Winds of Eden (29 page)

‘You didn't mention it when you visited the Lansing?' she answered warily.

‘Only because we weren't alone.'

‘What exactly did he write?' she probed.

‘He said he became acquainted with you in India and that you shared some amusing times.' He unbuttoned his tunic, went to the door, and turned the key in the lock.

‘What are you doing?'

‘Setting the scene for us to enjoy some amusing times.' He returned to his seat on the sofa and slipped his arm around her shoulders. He pulled her close and kissed her, a lingering lascivious kiss that ended when he pushed his tongue deep into her throat and she struggled free. It was only after she moved away that she realised that while he'd been kissing her he'd unfastened all the buttons on her blouse.

‘There's a bed behind the curtain, why don't we make ourselves more comfortable.' He slid his hand down to her ankle and slipped it up the length of her leg until it rested on a stocking top. His fingers inched inside her French knickers, delicately teasing and tantalizing.

Maud couldn't conceal her mounting excitement. She felt as though her pregnancy had lasted for ever. It had been a long time since a man had found her attractive enough to want to make love to her.

He kissed her neck. ‘The bed,' he murmured.

‘I've only just had a child.'

‘You'd never think it to look at you, Mrs Mason.'

She visualized the wedding ring he'd give her. The mantle of respectability marriage would confer. No military wife would be able to ‘cut' or ignore her. Not even one who knew her history like Harriet.

She allowed him to lead her to the bed.

Chapter Thirty

The Tigris River at Umm-El-Hannah, Monday 10th January 1916

Peter crouched in the bow of the mahaila as Mitkhal steered downstream. The canvas awning couldn't keep off the rain. His head cloth was saturated and water trickled into his gumbaz and abba until he felt the fishes couldn't be any wetter. A few miles ahead the battle raged, blinding and deafening. Shells burst high in the air on the left bank between the Turkish and British lines. Well behind the area of conflict, half-hidden by drifts of smoke, they occasionally made out the outlines of British command vessels.

‘We'll never get past the Turkish lines.' Peter had to shout to make himself heard above the artillery.

Mitkhal shook his head to signify he hadn't understood.

Peter stared despondently at the mayhem. It reminded him of what lay ahead of the beleaguered force in Kut if – or what was more likely, when – the Turks chose to close in. It also brought home to him the importance of the dispatches he carried. Maps that would enable the Relief Force to plan their moves street by street as well as utilise the defences Townshend's engineers had built within the town.

Mitkhal steered the mahaila close to the right bank. He was aiming for a wharf that served a village about half a mile inland. When he reached it, he dropped the sail and anchor and picked up leather buckets.

‘I'll water the horses,' he shouted close to Peter's ear.' When I've seen to them we'll carry on downstream on this side of the river.'

‘And the Turkish guns?'

‘Are directed at the British lines, not native boats.'

There was a blissful unexpected lull in the firing.

Peter took a deep breath. ‘Thank God, I can hear myself. They must be recalibrating.'

‘Whatever they're doing, they won't be doing it for long, so make the most of the quiet.'

‘What if the British fall back and the Turks advance? We'll never get past this stretch of river.' Peter didn't want to play devil's advocate, but the area between them and the Relief Force appeared to be impassable.

‘We'll have to wait until nightfall, sail on under cover of darkness until we're in British waters, then cross to the left bank and ride into camp. We'll make it if we're not detained as Turkish spies.' Mitkhal checked the buckets. They were empty. He refilled them and continued watering the horses.

‘We – you'll come with me? I thought you were in a hurry to take the horses downstream.'

The guns started up again. ‘I am, but Harry – wherever he is in the next life –ʼ Mitkhal shouted hastily, realising he was referring to Harry as if he were alive, ‘would never forgive me for abandoning you so close to enemy territory.'

Peter crawled forward and peered over the prow. ‘I'm betting General Aylmer or his staff are on that boat.' He indicated a steamer.

‘That boat has guns and I suspect it will send us, this mahaila and the horses to kingdom come if I sail close to it.' Mitkhal emptied the buckets, and pulled up the anchor. ‘Our best course is to hug this bank.'

Peter continued to crouch, wet and miserable, on deck. He noticed a line of low-slung bellums that had been dragged up on the bank. Similar to British canoes, they'd been fitted with guns and used by the Dorsets in the marsh campaign the year before. ‘As soon as the battle eases, and it will when darkness falls, I could change out of native dress, put on my uniform, take one of those, and head for the British lines. If I get stopped by a British ship so much the better.'

