The Shallow Seas (33 page)

When he saw it, he came to her, running his fingers through her hair, pulling her head back, dropping his lips to the soft hollow of her neck, taking the pearl into his mouth, kissing the skin where it lay. She sighed a deep sigh. His touch was possessive, brooked only surrender, and she was always aroused by it. She wanted her lips on his skin and quickly undid the toggles on his jacket, this time not slowly as she had done their first time together, but quickly, laying her lips onto the face of Guan Di, the Chinese god of war, red, black and blue, tattooed on his hard chest, kissing him there and running her hands up his perfect body, pulling him into her. Then, suddenly, neither could wait and he swept her onto the bed.

Charlotte lay back, letting her mind drift, letting him take charge of her body, do anything he wanted. He would take her to the place, that place they could only reach together.

Afterwards, as they lay naked, he ran his hand over her belly, the little bump of her child, which she was just beginning to show. Charlotte looked up at the circlet of metal which held the netting of the bed and listened to the distant sounds of the street.

“I would like this to be my child,” he said quietly, kissing the bump and laying his cheek gently on her belly.

Charlotte closed her eyes. What should she say? What should she tell him? She ran her hands into his hair, which, in their wildness, had come loose from its plait. He moved his head into her arms against her breasts. She felt his breath against her skin.

“What would you do if it were? What would it change?” she said.

He looked up at her, putting his hand to her head and pulling her lips against his. Charlotte moved her head back, took his face in her hands.

“What would it change?”

“You would come here,” he said, his eyes dark and narrowing slightly. “You would come here and be mine.”

Charlotte moved out of his arms and sat against the head of the bed. He moved, too, straddling her legs.

“Come here and be mine,” he said and brought her face to his, kissing her fiercely, then taking her in his arms. She felt him grow erect against her belly, ready for her again. She pulled away. He rose to his knees, looking down at her and taking his penis in his hand.

“This is me, my body; this belongs to you. You belong to me.”

She looked up and saw the look on his face, impassive, implacable, felt his will to rule her with desire. She stiffened.

“This changes nothing, Zhen. I cannot stay here. We cannot be together.”

She shook his hand from her hair and moved off the bed. With a leap as quick as a panther he confronted her, took her by the arms.

“Then why come to me? If this changes nothing, why come? When you leave today, I shall be half mad again. Do nothing but wait for you again. How long can we do this?”

Charlotte felt her temper rise, angry at being constrained, at his hands hurting her. She tried to pull free, and he released her and fell to his knees, pulling her body against his face.

“I cannot be half mad again and again,” he groaned.

Her anger fell away. “No, we cannot be half mad again and again. But this baby is my husband's child. What can I do? Shall I not come to you?” Even as she said it, it was unthinkable. What am I doing? she thought.

He tightened his arms, desperate now that she should not leave angry, fearful she would not come again. Then, rising, he lifted her once more to the bed.

When she returned, she found the house empty. Glad of the silence, she went to her room and slept. She wanted to dream of Zhen. When she woke, Tigran was at her bedside, and she started. She felt he had been sitting there for some time. He did that occasionally, watched her sleeping, she knew. She had chided him for it.

He moved onto the bed and took her hand. “You are tired, my darling Charlotte,” he said, his voice full of concern. “I am sorry for it, but I must leave for home. Will you come or stay?”

“What is it, Tigran? What has happened?” she said, waking fully.

“Miriam's husband, Josef, is very sick, maybe dying. I must go back and help her. Takouhi will not come. Charlotte, I worry for her. She is adamant she must stay until George is ready. When that will be, the Lord only knows.”

Charlotte moved into Tigran's arms. She felt his concern for both his sisters. She knew she should go with him, but she could not bring herself yet to leave Zhen. She looked down, ashamed of this feeling and, at the same time, flushed with excitement at the thought of this freedom. Just a few weeks with Zhen and then she would be stronger, able to be sensible; she was certain of it.

“I will stay, Tigran, for Takouhi may need me. George's child will be born in just a few weeks.”

