On hearing her name called, the tall woman with her back to them broke off her conversation and turned. John’s immediate thought was that she was pleasantly full-figured and her smiling face under the bonnet was attractive. Her cheeks were well-defined and rosy, her mouth pink and sensuous. Then their eyes met and his heart stopped. Even shaded by the bonnet he could see they were as vivid a blue as the sky outside. He knew those eyes.
Alice? He smothered a gasp, stepping forward.
His heart began to pound. He found breathing hard. How was it possible for her to be standing in front of him in this tent in one of the Company’s remotest outposts? For brief heady seconds, John felt a rush of euphoria. He had found Alice again. The same desire he had experienced as a young cadet surged through him.
Then she froze, her smile dying. She looked around in panic. For a moment John thought he must have been mistaken but the flush that rushed into her neck and cheeks reminded him at once of his time of convalescence in the lighthouse. Alice had blushed so prettily then at his amorous teasing.
‘George,’ she said, putting her hand on the arm of an elderly man who had come quickly to her side.
George smiled at the young officers as Sandy introduced them once more.
‘George Gillveray,’ said the older man, shaking each firmly by the hand. ‘And this is my talented wife, Alice.’
John stared in stupefaction. He must have misheard. This man could not possibly be married to Alice; he looked twice her age. He felt the blood drain from his face. Disappointment engulfed him. Of course she would be married – but to a man so much older?
Colin kissed Alice’s hand. John hesitated and then, bracing himself, did likewise. It was sweet torture to press her slender fingers to his lips. He could feel her trembling. As he pulled back, their eyes met fleetingly. Was he just imagining the warmth of emotion in hers?
George was talking about his work at the botanic gardens in Calcutta but John hardly heard a word as he fought to control his feelings and hide his shock. Colin made conversation, aware that something had shaken his friend. Suddenly it struck John that he knew who Gillveray was. He found his voice.
‘I believe we have met, sir,’ said John. ‘Long ago at Ramanish Castle. You were on tour with Stevenson, reviewing lighthouses. Hercules MacAskill is my foster father.’
‘Hercules?’ George exclaimed. ‘He’s a good friend of mine from my first days in India! How is he?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘But I don’t recall . . . ?’ George said, puzzled.
‘I was the young boy who spoke nothing but Pashto.’ John smiled. ‘I was a wee bit rude to you – ran off as I remember. You never knew it but you helped me to speak again – Gaelic and English, that is.’
‘Heavens, did I? I’m glad I was of some use on that trip. I remember you now – a handsome boy. Hercules was immensely proud of you.’ George smiled. ‘And here you are an officer in the Company army. I bet that pleased old MacAskill.’
John laughed. ‘It did.’ He liked Gillveray, even though the thought of Alice being his wife made his guts twist with jealousy. He listened as George reminisced about his time sailing around the Western Isles reviewing lighthouses over twenty years ago. John waited for him to bring Alice into the conversation and mention how she had once lived in one. Then John would be gallant and praise her for saving his life from the storm-lashed rocks beyond her lighthouse home. It gave him a stab of pleasure to think how it would remind Alice of how she had forgotten her promise to him and treated him so carelessly once she was famous. He watched her but she wouldn’t look at him.
Abruptly, George changed the subject, asking the men about their work. He grew enthusiastic when John told him he was a surveyor with Everest.
‘Dear boy, I’m eager to hear more. You must come and dine with us and tell me all about it. Promise me you will?’
‘Won’t Mrs Gillveray find such talk tedious?’ John said, unable to resist a jibe.
‘Not at all,’ George answered for her. ‘Alice is very knowledgeable about all sorts of matters. Her father kept a vast library and encouraged her learning. That’s why my wife is so keen on native girls being educated – the paintings are raising funds for a school for the daughters of Gurkha sepoys.’
John glanced at Alice. She was blushing furiously and seemed incapable of speaking for herself. How she had changed! So this was how she was presented to the world – as a rich man’s daughter who was bountiful towards lowly Indian girls. It dawned on John that neither Alice nor George wanted to mention her own lowly upbringing with her simple foster family. John thought of the kind and compassionate Browns and felt distaste that Alice should turn her back on them so readily. He would never disown his humble origins. John turned to go.
