Echoes of a Promise (15 page)

‘Papa! Papa!’ Annabelle squealed as she saw him approaching with Victoria sitting beside him in a
shikara
. She ran from the roof deck and, by the time they had pulled in to the steps leading up from the water,
she was there on the top one, skipping with excitement while the Sikh kept a tight hold on the wide pink satin sash around the waist of her spotted muslin dress. ‘Papa! Papa!’

Andrew helped Victoria aboard the houseboat, before opening his arms to the child. ‘Belle!’ She flung herself at him and he scooped her up into a bear hug, then kissed her cheek. ‘Sweetheart, I’d like you to say hello to Mrs Latham.’

Annabelle looked at Victoria with little enthusiasm, mumbled her greeting, then threw her arms possessively around Andrew’s neck.

The begum was waiting to receive them in an opulent drawing room which ran across the width of the boat and was furnished with a triumphant blend of oriental and European tastes. Even the cobalt blue silk dress she wore today seemed an amalgamation of Indian and Parisian styles.

‘I am so happy that you are able to accept my invitation, Mrs Latham – or may I call you Victoria?’ the begum said, speaking English with a strong French accent. She came forward with her hands outstretched, even before Andrew had made the introductions.

‘The pleasure is all mine, madame,’ Victoria said, as the begum took her fingers firmly. ‘It’s most kind of you to offer me this sanctuary. I know that Andrew has told you about the awkward situation I’ve found myself in.’

‘Oh, my dear Victoria, you speak to one who has frequently been in awkward situations.’ Her voice was deep and melodious, her chuckle warm. ‘I live very quietly here on the lake, and I’d be delighted if you would stay as long as you wish.’

‘That’s very kind of you, madame. I have no fixed plans.’

‘Splendid! Andrew tells me that you’ve found no opportunity to understand the true ways of Kashmiri life so, perhaps, while you are here I could introduce you to some of my friends? I have a horse and vehicle stabled not far away on the shore, so we could pay some calls and perhaps make a few excursions to see a few of the interesting sights
in this region.’

‘Thank you madame. I’m keen to see as much as I can before I leave.’

The begum turned to Andrew. ‘My dear, do take Annabelle up to the roof deck to eat her supper, while I show Victoria to her room.’

Later, when Andrew was rowed back to the city, he carried away a rare feeling of harmony. Victoria and the begum had taken to each other straight away, as he was sure they would. Annabelle? He grinned. Did a little jealousy lie behind the tantrum she’d thrown at bedtime?

Once home, he slipped off his jacket and glanced at the papers on his desk. A telegram lay on the top and his heart leapt as his eyes flew over the message from General Roberts in Mardan. It had come already! It was the offer of a post with the Guides, and if Captain Wyndham wished to accept the offer, he should apply for his transfer to the
North-west
Frontier without delay.

He gave a groan. This was just the news that he’d wanted to hear, yet he’d been dreading its arrival before he reached some decision about Annabelle’s care.

He swore. What the devil was he going to do now? It had been his father’s scathing words that had goaded him into writing prematurely to General Roberts, but this prompt reply was something he certainly hadn’t expected.

And neither had he expected any transfer to take effect
immediately
. It usually took time for these moves to be approved.

‘Oh, Lord!’ He groaned again and ran his fingers through his hair. If he took up the Guides’ offer he must find someone to be a mother to his daughter, a lady who’d be prepared to share a soldier’s life on the frontier. Damnit!

Images of the women he’d known during his misspent youth flew wildly around in his head, and after he’d deleted all those with a colourful reputation, or those already married or downright stupid,
ill-humoured,
opinionated, timid or weepy, he could think of only one lady of his acquaintance who’d be up to the task: Victoria Latham.

Oh Lord! Refined, elegant Victoria was the last woman in the world he could invite to share his uncertain life on the frontier. Anyhow, she’d be a fool to accept an offer from a man like Andrew Wyndham who had so little to recommend him. Until Annabelle’s arrival had brought him down to earth, he’d lived his life as if there was no tomorrow.

He drank a brandy and went to bed, but while he lay hovering on the brink of sleep, images of Victoria’s pink, smiling lips and supple body danced again and again through his mind. It didn’t take long for those thoughts to drift into the erotic, and that was a mistake which cost him a great deal of much needed sleep.

Ah, Victoria! If only – oh, dear God! If only he had more than just himself to offer her.

When the begum received a message from Andrew next morning to say that he was likely to be late arriving for dinner that evening, she suggested that they take a drive to an outlying village to watch the
Lhori
festival taking place.

