The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure (104 page)

‘Oh, Mr Manners—can I call you Henry? I feel I know you that well. Oh, Henry, how my heart goes out to you.'

‘I thank you, Mrs Airton. Nellie. Sincerely. I've always respected you. You don't judge people, as some do—but please don't feel sorry for me. I'm not one to be saved. There's no road to Damascus for the likes of me. I've rather dug my own pit, haven't I?'

‘I won't insult you with a Christian platitude, but I don't believe you, Henry. I've seen the good in you, and the courage. Don't throw your life away. Vengeance is certainly not the answer.'

‘No, it isn't. I think I've learned that. I—I did have a hope. One hope. No, never mind.' He reached for his brandy glass and saw it was empty. The
thé dansant
had ended. Although the afternoon crowd had by no means departed, waiters were already beginning to clear the emptied tables in preparation for the evening drinks session.

‘A hope? You said you had a hope. Please tell me.'

Henry laughed bitterly. ‘I suppose I've told you everything else. Why not? Although it's academic. I saw the look she gave me on the stairs. I thought that Helen Frances … I rather hoped Helen Frances might still…'

‘Oh, Henry.' Nellie sighed.

‘Inshallah,'
said Henry. ‘Well, I deserve no less.'

He reached into his breast pocket and, from behind his folded handkerchief, he pulled out a long cheroot. Nellie watched as he tried to disguise his agitation in the business of lighting the cigar.

‘The baby?' he asked, blowing out a cloud of smoke. ‘Rude of me not to ask earlier. The baby's fine, is she? I heard it was a girl. Does she have a name?'

‘She
is
fine, Henry. A bonny wee lass. She's called Catherine.' Nellie paused. ‘Catherine Cabot.'

‘Cabot?' Henry's hand holding the cheroot froze momentarily. His face smouldered with sudden anger. It took three furious puffs of his cheroot before he regained his composure, but his blue eyes glittered like ice. ‘Cabot,' he repeated. ‘Perhaps you'll be good enough to explain.'

‘I suppose that I'm initially to blame,' said Nellie sadly. ‘It was I who introduced Helen Frances to the Russian officer who rescued us as Mrs Cabot. Oh, I meant well. I was worried about the shame she might have to endure if it became known that she was an unmarried mother. So—so we invented a marriage.'

‘How delicate of you,' said Henry, coldly. ‘I see that you have the same capacity to be practical as I have. And Helen Frances was happy to go along with this lie?'

‘I persuaded her. Edward and I persuaded her that it would be for her own good and that of the child. Yes, she agreed.' Weariness had crept over Nellie's face. ‘At first it was a temporary subterfuge. We had no idea that the Russians would wire the British Legation, and that the British Legation would inform Mr Dawson at Babbit and Brenner, and that he in turn would inform Tom's parents in England. That's the problem with a lie. It takes on a life of its own. When we arrived in Peking it was already a—'

‘A
fait accompli,
' said Henry. Suddenly he began to laugh—harshly at first, but Nellie was amazed to hear it turn into what sounded like genuine merriment. ‘Well, well,' he said. ‘Good old Tom. Scoring sixes from the grave!'

‘Oh, Henry, how we've managed to hurt you,' murmured Nellie.

‘I understand, Nellie. Believe me, I understand. You had two dead contenders to choose from—one of them certainly dead, the other, well, it would have been logical to assume that I'd succumbed to my wounds or been strung up by Major Lin, whichever happened first. No, I quite understand. You had a dead hero on one hand, a Christian gentleman, a martyr, and on the other, well, a dubious commodity at best. Call me a black sheep and leave it at that. Hardly a choice. I'm sure that the prospect of a Babbit and Brenner pension, and Tom's fat inheritance in Lincolnshire, never even occurred to you.'

‘I suppose I deserve that,' said Nellie, dropping her head.

‘Don't give it a moment's thought,' said Henry. ‘You should be considering it now, even if you didn't at the time. It's good for Catherine. She'll be a proper little heiress. And, by the way, how did your meeting with the Dawsons go this afternoon?'

‘They were very generous,' muttered Nellie. ‘Very kind.'

