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  My mare had behaved excellently, responding to the bit like a lady, sometimes dancing sideways at some fancied alarm but obedient to my hands on the reins. I mounted her with greater confidence than on the first occasion, and allowed her to canter down the track a little ahead of the men, who were content enough to drop behind and discuss some matter pertaining to the shooting of duck. I felt invigorated by the exercise and the morning air and rode on casually, trying to etch indelibly on my memory the beauty of my surroundings, while I mused, with some mystification, on the character and odd convictions of my host. I decided I liked the phrase ‘jan se aziz’, and the way in which he had said it as he looked with patent love over his honeyed land. I had glimpsed a more amiable side of Mr Erskine than his usual manner ever indicated, and was obscurely gratified that he had allowed me to see it.

  Suddenly a plover, flattened in a rut of the track before us, rose with a great crack of wings and a spurt of dust. The mare, after one startled backward dance, took the bit between her teeth and raced for the hills.

  It was pure luck that I was not unseated by that first agitated step. As it was, finding myself still in the saddle, I clung on grimly and inelegantly, and allowed her her head, knowing there was nothing I could do to halt her and hoping against hope that no pothole would bring her down. After some minutes of flateared, nose-raised speed, when she felt no attempt to pull her in, she tossed her head, her ears rose, and I knew the character of her stretch-legged run had changed from one impelled by alarm to one of enjoyment. Very gently I pulled on the reins. She snorted, continued on for a moment, then responded. She was no longer a runaway but a thoroughly happy horse. At that, my alarm over, I found myself sharing her enjoyment and, bending low on her neck, steadying but not checking her, I gave myself up to a brief period of ecstasy while the yellow fields flashed past and the scented air whipped my cheeks. She slowed of her own accord, and too soon for me. I patted her neck, murmuring my thanks, and drew her into a walk.

  Mr Erskine was close behind me; he had tried to shout instructions to me as we raced, and reached us as I pulled in the mare.

  For a moment he said nothing. His nostrils were distended and his breathing a little quick, but his hands were folded quietly on the pommel and only the gelding’s heaving flanks told of the effort of the chase.

  I straightened my hat with hands which were not quite as steady as I wished, and drew in a few long breaths.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Quite, thank you,’ I assured him politely. I guessed there was a lot more he could have said and admired his restraint. ‘I let her have her head and she changed her mind about bolting.’

  ‘Indeed! You know a lot about horses—for a “paid companion”.’

  ‘Enough to keep right side up at a gallop.’

  His face broke into the curiously pleasant smile.

  ‘My congratulations. Any other woman I know would have been off at the start of that. I believe you enjoyed it.’

  ‘Yes, I did. But I’m afraid it was only luck that she didn’t unseat me in the first instant. The rest was … quite pleasurable!’

  ‘Laura, Laura! My God! Are you all right, my dear?’ Charles leapt off his mount and ran to my side.

  ‘Of course! Quite all right.’

  He grabbed my hand and looked up at me with a face full of concern; because Mr Erskine was witness to his emotion, it embarrassed me. I pulled my hand away.

  ‘Really, Charles, it was nothing. I was more exhilarated than alarmed.’

  ‘That beast is far too uncertain to carry a lady, Oliver, and you should have realized it. Laura might have taken a toss and injured herself. Seriously.’

  ‘I warned Miss Hewitt that Pyari was a trifle fresh. Besides, she managed the mare excellently. I have just been complimenting her on the fact.’

  ‘As it happened, yes. But Laura is my responsibility out here, and I must insist that she does not ride that mare again.’

  ‘Perhaps that should rest with Miss Hewitt. It seems to me she must have formed some affinity with Pyari. Perhaps she would not like another animal. What do you say?’ He turned to me.

  It would have been simpler to give way to Charles, but if I had acquiesced too readily to him, Mr Erskine, I suspected, might put the wrong interpretation on the fact. As he had given me a choice, I decided to take it, and besides I had liked his lack of fuss as much as his compliment on my handling of the mare.

  ‘If Mr Erskine will trust me with her, I think I would prefer to continue riding Pyari, now that we know each other.’

  I addressed Charles but looked at Mr Erskine. His lips twitched, but he nodded gravely and said, ‘Good. I believe you have her measure now, and I am sure I can trust her with you.’

