Shadow of the Moon Page 9

  ‘Beauty is not only a matter of colouring and regular features,’ said the old man sharply. ‘You will find that out some day, Julia.’

  He chuckled maliciously, regarding his grandson’s wife with a disconcertingly shrewd eye. He had no illusions about Julia and was fully aware of her antagonism towards Sabrina’s child, as well as the reason for it.

  During those early years at Ware Winter and her cousin Sybella saw a great deal of each other; they played and rode and had lessons together, quarrelled and made up. Winter unreservedly admired her cousin’s beauty, for Sybella seemed to her the very embodiment of the Princess of a fairy-tale; her pink and white complexion, large forget-me-not blue eyes, yellow curls and fascinating pale-coloured frilled and lacy satin-sashed dresses (so different from the dark stuffs that Julia considered suitable to Winter’s sallow colouring and orphaned state) were the objects of her unfeigned admiration. It seemed only right and proper that such a dazzling creature should receive preferential treatment from all who came into contact with her, and it did not occur to Winter to consider it unfair when she herself was punished for some fault that when committed by Sybella went unrebuked.

  It was not that she was a dull or spiritless child. She was the daughter of Marcos and Sabrina, who had neither of them ever lacked the courage of their convictions. But she had come into conflict with Sybella on several occasions during the first year at Ware, and discovered that when Sybella did not get her own way she would immediately appeal to some grown-up, who would as invariably take her part. Winter could have held her own against Sybella, but she could not prevail against Sybella’s mother, grandmother, nurse and governess. Had she complained to her great-grandfather there is no doubt that the scales would have been more fairly adjusted, but she despised her cousin for running to the skirts of Authority with every complaint, and would have scorned to imitate these tactics.

  Sybella knew that she was beautiful and talented and an heiress because she had often been told or overheard these things. And for the same reason Winter knew that she was plain and dull and ‘foreign’. She had no idea that she was a considerable heiress and bore a Spanish title, since no one had thought to tell her so. Her Great-Aunt Charlotte had originally given orders that she was to be known as ‘Miss Winter’, and ‘Miss Winter’ she remained. Zobeida would talk to her of the Casa de los Pavos Reales, the great house standing among its park-like grounds on the banks of the Goomti, but without being aware that it now belonged to Winter - together with all her father’s very considerable property and Sabrina’s own fortune left her by her mother Louisa who had been Louisa Cole, only daughter of an East India Company ‘nabob’.

  At first Juanita had written two or three times a year, sending news of all at the Gulab Mahal and messages to Zobeida, who could not read. But one year the letters ceased, and there was no one to tell them that the cholera had swept like a forest-fire through the packed mazes of Lucknow and had claimed ten victims from the pink stucco palace: among them Juanita, her husband Wali Dad and old Aziza Begum. In time the past became shadowy and a little unreal to Winter, as though it were only a magical story told in childhood. Yet always there remained, hidden at the bottom of her heart, the hope and the promise that some day, somehow, she would reach the Gulab Mahal again - and then, as had been promised, all would be well with her.

  As the years went by Zobeida came to talk less and less of her own country, and Winter’s days were fully occupied with lessons in the schoolroom. India retreated into a golden haze and she began to forget many things, until at last only that impression of rose pink walls, sunshine, flowers and brightly coloured birds - and happiness - remained. As lovely and as lost and as far out of reach as the moon.

  5

  Winter was eleven years old when her distant cousin, Conway Barton, accompanied Great-Uncle Ebenezer on a visit to Ware.

  Sir Ebenezer was getting old and his contacts with India, together with his interest in it, had shrunk with the years. But his influence had been sufficient to assist the advancement of his nephew in that country, and old Lord Ware, learning that the younger man had obtained a well-paid administrative post in a newly annexed district that bordered on Oudh, had expressed a wish to meet him with a view to asking him to see to certain matters connected with the de Ballesteros estates that could only be dealt with by someone in India.

