It was difficult to believe that this huge edifice had offered shelter against the extremes of the Delhi climate, where the winter nights and mornings were cold, and where the summer temperatures reached a hundred degrees in the shade. Yet man's ingenuity had cooled the heat with intricate water channels, and kept out the cold with marble screens and curtains of heavy gold and silver brocades.
Abby was still musing on what it must have been like to live here when the Red Fort was occupied, when she heard her name called by the guide and saw him march over to find her.
'You must please stay with the party,' he said irritably. 'Otherwise you will get lost.'
'But I like to look at things more slowly and to study the guide book.'
'Then you should come back here again on your own. You have another day of leisure tomorrow.'
She nodded dutifully and followed him to where the rest of the group were waiting.
'I'm going to come back later with another guide,' Miss Bateman informed her as they continued on their way. 'I shall be more than happy for you to join me.'
'I'd love to,' Abby said. 'But only if you let me pay my share.'
'Don't be silly, child. It will be a pleasure for me to have your company.' They walked towards the coach. 'If it weren't for my nephew I'd be staying at your hotel. But he insisted I pay due regard to my age and travel first class once I got here.'
Abby tactfully made no comment. Her curiosity about her companion had grown rather than diminished, for there were certain discrepancies in the woman's behaviour that she found intriguing.
Miss Bateman stayed at the Oberoi, yet she wore clothes that had been in their heyday thirty years ago, and though her handbag was a crocodile one, it was so worn that some of its skin had been rubbed away. Had she once been rich and come down in the world, or had she always been poor and relied on wealthy relations like her nephew to take care of her? Somehow she did not strike Abby as being the sort of woman who would continually accept charity, no matter with what love it was dispensed.
'It's such a pity Giles wouldn't come on this trip,' the old lady broke into Abby's thoughts. 'But he says he's seen as much of India as he wants.'
'I can't imagine him coming on a tour like this,' Abby replied with more truth than tact. 'He doesn't look the type to be hassled by a guide.'
'He isn't.' Miss Bateman chuckled at the mere idea. 'But Giles has never been here as a tourist. He came to work.'
'To work?'
'Yes. He's still here, in fact. He was only in London for a few days to see one of the Ministers. But he's lived in India for the past three years. He's in Bombay now, but for two years he travelled extensively in the Northern States. He's one of the top men in nuclear engineering. At the moment he's supervising the building of a nuclear reactor.'
Abby looked suitably impressed as Miss Bateman continued to expound on her nephew's brilliance. There was no doubt now in Abby's mind that he was paying for his aunt's trip, for the woman had also disclosed that he had been orphaned at thirteen, from which time she had taken care of him.
'I knew nothing of children and cared for them even less,' she went on, 'but having Giles in my home opened up a new world for me. He was an adorable child.'
Abby tried, but failed, to visualise the forbidding- looking man she encountered at Heathrow airport as an adorable child.
'But even as a child he was incredibly gifted.' Miss Bateman was still in full flood of reminiscence. 'He was always mischievous and unexpected and loved trying to hoodwink you. I remember in his first year at Eton he fell from a tree and got concussion, and when he woke up he pretended he couldn't speak English. For a whole week he fooled everyone by talking Latin!'
Abby swallowed hard. The interest that Giles of the amber eyes had inspired in her at their first meeting turned into awe. It was a good thing he had not accompanied his aunt on this trip after all. What sort of conversation would interest and amuse a man who, at fourteen, had spoken such fluent Latin that he could trick his masters for a week?
'I'll be seeing Giles in Bombay, of course,' Miss Bateman said, 'The tour group will only be there for four days, but I'm planning to spend a month with him. Maybe longer, if I feel I need it.'
'Need it?'
'Need the rest,' Miss Bateman said quickly, and gave Abby a sidelong glance that made the girl wonder if the words had held any other significance.
'Is your nephew married?' she asked.
