The White Rajah (1961) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright & Information

  About the Author

  Map

  Book One

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  Book Two

  2

  ii

  iii

  iv

  v

  vi

  vii

  viii

  3

  ii

  iii

  iv

  v

  Book Three

  2

  ii

  iii

  iv

  v

  vi

  vii

  viii

  3

  ii

  iii

  iv

  v

  vi

  Synopses of Nicholas Monsarrat Titles

  Copyright & Information

  The White Rajah

  First published in 1961

  © Estate of Nicholas Monsarrat; House of Stratus 1961-2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of Nicholas Monsarrat to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  1842321617 9781842321614 Print

  0755130057 9780755130054 Kindle

  0755130065 9780755130061 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  Nicholas Monsarrat was born in Liverpool, the son of a distinguished surgeon. He was educated at Winchester and then at Trinity College, Cambridge where he studied law. However, his subsequent career as a solicitor encountered a swift end when he decided to leave Liverpool for London, with a half-finished manuscript under his arm and £40 in his pocket.

  The first of his books to attract attention was the largely autobiographical ‘This is the Schoolroom’. It is a largely autobiographical 'coming of age' novel dealing with the end of college life, the 'Hungry Thirties', and the Spanish Civil War. During World War Two he joined the Royal Navy and served in corvettes. His war experience provided the framework for the novel ‘HMS Marlborough will enter Harbour’, and one of his best known books. ‘The Cruel Sea’ was made into a classic film starring Jack Hawkins. After the war he became a director of the UK Information Service, first in Johannesburg, then in Ottawa.

  Established as a sort after writer who was also highly regarded by critics, Monsarrat’s career eventually concluded with his epic ‘The Master Mariner’, a novel on seafaring life from Napoleonic times to the present.

  Well known for his concise story telling and tense narrative, he became one of the most successful novelists of the twentieth century, whose rich and varied collection bears the hallmarks of a truly gifted master of his craft.

  ‘A professional who gives us our money’s worth. The entertainment value is high’- Daily Telegraph

  Map

  Book One

  The Heir: 1850

  The great house of Marriott was shuttered against death: its noble façade, of palest Cotswold stone, stared blindly across parkland towards the long silver serpent of the River Wye, and the distant Welsh Marches beyond. Under a lowering West Country sky, the returning funeral carriage – its horses blanketed in jet black, their mournful plumes ruffled by blustering winds – wound slowly between the avenue of oaks, as if reluctant to return to this house of sorrow. A patter of raindrops served for tears, as if nature herself would bear witness that in the Year of Our Lord, 1850, Sir James Marriott, Baronet, of Marriott in the County of Gloucester, had gone to his last reward.

  Within the house, also, there was blustering; indeed, the carriage had scarcely been dismissed before his two sons fell headlong into quarrelling. It was an unbecoming turn: indeed, it was shameful; but a single glance at the two men, so different, so long divided, could have supplied reason enough.

  The elder, Miles Marriott, resplendent in the frock coat, ceremonial sword, and gold-tasseled epaulettes of a post-Captain of Her Majesty’s Navy, was a small man, meticulous and opinionated in the way of many small men; he looked about him constantly, as though on guard for some insult or fancied slight. A few weeks short of twenty-one, he seemed already set in the ways of self-importance; high rank – and his rank, for his years, was certainly distinguished – had brought him, not ease and confidence, but the watchfulness of a man who, earning swift advancement either by merit or manoeuvre, insists upon its recognition from the very first moment. I am a post-Captain of the Royal Navy, his darting glance seemed to say; treat me as anything less, and it will be the worse for you.

  The younger brother, Richard Marriott, was of a different mould altogether. He was tall, and broad-shouldered, with a look of wildness about him very different from his brother’s neat formality. He was dressed correctly enough, in a morning coat, and the funereal black stock dictated by the occasion; but he seemed often to be bursting from the confines of these drab trappings, as if he were life itself, rebelling against death and death’s dark dominion. His fierce, handsome face had a careless pride – a pride not of rank but of the fact of masculinity. His expression had been set and bleak when he entered the house, for he had loved his father dearly; but presently, under the goading of their quarrel, it took on a mutinous petulance which betrayed the ever-present division between them.

  The occasion of their falling-out had been innocent enough. In the oak-panelled hall, with its array of grave Marriott faces looking down, an old servant took their topcoats, and Miles’s gold-trimmed cocked hat, and Richard’s crêpe-bound headgear. Then he asked, bowing: ‘Will that be all, Mr Miles?’

  ‘Sir Miles,’ Miles Marriott corrected him coldly.

  Richard Marriott, overhearing, muttered: ‘Good God!’ and turned away abruptly. When the servant had left, and they were alone, Miles Marriott looked at his brother under lowered eyebrows. It was the sort of occasion which he could never have let pass, nor overlooked. He was not that quality of man, and he never would be. He said: ‘What do you mean by that, pray?’

