He was formally dressed in a pale grey suit and dark tie, and she wondered if he were the sort of man who wore a dinner jacket when he dined alone in the jungle. A dimple came and went in her cheek and she bit her lip to prevent herself from smiling. He opened the glass doors and led the way across a small but lushly green garden towards a swimming pool. Miss Bateman sat beside it, sheltered from the sun by a blue and white striped umbrella. On a table in front of her was a large pitcher of iced fruit juice and several tumblers, as well as a tape recorder and notebook.
'You see, I've already started work,' the old woman greeted Abby. 'If anyone tells you creativity dies with age, you'll be able to refute the suggestion!'
'But you're a phenomenon,' her nephew teased before Abby could reply.
'If having one's health and strength and loving one's work is phenomenal, then you're right. But too many people use their years as an excuse to sit back and do nothing. Don't ever fall into that trap, Giles. Doing work that you enjoy keeps you young in heart.'
'But how many of us enjoy our work?' he questioned.
'You do—so don't pretend otherwise. Sometimes I think you've substituted work for everything else.'
'I made my decision years ago,' he said, and turned away.
His aunt glanced quickly at Abby, smiled and then concentrated on her nephew again. 'You can't seriously mean to live as a bachelor for the rest of your life?'
'I most seriously do.'
'What about Farrow Engineering and the money you'll get from me?'
'There are many deserving charities.' His voice was cold. 'Now, if you've finished commenting on my life, I've work to do.'
'Hoity-toity!' his aunt reproved. 'Are you lunching in?'
'No. I'll see you at dinner.'
'But you are going to escort us to Mr Chandris's party?'
'Do you think you're well enough to go?' he queried.
'Stop trying to make an invalid of me! I haven't seen the Chandrises since they were in London and I'm looking forward to meeting them again.'
'I can always ask them to dine here with us one evening.'
'For goodness' sake,' his aunt snorted, 'I want to go out!’
With a shrug he left them and Abby settled on a chair. Since she was accepting Giles Farrow's hospitality—grudging though it was—she supposed that from this moment on her employment had begun. But she was not sure what it entailed. Miss Bateman had said secretarial work, and she glanced at the tape recorder.
'If there's a typewriter here, I can start transcribing the cassette.'
'During your holiday? My dear child, I'm not a slavedriver!' A smile multiplied the wrinkles on Miss Bateman's face. 'You may have left the Gallway and King tour, but your private one has only begun.'
'My private tour?' Abby was puzzled 'What do you mean?'
'Never you mind. Treat it as a mystery.' The brown eyes gleamed. 'After all, I'm a mystery writer!'
Not sure if she was being teased, Abby looked uncertain. 'I'd feel much happier if I could do some work for you while we're here. If I don't, I'll feel guilty for not staying at a hotel.'
'Twaddle!' Miss Bateman went on eyeing her. 'Very well,' she said at last. 'You can appease your conscience if it pricks you so badly. But if you intend becoming my employee as of now, you'll have to obey me implicitly.'
Abby knew there was a hidden meaning behind this statement, but was aware that Miss Bateman had no intention of revealing what it was.
'You're a bossy old woman,' she grinned. 'And I'll only obey you if I agree with the command!'
Miss Bateman sighed. 'I can see I've engaged myself a little dragon! But never mind, you're such a charming one. I only wish you could charm Giles.'
Abby coloured and quickly changed the subject. 'What happened to your previous secretary?' she asked.
'She ran cff with some money of mine. She was desperately hard up for money—not for herself but for some scallywag she was engaged to. I had hoped that if she stayed with me long enough she would see him for the scoundrel he was, but unfortunately she didn't.'
'What happened to her? I hope you got your money back.'
'I didn't even try. Giles wanted me to prosecute, but I wouldn't. The money she took was unimportant to me and obviously meant a great deal to her.'
'How can you be so forgiving?' asked Abby.
'Why shouldn't I be? She'll be more hurt by her actions than I will be.'
Abby digested this comment. 'I'm surprised you engaged me without taking up any references,' she said.
'My dear, you're as transparent as glass!'
'How dull you make me sound!'
