Sailing to Love Read online

  The Earl laughed.

  “I have a feeling if I did that you would somehow get in, even if it meant climbing down the chimney.”

  “Am I really as bad as that?” Venetia asked cheerfully.

  “Not bad, but clever,” he replied. “So far you have had your own way in everything. I think you’ll achieve the same success a thousand times before you die.”

  In his turn, he too spoke theatrically, saying,

  “But I must tell you, ma’am, that you are not at all the kind of woman I admire.”

  Lord Anthony looked from one to the other, shock registering on his face.

  “You see,” the Earl continued, “the trouble with you is that you are too perceptive. Women should be sweet and gentle, accepting what they are told without querying it or expecting something better.”

  “Nonsense!” Venetia exclaimed robustly.

  “You see?” the Earl appealed to his friend. “She proves my point.”

  “You would be bored stiff,” she told him, “with a woman who agreed with everything you said and thought it was heaven on earth just to have you with her.”

  “I see no reason why she should not feel like that,” the Earl replied and his eyes were twinkling.

  “Now you are being conceited,” Venetia told him. “As I said at the beginning you are perfectly aware that women run after you and kneel at your feet merely because you are an Earl. If you were just plain Mister they wouldn’t be half so persistent in their pursuit of you.”

  “That’s perfectly true,” Anthony told his friend earnestly. “Remember that girl who –?”

  “Yes, never mind,” the Earl said hastily. “Well, dear wife, you’ve given me much to think about. I only hope I’ll remember this conversation with you, when I find myself sitting alone in my smoking-room at home, and there is only the wind whistling outside the windows.”

  Now Venetia laughed.

  “If you are sitting alone, it will be entirely your own fault,” she told him. “As to remembering what I’ve said to you, you know if you’re honest, that by the time you return home you’ll be thanking Heaven that you no longer have this tiresome woman arguing with you.”

  “Oh, I say,” said Anthony.

  “I only hope,” the Earl answered, “that by the time we return home, you will be paying me compliments.”

  Venetia knew, by the way his eyes were laughing, that he was only teasing her.

  She merely replied,

  “We’ll have to wait and see. When you return you might be accompanied by a beautiful woman you’ve met in India, who’ll be the wife you’ve always wanted.”

  “There’s a flaw in your reasoning. I have never wanted a wife.”

  “Why that’s true, of course. You wanted a wife so little that you obtained one by plucking her off the shelf at someone else’s recommendation, and not even examining the goods properly before you registered them in your name.”

  The Earl roared with laughter and clapped Anthony on the shoulder.

  “It’s all right, old fellow. Don’t let your eyes pop like that. We don’t mean half what we say to each other.”

  “But which half is which?” Anthony said, unexpectedly putting his finger on the point.

  Venetia and the Earl looked at each other, each wondering the same.

  *

  At last they reached the end of the Suez Canal and passed through the Red Sea, growing ever nearer to the Arabian Sea, and India.

  One day, while the Earl was deep in discussion with the Captain, Anthony manoeuvred to get Venetia alone. She could see that something was troubling him.

  “I say, I wish you’d forget those things I said the night before the wedding,” he told her fervently.

  “You mean about Ivan having the pride of the devil and liking to be master?” she enquired innocently.

  “Well – I don’t think I actually said –”

  “Oh, but you did,” she assured him, wide-eyed. “And you said he liked to be master and wouldn’t want a wife who answered back or questioned his movements, or minded about his other women –”

  “I never said that!” he almost squealed.

  “Not precisely –”

  “Not anything like it,” he said, roused to unusual firmness by his terror at this conversation. “I never mentioned other women. You did.”

  “Yes, I did,” she relented. “Although you more or less admitted it –”

  “I – that is – well, you’re safe enough on this ship, aren’t you? I mean, there aren’t any other women.”

  Venetia quelled the laughter that threatened to overwhelm her.

  “Anthony, you should have gone into the diplomatic service,” she said through quivering lips.

  He brightened. “Really? I did think of it once, but Ivan said it was not a good idea.”

  “I wonder why. Never mind. Let’s forget that whole conversation ever happened.”

  “Yes, let’s.”

  He mopped his brow.

  Lying in bed that night she thought about what they had said. A wise woman might have let herself be warned, but Venetia supposed she could not be very wise where the Earl was concerned. She had gone in the opposite direction, teasing, daring, contradicting him at every turn. It might sound dangerous, but instinct told her that it was the only way to win and keep his respect.

  And respect was essential, she knew. Without it, no other feeling could survive and flourish.

  *

  The weather became unbearably hot as they moved through the Arabian Sea towards Bombay. Now they concentrated all their thoughts on what lay before them.

  “How are you going to explain me?” Anthony asked, thinking of this problem somewhat belatedly.

  “I shall say you are my aide-de-camp,” the Earl announced grandly.

