Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | The Girl From Cobb Street

The Girl From Cobb Street
Merryn Allingham


She longed for a family of her own…Growing up in an orphanage on East London’s Cobb Street, Daisy Driscoll never felt the warm heart of home. Forging her own way in the world, determined Daisy struggles to make ends meet as the country finds itself on the brink of the Second World War.Her fortunes change when she finds solace in the arms of Gerald Mortimer, a handsome cavalry subaltern in the Indian army. Finally, Daisy has found someone to love of her very own. But soon she discovers she’s pregnant and fate was never going to give her an easy ride.Gerald is not all he claims to be and, as he leads her along a path of danger and scandal, Daisy must find the strength within herself to get through her darkest hour.For fans of Nadine Dorries, Katie Flynn and Maureen Lee.The Daisy’s War trilogy:The Girl from Cobb Street – Book 1The Nurse’s War – Book 2Daisy’s Long Road Home – Book 3Each story in the Daisy’s War series can be read and enjoyed as a standalone story – or as part of this compelling trilogy charting the fortunes of Daisy Driscoll.










MERRYN ALLINGHAM was born into an army family and spent her childhood on the move. Unsurprisingly, it gave her itchy feet and in her twenties she escaped from an unloved secretarial career to work as cabin crew and see the world. The arrival of marriage, children and cats meant a more settled life in the south of England, where she’s lived ever since. It also gave her the opportunity to go back to ‘school’ and eventually teach at university.

Merryn has always loved books that bring the past to life, so when she began writing herself the novels had to be historical. Merryn’s books are set in the early twentieth century, a fascinating era that she loves researching and writing about. History still holds sway for her, mixed in with a helping of intrigue and a sprinkling of romance.













To my mother and father, who married in April 1937 at St John’s Afghan Church, Colaba, Bombay




Table of Contents


Cover (#u21c9a78a-3d08-519b-a604-f1626f83ad17)

About the Author (#u42b80b7e-c154-5031-95b5-b8316718b4f3)

Title Page (#ud7b697ad-1a9f-5257-aea8-e0cfbf06db95)

Dedication (#u9c4ecbf5-d27f-5f1f-8546-7c9abbe96d01)

CHAPTER ONE (#u57b7a78b-af5a-5adb-a403-244143a79e96)

CHAPTER TWO (#u16d10177-8160-5282-8328-b53928a936ce)

CHAPTER THREE (#u917ec201-a592-5742-82a6-e5e970a4c4a1)

CHAPTER FOUR (#udeeeee22-5a2d-5652-9e94-a7e0e3d52ca6)

CHAPTER FIVE (#u07ca4445-28fb-5d81-a187-b9910147084c)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_570aedac-4f47-5099-957e-2a16916bcfea)


Bombay, 1938.

The ceiling fan pushed against torpid air, the low growl of its rusty blades a counterpoint to the shrilling telephones and excited Hindi emerging in bursts from beyond the glass screen at the end of the room. From the quayside below, a rhythmic crunch of boots on stone sounded faintly through the open door, a steady train of soldiers chugging its way ashore.

Daisy Driscoll sat in a bubble of silence, a large cardboard suitcase at her side. Her skin gleamed with sweat and her hair hung limp, the carefully pressed finger waves in a state of dissolution. Her make-up had slipped and the crimson lipstick was now an uneven gash. Nervously she fiddled with the ring, fourth finger, right hand, looking constantly from open door to glass partition, shifting from side to side in the shabby Windsor chair.

A shadow darkened the room. A military figure had appeared in the doorway and was walking towards her. She started to her feet, her smile feigning brightness, but a glance at the newcomer’s face and she crumpled back onto the chair.

‘Miss Driscoll?’

The young Indian’s voice was soft and cultured, and his expression a mixture of dismay and compassion. She wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t dared to go in search of a mirror for fear of missing Gerald when he came. She’d donned her very best dress for the occasion but that was hours ago on board The Viceroy of India, and the heat and dust had already taken its toll on the silk print for which she had saved so hard.

‘Yes,’ she answered uncertainly, ‘but Gerald …’

‘He will be waiting at the church. My name is Anish. Anish Rana. I am a friend of Gerald’s and I’m to take you to him.’

Her face fell at the news but he affected not to notice and continued in a smooth voice, ‘He apologises for not coming himself but he had several important matters to attend to before the ceremony.’

She found herself wondering what could be more important than meeting the woman you were to marry after she had been three long weeks at sea, but she said nothing, grateful at least to have an escort. Getting to her feet once again, she bent down to retrieve the bulging suitcase but Anish was quicker and scooped it up with ease, the knife-edged pleats of his uniform hardly wavering. Everything about him spoke ease, the kind of ease that came with authority.

‘Please, follow me.’ His tall figure strode towards the open door. ‘The port is very busy today and we must find our way through the crowds to the main road. I have a conveyance waiting.’

Dispirited by the unexpected turn of events, Daisy followed him obediently. At the door, he paused. ‘Do you have some kind of head covering, Miss Driscoll? The April sun is very hot.’

‘Only this,’ and she took from her bag the fragile confection of feathers and net she had chosen for her wedding. His raised eyebrows made her horribly aware of how ill equipped she was for this strange country.

‘Then we must make all haste,’ he said, and flashed her an encouraging smile.

Together they walked from the waiting room and down a flight of steep stone steps onto the crowded quayside. The air was stifling and the sunlight so blinding that it hit her like a physical blow. For a moment she was overpowered by the heat, the noise, the smells. Spices and dust, she thought, jasmine and drains. People swirled, pushing, begging, shouting in a hundred languages and dialects. There were men in white uniforms and women in saris almost as brilliant as the sun itself. Small children, their naked bodies bristling with flies, eyed the pair speculatively. Sellers of ‘jolly decent fruit’, of sticky sweets, of flower garlands, announced their wares at the top of their voices. Undeterred, Anish Rana strode ahead, scattering to one side vendors and children, and weaving his way expertly through family groups.

Ahead of her, Daisy saw the quay narrow and guessed they were nearing the road. She touched Anish lightly on the arm. ‘Before we leave, Mr Rana, I’d like to visit a washroom. I think we may have just passed one.’

‘You must be quick then. We should be at the church in a quarter of an hour.’

A few minutes before the cracked mirror and she had blotted the shine from flushed skin and corrected her lipstick, but a brush pulled through the drooping waves left them still sadly limp. Then out into the savage heat once more and into the seething city. She had thought the port crowded but here on the street, the smell and movement of a mass of humanity stopped her in her tracks. Everywhere, buses, horses, rickshaws jostled for space. To Daisy’s eyes, there hardly seemed an inch of road unoccupied. Trucks with signs painted on their sides requesting everyone to ‘Please Blow Horn’ swerved between overloaded donkeys, stray dogs, and the occasional camel or bullock-drawn cart. Even the traffic island in the middle of the road was occupied, several cows lazily flicking long ears as they chewed on invisible grass.

Anish’s voice broke her trance. ‘We should go. See here, I have managed to acquire a topi for you.’

She reached out her hand for the khaki helmet. ‘Where did you find it?’

‘Better not to ask!’

He grinned and she thought how attractive he was with his white teeth and smooth brown skin. For the first time, her eyes smiled back. He hurried her forward to a four-wheeled carriage waiting by the kerbside. The horse between the shafts looked half-starved, and she felt guilty that the poor creature must carry her in this temperature. But Anish was bundling her into the Victoria and she could do nothing but settle herself as comfortably as she could within its musty leather.

As they swung out into the road, a man waved to her from the other side of the street. Grayson Harte. When he’d first introduced himself, she had thought it such an elegant name, the kind of name that would have invited instant punishment at Eden House. She had always been glad that hers was so down to earth. Not that she could be sure it was hers.

‘Who is that?’ Anish was looking surprised.

‘His name is Grayson Harte. He was travelling on my ship and has a job with the Indian Civil Service. I believe that’s what he called it.’

‘One of the “heaven born” then.’

Grayson would be on his way to report for his new post and she wished him well. He had been kind to her, very kind, picking her up from that catastrophic fall and trying to persuade her to see a doctor. She’d accepted a cup of sweet tea and told him all was well. But it hadn’t been. A stab of anger surprised her by its ferocity, though it was pointless to feel rage. The men who had sent her sprawling on deck in their bid to escape, could not know what they’d done.

‘Will Gerald be wearing a very smart uniform?’ she asked after a while. ‘I’m afraid I might let him down.’

‘Gerald will be in plain service dress. Anything else would be far too hot at this time of the year. And you must not worry, you look splendid.’

She was grateful for the lie. Since she’d left the ship early that morning, her nerves had steadily grown more frayed, whispering loudly that she was travelling under false pretences and had no right to be in India. Should she even, at this late stage, ask Anish to stop the carriage and take her back to the port where she might beg a passage on the first liner leaving for Southampton? But that was a fantasy. She had no money for a ticket and if, by some miracle, she could raise the funds to return, what would she be returning to? There was no home and her precious job was lost to her. It would be all right, she made herself believe, it must be all right. Gerald would understand. He would be at the church and she would confide everything to him before the ceremony. How much easier it would have been, though, if he had come to meet her.

‘I’d hoped Gerald would be here,’ she said. ‘To help me, you know. Everything is so strange.’

‘You will be with him very soon,’ her escort said soothingly.

He talked on, pointing out places of interest, feeding her small glimpses of military life, slowly putting her at ease. He was a comfortable companion, interesting and amusing, and gradually she lost the tension that had been building. They were passing through a quieter neighbourhood now, one of wide, tree-lined roads, and in a short while drew up outside a large building of honeyed stone. Daisy craned her head upwards to follow the slender spire which emerged from the surrounding trees, so tall it almost touched the sky. A golden cross sat at its summit.

‘This is the church we are to be married in?’

‘It is. St John’s Afghan Church. Built to commemorate the officers and soldiers who died in the Afghan campaigns. It has special memories for the military.’

It was unnerving to think of death on this day of all days but the church was exquisite, an oasis of calm, and far distant from any battlefield. She took a deep breath, trying to absorb some of its tranquillity, trying to stop her tired mind chasing down dark avenues. These would be the most important few minutes of her life and the thought was making her feel slightly sick. She loved Gerald and she believed he loved her in return. But it was months since she had last seen him and there had been—well, complications. But she must not allow herself to be deflected. The marriage would work, she thought fiercely; it had to, for she had nothing to go back to.

Anish offered her his arm and together they passed through a square, stone porch and plunged into the cool darkness of the church. A narrow ribbon of red carpet covered the floor’s geometric tiles and made a pathway to the brass rails of the altar. They walked along the nave, between a procession of archways of intricately traced stone and, behind these, window after window of glorious stained glass.

Figures were moving in front of the altar and she picked out a white-frocked priest, half-hidden in the gloom, and two soldierly forms, one it seemed attempting to support the other. One of the figures turned as she made her way down the aisle. It was Gerald, but Gerald as she had never seen him: dishevelled, unsteadily clutching at his comrade, his face a blank mask. He was ill! Daisy felt panic rise. This was why he’d not been at the port, why he’d sent Anish, who had not wanted to alarm her by telling her the truth. The confession she’d been rehearsing died on her lips and she quickened her step. She must get to him, take care of him. As she drew nearer to the group, the unmistakable smell of liquor assailed her. She might be young and naïve, but she recognised the ‘illness’ immediately. He was drunk, drunk on his wedding day. She was seized with the impulse to turn tail and run. Except that she had nowhere to run to.

Drunk or not, her bridegroom managed his part in the brief ceremony with barely a hitch, needing only the occasional prompt from one or other of his friends, his responses slightly slurred but sufficient. In under ten minutes they were man and wife; a brief brush of lips on her cheek and Daisy was again outside in the molten day. The heat had grown even more intense and the air seemed to solidify around them. You could almost cut it with a sharp knife and step through the opening, she thought. The carriage was still waiting by the kerbside and with Gerald beside her, she took her seat once more, while their two witnesses waved them a relieved goodbye.

‘Victoria Station, jaldi!’

Gerald gave the order, sitting stiffly beside her. She closed her eyes against the searing sun and against the unwelcome thoughts that came thick and fast. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, for it was as though she shared the carriage with a stranger. The last time she had seen Gerald, their final goodbye in the London dawn, he had been warm and tender. She’d bought a platform ticket for the Southampton train and stood watching as his dear face slowly disappeared into the distance. He hadn’t wanted to go, had promised that very soon they would be together again, together for life. She glanced across at him. A bead of sweat had dripped from his brow to the end of his nose but he made no attempt to wipe it away. Perhaps after a while you grew not to notice the discomfort. His skin was sallow and his fair hair seemed unusually dull—and surely he should not be bareheaded—but the same wide hazel eyes and full mouth told her he was the man who’d waved her goodbye at Waterloo. It was her heart that told her he was not.

