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  Amaury blithely overrode an irresolute resistance. Marriott hunted out the taverner, a wily villain who combined devious dealings in calicoes and kerseys, indigo and pepper with fleecing his customers at Whittle’s Tavern. He demanded pen and paper, wrote a draft to settle expenses, interviewed her maid - a sluttish Portuguese - and ordered a hackery for conveyance of her baggage. Returning to the living-room he found his dainty Cyprian weeping happily on Amaury’s shoulder, apparently unaware of fingers fondling her breast. Marriott sent him a quizzical look.

  ‘No shares are issued in this enterprise, Hugo - I hold the monopoly!’

  He draped a cloak over Amelia’s scanty dress and bundled her into the gig. Amaury rattled the vehicle through unlit smelly streets to the lights which glowed from Garden Houses sailing the Choultry Plain like tall white ships. Marriott woke from a reverie and stated his decision.

  ‘The bibee-house, Hugo, will not be fitting.’

  ‘By no means! Nor would Kiraun welcome yet another foreigner. I must find for her,’ said Amaury musingly, ‘a congenial companion from Hyderabad - a wench whose erudition is equally exciting. We will furnish for Amelia a bedroom next to yours.’

  At Moubray’s Gardens Marriott led her to his room. Amelia gazed with starting eyes at white-painted picture-hung walls, tall chintz-curtained windows, delicate rosewood furniture, Turkish rugs on a patterned floor. She uttered a choking sob and flung her arms round Marriott’s neck.

  He dropped the cloak from her shoulders and carried her to bed.

  Mrs Bradly’s swift translation hatched a two-day wonder in Madras and raised a buzz of gossip in messes and taverns. Not everyone approved, for the lady’s charms had been pleasurably shared by gentlemen at large. What business had this confounded Writer to remove from circulation the town’s most favoured courtesan? Marriott knew he had played small part in deciding Amelia’s choice: an increasing loathing of her way of life in the Black Town, a longing for security, however tenuous, and Amaury’s persuasive charm had brought her into his keeping.

  Soon he was aware that the prattle touched wider shores than his circle of male acquaintances. Society by custom, after sleeping off their dinners, took an airing before sunset on the racecourse. In carriages and on horseback they gathered round the Assembly Rooms: a splendid parade of fashion and a lively mart for gossip. Ladies preened their finery, discussed the latest fripperies an Indiaman had brought and honed their sharpest barbs of wit and spite; gentlemen in modish coats bestrode their showiest horses. Though the west monsoon had broken - clouds scurried across a threatening sky and gale-blown rainstorms lashed the land - towards evening the rain normally abated and a watery sunset gilded the miraculous greenery which sprang at the monsoon’s bidding from cracked and crumbling earth. Confined all day in steaming heat indoors, the quality came eagerly out to breathe the windy air.

  Marriott cantered his gelding on to the racecourse, felt perspiration wet the armpits of a fine new longcloth coat and pulled to a walk. He threaded gigs and phaetons, curricles and chaises and halted beside a landau where Miss Wrangham, staidly demure, conversed with an Indiaman’s captain.

  ‘Vastly intriguing, Captain Stanton, upon my word! And how did you avert the peril when your mizzen went overside?’

  ‘H’rm... Miss Wrangham...’

  ‘Ah, Mr Marriott! Captain Stanton has been describing the Lord Camden's terrible battering in a hurricane off Malabar. How fortunate we landsmen are, who encounter nothing more dangerous than a runaway horse... or a bolting lady!’

  Marriott stuttered, and went scarlet.

  ‘The mention of horses reminds me, sir,’ she continued. ‘I hear you have lately increased your stable - a spirited English mare, so rumour reports. I trust she is a comfortable ride?’

  Lady Wrangham fluttered her hands. ‘Caroline, I beseech you - so disgracefully shameless . . .’ She subsided weakly on the landau’s cushions.

  ‘Contain yourself, you minx!’ the general growled. He gave Marriott an understanding look, one man of the world to another. ‘The gossip in this town passes all bounds of propriety; no one’s reputation is secure. Caroline, you must learn to curb your tongue!’

  ‘I wished only to felicitate Mr Marriott on his choice of horseflesh,’ she protested, all injured innocence. ‘Such lively action, I am told, loins so closely coupled, her quarters powerfully muscled!’

  Captain Stanton, looking bewildered, lifted his hat and moved away. Lady Wrangham feverishly discussed the theatre’s latest play: The Provoked Husband had been a notable success. The general, wagging a finger, lectured his daughter in undertones. Caroline nodded. ‘Mr Marriott, I understand I have in some way given offence. Pray accept my apologies.’ She smiled brilliantly. ‘I had not thought a kindly inquiry about your purchased hack would cause distress!’

