Land of Hope and Glory (3 page)

‘Keep an eye on Edwin,’ Jack said. ‘Don’t let him leave that gate.’

‘Aye, I’ll watch him.’

Jack continued to the back of the house, where only the light from the pantry trickled across the lawn. Ahead of him, the four acres of the gardens were almost pitch black. Off to the right, behind a row of bushes, stood the wall of the servants’ compound.

‘Jack.’

Sarah, the head cook, appeared from the pantry and slipped across the grass towards him.

He cursed under his breath. He’d been avoiding her. He’d slept with her a few nights ago, but that had been a mistake. Now she seemed to think there was something between them.

She stepped out of the shadows and looked up at him. She was pretty, with brown hair that fell in thick locks past her shoulders.

‘Haven’t seen you around much,’ she said.

‘Been busy.’

‘Big night tonight. The mistress’s been in a right state.’ She waggled her head and imitated Shrimati Goyanor’s thick Indian accent. ‘
I told you never to use garlic and onions when we have government officials to dinner
.’

Jack smiled slightly.

‘I’m dead tired now, though,’ she said. ‘Got another blessing in the morning too, first thing.’

Jack knew that all cooks had to be blessed regularly if they were to prepare food for the Rajthanans. The Rajthanans had a lot of strange ideas about food and drink. It was something to do with their system of caste, which they called jati. The higher jatis wouldn’t take food from the lower jatis, and no one would take it from Europeans unless they were blessed. Jack had actually seen a dying officer in the field refuse water from a native soldier to avoid being polluted.

‘If you have an early start I’d better let you get on,’ Jack said quickly, turning to leave. Maybe he could get away before things got difficult.

‘Jack.’

He stopped and turned back.

Her face was serious now. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Look, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea—’

‘I see.’ A glint of moisture appeared in one of her eyes. She looked off into the dark gardens. ‘Like that, is it?’

‘You know the rules. Servants can’t be couples. We’d get fired.’

‘No one would find out.’

‘We can’t risk it. Anyway, you could do better than me. Get yourself a good man. Get married.’

He meant it. He wasn’t well, not since . . . his accident. Sarah didn’t know about his injury and he didn’t want to burden her with it. She should have a strong man who could take care of her . . . But there was more to it than that. If he were honest, the memory of his wife, Katelin, still held him back.

‘Have it your way, then,’ Sarah said, with an edge of bitterness to her voice. She turned to leave.

‘Wait.’

She looked back.

What could he say? ‘It’s for the best.’

She huffed, spun away again and marched back to the house, her long dress swishing about her.

Jack scratched the back of his neck. That had gone about as well as could be expected. At least it was over now. Part of him wished he could just give in and be with Sarah. She was a good woman. But it would never work.

He pressed on into the darkened grounds, crossed the small stone bridge over the brook and continued into the formal garden. Oblong-shaped, ornamental trees stood in rows beside ponds that reflected the moon. Lines of white orchids and lilies swayed in the breeze. He smelt the cool fragrance of flowers and moss. The wooden gazebo, half buried by vines, brooded in the centre.

Beyond the garden was a series of hedges and then the orchard. He walked between the apple and pear trees, smelling the sweetness of the growing fruit.

About halfway through, the hairs suddenly stood up on the back of his neck and his skin rippled. The air seemed to tremble with a strange energy. He’d been expecting this.

He stopped and sniffed. A faint, but familiar, scent encircled him. It was like a mixture of sandalwood, musk, saffron and rosewater. Distinctive, yet impossible to describe.

Sattva.

A powerful stream coursed through the grounds here, and he sensed it every time he walked through. He was sure no one else in the house knew about it. Only he had the sensitivity and training to detect it.

He took a deep breath. That smell reminded him of the past, back when he’d still been able to use his power.

A movement off to the left disturbed him. What was that?

He crouched, peered into the gloom, listened intently, searching the surroundings for signs. Tracking came to him instinctively – he’d learnt the skill from his father from the moment he could walk.

He noticed the movement again – a quick swish near to the ground. He sneaked forward and paused, partially concealed by a tree trunk. Despite the warning he’d given Edwin, the only intruder during all his years as head guard had been a vagrant boy stealing fruit. He waited for several minutes and then a red-brown streak shot between the trees and disappeared – a fox. He gave a small chuckle. He’d thought as much, but it was always best to be cautious. The old army training, the old reflexes, would never leave him.

He slunk to the end of the orchard – leaving the sattva stream – and reached the stone wall that marked the perimeter of the property. Beyond the wall lay miles of fields belonging to Shri Goyanor – the nearest neighbours were five miles away.

He walked beside the wall until he reached the iron gate that was the only back exit to the property. He checked that the bolts were secure and then, satisfied that everything was in order, set off back towards the house.

As he crossed the bridge, he started to feel out of breath.

He stopped on the other side and leant against a willow tree. He tried to catch his breath, but his chest felt tight and sweat formed on his forehead. This had happened several times recently. What was wrong with him? Was his injury getting worse?

He shut his eyes, and after a minute his breathing eased. That was better. He opened his eyes again and went to move on.

Then he felt a thump in his chest, as though someone had kicked him. His ears rang and white spots spun before his eyes. He fell against the tree and sat there, hunched. He was choking. He tried to call for help, but he was too weak even to do that. Blackness passed over him and he fought to stay conscious.

‘Jack!’

He opened his eyes. Sarah was crouching over him with a lantern in her hand.

He blinked. He felt better – he could breathe again and the pain in his chest had gone.