‘Before we make any plans we need to get away from this noise.' Mitkhal unfurled the sail and picked up the wind.

Parisienne Ladies Fashion, Basra, Monday 10th January 1916

‘That was an enjoyable way to while away half an hour. I'd like to make a habit of it.' Reginald kissed Maud's breasts and nipples before rolling away from her.

Maud smiled but she couldn't suppress the thought that Reginald's lovemaking had been perfunctory compared to his brother's boyish raw enthusiasm. And neither Geoffrey nor Reggie was as skilled, practised, and adept at satisfying her as John.

She realised that although she'd made love to dozens, possibly even scores, of men since she'd first been unfaithful to John, she still persisted in using her dead husband as a yardstick to measure all the others.

Reginald left the bed, walked naked to the table, poured two brandies, returned, and gave her one. She sat up, deliberately allowing the sheet to fall away and expose her breasts and legs.

Reginald sat beside her and slid his hands between her thighs. ‘Will you be able to get away every Monday afternoon?'

‘Possibly,' she said cautiously, ‘after I've moved out of the mission.'

‘You're moving? You surprise me. I thought you had it cosy there. Servants to look after you and your baby. Use of a groom and carriage …'

‘It's an American Baptist mission, Reggie. I'm neither American nor a Presbyterian. I was only invited to move in for a few weeks as a temporary measure after Colonel Hale died of fever and his widow returned to England.'

‘You seem at home there.'

‘Home! It's a working mission, not a family house. I have a baby that cries in the night and disrupts the household.'

‘Put that way, I understand why you have to move. Where are you thinking of going?'

‘I intend to call in at HQ and see if they have a list of properties suitable for widows to rent.'

‘I may be able to help you there. Fellow I know has a widow friend who lives in a house five minutes' walk from HQ. Damned handy – for him that is. He can see her anytime he likes. He said the place is too large for her. Four bedrooms, two sitting rooms, enormous garden that needs a full-time gardener. I could have a word for you if you like. Arrange for you to see the place. If it's suitable you could move in there and I could see more of you.' He kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘As frequently as duty allows.'

‘This friend of yours,' she frowned. ‘What exactly is his relationship to this widow?'

‘They're good friends.'

‘As in “mistress” good friends?'

‘I would never have you pegged as a prude. Not after what we've just done.'

‘I have my reputation and a child to think about, Reggie. The last thing I can afford to do is attract gossip by moving in with an officer's mistress. I'm shocked you should even suggest it.' Maud pulled the sheet from the bed, wrapped it around her, carried her brandy to the table next to the sofa, and gathered her clothes.

‘Sorry. I wasn't thinking straight. Given your annuity as well as your pension you can easily afford your own establishment. I'll help you look.'

‘And the future, Reggie?'

‘The future, Maud? We're in the middle of a war.'

‘I wasn't talking about the war but our future.'

‘Give me a crystal ball and I'll forecast a great many fun afternoons like this for both of us, and once you have your own place, evenings.' Reginald smiled.

Her anger heightened. She could feel her cheeks burning. ‘You want me as a mistress?'

‘I prefer lover, it sums up the way I feel about you. Tell you the truth, I was jealous as hell when Geoffrey wrote to me about you. I thought he was exaggerating. Now I know he most certainly wasn't.'

A picture came unbidden to her mind of Geoffrey as he'd been the last time she'd seen him. So young, so alive, as he'd begged her to divorce John and live with him. A preposterous idea. Doubly so in the middle of a war.

Reginald misread the expression on her face. ‘Geoffrey's not here any more, Maud, but I am.'

‘What exactly did Geoffrey write about me?'

‘That when it came to bed work you were as good as any whore. Totally uninhibited, which I'm glad to say is true.' He walked over to the sofa and pulled the sheet away from her.

She made no attempt to cover herself.

‘Geoffrey asked me to marry him.'

‘That is something my parents would never have allowed. Besides, weren't you married at the time?'

‘John was alive. Geoffrey asked me to divorce him.'

‘I have no idea what circles you move in but it would have been unthinkable for Geoffrey to marry a divorced woman. The family would have disowned him. Not just my parents, but my uncles, aunts, and cousins He'd have been ostracised by everyone who mattered.'

‘Geoffrey was almost of age.'

‘Not financially. My grandfather stipulated that his grandchildren's trust funds remain under family control until we're thirty.' He stared at her. ‘You really thought Geoffrey would marry you?'

‘He asked me. If he'd survived John's death, I would have considered accepting his proposal.'