They came to a halt outside a large building of red brick. Gerald half-stumbled from the carriage and the driver helped her down. Her new husband strode impatiently ahead while she stood on the forecourt, still and bewildered. Seemingly every soul in the country was on the move. People streamed past, people of all shapes, sizes, genders, people walking or riding bicycles. A pushcart, laden with rolled rugs, bundles of washing and small children, narrowly missed colliding with her. She sidestepped quickly and followed Gerald towards the entrance of the Victoria Railway Terminus.

It was a monumental building, three tiers of arches, endless small domes and turrets and, above all, a much larger dome in the shape of a crown. The clock, she saw, showed half past one. She had been in India for six hours, and she was consumed with loneliness. She wasn’t sure why since she’d been alone all her life. It was easier that way, easier not to get too close, not to lay oneself open to inevitable hurt. The one friendship she’d braved had been unequal and was now broken. Helena Maddox had been forced to close the London house to nurse a sick sister in Wales and her employer’s news had shattered Daisy’s world. Since then she’d pasted together the pieces of her life but the experience had left its dents and cracks, and these were added to older scars. To the heedless gaze of those she met daily, though, they remained invisible. And that was how she wanted it.

But then Gerald had come into her life and broken down the barriers she had so carefully erected. When she’d first met him, she could hardly believe her good fortune; it had to be the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her. He was kind and handsome and loving. He accepted her for the girl she was and seemed not in the least to care where she had come from. Gerald was to be her future and she would never be lonely again. The thought had brought tears to her eyes, and every night in the weeks after he’d left, she had daydreamed for hours in the tiny room she rented, imagining the home they would make together. Now all she felt was emptiness.

She pulled herself up sharply. She must shake off this crushing sense of disappointment. There would be an explanation for Gerald’s conduct, she did not doubt, and in good time he would tell her. Meanwhile she must not fall into an abyss of self-pity, for India meant a new opportunity, a new life. She squared her shoulders and walked after her husband.

In later years she preferred not to think of the journey to Jasirapur. She noticed that most other Europeans travelled with a personal servant who brought them tea or soda or hot water for washing. She had not washed or changed since early that morning and once settled in their compartment, there was no chance of doing so. The floors had been swabbed by a brutal disinfectant and her head soon ached from the smell, and from the noise of passengers filling the train: soldiers returning to their barracks and civilians travelling she knew not where.

‘Who are all these people?’ she asked, when they had sat in silence for the first half hour of the journey.

‘Officers in the ICS.’ Then, when he saw her confused expression, ‘The Indian Civil Service. They push pens around pieces of paper.’

He had the soldier’s contempt for men who spent most of their lives within four walls. Grayson Harte was to be a District Officer in the ICS, she remembered, his first posting in India.

‘What does a District Officer do?’

Gerald seemed surprised by her question. ‘He’s in charge of a district. Collects taxes, settles disputes, does the paperwork—that kind of thing.’

Grayson had enthused over the role he was to take on but she wondered if he would enjoy the reality. She sensed he was a man who had come to India for adventure, and keeping files or adjudicating village quarrels did not seem quite to fit his personality. But what did she know of this immense country or of those who ran it?

She gazed out of the window. It was early afternoon and a white incandescence hung over the endless plain. From time to time toy villages sprang into being, barely distinguishable from the earth itself except for the occasional temple or mosque. On either side of the train, great dun landscapes rolled themselves out like an endless carpet, sometimes flat and featureless, sometimes rocky with small, spiky bushes but always stretching to an unreachable horizon. It made her feel as small as the smallest of insects. Here and there, a few dusty trees broke through the monochrome beige and, more infrequently, a flaming patch of scarlet would flash into sight.

‘They are oleander trees, aren’t they?’ She pointed through the nearest window but Gerald was plainly uninterested in the landscape.

They had never before had a problem with talking or at least Gerald had not. He had talked and she had listened. He’d kept her enthralled with stories of his childhood, his days at boarding school and most of all his tales of life in India. This new taciturnity was uncomfortable; it belonged to a different Gerald, belonged to a man she hardly recognised. But perhaps she was being too harsh. She should not be surprised they found themselves so awkward with each other. After all, theirs had been a whirlwind romance conducted in snatched moments against the backdrop of a great city. Now they were meeting for the first time in four months, and meeting in a very different world.

She waited a while and when he said nothing, tried another tack. ‘Have you known Mr Rana long?’

‘Lieutenant.’

‘Lieutenant?’

‘Lieutenant Rana. He’s a fellow officer in the 7th.’

‘I didn’t know your regiment had Indian officers,’ she said humbly.

‘We’re getting more each year. It’s called Indianisation.’

‘And did Lieutenant Rana attend Sandhurst with you?’

Gerald shifted in his seat and looked out of the far window. ‘He went to Dehra Dun.’ Daisy heard the boredom in his voice. ‘The Military Academy. It’s an Indian version of Sandhurst.’

‘He seems very nice.’ It was trite, she knew, but anything more original might again betray her ignorance.

The conversation fizzled to a close and they sat once more in silence. At length, Gerald stood up and repositioned himself, stretching lengthways along one of the bench seats. ‘We have a few hours to go, Daisy. Better try to get some sleep. It looks like we have the carriage to ourselves.’

‘How many hours?’ Already the journey seemed interminable.

‘Fifteen, sixteen, I reckon.’

Her ears did not quite believe what they were hearing. Sixteen more hours imprisoned in this broiling square of tin. When they’d joined the train, she’d seen First Class stamped boldly on the bodywork and felt guilty. She had wronged Gerald, unwittingly it was true, but she was undeserving of such palatial treatment. She need not have worried since it soon became clear that First Class was no indicator of comfort in this confusing country. The seats were hard, the carriage creaked and jolted over old Victorian tracks, and the heat was utterly overpowering. Only the smallest respite came from the faint whirr of an electric fan, that played constantly on a tub of melting ice, placed between the seats in a vain attempt to keep the compartment cool.

Door and window handles were soon too hot to touch and the studded leather benches grew slimy beneath her sweating limbs. A film of red dust percolated through the closed windows and settled on everything it touched: blinds, seats, passengers. She tried to doze but whenever she felt herself drifting, she was jolted awake by the train grinding to a halt. Stops were frequent, station after station seeming to have dropped from the sky into the middle of nowhere. As they drew alongside each platform, she could see long lines of sleeping men, swaddled in protective layers of white cloth, while their wives squatted patiently beside them. Once the train had pulled to a stop, the clamour was unbelievable. Passengers ran in all directions, trying to scramble onto the train, clinging to carriages, even clinging to the roof. Friends pushed each other through windows, families set up makeshift bedding in corridors. Vendors handed in trays with teapots and plates of bread covered with rancid butter and little green bananas. At one stop, Gerald alighted and returned with food from one of the itinerant sellers but she could not eat it. Her throat was parched, almost closed, and all she could do was sip the water he offered.

Her new husband slept heavily. He had the soldier’s ability to rest wherever he found himself, and he slept with barely a sound. His face had lost its earlier sallowness and the strands of fair hair falling over his forehead made him look very young. Daisy’s heart stirred. She forgave him his indifference, his impatience with her, even his drinking. He had so far offered no explanation for his discourtesy, but her mind had been busy supplying one. It was wedding nerves, she’d decided, that was all. Marriage brought change, a disruption to the world he knew, and Gerald loved his life in India, that was plain from every conversation they’d ever had. He was immensely proud of being chosen for the Indian Army, so competitive was entry. And proud of being a cavalryman. Whenever he spoke of his regiment, he lit with an inner glow. He must be worried that her arrival posed a threat to the life he loved. Her job was to reassure him, make clear that she had not come to unsettle his world but to build a loving home for them both.

By sunset, they were travelling through a different kind of landscape. In village after village columns of fire smoke wound their way upwards and spread out across fields of blue linseed. Preparations for the evening meal were clearly under way. She felt her heart open to the tranquil beauty of the land, to the thousands, no, millions of lives, lived beneath its broad skies. A pale, golden dust hung from above, outlining a straggle of cows making the slow journey back to their night shelter. In an instant it seemed the glittering heat of the day had been transformed into one of milky warmth. Darkness fell just as suddenly and, at last, through sheer exhaustion, she slept.

‘We’re here. Jasirapur.’

Daisy felt herself shaken awake, and with clouded eyes looked out on yet another platform. It was early morning but already she could feel the sun gathering pace, its stealthy fingers probing the compartment’s defences. Marwar Junction, she read.

‘We get out here,’ Gerald repeated.

Hastily she scrabbled her possessions together and in a few minutes had joined him on the platform. The train was already preparing to leave for its onward journey to Delhi. She looked around for her suitcase but the luggage had disappeared from sight. An aroma of cinnamon trailed the air, wafting in clouds from the steaming cauldrons scattered at intervals along the platform.

Gerald stopped in his walk towards the exit. ‘The bags are already in the trap but would you like tea before we set off? The chai-makers are pretty good here.’

His kindness revived her as much as the tea. She sipped at the cup slowly, readying herself for this last part of the journey. She had been travelling for twenty-four hours with little rest but she couldn’t complain. She had come despite Gerald’s warning that she would not be at all comfortable and her journey was unnecessary. He’d promised to return to England at the first opportunity and when he did, they would marry immediately. She could see she’d upset him by taking matters into her own hands, but he loved her and he would understand why she’d had to come. With his support, she would make a success of this new life. For a while the country would be strange, but she would adapt, she would learn as she went along.

Though the sun shone hotter by the minute, the pony and trap set a brisk pace. The track they were travelling was little more than a dirt road, rough and unfinished, and she was constantly jolted from one side of the carriage to the other. She saw Gerald looking anxiously at her but she said nothing. It was not the right time.

‘Won’t be long now,’ he encouraged.

This morning he seemed completely himself, looking and sounding the debonair young officer she’d met that morning at the perfume counter of Bridges. Debonair was not an adjective she could claim for herself, for the dress she had so carefully chosen for her wedding looked little more than a rag, and smothered now in the red dust that flew everywhere.

The driver swung onto a narrower track, following it down and round, the pony skilfully negotiating a series of corners and curves until they were at a rough mud wall enclosing what she took to be a compound. It was hard to discern how large the compound was or what lay within it, since weeds and grasses had been allowed free rein and were now almost thigh high. Patches of red oleanders here and there broke up the wilderness. And right in front of where Daisy sat perched on the trap’s small seat, an enormous tree, its thick, drooping branches growing roots of their own and casting a circle of dense black shadow against the sunlight. Behind the tree and through its huge branches, she could just catch a glimpse of a whitewashed building.

Out of nowhere, it seemed, a light-skinned servant appeared at the side of the carriage. He was dressed from head to toe in starched white cotton and was bowing his head in welcome. Gerald jumped down and clapped the man on the shoulder.

‘Rajiv, this is your new memsahib. Daisy, you must meet my trusted servant, Rajiv.’

The man bowed his head again but she was aware of his eyes sliding sideways and up, observing her, watchful, even hostile. No, she must be wrong. He couldn’t be hostile since he did not know her. But if he had been with Gerald for years, she reasoned, he might resent her presence, might resent a woman stepping into his domain. She would need to make an effort to get to know him.

‘I am very new to India, Rajiv, but I hope you will help me settle in.’

‘Of course he will,’ Gerald said a little too heartily, and led the way into the building she’d seen in the distance.

A thatched roof sat atop its blinding white walls and a wide veranda wrapped itself around all four sides, the paint peeling from its decaying wood. She noticed a bicycle propped against one of the supports. It seemed as battered as its surroundings. Panels of plaited reeds had been hung at every window and, once inside the bungalow, she could see that though they made its interior overly dark, they also helped to keep it cool. Rush matting covered the floor and the furniture was sparse: a horsehair sofa, several chairs made from wicker, a table, a desk. They appeared to be standing in saucers full of water and she bent her head to look.

‘That’s to stop the ants from climbing up and eating the furniture.’ Gerald had seen her from the corner of his eye. ‘You’ll soon get used to the wildlife.’ And as though to test his theory, she heard sounds of scratching and scurrying above her head, making her look upwards to the ceiling of whitewashed hessian.