‘I’ve never really understood what the celebration is all about, but on this day each year, young boys dress up as spirits, then form a long line and perform a
chhajja
dance as they wind their way around the houses to visit elders and newly-wed couples, hoping to be given sweets. It’s a very cheerful and rather noisy day, and I’m sure that Annabelle will enjoy it, too.’

Indeed she did, and when Andrew arrived that evening he was met by a tired little girl who refused to go to bed until she had attempted to tell him about all the exciting, noisy and confusing things she’d seen at the festival.

The rambling report of the three year old, was made even more incoherent because the child spoke to her father in a mixture of
French-accented
English, interspersed with what Victoria assumed must be Urdu.

Andrew himself seemed to be weary. His patience started to grow thin and several times he interrupted the child’s flow and asked Annabelle to repeat certain words, using his own standard English accent. It was an exercise that didn’t go at all well and before long cross tears were spilling onto the rosy cheeks. Andrew took her to her room and read to her until she fell asleep.

‘My apologies,’ he said stiffly when he joined the ladies waiting at the dinner table.

‘Not at all, my dear.’ The begum spoke matter-of-factly. ‘We all know that children are like little parrots who pick up the words they hear spoken around them, and Annabelle listens to far more Urdu being used by my servants than she hears English being spoken here.’ She picked up her soup spoon and kept her eyes on the bowl. ‘But now that Victoria has come to stay, I’m certain that will start to change.’

Andrew nodded to Victoria. ‘Thanks, I’d appreciate your help.’

The following day the begum suggested that they drive into the city to pay a call on her good friend, Vashti, the senior wife of a carpet merchant. ‘Annabelle loves playing with her grandchildren, and I know that Vashti will be delighted to show you how Kashmiri ladies run their houses.’

The dark eyes of the melon-seller narrowed as he peered across the lake to watch the begum set out in her grand
shikara
and head to the bank where her horse and carriage stood harnessed. The child was with her and she was accompanied only by the lady who’d arrived yesterday. No bodyguard travelled with her. The man smiled. His prediction had been correct: already the presence of a guest in the household was causing a crack to appear in the usual ring of protection around the English child. The sack lay ready on the floor of his craft.

The begum’s carriage set out for the city next day and, once there, ran
along a lane leading behind a row of shops. Here, they entered the gates of a sprawling, two-storeyed brick and timber house with carved shutters on the windows, where they were welcomed effusively by a handsome, middle-aged woman. When the begum introduced Victoria, Vashti’s brown eyes lit up.

‘You are the very first British lady whom I have ever had the honour of meeting.’ The begum translated the Urdu and Victoria coloured.

‘In that case, I hope we may have many more meetings,’ she said to the woman, and held out her hand.

Vashti introduced her husband’s second wife, who was somewhat younger, and then the six daughters of the house. She insisted that the visitors must stay and join them for a meal of spiced lamb and lentils, which the ladies ate after the men of the household had been served.

Later, while Annabelle and Vashti’s small grandchildren played through the house and chased each other up and downstairs, she and the daughters led Victoria through the rooms. They proudly showed her the number of servants they employed, as well as the splendid carpets that had been woven in the family’s factory, as well as their collection of carved ivories, and tables inlaid with semi-precious stones. Hanging on the walls were the skins of tigers and leopards shot by the menfolk of the family.

The ladies opened jewel boxes for Victoria to admire their treasures, and displayed their chests full of fine silk saris.

Giggling, the daughters took out several saris and draped them, one after the other, across Victoria’s shoulder. Each seemed more vibrant than the last, and it wasn’t long before they’d persuaded her to remove the tight-waisted English dress she was wearing and replace it with a sari the colour of a golden-pink summer dawn.

When the yards of silk were draped and folded around Victoria’s body, the next step in her transformation was to pull the pins and combs from her dark hair and dress it in India style – parted in the middle with a jewelled ornament suspended in the centre of her forehead and
ear-rings that almost touched her shoulders.

The younger wife slipped a gold bangle from her own wrist, one which was fashioned in the shape of a coiled snake, and placed it on Victoria’s

As she stood gazing at her reflection in a long looking-glass, she was swept by a sensation of having stepped into an unknown world. The begum smiled her approval.

‘Oh, madame, can you imagine the stir it would cause if I found the courage to appear in the cantonment dressed like this?’ She gave a giggle. ‘Lady Marchant would have a fit!’

When it came time for the begum’s party to leave the house, Victoria was once again dressed as a respectable English lady. And she was deeply touched by the insistence of Vashti’s family that she accept their gifts of the dawn-pink sari and the gold snake bangle.

