Protecting Elaine was Jessamine’s priority, even if she had to lie to Angus . . .
BY CHARMAINE FLETCHER
THAT’S the last of yer bags.” The coachman smiled, helping Jessamine and Elaine into the carriage.
“’Tis said you’ve come from India – well, it’s not much further now,” he added, shutting the door.
As Elaine snuggled into the plush velvet interior, Jessamine leaned her head against a window, pondering the impulsive decision that had brought them to Scotland . . .
“You’re my child because I say so, Elaine,” Jessamine Carter said in hushed tones to the girl sobbing beside her.
In recent days, their lives had changed considerably.
Jessamine glanced at the remains of their previous, rather cossetted, existence in India.
They were sitting on a small pile of baggage – hers, Elaine’s and what she had salvaged belonging to David, Elaine’s father.
Behind them, the sun burned high and white, framing them, she imagined, in a halo of light, for which the fragile remains of gauze curtains were no match.
Jessamine supposed they must resemble one of the statues of goddesses once dotted about the Farquhars’ former home.
The governess and latterly housekeeper drew her sobbing charge close.
Why had she done it? Jessamine sighed, anxiously awaiting the porters’ arrival.
She hadn’t meant to lie.
In fact, as an Army chaplain’s daughter, it was a thing she’d never done before.
Yet having been orphaned herself, she knew what otherwise lay ahead for Elaine.
How could she forget the sprawling Bombay orphanage and the muffled sobs of other children whose parents, like hers, had perished from heat or pestilence?
Later, she recalled the sense of isolation experienced only by those obliged to live among strangers and the humiliation of being foisted on begrudging relatives.
Jessamine bit her lip.
The final indignity was having to hover, like a ghost, in the background during gatherings – fitting neither in that world nor elsewhere.
Yet this habit had served her well when pursuing the inevitable course for women such as herself – becoming a governess.
Indeed, Jessamine had taken detachment and itinerancy in her stride – literally – until meeting David and Elaine Farquhar.
Despite Calcutta’s beauty, Frances, the child’s mother, had never acclimatised to India’s oppressive climate, flies and noise.
Conseque
