Fragrant Flower (19 page)

It was so beautiful, so lovely!

Quite suddenly it gave Azalea a new courage and a bravery she had not possessed before.

Why, she asked herself, should she be denied everything in her life that was beautiful? Why should she deliberately submit herself to her uncle’s ruling and accept his decree that she must not marry?

She knew that both her father and her mother had wanted her happiness above all else.

She knew too that her mother would never have allowed herself to be humiliated and trodden underfoot by the General.

She could hear her mother in the past laughing at the pomposity and the pretensions of senior officials and their wives who imagined themselves to be too grand to condescend to the wives of junior officers or even to the officers themselves.

She would amuse Azalea and her father when she mimicked the manner in which they spoke – the way in which the women would sweep into a room as if they were Queens or Empresses rather than merely the wife of a General or of the Governor of a Province, whose importance only lasted the five years he was in office.

“They are a lot of sacred cows!” Azalea once heard her mother say. “And because we are bemused by the importance they assume for themselves, we are too frightened to remember that when they return home to England they will retire into obscurity, and no one will listen to their long, rambling tales of India!”

“You are right, my darling!” Azalea’s father had said, “but if you express such revolutionary statements too loudly, I shall be cashiered for impudence!”

“Then we will retire to the Himalayas!” Azalea’s mother had said with a little laugh, “where we will sit and talk with the wise sadhus, the yogis and the fakirs, and we will learn about the really important things of life.”

“The really important thing as far as I am concerned,” Azalea’s father replied, “is that I love you! Whatever people do outside this house, we are complete in ourselves and they cannot hurt us.”

But that had not been true!

Because of Colonel Stewart’s brutality, her father had been forced to take his own life; and before that, her mother had died of cholera because she had tried to help one of their servants who was ill and had picked up the deadly infection in the Bazaar.

“Mama would have stood up to Uncle Frederick,” Azalea told herself now.

And she knew that she must not let the wonder and the beauty of her love for Lord Sheldon slip away from her by behaving like a coward.

She turned from the window, and because he had told her to do so, she undressed and got into bed.

Only as she sank back against the pillows did she realise that in actual fact she was quite exhausted.

The fear she had experienced when the junk was attacked, the terror of being carried aboard the pirate ship, the anticipation of what awaited her and Kai Yin if they were sold, had left her drained emotionally.

And yet, as if it was a star shining over her head, she could recall so vividly Lord Sheldon’s words when he had said, “How soon will you marry me, my precious?”

Even to think about it made a little quiver of delight run through Azalea, and she shut her eyes to imagine that he was holding her in his arms and his lips were seeking hers.

“I love him! I love him!” she whispered.

And knew that the love she had for him was something so deep and so fundamental that she belonged to him completely and absolutely.

“If I never saw him again,” she told herself, “no other man could ever mean anything in my life.”

She had known that her mother, with her strange Russian mysticism, had loved her father in the same way.

It was a love that could happen once in a lifetime, and for only one man.

‘I am the same,’ Azalea thought. ‘I shall love him until I die and there can never be anyone else.’

She was almost asleep when she heard a knock on her door.

For a moment she thought she must have dreamt it, then as she listened it came again.

“Who is it?” she asked remembering that she had locked herself in.

“I wish to speak with you, Azalea.”

There was no mistaking the harshness of her uncle’s tone. Azalea sat up, wide awake and conscious that her heart was beating violently. She felt a sudden dryness in her mouth.

“I – I am – in bed – Uncle Frederick,” she said after a moment.

“Open the door!”

It was a command, and drawing in her breath, Azalea rose slowly from the bed. Picking up a thin cotton wrapper which lay over a chair she put it on and tied the sash around her slim waist.

Slowly, as if she had to force her feet to obey her, she walked towards the door, turned the key and opened it. The General was standing outside.

He seemed big and overpowering in his uniform, with his medals on his breast and his gold insignia glittering in the last faint rays of the setting sun coming through the window.

He walked into the room and closed the door behind him. Azalea backed a little way away from him to wait apprehensively. Then he said,

“I presume it is no use asking you for an explanation of your disgraceful behaviour?”

“I am – sorry – Uncle Frederick,” Azalea said.

Her voice seemed very quiet and low in contrast to his hectoring tones.

“Sorry? Is that all you have to say?” her uncle asked. “How dare you, as a guest in my house, consort with Chinese! Where did you meet these people?”

“On – board – the
Orissa
.”

“And you visited them knowing I would disapprove?”

“They were – friends of mine.”

“Friends!” the General snorted. “How can you be friends with Chinese, especially knowing my position here in Hong Kong and what I feel about the Governor entertaining them?”

“I feel the – same as he – does,” Azalea said.

Her face was very pale, but the eyes that she kept on her uncle’s face were brave and her expression showed none of the nervous tumult within her.

“How dare you speak to me in such a way!” the General shouted.

Reaching out his right hand he slapped Azalea hard across the cheek.

She staggered, gave an involuntary little cry and put one hand up to her face.

“After all I have done for you,” the General stormed, “taking you into my house, acknowledging you as my niece, even though I was ashamed and humiliated by your father’s murderous action and your mother’s Russian blood.”

He paused and then he added,

“I might have expected from the child of such a marriage that you should associate with Orientals, that you should degrade yourself by wearing their costume and involve me in a scandal that will reverberate from Hong Kong to London!”

Again the General paused as if to catch his breath.

“Can you imagine what will be said when it is learnt that my niece, living in my house, sneaked away on a Chinese junk to get herself captured by pirates and unfortunately rescued by the British Navy?”

He emphasised the word ‘unfortunately’. Then as if Azalea had questioned him, he went on,

“Yes, I mean unfortunately! It would have been better, far better, if the pirates had either drowned you because you were British or sold you into slavery. It is what you deserve!”