  Afterwards she relented, and talked light-heartedly of trifles. Once her chatter faltered, steel glinted in her eyes and her chin went up. Marriott saw Amaury at the ribbons of an elegant vis-à-vis halted beside a phaeton and conversing with the occupant. Hastily he drew her attention from the seductive Mrs Delderfield to a four-horse landau splashing through the puddles from Fort St George; scarlet-coated lancers rode beside the wheels.

  ‘Lord Clive honours us with his presence.’

  ‘The Governor, hey?’ said the general. ‘I must speak with him.’ He signalled to his coachman; Marriott touched his hat and watched the Wranghams move away. Joseph Harley, driving a sober gig, beckoned him over.

  ‘I have news for you, Mr Marriott. That sickly boy who succeeded to the Carnatic when Muhamed Ali died is ailing yonder in his palace at Chepauk.’ He wagged a hand to banded minarets which a dying sun glazed gold and white in the distance. ‘The Carnatic soon will lack a ruler; and the Company is considering taking up the reins. Our dominion then will extend from the Circars to Cape Comorin - but in the Northern Circars we hold only nominal sway. Too tenuous by half; so I advocated in Council that the Company close her grip. We need factories there. The Governor agreed, and bade me arrange the business.’ Marriott’s attention wandered. Old Harley was prone to dissertations about governmental policy, to decisions made at levels far above a humble Writer’s head. He pondered Caroline’s shrewishness, and pronounced her woefully intolerant - every bachelor he knew had a woman in his keeping: did she insist her swains must live like pallid monks? Abstractedly he viewed the shifting scene: ladies in their carriages, bright in vivid finery like flowers heaped in baskets, servants in gaudy liveries standing to horses’ heads, riders trotting the racecourse, arrivals and departures. All Madras was come to breathe the heavy monsoon air.

  ‘Pray give me your attention!’ Harley snapped. ‘What I say may have a bearing on your future. You will remember, sir, I engaged myself to further your advancement in the Service. What I have in mind is this: after renewal of your covenant as Junior Merchant - you have, I think, sufficient funds to find the surety - you should be appointed Collector to Bahrampal, a district bordering Maratha states in the Northern Circars.’ Marriott’s drifting thoughts returned abruptly to the present. ‘You do me honour, sir, but ... a posting to some outlandish jungle? Leave Madras?’ His eyes swivelled to Caroline, who chattered animatedly to a gentleman next Lord Clive - a slender man of medium height in a plain blue coat, grey breeches and black cocked hat. Some confounded Secretary, he thought, bragging a false importance. ‘Mr Harley, I have no experience ….’

  ‘You will be given ample instructions,’ said the Merchant gruffly. ‘Nor, naturally, do you go alone. A military detachment under a reliable officer will escort you, and a civilian assistant. I had thought young Fane ...’

  ‘When shall I be likely to leave?’

  ‘Not till the east monsoon has ended, possibly later. There is much to be arranged.’

  A carriage pulled alongside in a splatter of watery mud. ‘Why so downcast, Charles?’ said Amaury. ‘Good day to you, Mr Harley! Have you seen who is here?’ He pointed his whip to the man in the black cock
ed hat who, amused by Caroline’s sallies, vented a barking laugh. ‘Colonel Arthur Wellesley, as I live - we shared a mutton bone for breakfast before Seringapatam!’

  ‘A very promising officer, so my military friends assure me,’ Harley observed. ‘He has come lately from Mysore to confer with General Harris.’

  Marriott scrutinized Amaury’s dashing yellow vis-à-vis, coat of arms emblazoned on the panels, a spirited pair of bright bay horses, footman in smart blue livery. ‘A very pretty turn-out. I have not seen it before.’

  ‘Handsome enough, I think - one of Delaval’s best,’ Amaury said complacently. ‘The Lord Camden landed it but yesterday. I must talk to Wellesley. Allow me to present you.’

  They saluted the Governor, who nodded affably but answered not a word - a taciturn peer noted for saving his breath. Wrangham accorded Amaury a frosty bow, but listened avidly when he and Wellesley engaged in a reminiscence of some obscure action at a place called Sultanpettah where, the general gathered, things had gone badly wrong. Lady Wrangham languished on the cushions and fanned her face; Caroline discovered absorbing interest in the parrots screeching overhead to roost. She had acknowledged Amaury’s greeting with a microscopic nod, and thereafter ignored him completely. Marriott ventured a remark, met a smouldering gaze and silence.

