The Distant Kingdom Read online

  In her desire to comfort him, Perdita said:

  ‘It is difficult to see sometimes how our parents behave as they do. My mother left my father in India and took me away from him to a horrible life in England. They had been married only nine years and she never saw him again.’

  He understood her motives for speaking as she had, and thought it strange that the British could never be direct in their sympathy. He looked at her as she sat beside him, wearing a gown of watery green silk that seemed to suit her quiet beauty, and it struck him for the first time that he would have been bored if she sat in silence, despite her appealing face and figure, which was quite the opposite from his usual reactions to women. He remembered with wry amusement how he used to sit in Caroline Endlesham’s carriage in Calcutta wishing that she would just be quiet for once so that he could admire her undistracted by the appalling, stupid things she said. He watched Perdita’s face change slightly and the enveloping kindness in her face shrink into a half-nervous smile of welcome, and knew that her husband was approaching them. He rose.

  ‘Ah, Byrd,’ came the cool, pleasant voice of Captain Lord Beaminster, ‘hot, isn’t it? I do not wonder that you would not sing, my dear. You must be tired.’

  ‘A little, but Mr Byrd has been telling me about America and I have been quite diverted from the temperature.’

  ‘Indeed; and shall you be returning soon, Byrd?’

  ‘To America? I doubt it. My father believes it would be better if he does not see me for some time, and in any case I am pledged to complete my book on the management of empires before I return.’

  ‘I see. Are you taking India as your model? It has not been precisely an empire since the days of the Mahrattas.’

  ‘Nevertheless it provides interesting sidelights on the problems. My chief subjects are the Roman and Venetian models, and since the Venetian was primarily a trading empire, I find the comparisons with your Company useful.’

  ‘I see. How interesting. I am sorry we haven’t more time to talk now, but I must take my wife home. Perhaps you would dine with us one day next week. My dear?’

  Perdita, pleased that they should begin to be friends, smiled and endorsed the invitation. Charles Byrd agreed to come the following Saturday.

  Long before Saturday arrived Perdita had forgotten almost everything, including her growing delight in Byrd’s company, in her anxiety, over her stepmother. Doctor Drummond had continued to call on Aneila, and it had soon become clear to him that she was suffering from more than a difficult pregnancy, but it was some weeks before he had become convinced his fears were justified.

  On the afternoon of Perdita’s visit on 17 June, he was just leaving the house as she arrived. He tried to banish the concern from his face, knowing how much Lady Beaminster cared for her father’s wife and, unlike many of his compatriots, finding that admirable.

  She shook hands with him happily before going in to Aneila, whom she found sitting in her favourite chair by the big window in her drawing room. Perdita was immediately struck by how well Aneila looked. Her face was too thin, of course, but it had been so all year, and for once there was some rosy colour in her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled. She stood up, with an effort, and said in her pretty fractured English:

  ‘You look beautiful, Perdita; you must be very happy.’

  ‘Yes, I think I am. But you should not be standing like that. Come, sit down. Was Doctor Drummond pleased? I have not seen you look so well for weeks.’

  ‘I do not know. He always tells me to take care, but this time he said very little else. All I have is a small chill that makes me cough.’

  Resolving to interview the doctor to make him tell her more, Perdita changed the subject, by asking for the first time about Aneila’s sons. She talked proudly of them, and happily, interrupted only by a brief spate of coughing. When Perdita saw the tiny flecks of blood on the fine handkerchief Aneila pressed to her lips, she knew at last what Doctor Drummond feared; and from the way Aneila tried to conceal the handkerchief understood that she knew too.

  Later, Perdita was not sure how she managed to carry on talking peacefully, as though nothing mattered very much, until it was time for her to leave. She was horrified to realize that Aneila was seriously ill, frightened for her, worried for Edward miles away in Lahore, and passionately sad for herself. She tried not to think selfishly, but it seemed very hard that she should have had only a few short months to know Aneila, who had turned out to be so much more of a mother than her own. Forbidden resentment flooded her mind at the thought of the implacable fate that seemed to rule the lives of everyone for whom she cared. She wanted to throw herself on the floor by Aneila’s chair and lay her head in Aneila’s lap and weep and beg her to say it wasn’t true.

