It was the strangest feeling she had ever experienced. The Chinese trousers had been light, and had felt almost feminine. There was nothing feminine about the breeches she was now wearing. They felt rough against her skin, were far too long, and though Zachary Cartwright was pleasingly narrow-waisted, his waist was nowhere near as slender as hers. With an exclamation of irritation, she rolled the legs up until they were at an acceptable height and gathered the waist in with the belt. There wasn’t an eye-hole far enough along the length of the belt and with increasing bad-temper she stalked back to camp, holding the belt in place, searching in her carpet-bag for a pair of nail-scissors.
‘What the devil do you think you are doing?’ an outraged voice demanded as she struggled to pierce an eye-hole in the thick leather.
She didn’t pause in her efforts. ‘It should be obvious, even to you, Mr Cartwright, that I can’t wear your clothes without certain adjustments having to be made.’
With savage satisfaction she skewered the scissors through the leather.
He stifled a noise that was almost agonized.
‘There,’ she said, smiling up at him with malicious pleasure as she buckled the belt securely around her waist. ‘That’s better.’
Zachary Cartwright looked as if he thought it anything but better and she felt a surge of satisfaction. Odds were again even and she was damned if she would ever let them be anything else.
It was almost two hours before Zachary Cartwright could bring himself to even speak to her again. When he did so it was to say tersely, ‘The moment a situation arises in which you can be escorted back to Chung King, I shall make arrangements for you to return there.’
She didn’t bother to reply. It was highly unlikely that any such arrangements could be made. They were heading further and further into the remotest depths of Asia, and the chances of their meeting up with other Europeans, let alone Europeans who were heading towards Chung King, were so unlikely as to be not worth troubling about.
A little later, as Ben walked steadily on beside Zachary Cartwright’s disdainful-looking pony, she said, ‘Tell me about the Moonflower. How did it get such a romantic name? What is so special about it?’
The Kialing was entering another narrow gorge, though this time with room enough on the banks for them to continue alongside it. Disturbed by their presence, a hoopoe shot out of a tree, the sun glinting on its camellia-rose plumage and brilliant barred wings.
He said, ‘It gets its name because it flowers at night, under the light of a full moon. And it does so for only one night in the year. Before the sun rises, the fragile petals wither and it is another year, and another moonlight night, before it flowers again.’
Gianetta gave a reverent sigh of pleasure, ‘And how do you know this? Who first discovered the Moonflower?’
‘No-one has discovered it as yet in China. A species has been discovered in the Amazon basin. From reports received at Kew, the Amazon Moonflower is a member of the Cactus family and it flowers in a pale, delicate spray of milk-white petals.’
‘I thought it was blue?’ she said bewilderedly.
‘The one I hope to find in Kansu is blue. There is a painting of it in an eighteeth century book of Chinese flowers. Its flowering habits are given as being exactly the same as those of the Moonflower found in Brazil. Despite the difference in climatic zones, I’m certain a Chinese version exists. Chinese flower painters don’t paint from imagination now and they didn’t do so in the eighteenth century. The plant is described as being native to the Min Shan region of Kansu, and that is where I hope to find it.’
‘There must be lots of other beautiful plants that the western world is ignorant of,’ Gianetta said dreamily as Ben stepped fetlock-deep through a sea of scarlet-headed poppies. ‘Plants in the still unexplored regions of the Amazon and in the wilds of Upper Burmah and the desolation of Tibet …’
‘I intend to mount an expedition to Tibet at the beginning of next year,’ he said in a moment of such rare candour that Gianetta nearly fell from Ben’s back in surprise. ‘The Royal Horticultural Society believes that many Tibetan plants could be successfully grown in England.’
The near impossible had happened again. Despite his bad temper and brooding rudeness, they were on the verge of easy-going camaraderie, just as they had fleetingly been the previous evening.
Zachary reined and looked around. The gorge had widened and was fast diminishing and the meadows now spreading out at their feet were thick with flowers.
