The Distant Kingdom Page 13

  ‘If only one could take them seriously, Lady Beaminster. But these emissaries will say anything. Why, only the other day at the durbar Lord Auckland told them that he hoped they had not suffered too much during that awful rainstorm, and they said – I think I have this right – they said that the canopy of friendship had interposed such a thick cloud that their tents had remained quite dry. Torrens and I went along to see, but do you know, they were wet through.’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Perdita, ‘I suppose even affection and friendship are useless against natural disasters. But never mind, I shall cherish the roses and the nightingales.’

  ‘They say you are a bit of a nightingale yourself, Lady Beaminster,’ he countered with a smile. ‘Perhaps Beaminster will bring you to our picnic next week at the falls, and you could sing to us. I know that you have received an invitation. Do say yes. It would be a capital end to the fête.’

  ‘You must ask Beaminster. I do not know what his plans may be; but for myself, how could I refuse so charming an invitation?’

  He was about to answer when the waltz ended.

  ‘Ah, what a pity. Well, at least I can look forward to next week. Shall I return you to Beaminster now?’

  ‘Please,’ she said, taking his profferred arm.

  They walked across the room towards one of the long windows, where Marcus could be seen in animated conversation with a group of officers; but on the way they were stopped by Mrs Fletcher, who had been talking to a young man who stood with his back to them. As he heard Mrs Fletcher greet Mr Colvin, he turned, and Perdita found herself face to face with him. At first she thought his bony, clean-shaven face and cool, grey-green eyes looked dauntingly severe, but his sudden smile changed all that, and she found herself smiling in return. He held out a well-shaped hand and introduced himself in an accent that was strange to her:

  ‘Charles Byrd.’

  She looked at him with interest, wondering whether he was the American Mrs Fletcher had mentioned and what he could possibly be doing in India. He seemed quite different from the English civilians, whose languid arrogance and automatic performance of the conventional social duties made them difficult to know. Perdita liked the way this stranger had inspected her before deciding whether or not to smile: it seemed to make his friendliness worth something.

  ‘Good evening,’ she replied, not sure how to tell him who she was. Fortunately hearing her talking reminded Mrs Fletcher of her obligations, and she performed the necessary introduction. Mr Byrd registered Perdita’s title with a little bow of such amused irreverence that she nearly laughed, and when he asked if she would dance with him, she accepted with far more alacrity than she usually showed.

  They stayed talking to Mrs Fletcher and Mr Colvin until the opening bars of the next waltz, when Mr Byrd took her away to dance with him. He was only a little taller than she, and slightly built, but when he put one arm round her waist and took her hand, she had an impression of formidable strength. As they circled around the floor he murmured outrageous descriptions of some of the other guests they passed, displaying all the freedom of an outsider who cared nothing for their shibboleths – or for their approval. Perdita listened and laughed guiltily and enjoyed herself as never before. She was sorry when the music ended. He led her to the edge of the room as far from Mrs Fletcher as possible and said warmly:

  ‘Lady Beaminster, I have enjoyed this dance as I never expected to enjoy anything in Simla.’

  Her lips curved again, and her eyes seemed to sparkle as she answered:

  ‘I have the feeling that I ought not to have let you make me laugh like that, Mr Byrd.’ She stopped there, but then could not resist adding. ‘But it is wonderful to hear someone say all those things I have been afraid even to think.’

  Mr Byrd lowered his voice to say with an ironic smile:

  ‘One should always tell the truth, Lady Beaminster, and no one could pretend that that young Mrs Jamieson is not exactly like a wasp: she behaves as though she has to try to sting as many people as she can find before her poison is exhausted. Not that I imagine it ever will be; she seems to have an immense supply.’

  ‘I had thought I was its only recipient,’ said Perdita, serious for a moment, but nevertheless noticing the way his greenish eyes narrowed as he smiled at her, and the fine lines that radiated from them.

  ‘Oh, no. I have overheard her delivering nicely judged doses to several people tonight. What a pair she and her mother make! This India of yours seems to do something very strange to women – or are most English ladies like the ones I have met out here?’

