Chapter 3

N.B. – I’ve decided that, rather than posting my chapters in their original form, (which are actually really long, I now realise) I’ll post them as I write, in smaller, bite-sized chunks, for easier reading. Enjoy!

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7th June 1838 

Arthur Campbell House, Kensington

Miss Amalie Russell couldn’t believe that the gorgeous man standing in the doorway was the same Adrian from her childhood. The last time she had seen him, he had been a scrawny thirteen year old, with floppy hair and the tendency to break out in acne when told to speak or perform in front of large groups of people. This man gave off the impression of a well groomed lion with barely contained energy in his frame and under his obviously well-tailored tail-coat. He radiated authority. And his midnight blue eyes … no, they were exactly the same as before, holding mischief and kindness in equal parts.

At that precise moment, however, they were masked with awe and astonishment. Yet there was no recognition in his features. Didn’t he realise who she was? Had he forgotten all about her? Of course she herself had changed much over the long years, but she had not forgotten him. While most of her had embraced the adventures of India, a small part of her heart had held on tightly to England and its cool, wet weather. At the centre of that had been the memories of her mother and her blissfully-ignorant summers with Adrian and Anna-Marie.

She had known Adrian then. She knew all about that boy. But she did not know how he had changed over the years. She knew nothing about this altogether-too-handsome man. This man was Mr. Campbell and he was a stranger. So why couldn’t she take her eyes away from his? He seemed to hold her there in his long and predatory gaze.

“Ah Adrian, my boy,” Lord Newham’s rugged voice broke whatever spell that had held Amalie, for which she was incredibly grateful. “You’ve finally graced us with your presence then. Your mother was beginning to doubt whether you would turn up at all.”

“It’s always a pleasure to meet you too, father.” Mr. Campbell’s new deep voice rang through the room and his grin was sly to say the least. But first he manoeuvred his way through the furniture to greet his mother. After a kiss and much petting from Lady Charlotte he turned back to his father, with expectation ripe on his face.

“You remember my old friend Major Russell, lately returned from Hindustan,” Lord Newham stated, as Amelia’s father rose from his place to shake Mr. Campbell hand. “Though, I believe, it is Colonel Russell now, is it not?”

Her father chuckled, “yes, well, being promoted comes with its own perks,” and sent a quick glance towards her. She knew exactly what he meant but refused to acknowledge his teasing by returning his look. Instead she looked at Mr. Campbell, on whose face recognition finally broke out like a midsummer sunrise.

“Uncle William,” it was half exclamation and half question. He gulped, nervous for reasons Amalie could not fathom. “The years have been kind to you.”

Amalie thought that was a bit too much of an exaggeration. Though her father was the picture of health, his once soft face was now rugged and chiseled from the harsh weather of India, and his brown eyes heavy with all the pain they had witnessed over the years.

“Evidently much kinder to you, than to me Adrian,” replied her father, appraising Mr. Campbell just as she had. “You will, of course, remember my sons. Lucas, you childhood playmate, is now Captain Russell, of the 74th regiment. And Zachary here, is the brightest lad that I have ever come across. He has quite a head for languages.” Amelia smiled indulgently at the way her father’s voice was dripping with pride. She felt much of it herself as well and so could not fault him for showing off.

She watched as Mr. Campbell greeted her brothers affectionately. He then came to stand in front of her and before her father could say a word of introduction, Mr. Campbell voiced her nickname, “Amalie”. It was a mere whisper on a breath, and she was surprised she heard it at all. But somehow, the way he said it, seemed so intimate that she could help the colour rising to her cheeks.

“And that beautiful young lady before you, is my daughter, Amelia.”

“Miss Russell.” He gave a small gentlemanly bow. She returned it was a perfectly executed courtesy and raised her hand, just as Aunt Samantha had taught her was befitting a proper young lady in polite English society.

Mr. Campbell took her gloved hand and kissed her knuckles. The action sent her heart all aflutter though she knew he was only carrying out a courtesy. In India, men and women, whether Hindu or Muslim, did not touch hands when greeting each other, and Amelia couldn’t help but think that there was nothing polite or proper about this English custom, but that it was rather invasive of one’s privacy.

“I’m glad to have finally met you again.” Mr. Campbell’s soft words brought her out of her reverie.

“And I, you.” It was a rather short and abrupt answer but she couldn’t think of much else to say with everyone else eyes pouring over them.