‘That will be the rats. We get the occasional bat too, but nothing to worry about. They won’t find a way in. They live between the thatch and the ceiling.’

‘But can’t you get rid of them?’

‘Not possible. Like I said, you’ll get used to it.’

When her face suggested this was unlikely, he shrugged his shoulders and dug his hands deep into his pockets. ‘I’m sorry this isn’t the palace you might have been imagining. But you insisted on coming. And you can’t say I didn’t give you fair warning.’

‘No, Gerald.’ She walked up to him and took his hands in hers. ‘You’re right. The bungalow is delightful.’ After all what had she to compare it with, a bleak room shared with five others in the orphanage, a servant’s attic in Miss Maddox’s house or the miserable bedsit she had only just afforded in Paddington.

Without warning, Rajiv appeared once more at their side. He seemed to have his own peculiar form of locomotion, gliding out of nowhere, silently, effortlessly.

‘Chota hazri, sahib.’

‘Yes, of course. Daisy, you must have some food and drink and then I think a long sleep.’

Tea and fruit had been laid out on the table, which stood at the far end of what she imagined was the main room of the bungalow. The fruit and the small sweet cakes that accompanied the tea were delicious and she ate with appetite. Gerald only picked at the food and was soon on the veranda giving instructions to his servant.

She wandered into the larger of the two bedrooms. It was another spacious room with a high ceiling, but once again the furniture was sparse: a three-drawer chest, a small chair, a narrow cupboard, which had seen better days, and two single iron bedsteads draped with mosquito nets crammed together in the middle of the room. Was that to avoid what might be tempted to crawl down the walls, she wondered.

Her husband came in while she was opening her suitcase. ‘Leave that to Rajiv. He’ll do it later. The bathroom’s next door if you want to wash.’

‘And the kitchen?’

‘In the compound, separate from the house—more hygienic that way and no cooking smells. But that’s Rajiv’s domain. You don’t go there. He sleeps in the room behind the kitchen.’

‘What if I want—’

‘Whatever you want, he’ll get it. Just ring the bell,’ and he pointed to a small brass bell on the chest. ‘There’s one in each room.’

‘Shall I wash first then?’ She felt shy. They were a married couple now and she need feel no shame at their intimacy. Ever since that night in her room, she had been reproaching herself, for try as she might she could not forget her mother’s fate. But she was not Lily Driscoll; she had a husband and she was free to love as she wished.

‘I’ll wash in the other bathroom,’ he said quickly. ‘You can have this one to yourself. I need to get moving.’

She blushed at the thoughts that had been going through her mind. ‘But where are you going?’

‘To camp, my dear. Work to do. I’ve wasted three days going to Bombay and back. I’ll be home for lunch and in the meantime, I’d advise you to get some sleep.’

‘Gerald …’ But he had kissed her on the cheek, and gone.




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_a0b5138f-b535-5852-b599-c710b289af6d)


She sunk onto the bed and could not prevent the tears. It was because she was so tired, she told herself, but she knew that was not the whole story. Since the accident on board she had held on to the thought that Gerald loved her, that he wanted to share his world with her, come what may. But so far he’d shown little sign of wanting to share, little sign even of wanting her here. She was trying to stay positive but a deep hollow had settled somewhere in the pit of her stomach. What would he say, what would he do, when she confessed the truth to him?

She wandered back into the main room. Everything was quiet. The servant had retreated to the kitchen, busy with preparations for lunch, she imagined. In England she’d heard tales of families in India employing an army of servants but hadn’t really believed them. The way Gerald ran his household certainly disproved it, since Rajiv seemed responsible for everything. She might, perhaps, take on some of his duties, if she could do so without offending him. There seemed little else for her to do.

Whatever coolness there had been in the bungalow had disappeared and beads of sweat began their slow trickle down her back. She wandered out onto the veranda, hoping to find a breeze, however slight. There was none, but there was a garden full of birds. Familiar only with grey streets and grey plane trees, she stood entranced. Pigeons she could recognise, even the bright green parakeets from pictures she’d seen, but what were those golden creatures flashing through the tree tops, and the smaller birds which flew in and out of the long grass, striped in orange, black and white, the crests on their heads opening and shutting like small black fans? She stayed for as long as she could, but the heat eventually overwhelmed her and she drifted back into the main room of the bungalow.

Gerald would return soon, she hoped, but in the meantime she must find some distraction. A few books sprawled untidily across the desk and she picked one up and flicked idly through it, but it contained nothing to keep her interest. There must be something in the house that she could settle to read: a magazine perhaps, or a local newspaper or guide. She must learn as much as possible—about her new home, about the regiment, about India. She was painfully aware of the social gap that existed between her and the man she had married, and was determined not to let him down.

A small pile of papers had been disturbed by her riffling, but they appeared to be correspondence rather than any reading matter. As she turned away, the address of a letter she’d dislodged caught her eye. It was a road in the East End she knew well. Did Gerald have friends there? That would be surprising since it was a very poor district, but for a moment she was overcome by a wave of nostalgia. She scolded herself for her stupidity. Eden House had been a harsh, unhappy place, unworthy of even a jot of remembrance.

She caught a glimpse of the salutation. My dear Jack, it read. That was strange. Why would Gerald have a letter addressed to a Jack? It was none of her business. She should leave the letter where it was, but then she could not quite stop herself skimming to the bottom. The final words gave her a jolt, and for minutes she stood staring, making no sense of them. The letter was signed by a Joseph Minns but it was the line above the signature that mesmerised her. Your loving father. Why would Gerald have such a personal letter in his possession? She scanned the page again, casting adrift her scruples and reading it quickly. It was a plea for financial help. The elder Minns had sold his business some time ago. He had been a master tailor, it seemed, and the entire proceeds of the sale had gone to pay debts he had incurred. But it had not been enough and he was still in debt, forced to return to Spitalfields and live with his wife in a single rented room. He had done it all for Jack, done it so that his dear and only son could train to be the cavalryman he wanted to be. He hated to ask but could Jack please telegraph a little money to help his mother and father, since they had fallen into desperate straits.

She returned the letter to its place. This had nothing to do with Gerald after all. The letter evidently belonged to a private soldier, one of the young men in Gerald’s regiment. He’d told her how close relationships were between officers and their men, how they knew where each man came from, what his family were, had maybe even visited his village. In times of trouble the officers would be relied on. Gerald was looking after Jack Minns, helping the boy to sort things out. Feeling relieved, she sank into one of the two cane chairs. It felt as uncomfortable as it looked but fatigue was catching up with her and she hardly noticed. She should go to bed but she wanted to be sure she would see Gerald when he returned for lunch. They had barely spoken since their wedding vows and she was hoping for time together, an hour or two to talk, to explain, to recapture the emotion that had made them lovers.

The silence in the room was complete and, despite her determination, her eyelids drooped. As she began the slow drift into sleep, a thought burrowed its way into her mind, and jerked her awake. It was a thought she didn’t want but it would not be dislodged. Hadn’t Gerald said that all the men under his command were Indians? They would be unlikely to have the name of Minns or to hail from Spitalfields. So why did he have this missive?

She got to her feet and walked back to the desk, fingering the letter again, turning it this way and that, trying fruitlessly to solve the conundrum. A wave of irritation hit and she wiped her forehead dry for the twentieth time that morning. She was getting obsessed by trivialities because she was too hot and too tired to think rationally. But as she turned to replace the letter, the thought that she had married a man of whom she knew almost nothing, returned with unwelcome force.

‘Lunch is ready, memsahib.’

She jumped at the sound of the voice. The man was only a few feet from her, his eyes fixed on the letter she’d been holding. She had not heard him approach on bare feet and had no idea how long he’d been watching her.

‘Thank you, Rajiv.’ It was a struggle to keep her voice calm. ‘The sahib isn’t home yet and I’ll eat when he arrives.’

The servant bowed his head slightly, his eyes cast downwards, refusing to meet her glance. Then as quickly as he’d appeared, he vanished through the side door, which led directly to the kitchen.

When he’d gone, she slumped back into the wicker chair, her heart thumping a little too loudly. She hadn’t realised the man was in the room. Had he been spying on her? He had seen her hand on the letter, but did he realise she knew its contents? She must talk to Gerald as soon as possible, admit that she’d been reading his correspondence. There was probably no mystery to it, there was probably a simple explanation. But … a siren voice whispered in her ear. Her husband just might have some small thing to hide and if he did, it would make her own confession that much easier.

Another half hour dragged by. The ugly Victorian clock half-hidden in the corner of the room chimed twice and she made a decision. Rajiv appeared almost immediately she rang the small brass bell, as though he had been waiting just the other side of the door, and her feeling of unease intensified.

‘I’ll eat now, thank you,’ she said briefly, ‘but we should keep some food aside for your master. He’ll be here soon, I’m sure.’

‘The sahib does not come.’ The man turned to go and she caught at his gown. He looked coldly down at her hand and she retrieved it immediately. ‘What do you mean the sahib isn’t coming. How do you know?’

‘He send message.’

‘When?’

‘This morning.’

‘This morning? You knew that he wasn’t coming and yet you didn’t tell me?’

He said nothing and his face was mask-like in its lack of expression. He would always win a contest of wills, she realised, and it was pointless to remonstrate. Instead she gave him her first order and surprised herself with her curtness. ‘When you’ve cleared the dishes, I would like to take a bath. Please see to it.’

She was perturbed by Rajiv’s animosity. He was a servant with whom she must share her home, whether she liked it or not, and she felt troubled for the future. She knew just how awkward a difficult servant could be for those who shared the same roof. In Bryanston Square one diminutive maidservant had set the whole household by the ears. Ethel had taken the greatest offence when Daisy had been promoted to be Miss Maddox’s personal attendant. As the longest-serving parlour maid, she contended, she was next in line for advancement and the job should have gone to her. She swore she would make Daisy’s life miserable and was as good as her word. Silly, trivial things like hiding Miss Maddox’s special soap, or rumpling her mistress’s silk underwear after Daisy had spent hours ironing it, or spilling coal dust on the carpet after she’d cleaned and tidied her mistress’s bedroom. Worst of all, Ethel had caused division among the servants themselves; if you were for Daisy, you were against her. Daisy had never sought approval from her fellows but the result of Ethel’s poisonous campaign was to turn much of the household against her and make her life even lonelier.

At least Rajiv wouldn’t be doing that in this household of one. And he was efficient, she had to grant. Within minutes she heard bathroom taps being turned and a pile of sparkling white towels appeared on her bed. Minutes more and she’d slid gratefully into the oval zinc tub and breathed a deep sigh of pleasure. The luxury of hot water! Her knees were bunched, the water barely covering her lower limbs, but she gave herself up gladly to its delights. She would put his unfriendliness out of her mind and savour the fact that, in the middle of a working day, she had the leisure to enjoy this slow bathe.

When finally she regained the bedroom, she saw that her soiled dress from yesterday was no longer where she’d abandoned it and the contents of her suitcase had been hung in the cupboard on an ill-assorted clutter of hangers. Perhaps it was a peace offering. She hoped so, though it no longer seemed to matter. She was utterly fatigued. Outside the heat was reaching its crescendo but she hardly felt it. She sank limply down onto the bed. In the distance she thought she heard the sound of water, water splashing faintly over the hanging mats of fragrant grass. The slightest breeze was playing across their surface, sending a sweet-smelling coolness into the room, and rocking her gently to sleep.

It must have been the sleep of the dead, for when she next woke it was the middle of the night. She stretched her arms wide but there was no answering body lying close. She lifted her head from the pillow. Gerald wasn’t there and in the stabs of brilliant light which stippled the room, she could see that the bed beside her had not been slept in. She panicked. Had he suffered an accident and this was another message Rajiv had decided to keep from her? She peered down at the watch she still wore on her wrist. It showed four o’clock, which meant she had slept at least twelve hours. But where was Gerald? Surely if anything bad had happened to him, she would have learned it by now. In the distance she could hear the screech of night birds and the barking of dogs, echoing from village to village for miles around. Should she go looking for him? He couldn’t be too far away. But then another sound intervened, much closer this time. A rasping cough. Gerald? No, it couldn’t be Gerald. It was the cough of someone who smoked heavily and it seemed to be coming from the garden. She slipped noiselessly out of the bed and over to the window, guided by the pinpricks of light which shone through cracks in the woven tatty. Very carefully she rolled up the edge of one of the plaited blinds and gazed out across the veranda to the jungle of garden beyond. The sky above was black but studded with diamonds, the starlight piercing in its clarity and illuminating the scene as though it were the stage of a theatre. You could read by those stars, she thought. The garden stretched before her, silver and magical, the tall grasses erect and hardly moving. She must have imagined the noise after all and turned to go back to bed.