She did not look at him, spoke against his chest, in his arms. She felt them hold her more strongly. Then he made to release her, but she held on to him. Tigran put his hand to her hair.

“I love you, my darling. I will come back as soon as possible. Will you be well?”

Charlotte looked up and nodded. He put his lips to hers and pulled her into a deep, soft kiss. She returned it, guiltily grateful. He did not want to leave her, but it was his duty to Miriam. The letter he had received, he told her, spoke of Miriam's distress. She had begged him to come. Josef was succumbing to a grinding, painful illness. The doctors could not say what it was. Tigran must come: Nicolaus was far away, trading in the Moluccas, unreachable. Miriam was fragile, so long dominated by her husband, Tigran knew, that she could not cope. She needed a man, her brother. He had to go, though everything in his heart told him to stay.

The
Queen of the South
was being made ready, it would leave within the hour, he told her.

26

Charlotte would later recall the month of December 1843 as the strangest month of her life. Perhaps it was the rains of the monsoon, which thundered down for hours every afternoon, blotting all other sight and sound, muting reality. She felt as if she was moving under the water, dreamlike, amongst the swirling violence of the swollen river, the lashing boom of the sea and the boggy mud of the roads. Torrents gushed and growled off the roof tiles, closing the eyes of the windows in a stream, darkening the house like night.

She longed for the real night when she could meet Zhen under cover of darkness. It was always the same. They fell into each other's arms, impatient to touch. Then they would argue about where their actions were leading. Then one or other would be sorry, abject, fearful, and it would begin again—making love, kissing and kissing, dreading the separation that must take place. It was wonderful and a kind of hell, but above all, it was imperious.

George and Takouhi, too, had simply fallen under a spell. Unable to stay away, George came every afternoon to her at Tir Uaidhne, and they locked themselves away. Often, in the evening, when the rain had stopped and the stars shone with dewy brilliance, they went to the cupolas on the hill. What he said to his wife, Charlotte could not imagine. But she did not want to think about that, about anything, except making love to Zhen. This passion for him drove her, defined her day. When she left him, she fretted, watching the rain, until they were together again. When she found herself together with Takouhi, neither woman hardly spoke, so wrapped up in worlds of their own were they.

Christmas came and went. Charlotte and Takouhi went to lunch with the da Souza family at their mansion along the road at River Valley. Robert and Teresa seemed to have come to some arrangement, though Charlotte could not make it out. She had not spoken to Robert of Shilah since the day Tigran had left, but there was suddenly talk of an engagement. Charlotte looked at Robert and could simply not take it in. She was meeting Zhen the next day, and this interminable wait occupied her mind.

That morning, as Charlotte lay in her room, she heard a violent commotion downstairs. She went to the door, glancing along the landing to Takouhi's room. The door was shut, and Charlotte knew George was inside.

She looked over the banister and saw Billy Napier standing in the hallway, agitated, bouncing from foot to foot. He was red-faced and furious.

“By all that's holy, George Drumgold Coleman, you should be ashamed of yourself.” He hurled the words ferociously up the stairs.

The door on the landing opened, and George emerged, half-dressed, throwing on a shirt. “What's all the commotion, Billy?” he said, looking down.

“Shame on you, mon, lying here with your—” Billy stopped, flustered. “Your sweet wee wife's in labour, for heaven's sake, George. Get yerself home.”

George continued to look down at his friend's angry face as if he hardly recognised him. Then Takouhi came to his side, clad in a loose gown and whispered to him. As if brought to consciousness, he called down to Billy.

“Very well, Billy. I'm coming. Call Dr Oxley or Dr Little.”

“All done, no thanks to you.” Billy practically spat the words out, then turned on his heel and strutted from the house.

George looked along the landing at Charlotte.

“It seems I have offended Royal Billy.” He put his hand to Takouhi's waist and pulled her tight against his chest. She melted into him, winding her arm round his neck, and he kissed her as if they were lovers of twenty, unashamed. Charlotte looked away, sure she too would want Zhen this way still when she was their age. Then George went down the stairs. His son was born the next day, December 27th. And everything began to change.

