Wanted: Mail-Order Mistress

Her driver turned Bethan over to the care of an Asian servant woman, whose high-necked tunic and baggy trousers looked three times too large for her tiny frame. With the most perfect courtesy and no hint of surprise at her master’s unexpected guest, she introduced herself as Ah-Ming, the housekeeper. She wasted no time seeing to Bethan’s comfort, offering all manner of food and drink. When those failed to tempt the guest, Ah-Ming made another offer of hospitality that Bethan could not refuse—a bath.

After her long voyage it felt blissful to bathe and wash her hair. The luxurious soak relaxed Bethan, restoring a measure of her usual hopeful spirits. By the time she finished, her trunk had arrived and she was able to change into clean clothes.

With her hair combed out and left hanging long to dry, she thanked Ah-Ming and accepted her offer of tea. While the housekeeper went to fetch it, she wandered into the spacious sitting room.

In some ways it looked like the house where she’d worked back in Newcastle. But the ceiling was much higher and the walls were not papered but clean, stark white. There were many more windows, too, all tall and narrow, with rolled-up blinds made of thin wooden slats instead of curtains. And there was no sign of an imposing mantelpiece the likes of which dominated most rooms back home. The whole place had an air of light and openness that appealed to her free spirit.

A warm breeze blew in through the windows, carrying the fresh tang of the sea mingled with aromas of tropical flowers and spices. After the bustle of the harbour, Simon Grimshaw’s house was a haven of tranquillity. The only sounds Bethan could hear were the familiar, calming rhythm of the sea and a shrill clicking sound she’d never heard before.

Then she picked up another sound, faint but growing louder as it drew nearer—a pair of high-pitched voices talking back and forth in hushed tones, speaking a language Bethan could not understand.

A moment later, another Asian woman appeared. She wore the same sort of loose tunic and trousers as Ah-Ming, but she looked older and even tinier. She was accompanied by a little European girl. The child wore a white muslin frock with a pale green sash. Her dark hair was plaited in two long braids, tied with green ribbons to match her sash. She had delicate features and enormous brown eyes that fixed on Bethan with a look of uneasy curiosity.

“Pardon me.” The child made a graceful curtsy, then began to back away. “I didn’t know we had company.”

She spoke with a charming accent, a bit like the French governess at the house in Newcastle where Bethan had worked.

“Please don’t go on my account.” Bethan dropped to one knee and smiled warmly. “Shall we introduce ourselves? My name is Bethan Conway. I’ve come from England. Do you live here?”

Perhaps Simon Grimshaw had another partner besides Mr Northmore.

Before the child could reply, her companion spoke in a sharp tone, as if offended by the question. “Missy lives here, of course. She is Rosalia Eva da Silva Grimshaw. Her father is master of this house.”

Father? The word rocked Bethan. She was quite certain Mr Northmore hadn’t said anything about Simon Grimshaw having a child. But perhaps this explained why he’d chosen a nurserymaid as a wife for his partner.

She could not decide how she felt about coming into a ready-made family like this. The childlike part of her longed for a little playmate to romp about with, and this dainty little creature was vastly appealing. But marriage would be a difficult enough adjustment without the added responsibility of a young daughter right away.

“You came from England?” Rosalia gave Bethan no time to sort through her confused feelings. “That is where Uncle Hadrian went. Ah-sam says it is very far away. Did he come back to Singapore with you?”

It was clear from her tone that Rosalia was eager to see Mr Northmore again. Bethan hated to dash her hopes. She remembered the bitter disappointment of waiting in vain for the return of a loved one.

“I met your Uncle Hadrian in England.” She tried to break the news as gently as possible. “I think he means to stay there for a while. I don’t think his wife would want to make such a long journey with a wee one on the way.”

Rosalia’s dark brows bunched. “A wee what on the way? Where was it coming from?”

“Er…” Bethan chided herself for speaking so freely to a young child about such matters. She was certain Rosalia’s father would not approve.

Fortunately the servant woman rescued her from awkward explanations by crying out, “Wah! Mr Hadrian has found a wife and started a family? This is good news! First Mr Ford, now him. Only one left now.”

All trace of her earlier annoyance with Bethan disappeared, replaced with a beaming smile reserved for the bearer of welcome news. “What brings you to Singapore, my lady?”

A shrewd twinkle in the woman’s dark eyes suggested that she guessed the reason. Bethan made a special effort to mind her tongue, for the child’s sake. If Mr Grimshaw had not told his little daughter of his marriage plans, she did not want to blurt out the news that Rosalia would soon be getting a stepmother. She would rather make friends with the child first.

