The House of Hardie (32 page)

‘Wait a little,' she pleaded to her baby. ‘Please wait.'

Gordon sighed with contentment as he rested in the valley of lilies. Surely this must be the happiest day of his life!

Throughout the years of dreaming and studying and planning which had preceded the expedition, he had done his best not to make his expectations too specific. The purpose of his venture was to discover something new – something which could not be imagined because it had never yet been seen outside its native habitat. Nevertheless, as a runaway boy, one of the earliest lessons he had learned from the botanist who befriended him was that discoveries are made by people who know what they are seeking.

It was that same botanist who had told him about the lost lily. Merlot's lily, he had called it. Vividly Gordon recalled the excitement with which he had listened to the story. From that moment onward he had longed to become the man who would find the lily again and this time bring it safely back to Europe. But others had had the same ambition. Naturalists had been searching for it for years without success. To have proclaimed such a rediscovery as his principal goal would have doomed his expedition to failure. So he had made no mention of it to any of his patrons.

This restraint made his triumph all the sweeter. The lily would be his own. He could name it, breed from it, sell it if he wished or else keep it for himself to be the envy of every other horticulturist. With a second sigh of satisfaction
he lay back, intoxicated by the heady perfume of the flowers and his own sense of achievement.

It was all because of the baby. Remembering his reaction of dismay on first hearing Lucy's news he was momentarily ashamed. He had even felt angry with her, as though it were her fault, instead of experiencing the joy with which a man ought to greet the news of a new life.

He knew that joy now. His feelings for the baby and the lily merged in a swell of possessive love. For Lucy, the conditions of the birth would be hard, but he would give her every assurance that he wanted the baby.

The wind changed, wafting the scent away and reminding him by a sudden edge of coldness that he ought not to delay any longer before making his way to the camp. In his excitement he had climbed to the head of the valley of lilies. Now, with more difficulty, he began to make his way down. In his pack were a dozen of the precious bulbs, and a bunch of the flowers for Lucy to smell and to paint.

The descent took longer than he had expected. The sun had set behind the high mountains long before he reached the bridge, and darkness was falling as he made his precarious way across it. But the camp could not be more than half an hour or so away. Lucy would be worrying – so Gordon began to sing, loudly and untunefully, gesturing his coolie companion to join in so that Tibetan and English notes mingled in discord. Hearing them coming, Lucy would be laughing and teasing when they arrived, instead of anxious.

The camp, as they approached in the gathering darkness, seemed smaller than usual and there was none of the usual bustle associated with the cooking of the evening meal. Gordon's mind began to twitch with anxiety. ‘Lucy!' he called.

Two coolies came running, chattering an explanation which he could not understand. They addressed themselves to his companion who nodded but was unable to translate.

Not for the first time, Gordon cursed his inability to speak or understand Tibetan. When preparing in England for the expedition, he had tried to teach himself Mandarin Chinese from a book – but on arrival in China quickly discovered it to have been a waste of time. With no teacher to guide him in the sound of the language, he had failed to master the tones which allowed every word to have several different meanings, and could only with difficulty make himself understood. He could get the gist of what officials asked or ordered; but the poorer people conversed in their local dialects – and Tibetan, of course, was different again. By miming and the use of pidgin he had established sufficient communication with Sati to cover the normal requirements of travel. But without Sati he had suddenly become deaf and dumb.

Gordon needed only a moment to check that Lucy was not in either of the two tents. He returned to the three coolies to struggle with an interrogation. ‘Where missee gone away?'

The question was understood because it was expected, but could be answered only with gestures – vigorous jabbings of fingers in the direction of the village below. Sati, it appeared, had also gone that way. Only as Gordon made a show of losing his temper did one of the men produce an explanation. He had forgotten the word, but remembered the mimed gesture which Gordon himself had earlier used for the expected baby. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and rocked them.

‘Baby?' checked Gordon. ‘Missee gone baby?' Unless there had been an accident, no other explanation was
possible; he accepted it at once. Striding past the tents, he searched for the continuation of the mountain track which led down to the village.

‘Kabadar, kabadar!'
The coolies ran to tug him back, shouting their warning of danger. Gordon disregarded it at first, but before he had gone a hundred yards was forced to stop. Although the gradient of the descent was less severe here than it had been higher up, the path was still only a corniche – a narrow ledge hacked from the mountainside with a precipitous drop on one side down to the falling river. Even by daylight, care would be needed in following such a track. On a night when there was no moon, only a fool would go further. He would gain little time by groping his way through the darkness, since he could travel at ten times the speed next day. Besides, if Lucy had been taken to some isolated house in the valley, before reaching the village, he might go past it without realizing it was there.

So common sense held him back. He shared the meal which the coolies prepared and then left them to their opium pipes and retired to his tent – too worried to write up his notes; too worried even to sleep. What was happening to Lucy at this moment? Where was she? How was she? He ought to be with her. Even though he could do nothing to help with the birth of the baby, she should have been comforted by the knowledge that he was close at hand. And the villagers would feel no great respect for a foreign woman. He ought to be at her side to provide authority and make decisions.

As he tossed through the night his anxiety increased to a deeper fear. Suppose Lucy should die! In such a remote country area she would be fortunate if there were even a village midwife who could be summoned. Certainly there would be no trained medical help. So many things could
go wrong. He could hardly bear to think of the pain which she must be suffering – but when he tried to put that out of his mind it was replaced only with the thought of his own pain if he should lose her. So great was his desolation that it was almost as though the loss had already occurred. Terror froze his body into a tense immobility, while his heart pounded erratically. If he had lost his darling, how could he bear to go on living?