  ‘By what?’

  ‘You know perfectly well to what I am referring, Richard,’ said Miles Marriott, with lofty condescension. ‘You thought fit to exclaim “Good God!” while I was giving some instructions to Jeffreys. Why so?’

  ‘Sir Miles?’ queried Richard, with perceptible mimicry. ‘I must confess it seemed to me an odd moment to insist upon the use of a new title.’

  ‘I am Sir Miles Marriott,’ said Miles, coldly.

  ‘Beyond a doubt,’ agreed Richard. ‘But’ – he indicated the drawn curtains, the sad and heavy twilight of the room – ‘surely these are early days. Old Jeffreys is confused. Allow him some latitude, for heaven’s sake! He has his own grief, you know.’

  ‘Then he must learn to control it.’

  Richard laughed shortly. ‘Brother Miles, brother Miles, I swear there is no one in the worl
d to match you … We come straight from our father’s grave, and you are instantly the fourth baronet, as soon as we set foot inside the house. Perhaps you have been studying?’

  ‘Enough of that!’ snapped Miles Marriott. His heavy epaulettes seemed to bristle, and his look was sharp. ‘I was Sir Miles Marriott from the moment my father died. The sooner that is realized, the better for all concerned. Thebetter for you … There are certain courtesies due to rank, and I will exact them at all times.’

  ‘From me?’ inquired Richard coolly.

  ‘Especially from you,’ said Miles Marriott.

  He turned, as if dismissing some junior suppliant from his quarter-deck, and went to the great mahogany sideboard, with its cut glass decanters of Waterford and Bohemia, its array of sherries and cordials, its locked tantalus of whisky and brandy. He busied himself ostentatiously, pouring a glass of Madeira, his back towards his younger brother, while Richard controlled himself with a mighty effort. This new Miles was no different from the old one, save that there was an added consequence, an increase of pomposity and pride, to complete a picture which he had loathed for as long as he could remember. But he controlled himself because of the day, and the moment; raw from his father’s death, still aware of that creeping graveside chill, he knew that he was especially vulnerable, and that he must guard against it. He and Miles, progressing from quarrelsome children to ever-fighting boys, from boys to the sullen rivalry of young men, had never found common ground at all. Perhaps this was the only possible moment for such a reconciliation to take place.

  But Miles appeared to have no such thoughts – or if he did so, he managed to conceal them without effort. He left the sideboard with a brimming glass, and took his stand in front of the wide log fire, warming his coat-tails, sipping his wine. After a moment, Richard said: ‘I think I will take a glass myself; it was chilly outside,’ and crossed to the sideboard. A voice behind him, cold, correct, said: ‘Pray help yourself.’

  The tone, and the invitation, made him turn and stare. Miles – his legs apart, very much the master of his house – was regarding him as if he were a stranger who had overlooked some common courtesy.

  ‘Help myself?’ repeated Richard Marriott crisply. ‘Of course I shall help myself! What nonsense is this?’

  Miles continued to stare at him. ‘It is my fashion of reminding you,’ he answered at length, with heavy emphasis, ‘that you now enjoy the hospitality of my house.’

  ‘Your house?’

  ‘Even so.’

  Richard Marriott checked himself, on an angry, irrevocable word. However offensively it was phrased, Miles was speaking the literal truth; with their father’s baronetcy, he had inherited Marriott itself – the great house, with its thousand acres of farmland and deer park and rough shooting, was entailed to the eldest son, and Miles was now master of it. But there were methods of taking possession which need not grate upon the souls of those dispossessed … He made a resolve that he would not be put down in this cavalier fashion; he might be the younger son, but he was a son none the less, and sons were not to be turned out at a snap of the fingers, like a trespassing beggar, or a dog ordered to the stables.

  He gulped his Madeira heartily, and poured a second glass, careless of the look of disapproval on Miles’s face. Then he said, as though the subject had no connection with what had passed between them before: ‘I invited Lucinda and her aunt to dine with us this evening.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  They were both staring fixedly at each other now, as if some challenge had been thrown down; the tall clock in the corner ticked away the seconds, while anger on one side, and pride on the other, ebbed and flowed between them. It was Miles Marriott who broke the silence.

  ‘Apart from the propriety of such an invitation–’ he began, portentously.

  ‘Oh, stuff!’ interrupted Richard rudely. ‘Propriety? Devil take it, man, you talk like some village gossip! Lucinda is our own cousin – they are both our own kin! What has propriety to do with it?’

  ‘–the propriety of such an invitation,’ Miles went on, as if he had heard not a word, ‘proffered on the very day of Father’s funeral, I must remind you again that this is my house, and that I, and no one else, will play host in it.’

