'Luckily the bulk of her money is tied up in trusts,' he replied without expression. 'So nobody can take advantage of her any more.'
'Not even you?'
He took a step in her direction and Abby drew back in alarm. But he was instantly in control of himself, though his eyes were filled with contempt as he opened the door of his aunt's room and let her precede him inside.
Miss Bateman was sitting in an armchair by the window, almost her old self in a faded beige dress and jacket.
'I think I'll go out for a stroll,' she announced, after greeting them. 'But you, my dear Abby, are going to Fathepur-Sikri. I've booked a car with a driver guide to take you there. He's waiting for you downstairs.'
Abby's eyes glowed with pleasure, giving her face a sudden beauty that was quenched the instant she saw the dislike on Giles Farrow's face. How easy it was to guess his thoughts!
'You shouldn't have ordered a private car for me,' she said. 'I'm sure I could have found a group to join.'
'Don't let's discuss it, child. It's all settled. Now go off and enjoy yourself.'
And enjoy herself Abby did. Like the Red Fort in Delhi, the town of Fathepur-Sikri was built of red sandstone. But here all the similarity ended, for the decoration of all the buildings was extremely delicate and the carvings on the stone pillars so perfectly preserved that it was hard to believe they had been done when Shakespeare was a boy.
Though the site was supposed to be a protected area, vandals had already left their mark on it, and several of the walls were marred by ugly graffiti. The thought of it nagged at her during the long drive back to Agra, which partly helped to take her mind off the tediousness of the journey. No one could describe driving by car in India as anything other than a penance, for one had to continuously watch out for pedestrians, who treated road and pavement as if they were one and the same thing, while cows wandered haphazardly betwixt people, bicycles and cars.
Halfway into the city the driver stopped to put some water into the radiator, and the moment he left the car to search for some, it was surrounded by urchins clamouring for money. Even with the windows closed, Abby found the dark intense faces disconcerting. A couple of boys started to bang on the glass, and no matter how fiercely she scowled they took no notice. Luckily no one tried the doors, whose locks were far from secure, though as time passed and more urchins gathered around, they began to press themselves so closely against the bodywork that the car started to shake. Abby felt almost like a film star being surrounded by fans, except that here there was no adulation, only screeching cries for money.
'No mother… No father… Money, money… Ten brothers and sisters… Money, money.'
Some of the children held up pieces of paper on which was scrawled the miserable story of their lives. Inadvertently, Abby glanced at one through the window pane.
'My mother has no legs and my father is blind. Our home is under a tree.'
With a gasp of horror she closed her eyes and settled back in her seat, praying desperately that the driver would soon return. It was a relief when he finally did, though they had travelled several miles before her body stopped shaking.
'We will soon be coining to another village,' the driver said, half swivelling round. 'Do you wish to stop for some tea or something to eat?'
Hastily she declined, unable to face the prospect of being besieged by beggars again. She was too diplomatic to say so, however, for it almost sounded an indictment of Indian life. It was two o'clock when she returned to the hotel, and after a quick wash she went to the dining-room for lunch. Many of the other groups were still at their tables: a party of thirty Germans, the same of noisy Japanese men, and a quiet group of Scandinavians. Abby was the only one eating alone, and she took the set Indian menu in preference to the European one.
It was only when she was sipping her coffee that she realised she would have to become used to hotel life. Working for Miss Bateman meant she would be doing more travelling than she had dreamed possible. It was hard to assimilate the fact that she had been offered such an opportunity. Living in the Hampshire countryside for nine months of the year might be a disadvantage for many girls of her own age, yet to her it was only a pleasure; one of the many she hoped to gain from her new position.
How much she would be able to learn from Miss Bateman, whose knowledge of life was broad and kindly. It made Abby think of her father, an erudite, gentle man whose death, when she had been a child, had been her greatest loss.
Unseeingly she stared into space, jumping with surprise as Giles Farrow appeared beside her table.
