At one point they passed a long wooden houseboat being poled along slowly by four men. Every inch of visible wood was carved with delicate patterns of trees and blossoms.
‘How lovely,’ Victoria said as they drifted past. ‘Are all the houseboats on the lake decorated in a similar way?’
Mrs Simpson nodded. ‘Some are very splendid indeed, and there’s a truly magnificent one that’s sometimes moored near the Shalimar Gardens, so I hear. It belongs to the wealthy widow of a khan and she spends each summer up here. Not that we’ve ever been invited aboard. I mean, it just wouldn’t do, would it?’
‘It wouldn’t? Why?’
‘Why? Well, because we’re English, and while the begum might be considered a very grand lady, she’s of mixed blood.’ The rector’s wife dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘They say that her mother was Persian and her father a Frenchman! So you see that a clergyman and his wife could not – would never—’
Victoria made an effort not to smile. ‘And does this lady visit anyone ashore?’
Mrs Simpson tipped her head towards the Hari Parbat Fort looming on the hill across the lake. ‘Well, I’ve heard that she sometimes visits the maharaja and the ladies of his zenana.’ She leaned closer to Victoria. ‘Actually, when we first arrived here nearly twenty years ago there was a great deal of gossip concerning the begum and a certain senior officer in the regiment who, um….’ She raised her eyebrows suggestively.
‘You mean that the begum and a British officer had an affair?’
Mrs Simpson coloured. ‘You must understand that the begum’s background is obscure, so that kind of thing is just not done, my dear. It does no good for the races to mix.’
Victoria bit her tongue.
However, a pleasant surprise was waiting for them at the Shalimar Gardens when their shikara nudged in beside a grand one already moored at the ghat.
‘Oh, splendid! The grass has all been cut since I was here last,’ Mrs Simpson said, looking around her. ‘How pleasant it looks now with the trees and roses pruned.’
The glory of the Mogul garden might have faded a little in the 300 years since it had been built by the son of the great Akbar, but the sound of running water and splashing fountains met the ladies as they stepped ashore. Like all Persian gardens, these were divided into quarters by spring-fed water channels and planted with lines of poplars and fruit trees. In the distance, a marble pleasure-pavilion stood at the end of a long, straight path, with terraces climbing the high hill behind it, and all linked by tumbling cascades.
Victoria and Mrs Simpson spread their rugs in the shade of a gnarled pear tree and the rector’s wife immediately began to set up her easel and stool. ‘Look at the light on the hill over there! I must catch that before it goes.’
Victoria looked about. ‘This place is absolutely enchanting. Would you mind very much if I leave you to go off and do a little exploring? I won’t be long.’
How much she would have to tell Martin and Emily about this delightful setting, she thought, as she wandered along well-tended paths that ran past rose gardens and beside long water channels with their lines of bubbling jets. There was no sound but a distant call of birds and the splash of fountains.
Far ahead lay the entrance to a white marble pleasure-pavilion. When she reached it, Victoria found the interior dim after coming in from the glare of the garden. She’d taken only two steps over the threshold before she collided hard with a small girl who was running to the doorway, dragging a wooden elephant on wheels.
The child slipped and the toy tipped onto its side, spilling little figures from the howdah. Victoria quickly scooped them up and held them out to the child. ‘Don’t cry, little one. Look, they’re not hurt.’
‘Annabelle!’ a deep female voice called from the other side of the pavilion, and a statuesque, grey-haired woman wearing a blue and gold sari swept across the black marble floor. ‘Oh, madame, I do apologize for the child’s carelessness. Annabelle, you must tell this lady that you are very sorry for not looking where you were going.’
The words were duly whispered in a strong French accent, and Victoria smiled into the child’s big amber eyes. ‘Thank you, your apology is accepted.’ She leaned closer. ‘I think that if I had a beautiful elephant like yours, I’d find it hard to keep my eyes off him, too.’
The little honey-skinned girl tugged at the strand of brown hair curling over her shoulder and studied Victoria shyly for a moment. ‘He’s my special friend.’