  ‘So never again, sir,’ Colonel Wellesley concluded, ‘shall I attack in the dark an enemy who is prepared and strongly posted; and whose posts have not been reconnoitred by daylight.’

  ‘A most entertaining narrative,’ Amaury exclaimed, ‘which explains much that I found obscure in your scrappy night affair. I must not keep you longer.’ He gathered the reins, and glanced at Caroline’s stiffly averted profile. A devil of merriment danced in his eye; he whipped off his hat and flourished it to the vis-à-vis and horses.

  ‘What do you think of my little trap, Miss Wrangham?’

  Caroline swept a contemptuous gaze over the resplendent equipage. ‘Truly elegant, upon my word,’ she said coldly. ‘Quite magnificent.’

  Laughter bubbled in Amaury’s throat. ‘And what is your opinion of the bait within it?’

  ‘Do you mean,’ said Caroline, ‘to speak in French or English?’

  Colonel Arthur Wellesley slapped his knees and gaffawed.

  ‘Your fire, Charles. A pagoda to a fanam you don’t hit!’

  A snarling wind chased charcoal-coloured clouds and hunted leaves in flurries across the Parade. Rain gusts trawled transparent shimmering curtains. The boom of the surf was incessant, an endless cannonade. Huge breakers thundered shorewards and broke on the beach in crashing volleys of spray. The roads were empty of shipping: no craft could ride to anchor in that furious on-shore gale. From October till December, when the north-east monsoon ruled, ship insurance ended from Palmiras to Cape Comorin; St George’s flag was lowered, the naked staff warned mariners away.

  Marriott cocked his weapon - a heavy holster pistol borrowed from the bell of arms of the 19th Light Dragoons - sighted and fired. The ball plocked wetly in the butt; the wings of the wind whisked smoke away.

  ‘The brute kicks like an unbacked stallion,’ he complained.

  The group, officers and civilians mingled, sheltered under a palm-thatched shed provided during the rains to protect the soldiers’ powder while practising with ball. Supported bottoms-up on the tips of bamboo stakes between firing point and butt were a dozen earthenware pots. An artillery captain fired and missed. ‘Even at fifteen paces,’ he grumbled, ‘this damnable wind deflects the ball.’

  Joseph Harley stepped to the mark, a pistol in either hand. He sighted deliberately, fired, changed hands and fired again. Two jars lay shattered in shards. The party applauded.

  ‘Have you ever been out, sir?’ Marriott asked respectfully.

  ‘Once, many years ago. A King’s officer, I recall, who ventured a remark against the Company’s servants in general and myself in particular. He was unable,’ Harley added contentedly, ‘to resume his duties for several weeks.’

  Across the Parade the 33rd Foot practised dry-firing drill. A sergeant’s voice rode easily above the sough of the wind. ‘On th’ command “Handle - cartridge” yer slaps yer right hand short to yer pouch, brings cartridge sharp to yer mouth, bites th’ top off down to th’ powder …’

  Shielded by chatta-bearers carrying cavernous umbrellas Caroline and Anstruther approached from the dripping peepul trees that fringed the Parade. She picked her way on pattens to the thatch-roofed shelter, flicked rain drops from her fingers and dropped a curtsey. ‘Pray forgive my intrusion, gentlemen. This inclement weather affords so little entertainment that I ventured out to watch you. Continue your practice, I.beg.’

  Encouraged by her presence, the shooting improved. Marriott broke a jar, his reward a radiant smile. She consoled an inaccurate ensign, and agreed the powder must be damp. To Amaury, leaning indolently against a roof-post, she said caustically, ‘Surely you neglect your duties, sir? I had not thought to find such a diligent officer frivolling during parade!’

  Amaury waved a hand to the teeming rain. ‘We do not exercise our horses in a downpour, Miss Wrangham. And skill at arms, you must agree, is imperative to a soldier’s calling.’

  ‘Indeed - but I have not seen you discharge your piece.’

  Amaury levered himself from the post. ‘You shall, if you insist.’ He primed and loaded a brace of pistols, stepped to the mark, lifted his arms and fired both weapons together. A servant scuttled to the sticks, replaced the shattered jars.

  ‘We no longer stake on Amaury’s shots,’ said Marriott. ‘It proves expensive!’

  Caroline said sweetly, ‘May I try your pistols, Captain Amaury?’ The men looked startled - firearms were not for delicate females. Amaury met her eyes, saw the challenge, rammed down powder and ball.