'Must you always act like a startled rabbit when you see me?' he asked with barely concealed irritation.
'I wasn't expecting you.' She avoided his eyes.
'When I saw you this morning I forgot to thank you for having dinner sent to my room last night.'
'I hope the food improved your temper?'
'There's nothing wrong with my temper, Mr Farrow.' She glared at him. 'Did you come in here to find me, or were you just passing through?'
He ignored her sarcasm. 'I came here to tell you that my aunt and I will be leaving for Bombay tomorrow. The doctor has said she's fit enough to travel and I'd like to get her settled in my home.' He paused. 'I know you're planning to go on to Udaipur from here, but when you leave there and come to Bombay, my aunt would like you to stay with us.'
'I would prefer to stay in a hotel. It's included in the price of the tour, anyway.'
'My aunt thinks you would be more comfortable if you stayed with us.'
It seemed rude to refuse; Miss Bateman knew her new secretary-companion did not get on with her nephew, but she would not like to think that the dislike was so active that it would make it difficult for them to maintain the semblance of a relationship.
'Very well,' Abby said. 'I'll try not to be in your way.'
'Just try to be of use to my aunt,' he replied, 'without making use of her.'
Abby caught her breath. Was he never going to drop his antagonism? The question, though unspoken, was obvious enough to make him give her a bleak smile.
'I have a poor opinion of women in general, Miss West, and of young and pretty ones in particular.'
'You can't be referring to me,' she said promptly.
'I didn't think you were the type to fish for compliments.'
'I'm not fishing, Mr Farrow. I just happen to know my limitations.'
'Being plain isn't one of them,' he said stiffly. 'So spare me die pretence.'
Her own anger rose to meet his. Why should he think she was trying to be coy, and what had made him pretend she was anything other than averagely passable?
There is one more thing I have to say,' he continued. 'My aunt is distressed that you've missed seeing Jaipur, and has asked me to arrange for you to go there.'
'How can I? The tour group will be there today and I couldn't get a flight out in time to meet them. That's why I'm going to go straight to Udaipur.'
'You can go to Jaipur after Udaipur, and forget your tour group. I have friends there who will be more than willing to have you stay with them for two or three days, more if you wish it. Then you could join my aunt in Bombay in a week's time.'
It was such a tempting offer that Abby was hard put to refuse, but refuse she must, for she had no intention of being under any obligation to this man.
'I've already paid for two days in Udaipur, Mr Farrow, and I'll be quite content with that. I'll leave Udaipur when the rest of my tour goes, and join your aunt in Bombay afterwards.'
'You're cutting off your nose to spite your face,' he stated.
'Don't let that worry you. It's my nose.'
Without a word he walked out, leaving her to sip her coffee, now cold and bitter, and wonder what had happened in his life to have made him the same.
She was unexpectedly given the answer when she joined Miss Bateman by the side of the pool later that afternoon. Giles Farrow was nowhere to be seen and Abby was too grateful for his absence to wonder where he had
gone. Not so her companion, who was still fretting at having brought him chasing across the
Indian continent when he still had so much work to do in Bombay.
'One is always extra busy when nearing the end of a project,' she explained, 'particularly one as difficult as this.'
'Has it been a success?' Abby asked.
'Yes indeed. The Indian Government want him to stay another three years, but he won't. He says England needs him more.'
'Then why did he come here in the first place?'
'The Foreign Office asked him to do so. Alliances are built as much on technological exchanges as on commercial ones. It was very difficult for Giles to refuse— especially when the Prime Minister said how important it was.' The woman sighed. 'And of course it cost him his happiness.'
Abby's ears pricked up with curiosity, but she refused to satisfy it.
'Mind you,' her companion went on, 'deep in his heart I don't think he believed Vicky meant what she said. Neither did I really. I thought she was playing hard to get but that eventually her greed would make her give in.'
Abby sniffed. 'I suppose being your nephew has made him very sought after.'