‘Well, there you go,' said Henry. ‘And so should I be going. You've done your duty, Nellie. Put me in the picture. With great tact, I might add. It must have been extremely painful for you. You won't see me again, but give my love to Mrs Cabot.' He ran a hand over his eyes. He might have been wiping away the emotion on his face, for when he moved the hand back to the armrest, Nellie saw that it was composed. When he spoke again, his voice had even lost its sarcasm. ‘Know this, Nellie Airton, I bear no grudge against you or your husband. You behaved with nobility throughout, and Airton acted on the best of motives. As for me, I've reaped what I'd sown, and that's an end of it, but tell Helen Frances for me—tell Helen Frances…'

‘Tell me what, Henry?' He heard the husky voice behind him. It was as if the paralysis that had struck him earlier among the aspidistras had returned with overpowering force. He could not move a muscle in his body. His heart was thumping, and his blood burned hot in his veins. He felt, coursing through his body simultaneously, conflicting emotions of elation, despair, hope, fear—above all, fear.

With a rustle of her skirt, Helen Frances sat down next to Nellie on the sofa. Nellie made a move to stand up, but Helen Frances put a hand on her knee. ‘Don't feel that you have to go,' she said. Though her eyes were shining and her cheeks were a little flushed, her voice was calm, controlled.

‘I'd better go, dear. Edward. The children,' murmured Nellie.

‘Yes, the doctor is a little poorly,' said Helen Frances. ‘It's only a cold, but he's feeling sorry for himself. He probably would like to see you. The children are fine, playing with the
amah
.'

‘Mr Manners. Henry. I very much hope that we may meet again,' said Nellie, proffering her hand. ‘You will visit us one day before we leave?'

Henry nodded automatically, his eyes still fixed on Helen Frances. He rose, shook the extended hand, and slumped back into his chair.

‘Tell the
amah
I won't be long,' said Helen Frances. She watched Nellie thread her way gracefully through the tables. A waiter came up to where they were sitting. ‘A chilled glass of muscatel, please,' she ordered, ‘and another brandy for Mr Manners.'

‘Well, Henry,' she asked softly, when the waiter had left, ‘what were you going to ask Nellie to tell me?'

Henry felt that his tongue was frozen in his mouth.

‘Was it perhaps that you loved me?' asked Helen Frances, her green eyes watching him solemnly. ‘At one time I would have been overjoyed to hear those words from you.'

‘And now?' It came out as a croak.

‘Well, of course I'm still very pleased. Thank you,' she said to the waiter, as he put the glasses on the table.

‘Pleased?' Henry managed.

‘Yes, I'm flattered that you still remember me fondly,' said Helen Frances. ‘Should I not be? I realise the expected response from a girl when a man says those words to her is to repeat them back to him—but I'm not sure that I can do that now.'

‘I see,' said Henry.

‘I certainly did love you,' she said, sipping her wine. ‘I do still love the memory of our days together, and I regret nothing. No, nothing. And I'll always be grateful to you. You were—you once meant the whole of life to me.'

Did he imagine that small quiver of her brow as she said this? But her green eyes continued to observe him steadily.

‘But not any more, apparently?'

‘No,' she said. Again he saw the slight furrow of her brows. ‘I—I think I'm over you now. Too much has happened. I'm sorry, Henry. This is difficult for me.'

Henry sighed. Helen Frances looked uncomfortable.

‘I heard a little from Pritchett of the hardships you underwent,' he said, after a pause. ‘It must have been a frightening experience.'

‘Yes, it was terrible for a while,' she said, ‘but—but there were good things too. The shepherd we stayed with. He was kind.'

‘Pritchett said he was some kind of shaman.'

‘He was a healer. Yes,' said Helen Frances. ‘He—he helped us.'

‘Yes, I've heard that some of these aboriginal types have the ability to tap into deep wells of wisdom,' said Henry. ‘There's a lot that our clever scientists can't begin to understand.'

‘Yes,' said Helen Frances. ‘You're quite right.'

‘Are we to sit here exchanging banalities?' asked Henry, after a short silence. ‘If it helps, I would like to tell you that I understand. And I appreciate that you came downstairs to see me, and to tell me to my face. You—you don't lack courage, Helen Frances. Or generosity. I would have understood if you had avoided me altogether after the terrible trials I inflicted on you. If I could have found any other way, I would have sought to spare you. Please believe that I did what I did only because I could think of no other way. That you despise me now I accept…'

Helen Frances started. ‘But I don't despise you, Henry,' she said. ‘Why should I?'

