The Fire of Love Page 2

  Carina waited until she reached the top step.

  “Lady Lynche asked me to call you,” she explained apologetically.

  “You’re from Macey’s, aren’t you? The girl told me someone ’ad come. Will you do as she wants?”

  “If you mean will I take the child to his father – yes, I have promised her I will.”

  “Good. It’s been a-worryin’ her.”

  Mrs. Bagot stepped into the passage close to Carina and Carina realised that she too had been recently sampling the brandy bottle.

  “Well, you look the part all right,” Mrs. Bagot remarked, looking her over. “Ladylike and trustworthy. That’s what I asked for, but I know those Agencies. Palm you off with any old trollop if they gets the chance. I told them what I wanted and I must say for once we seem to ’ave got what we asked for.”

  “Thank you,” Carina said with a smile.

  Mrs. Bagot’s fat face also relaxed.

  “Don’t you take any notice of me, dear, I says what I thinks! Ma Bagot, that’s what they call me. And ‘Mother’ I am to half the theatrical profession.”

  “Is Lady Lynche really going to die?” Carina asked in a low voice, glancing towards the bedroom door as she spoke, half-afraid that she had left it open and the woman on the bed could hear her.

  “She is, poor soul,” Mrs. Bagot answered, “there’s not a chance in ’ell of savin’ ’er. She knows it ’erself, mark you. Knew it when she arrived ’ere. Just skin and bone, she is. Them dancers never ’ad much stamina, you can take it from me.”

  “Was she a famous dancer?” Carina asked interestedly.

  “I should say she was,” Mrs. Bagot answered. “I’d never ’eard of ’er, mark you, but you should see some of the things the newspapers said about ’er. She ’as the cuttings all stuck in a book.”

  “And what – what nationality is she?” Carina enquired.

  She felt it was wrong to be asking questions in this curious way about her future employer and yet it was impossible to question Lady Lynche and she could tell that Mrs. Bagot was not the type to resent her curiosity. In fact, she was only too anxious to give the answers.

  “Well, that’s a difficult one,” Mrs. Bagot said. “She says ’er mother was Javanese and ’er father was a Dutchman. He might have been or he might not. There’s a lot of mixed blood in them sorts of people. Anyhow, whatever the combination, she’s been a good-looker.”

  “I thought that too!” Carina exclaimed. “I can see that she has been beautiful even though she looks so ill.”

  “Chest, ’eart, lungs – all gone,” Mrs. Bagot said almost with relish. “The doctor says there’s not a thing about ’er that’s not affected, rotten through and through. A few days is all ’e gives ’er and she knows it – God rest ’er when the time comes.”

  “Ought we not we to send for Lord Lynche?”

  “No, she won’t do that. Besides, there’s no sayin’ ’e would come. ’E left ’er, you see, nearly six years ago. Kicked ’er out, that’s what she said ’e done, after ’e had made ’er give up ’er dancin’ and told ’er that he loved ’er more than anythin’ else in the world. Blast men, they’re all the same!”

  “Then, why – ?” Carina began.

  “She wants ’er revenge,” Mrs. Bagot interposed, knowing what Carina was about to ask. “That’s why she ’as brought the child over ’ere. They ’ave been travellin’ for nearly nine months. She’d got enough money to get so far and then she’d dance or find some man who’d pay for ’er for the time bein’. And after that, she’d start off again. A real pilgrimage it’s been, that’s what I said to ’er, it’s a pilgrimage!”

  “But – Lord Lynche – does he know about the child?”

  “Not that I knows of,” Mrs. Bagot answered. “And I doubt if she wrote many letters to ’im. He was gone before it was born, you see. But she told me ’ow she worked for ’er baby. Nice little chap ’e is too.’E’s downstairs now playin’ with my cat.”

  Mrs. Bagot jerked her thumb over her shoulder, while Carina stared at her in consternation.

  “You mean that I am to take this child to his father and Lord Lynche does not even know he exists?”

  “That’s right,” Mrs. Bagot said. “That’s what she’s made up ’er mind is to ’appen. And ’ow could you deny the poor soul ’er dyin’ wish? She ’as killed herself to get ’ere and that’s God’s truth.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Carina said. “It seems such an incredible situation!”