'So has being his father's son. He inherited Farrow Engineering.'
Though she knew little of business, Abby had heard of this one, and realised why her accusation that Giles Farrow was interested in his aunt's money should have enraged him.
'Why are you smiling?' Miss Bateman enquired.
'I was remembering something I'd said to Mr Farrow earlier today.' Abby hesitated. 'We don't get on very well. He distrusts me.'
'He distrusts all women since Vicky let him down. Mind you, even if she had married him I don't think they would have found lasting happiness together. She was always a scheming minx and sooner or later he would have seen her for what she was. Under that tough exterior, Giles is a romantic.'
Abby found this so hard to believe that she did not even attempt it. One could describe Giles Farrow in many ways, but never as a romantic.
'Was she beautiful?' she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
'Exceedingly so. With very pretty manners and a great deal of charm which she knew how to use. I suppose that's why she expected Giles to do as she wanted. When he didn't, and said he was going to India, she broke off their engagement. Poor Giles, he took it very badly.'
'Why didn't she want to come here? I know Bombay is hot, but…..'
'For the first eighteen months of his stay he wasn't going to be in Bombay—except for infrequent visits. Most of that period was going to be spent travelling between Calcutta and Delhi and other northern parts of the country. It wouldn't have been an ideal life for a young bride—I'll admit that—but I'm sure Giles could have worked out something if Vicky had been willing to go with him. But she didn't see herself living in some remote hill station. If she couldn't queen it among the diplomatic circles in Delhi or the rich merchants of Bombay, then she didn't want to come. In the event she married an American millionaire less than two months after breaking off with Giles, and he's remained sour ever since.'
'You think he's still in love with her?'
'If he wasn't, he'd be able to talk about her.'
It was hard for Abby to see Giles Farrow as an unrequited lover nursing a broken heart. But in view of what Miss Bateman had said, there was no other choice. Of course his reaction could be due to hurt pride rather than love. He had such a high opinion of himself that his fiancée’s desertion of him must have been deeply shattering.
'What are you thinking about?' Miss Bateman asked. 'You look very sceptical.'
'I was trying to see your nephew through your eyes,' Abby admitted. 'But my own image of him keeps getting in the way. I can see why his experience with his fiancée soured him, but it isn't mature to let yourself become warped simply because of that.'
There was a lengthy silence and Abby was afraid she had been too blunt about her new employer's beloved nephew. She was on the verge of apologising when the woman spoke.
'So you think he's warped, do you? If anyone told him that, he'd say he was only being logical.'
'Warped logic,' Abby said firmly. 'One day he may see it for himself.'
'Only if he falls in love again.'
'I'd like to be around when that happens!'
Miss Bateman smiled. 'I hope you are.'
CHAPTER SEVEN
Abby had some misgivings about going to Udaipur and leaving Miss Bateman, but contented herself with the knowledge that Giles Farrow—for all his cynicism— was extremely fond of his aunt and would take care of her.
With this in mind she was able to enjoy herself at the old-fashioned hotel that overlooked one of the huge man-made lakes for which the city was renowned. In the centre of the largest of them was the Summer Palace of the Maharajah, now transformed into a hotel. It was here that the deluxe travellers of Gallway and King were staying, but having visited it, Abby was in no way dismayed at being housed in the city itself, where the Winter Palace proved an unending source of delight. It was splendidly decorated with glass and porcelain mosaic, while its museum showed the finest collection of miniature paintings she had ever seen.
The bazaar was also full of interest and she wandered from one tiny shop to another, watching the silversmiths making the intricately designed necklaces and bangles with which Indian women loved to decorate themselves. It was impossible to resist buying a necklace: a delicate filigree affair that winked and glittered as it encircled her neck, and it was so ludicrously cheap that she succumbed and bought a matching bracelet.
