‘It’s such a fine afternoon,’ he said with a smile, ‘that I thought you might like an excursion to the top of Jakko Hill for the view.’
Alice’s astonishment was quickly replaced by annoyance. She had balked at returning to the wooded hilltop where she had parted so acrimoniously from John. She certainly had no intention of going there with Vernon.
‘No thank you, Captain Buckley,’ she said, stepping past him. ‘I am having tea with Emily and Alexander.’
‘Please, Mrs Gillveray,’ Vernon said, putting a hand on her arm to stop her going.
She glared at him and he quickly dropped his hold.
‘Why do you dislike me so?’ he asked, baffled.
‘Why do you show so much attention to another man’s wife?’ she challenged.
‘I’m sorry if I offend you,’ said Vernon, ‘but I cannot help admiring you. You are quite unlike any of the other women in Simla, whose only talk is of dresses and gossip.’ He towered over her. ‘You have such spirit – you do as you please and don’t care about what people think. I like that in a woman.’
Alice was momentarily thrown by his bold words.
When he saw her hesitation, he smiled. ‘So will you allow me the honour of accompanying you up Jakko Hill?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Alice.
‘I’m not responsible for what’s happened to Sinclair,’ he said. ‘Sandy has told me how worried you are about him.’
Alice’s mouth fell open. ‘W-we all are,’ she stammered.
‘But you perhaps more than most.’
‘You are impertinent,’ Alice said, flushing.
‘I saw you last year with him,’ Vernon said in a low voice. ‘On Jakko Hill. It worried me. He has a bad reputation with women – I’ve known him long enough.’
‘Some say the same of you,’ Alice retorted.
‘I admire women,’ he said. ‘Sinclair falls in and out of love all the time – leading girls on and then discarding them like soiled clothing. He prefers the lower sorts – servant girls at Addiscombe and natives—’
Alice rounded on him in fury and slapped his face. ‘I don’t want to hear your hateful words! Stay away from me.’
She turned and fled up the path, leaving Vernon rubbing his stinging cheek.
CHAPTER 20
Ladakh, spring 1837
John waited impatiently for Wahid’s return. Being cooped up in Leh and inactive for most of the winter had sent him nearly mad with frustration. To expend his pent-up energy, he had taken part in wild games that the Ladakhis played on horseback in the centre of town, chasing after a stuffed animal skin with sticks.
Once the valley had become sealed in by winter blizzards, the guard on his house had been relaxed and John and Rajban had managed a few forays beyond the town walls. The dazzling snow had been blinding and John had never experienced such penetrating cold. They bartered camping equipment for thick seamless, ankle-length Tibetan coats, sheepskins and fur-lined boots. John’s beard grew thick and his face turned as brown and weathered as the locals’ in the fierce sun.
‘You could be mistaken for a Yarkandi merchant’ – Rajban laughed – ‘if you didn’t have such a long nose! Maybe a Tajik or an Armenian.’
John chuckled, surveying Rajban, who was bundled up in sheepskin, a fur hat and earflaps so that his face hardly showed.
‘And you, my friend, look like a Himalayan bear. Careful they don’t shoot you and serve you up for the king.’
John could not have borne the tedium and anxiety of the past months without the cheerful hillsman. Rajban had changed from his role as servant into John’s confidante and comrade-in-arms. While the king had sent them food, drink and fuel, it was a distant kinsman of Rajban’s who had provided them with rugs and blankets to keep their lodgings warm and a water-pipe for their tobacco.
They had made many friends in Leh and were often invited into the houses of hospitable merchants, sitting on cushions in their large upstairs reception rooms to drink butter tea and chat. John picked up enough of the language to have rudimentary conversations. There was worry that a summer incursion from Gulab and Zorawar Singh might badly damage the all-important pashmina trade.
‘Their ambitions go further than our kingdom,’ one merchant said gloomily. ‘They won’t stop until they have conquered Tibet too – then they will have all the wool trade to themselves.’
It was late May before the snow retreated, the passes opened and new green growth sprouted beside the rushing torrents of melting glacier. Within a week, Wahid’s caravan of yaks and ponies appeared in the valley below. John went out to greet him and help take the animals into the compound.
Later, after dark, Wahid came to John’s lodgings and they sat on rugs while Wahid told him news of the outside world.
‘There is tension in Kashmir,’ he said gravely. ‘The amir of Afghanistan is flexing his muscles at the Sikhs. He wants control of the Khyber Pass and Peshawar again. There is worry that the British will back his claim.’
‘The Khyber.’ John smiled on hearing the name. ‘My uncle is an Afridi from there.’
‘Your uncle?’ Wahid exclaimed.
‘Azlan married my Aunt Morag,’ John explained. ‘If he’s anything to go by, then no one will ever rule over the Khyber except the Afridi.’
He drew out the jewel-studded dagger that he always kept on him and showed it to Wahid.
The wool merchant whistled in admiration and handed it back. He grinned. ‘So you are an Afridi brother.’
‘I wonder what Azlan would do in my situation?’ John mused.
‘Escape,’ said Wahid at once. ‘I have met a few Afridi tribesmen in my travels and none of them would let some princeling keep them tethered like a goat waiting to be sacrificed.’