  Conway Barton was at that time in his thirty-seventh year, and still a personable enough figure of a man. Already moving towards stoutness, he was of sufficient height to make it appear that he was powerfully built rather than overweight, and his blond hair and blue eyes appeared lighter in colour than they actually were, owing to the sun-tanned skin of one newly arrived from the East. He was an ambitious man, not too scrupulous where his ambitions were concerned, with an easy address and an excellent opinion of his own capabilities.

  The Earl of Ware had always considered himself to be a good judge of character, but he was old and tired, and in this instance his judgement was at fault. His eyesight too had dimmed, and so he not only failed to mark the signs of weakness and dissipation that were already written clear on Conway Barton’s face, but he had been reminded, fatally, of Johnny. Perhaps memory or failing eyesight had played some trick upon him; or perhaps it was the blond hair, or light-coloured eyes in a tanned face. Whatever the reason, the impression remained, and it warped the old Earl’s judgement. He took a great fancy to his son-in-law’s nephew, entrusted him with much of Winter’s affairs, and when Sir Ebenezer left, pressed the younger man to extend his stay.

  It was at some time during this visit that the idea occurred to Mr Barton, who was already familiar with Winter’s story and now heard for the first time the full tale of her possessions and estates, that this sallow and unprepossessing child would one day make a most eligible wife for some ambitious man. From here it was but a short step to substituting Conway Barton for this anonymous future husband. The more he thought about it the better it appeared. He was only thirty-six and could afford to wait for six years - or ten if need be. But only if he were assured of the outcome.

  Mr Barton reviewed the problem carefully. At the moment few people were likely to take much interest in the Anglo-Spanish orphan, but a time would surely come when a succession of titled fortune-hunters would present themselves at Ware, and when it did, Mr Conway Barton would have little to offer in competition with other and more eligible applicants for the hand of such an heiress. Therefore, it would be as well to consolidate his position in advance. It had not taken Mr Barton long to gain a fair knowledge of Winter’s position at Ware, and now he made the best possible use of it.

  Fortune favoured him, for he had come from the East - from India, the Enchanted Land that was a fast-fading memory in Winter’s mind. He had talked of that country once, in tones not untinged with distaste, in the presence of the child, and had been aware of her sudden avid attention. Thereafter he changed his tone and spoke of India as he himself had never seen it. His personal opinion of the country and its inhabitants was not a high one (he considered the former insanitary and barbaric and the latter uncivilized and contemptible), but having realized that there were fortunes to be made in India he had had every intention of making one. Now, however, Fate appeared to have presented him with a yet easier way of acquiring riches, and one which, if he were not mistaken, would entail the exercise of considerably less effort.

  Mr Conway Barton began to speak to the eleven-year-old Winter of life in India, describing fantastic beauties of scene which were for the most part purely imaginary. The India he created for her was apparently entirely populated by oriental kings and queens who rode on white elephants decked with golden trappings, and lived in glittering fairy-tale palaces of white marble in a land where the sun always shone and the gardens were full of flowers and fountains and exotic fruits: all of which was so much in tune with the shadowy country of Winter’s memory and imagination that she listened with rapture.

  Apart from her great-grandfather and Beda, no
one at Ware had ever troubled to single her out for attention or kindness. But this tall, yellow-haired man was kind to her, noticed her, talked to her, flattered her. She thought him wonderful, and the Earl, pleased that his favourite should show such partiality for a man who had taken his fancy, put it down to an unconscious endorsement of the soundness of his own judgement. ‘Children and dogs,’ said the old man, producing the platitude as though he himself had originated it, ‘they always know. Can’t fool a dog. Can’t fool a child.’