  Charles looked from his brother to me, and gave in unwillingly.

  ‘On your head be it then, Oliver,’ he muttered furiously as he remounted, ‘but God help you if any harm comes to Laura!’

  Mr Erskine made no reply but I could not allow myself to hope he had not heard.

  I spent the rest of the ride back to the house endeavouring to soothe Charles’s feelings and minimize the terrors of the morning.

  Our host, riding very erect yet very relaxed ahead of us, was largely silent.

  CHAPTER 3

  Happily for me, the household’s interest in my adventure, much exaggerated by Charles, was of short duration, for that same evening saw the arrival of George Barry with all the news of Lucknow, which already seemed so far away to me that I had difficulty in matching the names he mentioned to the appropriate faces. The following morning brought the remainder of the Christmas house party: a Mr McCracken and his son Lewis, and a Mr Baird, all planters and neighbours of Mr Erskine, who visited Hassanganj each Christmas. Mr Erskine seemed notably lacking in female friends.

  The gentlemen spent the greater part of the holiday slaughtering wildlife and reminiscing about previous slaughters. Each morning saw them set off at dawn to shoot duck, deer or pheasant, or make, perhaps, a longer expedition into the terai where tiger were to be found, though as Mr Erskine would not countenance elephant being used in the pursuit of tiger, none were actually shot. And if the day had proved disappointing, the planters and Charles were always willing to forego the comforts of the drawing-room at night in order to hunt ‘muggars’, a sort of blunt-nosed alligator, with the help of brush-fires built upon the river bank to lure the unsuspecting creatures to their end.

  Nor were we ladies neglected; Mr Erskine arranged a series of little expeditions for us, and almost every evening an entertainment took place on the lawn before the front portico. Once a dancing bear, heralded by the enraged yelping of every dog in the vicinity, padded up the driveway with its master and performed an agonized travesty of a dance. It was muzzled and secured by a heavy chain, but its simple presence alarmed Emily into near hysterics. So it was sent away, limping on the poor cut pads of its paws. More successful were two small monkeys, one dressed in a shred of red cotton skirt, one in a braided waistcoat, that performed their tired little tricks with eyes, wary and sad, fixed vigilantly on their trainer’s cruel face.

  ‘Oh, aren’t they sweet!’ said Emily, not seeing the fear.

  ‘Do you think so?’ From Mr Erskine’s tone of voice I gathered he shared my distaste at seeing animals so unnaturally treated. ‘These people travel the length and breadth of India. The monkeys are supposed to be enacting an old drama about a king and queen, Maror Khan and Jahoorin. Their act and their names never change, no matter where you find them.’

  ‘They are so clever. Such appealing little faces,’ went on Emily. ‘May we pet them?’

  ‘You may not!’ said Mr Erskine with decision. ‘A monkey bite is a very poisonous and unpleasant thing.’

  Emily pouted, but did not persist.

  Then there were pigeons, and parrots with rosy heads, who fired tiny guns, drew miniature carts in harness, or fluttered through flaming hoops. There were stick dancers, and tumblers and a snake charmer—all acc
ompanied, as had been the bear and the monkeys, by the curious, double-sided drum, waisted in the middle, which is sounded by means of pebbles attached to strings, which with a flick of the player’s wrist fly rhythmically from side to side of the drum. This instrument, like the tale of Maror Khan and Jahoorin, is age-old and country-wide, and the sound of its high, frenetic note in the twilight can mean only one thing—the approach of itinerant entertainers. Every dog in India loathes that high-pitched note with a personal and venomous loathing.

  On Christmas Day itself no shoot took place. Charles, who sometimes had moods of piety, was upset that there was no way we could attend a church service, so had asked if he could read the Collects and Lessons of the day to the assembled party after breakfast. Oliver had seemed nonplussed by the request, but had the forbearance to answer loud ‘Amens’ when necessary, and Charles was obviously pleased with his idea and its accomplishment. Afterwards we exchanged gifts, and then gathered on the verandah under the portico to watch the arrival of the dholli procession.