But there it was again. A harsh clearing of the throat and then the unmistakable sound of someone spitting. She crouched down and pressed her face to the glass. There was a figure, she was sure, but she was granted a glimpse only, and then there was nothing but the grass and the deep velvet sky and the brilliant moon and stars. Could it have been Rajiv walking in the garden at this very early hour? She could not be sure as she’d seen virtually nothing. A faint outline alone. But if it wasn’t Rajiv, then it must be an intruder. There were no other houses nearby and she felt suddenly vulnerable. Gerald needed to be here, holding her hand, reassuring her, and she couldn’t understand why he was not. Had he heard the intruder, perhaps, and gone in pursuit? If so, he must be sleeping elsewhere in the house. More evidence of his indifference, if she needed it. Saddened, she padded back to the empty bed. But might it be worse than indifference? Her stomach tightened at the thought. If Rajiv had alerted his master to the fact she’d read his private correspondence, Gerald might be extremely angry. She closed her eyes, determined not to indulge her misgivings. She badly wanted to believe that all would be well between them and in the moments before she fell back into sleep, she tried to find comfort. It was possible that when her husband had returned from work and found her sleeping so heavily, he hadn’t wished to disturb her. It was possible he’d been thinking kind thoughts.

When she woke again, the sun was already climbing the sky. She had forgotten in the night to roll down the woven mat and the room was awash with its glare, a searchlight striking her through the eyes and travelling like the sharpest of arrows to pierce the very back of her head. Swiftly she moved to lower the panel. There was no sound in the house and she knew herself alone again. Another solitary day beckoned, another day of enforced idleness. Since the age of fourteen she had worked for a living; even as a small child at Eden House she had been given her daily chores, and woe betide if they were not performed to the Superintendent’s satisfaction. It felt utterly wrong to be this lazy. At least she could still dress herself. She tugged open the door of the wardrobe and saw with surprise that her silk dress had reappeared, washed and beautifully pressed. How had that happened? She’d heard nothing and yet someone—Rajiv, it must have been—had glided in and out of her room, in and out of her wardrobe, and left not a hint of his presence. The sense of unseen hands ordering her life was disquieting. But for the moment there were more pressing worries. What to wear to stay cool, or what passed for cool. She shimmied herself into one of the only two light cotton frocks she possessed. The choice was sparse for she had been able to afford few clothes for her trousseau, and she could see now that those she had chosen were mostly wrong.

She wandered into the sitting room, as quiet and grave-like as the rest of the house. Gerald had come and gone without a word. In the night she’d comforted herself with the notion that he was anxious she should sleep out her fatigue, but why had he left again without seeing her? A morning kiss, a fond goodbye, wasn’t that part of being married? Not for Gerald, it seemed. She had realised yesterday, as they’d travelled in isolated silence, that it would take time for him to adjust to a new way of life and she must help him all she could. She would help him. But there was a growing emptiness that she couldn’t quite repress, for the path ahead seemed so very steep—even before she’d told him the news he wouldn’t wish to hear.

There was no sign of Rajiv and she wondered whether he, too, had deserted. It seemed an age since he’d surprised her at the desk, riffling through papers she had no right to read. The letter she’d found, though, had stayed with her, its memory lodged deep and only temporarily blotted from view by the overwhelming disappointment she’d been feeling. But it was back now, sitting squarely before her, and a thought caught at the edges of her mind. It trembled there for several seconds, then burst into full flowering. She had begun to think the unthinkable, she realised. She found herself shaking her head as if to signal a warning not to entertain such ideas. Her suspicions had to be mere fancy.

But what if Gerald were the real recipient? If the letter had been meant for Gerald, what Pandora’s box would that open? She knew all about Pandora, and where her curiosity had led her, from the reading she’d done with Miss Maddox. If Gerald had been the intended recipient, he must be the Jack Minns addressed. And that meant he must be two people. Which was absurd. Why would he be two people? She told herself not to go on with this train of thought, but somehow found herself continuing. If he were Jack Minns, which was quite mad, it would mean that Gerald had a mother and father alive. He had told her that sadly his parents had died together in a car crash five years ago. It would mean he had lied to her. And if he’d lied about something as important as his family, he might have lied about other things too.

She would not think it, yet the notion continued to niggle. If he were Jack Minns, then some of his childhood at least had been spent in Spitalfields, a stone’s throw from Eden House. He had not played in the spacious rooms of a manor house, as he’d told her, or run carefree through its Somerset estate. The repercussions of such a lie were too enormous to take in. So she wouldn’t. She definitely wouldn’t. She would dismiss them as ravings brought on by the sun. But she had enough of Pandora about her still, to want to discover why that letter was on Gerald’s desk.

Except that it wasn’t. Not this morning. The papers that were left were conspicuously tidy, a small, neat pile placed carefully in the middle of the desktop. And she could see at a glance that the letter from Spitalfields was not among them. She had been right about Rajiv. He had told his master what he’d seen, and Gerald had acted. He had squirrelled the document away to ensure there would be no discussion. And if she dared to ask questions, she felt sure he would deny the letter’s very existence.

Rajiv came in bearing tea and fruit for her breakfast and she wondered if she dared mention her night-time experience. A mysterious letter and an unknown intruder were not the most cheering of introductions to her new life. Since she’d arrived, the sense of being watched had grown on her and, though she recognised that solitude and an unnerving servant could be making her foolish, a strange man in the garden did nothing to soothe. If, in fact, there had been a man. She was beginning to wonder if he was part of a dream, a figment of sleep, and decided to put it to the test.

‘Were you walking in the garden last night, Rajiv?’ She looked directly at him.

His eyes did not meet hers and his face was without expression. ‘Last night,’ she repeated, ‘were you in the garden? I’m not cross. Perhaps you couldn’t sleep. But I need to know.’

‘No, memsahib.’

‘You’re sure you didn’t walk there in your sleep?’ This was getting laughable.

‘No, memsahib.’ Rajiv was looking decidedly anxious and no wonder. He must think he had gained a madwoman for a mistress.

‘Thank you,’ she said feebly. ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’ He slipped silently away, leaving her no wiser but feeling a great deal sillier.

She had barely finished the tea and fruit when she heard footsteps on the veranda and a knock at the door. Anish Rana was standing on the threshold and greeted her with a smile.

‘I hope you slept well, Mrs Mortimer.’

She was surprised at how glad she was to see him. ‘Thank you, I’ve slept for hours Mr—Lieutenant Rana,’ she corrected herself. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t give you your proper title yesterday.’

‘That is no problem for me. I am an Indian officer, you see, and we do not stand on ceremony. My name is Anish.’

‘And mine is Daisy,’ she said shyly, aware of the slightest edge to his voice. But his smile appeared sincere and she thought him a most engaging character. ‘Gerald is not home,’ she continued. ‘I’m afraid you must have missed him.’

‘It’s not Gerald I came to see, but you. I wanted to make sure you had survived the journey and your first day in India.’

‘I did, as you see.’ She pinned a smile to her face, unwilling to show how downcast she was feeling, and quickly changed the subject. ‘Did you travel back with us on the same train?’

‘No. There were people I had to see in Bombay. I decided to take the later train and return overnight.’

‘You must be very tired then. Perhaps I can offer you some breakfast?’

‘A cup of tea only. That would be wonderful.’ He settled himself in a seat opposite her. ‘So now that you are recovered from the journey, how do you intend to pass the day?’

She looked blankly at him. ‘I’ve no idea except … if I could get to a shop, I might buy some material.’ She saw him looking puzzled. ‘To make a dress, you know. I’ve not brought enough lightweight clothes. It was stupid of me.’

‘No one has sufficient clothes for this climate, so you’re not alone,’ he said easily. ‘You must visit the bazaar, that’s the answer. It is a paradise of materials. Why don’t I take you? I’ve commandeered the regimental transport this morning, complete with chauffeur. If you crane your neck, you can see him through the window.’

‘That enormous tree is in the way but I can just see him, I think.’ Through the branches she glimpsed a flash of brass buttons and the very top of a turban sporting a highly starched and pleated plume.

‘That enormous tree is a banyan. You will see them everywhere and know them by their forest of roots. But surely you cannot intend to sew your own dresses?’ He sounded almost shocked.

‘I’m not so bad with a needle,’ she defended herself.

‘An English lady sewing her own clothes! It is unheard of. You must employ a durzi. A tailor.’

‘But won’t that be costly?’ Instantly she regretted the words uttered unthinkingly. She had no wish to advertise her poverty and Gerald would hate her background to become common knowledge.

‘It will be very cheap, I promise. And very good. You will not be wanting to work in these temperatures,’ he said in the manner of a reproving schoolmaster. He was probably right, though it would have given her occupation.

‘Thank you, Anish, you are very kind.’

‘Not at all, and it is a good plan.’ He was warming to his idea. ‘Simla is much cooler, of course, but you will still need plenty of summer dresses there. The social life is very jolly, I believe.’

She frowned at his words. She seemed to have missed a vital link in the conversation. ‘Simla? I am going to Simla?’

‘Everyone goes to Simla. All the ladies at least. It is in the foot of the Himalayas as you call them, a mountain paradise with magnificent views. And the warmth is of the gentlest. There are gardens everywhere, filled with English flowers. You will love it. You will be able to ride out every morning and enjoy good company every evening.’

She wasn’t too sure about the riding but otherwise it sounded a paradise indeed and she was already looking forward to it. ‘When does the regiment leave?’ she asked innocently.

He laughed. ‘The regiment does not leave, Mrs Mortimer.’

‘Please, call me Daisy.’

‘Thank you—Daisy. We men have work to do, we must toil on the plains. It is for the ladies to go. Some are already there but the rest of the womenfolk will leave shortly and you will be able to travel with them.’

‘I’m not sure I understand. Are you saying I must leave Gerald behind?’

‘He will come to see you, I’m sure, when he can take a few days’ leave.’

‘But … we are only just married.’

‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It might perhaps have been wise to postpone your wedding until the cool season.’ He looked searchingly at her and she felt her cheeks flush. ‘But no matter, it is done. And you will love Simla and gain much benefit from being there.’

‘Will you visit as well?’

‘I have no reason to. No wife, no family. And though the mountain towns are beautiful, they are not for Indians. They have been built entirely by the British for the British. This is my place, here on the plains. My family are Rajputs and Rajputana is our homeland.’

His voice rang with such pride that she could only murmur, ‘Your family must have a splendid history.’

‘We do, or rather we did. Now we serve the British. As a martial race, we are useful to them.’

‘Do you serve them or serve with them?’ something in his voice made her ask.

‘It is a nice distinction. I have been educated by the British and trained by them, so clearly I serve with them—but only in India. My commission does not allow me to command outside my own country. But the situation in Europe is changing fast and new threats are emerging all the time. It is beginning to look as though our martial skills will be needed far beyond India. As they were in the Great War.’

She felt a small shiver of apprehension. ‘I hope you’re wrong.’

‘I hope so, too, but the news is not good.’

‘If Rajputana is your home, you must have family nearby.’ It was an attempt to lighten the conversation but she knew immediately that she had said the wrong thing. When he spoke it was in a voice that lacked all emotion.

‘Both my parents are dead and, as for my extended family, I have little contact with them. Our lives have taken very different paths.’ But then he was smiling once more. ‘You know, I am breaking rules by keeping a military vehicle idling outside, so if you’re ready to leave, we should make tracks for the bazaar.’

She felt herself relaxing again. On closer acquaintance, she was finding Anish a strange mix of warmth and prickliness. For a while, she’d been tempted to talk to him about the letter and try to find out what he knew about the unknown Jack Minns, but she was glad now that she’d kept silent. She liked him, liked his frank face and his smiling eyes, but there were moments when she’d felt an invisible barrier slide into place between them.

‘I’ll get my bag this minute,’ and she jumped up from the table and started towards her bedroom. At the door she was struck by an unwelcome thought. ‘How will I find my way back from the bazaar? I imagine you must soon return to camp.’

‘You’re right. I must drop you and then leave, but I will let Gerald know where you are. He’ll make sure the syce, the chauffeur, collects you before lunch. If you’re lucky, he may even come himself.’