  “She’ll pay you for it,” Mrs. Bagot told her. “She’s got money at the moment or I’d not ’ave taken ’er in, even though she was recommended by a friend who had stayed ’ere a whole year when ’e was at The Gaiety.”

  Mrs. Bagot simpered a little as if she had very special personal memories of that friend.

  “Yes, she can pay you ’andsomely,” she went on, “and there will be enough left over for the funeral. I’ve been into the whole thing with ’er and she’s promised me ’er jewellery. Of course it’s only Eastern stuff. I said I didn’t want it, but she wants to give it to me for my kindness. And I’m not one to refuse the dyin’ wish of anyone, be it man or woman.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Carina repeated miserably.

  Mrs. Bagot gave her a hard slap on the shoulder with her fat hand.

  “Forget all your ladylike prejudices. You want a job or you wouldn’t be ’ere. And if you don’t like it after you’ve delivered the child, well, you can find yourself another.”

  As she spoke, Carina seemed to hear Mrs. Macey’s voice saying – “if you don’t get this position, it’s unlikely we shall be able to find you anything else.”

  It was no use holding back. As far as she was concerned there would be no point in returning to London. The die was cast. She would do what was asked of her.

  It was as if Mrs. Bagot knew without words that Carina had accepted the responsibility that was thrust upon her.

  She waddled down the passage and opened the door into the sick woman’s bedroom.

  “All’s well, dearie!” she said cheerily, “this nice lady is goin’ to take Dipa to ’is father. All you’ve got to do now is to give ’er the money and I’ll tell Agnes to run out and get a cab to take them to the Station.”

  As she finished speaking, Mrs. Bagot reached the side of the bed, but when she looked down she saw that Lady Lynche was unable to answer her. It was obvious that she was gasping for breath.

  Mrs. Bagot turned sharply towards the washstand. She half-filled the tooth-glass with brandy and, carrying it back to the bedside, seemed literally to tip it down the sick woman’s throat.

  “There, that’s better, isn’t it?” she asked in a kindly tone. “All you wanted was a drink, luv. Now then get your money out, you knows you put it under your pillow.”

  I took a second or two for the brandy to work, then a little life seemed to come back to the grey face and a shaking hand crept under the pillow and brought out a chain purse.

  “She’ll want some notes too, dearie,” Mrs. Bagot prompted.

  The hand slipped under the pillow again and, this time, came back with a leather wallet of the type fashioned in native bazaars. Carina could see that it was bulging with five pound notes.

  “Give her t-twenty – pounds,” Lady Lynche said. The words came with difficulty.

  Mrs. Bagot started, seemed about to expostulate that it was too much and then, as if she thought better of it, pulled the notes out of the wallet with her fat fingers and gave them to Carina.

  “Now give her five guineas,” Lady Lynche said. “That’s for the journey.”

  “Surely you are giving me too much?” Carina asked. “Except that you have not told me where we are going.”

  “You let her give you what she wants to give,” Mrs. Bagot muttered good-humouredly. “She’s got enough of it at the moment and, if ’is Lordship refuses to take the child, you may need it.”

  “Refuse – I had not thought of that,” Carina excl
aimed.

  “He won’t refuse,” the woman on the bed interrupted. “He can’t refuse. Give me that envelope off the dressing table.”

  Carina fetched a big grey envelope and gave it into the thin quavering fingers. They felt about and drew out a long piece of paper.

  “Dipa’s Birth Certificate. He won’t be able to deny that! You will see his own name is on it.”

  Mrs. Bagot gave a little chuckle.

  “You’ve thought of everythin’, ’aven’t you, dearie? I didn’t know you ’ad got ’is Birth Certificate.”

  “Of course I’ve got it. Dipa is my child and his and here’s my Marriage Certificate. Take it too.”

  Another long piece of paper was pressed into Carina’s hand.

  “We were married in Paris. And the child was born in Java seven months after he’d left me.”

  Carina looked down at the pieces of paper in her hand. She had a feeling that there was something frightening, something sinister, about them and then quickly she decided that she was imagining things.

