The Distant Kingdom

by Daphne Wright

  As they were drinking tea after the rehearsal, Perdita took advantage of a pause in Juliana’s chatter to turn to her hostess:

  ‘Lady Beaminster,’ she said hesitantly, and then on seeing a small smile of encouragement continued, ‘Do you think it would be very unsuitable if I were to put off my mourning? It is not quite a year since my mother died, but …’

  ‘I think it would be perfectly acceptable, Miss Whitney. The climate is becoming disagreeably warm, even up here, and I am sure it would be more suitable for you to wear some light muslins. It is a good idea.’

  ‘Oh, it was Papa’s idea, not mine, but he thought I should consult you first.’

  ‘That was wise of him. Forgive me for speaking so frankly, but you have no chaperon up here, and so it is my duty: your father is in many ways an unconventional man, and it would be well for you to take care before you follow his advice.’

  Rebellion flared briefly in Perdita’s face, but before her ladyship could be certain of what she had seen, the big blue eyes were veiled and Perdita was saying:

  ‘I see: if you think it premature to put off my mourning, I shall of course …’ But once again she was interrupted:

  ‘That is not at all what I meant. I quite agree about that.’

  ‘That’s good,’ broke in Juliana impetuously. ‘Then you can wear something splendid for the recital after all. Since you are the best singer, it is only right that you should look the best as well.’

  Perdita’s eyes became a little pink. It was so unexpected that a charming aristocratic child like Juliana should be so generous with admiration of someone like herself, and so affectionate.

  The reason for Lady Beaminster’s remark about Mr Whitney’s unconventionality was in his arms at that precise moment. Aneila, daughter of a line of Rajput warriors, was also among the reasons why he had not retired home to England with the fortune he had amassed, unlike most of his companions from Calcutta, who had taken their riches back to build curious half-bred houses in the green valleys of the English countryside. Edward Whitney knew that even if he had been able to marry Aneila, he could never have uprooted her and hoped to transplant her successfully into the cold damp soil of England. And having no happy memories of the place himself, it would be no hardship if he never saw it again. Instead, he had removed both their households from Calcutta and installed her in a lovely house a few miles outside the town, well away from the prying eyes of the British.

  Both of them had been prepared for a diminution of his visits after the arrival of his daughter from England, but once she had taken up her informal position as Juliana Blagdon’s companion, he had resumed his regular visits to his mistress. He occasionally wondered whether Aneila resented the time he was prepared to lavish on his English child, when he saw so little of his Indian sons and his care for them was restricted to financing their education and easing their entry into the army and civil service, but she gave no sign.

  He looked down at her heart-shaped face, thinner now but lovely still, and kissed her in gratitude for the years of affection she had given him. In the twenty-three years that she had lived under his protection, she had never complained about anything he had done or not done. She was not always happy, he knew, and it had taken her some time to become accustomed to separation from her family and the structure of her religion – both had had to be renounced when she went to live under the protection of a casteless foreigner – but she had never tried to involve him in her sadness and as far as he could tell, she had not blamed him for any of it. For a moment he thought of the tight lips and angry eyes of his virtuous wife as she confronted him with evidence of one after another of his shortcomings, and of the reluctance and disgust with which she infrequently allowed him to exercise his marital rights.

  Aneila had taught him that there was more to lovemaking than the sharp quick pleasure and sense of release that followed the spilling of his seed. She had shown him how to give her pleasure and in doing so increase his own; she had taught him too that the exercise of his rights had gentler names and purposes than those he had known. He had told her a good deal of his wife – most of which she found impossible to believe – and more recently of his daughter and what had been done to her. Aneila had been full of extremely sensible suggestions for her comfort and happiness, but he had been able to put only a few of them into practice. That particular afternoon, Aneila had asked him:

  ‘And how is it with Perdita? Is she becoming any happier?’

  ‘A little. She seems to be very friendly with the Blagdon girl; but there’s this confounded concert they’re getting up.’