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_701142ee-c45d-5c3d-bcb7-3fc7da0aaae5)


The jeep was retracing the road that yesterday she had driven along in the pony and trap. She was struck anew at the isolation of the bungalow, for there seemed not a single habitation within miles. Just acres of dry, glistening grass and rock and red dust, and in the distance a range of hills, their rims fudged and melting in the haze. In twenty minutes they had reached the small town. They wound their way through narrow streets and past huddled dwellings and hidden courtyards, till they reached a maze of small alleys milling with people and crowded with rickety stalls. Anish offered her his arm and steered her carefully through the mêlée. Sanitation was rudimentary and there was a strong smell of open drains. But there were other odours too, aromas of spice and pepper and incense from the shops they passed. Crowds of hot, sweating people jostled their way in and out of the narrow alleys, gathering around stalls which appeared to sell everything that any one person could want: rice and chillies, spices and saris, leather work sandals and bangles of fragile glass in rainbow colours. There were stalls piled high with fruit and vegetables and stalls with mountains of sticky sweets wrapped in silver paper. In the thin strips of space between, several old men sat cross-legged, stitching clothes or boiling things in huge cooking pots. ‘They are called dekshis,’ Anish told her. ‘And the food is very good.’ Everywhere, heat, movement, people, colour.

He came to a halt at a shop slightly larger than the rest, and with a banner overhead that read Johari Bazar. ‘You will enjoy yourself here. The owner’s name is Sanjay and he will look after you well. He’ll find you a trunk of materials for a few rupees, see if he doesn’t.’

She felt a stir of panic and blurted out, ‘I’ve been very stupid, Anish, and brought only a little money with me.’ She did not want him knowing that all she had was a few grubby notes from her time on board ship, since Gerald had not thought to leave her anything.

‘You won’t need money. Gerald is sure to have an account and you must order what you want and the sum will be added to whatever is owed. This afternoon Sanjay will deliver your materials to the bungalow. It is all very civilised.’

‘Yes, I’m sure it is.’

She thought she discerned that edge again but then wondered if she was imagining it. She wanted to reassure him that it was not the Indian way of doing things that made her hesitate but the fact that she had never in her life ordered anything on account. From where she came, you paid cash for whatever you wanted, and if you didn’t have the cash, your wants went unsatisfied.

At Anish’s call, the stallholder came forward, waving her proudly into the shop and ready to display every bale of material he possessed. She turned to thank her escort for his kindness but he was already halfway back to the jeep and waving her a cheerful farewell.

Before she’d taken two steps into the shop, a woman emerged from its depths holding a number of bright silk scarves in her large, capable hands. ‘Sanjay, old chap, can you take for these?’ She offered the shopkeeper a handful of tattered notes, then smiled across at Daisy.

‘You must be a newcomer. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Audrey Macdonald.’

‘Daisy, Daisy Mortimer. How did you know?’

‘That you were a newcomer? Easy,’ and she nodded in the direction that Anish had taken. ‘The mems wouldn’t like it but you don’t yet know that.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

‘Indians, my dear. You can’t fraternise. The mems will disapprove.’

‘Who are the mems?’ Daisy felt utterly confused. She hoped she was not always going to feel this much at sea.

‘Memsahibs. The older ones, that is. They run the place—socially, at least. What they say, goes, and friendship with Indians is a definite no.’

She felt ruffled. She liked Anish and didn’t want to be told she couldn’t spend time with him. It gave her the courage to ask directly, ‘Are you one of them, one of the mems?’

‘Bless you, no. I’m not even married. I’m a nurse at the Infirmary. Sister Macdonald. But I’ve had enough dealings with them to know that newcomers soon learn to toe the line.’

‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’

‘You probably don’t but if you want to live peacefully, you’ll take heed.’ She must have noticed Daisy’s worried face because she went on with brisk reassurance, ‘The women aren’t all bad. And when they are insufferable, it’s not entirely their fault. They’re forced into pretty limited lives. There’s no job for them here, you see, not even running the house. The servants do that. Days spent doing nothing with no end in sight saps the spirit. It’s bound to leave you wearing blinkers.’

‘Then perhaps they should try removing them occasionally.’ The idea that her life was to be monitored and decided by others was annoying.

‘Perhaps they should, but this is an alien culture, and it can lead people to foster—well, let’s say, an extra Englishness. And that’s not all bad.’

Daisy took up the cudgels, though she had only the haziest notion what prompted her. ‘On the contrary, it sounds a very bad idea to me.’

‘That’s because you don’t know India. European women have to have guts to live here. They need that extra to stick it out and the mems are first class on fortitude. They have to be. To keep their children safe, they’re forced to send them home to England at an early age. There are thousands of child graves scattered across this country, you’ll find. But when parents and children meet years on, they hardly know each other. It’s a rotten choice, don’t you think? Return home with your offspring or slug it out by your husband’s side.’

Daisy acknowledged the truth of this but she was still smarting. ‘And what happens if you disagree and don’t follow their rules?’

‘You must, my dear, you must fit in. When you married, this is the life you chose. Attitudes may be changing. A few mems have taken up nursing or teaching, usually as voluntary work, but most are still stuck in the old ways. So be charming but vapid, that’s the ticket. Remember, women who are difficult or cause a scandal, damage their husbands’ prospects, and you wouldn’t want to do that, I’m sure.’

She wouldn’t, Daisy thought, but her new future was looking less than promising in all kinds of ways and by the time Sister Macdonald had pumped her hand in a hearty goodbye, she’d lost much of her enthusiasm for buying materials. But Sanjay was not going to allow a likely customer to escape so easily and she found herself spending the next thirty minutes in a daze, wandering back and forth with him among the rows of crowded trestles. The building was long and narrow, stretching far back, and with every counter they came upon, her memory of the nurse’s conversation faded a little, while her delight in the shop grew. So did painful indecision: cottons, fine lawns, embroidered materials and the most exquisite of silks all called to her. But the frugality she’d been forced to practise all her life prevented her losing her wits altogether, and she bought only cottons she thought would make into several frocks for the day and a length of silk for any formal occasion to which she was bidden. In the end she found she could not resist the splendid array of trimmings that Sanjay showed her, and squirrelled away several ribbons and a card of silver braid.

Flushed with success, she asked the shopkeeper for his pattern book. She would make a start this very day, once the sun’s warmth had begun to wane. Sanjay shook his head and instead showed her a picture from a magazine. She was repeating her request, thinking he’d not understood her, when a voice from the front of the shop called her name.

‘Miss Driscoll?’

She was taken aback to see Grayson Harte standing a few feet away. When they’d spoken on the ship, he’d told her little of his plans and she hadn’t realised that he, too, was headed for Jasirapur. If she’d thought about his destination at all, it would have been to imagine him many miles away by now. His tall, slim figure looked absurdly cool in linen slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, as though the punishing heat of the bazaar had decided not to take up his time but instead slide gently from his shoulders.

‘Mr Harte, how nice to see you. But I’m no longer Miss Driscoll. I’ve become Mrs Mortimer since we last met.’ If only in name, she thought, and blushed slightly.

‘Of course, forgive me. You were to be married immediately we docked, now I remember.’

‘Mr Harte …’

‘Grayson,’ he corrected.

‘I wonder if you could help me, Grayson? I can’t make this gentleman understand that I need paper patterns for the materials I’ve bought.’

He stepped forward and spoke in what Daisy imagined was fluent Hindi. ‘You don’t need a pattern apparently,’ he translated. ‘You choose a picture that you like, a dress you see illustrated in a magazine, for instance—like the one Sanjay was showing you—and the durzi will make it for you.’

Her mouth fell open at this news. ‘It is pretty amazing, isn’t it,’ he went on. ‘I knew you could get a suit made in that fashion, but I wondered whether ladies’ clothes might be a bit more tricky. Not so, though.’

She turned to the stallholder to say goodbye and Grayson translated for her. ‘He thanks you for your custom and he’ll deliver your purchases later today. What’s your address by the way? He probably has it, but better to check.’

She gave it and he looked surprised. ‘You’re not in the cantonment then? I would have thought you’d be living alongside the other military families. But perhaps your bungalow has its own attractions?’

She wouldn’t have described the cheerless house as having any attractions, but felt compelled to defend Gerald’s choice, though why if there were accommodation within the cantonment he’d not taken it, she was at a loss to think. ‘I believe Gerald—my husband—chose it for its tranquillity,’ she managed to say.

‘It will certainly have that,’ Grayson agreed. ‘It must be the last building on that side of Jasirapur.’ But he had a frown on his face as he spoke.

‘How is your job going?’ she asked abruptly, hoping she might deflect him from finding fault in Gerald.

‘I have the feeling that it will suit me very well, but thank you for asking—Daisy? I hope I may call you that.’

They were standing outside the bazaar and Sanjay had retreated into his small, airless office.

‘Yes, of course. I’m glad it’s working out for you. I expect you much prefer it to sugar cane.’ She remembered his telling her that one small personal detail, that he’d spent three years in a neighbouring region, working in the sugar business and hating every minute.

‘I was never cut out to be a businessman but the experience hasn’t been a complete waste of time. The languages I learnt eased me into the Foreign Office and then helped me land this job.’

‘I suppose you’ll use them when you start travelling. I don’t expect you’ll be staying in Jasirapur for long.’ From what Gerald had said, a District Officer spent most of his time on the road.

He seemed uncertain of how to answer. ‘At the moment I’m not sure of my movements. But even in town, it can be useful to speak the local language. As we’ve just discovered.’ He grinned and waved his hand towards the shop behind them. She was following his direction when a severe crash from a stall several yards to their left startled her. The crash was followed by a body hurling its way towards them. A bareheaded man in a dirty white kurta came rushing down the alley, knocking everything and everybody aside, a uniformed policeman in hot pursuit. Grayson grabbed her arm and pulled her out of harm’s way.

‘You seem fated to attract wrongdoers. But this time fortunately you’ve stayed on your feet.’ He was holding her in a loose clasp.

She felt herself trembling and when she attempted to reassure him with a smile, it didn’t quite make it to her face. The memories were too painful for her to do better.

He let go of her arm but his expression was anxious. ‘You don’t look at all well. You should make for home.’

‘I’m fine, really I am. Gerald is meeting me and he’ll be here very soon.’ She made herself say it with a conviction she didn’t feel.

Grayson looked relieved. ‘In that case, I hope you won’t mind if I leave you. Please forgive the sudden departure but I should go. Have fun with your dresses.’

And in an instant he’d disappeared in the wake of the fleeing man and his uniformed pursuer. It happened so quickly that Daisy could only blink. One minute he was standing beside her, shielding her with his arm, and the next he had melted into the crowd that had gathered to debate with great volubility the incident they’d just witnessed. Grayson Harte was in the civil service, a pen pusher, Gerald had said, but his conduct hardly seemed to match the job and raised all kinds of questions. What was he doing still in Jasirapur when rightly he should be miles away, dispensing justice to a clutch of outlying villages? And why had he taken off after the two running men? It seemed very odd and she could only conclude that somehow she’d got things wrong. Perhaps District Officers had to train in town before being let loose on the population, and today he’d simply remembered that he needed to be back at his desk for an important meeting.

From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Gerald waving at her from a nearby alleyway. She felt real gratitude that he’d managed to come, and walked towards him as swiftly as the heat allowed. The burning air was dancing ever more energetically through the bazaar and she felt drained by its onslaught. Drained, too, by the recent unwelcome reminder of what had happened on board ship. The memory was never far away and for the moment she was thoroughly shaken.

Beneath the shade of his topi, Gerald’s expression was unreadable, but his words made his feelings clear. ‘Buck up, Daisy. I’ve been waving at you for an age. I borrowed a regimental motor to come, and it has to be returned straight after lunch.’

He marched forward, leaving her to follow meekly behind. In single file they retraced their steps to the road and the waiting car. She didn’t see Grayson Harte, once more mingling with the crowd and all but invisible. Didn’t see that from beneath the awning of a nearby stall, he was watching them and watching them intently.

Their journey back to the bungalow was conducted in silence, both of them exhausted by the oppressive atmosphere of early afternoon. The once bright blue sky had turned leaden but a pewter sun was no less powerful, bouncing its rays off the topi she’d remembered to wear. She tried to blot the discomfort from her mind and concentrate instead on gathering her thoughts into some kind of order. She was looking forward to eating dinner with her husband that night. ‘Looking forward’ was perhaps optimistic; the prospect was making her apprehensive, even a little scared, but she knew she must make the attempt to clear the air between them, and very soon.

