The Distant Kingdom Page 17

  Chapter Twelve

  With the army went the Governor General, his sisters, all his officers and political advisers – everything in fact that had made Simla such a fount of gaieties for the season. The wives and daughters who were left behind faced a bleak six months: there could be no parties or dinners; picnics, even walks, were impossible as the snow began to fall; and with the expense of going to war, many of the husbands had had to retrench and had packed their wives together like plums in a bottle. One small house was stuffed with five wives and their assorted children, all expected to share the same drawing room.

  Perdita, visiting one of them one morning early in December, could only feel grateful that she had the freedom of her father’s house. She was nearly sure that Marcus would never have condemned her to quite such an ordeal, but nevertheless she was glad that she had not had to put her trust in him to such a test. During one pause in the conversation, she murmured something sympathetic to her hostess, who said, signing:

  ‘Yes, Lady Beaminster, it is a little difficult. But so far we have not quarrelled once, and it is a comfort to know that the expenses are being shared in this way. After all, the costs of this war are very high.’

  ‘But why? I beg your pardon, but surely the Company pays for the war.’ A pitying smile greeted Perdita’s absurd ignorance.

  ‘The Company does not pay for its officers’horses or personal servants, and each of them, you know, was expected to take a minimum of ten. Then there were all the other things, such as soap and cigars and linen – everything that makes a campaign supportable. Surely Lord Beaminster took servants and equipment with him?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I believe so. It is just that I never really thought about it. He said so little of his preparations, and … well, since I am living at Whitney House there are all my father’s servants as well as my own. I had not thought about it.’

  The familiar expression of disdainful superiority crossed the woman’s face, and Perdita took her leave as soon as she could, wondering when, if ever, she would be accepted by the other wives. Too often she felt that their company was insupportable and that becoming like them would be like surrendering to despair; but at the same time she hated to feel disliked and excluded, and tried again and again to do and say the things they all thought were right.

  When she heard that her father was to return to Simla in time for Christmas, she felt as though she had been reprieved from some dreadful punishment, and when he actually arrived, on 20 December, she stood in the hall, her hands held out to him and the joy shining in her eyes.

  ‘Papa.’

  He ignored the servants, the baggage, the packet of letters he had brought for her and walked quickly to take both her hands and kiss her cheek.

  ‘Perdita, my dear child. You look wonderful, so different from the poor, pale creature of last April. I have missed you.’

  ‘And I you, Papa. Come, come in and sit down while they unpack for you.’

  He dropped one of her hands, and led the way into the large beautiful drawing room into which, for once, the thin winter sunshine was flooding. He looked around, as though reminding himself of the place, and then led her to a striped sofa near the crackling fire.

  They sat down, and a sudden shyness caught Perdita by the throat. There was so much she wanted to say to him of Aneila and her child, but somehow she could not start. He seemed to understand, for after a little time he broached the subject himself.

  ‘My dear, thank you for your letters. It helped to know that you were with her, and it must have been difficult for you, remembering your mother’s death as you must have.’

  ‘Papa, please. I wanted to tell you…’ She paused, and then taking courage from his warm clasp on her hand and the affection in his clear eyes went on, choosing her words with care:

  ‘I wanted to tell you, in all the letters I sent, that I understood why you cared for her so much. When I came to know her, I too saw how different she was. I wanted you to know that I understood.’

  ‘Thank you, Perdita.’ Something in his voice or face made her look away from him into the fire. She watched the pale orange and blue flames that leapt and died among the fragrant pine boughs, and after a few minutes, in a firmer tone he changed the subject.

  ‘Tell me about your boy. Is he well?’

  ‘Yes.’ Perdita looked back at him, smiling. ‘He and Annie both. It is a very selfish way to think, but I cannot help being glad that we have had to stay up here. I dread to think what effect the Plains would have had on two such young children. Although,’ she added, ‘I do wish it had not had to be a war that kept us here.’

  ‘Don’t fear for Beaminster. They are unlikely to see much fighting if all goes according to plan. But read his letter. I am sure he will tell you all that has happened. There is one from an American gentleman as well. I gather that you all became acquainted here.’

  Edward was interested to see a faint, camellia-pink blush well up into her cheeks and to save her embarrassment said:

  ‘They will have unpacked my boxes now. I shall go and change.’

  Alone in the light, golden room, Perdita picked up the two flat packets. The one addressed in unfamiliar writing was much fatter than her husband’s. She wanted to know what it contained and yet felt a strong reluctance to break open the shell she had grown around her feeling for Charles Byrd. She laid his letter down, and broke the seal on her husband’s.

  It was a brief kind enquiry about her health and that of the children, and went on to give a few bare details of the army’s march. Disappointed but not much surprised, Perdita took up the other letter. With odd dryness at the back of her throat and a slight trembling in her long fingers, she opened it to read:

  Ferozepore, 30 November

  I was distressed to leave without bidding you goodbye, for I believe I must have offended you in some way. We were so comfortable together that I found your coldness hard to understand when I met you riding that day. If I have offended you I must beg you to forgive me, for I value your good opinion.