  ‘You have had some practice?’

  ‘Sufficient, sir.’ She smiled broadly. ‘Do not be afraid - I shall shoot neither you nor your friends.’

  ‘This is a hair-trigger Wogdon. Be careful, Miss Wrangham.’ Gingerly he handed her the butt. Gentlemen backed swiftly from the line of fire. Caroline whispered to Anstruther, who gaped at her in astonishment, ran out in the rain and balanced a pebble on top of a jar. The pistol cracked, the stone was gone, the jar intact.

  ‘God damn my eyes!’

  ‘A capital shot!’

  ‘Prodigious!’

  Amaury smiled grimly. ‘It would not by any chance be a fortunate fluke, Miss Wrangham?’

  Caroline bridled. ‘I protest you are ungenerous, sir! Fluke or not, I challenge you to match it!’

  Amaury took time in loading the second pistol, meticulously measuring powder, exact in adjusting the flint; his expression was abstracted. He balanced the butt in his hand, and looked at Caroline thoughtfully. ‘It is customary to wager on our shots. What will you stake, Miss Wrangham?’

  ‘Whatever you will, sir!’

  ‘Then...’ He bent his head and murmured in her ear. Outrage flamed the colour on Caroline’s cheeks - and an odd exhilaration blazed in the emerald eyes. Anaury grinned. He levelled the pistol and, contrary to his habit, lingered long on the aim. His finger caressed the trigger, the pebble stirred in the wind of the ball - and stayed in place. Amaury lowered his arm, and bowed.

  ‘Your honour, Miss Wrangham, is safe.’

  Marriott wondered at the words, and the emotion that brushed Caroline’s face like a fleeting shadow.

  Could it be disappointment?

  Anstruther touched Marriott’s arm. ‘Our mutual friend, young Todd, has been carried into hospital - the quaking fever, so ’tis said. I suggest we visit him before you go to your office.’

  ‘Poor devil,’ said Marriott soberly. ‘I trust his condition is not serious. The monsoon despatches men to their graves in droves; five funerals I have followed in a week.’

  After escorting Caroline to the Commandant’s House - she seemed preoccupied, and gave disconnected answers to their talk - they skirted the artillery barracks, becoming stea
dily wetter despite their umbrellas, and entered a low arcaded building which housed the European hospital. The interior was an enormous crypt-like dungeon; pillars supporting the roof increased the vaulted effect. Matting screens and blankets draped between the pillars crudely divided the room into separate wards. The windows filtered a dreary daylight. Half-naked bodies lay on wooden cots, staring at the ceiling, plucking at dirty bandages or muttering in delirium. A myriad flies droned dismally, and settled in heaving hummocks on suppurating wounds. Between the cots and on them, indifferent to sounds of suffering, soldiers bickered and bellowed, played cards and rattled dice. Arrack jugs were passed from hand to hand, a corporal quavered a drunken song; supported between two boisterous friends a trooper was sick on the floor. The noise reminded Marriott of a sailors’ tavern at night, the stench the waft from a charnel house and sewage pit in one.

  Anstruther gagged. ‘By God, I have heard ill reports of this place, but never credited the half.’ He peered into the gloom, clouded by scarves of tobacco smoke from a hundred short clay pipes. ‘Can you find a physician?’

  Marriott perceived a bulky figure bending over a cot, and hailed Captain Blore. The surgeon conducted them down the room, pointing out enclosures as he went. ‘Venereal ward in there - damnably crowded: these stupid fellows will not realize every heathen bibee bitch is riddled with pox. Fluxes here, as you can smell - must tell ’em to swab the floor. Smallpox cases between these pillars: all will be dead in a week.’ He entered an airless partition enclosed by wicker screens. ‘Here is the fever ward. We have ’em all: jungle fever, malignant, putrid fever and ague. Your friend, I fear, is uncommonly ill.’

  Todd tossed restlessly on a cot. His eyes were vacant, his face shrivelled and dry, the skin stretched tight upon the bones; he shivered incessantly. Marriott said harshly, ‘Do you afford officers no better quarters than this?’

  A hurt expression crossed the surgeon’s fleshy face. He indicated a calico screen suspended from pillar to wall. ‘He is separate from the common soldiers - what more can you expect? Nor,’ he added sulkily, ‘is a cadet entitled to an officer’s privileges.’ Marriott met Anstruther’s eyes. ‘We must get him out of this! Captain Blore, I insist Mr Todd be removed to healthier quarters. You have no objection, sir, if I take him to my house, where you can easily attend him?’