She had grown up in the shadow of it, proud of what it meant to her father and to the men he inspired with his leadership and who loved him because he cared for them.
It was interwoven in her thoughts and in everything she did – the horses, the parades, the times when the soldiers moved station with their guns, their baggage wagons, their wives and families, and the innumerable army of ‘hangers-on’ who seemed as much a part of the Regiment as the sepoys themselves.
She would wake in the morning to the sound of Reveille and she would hear ‘The Last Post’ echoing amongst the cantonments as dusk came and the flag was lowered on the flagpole.
The Regiment was her home, a part of her life, and when she thought of the pennants fluttering from the lances of the Cavalry or the men whistling as they went about their work, she would find the ache that had been permanently within her since the death of her father was intensified.
“One day,” she had said to herself as she left India, “I shall go back. I shall be with them again.”
Now her uncle was telling her that there was to be nothing in her future except to wait upon her aunt and be reproved or abused a dozen times a day.
It was not only her father’s crime for which she was being punished. Both her uncle and aunt made it very clear how much they had disliked her mother because she was Russian.
“You will not mention your mother’s ancestry to anyone,” Sir Frederick admonished Azalea. “It was an extremely unfortunate choice at the time your father married, and I expressed my disapproval very clearly.”
“Why do you disapprove?” Azalea enquired.
“Because a mixture of races is never desirable, and Russians are not even Europeans! Your father should have taken a decent English girl as his wife.”
“Are you implying that my mother was not decent?” Azalea asked angrily.
Sir Frederick’s lips tightened.
“As your mother is dead I will not express my opinion of her. All I will say is that you will keep silent concerning her Russian origin.”
The General’s voice sharpened as he continued,
“At any moment we may be again at war with Russia, this time on the North-West Frontier. Even without open hostilities they stir up the tribesmen, infiltrate our lines, and their spies are everywhere.”
He looked contemptuously at Azalea’s pale face and added harshly,
“I am ashamed that I must house and support anyone with their poisonous, treacherous blood in her veins! You will never mention your mother’s name while you are under my protection.”
At first Azalea had been too miserable to realise what was happening to her. Then after a year, when she was no longer permitted to continue with her education, she found she was little more than a drudge and an extra servant.
At seventeen, when her first cousins, Violet and Daisy, the twins, were excited about making their debut and going to Balls, she had become lady’s maid, seamstress, secretary, housekeeper and jack-of-all-trades.
Now at eighteen she felt as if she had spent her whole life as a domestic servant and there was nothing to look forward to, except years and years of attending to the same chores, day in and day out.
Then like a miracle out of the sky had come the news that the General’s command at Aldershot was over and he was to be posted to Hong Kong.
Azalea could hardly believe it. And at first she was quite certain they would leave her behind.
But she guessed that they were concerned to keep her under their eye – for the stigma of her father’s death was still to the General a menacing secret which he was afraid she might expose.
It was this she knew, and the memory of her mother, which made them keep her out of sight of their social friends.
They could not deny that she was their niece, but they told everyone that she was shy and retiring.
“Azalea is not interested in parties or dances,” she heard her aunt say to a friend who had tentatively suggested she should be included in an invitation extended to her cousins.
She longed to cry out that this was untrue, but she knew that to do so would only bring down her uncle’s wrath upon her and her position would remain exactly the same.
But at least in Hong Kong she would be nearer to her beloved India. At least there would be sunshine, flowers and birds, and people would smile at her.
“If you are going to be kind enough, Miss Azalea, to take the sandwiches along to the Library,” Mrs. Burrows said, interrupting Azalea’s thoughts, “there’s a decanter of whisky in the pantry. The General said we were not to put it out until the party was nearly over, otherwise the guests might drink it. You know, he likes to keep his whisky to himself!”
“Yes, I know,” Azalea said, “and I will take it along too. I am sure Burrows is feeling the rheumatism in his legs by now and I do not want to give him any more to do.”
“You’re real kind, Miss Azalea, that’s what you are! I don’t know how I’d have got through the dinner or the supper without your help.”
That was true enough.
Azalea, who had now become quite an experienced cook, was responsible for nearly all the supper dishes and half of those that had been served at dinner.
“Well, I am glad it is over!” she said aloud as she picked up the plate of sandwiches neatly decorated with parsley. “I will have a cup of tea with you, Mrs. Burrows, when I get back.”
“You deserve it, Miss Azalea,” Mrs. Burrows replied. Azalea went from the large, high-ceilinged kitchen with its flagged floor that was very tiring to stand on, along the passage to the pantry.
Old Burrows had left the square-cut glass decanter filled with the General’s whisky on a side table.
It was standing on a silver salver and Azalea put the sandwiches beside it and lifted the tray with both hands. She could hear in the distance the sound of the music coming from the big drawing room that had been cleared for the dancing.
It was a large, attractive room with French windows opening out onto the garden which, as it was winter, were closed.
But Azalea could imagine how attractive it could be during the summer when it was warm enough to walk from the gas-lit room into the fragrant garden which seemed to her to be on the very top of London.