  ‘I would not know. I knew hardly any in England and none who were at all like anyone I have met in Simla.’

  ‘Thank God for that. But now, tell me, how do you come to be out here? You are much too young to have come out with your husband.’

  ‘Don’t tell me that you have not heard the whole story,’ she said, and instantly regretted allowing her hurt to sound in her voice. The slight bitterness interested him, and he looked closely at her.

  ‘I have heard nothing about you. I assure you that my question was not meant to distress you. Let’s talk of something else.’

  Ashamed of herself, and wanting to bring the crisply curving smile back to his lips, Perdita said quickly:

  ‘No, no. I am sorry. It is just that I have been treated to so many versions of what has been said about me that I forgot that you are a stranger here and leaped to an unjust conclusion. Will you forgive me for thinking you were like them?’

  ‘Willingly. I take it that some of these women are involved?’

  Perdita ignored that and gave him only the briefest outline of her history. Charles Byrd was intrigued to know why any of what she told him should have provoked Simla malice, but he decided that he enjoyed her engaging company too much to risk losing it by forcing her to tell him more than she wanted. He had been in British India long enough to suspect that by birth or behaviour she must have broken one of the inflexible codes that alone seemed to make Indian exile supportable for the English memsahibs. He could imagine, too, that they found it difficult to assimilate anyone as different from themselves as this woman.

  It was not easy to pinpoint exactly why she seemed so unlike them. Of course she was far more intelligent than most of the rest and she could laugh, which he had already discovered was a rare talent, but there was more. He thought it might be worthwhile to know her better and for the first time was glad that Simla was such a small, intimate town. It ought not to be too hard to become acquainted with her husband so that he could see plenty of her.

  ‘And you, Mr Byrd, what has brought you here?’ Her appealingly low voice, conscientiously trying to fill the gap in their conversation, brought his plans and speculation to a halt.

  ‘Well,’ he said slowly, watching her with pleasure, ‘I had a small difference of opinion with my father, who wanted me to live in Virginia and become a mirror-image of him, while I wanted to pursue some line of my own.’

  ‘And?’ prompted Lady Beaminster.

  Mr Byrd smiled.

  ‘And so I told him I wished to write a book analysing the rise and fall of empires, which gave me a splendid opportunity to travel a long, long way from Virginia. He didn’t believe me, and so he told me not to come back until it was finished.’

  ‘How long will that be?’ asked Perdita, but before he could answer they were interrupted by her husband, who had come to find her to take her home. He greeted Byrd pleasantly and waited while he said goodbye to Perdita, before taking her off to make their farewells to Lord Auckland.

  Later, when they were driving home through the bright moonlight, Marcus said:

  ‘You seem happy tonight.’

  ‘I am. So many good things seem to have happened: Aneila is better from her fever; Doctor Drummond has said that I may ride with you tomorrow; Miss Eden was just as interesting as I remembered her; I managed to avoid Mrs Fletcher for most of the evening – just as you did – and I think I have learned to make conversation
. Oh, and I do not think I said anything I should not have tonight.’

  ‘I am sure you did not,’ he said warmly.

  ‘Well, I almost asked Mr Colvin about what was happening in Afghanistan and what would happen if the situation worsened, but just in time I remembered your dislike of my talking politics on such occasions.’

  Her humility touched him, and he wanted to tell her that she should talk any way she pleased, that he had only asked her not to display her antagonism to the probable war one evening when James Thurleigh was expected to dine, but he found he could not.

  ‘Thank you, my dear. I can tell you, however, that we have a man in Caubul now, Alexander Burnes, who has written that there really is a Russian intriguing there already, and apparently well received by its ruler. A man called Ivan Vicovitch. We have some of his letters here, I’m told.’

  ‘What have they shown?’

  Marcus flushed slightly in the cool moonlight, and answered shortly:

  ‘It is not yet known. There is no one here who can read Russian. Copies have been sent down to Calcutta, where there is thought to be an Armenian who can translate them.’