She had been in India three entire days and the conversation she’d been waiting to have remained unbroached. She would have liked the meal to be special but this morning she hadn’t felt brave enough to give Rajiv a menu. Ten to one he would pretend he didn’t understand, or the food she chose would not be available. And then Anish had arrived and taken her to the bazaar and she’d pushed the thought of the meal to the back of her mind. So whatever Rajiv chose to cook tonight would have to suffice. And the food itself was unimportant, it was what she must say to Gerald that was vital. What would she say? How would she say it? She could begin perhaps by recounting the details of her day. He wouldn’t be interested in cottons and trimmings, she knew, but it might give her the confidence she needed, the courage to speak the difficult words.

The driver swerved to a halt in front of the bungalow and Gerald said something to him in Hindi.

‘He’ll be returning at five,’ he explained. And before she could question him further, he’d strode up the front path and across the veranda, calling loudly for his servant.

‘We won’t require dinner tonight, Rajiv.’

Her heart gave a small lurch. There was to be no meal after all and the words she had been rehearsing dissolved into the sticky air.

‘Where are we eating, Gerald?’

‘At the Club. Sorry—I should have mentioned it but things have been a bit hectic at camp.’

She was tempted to ask what things. They might explain why Gerald had decided not to share her room last night, but he’d turned away from her and strolled across to the table to fill two glasses with the lemonade that Rajiv had mixed for them.

She felt an immense frustration. She needed to put things right as soon as possible and tonight had been her chance. But perhaps she could still persuade him to stay. There had been a time when he hadn’t wanted to leave her side. Very deliberately, she walked towards him and laced her arms about his neck.

‘Couldn’t we spend this evening here?’ she asked quietly, giving a little tug to pull him close. ‘We could go to the Club another night.’

‘Not possible, I’m afraid.’ He was fidgeting beneath her touch. ‘It’s all arranged—I can’t mess things up now.’

She tried to hug him tight, then stood on tiptoe and grazed his cheek with her lips, catching the corner of his mouth as she did so. ‘Surely it won’t matter if we miss one dinner,’ she persisted. ‘I’d like to stay home, Gerald. We’ve hardly spent any time together.’

‘We will,’ he said briskly, looking over her head at the wall beyond and unwrapping her arms from around his neck. ‘But tonight it’s important we go to the Club. You’ll enjoy it. It’s in the cantonment and the centre of social life on the station. There’s lots happening. Dancing, cards, billiards. And a great bar. It’s the Club dinner tonight—there’s one every week—and everyone comes. I’ll be able to introduce you around. It’s a chance for you to meet the other wives. You’ll want to do that.’

She didn’t share his certainty, but as it appeared she was destined to spend a good deal of time in their company, it might be better to get the ordeal over as soon as possible. And the Club dinner couldn’t go on for ever, she reasoned. When they returned, Rajiv would be gone and they would be alone. She would have the opportunity to open her heart. Gerald would be shocked at her news, but sympathetic, she was sure. He would soothe her with words and kisses. They would curl up in bed together and sleep in each other’s arms. She sank down on the sofa, smiling softly at the picture she’d conjured.

The cold trickle of lemonade was reviving her a little. ‘What should I wear?’ she asked.

It was an important question. She wanted to make him proud of her and if she were about to meet the women she would live among for the next few months, it was essential she look her best.

‘The dress you had in Bombay. The one with splashes of colour.’

So he had noticed. She felt her bruised soul sing just a little. Even in his disoriented state, he had noticed what she’d been wearing for their wedding. And that dress was now freshly clean and pressed and hanging in her wardrobe. Thanks to Rajiv, she thought. She must try to feel more charitably towards him.

‘You need some company,’ Gerald was saying bracingly. ‘It’s not good to be on your own too much. The mind can start playing tricks. Rajiv tells me you’ve been seeing ghosts in the garden.’

Her impulse to charity withered. It seemed that Rajiv carried every tale he could to his master, but she was not going to be coerced. ‘I did see someone,’ she said firmly. The more she’d thought about it, the more sure she’d become. ‘And it was no ghost. Unless ghosts are heavy smokers.’

‘Unlikely. Almost as unlikely as seeing a real-life trespasser at that hour. You were over-tired, Daisy, and when you saw what you thought was a figure, you could only have been half-awake.’

‘I was awake enough to be scared that I was alone,’ she retorted. ‘You were nowhere in sight.’

‘I slept in the other room—I didn’t want to disturb you—and I heard nothing.‘

It was just as she’d thought, and there was really no need for him to sound defensive. The mystery remained unexplained, but perhaps Gerald was right when he said she’d been in a dream.

He wandered to the table with the empty glasses and seemed keen to change the subject. ‘It will be good for you to get to know a few of the wives before you travel up to Simla.’

There it was again, that place. First Anish and now Gerald. ‘Anish mentioned Simla to me this morning.’

‘I hope he painted its delights for you.’

‘He praised the town highly.’ She debated whether to say more. ‘He also said I’d be going without you.’

Gerald looked taken aback. ‘Whatever made you think I’d be coming? My work is here, you must see that.’

‘And is that so for the other women? They don’t mind leaving their husbands behind?’

‘They’re only too delighted to get out of this heat. You should be too. While you’re there, you can think of me slaving away on the burning plains! In any case, I’ll visit when I can, but it’s a two-day journey and I’ll need a block of leave to get there and back.’

She sat staring ahead, lost in a solitary future. He was watching her closely and an irritated frown furrowed the smoothness of his face. ‘What’s wrong? Why on earth would you not want to go?’

‘I’ve only just arrived, Gerald, and we are only just married.’ It shouldn’t be necessary to remind him, she thought.

‘I realise that. It’s why I haven’t packed you off immediately. By the time the last group of women leave next week, you’ll have had ample space to recover from the journey.’

Was he deliberately misreading her concern? Making out that it was the travelling rather than their marriage that was worrying her. She couldn’t be certain, but she was certain she had no wish to be ‘packed off’, no matter how enticing the place. The set look on his face, though, signalled it would be difficult to refuse.

‘You’ll try to visit while I’m there?’

‘Whenever I can.’ His response mixed relief with cheerfulness. ‘But really you won’t need me. The women get all sorts of things going. Parties, picnics, concerts, amateur dramatics. Even fashion shows. And every Sunday you can wear your best clothes for morning service—the cathedral is always packed—and be certain they’ll stay crisp. The climate is wonderful.’

‘So Anish told me.’

‘He was right. The scenery is wonderful too. You can see the Himalayas through the clouds and they go on for mile after mile. Great masses of ice and snow almost hanging in the sky. It’s majestic. The gods are supposed to live in the mountains, did you know that? And when you see them for the first time, you’ll believe it.’

She smiled faintly. He was so enthusiastic and he was concerned for her. He wanted her to be happy and comfortable in her new life and that was reassuring; that was more like the old Gerald. She would do as he wished, she decided, and if she were ever tempted to waver, the thought of escaping an overpowering heat would be sure to persuade her back into line.

The driver was at the door at five o’clock sharp. She saw the pleat of his turban bend and flutter as he talked with her husband on the veranda. Gerald had warned her not to dress until the last minute and she was glad of the advice. Even though the early evening air was balmy, the warmth still bounced off the ground, hitting legs and body with unbelievable energy. Her entire skin was aflame and once the dress was on, the lightest of silks felt like a hot glove.

The Jasirapur station had so far been only a word to her but as they drove through what Gerald told her were the civil lines, she had a sense of the power and reach of the administration of which she was now a very small part. Row after row of bungalows spread before them, the homes of civil service personnel, of police and forestry officers, and their families. On the other side of the road, further lines of bungalows stretched into the distance, each whitewashed and red-ochred and separated one from the other by splashes of tired grass. This was the cantonment, her husband told her, the home of the military. Beyond the bungalows, a hotchpotch of interlinked buildings signalled the barracks for the Indian soldiers.

Daisy glanced across at her husband. He looked splendid in blue and gold, his slim, upright figure admirable in the close-fitting dress uniform. For an instant she was filled with a surge of pure pleasure. It was wonderful to be dressed so prettily, to be sitting beside the man she loved, and to be going into company for the very first time as a couple. Her heart felt lighter than it had since those heady moments in London. These last few days, she’d become wary of betraying her ignorance and swallowed most of her questions, but a new sense of wellbeing encouraged her to ask, ‘Have you always rented the bungalow or did you once live on the station?’

‘I lived in the Mess. It’s over there.’ And he pointed vaguely in the direction of the barracks. ‘It’s home to the unmarried officers. Some of the married officers too—if they want to get away from their wives. The centre of regimental life really. Everyone sleeps, eats, spends their spare time there.’

‘Then Anish must live in the Mess. Will he be coming tonight?’

It seemed important that he was. His was a kind face, she thought, kind and familiar and friendly.

‘He won’t be at the dinner. Indians aren’t allowed in the Club.’

She stared at him in astonishment. ‘It’s beginning to change but it’s still difficult,’ he said tersely. ‘Last year the Colonel put up an officer for membership, a cadet from the Indian Military Academy—the same as Anish. He was turned down, so the old boy won’t allow other Indian officers to apply.’

‘But surely …’

‘It’s the way it is, Daisy.’ His voice rose in annoyance. ‘And you better get used to it. There are all kinds of distinctions to life here and it’s important you learn them. The military and the ICS—the civil service—are on a par, top of the social tree, but planters and businessmen are not quite the thing. If you hear anyone called a box-wallah, that’s who they’re talking about. Tea and indigo planters have more status than the sugar and jute wallahs. They’re trade and aren’t allowed to join the Club either. They have their own place.’

Daisy knew all about distinctions. She had been on the wrong end of them all her short life and had had little option but to accept that was the way things were. But it didn’t mean she was ever going to think them right. And certainly not a distinction that barred a man like Anish from mixing socially with those he worked beside day after day. But she knew, too, that she was helpless in the face of conventions she imagined had held rigid for centuries, so she said no more.




CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_60fb4a78-d746-56cc-abb9-13c3cc4a2acd)


The Club was housed in a spacious, white building with a long, deep veranda running its full length. A sloping red roof provided shade and as much coolness as was possible. Cane tables and chairs were scattered along the veranda’s expanse and several groups of people were chatting there, heads bathed in the light that spilled from open windows and doors. Drink was flowing freely and repeated calls of ‘Koi-Hai!’ interrupted the buzz of chatter, as one or other of the Club servants was called to attend. The scratchy sound of an old record filtered through the air and Daisy felt her husband’s arm guiding her towards the sound. As they mounted the wooden steps, she felt the drinkers’ eyes swivel in their direction, their stares variously curious and indifferent. A tall woman rose from a nearby table and came towards them. She appeared to be wearing a floral dressing gown, its skirts flowing around her ankles. At second glance, Daisy could see it was an opulent evening gown, and she immediately felt underdressed.

‘Gerald, my dear, how good to see you here. And with your new bride. Such a pretty girl you’ve found!’

‘I’m glad to see you, Mrs Forester.’ He certainly looked glad, Daisy thought. Glad and relieved. ‘Daisy, this is Mrs Forester. Colonel Forester is my commanding officer.’

‘Call me Edith, my dear. It’s a great pleasure to meet you. You must let me take you in hand and introduce you to as many wives as we can manage. Gerald, get your wife a chota peg.’ She saw Daisy’s anxious expression. ‘On second thoughts, a gimlet might be better—gin and lime my dear, most refreshing.’

Daisy felt a confusing mix of emotions as they passed into the Club meeting room. It seemed she was approved by this august matron and that had to be good, but she was not at all sure she wished to be taken in hand by her. It was Gerald who should be by her side. But where was he? Making straight for the bar, she saw, along with every other man in the room. And it was an enormous edifice, its huge polished surface filling at least a quarter of the available space.

In general the clubhouse was not inviting. Its walls were wood panelled and decorated with the heads of various dead animals, interspersed here and there with sepia-tinged photographs of past company. In the middle of the central wall was a full-length portrait of the new King and Queen, looking almost as nervous as Daisy felt. At one end of the room a huddle of women were bunched tightly together, and it was towards this ocean of floral silks and flashing jewellery that she allowed herself to be gently pushed. Edith was propelling her with one hand while with the other she waved to friends on either side, as the women divided obediently at her approach. Like Moses and the Red Sea, Daisy thought.

For the first few minutes, the excited babble of female voices would have blocked out Edith’s introductions, even if Daisy’s nerves had not. ‘This is Rosemary Laughton, Daisy,’ were the first words she heard. ‘Her husband is the Adjutant.’