‘Considered accepting … our future … Maud? Darling little Maud!' he started to laugh. ‘You didn't think I had marriage in mind when I invited you here, did you?'

‘What else?'

‘My dear Mrs Mason, quite aside from the fact that I'm very happily married, I have more sense than Geoffrey. I could never saddle myself with a woman with your reputation. Don't you know you're the talk of Basra?'

The room turned red before Maud's eyes. She picked up her brandy glass and flung the contents into Reggie's face.

He retreated to the bed. ‘Look, I'm sorry if you misunderstood me …'

‘Misunderstood! You visited me as one of my dead husband's fellow officers. You offered to help me with the paperwork for his pension and the annuity …'

‘Keep your voice down. They'll hear you in the other rooms. I offered to help you because I like you. I really do.'

‘You wanted to get into my knickers.'

‘So the rumours are right. Scratch the surface and the whore appears.'

‘You bastard!' she raised her voice to screaming pitch.

He wrapped his hand around her throat. ‘Quiet!' he hissed. ‘Or you'll have the military police in here. Neither of us can afford a scandal but of the two of us I'd say I'd survive it somewhat better than you, wouldn't you?'

The Basra Club, Monday 10th January 1916

Charles and Anthony rose to their feet when Sister Jones entered the dining room with a grey-haired, middle-aged woman.

Anthony's face fell. He leaned close to Charles and whispered, ‘You conniving devil, Reid. This is above and beyond the call of duty. She's brought the bloody matron with her.'

‘Indeed she has, Lieutenant Bell. I'm Matron Howard. You may call me Matron.' She offered first Charles then Anthony her hand. ‘I take it you are Major Reid. I'm already acquainted with Lieutenant Bell. We sailed to the Gulf on the same transport.'

The waiters pulled out chairs for the ladies and took their wraps. When they were seated, Charles and Anthony returned to their chairs and the waiters handed them the menu cards.

‘I don't often have the opportunity to dine at the Basra Club, Lieutenant Bell. I trust you're not too disappointed with Sister Jones's choice of companion?'

‘Not at all,' Anthony lied.

Charles watched Sister Jones through the preliminaries of choosing and ordering the meal. Her hair was as dark as he'd expected, although he was surprised by how curly it was. She had a dimple in her right cheek, and when she smiled there was a look in her eyes he felt would chase away his darkest mood.

‘So, Major Reid,' Matron eyed him suspiciously. ‘You have designs on Sister Jones?'

‘Only for companionship,' Charles explained. ‘I hope to be posted to active service soon.'

‘You're limping.'

‘Which is why I've wangled a berth on General Gorringe's staff boat.'

‘You have no red tabs on your collar.'

‘My tailor is adding them.' Charles nodded assent to the wine waiter when he showed him a bottle of Chianti.

‘And when you've won all your battles and return downstream?' The matron watched the wine waiter fill her glass.

‘Hopefully we'll have sent the Turks packing out of Mesopotamia and we'll all be making plans to return to England.'

‘So, your invitation to Sister Jones was made purely with the intention of enjoying her companionship for one evening.'

‘It was.' Charles winked at Sister Jones when the matron wasn't looking.

Matron leaned closer to Anthony and lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘As we're here purely to enjoy companionship, Lieutenant Bell, what would you like to talk about?'

‘Whatever you want, Matron.' Anthony placed the onus on the matron.

‘Well, as neither of us has seen the latest theatrical offerings in the West End, they're off-topic. Are you interested in medical matters?'

‘Not at all,' Anthony demurred.

‘The human body and its ailments and recuperative powers is fascinating. Are you sure you don't want me to enlighten you?'

‘Quite sure, thank you.'

‘There's always literature. Are you fond of Henry Fielding, Charles Dickens, or would you prefer something more philosophical like Hazlitt's essays? Then there's Trollope's England or the cut and thrust of Dumas' swordplay in the
Musketeers
.'

Charles saw Sister Jones watching him. They both burst into laughter.

Sensing he was the butt of a joke, Anthony looked from one to the other.

‘Have you a favourite author?' Matron continued, ignoring Charles and Sister Jones.

‘I'm fond of Dumas.'

‘As am I, Lieutenant Bell. Have you read
The Count of Monte Cristo
?'

Grateful to the matron for engaging Anthony in conversation, Charles lifted his glass to the sister.'

‘Do you have a Christian name or would you prefer me to continue calling you Sister?'

‘It's Katherine, but my family and friends call me Kitty.'

‘Are you counting me as a friend?'

She touched her glass to his. ‘You could be.'