  ‘Who will perhaps find that Mr Vicovitch is writing to his masters that there is a man in Caubul by the name of Alexander Burnes who is intriguing for the English.’

  ‘Quite possibly. But that has nothing to say to the matter. By the way, when you were dancing with Mr Byrd, did he talk of any of this?’

  Perdita shook her head.

  ‘Good. It is merely a precaution, but I should be glad if you would not speak of the matter to him. As far as we know, he is perfectly honourable, but it is not so long since England was at war with his country, and he should not learn any private details of our affairs.’

  ‘We talked nonsense most of the time, but I promise I shall not tell him anything about Persia or Afghanistan or Russia even if I have the opportunity, which is unlikely,’ she said, hoping that was not true. Charles Byrd was the most amusing person she had yet spoken to and his irreverent comments on the people and customs that had caused her so many hours of shame and anxiety were as refreshing as water in a desert.

  Chapter Nine

  But she did meet him, the following week at Mr Colvin’s picnic. The Beaminsters, like all the other guests, had sent their tents and servants down to the falls to be ready for their arrival at half past eleven. Marcus had tried to persuade her to make the short journey in a jonpaun, a curious coffin-like carrying chair, but she insisted on riding her new pony.

  They went with Mrs Jamieson and James Thurleigh, Perdita trying not to irritate him or give him an opportunity to say something cutting, but disliking the intimacy with which he and Marcus talked. Sometimes she felt as though they used a private language that she was forbidden to learn, made up of jokes, allusions and half-expressed memories. She often had to remind herself of her rebuke to Juliana the year before, and Marcus’s old explanation of the bonds forged between men who have fought side by side and faced deaths together.

  She forgot the small frustration when they arrived at the picnic place, though. It was perhaps the most beautiful part of the country around Simla, and she had not been there before. It was a small valley, ‘rather Swiss’as Mrs Jamieson called it to pretend that she was well travelled in Europe, with a bright noisy river splashing through it and cascading over tumbled rocks at each end. The grass of the valley floor was bright green, sprinkled with wild tulips and tiny scented irises, and ringed with huge cedars that were almost as dark as the recesses in the rocky walls by the waterfall. Immense purple and green swallow-tailed butterflies settled on the starry flowers in the grass, and even on the ladies’skirts, as though they were giant flower petals.

  It was an enchanting place, and Perdita found it easy to forget the tiresomeness of people like Maria Jamieson as she wandered along the edge of the little river towards the fall, delighting in the sparkle of the water and the scents of the flowers and trees. She was watching a particularly fastidious butterfly landing on flower after flower until he found one to his liking, where he stayed basking in the sunlight, when she was joined by the American.

  He said:

  ‘Pretty isn’t it, with that white water falling against the blackness of the cave under this bright blue sky?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. But I think I like the butterflies most of all; so many of the flying creatures here cause such trouble that to see lovely ones like these that do not bite or sting or crawl is refreshing.’

  Charles Byrd laughed and held out his right hand.

  ‘It is very good to see you again, Lady Beaminster.’

  She took his hand, once again noticing its shapely strength, and smiled in greeting. He walked on with her to the end of the valley, talking easily, and she was conscious of a distinct irritation when they were joined by other strollers.

  Throughout the day she kept catching his eye and all too often read in his expression the amusement or contempt she felt as she watched the games of battledore and shuttlecock, or listened to the vapid conversation all around them. And when he came strolling towards her after tiffin her eyes lit up in pleasure. He looked quite different from the other gentlemen, and not only because of his clothes, she decided. He moved with an easy suppleness that was quite foreign to the languid civilians and much more graceful than the kind of healthy athleticism displayed by young officers like Captain Thurleigh. Perdita looked up as Mr Byrd reached her side, shading her eyes from the sun.