‘Rose, this is Lieutenant Mortimer’s new bride.’ She had a rank now, Daisy thought, she was the wife of a Lieutenant. Sister Macdonald’s stringent words came back to her: the women have no role of their own, they are simply accessories to their husbands’ lives. She noticed that Rosemary had almost bowed to Edith Forester as the Colonel’s wife and she supposed that, in turn, she should be bowing to Mrs Laughton, for it appeared that Gerald was a very junior officer.

Rosemary drew slowly on her cigarette and looked at her through the rising smoke. ‘Well, you’re a surprise, my dear.’ She seemed to absorb Daisy in a single glance. ‘We had no idea that Gerald had you tucked away somewhere—quite the contrary, in fact. It must have been love.’

Before she had time to puzzle the meaning of this, Rosemary was asking, ‘And how are you settling in?’ Her voice expressed a distinct lack of interest but Daisy tried diplomacy. ‘It’s very strange, of course, but I’m sure I shall enjoy living here.’

‘You’ll enjoy the regiment, my dear.’ Her smile was superior. ‘The cavalry are the cream of the Indian Army and they are the best of all soldiers. It’s India that’s the pits.’

The woman’s rudeness startled Daisy and pushed her to a small challenge. ‘Is that true of Simla too?’

Rosemary looked taken aback. ‘Not Simla, no. Certainly not Simla. Life is wonderful there and you’ll enjoy yourself enormously. We leave next week, and I imagine Gerald will have made arrangements for you to travel with us. You’ll need to nag your servants into action, though, or you’ll find yourself packing for them.’

Confronting this frightening memsahib had made Daisy’s heart beat too fast but now she saw the woman was simply ridiculous. How difficult was it to pack a suitcase? Of course, Rosemary Laughton couldn’t know that the girl facing her had in all probability packed more suitcases than any Indian retainer. And she must never know.

‘I don’t think that will be a problem,’ she said aloud. ‘We’ve only the one servant and I imagine Gerald will wish to keep him here.’ Leaving Rajiv behind was one delight of Simla she hadn’t considered before.

‘Only one servant! What is Gerald thinking of! What about the mali, and the jemader and a cook?’

‘It’s a very small bungalow.’ She was once more driven into defending Gerald’s housekeeping. It was becoming a habit. And what on earth was a mali and a jemader? ‘Rajiv does all the cleaning and the cooking.’

Rosemary snorted. ‘I shall speak to Gerald. It’s quite ludicrous.’

The conversation had reached a dead end and Daisy was unsure how to restart it. Did these women talk about nothing other than their servants? Rescue appeared in the shape of Edith who returned to her side at that moment and whisked her away from the terrifying Rosemary.

‘It will be good for you to meet some young women of your own age,’ Edith enthused, her long skirts swishing in tune with a powerful stride. ‘Amelia Simmonds married only last year and you’re sure to have a lot to talk about.’

They arrived in front of a thin, young woman who had been lingering uncertainly on the edge of the group. Even in the dim light of the clubhouse, the vivid fuchsia of her tea gown was startlingly at odds with the pale, pinched face above.

‘Daisy is Lieutenant Mortimer’s wife, Amelia,’ was all Edith offered, before marching away to join an exclamatory group of women gathered beneath the head of a particularly morose gazelle. Daisy was left to smile hopefully at the new introduction.

‘My husband has just been made Captain,’ Amelia said proudly.

There wasn’t much you could say to that, Daisy thought, and retreated to the old, trite question, ‘And how are you enjoying India?’

‘I love it.’ Amelia gushed enthusiasm. ‘So will you, particularly when we get up to the hills. Such fun! So you’re Gerald’s wife … I’m so pleased to meet you … I’d thought that Gerald …’ Her voice tailed off and then she repeated a little desperately, ‘I’m so pleased to meet you. It can get a bit dull here to be honest, a bit claustrophobic. Same old clubhouse, same old activities. Of course, it’s far too hot to do anything much at this time of the year.’

‘I can imagine. I’ve found even reading to be a chore. But that’s probably because I’ve had nothing very interesting to read. Is there a library in the cantonment?’

Amelia looked blank. ‘Books,’ Daisy prompted.

‘Oh yes, there are books. There’s an annexe somewhere around the back of the clubhouse, I believe. I’ve never been there myself. There are plenty of magazines hanging around the Club itself, oh and catalogues from the Army and Navy.’ She paused looking doubtfully at her new acquaintance. ‘You’re not a blue stocking, are you?’

‘I enjoy reading,’ Daisy said simply.

She had never thought herself in any way clever. Gerald was clever, he had been to public school so he must be. Grayson Harte was clever. He’d talked to her of Indian history, Indian culture, and he knew all kinds of languages. That was clever in a way she was not. But neither was she as shockingly ignorant as these women appeared to be. Eden House had given her a decent grounding and Helena Maddox had continued her education, even though she’d been a servant in the house. And it had gone well beyond books. Miss Maddox had taught her to walk and talk in a genteel fashion; to appear as much of a lady, she thought proudly, as any of the women in this room.

‘So what do the wives do all day?’

‘Do?’ Amelia shook her head slightly as though this was an extraordinary question. ‘Oversee the house, I suppose, organise the servants. Give cook the menu for the day, that sort of thing. Sometimes we have coffee together.’

‘That’s not likely to take up much time.’ Daisy was regretful. She had genuinely wished for a clue as to how to fill her days, but Amelia was now staring at her as though she were a species she had never before encountered.

‘I’m not used to being idle,’ Daisy tried to explain.

Amelia considered the matter. ‘I believe some women have become nurses or teachers, but only for a short while—to fill a gap maybe.’ She moved closer and put her lips to Daisy’s ear. ‘If you want to be accepted, you had better stick to the house, that’s my advice. The senior wives would hate the idea of you working.’

‘The senior wives?’

Amelia looked around to make sure they were not being overheard. ‘The Colonel’s wife in particular,’ she whispered, ‘but also the wives of all the senior officers. They run the show, you’ll soon find out. And as wives of junior officers, you learn to let them. They wouldn’t approve of you working.’

Daisy bristled inwardly but kept her voice even. ‘What else might they not approve?’

‘I’m making them sound horrid when they’re not. They’re very nice—really, they are. They’re just keen on all the women fitting in and, as long as you do, there’s no problem. You’ll find the regiment is very close-knit, like a family. Everyone has an opinion so you have to be careful not to upset people. With the way you dress, for instance, or the friends you make.’

‘And who shouldn’t I have as a friend?’ Daisy asked. But even as she posed the question, she knew the answer.

‘Indians for one thing. And Anglo-Indians too. Some of them are nearly white so you have to be careful.’ The whisper deepened. ‘They’re not people we mix with, not now at least. It used to be different once, I think. But now too many lower class British have married women from the bazaar, that kind of thing, and we don’t recognise them.’

So that was Anglo-Indians as well as Indians and who else did Gerald say—sugar and jute planters? There was no end to the categories that were unwelcome. And she would be just as unwelcome if they knew the details of her history: a girl without parents, a girl sent into service when she was little more than a child, a girl who had burst with pride when she became a shop assistant selling perfume in a department store.

A loud gong cut their conversation dead, the sound outpacing the now raucous voices. Daisy drifted with the crowd towards an adjoining room where two long refectory tables stood parallel to one another, each bearing twenty place name cards and twenty sets of strictly ordered cutlery.

She found herself seated in yet another cane chair beside a man with a very large moustache. The cutlery bothered her but by dint of watching her fellow diners, she managed to acquit herself without incident. The first course was soup but a soup she had never before tasted. She glanced sideways to gauge her neighbour’s reaction. The soup seemed to catch in his side-whiskers and Daisy had to stop herself from watching in fascination as bubbles of the dark liquid slid slowly down his moustache.

‘As always, good mulligatawny,’ he said at last, when he’d emptied most of his bowl, ‘but God-awful bread, don’t you think, m’dear?’

The bread was the least of Daisy’s worries. The hot, spicy liquid was burning her throat and she had to force herself to finish what was in front of her.

‘Made with yeast from Bombay, you know. Comes in the post every month—no wonder it tastes like dung.’

She laboured painfully through the soup and then it was on to tough, curried chicken and another helping of hot spice. She filled and refilled her glass with water but nothing seemed to souse the flames.

‘Have you stayed on, then?’ was her companion’s next gambit.

‘Stayed on?’ That was a puzzle. ‘No, I’ve just arrived.’

‘Can’t have done, m’dear. Wrong time of the year.’

She was minded to contradict him but then recalled the various pieces of advice that had come her way. The man might be an eccentric but she must try to suit his humour. ‘Why is that?’ she asked, as though she genuinely wished to know.

‘It’s April. You couldn’t have arrived with the fishing fleet.’

‘I didn’t. I arrived with The Viceroy of India.’ And what on earth was the fishing fleet?

‘Bless your heart, the fishing fleet isn’t the name of a ship! It’s the girls. Girls just like you, husband hunting. They come out from home in the autumn and the young men go wild for them. Lots of ’em stay. Plenty of husbands to spare, you know. But come spring, those that haven’t made it, go back. Returned empties, we call them.’

‘I’ve not come to fish and I’m not a returned empty,’ Daisy said with dignity. ‘I came to India to marry. My husband is Gerald Mortimer.’

The man banged his spoon loudly on the table and laughed. ‘Sorry about the mix up. Young Mortimer’s gal then? Good! Difficult business but glad to see him hitched.’

She was unsure what he meant by a difficult business but he seemed well-meaning. And now that the dessert had arrived, it was taking all her attention. She eyed it hungrily. Two delicious woven toffee baskets, each filled with fresh mangoes and cream. It was the only part of the meal she’d managed without her eyes watering, and she had to stop her glance wandering enviously towards her neighbour’s plate. From several places along the table, she saw Gerald smiling. He was looking at her as though she had passed a test, though what that might have been, she had no idea.

Two decanters were placed in the middle of the two long tables, and she could just make out the writing on the silver labels which hung around each bottle neck: Marsala and Port. A duo of waiters made their solemn round of the guests, the women being offered the marsala and the men the port. When every schooner was filled, her neighbour stood with glass raised and all the men followed suit.

‘The King Emperor.’

There was a muffled rumble as everyone mouthed the words and held their glasses aloft. Daisy took a cautious sip. The wine was thick and sweet and clung to her tongue. The other women seemed to have no problem with it but she was delighted when she saw Mrs Forester rise from her seat at the head of the second table, and could stop pretending to drink.

‘Shall we, ladies?’

And then all the women stood up, with Daisy following uncertainly. Edith led the way through yet another polished oak door to a much smaller room and stood waiting on the threshold.

‘This is the snug, Daisy. We have our coffee here, and the men will join us after the port has finished doing the rounds. How are you enjoying this evening?’

She managed to murmur something that sounded like enjoyment, and then she was being taken by the hand and walked up to yet another young woman. ‘I would like you to meet my daughter,’ Edith was saying.

A smiling fair-haired girl was at her mother’s side. ‘This is Jocelyn. Jocelyn, this is Gerald’s new bride, Daisy.’

The girl’s red lips opened to an even broader smile, showing two rows of perfect, white teeth. Her deep blue eyes sparkled with pleasure as she dispensed with the hand Daisy had offered, and instead clasped her warmly around the shoulders. Immediately Daisy smelled it. The perfume. She knew that perfume—Shalimar. The very perfume Gerald had bought from her counter at Bridges. Could you get Shalimar in Jasirapur? Somehow she doubted it. So where had it come from? Gerald had said the perfume was for his aunt and she’d thought then that it was a strange choice for an older lady. Now it seemed she might have an explanation: it had not been for his aunt, if indeed he had one, but for this girl. And there could be one reason only for such an intimate gift, she decided, and that was courtship.

Jocelyn continued to talk cheerfully but Daisy hardly heard her. Her mind was too busy roving over remarks that had earlier made no sense. Was that what Rosemary Laughton had meant when she’d said Gerald’s marriage had come as a surprise, that the regiment had expected something else? Had they expected Jocelyn to be his bride? Surely not, for she was the Colonel’s daughter and from Daisy’s small experience of Jasirapur, the social hierarchy was even more rigid than in England. Jocelyn would be destined for a man of much higher rank than Gerald. She was allowing her imagination to run amok, she chided herself. Yet there was also Amelia Simmonds. She had been surprised by the marriage, so surprised that she’d been flustered into incoherence.

‘And what have you been doing since you arrived?’ Jocelyn was saying.

Daisy brought her mind back with a jerk and tried very hard not to show how bad she was feeling. ‘Not a great deal. I’m still getting used to the weather. But I did go to the bazaar today and bought material for new dresses. I find I don’t have sufficient lightweight clothing.’