  Instead she controlled herself, pretended not to have noticed the bloody handkerchief, and talked on about the unimportant things that Aneila seemed to enjoy hearing. But she watched her carefully, and when Aneila’s eyelids seemed to grow heavy and her breathing laboured, Perdita rose to go, promising to return the following day.

  Once in her carriage, she told the driver to take her directly to the doctor’s house, while she tried to organize in her mind all the questions she had to ask him and all the things she would have to tell her father in her next letter to Lahore.

  Doctor Drummond gave her the confirmation she had sought but dreaded, telling her gravely that quite often a pregnancy would exacerbate phthisis.

  ‘It is possible, though unlikely I am afraid, that she will bear the child successfully, but I am afraid there is little chance that she will recover.’

  ‘Why did you not tell me sooner?’

  ‘Because you can do nothing for her, except continue to give her the illusion of life. Grief will come to you in the end, but I did not want you to burden her with unhappiness in her last weeks. Come, Lady Beaminster, you must not give way. Mrs Whitney must not suspect that you know of her condition.’

  ‘But why does she look so much better?’

  ‘It is one of the cruel illusions of the disease. At this stage the cheeks usually take on such a hectic flush and the eyes sparkle, but it is with the fever, and not returning health.’

  ‘I see. Thank you for telling me now. I must write to my father, at once; it will be a difficult letter.’ She blotted her eyes and left, resolving to do as he said and keep up the pretence that Aneila would recover, however difficult that might be.

  As her buggy rounded the corner by Stirling Castle, she saw Mr Byrd riding up from the direction of Auckland House. He waved to her, and she asked the driver to stop. While she waited for the American to come up to her, she thought how odd it was that the very sight of him brought comfort. He swung himself down from his horse and came to take her hand, looking carefully into her face. ‘What’s up, Lady B?’ he said. ‘You don’t look happy.’

  It did not occur to her to pretend to him, and still clinging to his hand she told him.

  He listened in silence until she had finished speaking, and then said:

  ‘That is very hard. Is Drummond certain?’

  ‘I believe so. He thinks the consumption will develop soon, and there is nothing he can do. And he is not even sure that the child will survive.’

  ‘I did not know that there was a child. I don’t think you told me that.’

  ‘No. It is to be born in October. I begin to think that all this is my fault.’ He waited, silent, for her to explain but when she could speak again she said only:

  ‘I am sorry to have held you up like this, but I am very glad you were here.’

  ‘I am glad too. You know, if you should ever need me and I do not happen to pass by, I hope you will send for me.’ As he heard himself speak, he was shocked back into self-consciousness. The words could have been understood as a declaration of devotion he would never have made. It was true that he liked her, admired her, preferred her company to that of anyone else in the town, but he had long ago determined never to allow flirtation to assume serious proportions
. He withdrew his hand and raised his hat formally.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Byrd, and thank you,’ said Perdita before ordering the buggy driver to take her home.

  Unfortunately, Maria Jamieson and her mother had been driving past the crossroads and had seen the urgency with which the American spoke to Lady Beaminster, and the warmth with which she held his hand. They watched avidly until their carriage had passed the interesting couple, whose absorption in each other was such that they never even looked to see who was driving by, and looked at each other in pleasure.

  ‘Poor dear Lady Beaminster,’ said Mrs Jamieson, ‘she cannot know of his reputation. Even so it was not very wise of her to hold his hand in the open street.’

  ‘No. But we must not forget that she was never taught how to behave in that peculiar upbringing of hers.’

  ‘I think it is your duty, Mama, to tell her.’ Mrs Fletcher, remembering the reception of her last piece of advice, disagreed, and suggested that a friendly warning from someone of her own age might be more acceptable to the erring countess.