'Only to his job. I often tell him that one day I expect him to make me godmother to a newborn power station!'
Abby giggled. It might never be possible for her to laugh with the erudite Giles, but listening to Miss Bateman's teasing references to her nephew, it was certainly possible to laugh at him.
CHAPTER THREE
Despite being so talkative about her favourite relation, Miss Bateman gave away nothing of herself, and Abby knew no more of the old lady's past than she had first done.
One thing only was clear: that she adored her nephew and that he was extremely fond of her. But then she was an easy woman of whom to be fond, for she was intelligent, humorous and, despite her occasionally abrupt manner, kindly. She did much to make Abby's stay in Delhi enjoyable, insisting that she keep her company each evening and taking her by private taxi to the places they had seen earlier in the day. She never allowed Abby to pay any part of the expense, and Abby concluded that it was all being borne by the generous Giles.
By the time they reached the Clark-Shiraz at Agra, travelling to it in an air-conditioned coach, the group had already settled into little cliques.
'It beats me why half of them have come on this tour,' Miss Bateman remarked on their first afternoon in the city. 'For most of them it's only a shopping expedition with all the magnificent buildings thrown in as an optional extra.'
'I don't blame them for buying things. Some of the jewellery and brocades are lovely.'
'I haven't noticed you succumbing.'
'I wouldn't have use for such things. I don't lead that sort of life.'
'Then you should, a pretty girl like you.'
Abby shook her head, then pushed back a strand of honey-gold hair. 'The one thing I'm not is pretty. Intelligent, quick-witted, bright—I'll allow you almost any adjective except the one you've just used.'
'Then you're neither intelligent nor bright,' Miss Bateman retorted. 'Not if you can say a thing like that. You are pretty, my dear.' Eyes that were incongruously bright in the lined face surveyed Abby with embarrassing thoroughness. 'Perhaps pretty is the wrong word for you. Elusively lovely is a much better description.'
Abby was too amused to be embarrassed, and seeing it, Miss Bateman gave an irritable snort
'What do you call lovely?' she demanded. 'Having a big bosom and silver-blonde hair?'
'Not really.' Abby gave the question a little thought. 'But it's certainly important to have a good figure.'
'What's wrong with yours?'
'I'm too small. No five-footer has ever won a beauty contest.'
'Don't set your standards by today's mediocre one,' Miss Bateman snapped. 'Big is not always beautiful. I suppose it was your two selfish sisters who robbed you of your confidence?'
'The twins weren't selfish.' Abby's response was immediate. 'And I'm not lacking in confidence.'
'Perhaps not on the intellectual level. But on the emotional one you are still a child.'
'My sisters can't be blamed for that.'
blame them,' Miss Bateman said. 'They should have taken you in hand.'
'They did try,' Abby replied. 'But their idea of glamorising me wasn't mine. I'm not the type for false eyelashes and sexy clothes, and when they saw how silly I looked in them, they—they '
'They gave up and left you alone?'
'They were very busy with their careers,' Abby said defensively.
Miss Bateman's reply was forestalled by their being called to take their plates in one of the taxis waiting to take the group on their first visit to the Taj Mahal.
&nb
sp; 'Tomorrow we will see it by daylight,' their guide informed them. 'But for the first view of the Taj, there is nothing more beautiful than to see it in the moonlight.'
His words were prophetic. Abby, walking through the tall main gate and having her first glimpse of this marble monument to love, knew she would never see anything more heart-catching for the rest of her life. A thin mist was rising from the river that lay behind the Taj, and it drifted in soft wisps around it, so that one could almost believe the building was floating on a timeless sea. The sky above was dark and the full moon hidden by clouds which cast their shadows across the perfect dome, making the whole building seem to rise like some gigantic airship ready to take to the sky.
'Let us go closer,' the guide suggested, and led the way down the long garden, past the narrow rectangular pool that reflected the Taj in every aspect of its continually changing moods.
