The Red Thread Read Online Free Page B

pillar of their lives in this small settlement, and a fresh source was too good to resist. Their own father had been widowed often, and their lives in a house full of brothers and sisters from several mothers were full of occasional rancour but more often of raucous ‘ affection. Isabel and her twin sister, Isobel, whose mother was English, were light-skinned, light-haired and blue-eyed. The elder sister, Julia, was a shade darker in every way: skin, hair and deep brown eyes. Her mother, a mixture of Portuguese and Indian blood, had died when she was five.
    Charlotte smiled at the three girls. Julia was twenty, pretty and quiet. She was soon to be married to Lieutenant Sharpe of the Madras Native Infantry, which was permanently billeted in Singapore. Isobel and Isabel had had the bad luck to resemble their mother, who sat, rather squatly, by their side on the wide sofa. Charlotte could not know it then, but almost no sign of the aquiline good looks of da Silva père had been passed on to them. They were all, however, so friendly and agreeable, and Charlotte was happy to like them all very much.
    â€˜Well, Miss da Silva, perhaps she did, in her way. It was just that she was so intent in knocking out of us what she called our “island ways”. You know—speaking native and being lazy. She made us learn proper English and French and go to church. Robert, my brother, had to go off to school. We had never been separated. It was hard for a time.’
    Her voice broke slightly, but she quickly recovered.
    â€˜But we had a lovely aunt, Aunty Jeannie, who had never married, and she cared for us so it was not so bad,’ she abruptly finished.
    Takouhi, alive to changes in feeling, quickly changed the subject. They had been chatting for hours, and she now offered to show her companions over her house. This proved the ideal suggestion, and with general assent, they prepared to set off. Few of the ladies present had had the opportunity to see this magnificent residence, and they attributed this visit to Takouhi’s brief but growing affection for Charlotte.
    â€˜Takouhi Manouk is George Coleman’s friend,’ Robbie had told her at breakfast that morning. ‘I wrote to you about him. He does all the architectural work and building here, makes the roads, builds the bridges, drains the swamps. Not much he doesn’t do, really, when you think of it. I think you could say that this is Coleman’s town. He’s Irish, but I suppose it’s not his fault, ha ha. Anyway, he has built a beautiful house for Takouhi, and you should meet her. Her name means “queen”, I think, in Armenian. They are Armenians, the Manouks, from Batavia. Her brother is immoderately rich.’
    With this abbreviated introduction, Robert had placed her in a smart two-seater open carriage with great wheels, pulled by a little Sumatran horse, and sent her off. She had protested that she had hardly seen him, it was too soon, but Robert was adamant. He was busy today. Tomorrow he would show her the town. She needed to meet people, have friends. There were not many women of her sort in Singapore.
    She wondered what ‘sort’ that was: young or poor or unattached? Perhaps all three.
    So off went the carriage, away from the bungalow on the sea side and up High Street. The driver was a wiry Indian with skin the colour of deep mahogany. He wore a blue-and-red turban, pushed jauntily back off his brow. His lower regions were clothed in a white dhoti, but he was bare-chested except for a sash thrown over one shoulder. He smelled vaguely of cloves. She felt strange but not uneasy about being in such proximity to naked male flesh and shot glances at him out of the corner of her eye. He looked straight ahead, impassive. At the courthouse they turned right and passed in front of three large, elegant white houses with green shutters and red roofs surrounded by luxuriant gardens. In one rose the crimson-crowned head of the