‘Lieutenant Sinclair,’ Alice said, ‘surely you won’t go without buying something for the charity?’
Turning back, he saw her challenging him with a bold look; a flash of the strong-willed woman he remembered. His stomach clenched.
‘Forgive me – of course not,’ he replied, reddening at the rebuke. He followed her to the table where three watercolours remained, propped up on roughly made easels.
He expected them to be of typical rustic Simla scenes; bungalows on Jakko Hill, the ravine at Combermere’s Bridge or pine-fringed Annandale. But to his surprise they were of people rather than views; a porter carrying firewood in a basket strapped to his forehead and a mother with her baby bound to her back in gaily coloured cloth. There were farmers with mules, pipe smokers squatting in the bazaar, children splashing in puddles. Strangely they reminded him of the village at Ramanish; she had caught the essence of the people going about their everyday lives.
‘These are very good,’ John said. ‘So lifelike – colourful.’
‘And that surprises you?’ Her mouth twitched in amusement.
John regarded her. ‘It surprises me,’ he murmured, ‘that such a high-born lady thinks to paint the commonplace.’
Alice gave him a sharp look, her mouth tightening in annoyance.
‘I’ll take the one with the boys playing,’ said John. ‘It reminds me of my childhood running around barefoot and half naked.’
‘Don’t you mean running away?’ Alice challenged.
John frowned. ‘Meaning?’
‘Nothing of course,’ Alice said lightly, taking the painting off its easel and wrapping it in cloth. ‘Thank you for helping the girls’ school.’ She held it out to him.
John fished out money, puzzled by her strange remark.
At that moment, Vernon returned from flirting with the women at the embroidery table and called over. ‘Sinclair, there’s a shooting match about to begin. I wager you a jorum of champagne that you can’t beat me!’
‘Well, if you can afford it,’ John quipped back, ‘then I’d be happy to win a jorum off you, Buckley.’
Alice gripped the table as she watched John go. Her pulse raced and head pounded. She thought she would faint. The suddenness of his appearance had completely winded her and left her floundering to speak. Her fingers still tingled where his firm mouth had brushed them with a kiss. At first glance she had thought him one of those swarthy French or Italian mercenaries who came to India to seek their fortunes. He looked older, his face leaner and more rugged, his jaw already darkening with stubble after the morning’s shave. But then their eyes had met. She would have known those lively green eyes anywhere. Her heart had flipped in her chest.
‘My dear, are you unwell?’ George asked in concern.
Alice dragged her gaze away from the departing soldiers. ‘It’s just the heat in here. I’m all right.’
‘I thought this might be too much for you,’ he fussed. ‘You’ve been overdoing it with your painting. Let’s get you into the refreshment tent and sat down. Some tea will restore you.’
‘Yes,’ Alice said, still breathless, ‘tea would be good.’
But when George got her into a camp chair and she sipped at the hot drink
, she felt a familiar wave of nausea rise in her throat. Alice had been unwell for the first week in Simla, exhausted after the journey, and had taken to bed. Only after a heavy downpour had cleared the thundery air did her energy begin to return. She had spent the following fortnight roaming the town on foot, George at her side, sketching the hill folk.
‘Why do people say that Simla is just a few dozen houses on a hill,’ Alice had mused, ‘when there is this native town below absolutely bursting with life?’
George had laughed. ‘That’s because they aren’t looking for it.’
Alice was enjoying sharing a house with the Aytons – Emily was the only other person she had confided in about being pregnant – but she had lost the appetite for socialising. She was always sick after dinner parties and found it hard to stay awake at musical recitals. Even tea parties were a chore, whereas Emily seemed to thrive on Simla society. Her friend could eat anything and was ballooning like a ship’s sails in her summer dresses. Pregnancy appeared to suit Emily and both she and Sandy were delighted to think their first child would be born in the hills away from the miasma of fevers in the plains.