Instead of growing steadily, the love he felt for his wife seemed to have increased in dramatic leaps. At their first meeting he had been instantly attracted by the beauty of her face. Once he was married – almost against his will – her body had aroused his desire, which fed on the adoration with which she gave herself to him. Her courage and cheerfulness throughout their travels – especially during the dangerous Yangtze ascent – had given him a new reason to love her, as a companion. In short, he could have had no complaint about the way everything had turned out, except that it had been as she, not he, had planned. No doubt a good many marriages took shape in very much the same manner. It was only because Gordon so much prided himself on his strength of purpose that a trace of regret had remained to mar his honeymoon delight.

The regret inevitably increased when Lucy's pregnancy threatened to destroy all his plans. But the excitement of finding the lily had brought him triumphantly to terms with that. Only a few hours ago he had believed himself to be the happiest man in the world. And now, without warning, his happiness was at risk again, threatened by the possibility of Lucy's death. All his doubts and hesitations were swept away by that danger. He could think of nothing but the fact that without Lucy his life would not be worth living.

The next morning, long before it was fully light, he left two of the coolies behind to pack up the camp and hurried away with the third towards the valley. A three-hour scramble brought them to the edge of the cultivated land. The track broadened and was crossed by what – to judge from the mule trains which were on the move in both directions – was a considerable highway. The route that Gordon had been following for the last three weeks was chosen for its directness rather than for ease of travel – and, in any case, its starting point was in a wild area which no ordinary traveller would have cause to visit. Now they had met the high road along which enterprising traders carried their goods between Tibet and China.

There were no buildings beside the road, so Gordon, crossing it, pressed on towards the village he had first glimpsed from high above. It was walled against dacoits and unfriendly neighbours and all the valley's inhabitants had chosen to live in security behind the walls, rather than in the countryside around. Only the dead rested outside.

Passing through the graveyard, Gordon made for the nearest gate. He was still a little way away when he saw Sati emerge on horseback, coming to look for him. Although the Tibetan put out his tongue in the usual form of greeting, his expression was sombre. Without speaking, he turned his horse round and led the way back through the gate.

The first building inside the wall was an inn. Its public rooms were crowded, but the chatterers fell silent as Gordon followed Sati through. He had become accustomed to a demonstration of curiosity when arriving at such places. Crowds, sometimes hostile, would gather to stare; it was usual for him to be pointed at, touched, questioned. But today, it seemed to him, the polite bows
of the inn's guests expressed not interest but sympathy. A hundred eyes pierced into his back as he approached the door of the inn's principal guest room. He was the only man there who did not know what he was going to find.

Tears trickled down Lucy's face as she lay in the darkened room and waited for Gordon to come. He would not be long; she was sure of that. There had been a moment in the early hours of the morning when, between her pains, she had been afraid – afraid that he would hurry too fast through the darkness to catch her up, and would fall, leaving her alone in this barbaric place, so far from home; and alone in the world, with no one to love her. But then the pain had consumed her, leaving no room in her mind for any other emotion; and now she was too unhappy to feel fear.

She sniffed; but that did nothing to check the flow of tears. It was impossible to dab her eyes dry, because her hands were not free. The old woman brought by the innkeeper's wife had first of all helped with the birth and then, when it was all over, had strapped her body to a flat wooden board, winding a kind of bandage tightly round and round from shoulders to ankles, as though she were being prepared for burial. She could move nothing but her head and toes; could hardly even breathe. From time to time she slipped into sleep or faintness. And each time, as she regained consciousness, the first question she asked was the same: ‘Where is the baby?' But no one understood.

The door opened and closed again. It was too dark to see who had come in, but she recognized the perfume of lilies which she had seen in the gorge only twenty-four hours earlier. ‘Gordon?' she asked weakly.

In a rush he was beside her, dropping the flowers and kneeling on the floor so that his hands could grip her shoulders.

‘Lucy, darling, how are you? I've been so frightened. Oh, my dearest, I love you so much. Dearest, dearest Lucy.' He pressed his face against hers, and Lucy could feel that he was crying. Their tears mingled, but only Gordon's were tears of relief.

‘I want to see the baby,' whispered Lucy. She ought first of all to say how glad she was to see him, and reassure him on her own behalf; but her anxiety about the baby was too great. ‘I heard a cry. Just one. Then they took her away. To wash, I thought. But they won't bring it back.'

‘I'll go and see.' Gordon kissed her all over her face. ‘They have different customs, I expect. And didn't understand you. But how are
you
?'

‘I'm tired. But I shall be all right. The baby –'

‘Yes, I'll go.'

He was away far too long. Lucy tried to comfort herself by imagining possible explanations. Perhaps the new-born baby had been put to a wet nurse and was at this moment being fed. But then, why had Lucy's own breasts been bound so uncomfortably tightly? Although in England she might not have chosen to feed her own baby, in the present circumstances it was the obvious – the only – thing to do. Although her mind would not accept it, her heart already knew what news Gordon would bring.

When he returned at last he tried to find her hand and hold it, but was frustrated by the bindings.

‘I'm sorry, dearest,' he said. ‘The baby's dead.'

‘It can't be. I heard the cry.'

‘She was born alive. A little girl. But she was very small. Too small to live. I think I was right when I said
that September was the earliest time for her to be born safely. This was too soon. It was all my fault. You shouldn't have had to travel in such a rough way. I should have found somewhere you could rest.'

‘How could you, when I didn't tell you until we were in the mountains?' Lucy began to cry again. ‘Oh Gordon, I know you didn't want the baby. And I didn't either, not at first, not here. I knew it was spoiling everything for you. But when I felt her move, and when I heard that cry, I wanted her then. I ought to have looked after her better before she was born. I'm not fit to be a mother. It was my fault that she died. She died because she wasn't wanted enough. But she was, really. It was just, just…'