Shadow of the Moon Page 15

  Once again, as on the evening of his arrival, Captain Randall dined alone, but at the conclusion of the meal the secretary made his appearance with a message from Lady Ware. The Countess wished to see Captain Randall at his earliest convenience in order to make him known to Miss - er - that is, to the Condesa. Captain Randall heaved a resigned sigh, and pausing only to possess himself of a small package that had been entrusted to him for personal delivery into the hands of the Commissioner’s betrothed, followed the secretary to Lady Ware’s apartments.

  ‘Captain Randall, your Ladyship,’ murmured the secretary, ushering him in and closing the door softly behind him. The Countess turned with a rustle of silk. ‘So good of you to come, Captain Randall. I trust you have been well looked after? You will forgive us, I know, for dining en famille on this sad occasion. You have met my husband, have you not? This is my daughter, Sybella. And this is dear Conway’s future wife - Winter de Ballesteros. Winter, this is Captain Randall—’

  Alex bowed stiffly. Lord Ware did not meet his gaze, but Lady Ware returned it with a coldly smiling blandness that told its own story. ‘So her husband has told her,’ thought Alex, ‘and she means to ignore it. She will tell that child nothing, and neither will she do anything to prevent the marriage. That Wycombe woman was right!’ He became aware that Sybella was smiling at him and was abruptly recalled to a sense of his social obligations. He murmured a few words of conventional greeting and looked past her into the wide, wary eyes of the Commissioner’s betrothed. He looked long and deliberately, studying that young and guarded face; noting the wariness and schooled immobility with cool interest.

  A faint flush of colour rose into the pale cheeks, and Alex put his hand into his pocket and drew out a small sealed packet that the Commissioner had given him. He said briefly and without preamble: ‘Mr Barton requested me to give this to you.’

  The girl’s fingers closed about it, holding it tightly, and colour and life flamed up into her face so that she was suddenly beautiful. She made a small swift gesture with the clenched hand as though she would have hidden it among her billowing skirts, but Lady Ware spoke with calm authority:

  ‘You may open it, my dear. It will be your betrothal gift.’

  Winter looked down at the small packet in her hand. She knew without opening it what it contained. She had never forgotten anything that Conway had said to her, and had he not said that he would one day give her a diamond - ‘the brightest diamond I can find for you in India’ - to wear on her finger instead of the little gold and pearl ring that she had worn for so long on a ribbon about her neck? He had sent for her, and he had sent the diamond. All her dreams were coming true at last. She did not want to open Conway’s gift in the presence of Cousin Julia and this stranger who studied her with such cool and speculative interest. This was not something for critical and unsympathetic eyes to appraise. It was something intensely personal to herself.

  ‘We are waiting,’ said Cousin Julia.

  The lovely colour faded from Winter’s cheeks and she broke the seal with cold, unsteady fingers.

  The firelight gleamed on an enormous carved emerald in a curiously wrought setting of Indian gold, and Alex, recognizing it, was unprepared for the sudden shock of anger and disgust that the sight of it gave him. He had seen that stone before, many times. Three years ago it had adorned the hand of a member of a princely house, by name Rao Kishan Prasad.* Alex knew a good deal about Kishan Prasad, for the man had aroused his interest. There had been odd whispers about him, and the subsequent appearance of that ring in the possession of the Commissioner of Lunjore had caused Alex to wonder more than once just what piece of bribery the fabulous stone had represented. It had been flaunted thereafter by the Indian woman, a dancing girl from the city, who was the latest occupant of the bibi-gurh attached to the Lunjore Residency, and she had worn it as she gyrated for the amusement of the guests at one of the Commissioner’s more questionable parties which Alex had reluctantly attended. Alex had also seen Kishan Prasad comparatively recently and in unexpected surroundings, and he scowled down at the great carved jewel with incredulous distaste.

  Sybella gave an audible gasp of envy and admiration and even Lady Ware’s cold eyes widened in involuntary astonishment, but to Winter it was as though a small chill wind had momentarily breathed upon the shining warmth that Conway’s letter had lit in her breast. He had forgotten! The next second she had taken herself to task. Why should he take literally a sentence spoken to a child? He had meant only that he would one day send her a jewel of beauty and price to wear on her finger in place of the modest trinket he had given her at parting. And he had remembered, and sent it.