“I’ve come for a…visit.” With a beseeching gaze she silently urged the servant not to betray her suspicions. “And I might stay longer if things work out.” Quickly she changed the subject. “Rosalia isn’t a name I’ve heard before, but it’s very pretty. It sounds a bit like Rhosyn. That’s a Welsh name I always liked.”

“Yours is very nice too.” One corner of the child’s rosebud lips arched upward in a bashful half-smile. “I hope you will stay. So many ships come here, but we never get any company.”

Rosalia’s wistful tone went straight to Bethan’s heart. “When I was your age, I lived in a quiet little village. We never got much company, either. At least you have your father here with you. My daddy had to go away to work.”

His visits home had been the best times of her young life. The worst had been the day her mother told her he would never be coming home again.

The servant woman said something to her young charge in another language.

Rosalia replied with an eager nod, then held out her hand to Bethan. “Would you like to see our garden?”

Rising from her crouch, Bethan took the child’s outstretched hand. “Yes, I would, thank you. Tell me, what’s that clicking sound? It seems to be getting louder.”

“The cicadas, you mean? They’re bugs who chirp—the hotter it gets the louder the noise they make. Do they not have cicadas in England?”

As Rosalia led her away, the servant called after them.

“What did she say?” asked Bethan, marvelling at such a young child being fluent in two languages.

“Ah-sam told me to be a good girl so you will want to stay with us.”

The offhand remark troubled Bethan. She knew how easily a sensitive child could take such well-meant warnings to heart.

“I’m sure you are a very good girl.” She gave Rosalia’s hand a squeeze. “Whether or not I stay in Singapore will have nothing to do with how you behave.”

More likely it would depend on her behaviour, Bethan reflected. After the trouble she’d caused at the harbour and the way she’d questioned him about his injury, Mr Grimshaw might decide she was not the proper sort of wife for him.

Provided he let her stay long enough to look for her brother that might be for the best. Despite Simon Grimshaw’s fortune and his fine looks, Bethan was not at all certain she wanted to surrender her newfound freedom to such a cold, disapproving man.

Chapter Three

“What is that noise?” Simon Grimshaw demanded as he strode out on to the deep veranda of his new villa.

Though his housekeeper hovered nearby, attentive as always, Simon’s question was not addressed to her or anyone else. He scarcely realised he’d spoken aloud as he scanned the back garden for the source of the unfamiliar sound. Was it the call of an exotic bird he’d never before encountered? Or perhaps the music of some traditional Malay instrument wafting down from the Sultan’s istana?

The sound rose again from among the brightly flowering shrubberies below, this time accompanied by a similar one, deeper and warmer in timbre. Together they created a beguiling harmony. With a start, Simon realised he was hearing the clear, merry laughter of a woman and child. Had he not heard that sound for so long he’d forgotten it?

An instant later Bethan Conway burst into view, her vibrant auburn hair streaming behind her as she ran. The fluid grace of her movement reminded him of a wild antelope he’d seen in India. Her winsome peal of laughter seemed to reach into his chest and strike a reluctant trill over the cords of his heart.

As he fought to subdue that foolish reaction, Rosalia appeared from behind the rhododendron bush and called out to Bethan. Her accent, which mingled Portuguese and a trace of Cantonese, sounded very much like her late mother’s. Had the child grown taller since the last time he’d seen her?

That thought dealt Simon a faint stab of guilt. Ever since he’d taken sole charge of Vindicara, he’d had little time to spare for Rosalia. After they’d moved to this spacious new house from the old one beside the godown, he’d seen less of her than ever.

His attention was so tightly fixed on the garden below that he did not notice Ah-Ming standing beside him until she spoke. “Mr Hadrian chose well for you. The lady is polite and cheerful. She will make you a good wife.”

“She is not here to be my wife,” Simon replied firmly in Cantonese. “I mean to take her as my…concubine.”

He knew that was not precisely the right word, but it was the closest he could come in her language.

“Aiyah!” Ah-Ming shook her head. “You will take a concubine before a wife?”

“Instead of a wife,” Simon growled. He was sick to death of the constant, subtle pressure to remarry from his housekeeper and Rosalia’s amah. “One marriage was more than enough for me. I will not wed again.”

The housekeeper responded with a smug chuckle. “Mr Hadrian and Mr Ford said they would never marry, but something changed their minds.”