The Fire of Love

Chapter 1 ~ 1901-2

There was no mistaking the long slit-like dark eyes or the jet-black hair drawn back from the rounded yellow fore-head.

‘She must have been beautiful once,’ Carina thought involuntarily and then realised that the woman was very ill and yet the undiluted alcohol seemed to give her momentarily more life.

She held out the empty glass, which Carina took from her, and raised herself a little on her pillows.

“Have they told you what I want you to do?” she asked.

“Mrs. Macey said something about taking your child on a journey,” Carina replied.

“Yes, yes, you must take him, for I am too ill,” the woman on the bed answered.

Carina looked round the room as if she expected to see the child hidden somewhere amidst the pile of untidy clothing that seemed to have been thrown everywhere, on the chairs, at the end of the bed, over the towel rail.

She saw there was a big round-top trunk against one wall and guessed that someone must have attempted to unpack it and then found in this small dingy room without a wardrobe that there was nowhere to put all the things it contained.

But there was nothing dingy about the clothes. They were indeed a kaleidoscope of rainbow colours, crimson, mauve, emerald-green and peacock-blue, mingled with gold lame and silver brocade. There were coats and blouses embroidered with diamanté and sparkling stones and shawls with deep silk fringes, which sprawled unexpectedly over the threadbare carpet. Clothes –clothes – clothes, but no sign of the child.

Then, as if she knew what Carina was thinking, the woman on the bed explained,

“He is downstairs with the landlady. She brought the doctor. I shan’t live to get him there!”

“Get him where? “ Carina asked.

The woman on the bed shut her eyes as though she was attacked by a sudden pain. Her face seemed to screw itself into lines and she looked for a moment like a small sick monkey.

“To his father,” she replied and the words were almost shouted with a sudden burst of energy. “You are to take him to his father.”

Her fingers came out and entwined themselves around Carina’s hand.

“Promise you will take him and say what I want you to say?” she asked desperately, as if everything depended on Carina’s answer.

“I don’t understand,” Carina said quietly. “Where does the child’s father live and is he Lord Lynche?”

The yellow fingers seemed to tighten their grip.

“Yes, that is his name – Lord Lynche,” the woman replied. “Always he said to me, ‘we have no money. We can do nothing until my father dies. We are poor! Poor! I can give you none of the things you ought to have. But when my father dies, it will be different’.”

She gave a little cry, almost a sob, and then her voice sank away again to the low breathless murmur it had been when Carina entered the room.

“He is dead, dead at last, and now there will be money, position, parties, all the things he promised me and I shall not be there to enjoy them!”

“I am sure you will,” Carina said, moved by a sudden pity, for now she realised that the woman was not as old as she had thought she was when she first came into the room. Twenty-nine, thirty – or perhaps a few years older. But there was no doubt at all that she was very ill.

“No – no, I know the truth. I cannot live. I would not want to, for I can no longer dance. But the child – the child must be looked after and his father must be made to pay.”

The weak breathless voice broke off as a sudden fit of coughing shook the woman’s whole frame. Now beneath the bed-coverings Carina could see how thin she was.

“Yes, damn him, he shall pay!”

Lady Lynche’s voice was almost a snarl, as the coughing passed, leaving her with beads of sweat on her forehead.

“He shall pay for his heir, for all he denied me and for all the promises he never kept. You will take my son to his inheritance?”

Now she was pleading, the snarl had gone from her voice and the dark almond-like eyes deeply lined with pain were staring up at Carina.

“Yes, of course, I will take him,” Carina answered gently.

She had seen people die before and she knew that this woman was speaking the truth when she said she would not live very long.

“Thank you – thank you. That’s all I wanted to know. Go to the door, call for Mrs. Bagot and tell her I want her.”

Carina picked her way amongst the gaudy piles of silk and satin, opened the door and went out into the passage.

It seemed deserted and then she heard the murmur of voices from the basement below and saw that there was a stone stairway running down to what were obviously the kitchens. She went to the top of them and called a little nervously, feeling that Mrs. Bagot might well resent being summoned in a peremptory manner by a stranger.

“Mrs. Bagot!” Her voice seemed to be thrown back at her and there was a strong smell of onions. “Mrs. Bagot!”

“Mornin’,” cried a cheerful Cockney voice and a large buxom figure appeared at the bottom of the stairs and started to climb slowly up them.

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 exclaimed.

“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!