Sarah crossed herself. ‘Thank the Lord. You had me worried there.’

He sat up against the tree. ‘What happened?’

‘You tell me. I heard this choking sound and I came down here and found you out cold.’

‘Ah. Think I fainted. Haven’t been feeling too well lately.’

She frowned. ‘You should see a doctor.’

‘No need for that.’ He struggled to his feet. ‘Just a touch of the flu.’

‘Flu, my foot! At the mission hospital—’

‘I said, there’s no need.’

Her eyes flickered. ‘You’re bloody impossible.’

‘Don’t make a scene.’

‘Don’t make a scene?’ She raised her voice and turned as if calling out to the house. ‘Why, you worried the master will find out about us?’

‘Sarah—’

‘Think you’ll lose your job?’

Jack winced as his chest tightened again and his breathing became laboured.

She paused for a second. ‘Jesus. You look terrible.’

He waved her away. ‘I’ll come right in a moment.’

‘You’d better get back to your room.’

He was too weak at that moment to disagree, and he let her walk with him to the compound and past the small white-walled huts of the other servants. By the time they reached his hut he was feeling a little stronger.

She followed him into his room, despite his protest. He lit a lantern, revealing his plain cubicle. A sleeping mat lay on the floor, a few blankets folded neatly at the end. His spare clothes, also neatly folded, sat on top of a crate in a corner. The stone floor had been carefully swept and washed.

‘Why don’t you lie down?’ she said.

‘I will . . . in a minute.’

‘Here, let me get this.’ She bent to move a carved wooden box that was sitting in the middle of the sleeping mat.

‘No.’ He slammed his hand over the box. Then he saw the surprise on her face and his voice softened. ‘It’s just something personal.’

‘Touchy, aren’t you?’

He sighed. ‘It’s just some letters. From my daughter.’

‘Your daughter? I didn’t know . . . you’re a dark horse, aren’t you? How old is she?’

‘Fifteen.’

A suspicion moved across her forehead. ‘What about the mother?’

‘She died.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right. It was eight years ago.’

‘Do you see her often – your daughter, I mean?’

‘Twice a year, at the most. She lives in North Dorsetshire. It’s expensive to get there.’ It was less than a day away, but neither he nor his daughter, Elizabeth, earned much. ‘Sarah, you’ve been very kind, but I should get some rest.’

She nodded. ‘You see a doctor, though.’

‘I will. Just one thing, if the master finds out about . . . what’s happened, he’ll think I’m not fit to work.’

‘I won’t tell anyone. So long as you see a doctor.’

He half smiled.

‘I mean it,’ she said.

He gave her a nod as she left. He had no intention of seeing a doctor. He’d always been able to control his injury and this latest attack would just be a temporary setback.

He was sure it wouldn’t happen again.

He shut the door, lay down on the mat, put his face in his hands and massaged the skin. He opened the wooden box and took out Elizabeth’s latest letter. He looked at the lines of curling ink, tracing the marks with his finger. He couldn’t read the words, but he could recall them. Whenever he paid a letter writer to read one of her letters, he would listen intently and memorise as much of it as he could.

He put the letter away and closed his eyes. As he drifted off, he pictured Elizabeth the last time he’d seen her – seven months ago, at Christmas. He remembered her standing outside in the cold, waving goodbye to him as he left on the back of a horse cart. She shivered and her nose was red, despite the thick cloak she wore over her shoulders. She looked so small and frail as he pulled away, dwarfed by the fields of luminous snow.

‘It’s very concerning,’ Shri Goyanor muttered. ‘Very concerning indeed.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Jack was standing in Shri Goyanor’s study with the morning light falling across his employer’s desk. There had been a disaster just before dawn. A servant boy had been caught drinking from the well reserved for the Goyanor family, which meant it was now polluted and would have to be reconsecrated.

‘How could this happen?’ Shri Goyanor asked without taking his eyes off his newspaper.

‘The well isn’t guarded. I can put someone outside it, but we may need an extra hand in that case.’

As far as Jack was concerned it wasn’t his fault. His job had always been to stop anyone from outside the grounds getting in. Shri Goyanor had never said anything about the well. But Jack knew better than to point this out. Shri Goyanor was his commander, and you didn’t question your commander. Nor would it do much good if you did.

Shri Goyanor sighed, pushed up his spectacles and poured himself a glass of water – Jack recognised the label on the bottle: ‘Ganges Finest’. The family had been reduced to drinking expensive imports. Shri Goyanor took a sip, then stared out of the window at the central courtyard where two gardeners were bent over, cutting the lawn with shears.

Jack waited for a response. He wanted to ask Shri Goyanor for the rest of the day off so he could visit the mission hospital in Poole, but he knew he had to time an unexpected request like that carefully. He’d had two further ‘attacks’ and Sarah had been pestering him for days to see a doctor. He’d finally agreed it was worth a try. Now it was Friday, the only day the hospital was open to new patients.

The floor felt cold through his hose – as usual he’d taken off his boots before entering the house. He glanced at the walls, seeing the row of plaques that were apparently awards from his employer’s jati, the ‘Traders and Farmers in Europe’. Next to these hung small, faded portraits of important family and clan ancestors, including a picture of Babuji Gupta, the founder of the jati, who had settled in Europe more than 150 years ago, as Jack understood it. The old man – with a huge white beard – smiled as serenely as a Christian saint, as if he could foretell how successful his community would be.

Shri Goyanor continued staring at the lawn.