She turned her attention to the doors on the opposite side of the landing. The first opened into a room with a single bed and shelves which contained a collection of china dolls and neatly arrayed toys. Jasmine’s room. Despite the prettiness of the soft furnishings, it had a sad, neglected air about it as though it was rarely used. Evie got the distinct feeling that while it had been designed to appeal to a little girl, Jasmine herself had made little or no impression on it – perhaps as she was rarely here. The dolls on the shelves looked unloved and barely touched. A rocking horse in front of the window was in the pristine condition it must have been in when it was delivered – perhaps a Christmas or birthday gift. Everything was too orderly – a child’s room from an illustrated magazine, rather than one inhabited by a real child. She straightened a rag doll that had been sitting on the only chair and had flopped over onto its side, then left the room, closing the door behind her. She had found no clue as to what kind of girl Jasmine was, or what her interests were. Hoping that before long this bedroom would be occupied, she imagined herself sitting here reading a bedtime story to the little girl who one day might come to think of her as her mother.
The room next door was a bathroom, the wall tiles decorated with motifs of shells, sailing boats and starfish.
Hesitating a moment outside the last door, Evie told herself not to be an idiot, and opened it. The master bedroom was larger than the other rooms, and had a dual aspect. She paused for a moment on the threshold, taking in its simple beauty. A white shuttered French window gave onto a balcony overlooking the garden, furnished with a table and two rattan chairs. A perfect place for taking breakfast or drinking tea.
She moved over to the bed. It was vast, draped with mosquito netting and covered with an embroidered ivory silk bedspread. The stitching was hand-done: an intricate display of leaves and flowers with a peacock as centrepiece. Caressing the coverlet with her fingers, she smoothed the soft silk under the flat of her palm and felt the raised thread of the embroidery work.
She struggled to imagine herself lying here in this bed with Douglas Barrington beside her. She had no idea what to expect when that finally happened. Of course she knew the facts of life, but the sex act was something other people did. Evie didn’t want to think it was something she would soon have to participate in herself. The prospect was alarming. The thought of Douglas and herself, naked under these sheets, sent a shiver of longing through her, tempered by fear.
How utterly her life had changed. Just a few months ago she had barely heard of Malaya and the idea of living here and being married with a ready-made family would have seemed bizarre. She told herself that once the wedding had happened and they were finally man and wife, everything would be fine. If only Douglas shared that hope. His behaviour so far made it seem a forlorn one.
She tried to work out which side of the bed he slept on, but the lacquered wood night stands that stood guard were devoid of any evidence, each bearing only a table lamp. The room contained no sign of Douglas’s presence. It felt like a hotel room, readied for the next guest.
Noticing a pair of doors, she pushed one open and found herself in a dressing room. This room told a different story. The mirrored table was piled with a collection of feminine pots and potions, in coloured glass jars. A Mason Pearson hairbrush lay on its back, several long blonde hairs caught woven into the bristles. Evie picked up a china perfume atomiser, puffed a light spray onto her neck. It was fresh, sweet – perhaps a note of gardenia. After the impersonality of the rest of the house, it was a surprise to find these unexpected remnants of Felicity’s life here. It was as if the former Mrs Barrington had merely stepped out of the room for a while.
Evie drifted towards a line of lacquered doors and opened one. Douglas appeared to have done nothing to remove Felicity’s effects from the house. Inside the wardrobe a rich rainbow of silks, taffeta and satins hung from tightly packed rails. Evie reached out and touched one of the dresses. The fabric was like gossamer between her fingers. Examining the discreet label hand-sewn inside, she saw it was a Fortuny. Unable to resist, she slipped it off the hanger and held it up to herself, moving in front of the cheval mirror in the bedroom. Of course, the gown was far too small for her – Felicity must have been four or five inches shorter and more slender than Evie, but the colour – the palest jade – was perfect for Evie. Holding it with one hand against her shoulder and the other to her waist, she imagined wearing a dress like this while dancing under a starry sky with her husband-to-be. She swayed gently from side to side, eyes closed, the delicate silk under her hands, the strains of a waltz in her head.
‘Why you in here? This private. Your room on other side.’
Evie spun round, almost jumping out of her skin with fright. A stony-faced Aunty Mimi stood, fists on hips in the doorway. But to Evie’s absolute horror, standing just behind her was Veronica Leighton.
Blood flooded into Evie’s face and her skin burned with embarrassment. Her shaming was total. She’d not felt as humiliated since she was four and had wet her knickers at nursery school.
There was a moment’s silence, as Evie longed to wind the clock back, then Aunty Mimi rushed into the room, snatched the gown from her hands and took it back into the