  ‘They’re setting up the butts for some archery now. Will you let me take you to watch?’ he asked.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ she answered and allowed him to help her up from her camp chair. As they walked towards the row of butts beyond the tents, he asked a whether she was going to shoot. She smiled ruefully as she said:

  ‘No. It is not something I have ever learned, and I am so clumsy that I expect I should either drop the bow or shoot the arrow into one of the spectators.’

  ‘Having waltzed with you, Lady Beaminster, I can tell you that I think it very unlikely.’ He was surprised to see her blush at such a small compliment, and he began to wonder just what she had felt as she danced in his arms. A rather pleased smile tweaked at his lips, and he said:

  ‘I did not feel you miss a single step or even falter as I held you then.’

  Her half-suppressed gasp seemed to confirm his suspicion, but tantalisingly she turned her head away and made some polite remark about the first of the toxophilites who was just raising his bow at that moment. Looking at the back of Lady Beaminster’s charming leghorn bonnet, Charles Byrd decided that life in Simla might have some possibilities after all. But he would have to move circumspectly until he was more sure of his ground. He answered her remark appropriately and suggested that they join Miss Fane and Mrs Jamieson, who were standing only a few yards from them.

  For once Perdita was prepared to talk to Mrs Jamieson, and managed to recover her complexion and composure in time to fulfil her engagement to Mr Colvin.

  As she moved into the shade of a large rock in from of a row of chairs, she saw a surprised expression on Mr Byrd’s face, which changed to one of intent attention as she started to sing. She had chosen Marcus’s favourite song, ‘Look where my love lies sleeping’, an Elizabethan sonnet that had been set to music, and she looked towards him as she sang the last line. She was pleased that he raised his glass to her and smiled approvingly, and she smiled happily back before bowing shyly to the others, who were clapping politely. Mr Colvin came over to thank her, and his wife to beg another song; in the end she sang three more.

  The sun had begun to sink behind the hills before the Beaminsters left, and so it was in the soft, delicately scented dusk that Charles Byrd came towards her once again.

  Having greeted Marcus and Captain Thurleigh, he said to Perdita:

  ‘Lady Beaminster, you must allow me to tell you how much I enjoyed your singing. If I did not want to sound rude to my hosts in this place, I should say that once more you have provided
me with a chink in the curtains of boredom that closed about me some weeks ago.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Byrd, but you must not exaggerate.’

  ‘I do not,’ he said briefly. He rode back with them, and as he was careful not to alarm her any more, Perdita found it pleasant to have so lively a companion to talk to while the others discussed a hunting expedition they planned to make in the next cold weather.

  Life continued in its dawdling Simla way, with visits to the Europe shop, fancy-work sales, dinners, a few balls, endless calls, and several plays put on by different groups of their small society. The whole European population that year amounted to 150, and many of them were not the sort whom Perdita was allowed to know. She began to recognize the all-enveloping boredom of which Mr Byrd had complained.

  Her new-found ease in social occasions remained, although whenever she saw her husband talking to Maria Jamieson, or dancing with her, Perdita would feel an unpleasant mixture of jealousy and fear, and her face would take on a strained, wistful expression that Charles Byrd found rather appealing. He was evidently persona grata at Auckland House and was consequently in demand at every other house in Simla, and Perdita grew accustomed to meeting him at most of the dinners she attended. He always sought her out, and as she talked to him her eyes lost their anxiety and glowed with a kind of confident happiness.

  She had no idea that she was falling in love with him – to her the two sides of ‘love’were the striving hero-worship she felt for Marcus and the all-enveloping protectiveness that their son aroused in her; she knew only that in Charles Byrd’s company she was happy, and herself. She never tried to hide anything from him, and they talked with rare freedom about anything that occurred to either of them. He found her amusing, critical but always gentle, thoughtful, touching and very beautiful. He began to hope more and more that her apparent devotion to her noble husband might be nothing more than an effective mask.

  Somehow the happiness Perdita found with Charles began to spill over into the rest of her life, and she even tried once more to get on terms with Marcus’s friends, particularly Captain Thurleigh. For a long time he proved elusive, but she worked at it under Aneila’s instructions.