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For the past few weeks, the servants hadn’t been so assiduously punctual but their master was expected any minute. Their real master. The one who paid their wages, beat them when they did not please him and turned them out onto the streets on a whim.
Hugo had as much fear and contempt of Septimus Adams as any of his Indian staff.
But fortunately, his uncle was not yet returned and he could enjoy a quiet drink in contemplation of the beautiful sunset and reflection of what he’d left behind in England.
A small boy trailing after his mother on the front lawn as she picked twigs from the ground captured his attention. When Hugo noticed the monkey observing them from above, he knew he had to sketch the scene.
It wasn’t often that his fingers weren’t itching to record some amusing vignette, or to paint the magical colours of this overwhelming country.
He rose and went to the large desk where he kept his writing and painting implements. Of course, he had to conduct another search for any correspondence that might have been delivered while he’d been out. But there was nothing, only a pile of business letters addressed to his uncle, including one in his father’s hand.
Hugo stared at it. A ship had delivered the latest post from England but, again, there was nothing from Charity.
It didn’t make sense. She couldn’t have forgotten him so quickly when every minute of every day an image of her sweet face sustained him throughout whatever unpalatable task he must perform in his father and uncle’s mercantile interests.
For a moment he just stood staring at the neatly stacked piles of correspondence awaiting his uncle’s attention. There would be profit and loss statements, invitations to social events, requests for business consideration. All the day to day matters that meant nothing to Hugo while in his hand he clutched the simple parchment and charcoal that gave his existence meaning.
Actually, these were just the outward manifestations of any meaning. When it came to the true and deep nourishment of his soul, he needed the warm, human connection of the only good person who’d ever touched his life.
He needed Charity.
The vision of her that swam before his eyes was so real and intense, he thought he was being possessed by the devil when it dissolved the moment he reached out a hand to grasp it.
That’s how it was with dreams.
With a cry of frustration, he flung his arms wide before covering his face with his hands. The sketching materials flew into the air and hit the wall, falling to the floor as Hugo sank to his knees.
What was wrong with him? It had been nine months since he’d seen his beloved and every day only increased his torment. In the darkness of his thoughts, she continually returned to him, her expression at first shy, then gaining in confidence before she held out her arms to draw him to her breast.
But she wasn’t here. And Hugo had no idea how she was faring. All he could do was send her his wages, which he channelled through a trusted servant to bypass his uncle. Until he heard back from Charity that his support was no longer needed, he’d keep sending her money for what else was going to keep her from the streets?
What else but his assistance would save her from that which terrified her more than anything else: becoming like Madame Chambon’s other girls.
The soft tread of a servant brought him to his senses. Wearily he rose, casting about for his scattered tools of trade. He’d sketch to keep the demons at bay.
The boy and his mother were gone but Charity’s vision could be conjured up with ease. He’d take his paper and his charcoal, relax in a cane chair on the verandah where the afternoon breeze cooled him after a day of physical exertion, and he’d do what he loved. He’d find peace and try to keep at bay the knowledge that he still had to endure another year here before he was his own man.
Placing
his parchment on the table surface, he glanced towards the desk and saw his piece of charcoal wedged between it and the wall. He went back, crouching down so he could run his hand along the gap until it encountered resistance.
But as his fingers grasped the object, it was not a drawing implement he withdrew but a letter.
Unopened, he saw as he held it up.
And addressed to him in Charity’s hand.
The pounding of his heart was loud in his ears as he returned to his private nook on the verandah, ripping the envelope with no finesse in his haste to learn the most up-to-date information to be had about the girl he loved.
But upon scanning the date, he realised this had not come in the last post only to have inadvertently slipped off the desk and out of sight.
It had been written five months before, just as Charity was preparing to embrace the spring.
With terror and foreboding, he soon discovered, as he scanned the lines of tiny writing.
By God, Cyril had been pestering her, persuading her of the comforts he could provide Charity if Hugo failed to live up to his promises to send her what meagre financial assistance he could.
He couldn’t stay seated, such was his anger and agitation.