They passed the entrance to the Tomb and stared at the ninety-foot-high archway that led into it, before moving to the east side where they perched on a marble wall and let their gaze rest on the slender, marble minarets that marked the four corners of the Tomb. It was difficult to believe that man could have dreamed, let alone constructed, an image of such magnificence, and Abby felt humbled as she thought of the twenty thousand slaves who had worked and died here in order to give marble form to a Moghul Emperor's tribute to a dead wife.
As she went on staring at the Taj, all the facts she had read about it became unimportant. It did not matter that it was a tomb of love nor that it had taken twenty years to build. Everything that had gone into the making of this most perfect of all creations became insignificant in the sight of the creation itself.
I am here and now, the Taj seemed to proclaim. What has gone and what will be doesn't matter. I am of no time and place. I am you!
Momentarily she turned her eyes away from the sight of so much beauty. The Taj was everything she had expected and nothing she had expected. The emotion she felt was too deep to be put into words. How could one describe colour to a man who had been blind from birth, or a chord of music to someone born deaf?
Slowly everyone in their group started to wander away; some to take other vantage points, some to move closer to the monument. But Abby and her elderly companion remained seated on the wall, letting themselves experience without thought. It needed no words to tell Abby that the woman felt exactly the way she did, and it increased the empathy she already felt with her. A sigh escaped her and, hearing it, Miss Bateman gave her a sharp glance.
'No tears, Abby.'
'It's too beautiful for tears.'
'The Emperor turned his tears into marble and built this tomb. He thought of nothing else for the rest of his life.'
Abby sighed again. 'He must have loved her very much to have wanted to give her such a resting place.'
'Basically, it's the sort of thing I abhor.'
'You don't like the Taj?' Abby was flabbergasted.
'No, no, I didn't mean that. How could I? But building a shrine to love is a dissipation of energy and emotion. No matter how deeply you love someone, you should accept their death and go on living. One must look forward, not back.' Miss Bateman sneezed and pulled her coat more closely around her. 'I suppose you think I'm a prosaic old woman?'
'Not at all.'
'Well, I am.' Another sneeze brought Miss Bateman to her feet. 'It's chilly here. I think I'll take a taxi back to the hotel. But don't come with me,' she said as Abby went to rise. 'I'll see you tomorrow. We've a long day of sightseeing ahead.'
It was not an overstatement. For hour after hour they were all enthralled by the sights and sounds of Agra; a street market, where one of the women in the party had her bag stolen; a temple—as crowded and noisy as the market had been—where they listened to a priest wailing in prayer, and the Taj Mahal in daylight, as exquisite as it had been in the silver light of the moon.
Dusk was already falling as they returned to the Clark Shiraz where, after dinner, a display of Indian dancing was being held in the hotel garden.
'Not for me,' Miss Bateman said to Abby. 'I'm feeling tired, and dinner in bed will do me more good.'
Abby looked at her carefully and saw a marked flush on the sallow skin. She was glad they were all staying at the same hotel for this part of the tour, and after she had had dinner she went up to Miss Bateman's room to see how she was.
In a thin cotton nightdress with ruffles at the neck and wrists, the woman looked far more her years than in her usual old-fashioned silk suits. Her voice was husky and in the middle of greeting Abby she went into a fit of coughing which momentarily left her too exhausted to speak.
'Don't you think you should see a doctor?' Abby suggested.
'Whatever for? I'm prone to bronchitis and anything sets it off. It's my own fault for sitting on that marble wall at the Taj last night.'
'Do you have any medicine with you?'
'I took some a little while ago, but you may fetch me my cough mixture from the bathroom.'
Abby did so, taken aback by the number of medicine bottles arrayed round the sink. If Miss Bateman needed all this, it was no wonder her nephew had been apprehensive at her travelling alone.
'I don't think I'll do any sightseeing tomorrow either,' the old lady stated after another bout of coughing. 'I visited Fathepur-Sikri the last time I was here, and I'm sure it hasn't changed.'