‘I think a little field-work is called for,’ he said, swinging himself easily from the saddle. ‘You know the correct way to take cuttings, don’t you?’
Grateful for the crash course that Charles had given her, Gianetta nodded.
Zachary handed her a trowel, a pocket-knife and a small collecting-box japanned green on black, with a snap lid like that of a snuff-box.
‘In case you find anything of interest, I have to be able to locate it again. Never be mean with your location notes; they can be invaluable,’ he said, also handing her a notebook and pencil.
Once out of the saddle she stuffed the notebook, pencil and pocket-knife into the pockets of her breeches, appreciating their usefulness for the first time. Then, as he was now giving instructions to the Chinese and as she was sure he would not want her dogging his footsteps, she set off alone through the deep grass, stopping every few yards to secure flowers that to her inexperienced eye looked rare and priceless.
The heat of the sun was pleasant on her back. Butterflies with azure wings darted amongst purple delphiniums and lilac and cream aquilegia; wax-white orchids grew as thick as daisies in an English field. Occasionally she paused in her task, gazing northwards to the misty tops of the mountains, wondering how she had survived the claustrophobic, circumscribed years in Lincolnshire and the frustrating months cooped up behind the Residency’s walls.
When her collecting-box was full to overflowing, and she couldn’t possibly carry any more specimens, Gianetta walked leisurely back to where the ponies and mules were loosely tethered. The baggage-mules had been unpacked and the collapsible chairs and table erected. She hoped it was Zachary Cartwright’s intention to make camp there. A short day’s travelling would be welcome after the last three, long, arduous days.
When at last he joined her, the Chinese at his heels, Zachary said with deep satisfaction, ‘There’s quite a remarkable range of specimens in this area. It’s going to be a long evening writing them up and pressing them.’
Perspiration beaded his forehead, and there was a streak of dirt on his cheek. She grinned, wondering if she looked equally disreputable.
‘I’ve got a huge collection myself but I’ve no idea what they are.’
‘Let’s have a look,’ he said, squatting on his heels by the side of her canvas-chair, wiping perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand.
She opened her collecting-box, handing him first one carefully culled specimen and then another.
‘A Chinese daisy,’ he said disparagingly, ‘and barbery. Both of them practically weeds. And Oxytropis and Viola Patrinii. Nothing there to set the world on fire, pretty though they are.’
‘Haven’t I found anything of worth?’ she asked, deeply disappointed. ‘Aren’t any of the other plants I’ve found rare?’
He looked over her motley collection. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said, and he flashed her exactly the same kind of grin he had flashed at Charles shortly before he had said goodbye to him.
The world seemed to rock on its axis. Her breath hurt in her chest and her heart began to slam in sharp, slamming strokes that she could feel even in her finger-tips.
Unaware of how deeply he had disconcerted her he rose to his feet, walking across to where the Chinese were busy setting up one of the flower presses.
Gianetta remained immobile. What had happened to her? Surely not even Zachary Cartwright was so moody and uncongenial that a grin from him was enough to shock in so disturbing a manner? And yet obviously it was. Sh
e wondered if his affability would last and determined that if it did so, her reaction to such pleasantness would be far less dramatic.
When a fire had been lit and a meal was under way, she said to him tentatively, ‘Would you like me to sketch today’s plants for you?’
He nodded. ‘You can begin now. I’m going to walk back to the mouth of the gorge before it gets too dark to see clearly. I don’t think I missed anything when we rode though it, but you can never be sure.’
It was bliss sitting in the late afternoon sunlight, sketching not
only for enjoyment but for a purpose, Ben companionably close
by, the shining waters of the Kialing at her feet. She hummed a Schubert melody as she painstakingly drew stem and petal and leaf and calyx.
It was early evening when Zachary returned, his collecting-box full, and it wasn’t until after they had eaten that he looked at the sketches in his field-book.