  She slipped the barbaric thing onto the third finger of her left hand where it hung as loosely as that other ring had done five years before, and thought as she did so that soon Conway would put a wedding ring on that same finger, and after that she would be safe and protected and loved, and free from loneliness for ever and ever. She smiled down at it; a little secret smile; and looked up to meet the anger and disgust in Captain Randall’s eyes.

  For a moment the intensity of that cold disgust startled her. This man was for some unknown reason hostile to her. No. Not to her - to Conway. Yet that was surely impossible, for Conway himself had sent this man, his trusted subordinate, to be his emissary and escort his future wife to India. If Conway trusted him he could not be an enemy. She must have mistaken that expression: and indeed it was there no longer. The face that looked back at her was blankly impersonal; the grey eyes remote and expressionless.

  The brief moment of silence was broken by Lady Ware, who begged Captain Randall to be seated and embarked on a recital of the arrangements for her young relative’s departure. Evidently there was to be no question of discussion or delay, and it was equally evident that neither the new Earl nor his wife had any intention of indulging in any further private conversation with Mr Barton’s courier. The matter was considered as settled and all that now remained was to thank Captain Randall for his good offices, and assure him that the young Condesa and a suitable chaperon would be only too happy to avail themselves of his escort and protection on the journey.

  ‘You will forgive me if I say good-bye to you now,’ said Lady Ware, dismissing him. ‘I fear I am not an early riser, and you will, I feel sure, be anxious to be on your way. You sail on the Sirius, I believe? I shall of course inform you by letter of the arrangements I have made for dear Winter.’ It was plain that he was to be given no opportunity for private conversation with the Condesa herself.

  The entire affair had filled Alex with boredom and irritation and, finally, disgust; but he had never had any intention of exerting himself in the matter, beyond informing the Condesa’s guardian of certain aspects of the Commissioner’s character and mode of living of which he believed her relatives to be ignorant. He had discharged this office and his conscience was clear. But now, unaccountably, he found himself angry.

  This was no poised and mature woman who was to be tied in matrimony to the obese roué who was Commissioner of Lunjore. This was a girl - a child. Yet for reasons that the gossiping Lady Wycombe had made abundantly clear, her august relatives, far from pausing before consigning her to the fate that must inevitably overtake any wife of Conway Barton, had every intention of hurrying her towards it without uttering one word of warning.

  All the impropriety of bluntly informing her himself of the true state of affairs occurred most forcibly to Captain Randall. The robust outspokenness of the Regency had given place to an age of extreme and mealy-mouthed prudery, in which young girls were sedulously guarded from the facts of life and expected to have no inkling of the coarser aspects of masculine amusements. But twelve years in the East had robbed Alex Randall of any particular respect for the polite conventions, and he was suddenly and stubbornly resolved that the Commissioner’s betrothed should not walk blindly upon her fate if he could prevent it. Once back in his room he found letter paper, a quill-pen and a standish, and having written a brief
note, folded the paper, sealed it and tugged at the bell-pull.

  It was answered by a maidservant in a neat print dress; young and presumably romantic, noted Alex; relieved that some more elderly and conservative retainer had not answered his summons. The note and a gold coin changed hands and the girl, her eyes round with pleasurable interest, assured him in a conspiratorial whisper that Miss Winter would receive his communication without fail. Alex yawned largely, scowled at his reflection in the vast oval looking-glass that adorned one wall of the room, and retired to bed.

  The morning dawned cold and grey, and a white layer of mist lay over the park and pressed against the wet window-panes. In the great hall a covey of servants were busied with removing the funereal trappings from the walls under the eye of the aged major-domo, and on the wide sweep before the main door Medusa sidled and snorted in charge of a groom. Captain Randall swung himself thankfully into the saddle. In some obscure fashion Medusa typified action as opposed to intrigue, and he was grateful to see the last of Ware.

