Free The Hills of Singapore by Dawn Farnham Page A

“More like the local magistrate.”
    He turned to Charles. “But not unworthy for all that, eh? Considering what a lazy devil he was in college, dreaming and sketching, totally lacking ambition—the despair of his good father.”
    Charles laughed, and they talked of their days at Marischal College in Aberdeen, which both acknowledged had not been onerous. Charlotte smiled and linked arms with her brother. He and Charles Dyce were great friends and shared a love for amateur theatricals.
    â€œThe most important subject was ‘regular attendance’, although I occasionally enjoyed Virgil,” Robert said.
    Charles laughed. “I spent most of my time drawing. It is fortunate indeed that the same examination questions appeared year after year else neither of us should ever have graduated.”
    Robert grinned and turned to Charlotte. “You must send Alex and Adam when they are old enough. What it lacks in rigour it makes up for in social enjoyment and useful introductions.”
    Alexander and Adam? To Scotland? Charlotte had not thought about this. It was commonplace enough to send one’s children home for their later schooling. She supposed that was the right thing to do.
    Charlotte suddenly and deeply missed Tigran standing by her side, so solid and loving, supporting her in everything, adoring their children. She could have consulted him. He would have known what to do. She felt a great loneliness descend on her and pleading the heat, walked quickly out onto the verandah and looked down to the town.
    From Government House atop the hill, at night the European town was all but invisible. Lights traced the long, dark curve of the river in the Chinese town; brightness came from the lanterns of the boats huddled together in the middle of the river. From here it was easy to see why the Chinese called this part “the belly of the carp”, for it swelled plumply. On the harbour, the lamps of the night watch, like glinting sparks, bobbed on the ships at anchor. She took her handkerchief and pinched it into her eyes, breathing deeply, the effort not to sob taking all her will. It took her like this, in the most unexpected moments.
    In the distance, on the edge of the world, a sheet of blue lightning burst silently across the sky, illuminating briefly the forest of masts on the water. She stopped crying. Was it a sign? Charlotte knew she was becoming obsessed with signs but she could not quite help herself. Every natural manifestation seemed a signal from him sent to comfort her: a swift breeze on a windless day, the end of a rainstorm, a bird’s passage. She smiled, knowing he would have laughed at her. She wanted to feel his arms around her, lean her head back against his chest, holding her secure. Oh, Tigran, she thought, why?
    â€œMrs Manouk?” A voice spoke from the darkness of the verandah, and she started and turned.
    â€œIt is John Thomson. I am sorry to have startled you.”
    Charlotte shook her head.
    â€œNo, Mr Thomson, not at all. I was taking some air, waiting for our illustrious guests to arrive.”
    Thomson came up next to her.
    â€œMay I …? Would it be all right to say how sorry I am about …?”
    Charlotte put her hand on his arm, stopping him. John Thomson was an architect and the Government Surveyor of the Straits Settlements, and Charlotte liked him very much. He was slim and pale, with short, dark, wavy hair, a long face, a long nose and soulful eyes. He was young, she knew, twenty-two, yet he had a grave earnestness which made him seem older.
    John thought that Charlotte Manouk was the loveliest woman he had ever met. She was dressed in sombre half mourning, a deep purple dress with black trim and a black shawl. Her only jewellery was a silver and pearl locket and pearl earrings. He could see she was still grieving. He was very sensitive to such matters and thought women the most spiritual of creatures. These widow’s weeds could