London

by Edward Rutherfurd

Martina was up early that morning. She prepared the room, brushed her short hair, washed and scented herself carefully. Then, before dressing, she inspected her body. She felt her breasts, which were small and soft; she ran her hands down the firm lines of her legs. Satisfied, she began to dress.

She slipped on a pair of new sandals, experience having taught her that the leather would give off a faint smell that, combined with the natural scents of her body, was attractive to men.

It was only after nightfall that Julius’s mother began to be concerned. The neighbours were enjoying their meal. The fat girl had just consumed her third chicken. Her husband, Rufus, his round, cheerful face now red as a berry, was telling his friends a funny story. But where was the boy?

As it was summer, she wore only a simple shift, so that when, like most of the women, she stepped into the stream fully dressed to wash, he got a good idea of her body as she came out. He discovered that she was not, as he had imagined, flat-chested, but had small, nicely formed breasts.

It had been a long time since Barnikel had made love and he had supposed that such a thing might no longer easily come to pass. Yet as he rose and took in his arms the young woman whom he had loved first as a daughter and then as a woman, all doubts seemed to vanish. As for Hilda, experiencing for the first time the slow and delicate caresses of an older man and brought gently and lovingly to ardour, she found a warmth that was infinitely touching.

He was odd. There was a funny white patch in his hair which people stared at. Worse, the curious webbing of skin between his fingers appeared to be strange as well. Often, he would look surreptitiously at people’s hands to see if they had this webbing too. But they never had. Once he had discovered that the cook’s assistant, a fat girl who seldom spoke, was also called Ducket, and he had asked her eagerly, “Are you of my family?” But she had only munched a ginger cake and finally told him: “I dunno.”

As for his amorous conquests, he said nothing, but many in India could have told Mary Anne that they too were legendary. Only the wives of his brother officers were sacrosanct. Just. At least a hundred beautiful women, none of whom should, closed their eyes with a secret sigh quite often, and thought of Meredith’s embraces.