  Please believe me when I write that I am your most obedient servant.

  Charles Byrd

  Post-script. On the next pages you will find the letter that I would have written to the Lady B. I thought I knew.

  Conscious of a curious tingle of pleasure, and a little ashamed by the sensation, Perdita turned to the other letter:

  My dear Lady B.

  The Army of the Indus! The grandiloquence of its name has been matched only by the absurdity of its ceremonies. There seems to be an extraordinary hysteria about this camp, and an idea that some momentous benefit is about to be conferred on mankind. Only yesterday I was told by one of your politicals that ‘this will be the first time the flags of a civilized nation will have flown across the Indus since the days of Alexander the Great.’

  But will they ever get to the Indus, let alone across it?

  They seem to make difficulties for themselves wherever they can, and to the shame and horror of the commander it has been discovered that the Sikh Army has better discipline and can carry out its manoeuvres far more efficiently than the Army of the Indus. They console themselves with an unfounded belief that the Sikhs would run away if they faced a real battle! No one seems to have tried to discover whether perhaps the Afghans too may have such unsuspected talents. They are all too busy telling each other that history is being made here ‘on the banks of the Sutlej’.

  The first great review was held a couple of days ago – on the twenty-eighth. It was to be the formal meeting of the two most important leaders in India: His Lordship the Governor General and the Lion of the Punjab. Imagine the excitement!

  Well, the Lion turned out to look like a one-eyed, whiskered shrew, and such was the excitement and the pushing and shoving that the ceremonial greetings turned into a circus. Picture it for yourself: the Lion/shrew dressed in coarse red cloth, rather dirty, squatting on his huge, gorgeously caparisoned elephant, rode in the centre of a line that moved ponderously towards the
Durbar tent just as His Lordship and Sir Henry Fane, similarly mounted, urged their mahouts forward. The inevitable happened: the two lines collided. Sikhs rushed forward to protect their maharaj; English officers dashed up to see the fun; mahouts cried out and pulled helplessly on their ankuses. Eventually, amid all the runningsa-bout and yellings, Lord Auckland simply leaned forward out of his howdah, very neat in his dark blue and gold, and with one hand plucked the little red Lion off his plunging elephant. As you can imagine, the Sikhs took a very sideways glance at all that, until they saw their king splendidly protected by Sir Henry – who is about three times his height and weight.

  Unfortunately their fears were not quietened for very long. It seems that when the Lion was escorted into the tent that had been set aside to display the Company’s gifts to him, he was so excited by the sight of two very modern, very splendid, nine-pounder howitzers that he fell over a pile of shells and prostrated himself in the dust before your guns. Not a good omen, thought the Sikhs. Though I expect Sir William Macnaghten was pretty pleased. He does not seem to care for them at all.

  Perdita was still laughing when Edward returned, and he was intrigued to know what had brought such a sparkle to her face.

  ‘Beaminster much to say?’ he asked casually.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said, looking up from the pages and then as the sense of what he had said triumphed over the words she had been reading: ‘No, not very much. This one is from Mr Byrd: a most diverting account of the camp at Ferozepore and all the spectacle. I almost wish I had been there to see all those elephants and horses and gold and scarlet. It sounds magnificent and absurd at once.’

  ‘It certainly had its moments of absurdity. Tell me about this American. I met him only once when I dined with your husband.’

  ‘He is the friendliest creature, and very good company. I miss him sometimes.’ She caught her father’s sardonic eye and blushed again.

  ‘I see you do. Well, be careful.’

  ‘Papa, please don’t be absurd. I doubt if I shall meet him again, but he writes an amusing letter.’

  ‘Shall you answer it?’

  ‘I do not know.’ She wanted badly to talk to someone about her feelings for Charles Byrd and Edward would be the ideal confidant: trustworthy, sympathetic. But somehow she could not bring herself to do so. She changed the subject:

  ‘Shall we go to the nursery? You will want to see Annie. We have called her that so that when she is a little older she will not feel strange when she is with other English children.’

  ‘I see. But Perdita, you will not want to keep her now. It was very good of you to care for her but you and Beaminster cannot be saddled with her all your lives. I can arrange a household for her.’

  ‘With you away for months at a time and with no one to mother her? Papa, it would be cruel. Let her stay with a real family. I do not mean to take her from you, but she will be happier in a nursery where she is not alone. I shall take the greatest care of her, I promise.’

  He looked searchingly at her, trying to see if she were sincere or forcing herself for duty’s sake. At last, reassured by her open smile, he said:

  ‘I have no doubts on that score.’

  ‘You see, a girl needs a mother. It was not until I came to know Aneila that I understood how much. I should like to do for Annie a little of what Aneila did for me.’

  Edward could not say any more and so they left the subject there, although later Perdita discovered that he had settled a small fortune on the child for her education and expenses.

  That evening at dinner, Perdita found herself talking and talking as though she had been marooned for months on some uninhabited island. Edward watched her, entertained and amused to see how she had changed in the months he had been away. He wondered a little whether the difference was due to her marriage and motherhood or whether to the influence of the friendly American. One day he would ask her, but for that evening he was content to listen and enjoy her vivacity. Once she said:

  ‘Papa, this is so comfortable. To be with you again, I mean. It is a little like that first hot weather; only better, because I know so much more.’