  At last the moment came, and the ship glided into the port of Bombay. To Venetia’s delight a band was playing on the quay and a guard of honour was waiting to welcome them to India.

  She took a last glance at herself in the mirror, hoping that she looked her best and would be a credit to her husband and her country.

  She then hurried to the Earl’s side and they left the suite together.

  “Now it starts,” he said. “We are on our way to see the Viceroy, who is Her Majesty’s official representative and don’t forget that you are my wife.”

  “Whatever do you mean? What are you afraid I might do?”

  “You might say something terrible with that sharp tongue of yours.”

  “I promise to consider every word twice.”

  “That might be worse!”

  The guard of honour was led by a very impressive looking officer whose uniform proclaimed that he was a Colonel. As they watched, he came up the gangway to greet them.

  He welcomed them and said he regretted the Viceroy could not come in person, but would be waiting for them in Calcutta.

  While the two men were speaking, Venetia was looking round her. She was amazed at the colour she could see. There were Indians waiting with garlands of marigolds.

  The brilliance of the saris seemed to be echoed in the uniforms of the various soldiers of all ranks moving about the quayside.

  There were vendors selling fruits of green, purple and orange. She could see some small children carrying coloured windmills and kites.

  But above all there was the sunshine, golden and warm which covered everything with an orange haze.

  At that moment a truck containing a great pile of baggage pushed past them amid cries from the porters to clear the way.

  When their luggage had been brought ashore they said goodbye to the Captain of the Angelina, who said to Venetia,

  “We will miss you very much, but then our loss is India’s gain.”

  She thanked him for a very nice compliment and said how grateful to him she was for such an enjoyable journey. The Earl shook the Captain’s hand and then the Earl and Countess of Mountwood proceeded down the gangway to receive their official greeting.
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br />   Whilst the exchange of courtesies was going on, Venetia looked around her at an enormous group of official buildings which stood like a massive palisade.

  Some of the buildings had huge palm-mat awnings which shaded the windows and there were white-suited figures strolling high on the balconies while below them were crowds of Indians.

  She could see stalls piled high with watermelons or vividly coloured glass bowls with drinks. There were men selling sweetmeats and tobacco, chapattis and fruit.

  She could hear the people shouting and the creaking of wagon-wheels. Enormous loads were on the wagons drawn by bullocks.

  Waiting for them was a large carriage. Gallantly the Colonel handed her in, stood back to allow the Earl to precede him and they were on their way.

  As they set off leaving a Corporal to see that all their luggage followed, Venetia found everything fascinating.

  “We’re going straight to the railway station,” the Colonel told them, “where a special train is waiting to take you to Calcutta.”

  “I wish we could stay here a little while,” Venetia said. “It’s so exciting.”

  “I too wish you could stay,” the Colonel answered gallantly.

  Obviously from the way he looked at her and the way he spoke, he admired her.

  She hoped the Earl was pleased that she was showing off so well.

  She had the feeling of having stepped into a dream. The brilliant colours were unlike anything she had known before.

  The dream-like feeling grew even greater, when they reached the station and were welcomed by a military band, playing the National Anthem. They stood up straight until it was finished and then the Colonel showed them aboard.

  The train was a private one and as luxurious as the ship. It had been laid on especially for them and there were no other passengers. Instead, there was a luxurious saloon, furnished with armchairs and a kitchen just for them, their servants and their newly acquired aide-de-camp.

  One carriage was taken up by a room with two narrow beds and a small bathroom just beyond. Venetia was a little taken aback by the discovery that she would have to share this room with the Earl. But there was no dressing room for him here.

  Everywhere she looked she saw the Royal crest.

  “It’s a Royal train,” she said.

  “In effect, yes,” the Earl told her. “The Queen – or the Empress of India as I should call her here – has never visited this country, but if she did, this is the train she would use. Until then, it belongs to the Viceroy, who represents her.”

  “It all looks splendidly comfortable,” she observed.

  “I hope it is. It’s a thousand miles to Calcutta, and I hope we’ll spend most of it asleep.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “If we start soon we should reach Calcutta tomorrow afternoon. There we shall meet the Viceroy.”

  “Lord Lytton?” Venetia said.

  He gave her a quick look of surprise.

  “You know his name? I suppose you looked it up when you were planning this escapade?”

  “No, I didn’t have time for that. I already knew. I’ve always read the newspapers from cover to cover.”

  “I would have been surprised to learn that you hadn’t,” he said with a grin.

  “It’s not just newspapers, but novels. I’ve always been mad about them, and I must have read everything the novelist Bulwer-Lytton wrote. So when his son became Viceroy of India it caught my eye.”

  “So you’ll win the Viceroy’s heart by telling him you like his father’s novels?”

  “I might,” Venetia said with a mysterious smile. “Or I might have another trick up my sleeve.”

  “That one will do very well,” he said, entirely failing to appreciate the hint she was giving him.