  ‘They come, like the Wise Men, bearing gifts,’ explained Oliver in answer to Emily’s question as to the nature of the procession. ‘A damn-fool idea, seeing that few of them can afford it, but it’s the custom. Dustoori! And when a thing is dustoori, there is nothing that can be done about it—not by me, not by the Government, not by God Almighty!’

  So they came, the peasants, the shopkeepers, the scribes and the members of the village panchayats from all over the Hassanganj estate, the delegation from each village led by its headman, and the whole procession headed by a band of musicians in worn-out uniforms playing cracked brass instruments and drums.

  The house servants, gorgeous in scarlet and white, crowded the verandah behind us to watch the fun, and on the lawn had gathered the gardeners, the grasscutters and watercarriers, the stableboys, grooms and craftsmen, and the women and children from the servants’ quarters, all dressed in new quilted cotton coats, their Christmas box.

  Mr Erskine stationed himself at the top of the steps, and the ceremony commenced when the senior headman placed around his neck an elaborate and beautiful har or garland of gold and silver thread set with brilliants. Then, as each man brought forward his gift, Mr Erskine bowed and touched it with his right hand, after which it was placed at his feet. Immediately, the abdar and his assistants bore the gift away to the back of the verandah, where I saw with astonishment that it was examined carefully, then taken apart or dismantled by Toddy-Bob and Ishmial working in concert. Baskets of fruit, trays of nuts and figs, pyramids of sweetmeats, small round boxes of muscat grapes packed in blue cotton wool, all suffered the same fate and were immediately dismembered or split over a succession of waiting trays.

  ‘Why ever are they doing that?’ I whispered to Kate. ‘Oh, look! That beautifully arranged tray of sweets is ruined,’ as Toddy-Bob dexterously reversed a brass platter of jellabis on to a large meat plate.

  ‘Bribes!’ answered Kate. ‘He must show he is incorruptible by examining everything that is offered. Sometimes they put money, gold coins like sovereigns or gold mohurs, among the fruit, or cook jewels into the sweets. If anything is found, Oliver has to denounce the donor immediately—to teach the culprit as well as the others a lesson. See, they are even shredding the cotton-wool from the grape boxes.’

  Three goats and two sheep were now lined up on the verandah, and even these were not immune from suspicion. Four swift hands went all over their coats, and their nostrils, ears and mouths were examined to make sure no diamond had been fastened to the skin with sealing wax.

  Some of the gifts were valuable in themselves—to my eye at least. There were Kashmir shawls, lengths of brocade, boxes inlaid with ivory, gold-embroidered slippers and a handsome ebony elephant mounted on its own small table. As the procession passed through the portico, its members subsided on the lawn outside to await the ritual giving of baksheesh, only the headmen and elders remaining near Mr Erskine to introduce a relative, explain away an inadequate gift or ask a favour on the strength of a handsome one. The procession numbered several hundred, and by the time the last gift had been placed at Mr Erskine’s feet all the various cacophonies of a major bazaar had broken out on the staid lawns of Hassanganj, accompanied unceasingly by the band which appeared to know but one tune, which, after giving the matter some attention, I realized was the customary exhortation to the Christian God to save the British Queen. Mr Erskine bore it all with patience and, still wearing the gold and silver garland, walked among the people handing out coins to the adults and sweets to the children, laughing, talking and listening with the accomplishment of a politician.

  When at last he joined us in the drawing-room, he flung himself down in a chair and called for a brandy and water.

  ‘Thank God, that’s that for another year!’ he exclaimed as he sipped his drink gratefully. ‘At least I have been spared the marigolds. Can’t stand the smell of the things.’ I had noticed that all the humbler garlands of marigolds had been placed over his head, then removed by the donor and put at his feet, no doubt so as not to dim the radiance of the splendid har. Now Mr Erskine removed the shining garland with its heart-shaped pendant, and sat looking at it for a moment. ‘Fine workmanship. Must have cost a fortune. What damn fools they are! They cannot really afford to bring me anything. Not the honest ones anyway, and the bunnias bring the least they can, now that they know I will not accept bribes.’ He turned the thing over in his hands as he spoke, then suddenly got to his feet, crossed the room to where I was sitting and placed it around my neck. ‘There, Laura, you have it. It’s too good to give to the servants, and I have a cupboard full of them as it is.’