'It's supposed to be a marvellously preserved city.'
'But a dead one, like Pompeü. Four hundred years ago it was the principal residence of the Moghul court, but after Akbar died—he was one of their greatest emperors—it fell quickly from favour. Still, it's worth seeing.'
'Everything in India is worth seeing,' Abby said so fervently that Miss Bateman laughed.
'You make me realise how wonderful it is to be young.'
'It's equally wonderful to be young in heart the way you are.'
'Thank you, my dear. That was a lovely thing to say. Come in to see me as soon as you get back tomorrow.'
Long before the time of departure next morning, Abby was waiting impatiently for the mini-bus. Yet conscience would not let her board it until she had made sure Miss Bateman was all right, and she raced up to the woman's room.
Her first sight of the old lady told her that the woman .was suffering from more than a cold. Her face was puffy and her eyes bright with fever. She also seemed to find it difficult to concentrate for long, and in the middle of telling Abby not to miss the coach, she started to mumble incoherently. It was then that Abby knew it was time to call a doctor.
The desk clerk told her that one was already in the hotel visiting another guest, and that he should be available within the next half hour.
'Your tour guide is waiting for you,' the man added. 'Please hurry.'
'He'll have to go without me,' Abby replied, battling against her deep disappointment. 'I wouldn't feel happy to leave Miss Bateman alone.'
'We can arrange for a maid to sit with her.'
The temptation to agree was strong, but conscience would not let her, and Abby thanked him and refused the offer.
Within a few moments of the tour departing, the doctor arrived. He was middle-aged and plump, and his body was encased in a tight-fitting Indian-style jacket that buttoned high at the throat.
His examination of his patient, who was almost comatose, was thorough, and his expression so serious as he did so that Abby feared the worst.
'It's a severe bronchial chill,' he pronounced finally. 'I will give you some antibiotics, but I don't expect any favourable result for twenty-four hours.'
'Do you think she should go to hospital?' Abby asked.
'Not yet. I won't decide finally until I see her later today. In the meantime I will arrange for the medicines to be delivered to you.' Black eyes raked her face. 'You are a relative?'
'A friend. But I'll be staying with her all day.'
Nodding his satisfaction, the doctor left, and Abby settled in a chair by the bed, book in hand. At least she could r
ead about the ancient stone city whose visit she had missed.
The doctor returned later in the afternoon, by which time Abby could see for herself that Miss Bateman's condition had worsened. Her breathing was difficult and she rambled on about people and places Abby did not know, or else lay quietly, except for stertorous breathing.
'There's no need for alarm,' the doctor assured her. 'By the morning there should be some improvement.'
Abby was not quite so sanguine about this, and her fears increased as the evening progressed, strengthening when Miss Bateman once again began to ramble in delirium.
'Stop bullying me, Giles! I'm not a child. I've travelled around the world twice before you were born, and I've no intention of spending the remainder of my life in a wheelchair. I may be old, but I'm neither senile nor in poor health.'
Abby smiled. Delirious or not, Miss Bateman sounded exactly the way she always did. How angry her nephew must have been! Even though she had only had a brief glimpse of him at Heathrow airport, she had known he was not a man who liked to be overruled. There had been a noticeable air of command about him, and the little she had learned of him from his aunt had only served to reinforce her first impression.
Abby moved quietly over to the bed. Miss Bateman seemed to have shrunk and, for the first time, gave the impression that she might not recover. If this were so, how would her nephew react at not having been told his aunt was ill, particularly when he was already in India?
After a moment's hesitation, for it was difficult to make herself search through someone else's belonging's, Abby opened Miss Bateman's handbag on the dressing-table and searched in it for a diary or address book.
Luck was with her, for in a calf notebook she found several names and addresses, including that of Giles Farrow in Bombay.
Rachel Lindsay - Man of Ice Page 3
