The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [126]
‘A Resident? But –’ Ash broke off and scowled at George, who must be even drunker than he had thought, because a Residency was a senior appointment: a ‘plum job’ of the Indian Civil Service. Only men who had served that department for many years were sent to represent their Government in some independent native state with the title of ‘Resident’.
‘Bholapore – one of those states somewhere down south,’ said George indifferently. ‘It was in the papers last week.’
‘Bholapore?’ repeated Ash stupidly. ‘But – Oh, you must have made a mistake. You're drunk. That's what it is. How would Belinda ever meet anyone like that, let alone get engaged to him?’
‘Well, she has,’ said George flatly and as though it did not matter very much. ‘Friend of her father's. You must have noticed him: stout party with a red face and grey whiskers. He was having tea with them the last time you were here, and Belinda was all over him.’
‘Podmore-Smyth!’ gasped Ash, appalled.
‘That's the fellow. Pompous old bore, but I'm told he's no end of a catch. Sure to be knighted before long and end up as a Lieutenant-Governor, and all that. His wife only died last year, and his daughters are older than Belinda, but she doesn't seem to mind that. He's got a lot of money of course – his father was one of those Calcutta Nabobs, so he's simply rolling in it. And I suppose she likes the idea of being Lady Podmore-Smyth. Or Her Excellency the Governess. Or possibly even Baroness Podmore of Poop one day.’ George gave a hollow crack of laughter and helped himself to more coffee.
‘I don't believe it,’ said Ash violently. ‘You're making it up. She wouldn't do a thing like that. Not Belinda. You don't know her like I do. She's sweet and honest and –’
‘She's honest, all right,’ agreed George bitterly. His lip quivered and once again his eyes filled with tears.
Ash disregarded them: ‘If she's engaged to him it's because she's been forced into it. Her parents are behind this – that dried-up old stick of a father and her idiotic, gossiping mother. Well, if they think I'm going to let them ruin Belinda's life and mine, they're wrong.’
‘You're the one who's wrong,’ said George. ‘Her parents didn't like it above half, but she coaxed them round. She's a taking little thing, as you should know by now. But then you don't really know her at all. Neither did I. I thought I did, and I would never have believed… Oh God, what am I going to do?’
The tears brimmed over and trickled down his cheeks, but he made no attempt to brush them away or any effort to control them. He merely sat there slumped in his chair and staring into vacancy, with his jaw slack and his fingers clenching and unclenching on the coffee cup. He was an embarrassing sight and his unashamed misery exasperated Ash. What right had George to behave like this? It was not as though Belinda had even been engaged to him, or ever would have been. Ash told him so with considerable sharpness, and found a perverse comfort in doing so. But though he had not minced his words they drew no answering spark of anger from George.
‘It's not that,’ said George dully. ‘You don't understand. Of course I knew she'd never marry me; I'm not a fool. I was too young and I hadn't any prospects. I hadn't… anything! I suppose that's why I invented all that stuff. To make myself more interesting… But I never thought – I didn't dream that she'd take it like that if she found out.’
‘Found out what?’ demanded Ash, justifiably bewildered. ‘For God's sake, George, pull yourself together and stop babbling! What is all this about? What did she find out?’
‘About me. You see I – I've told a lot of lies about myself. And that woman Mrs Gidney, who Belinda's mother is so thick with, has a friend in Rangoon who knows someone who – Well, it was like this…’
It was a simple and rather sordid little story, and no one came out of it very well. Mrs Gidney, writing to a dear friend in Rangoon, had happened to mention George's name and comment on his romantic ancestry, and by an unfortunate coincidence the friend was acquainted