide when from behind a beaded curtain two girls glided forwards. One had blue-black hair that was drawn back from a face that was pearl-like in its perfection and colour, with large slanting eyes. Her gown of crimson silk clung to her curves. The other girl was almost identical except that she was dressed in yellow. They stood in front of Oliver like dolls. They smiled with perfect teeth between plump red lips.

      ‘Who are they?’ Marietta whispered, never having seen Chinese women who looked like these.

      ‘The entertainment,’ Oliver replied, leaving it at that, not wishing to shock Marietta’s sensibilities by telling her the nature of the entertainment they performed.

      Looking around the room lit by oil lamps, Marietta saw there were more girls, some so scantily clad as to be indecent. The crimson-clad woman sidled up to Oliver.

      ‘You likee me?’ she said, playing coy.

      ‘Yes, but not now.’

      A portly middle-aged Chinese man with long moustaches drooping on either side of his small, fleshy mouth seemed to appear from nowhere, his hands tucked into his sleeves. He bowed respectfully.

      ‘May I present Tiger Lily and Jasmine. They are offering you their services with the magic of their exquisite bodies. They are skilful and will soothe your aches in some infinitesimal degree, but if their clumsiness is offensive, you should beat them for their correction and your pleasure.’