She could look from the windows down into the green valley which Constable had painted in many of his pictures. But it was in fact the garden which interested her because she knew the General’s father had been a famous gardener and after leaving the Army had spent his retirement in making it not only beautiful, but also famous among horticulturalists.
He had managed to grow many new and exotic plants and flowers which had not been seen in England before, and which he had obtained from all over the world.
It was his obsession with flowers which had made Colonel Osmund decree that his granddaughters should all be christened with the name of a flower.
“It is typical,” Lady Osmund had said acidly, “that your mother should have chosen such a singularly inappropriate name for you.”
Azalea longed to retort that she thought both ‘Violet’ and ‘Daisy’ were commonplace and rather dull, but she learnt after a few months of living with her aunt that it was very unwise to answer back.
Her aunt did not beat her, although Azalea was quite certain that she would have liked to do so, but she had a habit of slapping and pinching which could be very painful.
She was a large, overpowering woman, while Azalea was small and delicately made, and it was obvious who would come off the better in any physical contest.
After having her face slapped until her cheeks were on fire and her arms pinched until the bruises were purple against her skin, Azalea did her best not to antagonise her aunt.
Now, hurrying along the passage which led to the Library and carrying the sandwiches and drink which constituted the General’s invariable night-cap, Azalea wondered what it would have been like if she could have had a new gown and attended her uncle’s party.
She knew from the invita
tions that only a small number of younger guests had been invited, and those were in fact either officers or the sons and daughters of families which her aunt considered of social importance.
“If I had been having a party,” Azalea told herself, “I would want to ask my friends – my real friends.”
Then she remembered that she was never likely to have any.
She entered the Study which was at the opposite end of the house from the other Reception Rooms and saw the fire was burning brightly in the grate, which meant that Burrows must have remembered to make it up.
The gaslight gave out a mellow glow which hid the shabbiness of the armchairs and the parts of the carpet which were worn with age.
But there were books all around the room and Azalea, although she had very little time, had already sneaked a number of them away upstairs to her bedroom and read them with joy.
In the house in Hampstead, it was, however, hard to read late into the night because her bedroom was so cold. Violet and Daisy, like her aunt, had fires in their rooms, lit by an under-housemaid first thing in the morning, and kept burning throughout the day.
But Azalea was not accorded such a privilege, and no amount of blankets could keep her from shivering and her nose from turning blue and pinched even with the windows closed.
She put the whisky and the sandwiches down on a table and turned towards the fire holding out her hands to the blaze.
As she did so she saw the reflection of herself in the mirror which hung over the mantelpiece.
Her appearance had altered in the last two years – her breasts were still a little immature, but her bones no longer stood out sharply.
Her face was heart-shaped, very like her mother’s, and her eyes seemed to have grown larger so that they were arresting to anyone looking at her.
If she was unusually pale it was because she was overworked and seldom had an opportunity to go outside the house. Not that she wished to brave the winter winds and the cold of Hampstead Heath.
Azalea looked at herself carefully.
She did not know if her dark hair and big, worried eyes were attractive or not.
She only wished her father was there to tell her what he thought. Then she looked away from her face and down at the enveloping apron in which she had been cooking all day.
Underneath it she wore a gown which had belonged either to Violet or Daisy. They were always dressed in identical fashion and she knew that while it was becoming to them because they looked their best in the pale, pastel shades of blue, pink and beige, such colours were to her unbecoming.
She did not quite know why. Perhaps it was because by the time she received the gowns they were worn out, faded with washing and often difficult to adjust to her figure.
“Oh well, who is likely to see me?” she asked of her reflection, then as she spoke the words aloud she heard footsteps approaching the door.
She knew it was unlikely to be her uncle, since he could not leave his guests and, as she had no wish to encounter strangers, she slipped hurriedly behind the heavy velvet curtains which covered the window.
She had hardly had time to conceal herself before the door opened.
“There is no one here,” a man said in a deep voice. “Let us sit down for a moment, George. We have done our duty in no uncertain fashion!”
“You have, Mirvin,” was the answer.
Having written out the invitations Azalea was now aware of who both the men were.
There was only one man on the list with the unusual name of Mirvin and that was Lord Sheldon who, on accepting, had asked if he might bring with him a friend, Captain George Widcombe, who was staying with him.
Azalea was well aware that Lady Osmund, being so delighted at the thought of Lord Sheldon attending the party, would have agreed to any suggestion he might make.
The General had said he should be sent an invitation. As he informed his wife, Lord Sheldon had served in the 7th Hussars before he came into the title and he had known him in India.
“A clever young man,” he had said grudgingly, “but I never cared for him personally. However, the Colonel secretly thinks a lot of him and he is visiting Hong Kong.”
“Will he be there with us?” Lady Osmund asked with a glint of interest in her hard eyes.
“He will,” the General replied briefly and Azalea knew that for some reason her uncle was not pleased at the idea. Now she heard Captain Widcombe say,
“How on earth you, Mirvin, with your mantelpiece overflowing with invitations to really slap-up parties, can come to this dreary, parochial show, I do not know!”