  ‘Oh, Mama,’ protested Maria, ‘you know that she is years older than I.’ They drove home in conspiratorial silence, and each looked forward to telling her particular circle of friends what she had seen. Maria also looked forward to the opportunity of telling Lady Beaminster just exactly what Mr Byrd had been doing on his progress up country.

  She called the following day, while Perdita was feeding Charlie, and had to wait bored and supercilious in the drawing room while Perdita gave her son his customary time at her breast. Not for anyone would she have cut short her time of physical closeness with the child, and particularly not for Maria Jamieson. But eventually the hard sucking ceased, Charlie’s hand relaxed and dropped from her breast, and she realized that he was asleep again. Reluctantly she freed herself and handed the milky baby to his ayah. Then she tidied herself and walked towards the drawing room, determined not to let her tiresome visitor get under her skin again.

  Perdita did not apologize, as she would once have done, for keeping Mrs Jamieson waiting and listened in detached silence to her views of the harm feeding one’s child wrought to one’s figure and her advice on ways for Perdita to disguise the damage that was already so obvious. Allowing herself only the mild comment that her child’s well-being was of more importance to her than retaining a fashionable shape, Perdita watched the superior smile on her visitor’s face, and hoped yet again that her horrible suspicions were wrong. Quite apart from her own humiliation, she hated to think of anyone as kind as Marcus being taken in by Maria’s hypocrisy. Perdita was careful never to criticize her in his hearing, and she tried not to watch them or speculate, but Maria always spoke of him so possessively that it was hard to take no notice, and Perdita could not forget that even Juliana had been afraid that Marcus might one day fall in love with Maria.

  She wondered very much why she was being treated to this visit as she listened to the usual stream of information and comments on their friends, and dreaded the moment when Maria might speak of Marcus. Then she stopped for a second, leaned forward slightly and said:

  ‘There is something I feel I ought to tell you.’

  Perdita waited in growing misery.

  Mrs Jamieson read her frozen expression as disdain and went on vengefully:

  ‘I have recently received a letter from my godmother in Calcutta, telling me about Mr Charles Byrd, and I think it my duty to tell you about him.’

  Perdita heard her out in silence, almost unbearably relieved but hating the pious voice almost as much as the malice that hid behind the sugared smiles and shallow dark eyes. When she was sure that the tale of seduction and adultery and desertion was over, she said:

  ‘Maria, do you never tire of seeking out human weakness and unhappiness? Why does it give you so much pleasure to tattle like this?’ Mrs Jamieson blushed, but whether in shame or anger Perdita could not tell, and after a moment or two said sanctimoniously:

  ‘It gives me no pleasure. Oh the contrary, it saddens me to see people behaving so badly, but I had to tell you. It would not have been fair, knowing what I do of Mr Byrd’s reputation, to have allowed him to continue to take advantage of you.’

  ‘I cannot imagine what you are talking about. Mr Byrd is a friend of my husband’s, to whom I very much enjoy talking. What he has done or will do is as little concern of mine as it is of yours. And now, if you will forgive me, I must change. My husband is expecting me to ride with him in half an hour.’

  Ruthlessly dismissed, Maria Jamieson had no option but to leave with as much dignity as she could muster, thinking that both she and her mother had underestimated Lady Beaminster. Perdita herself was left almost shaking with dislike. The intelligence about Charles Byrd had shocked her even though she found it almost impossible to believe that a man who talked to her so intelligently and never made the kind of advances she had once suffered from Mortimer Blandfield could be a rake. But it was the desire to hurt, which was clear in Maria Jamieson’s disclosures, that distressed her most.

  Marcus knew that something was wrong as soon as he saw her, and hoping that he had not brought that look back into her eyes, asked what had happened. She could not speak to him of Maria, and so she said:

  ‘Only that I have had some visitors this afternoon, who told me that Lord Auckland is supposed to have said he would burn Herat if he could. It seemed to bring nearer all the terribleness of what might happen if you are sent to this war.’