But the long awkward moment of tension was broken when Colonel Russell resumed his seat by Lord Newham and took up their conversation from where it had been interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Campbell. Lucas listened in attentively as he had before, adding is own self-important opinion, in Amalie’s mind, every now and then. Mr. Campbell sat down in the empty chair beside her and Amalie turned her head in the other direction to continue talking to Lady Charlotte about her evening gown, only to find that Lady Charlotte had engaged in a discussion with Zack about all the varied languages in India. That annoyed Amelia to no end, because now it meant that she would have to speak to Mr. Campbell and there was enough awkwardness between them as it was. But she remembered the emphasis her Aunt had put on always remaining polite, so she put on her best smile and turned back towards him.

“We have a lot of catching up to do. Fourteen years is a long time, after all.”

He looked rather at a loss for words, and then quite confused as he spoke: “indeed it is.”

His vague answer annoyed Amalie further. She hadn’t said anything too complicated and he couldn’t possibly be that daft. The Adrian she had known had always been rather mischievous and clever, always able to answer all her questions with his superior and knowledge.

“And how is Anna-Marie? I was hoping to see her here today.” She tried again to engage him in conversation.

“She has been Lady Anna-Marie Ellsworthy of Caterham these past three years. She lives with her husband in Camden Town.” A brotherly smile appeared on Mr. Campbell’s lips which went a long way to soften his square features. “I expect to become an uncle in about a months time.”

“Oh, how lovely! Congratulations. I really can’t wait to see her now.”

“Thank you. I’m sure she would love to see you too.” There was a slight pause as Adrian Campbell raked his mind for something else to say. He could not allow the conversation to disintegrate into the awkwardness of a few minutes ago. “Umm, I notice your mother is not here this evening. How is she?”

Amelia’s smile became infinitely more sad and wizened, and Mr. Campbell regretted ever bringing up the topic.

“My mother, God rest her soul, died the year after we moved to India … from cholera.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I truly am. I had no idea.”

“It’s okay. Nobody over here knows and I expected to be questioned quite a lot about it.”

“As far as I can remember, she was a remarkably kind woman. And rather beautiful too. She loved to garden, right?”

Amalie just nodded, rather surprised at the change of his tone and his enthusiasm to speak.

“I remember this one time,” Mr. Campbell continued nostalgically, “we were playing cricket in your garden. I hit a sixer and it shattered one of her clay plant pots…”

“Her favourite white roses, I remember.”

“She was so upset that I actually felt truly guilty about it.”

“I remember how hard it was to make you feel guilty about anything.”

“You’re right of course. But I think what made it worse, that day, was that rather than shouting at us, she took us into the kitchen and gave us all the treacle tarts we were suppose to have for dessert that evening.”

Amalie laughed. She knew exactly how this story ended.

“After finishing your tart, you went right back outside and dug a hole in the middle of the lawn and planted the roses there.”

“Ever since that day, I’ve always wondered at the amazing power of treacle tarts.”

“Hmm, I don’t think I’ve had a treacle tart since I left England. I’ve quite forgotten what they taste like.”

“Really?! We’ll have to remedy that soon. But, excuse my curiosity, what sort of things did you eat in Hindustan?”

“Well, whatever our cook,  Nayla, had a fancy to make really. Which was mostly her native food: spicy curries, chaptis, lentils and all manner of rice dishes. Though, she always went out of her usual routine on Christmas and would make roast whole chicken. But even then, the chicken was marinated in chilli powder, turmeric and God knows what else. I remember father deplored all of it to begin with and kept trying to persuade poor Nayla in his broken Hindi to make, what the English called “civilised food”. But when he realised his children had developed a taste for it, he gave up his struggles.”

“And what do you think of our ‘civilised’ English food, now that you’re back?”

“Well … urmmm…” Amalie glanced surreptitiously at her father, whom she knew was listening to every single word she was say, with his keen miltary ears. In truth, she thought English food to be bland and tasteless, and had taken a dislike to the way the some meat-dishes sat bleeding on her plate. But she didn’t express any of this out loud as she knew it would hurt her father’s feeling, and did not want him to think, for any reason big or small, that she was not glad to be back in England.

Adrian, who had been watching Miss. Russell’s face keenly saw the glance and figured out what was going on in her mind.

“Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter.”

“Your quoting something, aren’t you?”

Adrian chuckled, realising that Miss. Russell had become rather intelligent in their time apart.

“Othello,” he conceded, but seeing her perplexed expression elaborated to: “it’s a play, by Shakespeare….”

“Oh yes, him I’m heard of. Our aunt Samantha had a small volume of his sonnets and she made us memorise many of them when we were children. I didn’t know he had written plays too.”

“Really? Well, here his plays are generally more known than his poems. They’re thought of as the literary pride of Britannia. Tell me, if not Shakespeare, what sort of … stories were you brought up with?”

“Well,”

To be continued…