‘No one ever has sufficient,’ the girl said, echoing Anish’s words. ‘Have you spoken to the durzi?’

‘I thought I might sew the dresses myself,’ she ventured, ‘but I didn’t think to bring patterns with me. Perhaps I can send for them.’

‘You don’t need patterns. All you need is a durzi, and I know the very man. I’ll bring him to you—tomorrow if you like.’

Her first reaction was to refuse, to make an excuse, say anything not to spend time with the woman she was beginning to think of as Gerald’s lover. But the girl was so pleasant and unaffected that rejecting her overture of friendship was difficult. She wondered if Jocelyn still cared for Gerald, and hoped it wasn’t the case. She might feel badly wounded, but she had no wish for the girl to be hurt too.

A second cup of bitter coffee was making the rounds before the men trooped through the door, some of them decidedly unsteady. Gerald was looking slightly flushed but came straight to her side.

‘You did well.’ She couldn’t imagine why, but if her husband was pleased, she was happy. ‘You were seated by the Colonel, you know,’ he whispered. ‘They must have thrown precedence out of the window tonight. Edith’s doing, I imagine. A great honour though. I guess it was because you’re fresh from England. It won’t happen again but the old boy seemed really interested in you.’

She was trying to think of a suitable reply when the room fell quiet. For some while it had been filled with loud chattering and the noise of chairs and stools being rearranged, until everyone was seated just where they wished. Then, breaking through the sudden hush that followed this burst of activity, a voice drawled, ‘She’s quite dark, don’t you think. Touch of the tar brush, I reckon.’

And what seemed like a hundred eyes swivelled in Daisy’s direction. She felt herself turn hot and red, and wanted more than anything to disappear through the battered floorboards. What had the woman meant? For naturally it had been a woman’s voice. The room buzzed furiously until Edith took charge of the situation, clapping her hands and silencing the wagging tongues.

‘Don’t forget, ladies, we’ll be taking the six o’clock train on Thursday. Come prepared with food and drink. And not too much luggage, please. The last thing we want are corridors overflowing with trunks.’

Voices subsided and passed on to quieter topics. But Daisy could not pass on. She felt Gerald sitting rigid beside her and couldn’t bring herself to look at him. The woman had meant her and everyone had known it. Was she too dark, too different? Her hair and eyes were a deep brown and her skin perhaps a shade darker than many of those she’d lived and worked beside, but she had never given much thought to her colouring. And neither had anyone else until this moment. What was the woman suggesting? That she was not English? She was as English as any one of them in this room, she thought indignantly. She had only one keepsake from her mother, a faded photograph but, beneath the starch of a nurse’s uniform, the woman portrayed was clearly English. But her father? Had he been English too? She had no idea. And she never would, for there had been only one name on the tattered birth certificate the orphanage had reluctantly handed to her when she left. She was an outsider and used to being so. As a poor girl without known family, it was inevitable. Miss Maddox’s friends had counselled her against favouring Daisy, and her fellow shop assistants had looked down their noses at a girl they knew instinctively was not one of them. But now apparently there was another reason for her exclusion. She was the wrong shade.

Mortified, she found she could no longer make conversation, no longer mouth the trivialities that seemed necessary to the evening. But rescue was close. Colonel Forester announced that he and Edith were about to leave and, as their departure was a signal for the rest of the company to make their way home, it was only minutes before Daisy was able to hide her burning face in the darkness of the night.

Rajiv had primed a solitary kerosene lamp to light the bungalow and she undressed by its shadows. Her heart was so full she could hardly get the breath to her lungs and tears were constantly pricking at her eyes. It had all gone so horribly wrong. She’d been highly nervous, terrified of making a mistake, but she had been managing the evening well. She’d smiled, she’d listened, spoken a little and swallowed food that made her feel ill. She had made a good impression or so she’d thought, and Gerald had been pleased with her. This would have been the time to tell him what she needed him to know. But then that one devastating remark and everything had been thrown into the air.

She unclasped the necklace she had been wearing and packed it carefully away among her clean underwear. Her only necklace, the string of pearls Miss Maddox had given her when she’d won the job at Bridges. How far away that seemed now. Then she hung the silk dress back into the wardrobe, feeling she never wanted to see it again. Despite all the hopes she’d invested in the garment, it had not brought her luck. Lifting her hairbrush, she began half-heartedly to pull it through waves that, as always, had grown limp from the sultry air. In the mirror she glimpsed Gerald framed in the doorway. He was fresh from the bathroom but his pyjamas were already damp with sweat.

‘Just come to say goodnight,’ he said awkwardly. ‘It’s hotter than ever, don’t you think? Best I give you a bit of space, my dear.’ And he turned to head towards the spare room.

‘Gerald!’

He looked back at her, a frown carved into his forehead. It was clear he didn’t want to stay and she felt too broken to try and detain him. But there was one thing she had to say before they parted.

‘I’m not going to Simla, Gerald.’

The frown deepened. ‘What do you mean, you’re not going?’

‘Just that. I can’t bear to be with those women.’

‘This is nonsense. What’s got into you?’ He leaned heavily on the doorframe and she remembered he had drunk lavishly.

‘I don’t want to spend the next few months hundreds of miles away from you and with no other company than people who hate me.’

‘No one hates you. If this is about that stupid remark, you should forget it. Margot Dukes is a bitch and well known for her unpleasantness. Nobody will take the least notice of her.’

‘It’s not just her. It’s all of them.’

And it was, she realised. Only a few of the women tonight had been unfriendly, several in fact had been amiable, but to be constrained to spend her days in such shallow, wearisome company was wretched. It would be weeks of trivia, of gossip, then if her knowledge of women living on top of each other was anything to go by, the inevitable fault finding, the backbiting. She would be the target, she was sure. And she was not strong enough to take it; she would buckle for certain. She tried telling herself that she was as good as anyone she’d met in Jasirapur; tried convincing herself that she should be proud of what she’d achieved against all the odds. But deep inside she knew that she didn’t really believe it.

Gerald started to walk towards her. She caught a glimpse of his figure reflected in the mirror and it was taut with tension. His voice, too, was tight and hard. ‘That’s ridiculous. I saw you talking quite happily with any number of the wives. You’ll go, and you’ll enjoy yourself.’

She shook her head and was near to tears again, but she was determined not to capitulate. As he drew closer, she rose to meet him. ‘If I go, Gerald, it won’t be willingly. You’ll have to bind and gag me to get me on that train.’

‘There’s no need for these dramatics.’ He shrugged his shoulders in a dismissive gesture. ‘I know this country far better than you, which is something you seem to forget. And if I tell you it’s for your own good that you go, you have to believe me.’

When she said nothing, his exasperation seemed to build in the silence and then spill over. ‘I’m your husband, Daisy, which means you’ll do as I wish.’

‘Why is it so important to you that I go?’

The question had come to her out of the blue but it left him looking discomfited. She could see he was struggling with the situation and wondered why. He moved even closer and took the hairbrush from her grasp, then captured both her hands in his. His voice had a note of tenderness she hadn’t heard before.

‘If you won’t do this for me, then do it for the baby. Simla is perfect. You must have heard that from everybody. And there couldn’t be a better place while you’re in this condition. You’ll love the gardens. You’ll love the walking. There are dozens of gentle strolls to take. And when you get too tired, you can call a rickshaw. At night—think of it—you’ll be able to sleep soundly in cool air. How can you not want to go? How can you deny our child the very best start in life?’

His tone had grown more coaxing with every word and she felt herself warm against his body. She wanted his arms around her, wanted to hold him so tightly he would never escape. Instead she eased her hands from out of his clasp. This was not the way she’d wanted to tell him, but she had no choice now.

‘There is no child, Gerald. There is no baby.’




CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_a7d14dea-eaa2-5a96-8985-1aef34d751ca)


‘What!’

‘There was an accident …’ Daisy faltered.

His face had turned ugly, contorted. ‘So suddenly there’s no baby. There was a baby when you needed to get married, though, wasn’t there?’ His normally slim figure seemed to grow bulkier, to fill the room with threat. He raised his hands as if to shake her, then let them fall slackly by his side. ‘There never was a baby, was there,’ he said bitterly. ‘It was a tale you spun. A downright lie.’

No understanding then, no sympathy, no kind words. She tried to protest but her voice was weak, drained of conviction in the face of such hurtful injustice. ‘How can you think that?’

He turned abruptly and strode to the door, then turned again and marched back to her. ‘You’ve played me for a fool, that’s how. You thought you’d catch yourself a husband and what better way to do it than pretend a pregnancy. And I thought you naïve! You’re a professional, Daisy, I underestimated you.’

‘Don’t, Gerald, please don’t. You are wrong, very wrong. I was having a baby, I swear it, but there was an incident on the ship. There were prisoners, they were agitators—and they escaped from the ship’s gaol and ran amok. They cannoned into me and I fell down a flight of stairs. The next thing I knew …’

Her voice broke. The whole dreadful scene was there before her. Flailing limbs, the sickening thump as she crunched onto the hard deck, pounding feet, loud voices and then a softer one in her ear—Grayson—and then the wetness between her legs and the dreadful realisation. Her eyes brimmed with tears at the memory.

Gerald was still smouldering but her obvious distress silenced him for a moment. But only for a moment. ‘If you really did have this accident,’ he said roughly, ‘then why not tell me about it in Bombay. Why not tell me before we married?’

‘I planned to. I wanted to, but there was no chance.’

‘What complete rubbish!’ His scorn bit into her. ‘You could have stopped the marriage at any time.’

‘I was going to tell you what had happened when you met me at the port, but you weren’t there. You didn’t come as you promised. You sent Anish instead. And then when I arrived at the church, you were in no condition to talk.’

His face clenched. He did not deny the charge but he seemed so overwhelmed with anger at the turn his life had taken, it was making him deaf to the truth. ‘You could have found a way, if you’d wanted to. And if you hadn’t sent that telegram—’

For a moment this new line of attack fazed her. ‘But that was weeks ago.’

‘It doesn’t matter how long ago it was,’ he said harshly, ‘that did it for me. I was pushed into marrying, and you must have known I would be.’ And when she stood looking blankly at him, he burst out, ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what you did. Sending a telegram to the regiment so every senior officer would read it and pass it to my Colonel. What chance did I have after that? I was summoned to account for myself—can you imagine what that felt like? Told the honour of the regiment depended on my doing the decent thing!’

‘I had no idea that would happen.’

‘Of course you hadn’t. It’s not an idea that would suit you. And it wouldn’t suit you, would it, to know that junior officers need the Colonel’s permission to marry. Though not this time, oh no. The baby saw to that. No questions asked, a wedding essential. Forester wasn’t at all happy. The army pays no marriage allowance until I’m twenty-six and that’s not until next year, but in the circumstances he had to agree.’

So that was what her companion at dinner had meant by a difficult business. She bowed her head, a small part of her appalled at the mayhem she’d set in motion. But the rest of her fought back. There had been a baby and it had been Gerald’s, she insisted to herself, and as much his responsibility as hers.

‘I wrote to you. The letters were addressed to you personally. I’m sorry if they never reached you.’

‘They reached me,’ he said grimly.

‘Then why didn’t you answer? It was only out of desperation that I sent the telegram.’

‘I was thinking what best to do.’ He looked down at the floor, refusing to look at her. ‘You gave me no time to consider—and then you did this stupid thing.’

She walked up to him, forcing him to look at her. ‘That’s not true, Gerald. I wrote every week for a month. You know I did.’

But he was intent on his own injury and it was as though she had not spoken. ‘Everyone on the station thinks I’m too young to be married. Did you know that? But I was forced into it. You forced me into it—and what was it all for? Nothing, absolutely nothing. No, I’m wrong. It’s been for something.’ His face glowered over her. ‘It has been to make me look a complete fool. Word will get around, you can be sure, and when no child appears, I’ll be the regimental patsy. How glorious that will be!’

In his agitation, he began again to pace up and down the room, his hands harrowing so fiercely through his hair she wondered that whole handfuls didn’t come loose. She sank down onto the bed and her heart did a curious little plummet. Curious because she felt nothing. She should be distraught, weeping, wailing. His brutal words should have shredded her. Instead she was completely numb. The man she had thought her rock in life was nothing more than shifting sand; the man who had sworn to love her for ever was swearing now that he had been misled, manipulated by her, driven to actions he found repugnant. Had




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/merryn-allingham/the-girl-from-cobb-street/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.