The one house Alice liked to visit was that of Miss Wallace, who had set up the girls’ school at Subathu. Her dark looks showed her Indian heritage. The gossip in Simla drawing rooms was that her grandmother had been a wealthy Hindu merchant’s daughter who had married a Company sea captain, Wallace. Alice found her lively and welcoming in the way that Miss Cook had been in Calcutta.
‘Come and watch the shooting,’ Emily urged, finding Alice in the refreshment tent. ‘Sandy’s having a go too.’
‘Alice is not feeling well,’ George said. ‘I’m thinking of taking her back to the house.’
‘Oh, don’t do that,’ Emily said in dismay. ‘The fun is just beginning. And you said you wanted to enter the archery competition, didn’t you, Alice?’
‘She certainly won’t be doing that,’ George decreed.
Alice stood up, irritated. She sighed. ‘Don’t mollycoddle me. I’m not an invalid, George.’ She saw his hurt look and immediately regretted her words. Yet she didn’t want to let Emily down either. ‘Thank you for your concern but I feel fine now I’ve rested.’ She smiled. ‘Come on, let’s go and watch Sandy beat the arrogant Captain Buckley.’
The target was an upside-down brass jug impaled on a pole. Gunfire rang out on the makeshift range and the air was tinged with acrid smoke. The crowd of onlookers clapped and cheered when they heard the metal ping of a bullet hitting the jug. John was level with Vernon with six shots each on target; they were the last two contestants still in the competition. Sandy and Colin had withdrawn after missing their last attempts.
‘Stick to field guns,’ Vernon had told Colin with a patronising wink, ‘you can’t fail to hit something with those.’
As John stepped up to the mark again, he caught sight of Alice and her talkative friend at the front of the throng. No doubt she had come to cheer on Vernon – all the women seemed to be doing so – and the thought unsettled him. He took aim and missed for the first time. Excited gasps rippled around him.
Vernon made a big show of taking his time and theatrically positioning himself for his shot. If he hit the target then he would win. The onlookers held their breath. He fired and the metal jug jerked as the bullet struck home. Cheering broke out.
Vernon turned and gave John a satisfied smile. ‘Bad luck Sinclair; champagne’s on you tonight.’
John stepped forward and shook his hand. ‘Well done, Buckley.’
‘I’ll be round to Nairn’s to claim my prize,’ Vernon said with a pat on John’s back, ‘and take you on at cards.’
‘I’m sure Captain Nairn can’t wait for the honour,’ John said dryly.
As he walked off to join Colin, he glanced over at Alice. She was watching him, her arm linked possessively with her husband’s. He frowned in annoyance that her presence had made him lose concentration. His time in Simla was going to be purgatory if he was to come across her at every turn – though she had not been at any of the riotous, liquor-fuelled dinners that his host, Nairn, had thrown since John had arrived in the hill station. He would keep to the company of bachelor officers and avoid any chance of social intercourse with Alice. John also determined that he would speed up his plans to venture north.
CHAPTER 15
Do we have to invite those Scottish lieutenants?’ Alice asked, trying to hide her alarm at George once again making the suggestion they entertain John and Colin. It was several days since the Annandale event and Alice had managed to avoid John. ‘I’m sure they would much rather be dining at Auckland House with the Edens.’
‘I know you tire easily, my dearest,’ said George, ‘but it would just be a simple supper. And I did promise young Sinclair. Besides, I’m very keen to hear about the Trigonometrical Survey; it’s the most astonishing feat of engineering. Would you like the Aytons to be there too so that you have Emily to converse with?’
‘It’s not that,’ Alice said. ‘But wouldn’t you rather go over to Nairn’s and discuss it with Lieutenant Sinclair over a bowl of tobacco and a glass of port? He might find that more congenial.’
‘In my experience,’ said George, ‘young officers crave a little bit of domesticity and female company. I certainly did as a young man. Spending all your time in the mess grows tiresome.’
‘From what I hear they have all the female company they want at Nairn’s,’ Alice retorted. ‘Dancing girls after dinner, that’s what Emily says.’
‘Don’t listen to gossip,’ said George.