A week later, Charlotte and Robert went to see the little boy, George's little boy. The birth had been difficult, and Maria had taken some time to recover. George greeted them downstairs, diffident. Billy was seated in one of the armchairs, and it was clear that there had been a row. George accompanied them upstairs and opened the door to his wife's room. He went to her, telling her of her visitors, kissed her hand and left. Charlotte saw that he seemed utterly uninterested in this little baby, in his wife. She felt a pang of guilt, feeling somehow complicit in this indifference.

Maria lay, thin and pale, in the bed, the infant in her arms. This young girl had arrived young and very pregnant in this strange place and she, Charlotte, had left her utterly alone, though Maria was married to a man she loved dearly, though she had sought Charlotte's friendship. Charlotte realised she had no idea how this girl had coped for the last month and felt a flush of shame. She went up to Maria, kissed her cheek and looked at the tiny creature. He was still a little wrinkled and red, but she could see immediately that he looked like George.

She smiled at Maria. “Oh Maria, he is the very likeness of George.”

Robert came forward to look too. He had seen more of Maria, for Teresa Crane had formed a friendship with her. Robert had tried to speak to Charlotte, but it was as if she was made of air; his words passed through her. He was concerned at her self-absorption, knew it was connected to Zhen, but his life involved a constant battle against the marauding gangs of Chinese which attacked the Kling moneylenders almost nightly or burgled the houses in Kampong Glam.

To the consternation of both brother and sister, a tear slipped down Maria's cheek, and she began to cry very softly.

“George does not come to see the baby, will not hold him,” she said, so plaintively that Charlotte felt a lump in her throat. “What is wrong? Charlotte, you know him better than me. What is wrong?”

Charlotte had no idea how to respond. Robert was hanging back, looking uncomfortable. Before she could speak, Maria began again.

“I want to be a good wife, but since we have come to Singapore, it is as if I married a different man. I never see him. I thought, after the baby is born, it will be well, but it is worse.”

She began to sob and clutch the baby to her, and Charlotte, worried, rose and took the child, laying him in the crib at the bedside. He was fast asleep, his little lips pursing, and suddenly she remembered Alexander. She had not seen him for months, had not even thought of him. This passion for Zhen had taken over her life.

She motioned Robert to leave and, relieved, he said good-bye to Maria. Charlotte sat at Maria's bedside.

“I am sorry, Maria, that I have been so neglectful of you. I want us to be friends. I will speak to George. Perhaps it is the strangeness, the newness, of this situation. A new wife, a new child. He is an older man; it is a big change.”

Maria was clutching her hand, but she had stopped crying and now, to Charlotte's embarrassment, threw her arms around her and hugged her. “Oh, yes, yes, please, Charlotte. I want to be friends. I thought you did not like me. I have seen so little of George's friends, so little of him. I have been so lonely. Please talk to him.” Having said this, Maria sat back, releasing her and took up Charlotte's hand again.

“I love him so much, Charlotte. He is my life now. My family are dead or indifferent. I have no one else. We married quickly, I know. We hardly knew each other, but in the year after we married, he was wonderful to me, so kind.”

Charlotte patted Maria's hand. “Take care of your baby, Maria, and yourself. I will speak to George. And I will come every day to see you.”

Maria smiled a tired smile of such gratitude that it touched Charlotte's heart. She suddenly knew that this situation could not continue. Not for George and Takouhi, not for her and Zhen. Everything was wrong. What was right lay in the crib next to the bed. This was George's future. What was right lay across the Java Sea.

She rose, kissing Maria, and called for her maid. Then she went downstairs. She found Billy, Robert and George in the drawing room, and she went up to George and took him by the hand, pulling him into the deep verandah.

“George, this has to stop,” she said urgently. “I have to stop, and you have to stop.”

He dropped her hand and took a cigar from his pocket, dropping into a large cane chair, stretching out his legs. He lit the cigar and looked at the smoke curling around his hand. She began to grow annoyed.