He studied each one for a long time. Her touch was strong, yet delicate. Each line was clean and definite and almost frighteningly effective; she had managed to suggest not only shape, but bulk and texture, by pure drawing with the minimum of fuss.
‘They’re good,’ he said briefly, ‘But then you know that, don’t you?’
She nodded, and at her lack of false modesty his mouth tugged into an amused smile.
Once again she felt a dizzying sensation deep within her chest. Once again her heart began to slam in short, sharp strokes.
This time she was left in no doubt as to the nature of her response to him. Horror flooded through her and then hard on its heels came incredulity.
She had fallen in love with Zachary Cartwright. She had fallen in love with a man who had accused her of trying to compromise him into marrying her; a man who had made no secret of the fact that he entertained not the slightest tendresse for her; a man with whom it had been her intention to travel hundreds of miles, unchaperoned.
The enormity of her realization appalled her. She couldn’t understand how it had happened, or when it had happened. Nor, now that it had happened, what she was to do about it.
It was clearly futile to hope for reciprocation. On the first evening they had met, Zachary had shown quite clearly that it was Serena who attracted him, not herself. Charles had confirmed that it was so, and a man attracted by Serena’s delicate blonde beauty and calm nature was highly unlikely to ever be drawn to someone of her own adventurous temperament and dark, Latin looks.
Pain washed through her. She would make a far more compatible companion for him than Serena ever would. She remembered Henry Plaxtol and felt a surge of savage satisfaction. Zachary would never be able to pursue his interest in Serena. By the time he returned to Chung King, Serena would be married and living in England.
‘I think we should turn in,’ he said to her. ‘I want to make an early start in the morning.’
She nodded assent, not allowing her eyes to meet his. If she wanted to save herself pain, the sensible thing would be for her to return to Chung King at the earliest opportunity. But if she did? What would happen to her then?
She rose from her chair and walked across the grass to where her sleeping-bag had been laid at a discreet distance from his. Her uncle and aunt would immediately send her to England in disgrace. With luck they would still assent to her going to Lady Margaret Hall, but she would have no memories of the huge, harsh glory of Kansu to take with her; no memories of finding a blue Moonflower.
She pulled off her boots and looked across to where Zachary Cartwright was making adjustments to the flower presses. His back was towards her and she unbuckled the mutilated belt, slipping quickly first out of the alien breeches and then her blouse.
As she slid into her sleeping-bag Zachary Cartwright moved back towards his chair. She wanted to continue looking at him, but the memory of the response she had elicited when he had caught her looking at him at the Residency was too raw for comfort. She closed her eyes and so did not see him once again pick up his field-book, nor did she see for how long and how broodingly he stared down at the sketches accompanying his notes.
Chapter Six
Despite the fact that he said he wanted an early night, Zachary Cartwright lay awake for a long time before sleep eventually came. Never before had a woman disturbed his peace of mind, but ever since his brief meeting with Serena Hollis she had been continually in his thoughts. She was as delicate as a piece of exquisite porcelain; as fair in colouring as the most ethereal of flowers; as sweet-faced and as tranquil as a Madonna. To have such a woman waiting for him, on his return from an arduous expedition, would be very heaven.
He wondered what his chances were. He didn’t have a title or a private fortune, but he did possess a much-respected name as an explorer and as a botanist. He was on friendly terms with his king. Any woman he married would automatically be accepted amongst Edward VII’s exotic inner coterie. He would be made a professor within the next year of so, and a peerage would certainly be his for the asking within the next ten years. All told, he wasn’t totally ineligible as a prospective suitor.
But would she have him? He had absolutely no way of telling. He hadn’t been in her company long enough to have received any intimation as to what her opinion of him had been. It would be eight months at least before he was back in Chung King. Would she have forgotten him by then? Or would she still be thinking of him, as he knew he would still be thinking of her?
He lay on his back in his sleeping-bag, looking up at the stars. No matter what the future held for him where Serena Hollis was concerned, she was not an immediate and pressing problem. Her cousin, however, was.