‘Not gossip, the truth,’ Alice replied. ‘Miss Wallace is most concerned about these nautch girls. She thinks the men take advantage of them when they’ve had too much to drink.’
‘My dear!’ George exclaimed. ‘Miss Wallace shouldn’t be talking to you about such things.’
‘So you know it goes on?’ Alice demanded.
George looked pained. ‘I don’t make any excuses for such behaviour. But isn’t that all the more reason to invite the young officers into this genteel home and give them some civilised entertainment? They are far from home and I would like to show them friendship. Is that so very onerous?’
Alice felt ashamed of her reluctance to give hospitality. As usual, her kind husband was only thinking of others while she was selfishly trying to protect her feelings. Was it possible that George had forgotten the names of the people she had saved on the night of the storm? It would seem so. If she explained to him now that John had been one of them, George might call off the supper party. He was very protective of her past.
When they had become engaged, they had agreed not to mention her heroism as Alice Brown or the gossip about her scandalous mother. She had not sought the publicity and it had brought untold strain on her family. In India she had felt unshackled from her past by becoming Mrs Gillveray. John threatened that harmony in her new life. She might already be the talk of the mess. What if he had boasted about how she had nursed him and given her kisses so readily? Or was his ungentlemanly conduct of promising marriage and then deserting her keeping him silent on the matter? Perhaps it would be best to get the ordeal of seeing him over. Then she could make it quite plain that she expected his discretion on the matter and wanted nothing more to do with him.
‘You are a good man, George.’ She smiled. ‘You see nothing but the best in people. Of course we must make the officers welcome here.’
John downed two brandies before setting out for Daisy Cottage. Earlier he had cut himself shaving.
‘Let’s keep this as short a visit as possible,’ he muttered to Colin as they made their way along the narrow path from their billet on Jakko Hill down towards Combermere Bridge.
‘I don’t know why you’re so reluctant,’ Colin said, lapsing into Gaelic as they always did together. ‘The Gillverays seem a pleasant couple.’
‘Looks can deceive.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing.’
Colin stopped and grabbed John by the arm. ‘Friend, tell me what’s preying on your mind. You’ve been out of sorts this past week – drinking till you pass out. I’ve had to carry you to bed every night. And picking arguments with Nairn over nautch girls . . .’
John shook off Colin’s hold. ‘I don’t think much of Simla society, that’s all. I’m impatient for us to be off into the mountains.’
‘It’s more than that,’ said Colin. ‘I know you too well. You haven’t been yourself since you set eyes on Mrs Gillveray.’
John reddened. ‘Was it that obvious?’
‘To me,’ Colin said with a pitying smile. ‘You’ve met her before?’
John let out an impatient sigh. ‘Before she was Mrs Gillveray she was Alice Brown and then Fairchild. Doesn’t that name mean anything to you?’
‘No, should it?’
‘She was the Alice who saved my life – the lighthouse heroine of the broadsheets.’
‘That Alice?’ Colin exclaimed. ‘The one you wanted to marry?’
John nodded, his jaw clenching.
Colin let out a low whistle. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘Because it’s obvious she doesn’t want to be reminded of it – of her former life, or of me.’ John gripped Colin’s shoulder. ‘You mustn’t say anything. I don’t want her to blame me for any gossip that might spread about her.’
‘I don’t see what harm it would do if people knew she was the lighthouse heroine.’
‘Because they printed all sorts of lurid stories about her notorious mother giving birth and abandoning her in the lighthouse. Some even said she wasn’t Fairchild’s daughter at all – that she was a sea captain’s bastard. I don’t know where they got such tales.’
‘If that’s the case then of course I won’t say anything,’ Colin promised.
‘Good,’ said John. ‘Let’s get this over with quickly and then head for the mountains. Agreed?’
Colin clapped him on the back. ‘Agreed.’
Under cover of the soft lamplight, Alice studied John. He was in deep, animated discussion with George about triangulation and measurements allowing for the curvature of the earth. The light fell on his strong-featured face and made his dark hair glint like a raven’s wing. She listened to the cadence of his Highland voice and felt a tug of longing deep inside.
In the Far Pashmina Mountains Page 19