The dark eyes twinkled. 'I didn't say plain glass.'
Abby laughed and jumped to her feet. She went over to the pool. Her body cast a shadow on the water and as a breeze rippled the surface, her shadow became distorted.
'I wish I were tall and blonde,' she said, swinging her arms wide, 'or raven-haired and dramatic instead of an ordinary mouse.'
'Not an ordinary mouse,' Miss Bateman chided. 'One with honey-gold hair and serene brown eyes. You must stop thinking of yourself in a derogatory way. I've told you that before.'
Abby wiped her brow free of perspiration. 'It's hot out here. I would like to change into something cooler.'
'Go round the garden to the kitchen. You'll find Indira there. She's the cook and runs the entire house.'
Abby nodded and made her way round the marble- clad walls till the smell of curry told her she was approaching the kitchen. The back door was wide open and a young girl in a saffron-coloured sari was busy pounding spices with a pestle and mortar. As she saw Abby she gave a shy smile and called out in a sibilant tongue which brought forth an amazingly fat woman from behind a cupboard door.
'Yes, missis,' she asked, 'you want tea?'
'No, thanks,' Abby smiled. 'I'm looking for my bedroom. I'm Miss Bateman's secretary and she told me to come here and ask for Indira.'
'I am Indira.' The fat woman beckoned Abby inside and led her through the large but old-fashioned kitchen back into the main hall, where a stentorian shout brought a manservant running.
'Why you not show missis to her room?' the cook scolded.
Lowering his head as if chastened, he led Abby up the winding marble staircase to a vast bedroom overlooking the garden. The furniture was as large as the proportions of the room required, the bed big enough to house a family, and the wardrobe so enormous that every single item she owned—apparel and furniture—would have disappeared in its interior. Gold brocade curtains hung stiffly at the windows and thick Indian rugs were underfoot. A door on the left disclosed a bathroom, with king-size tub of pink marble and gold- plated taps that matched the thick yellow towels.
Quickly Abby unpacked, showered, slipped on a fresh dress and returned to the garden again, where Miss Bateman was scribbling in a notebook.
'How does Murder by an Air Bubble appeal to you?' 'Murder never appeals to me,' Abby said without thinking, then looked so disgusted that her employer laughed.
'I take it you aren't a fan of mine?'
'Actually I am. But I read your books because I enjoy your characterisation more than the murders you make your characters commit.'
'That's exactly what Giles says.' The notebook closed with a snap. 'I hope you've something pretty to wear tonight, Abby. The Chandrises always give delightful parties and I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself.'
'You weren't thinking of taking me?' Abby asked in alarm.
'But of course. You are my companion as well as my secretary, and I expect you to go everywhere with me.' Head on one side, she surveyed Abby. 'You'd look nice in a sari. Would you be willing to wear one?'
'How would the Indians feel about it?' asked Abby. 'They would be flattered.' 'Then my answer is yes.'
'I have several,' Miss Bateman said. 'They're just simple lengths of material, five or six metres long. But you need to wear a special right-fitting blouse and a long straight skirt underneath it. I'll have Lala measure you
and make them.'
'Lala?' queried Abby.
'The upstairs maid. She's an excellent seamstress. Come on, child.'
Intrigued at the prospect of what lay ahead, Abby followed Miss Bateman to her bedroom, where a ring on the bell brought a slender Indian girl gliding in to see them. She was a few years older than Abby, with such fine features she could have posed for any one of the delicate Indian miniatures that lined the walls of the room. Miss Bateman told her what was wanted and she disappeared, returning again with a tape measure.. With gentle, bird-like movements she took Abby's measurements, looked at her carefully and then left.
'You will have your blouse and skirt by five o'clock this evening,' Miss Bateman smiled. 'Now comes the nice part—choosing which sari length you would like.'
She pointed to a tall chest of drawers. It was made of dark wood and intricately inlaid with ivory: a valuable museum piece. Carefully Abby opened the top drawer, gasping with delight as she saw the jewel-like materials that lay within. There were gossamer silks, heavier brocades, and gauzy nets encrusted with pearls and sequins. The colours ranged through the rainbow and Abby shook her head in bewilderment.
