Through Glass Eyes (20 page)

Checking outside James found a trail leading away from the barn. The two sets of footprints indicated that Grace and her father had headed towards the far meadow, but there were no tracks to show they had returned.

The far field, which completely crowned the hill, was the largest of Mr Fothergill’s paddocks. Every summer it was ablaze with waving wheat and when the sun dropped behind it, it gleamed as if draped in a cloth of gold. Now buried beneath its winter mantle, the field, fences and clustered trees, formed the picture of a perfect Christmas card; vestal white, pure, untouched.

But the wind was biting cold and fine slivers of ice stung James’s face like red-hot needles. Screwing his eyes against the sleet, he turned up his collar. ‘Grace!’ he yelled, following the deep footprints that led towards a wooden stile. Seeing the snow knocked from the slats, he knew the pair had crossed.

‘Mr Fothergill!’ he yelled. ‘Are you out there?’

‘Over here!’ The voice was faint. It was Grace.

James lumbered awkwardly through the drifts in the direction of the call but could see nothing but snow. ‘Where are you?’ he shouted.

In the corner of the field, sheltered only by the bare branches of a line of tall poplars, was a group of black and white cows. Completely saddled in snow, they were huddled against the fence line. Not far from the cattle, an arm poked up from the snow and waved. Grace had burrowed a small alcove and was sitting in the snow with her father’s head resting on her lap.

‘Thank goodness you’re here,’ she said, as he dropped down beside her. ‘I only found him a short while ago. He was worried about the cattle because they’d been here two days with nothing to eat. He said he tried to move them but they got confused and when he fell one trampled his leg. I think it’s broken.’ She looked up at James. ‘I can’t move him but we’ve got to get him out of here otherwise he’s going to freeze.’

It took more than an hour to get the farmer back to the house. James supported him all the way, but with the extra weight, his feet sank deep in the drifts, making every step extremely difficult. Grace went on ahead to build up the fire and warm some water and by the time James reached the farmhouse, he was exhausted.

‘We can’t get him to the doctor while the weather is like this. And I’d never make it to the village before dark.’

Grace looked to him for an answer. ‘What do we do, James?’

‘We wait until morning, then I’ll go down to the village at dawn and get the doctor to come here.’ Though he didn’t want to leave the farm and didn’t want to step back out into the cold, he had promised his mother he would be home. If he didn’t return, he knew she would worry. ‘Will you be all right if I leave you tonight?’

Thawing out slowly in the warmth of the log fire, Mr Fothergill was apologetic for the trouble he was causing. He had no alternative but to accept James’s suggestion and was adamant he would survive until morning.

Wrapping his arms around Grace to say good night, James could feel her body warm against his. ‘Take care of your dad,’ he said, as he kissed her gently. ‘I will see you tomorrow.’ 

As the time of their departure for India drew closer, James was less and less sure he was doing the right thing, but the arrangements had been made and he knew his mother was not confident to travel without him.

His main concern was Grace. He wondered how she could possibly manage the farm on her own while her father was incapacitated, but when she told him that her father had hired a local man to help out in the dairy until his leg was healed, James felt a little relieved. To a lesser extent, he was also concerned about Alice and Rachel being left alone, because Alice was used to being independent. He wondered if she would visit Grace and her father while they were away, but doubted it.

 On the morning of their departure, Grace arrived very early, pleased to be able to drive James and Lucy to the station. The morning air was heavy with mist. It was damp but there had been no frost. All the snow of the recent blizzards was gone. They all hoped the worst of winter was over.

Leeds Station was cold and dismal. It was filled with the familiar railway sounds and smells. When she saw the train waiting at the platform, Lucy became anxious. Doors were being slammed and steam was hissing from the engine. After ensuring they had the correct seats, James checked their trunks in the luggage van and after settling the smaller cases on the overhead rack in the compartment, he stepped down to the platform.