The serenely beautiful woman gave Victoria a warm look and took the child’s hand. ‘Thank you for your forbearance, madame. I bid you good morning.’ She signalled an ayah to pick up the toy and to follow her and the little girl from the pavilion.
A Sikh servant who’d been hovering in the background, needed no instruction. He was a giant of a man, middle-aged, and sporting a moustache of monumental proportions, along with a large black pistol tucked into his belt.
Victoria was intrigued as she watched the group moving in formation down the path to their shikara waiting at the ghat.
How interesting to find that little girl playing with a painted elephant. Had it come from the man on the chestnut horse? Or perhaps there were dozens of children in Kashmir who owned painted elephants. But was it possible that the regal lady she’d just encountered had been the legendary begum? Mrs Simpson had said that her houseboat was sometimes moored in this area.
Urged on by curiosity, Victoria walked to the rear entrance of the pavilion and began to climb the long flight of steps leading up to the four terraces built into the hill behind it. She was puffing hard by the time she reached the top, and grateful to find a stone seat at the head of the cascade. Looking out from this height, she had a splendid view over the lake and she could see the grand shikara being rowed towards a huge houseboat moored off the far bank. The melon-seller they’d encountered earlier was paddling his way towards it, too, but as soon as the party was aboard, four men with long poles began to move it. Within fifteen minutes, it was out of view, with the melon-seller drifting in its wake.
‘Ah, there you are at last, Mrs Latham,’ Mrs Simpson said, when Victoria eventually rejoined her. ‘Did you discover anything interesting on your walk?’ She dabbed another green leaf onto her almost-completed painting.
‘I’m sorry to have been away for so long, but I find everything interesting in Kashmir.’ She decided not to discuss her brief meeting with the woman and little girl.
In her next letter to Emily and Martin, Victoria said that she would soon be making plans to leave Kashmir because there was little more she could do for Nigel.
Everyone here shows great fondness towards him, but he seems quite content to continue his bachelor life. I have enjoyed a very pleasant holiday, and now I feel the time has come for me to leave. I don’t belong here.
She put down her pen and looked at those words. No, of course she didn’t belong here, but where did she belong? Her parents’ house in Hanover Square had been leased to a family from York; Cloudhill had been a haven when she’d most needed it, but it was Emily’s home – not hers. The latest statement to come from the London solicitor showed that her wealth was growing fast each year. She could afford to travel anywhere in the world. Or should she buy a house in the country? Buy a farm? Find a useful life!
All week, Nigel had been losing sleep over the prospect of having to play in the annual cricket match between a team from the regiment and the ‘Resident’s Eleven’ – a group of civil servants who were rallied annually for this match.
‘It’s the same every year, Vicky!’ he said miserably when he came downstairs in his spotless whites. ‘Damn it! Unless I’m lucky enough to trip and break an ankle on the way there, I can’t avoid playing.’ A note of woe crept into his voice. ‘I’ve told Sir Ian that I can never see a ball coming, let alone hit one with the bat. I’m an embarrassment.’
The one bright note in his sorry cricketing saga was the news that this year the Resident had turned a blind eye to the rule b
ook and had recruited his military attaché to play on the civil servants’ team. ‘Perhaps Captain Wyndham might save us from our usual utter and complete disgrace.’
Inside the white picket fence surrounding the cricket ground, Victoria took a seat in the marquee where the memsahibs, dressed in their starched muslins and lace, sat sipping cool lemonade served by barefooted servants. The ladies chatted as the regimental band played jolly tunes to entertain them while they waited for the start of the match.
Victoria noticed a brown-haired, freckle-faced girl wearing a shabby patchwork skirt hovering outside the picket fence. She’d observed this lass sometimes wandering alone past Nigel’s house, and now when the child tried to sidle past the attendant at the gate, the man quickly sent her packing.
‘Who is that girl? Why isn’t she allowed in?’
‘Oh, that’s Molly Collins, and this enclosure is reserved for officers’ families,’ said the woman sitting next to her. Victoria gave a puzzled frown.