'I'm spoilt for choice,' she murmured.
'Then let me decide.' Miss Bateman marched over, regarded the drawer and then pulled out a length of deep rose silk bordered with gold. She held it up against Abby and nodded. 'The colour is excellent for your skin; it gives it a glow.'
Holding the material against her, Abby went over to the mirror dressing-table. She lacked the imagination to know how it would look like when draped into a sari and knew she would have to accept Miss Bateman's judgment.
Later that evening she conceded that the choice of colour had been an inspired one. It did indeed make her skin glow and drew attention to its pearly quality. Even her hair seemed to take on an added lustre, and unexpected glints of gold appeared in the silk tresses. Intrigued, she watched as Lala skilfully manoeuvred the sari length into pleats, pinning them with tiny gold safety pins and then draping the whole length round Abby's waist, inserting it into the tight waistband of the long skirt she had just made. A few more skilful twists and then five metres of silk were transformed into a flowing graceful garment that gave her small form an elegance she had never noticed before.
'Many European women love to wear saris,' said Lala in her lilting voice. 'But many do not look good in it. One must be small-boned, like you.'
Abby accepted the remark as a fact and not as a compliment.
'I must try to glide when I move,' she smiled. 'Swinging arms and a firm gait don't go with a sari!'
Lala looked at her questioningly and Abby marched round the room to show her what she meant, which made the Indian girl lean back on her heels and rock with mirth. Abby slowed her pace and moved in small, even steps.
'Very good,' said Lala. 'You are a perfect Indian lady.'
Abby went back to the mirror and surveyed herself. 'There's still something missing,' she said, head on one side, 'but I don't know what it is.'
Without replying, Lala put up her hand to her own neck and ears and quickly unclipped the gold necklace and long dangling ear-rings which she handed to Abby.
'Please borrow them,' she said. 'I think you will find that this is what is missing.'
Abby did as the girl suggested and saw at once that Lala was right. 'It's kind of you to lend me them,' she smiled. 'Thank you.'
'Tomorrow I will tell you where to go to buy the same,' said Lala. 'They are not expensive.'
'But they're too ornate to wear with Western dress, and I can't see myself wearing a sari again.'
'You can buy a plainer set. You look so lovely in them.'
Abby fingered the delicate chandelier ear-rings. There was something provocative about them that gave her a devil-may-care feeling. Jewellery and clothes had an effect on one's behaviour and, thinking of her serviceable cottons, she knew an urge to consign them to the garbage can.
'Doesn't wearing this kind of jewellery indicate that you're married?' she asked, pointing to the necklace round her throat.
'Not always. A beauty mark is a much surer sign.' Lala lowered her head to show a rouge mark where her hair was parted in the centre.
'I didn't know you were married,' Abby said in surprise.
'For eleven years.'
'That's impossible! You aren't older than I am.'
'I am twenty-four. I was betrothed to my husband when I was three and I married him when I was thirteen.'
Abby looked at Lala with sadness. What sort of life did a woman have when she was betrothed to a man she did not know and then married to him when she was still a child? Yet as a stranger in this country, it was politic to hold her counsel.
'Do you have any children, Lala?' she asked.
'Two boys. My mother-in-law looks after them during the day.' The brown eyes held amusement. 'You are not yet betrothed?'
Abby grinned. 'I don't even have a boy-friend.'
'Does it worry you?'
'Not so far. I've just got myself a wonderful job with Miss Bateman.' Only Giles Farrow could be a thorn in her flesh, but she could not say this to Lala. Nor should she even think it. She must put the man out of her mind.
'Perhaps you will find love soon,' said Lala. 'In this sari you will attract many male eyes.'
Abby's own eyes glinted with humour. 'Especially if I trip on my skirt! I'll go down and give myself some practice.'
Bowing gracefully, Lala collected her bag of pins and glided out, a movement which Abby tried to emulate for the next half hour.