There was a host of things he wanted to say to Grace before they left. She must call the doctor if her father’s leg didn’t improve. She must check on Alice and the baby, if she had time, and make sure the new calf was feeding. Whenever she went to town, she should check the water in the car’s radiator and drive carefully. In turn, he told her he would send a card from every port of call on the way, and also from India. He knew, above all, he would miss her, and told her so.

Before Grace had chance to respond, the shrill sound of the guard’s whistle echoed along the platform. James closed the door just as the train pulled away, and, as she leaned from the carriage window, he could see tears in Grace’s eyes.

‘I’ll bring you back an Indian elephant,’ he shouted. Then a cloud of smoke engulfed her and she disappeared.

The SS
Oceanus
was not due to sail from Southampton until the following Tuesday. This gave Lucy and James time to pay a visit to Edward’s brother-in-law in Tunbridge Wells. Despite Captain Wainwright extending an invitation for them to stay with him, they preferred to be independent and booked two rooms at the Grand Palace Hotel. Although Lucy and James had both corresponded with the captain before their journey, neither had ever met him, and both were uncertain what to expect. Lucy had presumed Wainwright was older than Edward Carrington – probably around seventy years of age – but that was purely an assumption. She had not known how old Edward’s sister, Lydia had been when she died.

The Bower, Wainwright’s house in Tunbridge Wells, was a substantial two-storey detached Victorian residence with characteristic tall chimney stacks. The gardens at the front were neat and well tended and, like every other house in the street, boasted a variety of bare rose bushes. The house’s stone walls, once clean and white, now bore the grey shades of age. The front door was recessed between two Doric columns, its coloured leadlight glass adorned an otherwise austere façade.

James pulled on the brass bell.

The housekeeper, who introduced herself as Mrs Mac, took their coats and led them into the conservatory where Captain Wainwright was reading.

 It was a delightful room, obviously a recent addition to the house, surrounded on three sides by glass walls which reached from floor to ceiling. The conservatory overlooked a lawn where veined leaves and stilled sycamore seeds littered the damp grass. Around the garden an old creeper grew rampant over the eight-foot fence. In the centre of the neatly trimmed lawn was an imitation wishing well, custom built in wrought iron and tied to the top-most swirl of metal was half a coconut. A family of blue tits was pecking at it hungrily.

Inside, the soft furnishings glowed with the warm shades of autumn. Such a different feel to the chill of the north they had left behind. The high-back cane chairs were elaborately decorated with twisted swirls and rosettes and obviously were imported from abroad. A large rug, that reflected the dull sheen of Indian silk, covered the slate floor.

Sitting on the small table, beside Wainwright was a pile of journals and a magnifying glass. The captain had a shawl over his knees, as would an invalid, but he quickly removed it when Lucy and James approached and rose to his feet. He was not as old as Lucy had expected, probably several years younger than Edward. He was also taller than she had imagined, and his back was as straight as a book’s spine.

After James had introduced himself and his mother, the housekeeper offered them tea.

Lucy felt a little overawed at first, mainly because of Wainwright’s colonial accent and behaviour. He was every inch an English officer and gentleman and obviously a man of means. Some of his mannerisms reminded her of Edward Carrington, but Edward had never displayed the nuances which she associated with money, authority or the affectation of upper class. She soon realized, however, that Captain Wainwright was not trying to create an impression, he was merely being himself.

‘Can I get you anything else?’ the housekeeper asked.

‘Thank you, Mrs Mac,’ the captain said. ‘I’m sure we will manage.’

He waited until his guests were settled before sitting down. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘I am looking forward to hearing more about this trip. I do envy you. The passage is one I would love to repeat. The ports of call: Gibraltar, Port Said, Suez. Fascinating places.’

Lucy relaxed as they spoke of the voyage, and as Wainwright spoke affectionately of his brother-in-law.

‘Edward was an astute man, honest and loyal. He had intellect, integrity and selflessness and would have made a fine officer. That he did not enter the service was a great disappointment to his father, Colonel Carrington. The colonel could not understand why his son refused to pursue a career in the army. Of course,’ Wainwright said, not meaning to sound boastful, ‘I was completely accepted into the family. “An appropriate choice for my daughter,” I once heard the old colonel say.’ He turned to James. ‘And you, young man, I understand, served your country proud in France.’ He lifted his tea cup. ‘I salute you, sir.’