  ‘Confounded? It seems to me an excellent thing for a great lady from England to sing to make money for the starving people of Delhi.’

  ‘Yes, yes, very commendable; but what if Perdita makes a fool of herself? If she should break down or something, or refuse to sing at the last minute, or – worse – have a fit, she would never be able to face any of these people again.’

  ‘You have told me that she is very shy; surely she would never have agreed to sing if she did not know she could do it.’

  ‘Well, I hope to God you’re right,’ answered Edward gloomily, before taking her into his arms again and forgetting his myriad concerns as he smelled the musky scent of her dark hair and felt the softness of her delectable body through the fine, pale gold-coloured sari. Desire flamed in him suddenly and he picked her up and carried her out of the colonnaded room that bordered one side of her garden and into her bedroom.

  Before he left her two hours later, she briefly touched his face and said:

  ‘Do not worry about the daughter so much. Show you love her, tell her what is good about her and comfort her if she is not happy. Talk to her as much as you can and show her that she can tell you anything. All will be well. If she knows you think well of her she will not be so nervous with others. They will like her if she does not make them so uncomfortable.’

  ‘Any sane person would, but these appalling English women, who can tell what they will do? Oh, Aneila, you do not know how much I love you.’

  She stretched up to take his handsome head between her tiny hands and bring it down so that she could kiss him.

  ‘Yes, Edward, I think I do. As you know that you are the lord of my life.’

  Chapter Three

  By the time the last rehearsal had been sung, five days later, Perdita’s new gowns had been extracted from the sealed tin boxes in which they had been protected from damp, heat and insects, and Juliana’s brother had arrived in Simla from his Station. When Perdita drank a dish of tea with Juliana on the afternoon of the concert, she found the girl bubbling over with pleasure at her brother’s arrival.

  ‘I had expected to hate him,’ she confided, ‘but he is completely charming. When Mama and I arrived at the Station, I could hardly believe that it was him, if you see what I mean. And he makes Mama so much kinder than she normally is. He is very handsome, too, and so brave: all the other officers told me so. He saved the life of his friend Captain Thurleigh in a skirmish once, and Captain Thurleigh told me that there’s no one he’d rather have in what he called a “scrap” than Marcus. I am sure you will like him; all the ladies at the Station were in love with him. And I know he will like you.’

  Perdita was quite sure he would not. A young man as popular and successful as Captain Marcus Blagdon would have no time for such as her. That in itself did not worry her at all, but she was afraid that Juliana might change her mind about ‘the big spin’as she had heard herself called, when she saw her brother’s contempt. The girl’s friendship had meant a great deal to Perdita and she would miss it. But the habits of a lifetime did not break, and so she smiled and encouraged Juliana in her happy anticipation. Nevertheless, by the time Perdita left Lady Beaminster’s bungalow she was very quiet and as the jonpauni took her home to dress for the concert she began to wish that she had never agreed to make herself so conspicuous. After all, if it had not been for the concert she would never have had to meet Capt
ain Blagdon or risk his disdain.

  Her father misunderstood the cause of her nervousness, and when she eventually emerged from her room in the new cream-coloured silk gown he took her hand and said with as much confidence as he could muster:

  ‘You need not be afraid, my dear. I have heard you sing in church and there has never been a flat note.’ She turned her anxious face towards him and he watched amusement banish the frown and smooth the deep crease from between her eyes.

  ‘I am not afraid about singing flat, Papa.’

  ‘Good,’ he said and wrapped her cloak round her shoulders. ‘And you look wonderful, if you will allow me to say so.’

  ‘Really? Papa, you would not be flattering me, I trust?’

  ‘No, of course not, Perdita. I told you when you arrived that you looked pretty, and that was in those dreadful black clothes. Now in this delightful gown you look very well indeed. Try to smile at people, won’t you? It is only when you frown that there is anything wrong at all.’