‘Madame, would I be permitted to thank these ladies as I would do if they were my English friends? With a kiss on the cheek?’

When the begum translated her request to the merchant’s wives, their eyes widened in astonishment. ‘The ladies would be honoured, my dear,’ she said and Victoria stepped forward to take Vashti’s hands and touch her lips lightly to one cheek.

‘I am delighted to have made your acquaintance, and I thank you for the lovely gifts. I will treasure them always.’ Then she did the same to the younger wife, while Vashti quickly urged all the daughters to come forward one by one and share in the unique experience of being kissed by a memsahib.

‘This has been a most remarkable day,’ Victoria said, as they set out in the carriage, with Annabelle sitting on her lap and struggling to keep her eyelids open. ‘Thank you so much for introducing me to your friends, madame. Isn’t it disappointing that such a gulf exists between those ladies and the ladies of the cantonment?’

‘It’s called prejudice. I’ve felt it’ – she nodded towards Annabelle – ‘and she’s likely to know it too, despite Andrew’s determination to
present her as a little English memsahib.’

Victoria frowned. ‘Do you think he’s making a mistake?’

The begum avoided an answer. ‘Let me show you another aspect of Indian life tomorrow. It’s time to visit the fort up there on the hill and pay a call on the maharaja.’

The begum, Victoria and Annabelle were all dressed in their best next day when they set out to visit the massive Hari Parbut Fort standing on its high hill a few miles from the city.

The iron gates of the fort swung open as the begum’s carriage approached and, when the guards threw a salute to the party as they passed through, Annabelle waved to them. Clearly she was no stranger to this place.

They entered a courtyard lined with cannon, and then through the next gateway that led into a garden where a domed pleasure-pavilion stood beside a water channel and peacocks strutted, dragging their long, iridescent tails across the grass.

When the carriage halted at the steps of the palace, a servant dressed in purple and gold, ran down to escort them to the entrance where one of the maharaja’s officials received the begum with due ceremony and acknowledged Victoria with a deep bow when she was presented.

Annabelle skipped off happily with an attendant who arrived to take her straight up to play with the children in the women’s quarters.

‘The maharaja has agreed to grant us an audience,’ the begum said quietly when she and Victoria were shown into a decorated chamber, where servants came with silver basins and ewers of rosewater to pour over their hands. For the next hour they sat alone in the room while
sweetmeats were served, and musicians entertained them on a durkra, sitar and drums until they at last received a summons into the royal presence.

‘What do I do?’ Victoria whispered. ‘Curtsy?’

‘No, simply bow low. But not
too
low.’

They were led through an empty, echoing marble chamber towards the heavy, beaten silver doors of the durbar hall. As they were flung open, Andrew was striding away from His Highness Maharaja Ranbir Singh who was seated at the far end of the hall on a raised marble platform. From the tight-lipped expression on Andrew’s face, Victoria suspected that his meeting with the maharaja had not been a productive one.

He was astonished to see them, and slowed his pace, though there was no opportunity to do more than exchange a few muttered words as their paths crossed. ‘Annabelle is somewhere playing with the children,’ Victoria whispered.

‘I’ll come this evening,’ he said under his breath. His eyes told her that there was more he wanted to add, but already a courtier was approaching to escort the ladies to their audience and an attendant was hurrying to place two carved and gilded chairs for them at the foot of the steps leading up to the
gadi
.

Flanked by a courtier on either side, the overweight maharaja sat looking down on them from his cushions. He was splendidly dressed in yellow brocade and wearing an emerald green turban fronted by an aigrette with a ruby as big as a bird’s egg. Behind His Highness stood his fan-bearer waving a large peacock-feather fan on its thick ebony stick, though there was no heat in the day. The tableau was meant to impress. And it succeeded.

At the foot of the steps, the begum bowed and Victoria followed her lead. His Highness waved a signal for them to sit in his presence, before he launched into a personal eulogy which the begum initially tried to translate, then gave it up as a hopeless task.

That didn’t concern Victoria. There was much to observe around her on the painted and gilded walls and columns, the colours of the brocades and the gleam of jewels worn by the courtiers. She smuggled a yawn into her gloved hand and spent the time mentally listing all the new images to include in her next letter to Emily and Martin.

After an hour had passed, the royal hands clapped to signal that the ladies’ audience had concluded and, after making their bows, they were escorted through the winding hallways of the palace to the eunuch guards who lounged at the foot of the staircase leading to the Pearl Tower, home of the maharaja’s two queens, the princesses, and his concubines.