  Conway Barton left Ware with a pressing invitation to return, and it was during his last visit, when less than two weeks of his furlough remained, that he spoke of Winter to the Earl. He had given the matter considerable thought, and chose his words with care. He had, he told the Earl, become greatly attached to the girl, but he would now be going back to India for a further period of some eight to ten years, and before there was any likelihood of his returning, Winter would be a young woman. He suggested, delicately, that the Earl’s expectations of life could not be great and should anything - er - unforeseen occur, Winter would be left to the care of Lady Julia, with whom the child did not appear to be entirely in sympathy. He realized, of course, that no such thing as a formal engagement could be entered into with a girl in the schoolroom, but he would like to feel that when he returned from the East he might, with the permission and approval of Lord Ware, approach her as a possible suitor for her hand.

  Mr Barton had a great deal more to say on the subject - all of it well phrased and calculated to make the best possible impression - and the aged Earl was much moved. He had always known that Julia disliked Sabrina’s daughter, and he placed no reliance upon her being either kind or considerate towards the child once he himself were dead. He was already eighty-six and that - although he had every intention of reaching his century - was an over-ripe age for a man, and few having reached it could do more than count on each passing month of life as a favour granted by time, and not as a right.

  Lord Ware had worried sometimes, when waking from the light sleep of old age, about Winter’s future. When he was no longer here, could he trust Julia to care for her? He very much doubted it. All that Julia cared for in this world was her vain, pretty daughter and her cold, ambitious self, and she could not be counted upon to protect Winter from fortune-hunters and men of the stamp of Dennis Allington - spendthrifts, rakes and gamblers. But now here was a way out of all his difficulties. This admirable young man who reminded him of his own long-lost Johnny, and who was so sensible and steady, and whom Winter herself was so fond of, was surely a right and proper person to care for his little ward. Married to him she would be secure, and with her affection for him she would also be happy, since it was safe to assume that her childish attachment would grow and not diminish with the years.

  As for the idea that Barton should wait until he was next in England before the subject was broached, the Earl would have none of it - he himself could well be dead before then. In his own long-vanished youth, as it was still on the Continent and in the land of Winter’s own father, children were frequently promised in matrimony at a very early age. And since he himself was an old man who could not expect to live much longer, Winter’s future must be safeguarded now.

  Fired with this idea the Earl sent for Huntly and explained his wishes. Huntly was dubious, but the proposition received the instant and unqualified support of Julia, and urged by his wife he gave his support to the suggestion that a betrothal between Winter and Conway Barton should be recognized by the family; although it would naturally remain a purely private matter for some years to come.

  Winter was summoned to her great-grandfather’s room, the situation explained to her, and her future decided. It seemed to her the most delightful thing in the world, for to the eleven-year-old child her great-grandfather’s age was terrifying. Ever since the deaths of her Great-Uncle Herbert and Great-Aunt Charlotte she had lived in daily dread that he too might die, because when he did, she and Beda would be alone and friendless. But now dear Mr Barton, who was so kind - almost as kind as Great-Grandfather himself - would take care of them and they would not be left alone at Ware. He would come for them and take them away, back to that golden, enchanted land whose memories he had reawakened for her. Away from the cold-eyed and cold-hearted dragon that was Cousin Julia.

  At the Earl’s desire a formal contract of betrothal was drawn up in which he, as the girl’s legal guardian, gave his consent to the eventual marriage of his ward to Conway Barton, and Mr Barton signed his name to it in a bold flowing hand beneath Winter’s childish signature. This contract the old Earl had insisted upon, it being his wish that in the event of his death Conway Barton should immediately claim his bride, provided she had reached marriageable age.

  Later that week the Earl’s solicitors called at Ware and drew up various legal documents with which Winter, as a minor, had no concern; her great-grandfather signing on her behalf. And on the day he left Ware, Conway presented her with a ring.

  It was a small thing, made to fit a slim finger, yet still too large for Winter’s childish hand. An unpretentious little trinket (Mr Barton knew that Lady Julia would take strong exception to any more ostentatious piece of jewellery) consisting of a small pearl set in a plain gold band. ‘You cannot wear it on the correct finger yet,’ said Conway Barton, slipping it onto the third finger of Winter’s right hand, ‘but it is only a token. One day, when you are grown up, I shall put another one there - the brightest diamond I can find for you in India. You must grow up quickly, and you must not forget me while you are doing so.’