  ‘I will try, Papa. But all those people make me so worried.’

  ‘I know, but they need not. They are of no importance, and it is quite likely that you will never see any of them again. It is probable that I shall have to travel again for the Company, and I thought you might like to come with me.’

  ‘Where should we go?’ she asked, interested.

  ‘Lahore again, I expect. Reports from Caubul are causing some consternation in Calcutta, and in London. And the Company will need to be sure of the Sikhs if there is trouble in Afghanistan.’

  He congratulated himself on the diversion as he saw her eyes liven in the milky dusk. It was a peculiarly lovely evening. The rain had held off all day, and the few clouds were like insubstantial puffs of cotton-wool, washed pink by the declining sun and sailing quickly past the violet-coloured mountain peaks. The air felt soft on his face as the carriage turned into Lady Beaminster’s drive, and he smiled encouragingly at his daughter.

  Her interest and pleasure survived their entry into the drawing room and the first encounters with her acquaintances. He escorted her to the platform that had been erected at one end of the long room, and waited with her until she was settled next to Juliana in front of a large potted palm. She took up her music with gloved hands that scarcely shook, and he left her there hopefully, to find a chair next to a collector up on sick leave from his district near Agra. Mortimer Blandfield was a dull man, but at least a bachelor who liked India and did not consider his years there as exile.

  ‘Charming, your daughter, Whitney. Quite charming,’ he offered by way of greeting.

  ‘Why thank you, Blandfield,’ answered Edward, surprised to hear a note of genuine admiration in the man’s voice. He looked across the room to the dais where Perdita had risen to shake hands with the doctor, and saw again how the gown Mrs Macdonald had had made for her became her. She must have put on a little weight, he decided, for she did not seem nearly so angular, and above the low-cut corsage he could distinctly see the swell of her white breasts. In fact, she seemed to have a rather pleasing shape after all, and with the light of a candelabra warming her pale skin and glistening on her hair, she did indeed look charming. Belatedly, he realized that there was yet another danger from which he would have to protect her. Accustomed to overhear disparaging remarks about her age and her gaucherie, he had planned how to protect her from hurt when she discovered that everyone around them assumed that she was quite unmarriageable, but he had ignored the scarcity of English women in India, and the likely supposition that his not inconsiderable fortune would go to her. Surprising an almost lecherous expression on Blandfield’s face, Mr Whitney revised his plans hastily.

  His thoughts were broken by the first notes of the piano, reasonably well played by Lady Beaminster, as the chaplain rose to begin the first recitative of the Messiah.

  As she listened, Perdita wished, as so often before, that it had been written for the soprano part. The infinitely consoling words, a little mangled by Mr Carswell’s dramatic rendering, moved her and made her think sentimentally that perhaps even her mysterious transgression might have been forgiven and her iniquity pardoned. Happiness was not an emotion she knew much about, and the absence of misery and fear she now felt seemed almost miraculous. The feeling persisted and sustained her through her first two arias, so that when she finally rose to sing ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth’a new confidence and warmth rounded her always accurate singing into something approaching splendour. The two men who shared the platform with her exchanged amused glances, wondering what had happened to put poor Miss Whitney in such a glow. Her father thought she looked transfigured and Blandfield kept wiping his hands on his handkerchief and shifting in his chair, while several of the newly arrived officers who had not had time to hear the town’s views of the despised Miss Whitney were greatly taken with her.

  Even those like Captain James Thurleigh who took little interest in women were impressed with her voice. After he had greeted Lady Beaminster, he asked about her.

  ‘Who was the soprano? I have rarely heard so magnificent a voice in India.’

  ‘Poor Miss Whitney. Yes, it was rather surprising, wasn’t it? She is the daughter of a retired merchant, a Mr Edward Whitney late of Calcutta, who has some advisory position with the Company. She has become quite a friend of Juliana’s and so I expect you will become acquainted with her …’ She broke off to greet her daughter, ‘Ah, Juliana, my love, that was delightful. Here is Captain Thurleigh telling me that Miss Whitney’s voice is the best he has heard in India.’