By the time she carefully descended the stairs she was more or less successful, and she made her way somewhat diffidently into the salon. The room was deserted and she breathed a sigh of relief at the reprieve. It wasn't what Miss Bateman would say about her appearance that worried her but what Giles Farrow's reaction would be. Nervously she went to the window and looked out into the dusk-filled garden, where soft lights glowed among the shrubbery. There was a slight sound and she turned to see the man who, only a moment ago, had been occupying her thoughts.
He wore black trousers and a cream-coloured dinner jacket. As he came closer she saw it was silk, several shades darker than the fine cream shirt through which his bronze skin gleamed faintly. There was an elusive hint of shaving lotion as he moved and she was more strongly aware of him than at any other time since they had met: possibly because he was scrutinising her with frank amusement.
'So the moth has shed her chrysalis and turned into a butterfly!'
She half smiled. 'Actually I feel like Cinderella.'
'But unlike Cinderella, you won't have to change back into rags at midnight. This finery remains with you, no doubt.' He pointed to the shimmering pink silk that caressed her body and subtly revealed her curves. 'A present from my aunt?'
Her cheeks matched the colour of her sari. 'How clever of you to guess.'
'Not cleverness, Miss West. It's happened too many times before. My aunt picks up strays the way a dog picks up fleas. She lavishes everything she possibly can on them, then sits back while they bite her hand.'
All Abby's good intentions not to lose her temper dissolved in the face of this unwarranted attack.
'Since you only insult me when you talk to me, Mr Farrow, I would be obliged if you kept your conversation with me to the minimum.'
'Do you find the truth objectionable?' he drawled.
'Not the truth,' she snapped. 'But I object to being judged by other people's shortcomings.'
The tightening of his jaw told her she had annoyed him, yet his body remained relaxed as he leaned against the back of a chair, one hand in the pocket of his jacket. 'I don't believe in buying affection or loyalty.'
'Nor do I,' she said. 'Anyway, genuine affection and loyalty can't be bought, it comes naturally.'
'The way yours does for my aunt?'
'I haven't known your aunt long enough to feel either,' Abby said with spirit. 'So don't use your cleverness to try to trap me. I know you
think I had an ulterior purpose in looking after her in Agra, but I would have done the same for anyone who needed help —even you.'
His eyebrows rose. 'Little Miss Do-Gooder! I'll bear it in mind when I feel in need of succour.'
She moved as though to walk past him, but he had already turned away to greet his aunt as she came through the door. In long black silk, she looked far more elegant than at any time since Abby had seen her, though she mischievously lifted the skirts of her dress to disclose that she was wearing her usual old black shoes.
'Comfort before fashion,' she explained and, dropping her skirt, surveyed the girl in front of her. 'You look beautiful, my dear.' She glanced at her nephew. 'Don't you think so, Giles?'
'I wouldn't describe Miss West as beautiful.'
'How ungallant of you! How would you describe her, then?'
Scarlet-faced, Abby waited for him to reply. The edges of his mouth lifted sardonically and he gave her the full benefit of his strange amber eyes, though when he spoke, the words were addressed to his aunt.
'I would describe her as a small pink candle,' he said. 'The kind that you place on Buddhist shrines.'
'What do you think of that for a compliment?' Miss Bateman asked Abby.
'I think Mr Farrow is hoping that, like a candle, I'll melt away!'
'Is that true, Giles?' his aunt asked mischievously.
'I haven't given Miss West any thought.'
Giles Farrow's voice was so indifferent that Abby longed to do him a physical violence. Never had a man aroused such feeling of rage in her as this one did.
'We'd better leave,' he went on calmly, and led the way to the waiting car.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Chandrises lived in one of Bombay's newest apartment blocks, built on the winding shore that bordered the Indian Ocean. Gliding down the steep road from Malibar Hill, Giles Farrow's limousine skirted the Hanging Gardens and turned left to give the occupants a sweeping view of the city set out below them.
It was only as it turned again that Abby saw the high wall to one side of the road, beyond which lay the small parkland in which was situated the cylindrical Towers of Silence. It was here that the Parsee dead were left to be devoured by waiting vultures, Giles Farrow casually told her, adding that the birds plucked a body clean within an hour.
Rachel Lindsay - Man of Ice Page 7