‘Molly is living with some family in the ranks until the chaplain can find a relative in Ireland who’ll take her.’ Victoria looked even more puzzled. ‘She’s an orphan. Her father was killed in a skirmish up in the hills, and her mother died three months ago.’
‘The poor child! Is there no other family?’
‘Yes, two younger brothers, but of course the Regimental Benevolent Fund pays for orphaned boys to be sent down to boarding school in Lucknow.’
‘And what about Molly? Who does she live with?’
‘Can’t say I know exactly, but she’s sure to have been taken in by some trooper’s family. At least for the time being.’
‘Poor child. Does she attend school here?’
The woman shrugged. ‘Probably not.’
‘So what does the Regimental Benevolent Fund do for an uneducated girl like that if some relative doesn’t claim her and provide her with a home?’
‘Oh, she won’t be abandoned. She’ll be given her passage back to England, along with a purse of twenty pounds so she can buy clean clothes and find work.’
‘But Molly Collins is still a child! And if she has no family to offer shelter or protection, do you realize what kind of work she’ll find on the streets of any city?’ Dark memories of death in an East End tenement shot into her mind. ‘Believe me, it would be kinder to smother Molly in her bed tonight than send her to that fate!’
‘Really, Mrs Latham, how you do dramatize the situation! Besides I think that she’s at least twelve. Quite old enough to become a scullery maid.’
Victoria felt herself heating. She was preparing to continue the argument with the well-dressed, well-spoken woman, but at that moment the teams came out onto the field and everyone in the pavilion began to clap.
As well, there were audible titters of excitement amongst the young ladies who’d just arrived in the fishing fleet. Those who knew the social scene in Srinagar were quick to point out to the visitors which man was married and who was unattached, what rank was held by each, who was next for promotion. And which men to be wary of.
Victoria caught the look of strain on Nigel’s face when the officers won the toss and went in first to bat. He took up his position on the field and began by missing two easy catches. But when the next ball hit him squarely in the chest, he instinctively clapped both hands over it and seemed stunned when the umpire called “Out!” A burst of applause came from the spectators in the marquee.
A frisson of surprise ran amongst the ladies when the new bowler came across for the second over. Victoria recognized him as the man on the chestnut horse whom she’d seen in the toymaker’s shop. He tossed the ball in the air twice before running up and sending a sizzling delivery down the pitch.
‘Who is that fellow bowling now?’ she asked the woman seated next to her, wondering if she might find an opportunity later to approach him and ask how she could make the toymaker understand that she wanted to buy a painted elephant like the one that he’d bought.
‘That man? Oh, that’s the military attaché, Captain Wyndham – and surely the most unsociable creature in India. Refuses every invitation, unless it’s for some official function where he’s duty-bound to put in an appearance.’
The lady sitting behind them leaned forward to add her opinion. ‘Yes, but even then he just stands about, or goes off to find a billiard table or card game. Never asks a lady to dance. Such a pity that he’s inherited none of his father’s charm. Did you know, Mrs Latham, that he’s the son of General Gordon Wyndham? Now there’s a truly sociable gentleman!’
‘And he’s not nearly as handsome as his father, either,’ Victoria’s neighbour added with a sniff.
She held her tongue and asked no more about General Wyndham’s unpopular son. Actually, she rather liked his dark, brooding looks, and she certainly enjoyed watching the way his long limbs moved as he ran up to the pitch to deliver each fast ball. Eventually he toppled two army batsmen in quick succession and earned a lukewarm ripple of applause at the end of the innings. But, as he walked off, Victoria clapped until her palms were stinging.
After the break for lunch, Captain Wyndham was sent in as first bat for the civils, with Nigel as his opening partner. Poor Nigel, it will be his turn next at the crease, she thought, knowing how much he was dreading it. But when Captain Wyndham sent the first fast ball sailing past the fieldsmen, they safely scored two runs with Nigel racing up and down the pitch as if his life depended on it. When the captain was back in his place at the crease for the next ball, he hit another easy two runs and their score continued to mount by twos, with an occasional six, before he was eventually caught out.