  The child flung her thin arms about his neck in a strangling hug: ‘Forget you? As if I would! I love you better than anyone except Great-Grandfather and Beda. You are so good and so kind, and I will try and grow up as quickly as ever I can.’

  Conway Barton patted her head encouragingly, disengaged himself and rode away.

  He looked smug and well satisfied with himself. He had always known that he would do well, but what luck - what incredible luck - that fate should have thrown this chance of acquiring a vast fortune in his way, and given him the brains to profit by it. His satisfied smile changed to a frown … there was a stain on the breast of his impeccable riding coat - jam. Disgusting! The child must have been eating bread and jam. He took a handkerchief out of his breeches pocket and dabbed at it, wearing an expression of acute distaste. It was a pity she was such a skinny and unattractive little creature: he himself preferred buxom beauties, and his betrothed did not look as though she would grow into anything but a plain and skinny young woman. However, one could not have everything in this life. As for taking her out to India, he had no intention of doing any such thing. In six years’ time, seven at most, he would resign his post and return and marry her. Once her fortune was in his hands there would be no need for him to do anything but live a life of ease and luxury, and he saw no reason why a wealthy and discreet man, even though married to a plain wife, should not continue to enjoy the favours of other and more beautiful women. Conway Barton broke into a snatch of song: he had every reason to feel pleased with himself.

  Winter wore his ring for exactly two days. During which time it fell from her finger some twenty times, and Sybella remarked crushingly that it was a trumpery thing and that she herself would never consent to wear such poor stuff. Their governess refused to allow it to be worn during school hours, and when worn out riding under a leather gauntlet it cut into her finger. Winter gave up the attempt, and threading it on a narrow ribbon wore it thereafter around her neck, hidden beneath her bodice.

  The years that followed Conway Barton’s departure from Ware dragged by very slowly for Winter, and as she grew older she discovered that her cousin Sybella had less and less time for her outside their hours in the schoolroom.

  Sybella was for ever driving out with her mother to visit friends in the neighbourhood, or taking tea in her mother’s drawing-room at parties to which Winter was not invited. At thirteen Sybella put on all the airs and graces of a
young lady of fashion, and her sole interest apparently lay in her own appearance and its effect upon the young sons and daughters of her mother’s friends.

  The old Earl now seldom moved from his room, and his hearing as well as his eyesight deteriorated daily. Winter still spent as much time as she was permitted in his company, but he tired very easily. Conversing with him became more and more difficult, and the lonely child, left largely to her own devices, drew what comfort she could from weaving stories to herself about the future: with the result that as the years crawled by her memory of Conway Barton became more and more romanticized and unreal. He became to her a tall, broad-shouldered, golden-haired knight, handsome, kind and endowed with all the virtues, who would one day come riding up the long oak avenue with the sun glittering on his blond head, and carry her and Beda away far over the seas to the lovely land of her birth where, like the princess in a fairy-story, she would live happily ever after.

  She was fourteen when Zobeida died.

  The damp cold and the fogs and frosts of the English winters had always been a torment to Zobeida, and of late years her once sturdy frame had seemed to shrink and shrivel until she was barely more than skin and bone. But she had never complained and never once suggested - or dreamed of suggesting - that she should be allowed to return to her own land. Sabrina’s child, from the moment of its birth, had possessed her whole faithful loving heart, and wherever that child went, there would Zobeida have gone.

  She had been much troubled by a dry cough that assailed her during the cold months, and going for a walk with her charge to pick cowslips in the fields beyond the Home Park they had been caught in a sudden rainstorm, and by the time they reached home were both wet through. Winter escaped with a chill, but Zobeida developed pneumonia and died within three days; babbling in her native tongue words that only Winter understood.