  Juliana looked approvingly at the captain, and was about to speak when she caught sight of her brother. She ran over to seize his hand and drag him away from the group to whom he was talking.

  ‘Juliana, have a care for my dignity, and for your own,’ he said protesting, but it was kindly said, for he had taken a liking to his handsome sister, and took pleasure in her ingenuous enthusiasms.

  ‘Do not be too surprised, Thurleigh,’ he said to his friend, ‘I expect my little sister has had a touch of the sun.’

  ‘Please do not listen to him, Captain Thurleigh, he likes to pretend that I am a baby for some reason. Oh good,’ she said, her lively eye catching sight of Perdita, ‘here is Miss Whitney. Perdita, let me introduce my brother, and Captain James Thurleigh, who was just telling Mama how much he liked your voice.’

  Perdita blushed unbecomingly and stammered some disclaimer as Captain Thurleigh bowed over her hand. Lady Beaminster moved away to talk to the collector, and Perdita turned to Captain Blagdon, who said:

  ‘I know far less of music than Thurleigh here, but I very much enjoyed your singing.’

  The image she had invented of an arrogantly scarred hero waving broken hearts like trophies on a lance faded away as she took in the weary kindliness of his smile and the altogether undistinguished pleasantness of his square face. Although he had his mother’s dark hair and eyes, he had none of the high-bred bony handsomeness she had bequeathed to her daughter. Perdita shook hands with him with far more composure than she usually displayed in company and said quietly:

  ‘I am glad you enjoyed it, Captain Blagdon. It has been a great pleasure to sing, hasn’t it, Juliana?’

  ‘Well it has certainly been better than sitting in the drawing room doing embroidery or writing letters before driving out with Mama to call on these dreadful women, and for some reason we are not allowed to take part in theatricals here.’

  ‘Juliana, hush, please. All those ladies are here,’ protested Perdita, laughing a little.

  ‘Oh, pooh. You know how terrible they are. And here is one now,’ she added in a whisper. Perdita was conscious of a sharp disappointment as she watched the approach of Maria Jamieson.

  ‘Captain Blagdon,’ cooed the reigning beauty as she reached them, ‘forgive me, but Mama sent me to bring you to her.’ She put one of her plump little hands on his sleeve confidingly and smiled up at him. ‘She and I were very happy when Papa wrote to us that he had granted you leave. We
always feel so unprotected in this place without you all.’

  He looked down at her, understanding the possessiveness of that hand on his arm and the message he read in her shallow eyes, which seemed to say, ‘These conventions are absurd. I find my husband immensely boring. You are rich and important. I am beautiful, the wife of your senior officer and the daughter of your colonel, and one day I shall have you.’ He withdrew from her a little and, determined to rebuke her for her too-obvious rudeness to his companions, said,

  ‘Do you know Miss Whitney, and my sister Juliana, who have come here from England?’

  ‘Why yes, of course. Miss Whitney, pray forgive me, I did not see you standing in the corner there. I must say how surprised I was to see your father here this evening. I did not know he knew Lady Beaminster. Good evening, Lady Juliana.’

  Juliana, who could not bear the woman, begged Captain Thurleigh to escort her back to her mother.

  As they walked away, Maria Jamieson turned back to her victim to say, ‘Your singing was very sweet, Miss Whitney, but I thought (I know you will not mind my saying this, Captain Blagdon) that dear Lady Juliana had a little trouble with some of the high notes.’

  Perdita stood in her corner, silent and resentful as the evening’s pleasure trickled away. She knew perfectly well that Juliana had been criticized while she had been praised only because she presented no threat to Mrs Jamieson’s supremacy and, emboldened by the compliments she had received earlier, she said more bravely than she had yet spoken to her tormentor: