Echoes of a Promise (9 page)

‘Then, one day as I was standing by the river, I saw him stagger down to the opposite bank and order the little punt to bring him across. There’d been heavy rain in the hills and the water was running so fast that the old ferryman didn’t want to cast off, but George used his riding whip to persuade him. The punt capsized halfway over and I saw my husband thrown in to the water.

‘Think what you will of me, Vicky, but I confess that I felt nothing – absolutely
nothing
– when I saw him floundering in that torrent. While I stood there on the bank and watched him being swept out of my life forever, I sent my thanks to whichever river deity had heard my prayer and smiled on me that day. I felt no grief then, or at any other time – simply enormous relief to know that I’d become a widow.’

‘Thank you for trusting me with that, Kitty.’ Victoria had squeezed her hand. ‘All I can say is that I have nothing but the greatest admiration for the courage you showed during those years, and I think Nigel is a very lucky man to have found you.’

‘Of course, I’ve told him everything, so now I intend to close the book on that chapter of my life and spend the rest of it being the best wife that he could ever wish for. Oh, Vicky, don’t you think that Nigel is the most the wonderful man you’ve ever met? Every day he goes out of his way to find fresh new ways to make me happy.’ She coloured. ‘Do you know that he’s even planning a new nursery for – well, for some time in the future.’

Victoria smiled to herself. Kitty Cameron had been talking about the man who – not long ago – had been called
dreary
by the cousins at Cloudhill.

Kitty’s charm soon softened any apprehension that Duleep might have had about the impending arrival of a new mistress in Pelham-sahib’s house. She’d been quick to reassure him that when she and the boys came to live here, there would be absolutely no changes required in his splendid domestic routine. But would it be possible sometimes to have an early dinner served under the willow tree in the garden? And could the downstairs windows be opened as soon as the sun was up each morning? And would he translate her recipe book for the cook? There was a lamb dish on page seventeen which she thought that
Pelham-sahib
was sure to enjoy.

Victoria smiled to herself and stepped away from the daily buzz of activity in the house. A tailor with his sewing machine now seemed to be permanently encamped on the floor of the veranda, busily stitching acres of new curtains, while painters and upholsterers moved from room to room creating chaos.

As often as possible, she escaped from it all by borrowing Maud’s pony-trap and having the little
syce
drive her away from the cantonment. She’d already begun to withdraw from the tight little groups of wives and their activities.

‘Sorry I won’t be able to come for cards this week. With so little time left here, I need to do a little sketching in the hills before I leave Kashmir.’

This became her standard excuse to avoid being caught up in the renewed swirl of tea parties and luncheons that the ladies of the cantonment were organizing for a fresh wave of new arrivals from the hot plains.

Victoria had never had any great enthusiasm for art. And very little talent, either, she reminded herself as she perched on a boulder and looked down on the long, narrow valley running beyond the little stream rushing over rocks at the foot of the hill where she was sitting. Up on the road behind her, Maud’s fat little horse stood dozing in the shafts of the trap, while the thin little
syce
lay curled up on the seat, snoring.

She sketched the outline of the hill across the valley and tried to draw its tree-covered folds running down to the long stretch of green grass below. The lake and the Shalimar Gardens probably lay not far beyond that hill, she calculated. Holding the sketch pad at arm’s length to study what she’d done, she screwed up her nose at the wretched effort and threw the book onto the ground beside her.

She wrapped her arms around her knees and let her mind drift while the white clouds overhead slowly changed shape until they began to resemble a flock of woolly sheep. Perhaps she should consider buying a sheep farm. In Australia?

The sound of pounding hoofbeats suddenly brought her back to earth and she sat up straight to watch the familiar chestnut beauty sweep into view around the hill. From having seen him on the cricket field, she knew that the rider was Captain Wyndham, but who was the small girl he was holding in front of him on the saddle? Was she the child with the elephant who had collided with her in the Shalimar Gardens?

Once onto the flat, the captain urged the horse into a gallop and both the man and child were laughing as the horse flashed past her vantage point.

It wasn’t long before she heard the galloping hoofs again echoing from the rocks, and the horse thundered back along the valley floor
with her legs stretched and her coat shining like molten gold in the sunlight. For one moment she seemed to be almost flying over the grass, and in the next she tripped, staggered, and seemed unable to right herself. Victoria saw the captain whip his feet from the stirrups at the first stumble, then as the horse crashed, he and the child were tossed to the ground, both tumbling awkwardly and rolling.

‘Oh, no!’ Victoria sprang to her feet and began to slip and slide her way downhill over the loose rocks and, lifting her skirt, she dashed through the fast-flowing ankle-high stream to reach the scene. Initially, the man and the little girl were not moving, but, by the time she’d raced across the valley, Captain Wyndham had raised himself into a sitting position and was holding the unconscious child in his arms, rocking her.

Not far away, the chestnut squealed in agony, lying on her side and thrashing as she struggled to stand on a damaged foreleg. Broken bone protruded through the skin.

‘Belle, Belle – oh, God! Annabelle, open your eyes, sweetheart. Look at me.’ The man seemed unaware that Victoria had reached his side.

‘Captain, I think the child should be kept still,’ she said gently, kneeling beside him and putting a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Don’t move her like that – just let her lie quietly.’ She picked up one of the little hands to feel the fluttering pulse, then rubbed the fingers between her own. ‘Sir, I’m going to untie your scarf and wet it in the stream so we can wipe the blood from her forehead.’

His face was ashen, making the thin white scar on his cheek barely noticeable. He made no response, but the look of dread in his eyes tore at her heart when she reached across the little girl to untie the knot under his chin. She ran across to the stream to wet his scarf in the icy water and, back beside them again, she wiped the child’s brow, then held it against the bleeding wound on her scalp.

‘You hand is hurt, sir. Is there a handkerchief in your pocket that I
could use as a bandage?’

‘No.’ Only then did he show surprise at finding her beside him. ‘What the devil— How—?’

‘I was up there, sketching,’

His frown deepened and he jerked his head towards the pitifully thrashing, squealing horse. ‘Well, for God’s sake, go over there and put the poor creature out of her misery.’

Victoria looked at him dumbly. ‘I – I can’t. I know nothing about – I’ve never handled—’

‘Oh, Lord! Just get my rifle from the saddle, put the muzzle between her eyes and pull the blasted trigger. It’s loaded.’ His jaw tightened. ‘She can’t be left to suffer like that.’

Like an obedient child, Victoria stood and, with her knees turning to straw, she went to the stricken animal lying there, all white of eye and foaming mouth. Terrified, she heaved great gulping breaths as she dodged the flailing legs to snatch the rifle. For a moment she looked down at it in her shaking hands, felt its weight and glanced across to the captain, hoping for some signal or direction. Or a little encouragement. But his gaze was still on the child’s face.

Gathering every ounce of her resolve, she moved cautiously to the mare’s head. ‘Oh, you wonderful, beautiful creature, please, please forgive me. It breaks my heart, but I must, I must do this.’ Perhaps it was coincidence, but the animal ceased its violent struggle at the sound of her voice and watched her as she placed the muzzle carefully between its eyes, braced herself, held her breath and squeezed the trigger.

Silence. Nothing happened. She clamped her lips to stifle a wail of panic. The captain was still looking the other way. She’d never handled a gun before. What was she to do now? Common sense whispered that there must be a safety catch somewhere on this weapon. Where? Her damp hands shook even more when she turned it and located a lever beside the breech. It moved smoothly when she lifted it, then
positioning the muzzle between the mare’s eyes, she tried again.

This time she forgot to brace herself and the rifle’s recoil slammed the butt painfully into her shoulder and sent her staggering backwards. But the bullet had done its job and the mare lay still at her feet.

For the next few moments she could do nothing but stand and stare in horror at what she’d accomplished. She’d killed this glorious animal! Her numbness quickly passed and she began to shake. She wiped a sleeve across her eyes, swallowed hard and turned away to carry the rifle back to the captain.

The little girl in his arms was whimpering and he shot a glance up at Victoria. ‘Quickly, look at this – see? Watch her eyelids.’

The dark lashes fluttered and the child’s eyes opened a crack. ‘Oh, Papa, it hurts. It hurts, Papa.’

The man kissed the little girl’s forehead and Victoria saw the moisture in his eyes. Then, still holding the child across his arms, he climbed to his feet.

Victoria knew that the sound of the gunshot was sure to have woken the sleeping
syce
, and, sure enough there was the little man already scrambling down the hill towards them. ‘Captain, I have a vehicle waiting on the high road. Can I take you and the child wherever you need to go?’

‘Thank you, but no. I’ll carry her – not far. But if you would be so good as to slip the strap of the rifle over my shoulder?’ By the way he moved it, she could tell that he was in pain.

At last he looked across to the mare. His lips tightened and she saw the misery in his eyes. ‘She was— I am most grateful for your assistance, ma’am.’

Victoria didn’t trust her voice not to break if she tried to speak. So they simply looked quickly at each other and exchanged a nod, then turned their backs and walked away in opposite directions.

Climbing back up the steep hill to the pony trap was made more difficult by the fact that she seemed to have little control of her limbs
and her vision was blurred by unstoppable tears. She’d never be able to forget the expression in the mare’s eyes as she held the rifle against her forehead. She couldn’t bring herself to look back on what she’d done. It was too awful. But just then, she glimpsed the begum’s big Sikh servant come running from what she deduced must be the direction of the lake.

Pieces of today’s puzzle kept teasing her as the pony clopped its way slowly back to the cantonment. There was obviously much more to Captain Wyndham than the gossips of Srinagar realized. A little girl named Annabelle had called him papa, and she was, without doubt, the child with the painted elephant whom Victoria had seen being taken out to the begum’s houseboat near the Shalimar Gardens.

What was the captain’s connection with that grand lady with whom the British people of Srinagar refused to become associated? Why was the child in the begum’s care?

Where was Annabelle’s mother?

Andrew Wyndham’s shoulder ached, his head ached, and he was bruised from the fall. Fury at the whole episode burned inside him; the nightmare of Annabelle’s brush with death today would live with him forever. And his heart ached for the beautiful mare. One false step, one unexpected depression in the surface where her hoof had struck. Damn, damn, damn! Half a yard to the left or right and there would have been no fall. It was his own blasted fault. He’d been riding like a madman.

He poured a brandy and stood at his window, staring out into the night and trying to make sense of the events. The sudden arrival of the young Englishwoman at the scene had been most fortunate, but what tale would she carry back to the gossips? Who was she, this green-eyed girl who’d shown such a cool head in the emergency? No, her eyes weren’t truly green, they were hazel—

Whoever she was, he should at least try to find her and express his gratitude. But how could he do that? Knock on every door in the cantonment?

He turned from the window and pulled off his jacket. Of course, he should have left Srinagar two years ago. That had been the original plan he’d made with the begum: she would raise Annabelle for a year or so, spending winter on her estate near Amritsar and summer on the houseboat in Kashmir where Andrew was able to pay regular visits. And during those twelve months, he was to have resigned from the regiment and found himself a position somewhere in the Indian Civil Service – some place where he, himself, could raise his child.

But now Annabelle was three years old and here he was, still procrastinating. The begum had been his salvation, but how much more could he ask of her?

In reality, though, where could he and Annabelle settle down quietly as father and daughter? He’d turned down a job in the Madras Customs Office last year when he was hit by panic at the prospect of spending his life sitting at a desk reading endless cargo lists. The position of Deputy Forestry Officer in Bangalore had sounded promising – especially as a bungalow was to have been provided. But when news came that the whole area was ablaze in a series of confused and bloody religious riots, he withdrew his application. Perhaps he could find a position in Calcutta with a merchant house? Or learn whatever skills were required to become a banker? Pity that his application for the position of manager of a tea plantation in Darjeeling had been turned down. Perhaps he should never have mentioned that he knew nothing about growing tea.

He turned away from the window and began to undress for bed. Damn it, the army had been his whole life. The regiment was the only family he’d ever known and he had no real desire to walk away from it.

But where in that masculine and often lonely world would there ever be a place for his motherless child? He had to look elsewhere to provide whatever Annabelle was going to require along her path to womanhood. Though, with his funds in such a sorry state, would he
ever be able to provide enough?

He opened the safe and took a great ruby ring from its box. It was valuable and it would be Annabelle’s one day. When she asked him where it had come from, he would tell her the story of her beautiful Indian mother who lived in a far-away place called Gwalinpore.

The old ache for Ishana remained buried deep in his heart. Ishana, whose love had restored life to his broken body. Did she sometimes fret for the tiny, precious gift that she’d sent to him three years ago? In that time, had any of his messages reached her in the palace
zenana
? Had the healer relayed the news that her beautiful daughter was well and thriving?

Andrew realized that it would only be a matter of time before information filtered through to his father that he had been applying for a variety of civilian posts, and he seemed to be the only one in Srinagar who wasn’t surprised by General Wyndham’s unscheduled visit to inspect the regiment. The adjutants had barely sufficient warning to ensure that everything was in order before the general’s party was sighted.

Colonel Moncrief welcomed General Wyndham with full pomp at a dinner in the officers’ mess. All the grand regimental silver was put into service and the general was in fine form at the head of the table, brimming with affability, generous with his praise.