  Everything about this strange encounter was weird and something she never thought could happen when she climbed the stairs of Mrs. Macey’s Agency.

  The woman on the bed gave a feeble cry.

  “The newspaper cutting. I cannot find it!”

  She clutched the envelope to her. Her eyes closed from sheer exhaustion.

  Mrs. Bagot took the envelope and, searching in it, took out a small dirty piece of newsprint obviously cut from a newspaper.

  She held it out to Carina to read.

  “London, England. November 3rd, 1901. Lord Lynche, Lord Lieutenant of Gloucestershire, died on October 23rd at the age of 75. He is succeeded by his son.”

  “You see,” Mrs. Bagot said with something like relish. “That’s ’ow she knew that ’er ’usband had come into ’is inheritance.”

  “It does not say where Lord Lynche lives,” Carina pointed out.

  “Don’t worry, she ’as that, too,” Mrs. Bagot replied and from the envelope she took another cutting.

  This time it was better printed and had obviously been cut from a magazine.

  Carina read it slowly.

  “Lynche Castle, the residence of the Lynche family, is one of the most famous houses in England. It stands on the edge of the Cotswolds looking across the Vale of Evesham towards the Malvern Hills. Built originally in Norman times, it has housed the Lynche family from father to son since 1092.”

  “You see,” Mrs. Bagot said, “it’s a famous place you’re goin’ to, that’s a fact. What’s more, I’ve already made enquiries and the nearest Station is Moreton-in-the-Marsh. You go from Paddington. Now, shall I tell Agnes to run and fetch you a cab?”

  “No – no, wait a moment!” Carina cried. “I can’t go off just like that. I have to collect my own luggage.”

  “You can stop on the way,” Mrs. Bagot replied, as if Carina’s protest was too trivial to merit attention. “It will ease the poor soul’s mind to get the boy off on ’is journey and I don’t mind tellin’ you I’m ’opin’ perhaps ’is Lordship will come ’ere to see ’er. I’d just like to be present when she says to ’is face some of the things she’s told me she wants to say to ’im!”

  “Oh – but – it’s really impossible!” Carina stammered.

  “Nothing’s impossible,” Mrs. Bagot corrected her. “You’re goin’ to Lynche Castle and the sooner you’re on your way the better. They’ll tell you at the Station when the next train leaves for Moreton-in-the-Marsh, There’s good waitin’ rooms at Paddington if you do ’ave to wait an hour or so. There’s a fire in most of them and you’ll ’ave enough money to pay for what you want to eat.”

  Carina looked at her helplessly.

  “Well, I suppose there is nothing I can do except say ‘yes’,” she said at length.

  “That’s the spirit!” Mrs. Bagot cried. “Now I will go and fetch Dipa. I wonder what the little imp is up to.”

  She waddled away towards the door and Carina stood uncertainly not knowing whether to follow her or stay with Lady Lynche.

  The woman on the bed opened her eyes and said in a weak far-away voice,

  “Dipa – has he gone?”

  “No – no, not yet,” Carina said quickly. “He is coming to say goodbye to you.”

  “I love him – I love him so much. I would never have parted with him –never – never – ”

  Carina felt the tears start in her eyes. How awful, she thought, to know that you are dying and that you have to leave your child with strangers.

  “I will look after him for as long as I can,” she said. “I promise you.”

  Lady Lynche seemed hardly to have heard her and Carina thought that she was slipping away into unconsciousness.

  “Lady Lynche,” she said softly. “Lady Lynche – ”

  But there was no answer.

  She was suddenly aware that she was holding the Birth and Marriage Certificates in her hand. She put them carefully into her handbag and then added to them the two newspaper cuttings.

  She looked at the woman on the bed. There was no doubt that she must have been beautiful in a strange Oriental way.

  There was the sound of voices on the stairs and the door opened.

  Mrs. Bagot came in holding a very small boy by the hand.

  He was dancing, squirming about and talking in a high-pitched, sing-song voice. He had close-cropped hair, small, slit-like eyes and his skin was far darker than his mother’s. It was, in fact, the colour of a yellow guinea.