  The mist lay thicker under the over-arching boughs of the oak trees that lined the long avenue, and the trees themselves appeared pale and ghostly. For a mile or more Alex gave the mare her head, exhilarated by the speed, the rush of the cold misty air and the swift hollow drum-beat of Medusa’s flying hooves, but presently his ear caught what at first seemed an echo of that sound, and he slowed his mount to a trot and then to a walk. There was another rider in the long oak avenue, and Alex, listening, made a wry grimace in which distaste and relief were oddly mingled, and reined to a stop. Medusa’s ears pricked and she whinnied softly as a moment later a horse and rider materialized out of the mist and drew level with them.

  There were raindrops like a spangle of moonstones on Winter’s dark hair, and the cold air and exercise had whipped a glow of colour into her pale cheeks. Those enormous dark eyes - the eyes of her father Marcos de Ballesteros, who in turn had inherited them from some long-forgotten Moorish ancestress - were wide and young and wary, and looking at her Alex was conscious once again of that unexpected flood of anger and exasperation. It must have shown briefly in his face, for some of the colour faded from her cheeks and her voice was breathless and a little uncertain:

  ‘You - you have a message for me, Captain Randall? - from Conway - Mr Barton?’

  Alex shook his head.

  ‘But … you wrote—’

  ‘You must forgive me for the subterfuge,’ said Alex curtly, ‘but I wished to see you privately. I have something to say to you that your relatives would apparently prefer to remain unsaid, so I took this method of ensuring that you would see me.’

  He saw the slender figure stiffen and draw itself erect, and the dark eyes became guarded. ‘What is it you wish to tell me?’

  Alex studied her for a moment, frowning. ‘How old are you?’ he inquired abruptly.

  The unexpectedness of the question appeared to take her by surprise, and she answered in unconscious obedience to the authority in his voice. ‘Sixteen. But I shall soon—’

  ‘Sixteen!’ said Alex, exasperated. ‘It’s not decent! Have you any conception as to what you are going to? Of the life you will be expected to lead? Of the country in which you will live?’

  Winter looked at him in surprise. ‘Why - you are kind,’ she said. Her voice held a note of wonder and Alex realized with a sudden stirring of pity that kindness had been a rare thing in this young creature’s life. She leant forward with a little confiding gesture and said: ‘You think that I am going to a foreign land and that I might be unhappy there. But you are wrong. I am going home. Did you not know that my father was a Spaniard who lived and was born in Oudh, and that I was born there too? India is more my home than this country could ever be, for I was born in an Indian palace in Lucknow city, and my foster-mother was a pahari - a hill-woman, from Kufri. I spoke their tongue before I spoke my own, and I can speak it still. Shall I show you?’ She turned from English and said in liquid Hindustani: ‘How should I fear when I do but return to mine own people and to my father’s house?’

  Alex heard the familiar tongue with a renewal of his previous anger, and seeing it she said breathlessly, watching his face: ‘What is it? Is Conway ill? Is that what you meant to tell me? Is he—’

  ‘No.’ Alex’s voice was hard and expressionless. ‘He is not ill. Not in the way that you mean. But I imagine that he has changed considerably since you last saw him.’

  ‘Of course he has changed,’ said Winter quickly. ‘I have changed too. I was only a child then, and now I have grown up. He has had years more of hard work and sickness and heavy responsibility. I know all that. He has written to me of his difficulties. He will look older, but it will not matter.’

  ‘You do not understand,’ said Alex curtly. ‘I felt it my duty to explain something of the true state of affairs to your cousin Lord Ware, but he apparently did not think fit to inform you of the facts, or indeed to take any action to prevent your marriage.’

  ‘To prevent?’ Winter stared at him, white and rigid.

  ‘Yes. To prevent it. I cannot say what Mr Barton may have been five or six years ago. But I know what he is now, and I can do no more than to urge you, in your own interests, to abandon your journey to India and postpone your wedding until such time as he can return to this country, so that you may have the opportunity of judging for yourself.’

  Winter’s eyes were suddenly bright with anger and her voice shook. ‘You say this? You - his trusted subordinate?’ She saw the sudden flush on Alex’s brown cheeks and her voice sharpened to scorn. ‘So I was right! You are one of them. One of his enemies who scheme against him behind his back because you are envious of him. And you dare to speak against him to me - to me!’ Her chin lifted haughtily: ‘Well, have you nothing else to say?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alex, unmoved. ‘I cannot expect you to accept the word of a stranger - even a “trusted subordinate” - who speaks against his chief. I can only repeat that you would be well advised to wait here with your relatives until Mr Barton can come home and claim you. You will then have the evidence of your own eyes.’