The General spoke so violently, almost spitting the words at her, that instinctively Azalea took a step backwards.

Then he said,

“Not content with making a fool of me, you have dared to disobey the restrictions I laid upon you when you first came back from India. Do you remember what I said?”

Azalea tried to answer but no words would come to her lips.

Her cheek was burning from the violence of her uncle’s blow. She was trembling, but she hoped he was not aware of it.

“I told you,” the General continued, “that you would never be allowed to marry – that I would never give my permission for any man to make you his wife! Yet you have dared – dared in your perfidy – to encourage Lord Sheldon!”

For the first time since he had entered the room Azalea dropped her eyes.

She could not bear to look at her uncle’s red face contorted with anger and listen to what she knew he was going to say.

“Did you really think,” he asked, “that I would alter my determination to ensure that the secret of your father’s crime goes with you to the grave?”

He raised his voice as he stormed,

“Never – and I mean never, Azalea – will I permit any man to know of this blot on the family honour. I believed, foolishly, I now admit, that you understood why you must obey me.”

Azalea found her voice.

“B – but I – want to marry Lord Sheldon. I love him and he – loves me.”

The General gave a short laugh, and it was an ugly sound.

“Love! What do you know of love?” he asked. “As for Sheldon, he must be raving mad to want you as his wife! The only asset you have is that you are my niece, and as your uncle and your Guardian I have refused your importunate lover.”

“No! No!” Azalea cried. “I cannot permit you to do this to me. I wish to marry him.”

“Apparently, God help him, he wishes to marry you!” the General sneered. “But let me tell you, Azalea, it is something that will never happen!”

“Why not? Why should you prevent it?” Azalea asked with a sudden burst of courage. “It is unjust! Papa paid the penalty for what was an unfortunate accident. Why should I be punished for something that had nothing to do with me? I have a right to be married – like any other woman – to the man I – love !”

As Azalea spoke, the words came from her lips positively and with a determination she had never shown before. She knew that she was fighting not only for her own happiness but also for Lord Sheldon’s.

“So you are determined to defy me?” her uncle asked.

Now his voice was lower, but it seemed to be more menacing.

“I wish to marry – Lord Sheldon!”

He looked at her speculatively and his lips tightened.

“I have told Sheldon I will not permit it,” the General said, “but he will not take ‘no’ for an answer. You will therefore, Azalea, sit down at that table and write to him saying that you refuse to marry him and you have no wish to see him again.”

“You want me to – write – that?” Azalea asked incredulously.

“I
order
you to do so!”

“I refuse. I will not write lies, not even to please you! I want to marry him – I want to see him again – I love him!”

“And I intend that you shall obey me,” the General said firmly. “Will you write that letter, Azalea, or must I force you to do so?”

Azalea threw up her head.

“You will never make me write it,” she answered defiantly.

“Very well,” the General replied, “if you will not acquiesce willingly in what I ask of you, then I will exact your obedience by other methods!”

He moved as he spoke and for the first time Azalea saw that he carried in his left hand a long, thin riding whip.

It was one that he always used on his horses.

She looked at it and her expression was incredulous! Yet her eyes asked the question that she could not put into words.

“I have never beaten my daughters,” the General said, “because there has been no necessity for me to do so. But had there been, I should have had no compunction about flogging them, as I was flogged as a boy, and as I would flog my son, if I had one.”

He transferred the whip into his right hand. Then he said sternly,

“I give you one more chance. Will you write that letter, or shall I force you to do so?”

“I will never – write it, whatever you – do to me!” Azalea replied.

But she gave a little scream as the General unexpectedly took hold of the back of her neck and threw her face downwards onto the bed.

For a moment she thought, ‘This cannot be happening!’

Then the whip seared its way like a sharp knife across her back, and again she opened her mouth to scream.

But with a superhuman effort at self-control she pressed her lips together.

She would not acknowledge the pain of it! She would not give in, whatever he did to her!

The whip fell again and again, biting through the thin cotton of her wrapper and the muslin of her nightgown. They gave her no protection, and as the General brought the wiry, flexible instrument of torture down upon her the pain grew more and more unbearable.

Azalea began to feel as if her will, and even her identity was being thrashed away from her.

She was no longer herself. She could no longer think. She could only wince with the agony of one blow and wait apprehensively for the next.

She felt as if her whole body was dissolving into a pain that spread from her neck to her knees – a pain that grew and grew until at last she heard someone screaming and wondered who it could be.

Then, mercifully, the pain ceased and as if his voice came from a long distance away, she heard her uncle ask,

“Now will you do what I tell you?”

It was impossible for her to reply, and after a moment, his voice hard and harsh, he said,

“You will write that letter, or I shall continue to beat you. It is your choice, Azalea.”

She wanted to tell him that she would never write it – but for the moment it was impossible to speak, difficult to remember what the letter was about or even to whom she had to write it.

The whip fell again and now it jerked a piercing scream from her lips.

“Will you write the letter?”

Azalea felt the whip would cut her in pieces, that she would sink through the bed and onto the floor.

“I – will – write– it.”

The words came gasping from between her lips because she knew she could bear no more.

Her whole body felt as if it was an open sore and the pain, as she tried to raise herself, was agonising.

Her uncle took her roughly by the arm and pulled her to her feet.

“Go to the writing table.”

Stumbling, holding onto the furniture for support, Azalea reached the writing table which was in the window. Somehow she managed to sit down on the chair and stare stupidly at the blotter, her hands shaking, her face wet with tears, although she was not aware that she was crying. Impatiently her uncle opened the blotter and set a piece of writing paper in front of her. He dipped the nib of the pen into the ink and placed it between her fingers.