  He was completely and obviously Oriental, and Carina wondered with a stab of dismay what Lord Lynche was going to think of his son!

  Chapter 2

  The cab was being driven very slowly along the rough road. It smelt of mildew, old hay and decaying leather.

  The horse went at its own pace, regardless of occasional flicks of the whip from the driver and repeated admonitions to “gee-hup”.

  Dipa was asleep in Carina’s arms.

  He had been dead tired long before they got out of the train and when, after a long delay, a cab was obtained to carry them to The Castle, Carina had lifted him onto the seat beside her and he had fallen immediately into the deep relaxed sleep of childhood.

  Carina knew it was only the magic word ‘Lynche’ that had persuaded the Stationmaster at Moreton-in-the-Marsh to find a conveyance to carry them to The Castle at such a late hour.

  The fact that he was genuinely impressed because they were visitors to The Castle did nothing to soothe her anxiety or to lessen her fears as to what reception they would receive on arrival.

  She had no idea that they would be so late.

  When they had reached Paddington Station, she was told that there was a train to Oxford in an hour’s time and that, from there, they would easily catch a connection to Moreton-in-the-Marsh. But owing to delays on the line, they arrived late at Oxford and found that the local train had already left and there was not another for three hours.

  Carina thought now that she would have been wiser to have stayed the night in Oxford. They could have slept in a hotel and started off fresh the next morning and they would not have been so oppressed by what lay ahead.

  Yet somehow she had been filled with an urgency to perform the task that had been set her.

  Perhaps, as Mrs. Bagot had suggested, Lord Lynche would want to see his wife – perhaps, if she dallied on the way and Lady Lynche died before he could reach her, there would be nothing but reproach and recriminations for her conduct in not going straight to The Castle, as she had been asked to do.

  Whichever way she looked at it, it seemed to Carina that she was doing the wrong thing because the time had dragged on. Now it must be nearly midnight – and how could she expect anything but disagreeableness if they arrived at such an hour?

  She had a sudden glimpse of some high iron gates between stone pillars surmounted by heraldic lions and knew that they must have reached the entrance to Lynche Castle.

  She felt a sudden panic sweep
over her. How could she have let herself become involved in such an impossible situation?

  Then a movement of the small head lying against her chest made her tighten her arms about the little boy and resolve – if she could do nothing else – to fight for his rights. Lord Lynche had married his mother and the child was his flesh and blood. How, then, could he dare not to acknowledge Dipa? At the same time Carina was not foolish, she knew that this was going to be difficult – very difficult indeed.

  When she had left the house in Eaton Terrace and entered the hired cab that Agnes had fetched from Ebury Street, Carina had told the driver to go first to an address in Park Street.

  On reaching the rich fashionable quarter of Mayfair, she had climbed out, telling Dipa to be a good boy and to sit quietly in the cab for a few minutes while she collected her luggage.

  She knocked on the door of an imposing-looking mansion and it had been opened after a few seconds by an elderly woman with white hair and an anxious face.

  “Oh, Miss Carina, you are back at last!” she exclaimed. “I was getting’ so worried about you. I was afraid somethin’ had happened!”

  “A lot has happened, Nanny,” Carina answered, passing through the hall and into the large sitting room whose windows overlooked a garden at the back.

  The room was beautifully proportioned. The doors of the built-in bookcase, which were open, caught the sunlight outside and reflected it dazzlingly, but there were no books on the shelves and the room was completely empty.

  “What is it?” the elderly woman asked, following Carina into the room. “What have you been doin’? I can see you have been up to somethin’.”

  “Nanny, I have got a job. It is a strange rather frightening job, but I have it. That’s all that matters. I shall be gone when they arrive tomorrow morning.”

  “Now, dearie, are you bein’ wise?” Nanny asked. “After all you would be safe with them.”

  “Safe!” Carina ejaculated scornfully. “Who wants to be safe with people like Cousin Emma and Cousin Hubert? You know they have always disapproved of Mama and hated Papa and it would give them great pleasure to be able to patronise me and tell me a thousand times a day how lucky I was to live on their charity. I would rather die, Nanny, as I have told you before. I would rather die than be beholden to them!”