  ‘About what?’ he asked, interested to know how she viewed her transformation.

  ‘Everything. Myself, other people, you. And it is so good to have someone I can talk to again.’

  ‘Since Beaminster left, you mean?’

  ‘Not exactly. We talk of course, but not like this. I often feel that he is trying to make conversation at me, instead of telling me things he wants me to know, or asking because he wants to know about me. I was really thinking of Mr Byrd.’ She dried there, but Edward prompted her with a smile that told her how much he already understood. It gave her enough courage to continue:

  ‘It was not until I became acquainted with Charles Byrd that I understood what it all means. I’m sorry: that is not very clear.’

  ‘Never mind. Go on.’

  ‘Well, I loved Marcus because he was kind, because he did not frighten me. I admired him for all sorts of reasons, and when he wanted to marry me I felt as though he was offering me a sort of armour. I thought if I were his wife I should never be afraid again. And that seemed to be love.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Then I began to know Aneila and it did not seem strange any more that you should love her, because there could be no one kinder or more gentle.’

  ‘But that was only part of it,’ said Edward looking at her with eyes so naked in their sorrow that she wanted to put her arms round him and rock him as she rocked the babies.

  ‘Papa, dear, I know that now. And it was Charles Byrd who taught me.’

  ‘What precisely?’

  ‘That loving someone does not consist of gratitude for comfort, or for protection. It comes from knowing them and being known; wanting the same things; finding the same things funny or important; being able to talk as freely as you would talk to yourself; not worrying about whether he agrees with you or not, because you know that he will understand why you think as you do.’ She was silent for a moment or two, trying to sort out exactly what she did mean, and then she found some words:

  ‘I suppose it is recognizing that when you are with him you become whole.’

  ‘And so what did you do?’ asked Edward, moved by both her experience and her words. She laughed a little bitterly:

  ‘I tried to pretend that it had not happened. And I thought I could make it happen with Marcus now that I understood. But, Papa, Marcus doesn’t want me to know him.’ She turned away so that he should not see how close she was to tears. But he heard them in her voice. He said very gently:

  ‘And what will you do about Charles Byrd’s letter?’

  ‘I will answer it.’

  But she had no time before Christmas. With Edward back in the house, there seemed to be none of the aching, empty hours to which she had had to become accustomed. He knew that the children were too young to understand, but he was determined to celebrate Christmas in as dramatic a way as possible, and that involved her in a lot of work.

  On the day itself he presented Perdita with a glorious necklace of emeralds interspersed with big pearls, telling her:

  ‘Runjeet gave it to me when I left Lahore, and I should like you to have it.’

  ‘It is lovely, Papa,’ she said sincerely. But there was an odd look of anxiety about her eyes.

  ‘What is the matter, Perdita? I know there’s an old tale that green is an unlucky colour, but I can’t imagine even the most superstitious of people taking that as far as emeralds. Or don’t you care for them?’

  ‘Heavens no. I think it’s the most wonderful piece of jewellery I have seen. But …’ She paused, blushed. Then she said quickly, almost stammering: ‘It is only that I have heard that all such gifts have to be passed on to the Company. I am sorry, Papa. I do not mean to offend you.’ She looked shyly up at him, and was both disconcerted and relieved to see that his lean face was amused, and his blue eyes narrowed in laughter.

  ‘My d
ear innocent. Don’t you think that after nearly thirty-five years I know the Company’s rules? I bought it back.’

  ‘Bought it?’ she echoed, looking down at the fabulous jewels in her hands. There were eight large drop emeralds, each separated by ten perfectly matched pearls. Although she knew very little about precious stones, Simla conversation had taught her enough to know that this was worth more than a few hundred pounds.

  At last the meaning of several snide remarks she had overheard became plain. She raised her eyes again and said:

  ‘Then we are rich?’ Her tone of astonished awe struck him as being very funny and he bellowed with laughter. When he could speak again, he asked:

  ‘How did you suppose we could have lived like this if I were not?’

  She looked around the drawing room, for the first time really noticing not only that it was calm and beautiful but also that it was at least as large as the rooms of Auckland House, that the carpets were more luxurious than any others she had yet seen in India, and that everything from the curtains to the wall shades was of the finest quality. She too started to laugh as she recognized her full absurdity.

  ‘Oh, Papa, it is too silly. I just thought that housekeeping in India must be much cheaper than it is in England. And I never thought about why people like the Fletchers live in such horrid surroundings compared to these. Oh, dear, no wonder they dislike me so much.’

  ‘You sound almost relieved,’ he said, surprised by her tone.

  ‘I am. It always seemed that there must be something very wrong with me to make them all so critical, and I have really tried to do everything that they want, however foolish it seems, but it did not seem to change them. I never thought they might be merely jealous. Oh dear, now my present to you is going to seem very frugal.’

  She handed him the black velvet slippers she had embroidered in gold thread for him and smiled when he kissed her.