“You have not yet heard the worst of it, George,” Lord Sheldon replied.
“Can there be a worse?” Captain Widcombe asked. “I see some whisky. Let us have a drink. The champagne was appalling!”
“Army rations, dear boy! Generals always do one on the cheap!”
“That I can well believe!” Captain Widcombe replied, “although as a matter of fact in the Guards we are rather particular!”
“Do not be such a snob, George!” Lord Sheldon remarked. “But I must admit to preferring aqua vitae to the type of fizzy muck we have been offered this evening.”
“Well, I must say, I think it is too bad of you, Mirvin, the first night I arrive in London to bring me here!” Captain Widcombe complained.
“I wanted you to realise what I will have to put up with on the voyage to Hong Kong.”
“Good God, Mirvin! You do not mean to say you are travelling with this lot?”
“You would hardly believe it, but the Commander-in-Chief buttonholed me and said that, as the General is travelling in a troop ship and I am booked on the Orissa, he would be extremely grateful if I would look after Lady Osmund and her daughters! What could I reply?”
“My dear Mirvin, having seen the lady in question I must offer you my deepest and most sincere condolences!”
“I was hoping for a quiet voyage,” Lord Sheldon went on bitterly. “I have a lot of work to do, George, and now this has been thrust upon me.”
“Why on earth should the G.O.C. bother you?”
“He knows why the Colonial Office has asked me to visit Hong Kong and the General is one of his ‘blue-eyed boys.’ As a matter of fact, that is why he has been given the command.”
“And if he jumped at the job,” Captain Widcombe said shrewdly, “I am sure it was because her Ladyship thought it an excellent opportunity to foist those nit-witted pink and white twins on an unsuspecting Colony!”
“Her Ladyship has already cross-questioned me as to the social amenities she is likely to find there for her little ones.”
“I suppose by that she means what sort of eligible bachelors they will encounter!” Captain Widcombe observed.
“Of course!” Lord Sheldon agreed. “What interests any Regimental mother except unattached Subalterns?”
“The Fishing Fleet!” Captain Widcombe remarked scathingly.
“Exactly! At the same time, make no mistake, George, I have seen these young women from England in action – they do not fish! They grab – they claw – they devour!”
He gave a short disdainful laugh.
“They are man-eating tiger cubs, every single one of them, and all I can tell you is that my heart bleeds for every fresh-faced Subaltern who finds himself Shanghai’d up the aisle by one of these simpering creatures and is then tied to her for the rest of his life!”
“You certainly do not paint a very pleasant picture, Mirvin!”
“I have seen too much of it,” Lord Sheldon replied. “You have not yet served abroad, my dear boy, although it looks as if you will be in India before long, facing the Russians.”
“Do you think there will be a war?” Captain Widcombe asked.
“I think it may be avoided,” Lord Sheldon answered, “but the powers-that-be are apprehensive. They are increasing our strength in Hong Kong in case the Chinese get nasty while we are otherwise engaged.”
“So that is why you are going there!”<
br />
“I wish that was the only reason!”
“What else?”
“You will hardly believe it if I tell you,” Lord Sheldon replied, “but the main trouble in Hong Kong at the moment is purely domestic drama!”
“What do you mean?”
“There is a ridiculous, absurd squabble taking place between the Army, that is to say the Hong Kong garrison under the command of General Donovan, and the Governor.”
He paused before he continued,
“It is petty and completely childish, but it has assumed such proportions that I have been sent out with instructions jointly from the Colonial Office and the War Office to put both the contestants in their respective corners and tell them to behave themselves!”
Captain Widcombe threw back his head and laughed.
“I do not believe it! Good God, Mirvin, after all your achievements and all your brilliance in really dangerous situations, I can hardly see you playing Nanny!”
“And acting as a kind of Cook’s Courier to Lady Osmund and her man-hunting twins on the way out!” Lord Sheldon added bitterly.
“What is the Governor of Hong Kong like?” Captain Widcombe asked in a more serious tone.
“His name is Pope-Hennessy. He has just been knighted. He is apparently extremely tactless and has caused General Donovan to send dozens of complaints about him back to the War Office.”
Lord Sheldon gave a short laugh with no humour in it.
“You will hardly believe this, George, but things have been brought to explosion point by the fact that on May 26th, which is the Queen’s birthday, it is traditional for the Garrison Band to be detailed to play at Government House.”
“Sounds reasonable to me!” Captain Widcombe exclaimed.
“That is what it may sound,” Lord Sheldon agreed. “But General Donovan has refused point-blank to release the Band and has arranged an alternative Queen’s Birthday dinner at the barracks!”
Captain Widcombe laughed uproariously.
“I do not believe it! And they have sent for you to solve this difficult and dangerous problem!”
“There is more to it than that,” Lord Sheldon said drily. “Sir John Pope-Hennessy has what is called locally a ‘Chinese Policy’. He has reformed the prisons and abandoned public floggings and branding on the necks of criminals.”
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