James acknowledged the gesture.

‘But to other matters. I have taken the liberty of writing to one of my old colleagues in Bombay advising him and his wife of your intended journey. They live in the town of Nashik, one hundred miles from the coast. Nashik is a cool and pleasant place situated in the hills. You must contact them when you arrive and if time permits, I recommend a visit. You will not only enjoy their company but a visit to them will allow you to see something of the Indian countryside.

Lucy thanked him and promised she would get in touch with them.

Wainwright was exuberant when talking about the country he had lived in for most of his life. He responded eagerly to all James’s questions, offering advice on modes of transport, dealing with natives, making purchases, even dress code. He supplied a list of places they should visit and areas to be avoided. He advised James about tipping, about baggage in transit, even how to combat heat, scorpions, crowds and beggars.

By the time the captain had finished speaking, Lucy was a little apprehensive and confused, not sure whether she should forgo the whole venture and request the firm of Proctor and Armitage to settle her affairs by post.

‘It is a wonderful country,’ Captain Wainwright said, gazing at the glass window as if staring into a crystal ball. ‘You will find yourself treated like royalty. It is a shame that apart from my club, the same standards are not maintained here in England! Which reminds me,’ he said, taking a card from his waistcoat and passing it to James. ‘Introduce yourself to this gentleman and mention my name. If there is anything which requires a little extra persuasion while you are in Bombay, Colonel Winters is the man to see.’

James thanked him. ‘I hope that won’t be necessary.’

The captain nodded and with a flamboyant flick of his moustache added, ‘You are sailing on Tuesday evening, I believe.’

‘That is so.’

‘Then you must allow me to indulge myself. I intend to hire a car and driver to convey you to the docks and I will accompany you there. When you board, you will invite me to join you as your guest, so I can
savour, albeit for only a few hours, the opportunity of stepping inside one of the latest luxury steamers.’ He held up his hand to continue. ‘And if you will permit, I will order a bottle of the ship’s best champagne to drink a toast to your safe journey.’

James and Lucy returned to The Bower the following day to have lunch with Captain Wainwright and to invite him to join them for dinner at the hotel where they were staying.

That evening, Lucy again enjoyed the captain’s company, listening intently as he reminisced about his early life in India, about his late wife, Lydia, and about her brother, Edward Carrington. Though he related his adventures in a matter-of-fact manner, at times, Lucy was overawed by his experiences.

James appeared totally relaxed in the captain’s company and Lucy was proud of him. Any lack of breeding James suffered was compensated by his personality. He exuded charm and wit, traits he had learned from Edward. He dressed and carried himself well, and although lacking in tertiary education, he was well read in both the classics and popular Press and could carry on a conversation on many subjects. His only downfall, Lucy considered, was his accent. Like hers it was not entirely broad Yorkshire, but it was a far cry from that of a cultured English gentleman like Captain Sebastopol Wainwright.

When they waved farewell to Wainwright from the ship’s rail, Lucy could see the envy etched in his expression. In a way she wished they had invited him to travel to India with them, but she had business to attend to and was not sure when they would be returning. As the tugs eased the ship from the wharf and the coloured streamers floated down to the oily harbour water, Lucy wondered if she would miss England, and if India would prove as intriguing as the captain had promised.

The SS
Oceanus
was everything Lucy could have dreamed of and more. For the first few days of the voyage she was apprehensive, not used to being treated as if she were an aristocrat.

The service on the ship was impeccable. The ship’s décor – sumptuous. The lavish ballroom with its sweeping staircase and chandeliers conjured images from a fairy-tale. The elegant dining room with its highly-polished silverware brought back memories of her days as a maid at Heaton Hall, and when dinner was served, she smiled at the waiter when he lifted the silver cloche. It reminded her of the hundreds of second-hand cloches she had polished for old Mr Camrass, but this was the first time she had eaten from a plate which had been covered by one.