  She started to speak, then checked herself and fell silent, with a little smile on her face.

  At last it was time to depart. The band, which had followed them to the station, now played the National Anthem again as the train pulled out.

  Then it was time for lunch in the luxuriously appointed saloon car, with waiters hovering, anxious to know if the food and wines were to their liking.

  It crossed Venetia’s mind that, at this moment, she might have been sitting alone in her house in England, wondering what was to become of her.

  Instead she was in India, on the most exciting journey of her life, in the company of the most wickedly attractive man she had ever known. She was heading for a thrilling future, all the more thrilling for being completely unknown.

  When it grew late, she bade the men goodnight and walked ahead to the room she would share with her husband.

  Except that he was not yet really her husband. After the first night, when he had seemed ready to assert his rights by force, he had treated her with the utmost respect. At first she had been glad of that, but increasingly the thought was slipping into her head that perhaps he was being too respectful.

  It was almost as though he did not want her after all.

  Perhaps he was seriously considering a parting when this trip was over?

  At that thought her heart gave a sudden lurch and she was aware of a feeling of anguish, as though parting from him would be the most painful thing that could ever happen to her.

  Was it possible that she was in love with him?

  She tried to tell herself that this was impossible.

  Who could love such an awkward, arrogant man, so sharp-tongued and unreasonable, so dictatorial?

  But then her sense of fairness intervened. He had been like that at first, but now his manner to her had grown gentler, even a little humorous. This was fertile soil in which love could flourish.

  But after the first night he had made no further move to become her lover. He helped her dress and undress with hands as impersonal as a maid’s. At night he kissed her cheek and retired without so much as a backward look.

  Respect?

  Or indifference?

  What would he do tonight?

  A soft knock on the door told her that he had arrived. He entered the bedroom, arrayed in a crimson velvet dressing gown, having changed in his valet’s room.

  “I thought you might need my aid to remove your dress,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said, trying to sound normal, although her heart had started to thump.

  She felt his fingers unlacing her at the back and tensed herself with anticipation. But there was only the rush of air on her skin as the dress loosened. Then his voice came from the door.

  “I’ll leave you now and return when you are in bed.”

  When he had departed she pulled off the rest of her clothes. For some reason she was perilously close to being in a really impressive temper.

  She lay in bed, her face turned to the wall, refusing to let him think she minded, or even noticed, whether or not he had returned.

  At last she heard the sound of the door quietly opening and closing. There was a slight creak as he got into his bed and then the light went out.

  Venetia lay in the darkness, listening to the sound of his slow even breathing, until at last she realised that he had fallen asleep.

  She sat up in bed and looked over at him. In the darkness she could just make out that he was lying with his back to her, not moving.

  There was nothing for her to do but lie down again and try, grumpily, to go to sleep. Which she did.

  When she awoke she could see some light coming in through the gaps in the curtains over the windows. Gently she pulled aside the curtain to look outside. What she saw made her sit up sharply and stare out of the window.

  Never in her life had she seen such magnificence. Mountains reared up before her and even in the grey dawn light she could see that they were dramatic and strongly coloured. The pallid light of England had never shown her anything like this.

  She watched as trees, shrubs and flowers swept past her in brilliant glory. Had there ever been a country like this, she wondered? Intense. Glorious.

  Sh
e was so entranced that she became oblivious to anything else, barely hearing the movements behind her. Only when the Earl’s hands descended lightly on her shoulders did she realise that he had left his bed and come to join her.

  “It’s magnificent, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “I had no idea,” she murmured. “It’s even more glorious than I dreamed.”

  “Yes it is,” he replied softly.

  He was sitting on the bed just behind her. His body barely touched hers, but it was enough to make her intensely aware that she was wearing only a thin nightdress. She wondered if he too was thinking of the fact that she had nothing on beneath it. And if so, did that thought tempt him? Did she sense a faint tremor go through his body? Could he sense the tremor in hers?

  Perhaps he did, because he turned her gently so that she lay in his arms, her loosened hair flowing over her shoulders. He stroked it with light fingers before lowering his head so that his lips just touched hers.

  She felt herself soften and grow warm under that kiss. It was gentle, tender, waiting for her response and suddenly she felt safe. Her hands seemed to find their own way, touching his face, his hair.

  He drew back a moment to look down into her eyes, silently asking her a question. She gave him her answer with a smile.

  “My wife,” he whispered.

  “Yes.”

  And after that there were no more words, only the strength of his embrace, and the fierce beauty of becoming truly his wife at last.

  When they awoke again several hours had passed. Venetia found herself still lying in his arms in the narrow bed.

  As before he was smiling at her, but this was a different smile. Last night they had found each other. Now they shared something that she dared to call love.

  He had not said that he loved her, but she was content to wait for that. She had seen the look in his eyes, the tenderness in his embrace and for now that was enough.

  He drew her out of the bed and held her close for a moment before saying,