‘I treated you abominably,' he said.

‘You were never anything but gentle with me. You honoured me in the only way in which a man can honour a woman,' she said. ‘And you saved my life, and that of my child—our child.'

‘Honoured you, you say? I—I whored you,' whispered Henry. ‘I can never forgive myself.'

‘Yes, you were even prepared to make that sacrifice,' she said. ‘You were nobility throughout. I mean it.' She put the half-full wine glass back on the table. ‘Don't ever think of—the other,' she continued, a look of pain pinching her features. She turned her head away. ‘It never happened,' she whispered. She closed her eyes. ‘No, it did happen. Of course it happened. It must have been terrible for you who watched. Oh, Henry, how I feel for you—but for me, for me…' She picked up the glass again and put it down untouched. Her face twisted in perplexity as she tried to form her words. ‘It was a dream, Henry, a bad, bad dream. Like the opium dreams. Not real. It didn't hurt me. At the end of the day, they didn't hurt me. They couldn't hurt me. Not the real me. I've learned that now. Oh, Henry,' she reached across and grasped his hands, ‘you must put that memory behind you too. It doesn't matter. Forgive them, for only then will you be able to live with yourself.'

Henry slowly pulled his hands away from hers. ‘What are you saying? That I should forgive Major Lin?'

‘Yes, yes, Major Lin, all of them,' she said urgently. ‘I have.' She reached for his hands again. ‘Goodness, what a conversation to be having in the tearoom of the Hôtel de Pekin.' She smiled.

Henry observed her coldly. ‘I see that the Airtons' Christianity has got to you,' he said.

Helen Frances laughed. ‘You don't know how wrong you could possibly be,' she said. ‘Well,' she considered, ‘maybe you're right in one way. I—I don't think I'm a Christian, not as they would like me to be, but maybe it all comes to the same thing.'

‘I see,' said Henry. ‘It's all dreams, then. Was I a bad dream too, one that you've managed to put behind you now?'

‘There was never anything bad about you,' she said. ‘Oh, God,' she cried suddenly, throwing herself back against the sofa, her self-control breaking down momentarily. The waiters' heads turned. ‘I don't know, Henry. I don't know.' Her voice was shrill, piercing. Heads turned at other tables. ‘What do you expect? You'll have to give me some time. I'm—I'm different now. I'm not the girl you knew.'

‘I think that I can see that,' said Henry. He wanted to tell her that, in her passionate outburst, she was more beautiful than he had ever seen her, but the logic of this strange conversation somehow prevented him and the opportunity passed.

Helen Frances had recovered from her lapse into hysteria, but she spoke angrily. ‘You can't just come back from the dead like this and expect to—expect to carry on where you left off. What was I to you, anyway, but a silly schoolgirl conquest? A diversion while you did whatever important things you were doing.'

‘Is that what you really believe?'

‘Yes.' Helen Frances glared at him defiantly, but immediately her shoulders slumped. ‘No. Of course I don't believe that,' she whispered, ‘but perhaps that's all I should have been to you. Why, Henry, why did you love me? What could you possibly have seen in me? Why did you give me so much?'

A look came into Henry's face, half smile, half surprise. His eyebrows lifted as his blue eyes observed her quizzically—and this appeared to infuriate her the more.

‘Oh, come on, Henry, how much more stupidly or irresponsibly could I have behaved?' she demanded. ‘I was like a child in a sweetshop, so greedy was I for you. Greedy for everything about you. The freedoms you opened up for me. The secret assignations. The love-making. The opium—even the opium. What a holiday I was having. Helen Frances goes to China and experiences it all—but that's all I was. A tourist, a silly tourist. I don't belong in your world. I never did. You intoxicated me, that's all—but I've sobered up now. By God, how I've sobered up. Talk about the School of Hard Knocks. Anyway, I think I know who I am now. What I want. What I should have wanted all along.'

‘And what's that?' asked Henry.

Helen Frances bowed her head. ‘To be no one,' she said woodenly. ‘To be ordinary. Just to be me. Ordinary, provincial me. Believe me, Henry, I wouldn't be a wife who could make you happy. You'd tire of me, I'd be a slow drain on your spirit, I'd pull you down into the depths—and I couldn't bear that.'