  There was another silence now, longer, more ominous still. The logs settled in the grate, the wind moaned in the chimney, while Richard glared at his elder brother, and Miles stared back, holding his gaze. There were rights on his side, and they both knew it; but they were grudging rights, lawyers’ rights – there should have been room for generous family rights as well, and Miles clearly had shut his mind against these, as if he had been waiting for this moment, for a long time … It was this which drove Richard past restraint into anger.

  ‘Now by God!’ he burst out, ‘this is too much! You may play host if you wish, but do not play Almighty God!’ And as Miles, shocked at the blasphemy, sought to interrupt: ‘No, I will not be put down!’ Richard shouted. ‘Are things so changed, suddenly, that I cannot invite our own cousin, a cousin whom one day I hope–’ he came to a stop, nearly choking on his anger and deep feeling; and Miles, with the advantage of control, stepped in, coldly precise.

  ‘Things are so changed,’ he answered. ‘And suddenly, as you say.’

  ‘I have enough rights still,’ insisted Richard roughly. ‘You are not the only son, though you act as if you were. I have a share in all this.’

  After a moment, Miles, smiling thinly, answered: ‘I would judge it a mistake to place your hopes too high.’

  There was a spiteful certainty in his voice which brought Richard up short. Miles was no card player – he was far too proper a young man for such rank dissipation – but he spoke as a gambler who, outfacing an opponent, relies on a hand of cards which he knows cannot be beaten. This show of confidence was no bluff – once again, Miles was not a man who dealt in bluffing, he advanced step by delicate step, with every plan laid, and the ground ahead tested. He must therefore know something, something to his advantage; some astonishment was at hand, and he had chosen this way of bringing it out into the open.

  Richard, impulsive, bull-headed, had no patience with such devious methods. He drove his way in, spurred by anger, despising subterfuge.

  ‘Hopes?’ he said. ‘What hopes? Speak plainly, man! Is it the will you are talking about?’

  Miles, taken aback by such directness, raised his hand. ‘You forget yourself, Richard. We cannot discuss the will now. At the appointed time–’

  ‘Appointed time! If it is the appointed time to hint that I have been left less than my share, or no share at all, then it is the appointed time for me to learn the truth.’ He darted an accusing, direct finger at Miles. ‘Speak out! Say what you have to say. What did you mean, that I should not place my hopes too high?’

  Miles hesitated. Clearly, matters had moved more swiftly than he had planned; he had intended a different sort of progress, even a cat-and-mouse enterprise with himself establishing a clear superiority before he condescended to reveal the truth. But there was something of menace in Richard’s bearing which warned him not to delay his dénouement too long. He took a leisurely sip of his wine, and said: ‘Well, if you must be so precipitate … All the property, both real and personal, is now mine.’

  ‘All?’ Richard, astounded, obeyed his first impulse, which was angry disbelief. ‘I’ll not credit that! This is some trick or other. How did you learn this? Is it in the will? Where is the will?’

  ‘In a safe place, in the library.’

  ‘You have seen it?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  The single, disdainful word infuriated Richard almost past endurance. He himself could cool his heels, waiting to be shown the will; yet his elder brother, ‘naturally’, had seen it already, and would take his time about imparting its contents. Once again, he resolved not to be treated in this fashion. He set down his glass, and advanced towards his brother, still warming himself at the fire.

&n
bsp; ‘I will see it myself, now,’ he said gruffly.

  Miles Marriott stood his ground. ‘That you will not,’ he answered, with finality. ‘It is in his strong-box. The box is double-locked, and the lawyers have the key. They will open it, and read the will, when I give them the word.’

  ‘But you have seen it?’

  ‘I have seen it, and I have a copy.’

  Richard, checked, shifted his ground. ‘Where is the copy, then?’

  Miles smiled his thin smile. ‘You are so eager to know your fate? I would be the last one to stand in your way, Richard …’ He pointed, negligently, carelessly, at the desk which stood in one corner of the hall. ‘It is in the upper drawer, on the left-hand side.’

  Richard, without a word, strode across to the desk and pulled at the drawer. It held fast – indeed, it was locked, as he immediately discovered. Baulked, he looked across at Miles with hatred in his eyes.

  ‘You have the key?’

  ‘I have all the keys.’

  ‘Then I wish to see the copy.’

  ‘I will read it to you.’

  He walked across to the desk with small, precise steps, his back stiff, his bearing formal; he might have been on parade. Richard, giving ground so that Miles could open the desk drawer, found himself trembling with fresh rage. As on countless occasions in the past, he was being made to look a fool, at this and every other point; and there must be worse to come, or Miles, the post-Captain so confident of his future, would not behave with this loathsome self-assurance … Miles opened the drawer as if he were performing some office far beneath him, and drew out a document of crisp parchment, closely over-written in the sloping style affected by lawyers’ clerks. Then, holding it, he turned on his heel, crossed to the fireplace, and took up his stand in front of the mantelpiece once more.