  ‘But surely you should not give it away,’ I expostulated. ‘Hasn’t it some sort of significance—a meaning?’

  ‘Yes. It can mean anything that the occasion requires—welcome, farewell, good luck, thanks—anything you will. Take it. I want you to have it.’

  I thanked him.

  ‘And let us say that its significance this time is … er … companionship.’ He smiled. ‘And it would please me if you would mark the event by not calling me “Mr Erskine” any longer.’

  He had begun to call me ‘Laura’ shortly after our arrival in Hassanganj, but I had hesitated to address him with a like informality. Everyone laughed, and the har passed from hand to hand to be admired. Mr Erskine then called for Toddy-Bob and instructed him to bring in the Kashmir shawls with which he had been presented, and asked each of us ladies to choose one for herself. Kate decided on a pale green with multicoloured embroidery; after much indecision, Emily finally chose a pink with a design of blue and white; and I took a white one patterned in deep rose pink—a shawl such as I had never dreamed I would possess.

  Of course, we had to try them on. I wrapped mine around me and went to a mirror to admire the effect. Holding a fold of the soft stuff against my cheek, I glanced into the glass and there encountered Charles’s eyes as he stood behind me, watching me preen myself. I had been smiling, but his expression sobered me instantly, and I dropped my hand to my side. So we stood, gazing at each other in the mirror for a long moment, in a silent communion more eloquent than words. I shuddered. Someone was walking over my grave, as children say. And there, deeper in the reflection, other eyes met mine. Oliver Erskine’s golden, mocking eyes. I blushed and turned quickly away, but not before I had caught the smile on his face and observed him cock an eyebrow at my confused image.

  I was assiduous in avoiding both brothers for the rest of that Christmas Day.

  There was no ride for me on the following morning. The men had left the house at dawn to shoot duck. After breakfast, Emily and Kate being busy with their domestic duties, I wandered listlessly into the park to try to sort out my confused and conflicting emotions.

  I could no longer hope that my feeling for Charles remained my secret; and it was pointless to ignore the fact that it was, in some measure, reciprocated. That all-revealing meeting of eyes in the looking-glass the day before had served
only to confirm what I had for some time suspected. On the voyage out and during our first weeks in India I had managed to assure myself that Charles could know nothing of my regard for him. I had managed also to believe that custom and familiarity would be the best cure for my unhappy heart. How many times had I scolded myself for entertaining a misguided infatuation due only to my ignorance of the world, to the fact that I had known so few personable young men, and that my lonely position made me peculiarly susceptible to kindness? How often had I accused myself of folly in permitting myself to believe that my gratitude, liking and respect were love? Perhaps if I had been given no opportunity to guess that Charles also was not wholly indifferent to me, my feeling for him, whatever it was, might have matured to warm affection and nothing more. But there had been too many other hints of his interest lately, as in the anxiety he had evinced when my horse bolted, and expressed in his anger at Mr Erskine’s more casual reaction to the mishap. There had been glances, words left unsaid, and a hand extended in anticipation of a need—those small things that are sufficient to let one human being know another cares. So, aware now in my heart that Charles could have been as happy with me as I with him, that both were denied an equal delight, my unhappiness was sudden and great. My confusion and my guilt were acute.

  How had it come to pass that we should all be so miserable, when less than a year ago everything had seemed set fair for tranquillity and contentment? I knew what had made Emily marry Charles. But what had made Charles marry Emily? And, having done so, how had his affections so soon been deflected to me? We had all been wrong, all made mistakes through silliness, selfishness or inexperience, but only I had been culpable. For, disguise it as I might, I knew I had always loved Charles, and I had been wrong, grossly wrong, to accompany him and his bride to India, whatever the strength of the family pressures that brought that event about. After all, no one would have forced me to leave Mount Bellew. If the worst had come to the worst, I could have divulged the true nature of my feelings to my kind aunt, and have been spared my present misery. But I had lacked the strength to do this, and the inclination. I had allowed myself to be persuaded because I could not bear the thought of Charles’s absence. Now his presence was the torment. Had his marriage been happy, I could have borne my pain with a better grace. But poor Emily, in revealing her unhappiness, had unbared his.