  To her astonishment, Marcus came to hold her hands as he said slowly:

  ‘You must not be afraid, Perdita. All that is going to happen is that we shall march into Afghanistan with a few Sikhs for appearances, fight a skirmish or two, and escort Shah Soojah to his capital.’ He looked down at her very kindly: ‘Would you prefer to go away? Juliana has just written me another wailing letter pleading with me to sell out, or at least send you and Charlie back to England. And there is no doubt you would both be safer there.’

  ‘Oh, no, Marcus, please don’t send me away. Juliana told me what she was doing in her letter to me and I wrote back at once that neither of us wants to leave India.’

  ‘Do you like it so much then? I have sometimes thought you were not very happy.’ She looked at him, wondering what had prompted such uncharacteristic questions. Then she answered him as honestly as she could, ignoring both the war and Maria Jamieson:

  ‘During those years in Norfolk I sometimes used to think that one day I might be free of fear and unhappiness – and those horrible convulsions. I never thought I should be as healthy or as positively happy as I am now. Because of you, Marcus. If I seem hipped at times, it is caused by particular things, such as the war or Aneila’s illness, but never by the life I lead here with you. Don’t send me away. Please.’

  He stood in front of her, wanting to give her something of the openness she gave him. But he could not. The only thing he wanted to tell her would smash that open trust in her smile, and she would hate him as he was coming to hate himself. He saw her smile waver, and knew he must say something. So often she tried to reach him; and so rarely could he bring himself to meet her. All he could manage was:

  ‘Good. You at least have a right to be happy.’

  The bitterness in his voice stung her, and she said:

  ‘And are you not happy?’

  ‘I? Oh, well enough. The ponies will be chilled if we leave them much longer. Will you come?’ She recognized the finality in his voice, and knew that she must tread no further, and so she picked up the skirt of her fashionable dark-blue habit and preceded him out of the house.

  The air seemed even more oppressive than usual, but the sky was magnificent: half the blue of recent weeks and half angry dark clouds from behind which the sun blazed, turning their edges to quicksilver. Marcus looked up suspiciously and said:

  ‘Would you rather stay at home today, my dear? I do not like the look of those clouds.’

  ‘Oh, no. I should like to ride; I seem to have had no exercise for days. Ah,
here he is. Good afternoon, Captain Thurleigh.’

  ‘Lady Beaminster. It almost looks like rain at last.’

  ‘I do hope so. If it does not come soon this stuffiness will become unbearable. And it will be good to see the valleys green again. It always seems so odd that they should dry out so fast.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ he answered, making what Perdita recognized as an effort to be civil. They rode on together, leaving Marcus to bring up the rear, out of the town towards Jacko.

  They had hardly been out for half an hour when the storm began with a single immense crash of thunder. There was an eerie stillness for a full minute afterwards, and then the rain began, not lightly at first, but in one tremendous downpour. They turned back at once, but Perdita was quickly drenched and she was finding it very difficult to see through the curtain of water when a lightning flash startled her sure-footed pony and made it shy. It could have been very dangerous, for the path was narrow just there and the slope below steep and very rocky, but she was riding on the outside of Captain Thurleigh and he whipped his hand across to grasp the reins just above her pony’s bit, bringing it to a standstill with rigid strength. Through the sudden nausea that took her she heard Marcus’s anxious voice: Thurleigh answered for her:

  ‘No harm done, old fellow, though I dare say Lady Beaminster is shaken.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Perdita, trying to control her chattering teeth and deep inward rigor. ‘But I shall be all right. Thank you, Captain Thurleigh. I am most grateful to you. But I think we should go back as fast as we can.’ Her face was drained of all vestiges of colour and her eyes looked almost as dark as her habit. Marcus, who had dismounted and come running up to her, grasped her shoulder and said:

  ‘Do not be afraid, my dear. I shall lead you back. Hold on.’

  She was going to thank him when she caught sight of an expression of revulsion on his friend’s face and was silenced. She thought later that she must have misread it, for when they eventually arrived back at the house and she thanked him once more, he was wearing his usual mask of arrogant civility. He told her again that it was nothing, bowed and rode off, leaving her and Marcus to go in.