A few moments later, Nigel was standing awkwardly in front of the stumps, fumbling with the bat while he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead. But his agony proved to be short lived when he was bowled out for a duck and left the pitch looking relieved. When Victoria saw him heading off towards the players’ pavilion, she excused herself and went to find him to offer whatever kind words were needed at a time like this.
She’d almost reached the pavilion when she heard the sound of crashing glass coming from the rear of the building – followed by angry shouting, children’s squeals, and Nigel calling for someone to stop. She also heard a female voice raised in fury: ‘Kitty Cameron! Now look what they’ve done! I told you to leave those wicked imps at home with the ayah!’
Victoria rounded the corner of the building and almost collided with the wife of the forestry officer. The woman was far too tight-lipped with anger to do more than roll her eyes heavenwards as she swept past.
At the rear of the building, a slim young woman with curls the colour of corn silk, stood below a broken window of the clubhouse kitchen with her shoulders slumped and a handkerchief held to her eyes. Several brown-skinned faces were looking indignantly through the shattered pane, then someone inside threw a cricket ball down onto the grass where it rolled to a stop at the young woman’s feet.
During all this, Victoria caught sight of Nigel galloping after two small boys who had reached a fence surrounding the croquet green and were now trying to scramble over it.
‘Oh, dear, oh dear!’ the young woman said and, when she took the handkerchief from her eyes, Victoria saw that the moisture in them was coming from uncontrollable laughter.
‘Oh, dear, oh dear!’ she said again and her smile was enhanced by a delightful pair of dimples. ‘I never could throw a straight ball. Should I confess that I was the one who smashed their window? It was meant to go straight down there, but—’ She gave another peal of infections laughter. ‘And now that nice gentleman is rescuing my naughty twins. Do you know him? I must thank him for his kindness. My name is Kitty Cameron.’
‘How do you do, Mrs Cameron. I’m Victoria Latham, and yes, I know Mr Nigel Pelham very well indeed. I’ll be happy to introduce you.’
Nigel was coming towards them now, not only holding each boy by one hand, but also holding their attention by whatever he was saying to them. ‘My cousin Nigel is v
ery fond of children.’
‘How extraordinary! I’ve never before met a man who could tolerate small, noisy boys and their endless tricks. Their own father certainly couldn’t!’
Victoria looked at the pretty woman quickly, wondering what was behind her matter-of-fact tone. And her use of the past tense.
‘Yes, I’m a widow, Mrs Latham. My husband drowned in the Jumna last year.’
‘Oh, Mrs Cameron, I’m so very sorry.’
‘Thank you.’ Clearly she wished to say no more, and turned to face Nigel who was now only a few paces away. She spread her arms towards the boys and when Nigel released their hands, they ran to her. She rewarded their rescuer with a beatific smile.
‘Mrs Cameron, please allow me to present Mr Nigel Pelham, a gentleman who not only tolerates small boys, but who tames them as well.’
Nigel whipped off his cricket cap. ‘Mrs Cameron, it was my pleasure. You have fine, bright lads. They’re a credit to you.’
For a long moment the pair stood looking at each other, smiling, while the twins watched on with interest.
‘Nigel,’ Victoria said, ‘if Mrs Cameron agrees, I’d very much like to invite her to dine with us one evening. Soon.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Latham,’ the widow said without taking her eyes from Nigel’s. ‘I’d be delighted to accept. Any evening at all. I’m staying with my cousin – George Harris, the forestry officer.’
‘Then may I suggest two days from now? Friday?’ His voice had acquired a new, deeper tone. ‘I’ll call for you in the gig at seven. Will that be convenient?’
‘Perfectly, Mr Pelham, thank you. Perfectly.’
Before Nigel dressed and set out in the gig to collect Mrs Cameron, he had Duleep cut his hair. Shorter. Smarter. Victoria smiled to herself and made no comment about how much younger it made him look. Though there was still a light dusting of grey at the temples, he’d lost every trace of the sad spaniel look produced by the old curls falling on his forehead.
Echoes of a Promise Page 9