‘When we enter the
zenana
, it’s most important for us to present ourselves immediately to
First
Her Highness before speaking with
Second
Her Highness, or any of the other daughters and women in there.’

The begum was no stranger to the ladies, but Victoria’s arrival raised a hum of interest when they walked into a long room where the delicately fretted windows threw patterned shadows across the white marble floor. A dozen maidservants and eunuchs were moving about, removing dishes and platters with the remains of a meal, while thirty or more ladies remained sitting on cushions with their greasy fingers held away from their clothes, waiting for rosewater to be brought and poured over each pair of soft hands.

When the women had dried their fingers, they began to drift across the hall to inspect the visitors. Victoria noted an amount of
ill-humoured
jostling amongst the maharaja’s ladies before she and the begum were summoned into a curtained alcove by First Her Highness who became increasingly agitated as she talked rapidly in a low voice. Again, Victoria was handicapped by not understanding the language, but when the begum was at last able to ease the conversation to an end, she slipped an arm through Victoria’s and drew her aside. 

‘There’s much resentment in the air today because one of the daughters of First Her Highness had been chosen last month to marry a son of the great Raja of Jaipur. But they’ve just been informed that the prince now desires the youngest daughter of
Second
Her Highness instead. As you might imagine, that news has not been received here with universal delight!’

‘Oh dear!’

‘Yes, so now, while I spend a little time with Second Her Highness and listen to her crowing over the coup, why don’t you take a stroll in the garden? In their present mood, I doubt the ladies will put themselves out to entertain any visitor here today.’

Simply by watching how little clusters of women were forming and turning their backs on others, Victoria found it impossible to ignore the tension running high within these walls. It was there in the sullen looks exchanged, in the tone of petulance injected into spoken words, in the act of a cup being hurled across the chamber and a serving woman slapped hard on the cheek for not sweeping up the shards quickly enough.

And throughout it all, Annabelle played in the gardens and pavilions with the girls and smaller boys. No sons remained in the ladies’ domain past the age of six, and Victoria noticed how the girls were now beginning to align themselves with one or other of the currently warring parties. Several had begun to spit what sounded like insults towards each other across the courtyard.

Victoria cringed inwardly at the thought that Annabelle’s mother would have lived this life of pampered confinement in the
zenana
of the palace at Gwalinpore – a place where the future held nothing but the past. It was chilling to think that this would have been Annabelle’s fate, too, if she’d not been rescued and sent to be raised by an English father.

Victoria strolled to the far end of the garden and sat alone on a marble bench to watch Andrew’s child playing with the water in a
fountain and wetting her dress as she chattered in Urdu to a little boy about her own age. Suddenly she noticed Victoria, and ran to tell her something.

‘Belle, please speak to me in English. I can’t understand what you’re saying otherwise.’

The little chin lifted and the child regarded her crossly. ‘Is my papa coming to see me tonight?’ The words might have been spoken in English but Annabelle delivered them in the sing-song tone used by her Indian
ayah
.

‘Thank you, Annabelle. Yes, I’m sure you’ll see your papa this evening.’

The child skipped back to her playmate, and appeared to be translating her good news back into Urdu for him.

Later, when they were all driving back to the lake in the carriage, Victoria recounted the episode to the begum.

‘Yes, it’s Andrew’s plan to raise her as an English-speaking child, but, as you see, she’s already beginning to walk a difficult tightrope between two cultures. I was brought up to speak French and Persian, and I’m afraid that our little parrot hears the servants talking to each other far more often than she hears her father’s language.’

Victoria took the tired little girl onto her lap. ‘Tell me, Belle, has your papa taught you to say some nursery rhymes? Do you know Humpty Dumpty, or Jack and Jill?’

Annabelle sat up straight and her weariness faded as she began to recite ‘Little Miss Muffet’, ‘The old woman who lived in a shoe….’ and others that Victoria had almost forgotten.

She exchanged an amused glance with the begum as the child babbled on. ‘What did we say about little parrots?’ She hid the laughter in her voice as Annabelle repeated each rhyme in her father’s crisp, well-modulated accent.

‘I think Annabelle would have few problems with pronunciation if Andrew was able to spend more time with her.’ The begum raised an
eyebrow. ‘And I’m sure that you will be of great help to her also, my dear.’

‘Of course, I’ll gladly do what I can while I’m here, madame.’ Nigel’s wedding was less than two weeks away now, and she was still undecided about where to go after that. Where was the direction – that
purpose
– she needed to find in her own life?