  ‘That is not enough,’ said Winter steadily. ‘I must ask you to be plain, sir. You cannot make veiled accusations and not qualify them. Or do you prefer imputation to plain speaking?’

  ‘No,’ said Alex slowly, ‘but I do not wish to offend your ears with matters that cannot be within your comprehension. However, if you will have it, your betrothed is no fit husband for any young or decently bred woman, and—’

  He saw the young face turn as white as the mist around it and the gloved fingers clench on the riding-whip they held, and knew a fraction of a second before she raised her hand what she would do. But for some reason that he could not have explained he made no attempt to avoid the blow. The lash of the whip cut savagely across his face and he felt a thin trickle of blood run warmly down his chin from a corner of his mouth, and suddenly and unexpectedly he laughed.

  ‘The Ware women,’ said Captain Randall, ‘would appear to be remarkably quick with their hands. I see I have misjudged you. You may well be a match for him after all.’

  The bright colour flamed up into the girl’s face once more, and she brought the whip down again, but this time on her horse who sprang forward and galloped away down the long avenue to disappear into the mist.

  Captain Randall lifted his hand to brush the blood from his chin and laughed again. So much for the popular conception of gently bred young ladies as frail and tender plants given to swooning and the vapours! He wondered if he had seen the last of Winter de Ballesteros? It seemed likely, since he could not believe that after what had just occurred she would avail herself of his escort to India. She would now take a passage on some other ship and dispense with his services, and she would undoubtedly warn her betrothed against him. In that case the Commissioner could be counted upon to effect his removal from Lunjore. He had, in fact, bungled the whole affair; branded himself as disloyal to his chief, incurred the enmity of the young Condes
a and her influential relations, and probably brought about his own dismissal - and all for nothing. The weal that the Condesa’s whip had raised across his face throbbed painfully: ‘My just deserts,’ said Captain Randall philosophically, and gave Medusa her head.

  Firm in the belief that he would not now receive any further communication from Ware (and having, if the truth be known, succeeded in dismissing the whole matter from his mind), Alex was surprised and more than a little annoyed by the arrival, some three months later, of a letter from the Countess. A passage had been procured, wrote Lady Ware, for her young cousin on board the steamship Sirius sailing from London to Alexandria on the twenty-first of June. Mr Barton would be meeting his betrothed in Calcutta, and the marriage would take place almost immediately following her arrival at that port. She would be travelling in the company of a Mrs Abuthnot, who with her two daughters was proceeding to India in order to rejoin her husband who commanded a regiment of Bengal Infantry at Delhi. The ladies would be pleased to avail themselves of Captain Randall’s protection and assistance on the voyage. The Countess trusted that Captain Randall was in good health, and was confident that under his escort her young relative could come to no harm.

  Captain Randall scowled at the single sheet of paper with its thinly elegant handwriting and florid seal, and crumpling it in his hand tossed it impatiently into the waste-paper basket; mentally consigning all women (with the possible exception of a certain charming and accommodating première danseuse) to the same receptacle.

  He had more important things to think about than the doings of the Granthams, for on the thirtieth of March the news had spread slowly that the Great Powers of Europe, together with Turkey and Sardinia, were at last at peace after one of the most futile and wasteful of wars. It was Sunday, and in order not to interrupt the evening services the salute of a hundred and one guns was fired at ten o’clock that night. Alex had gone out into the cold starry night and listened to the crash of the guns in St James’s Park, the blare of military bands playing the national anthem, and the answering salvos from the Tower of London. And as he listened he thought of the dead who rotted on the heights of Sebastopol - and of the smiling face of Kishan Prasad taking gloating note of the ragged and demoralized British Army as they fell back after their failure to capture the Redan. He did not know why such men as Kishan Prasad had ever been permitted to visit the Crimea. But they had done so, and Alex was sure that no good would come of it.