Despite the irritation he felt at the problems Gianetta Hollis was posing for him, he was aware also of a feeling of amusement. She was an entertaining little baggage. He wondered if it was true, as Charles had said, that the reason for their continual sparring was their similarity to each other. ‘As like as brother and sister,’ had been Charles’description.
He grinned to himself. He doubted that they were so similar, but certainly if he had ever had a sister, he imagined she might have been very similar to Gianetta Hollis. Petite and dark and vibrant and adventurous.
He rolled over, seeking for a more comfortable position on the hard ground. He felt far more sympathy for her than she would ever realise. He knew what it was like to lose both parents and to have to make a home with people who provided it out of a sense of duty. Like her, he had been fortunate enough to have found a friend. Charles was an idiot at times, but not criminally so, and he valued his friendship as Gianetta obviously valued Serena’s.
Serena. Once again her blonde beauty filled his thoughts. When he returned to Chung King, he would ensure that his stay at the Residency was a prolonged one. He wondered if she had other suitors in the offing. Gianetta would know. He would have to bring up the subject with the utmost carelessness. He didn’t want Gianetta Hollis suspecting his feeling for Serena, for if she did there was no telling in what way she might put the knowledge to use. She was so determined on accompanying him to Kansu that if blackmail would help her to attain her object, he could well imagine her stooping to it.
He felt a pang of regret. Despite her undoubted courage and her admirable determination, Gianetta’s dream couldn’t possibly be fulfilled. She had said that she was uncaring as to the damage that would be done to her reputation, and she had obviously been speaking the truth. However, if she accompanied him to Kansu it would not be only her reputation that would be ruined. His would also be destroyed. On a personal level he didn’t give a damn what the gossips said about him, but things were a little different where his career as a botanist was concerned. He was carrying out the expedition to Kansu at the request of the Director of the Royal Gardens at Kew. If his expedition became the source of salacious gossip, then he would certainly not be requested to make any more expeditions for Kew. His proposed expedition to Tibet would never come to fruition, nor would there be any chance of his one day exploring the Amazon Basin.
&
nbsp; And so Miss Gianetta Hollis would have to be returned to Chung King. The next significant town on their route was Peng, and he knew that there was an Anglican Mission there. Although their own journey from Chung King had often been arduous, it had been so through choice and because he had wanted to plant-hunt en route. The journey between Peng and Chung King could be undertaken relatively easily by boat and he was sure that when he asked the missionaries if they would escort Gianetta back to Chung King, they would agree to his request readily.
Overhead the stars shone thickly. As he gazed at them it occurred to him that he would miss Gianetta. He would miss her talents as an artist and he would miss her bouncy vitality. His last thought on closing his eyes was that when they descended on the mission he would have to ensure that she was wearing a skirt and that her hair was suitably pinned in a chignon and not in a Chinese queue. He wanted the missionaries to realise she was a lady and to react accordingly. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Her travelling attire at the moment was anything but ladylike. With her Chinese queue and her white blouse tucked into the belted waist of his breeches she looked like a rather exotic stable-boy.
He remembered how she had looked the previous evening when she had stepped into the firelight after her moonlight bathe. With her glossy black hair hanging wetly and sleekly to her waist, and with her skirt moulding itself sensuously to her hips, she had reminded him of a pagan naiad.
He felt his sex harden, and swore with annoyance. The sooner he was able to leave Gianetta Hollis in the safe hands of the missionaries, the better. A pagan naiad was no suitable companion on a long, lonely journey into the heart of Asia, especially for a man who was seriously considering matrimony. As he slid finally into sleep he tried once again to conjure up Serena’s image. It wouldn’t come. Instead of Serena, with her English milk-and-rose loveliness and sweet demeanour, his last thoughts were of a bright-eyed hoyden desecrating his best leather belt with criminal relish.
Moonflower Madness Page 11