The begum’s voice cut across her ruminations. ‘I think that Annabelle has had sufficient excitement this week, don’t you? We’ll have a quiet picnic tomorrow in the Shalimar Gardens. She always enjoys our visits there.’

As soon as the begum’s party stepped ashore at the gardens next morning, Annabelle demanded to be given her pull-along elephant and instantly ran off with it along the central path beside the water channel leading up to the pleasure-pavilion.

‘I’ll go with her,’ Victoria called, as the
ayah
began unfolding canvas chairs and arranging rugs and cushions under the trees.

Once inside the pavilion, Annabelle stepped straight into her own make-believe world, taking the little wooden dolls from their
howdah
on the elephant’s back and sitting them on a marble bench. And chattering to them in Urdu. ‘Please tell me about your game.’ Victoria spoke slowly and distinctly, using her most persuasive tone.

Annabelle shook her head and stubbornly continued to chatter in Urdu, excluding Victoria while the long game developed into one that involved a great deal of running to and fro with the dolls playing
hide-and
-seek. Or that was how it seemed to Victoria.

But eventually Annabelle grew tired of it all, announced clearly that she was hungry, and made a bolt for the door.

Victoria picked up the toys and followed her back to where the begum was lounging in a canvas chair, reading a French novel. Bowls of chicken, sweetmeats and fruits had by now been delivered from the houseboat, and were laid out on a white linen cloth.

Victoria sat beside Annabelle on embroidered cushions while they ate, and sent an unspoken signal to the begum that her efforts to communicate in English with the child had so far met with no success today.

It wasn’t long before Annabelle began to lose the struggle to keep her eyelids open and, once she’d put her head on the cushion, she was soon asleep. Victoria reached across her to lift a wayward strand of hair from her cheek, then allowed her fingers to play with a long brown curl falling over one shoulder. Her mother must have been truly exquisite, she thought. No wonder Andrew had fallen so desperately in love with Ishana.

But her unspeakable ending on the pyre seemed something from a nightmare. Was it really possible for any woman to bring herself to do that without heavy persuasion? Would any of the ladies she’d seen yesterday in the
zenana
wish to throw themselves into the funeral pyre of the Maharaja of Kashmir when he died? If Annabelle hadn’t been rescued from a life in a
zenana
, might she one day—?

Victoria gave an involuntary shudder and looked up quickly to see the begum smiling at her enquiringly.

‘I find her a most delightful child, Victoria, don’t you? Yes, she’s strong-willed and needs a firm rein at times, but can’t you see how desperately she needs a mother? And don’t you agree that her father would make a fine husband?’

‘No, no, madame –
please
say nothing more! I have not the faintest notion of marrying Andrew. Besides, he’s not in love with me, any more than I am with him. We share a friendship that’s uncomplicated and undemanding, with absolutely no element of passion. And that’s the way I’d be happy for it to remain.’

The begum raised her brows. ‘Really? I must confess that a long time ago I had a rather passionate affair with Gordon Wyndham, until I came to understand the full measure of his disregard for anyone but himself.’ She smiled archly. ‘However, my dear, if I was thirty or forty years younger now, I could easily fall in love with a man like Andrew
Wyndham. Life with him would be filled with surprises.’

Victoria shook her head slowly. ‘No, I’ve been in love and I know exactly how it feels, madame. From the moment I met Peter Latham – my late husband – I was gripped by a sensation that set my heart racing every time I thought of him. I could hardly breathe, and every part of me ached for him. I couldn’t bear for us to be apart. And that’s why I
know
that what I feel for Andrew is
not
love, although I do feel a real fondness towards him.’

The begum raised her brows. ‘And nothing more than that?’

‘Of course, I enjoy his company, I respect his judgement, I’d trust him with my life, and I admire his devotion to his daughter. And yes, I find him quite an attractive man when he’s not scowling.’

For a moment the begum regarded her sceptically. ‘Are you being honest with yourself, my dear?’

Victoria blushed. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Don’t be too hasty in deciding to close the door on the prospect of marriage to Andrew. I know from experience that love arrives in many guises – sometimes quickly, sometimes not. You see, like Annabelle, I grew up between two cultures. My father was French – a diplomat who spent much of his career in this part of the world – and my mother was the daughter of a Persian nobleman.

‘Theirs was a true love match and I was their only child. We often travelled to visit relatives in Paris, and I still do, but this country became my homeland when I married Raziid Khan. Although I was just seventeen at the time and he was a man more than twice that age, my parents permitted the marriage even though he had two other wives at the time. However he’d fathered no children.’