Occasionally she thought of Miss Bateman and her nephew, and a glimpse she had of a tall, brown-haired man set her pulses hammering until he turned and she saw he was a stranger. She did not relish the prospect of having to stay in his home in Bombay, but resolutely refused to let it worry her. There was time enough for that when she was there.
Mr Shiran was surprised when she informed him she would not be with the tour once they reached Bombay. He was worried that it was due to something he had done, and she was quick to assure him it had nothing to do with himself or the tour.
'I'm going to work for Miss Bateman,' she explained, 'and it's more convenient if I stay with her.'
'But we will be taking many excursions from Bombay,' Mr Shiraz said. 'Are you going to miss them all?'
'I wasn't booked on any—I couldn't afford them. All I intended to do was to explore Bombay itself.'
'I see. Then in that case you have lost nothing. And I am sure you will find Mr Farrow's home more comfortable than a hotel.'
Abby doubted this, but kept her peace. Not even to herself would she admit quite how nervous she was at having to stay in proximity to such an aloofly disagreeable man.
It was with this thought in mind that she arrived in Bombay at noon the following day, after an uneventful flight across seemingly barren desert But there was nothing desolate about the swarming airport. People were everywhere, many of them content to sit on the floor regardless of their beautiful saris and well-cut clothes, in order to continue their endless wait for seats on the one and only internal airline.
Giles Farrow had sent a limousine to meet her. The chauffeur was a Sikh and though he wore a grey uniform, he sported a curly black beard and a turban. His foreign appearance left her unprepared for his excellent English and he gave her a running commentary on everything they were passing during their hour-long drive into the city.
Alongside the motorway, concrete blocks of flats, newly erected, already looked like slums, only a little better in appearance than the endless sprawl of shanty towns with their small tin huts that served as homes for entire families. Some of these shanty towns were hidden from sight behind high, ramshackle walls, but for the most part they were on view, and filled Abby with a deep sense of unease. It had been easier to accept such dire poverty in the smaller towns of Northern India, but seeing it here, co-existing with a commercially prosperous business community, it was an appalling indication of man's i
nhumanity to man.
'Does Mr Farrow live in the city itself?' she asked, forcing her mind away from the heartbreaking sight
'Yes, lady. He lives on Malibar Hill. That is one of the nicest parts of Bombay.'
Trust Giles Farrow to treat himself to the best! Abby thought critically, and was equally critical of herself for thinking it. Having been told the reason for his churlish manner, she should have sufficient compassion to understand it and sufficient intelligence to ignore it.
'We are nearly there.'
The chauffeur spoke again and she saw they were driving along a tree-fined road with the sea on their right Bombay was built on several islands linked by causeways, so that one frequently had unexpected glimpses of the shimmering water of the Indian Ocean. The car slowed down as they entered between large wrought iron gates, and swung round a short drive to stop outside a square, three-storied house.
Abby knew without being told that it had once been a palace, and as she climbed the marble steps and entered the large square hall, the splendour of the interior confirmed it. It was like stepping into a Hollywood film set of the 1930s, and she would not have been surprised had an orchestra suddenly begun to play and Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire danced across the marble floor to greet her.
Instead Giles Farrow walked purposefully towards her, tall and lean, his mahogany brown hair gleaming like satin and his eyes golden as topaz and hard as stone. Her heart hammered in her throat and she had to remind herself that she had no reason to be afraid of him. Yet how hard it was to maintain her composure beneath that cold, indifferent gaze.
'Did you have a good trip?' he asked perfunctorily.
'Yes, thank you.'
'My aunt is in the garden,' he continued, and moved towards the glass doors that lay at the end of the hall.
Abby wished she could go to her room first, to freshen up, but was determined not to ask him. He was such an uncaring man—despite what his aunt said— that he was unable to appreciate how hot and sticky she must feel after her long flight. Easing the collar of her dress away from her perspiration-damp throat, she followed him as he went ahead of her.
Rachel Lindsay - Man of Ice Page 6