John felt irritation at the comparison. Yet it was true; he had made no serious attempt to leave the valley. Where would he go if he did manage to elude the king’s guards? Back to India and beg for his army job or seek his fortune elsewhere – perhaps with the Afridi?
As if reading his mind, Wahid said, ‘This might help you make up your mind.’ He pulled a letter from deep inside his coat. ‘I didn’t want to be seen handing this to you in broad daylight. It came just before I left Srinagar.’
John’s stomach clenched at the familiar handwriting: Colin’s. The letter was written in Gaelic to evade censorship. After comradely greetings it grew sombre.
. . . by the time I returned to Dehra a whole six months had gone by and the attitude of our superiors had hardened. Everest was furious that you had turned your back on his great survey and said he would refuse to ever have you work for him again. Hodgson has been promoted.
Wade in Ludhiana is adamant that you had no authority to go beyond British India. I am endeavouring to fight your corner, John, but the political situation is becoming difficult. We are backing Ranjit Singh in the Punjab but also trying to keep our influence in Afghanistan. Do you remember Lieutenant Burnes from Montrose who wrote that racy book of his travels in Afghanistan and beyond? Well, he’s been promoted and sent to Kabul as part of a trade deputation to make sure Amir Dost Mohammed isn’t tempted to befriend the Russians instead of us.
There are some on Auckland’s staff who are obsessed with the idea that the Russians are about to strike into the heart of India through Afghanistan – they are making martial noises. No surprise that Buckley is one of them. Just the type to shout for a military escapade while staying safely under the wing of the Governor General in Simla or Calcutta.
I’m sorry, but the brutal truth is that no one is going to send troops to rescue you. In fact, Buckley has done his best to blacken both our names by putting about rumours that we were the ones living a life of debauchery at the Company’s expense. I’m doing what I can to redeem us both.
Good luck, my friend, and may God go with you.
John sat for a long time staring at the pattern in the carpet. His jaw ached as he clenched it in fury. Buckley the blackguard! He had done his utmost to ru
in John’s career. Why did Vernon hate him so? But then John had to admit that the arrogant cavalry officer had not been the one to encourage him to explore beyond the Sutlej River or to delay too long in Ladakh. He had only himself to blame for that. He had been far too eager to carry out Captain Smith’s challenge after his traumatic parting with Alice in Simla. He had been reckless but he had found solace in the mountains – just as he always used to as a boy on Skye.
John studied the letter again, looking in vain for some mention of Alice or hint of what she might be doing. But Colin did not mention her. Why should he? His friend knew about his unhappy affair and would not want to upset John further by telling him of Alice’s life with Gillveray. They would have a child by now. He wondered if it was a girl or a boy.
John let go a cry of anguish. Why torture himself further?
‘There is nothing to be gained by going back to India,’ John said bitterly, ‘even if I were free to do so.’
‘So, do you want to sit here and let others decide your fate?’ asked Wahid, his dark eyes challenging. ‘Or do you want to take your fate in your hands like an Afridi?’
John was stung into replying, ‘I want to act! Do you have a suggestion?’
A week later, before sunrise, Wahid’s caravan of pack animals set off down the sandy slope to the Indus River. He let it be known that he was making for Kashmir. He took with him half a dozen unkempt porters, the ends of their turbans wrapped across their faces in the pre-dawn cold.
A couple of hours later, two men were seen slipping out of the town and making off with two ponies from the compound and riding rapidly southwards towards the high passes that led to India.
By the time it was discovered that the guards at John’s lodgings had been found inside, drugged and tied up, the two riders were long gone. The king sent men in pursuit, who rode all day but didn’t catch them up. Three days later, the men were found exchanging their exhausted ponies for fresh ones down by the Chenab River. To the consternation of their pursuers, they turned out not to be the two fugitive British officers that they had expected; they were merchants from Leh who had kin in Spiti and were going to visit a sick relative.
From the rocky path John looked back down on the large caravanserai at Kargil where they had spent the previous night under willow trees next to green fields of unripe corn. Behind was Ladakh; ahead lay sheer cliffs and desolate border country inhabited by autonomous tribes, and beyond that was Baltistan. Below, traders and farmers milled around the bazaar. Wahid had stocked up on supplies there – and it was there that he had parted from John and Rajban with embraces and blessings. Wahid and his convoy were heading west into Kashmir; John was striking north to Baltistan and its Muslim ruler at Skardu. From there he planned to travel to Afghanistan and perhaps offer his services to the maverick fellow Scot, Alexander Burnes, in Kabul. He planned to steer clear of Kashmir and the Punjab where he might yet again become a pawn in a bid for power in this volatile region.
He turned to Rajban. ‘It would appear your cousins must have done a good job of drawing the Ladakhi guards after them. I hope they won’t suffer as a consequence.’
‘They can talk their way out of anything,’ said Rajban with a grin.
John clapped him on the back. ‘Thank you. One day I’ll reward you properly for your loyalty.’
Turning their backs on Ladakh, they pushed on towards Baltistan.
CHAPTER 21
Simla, summer 1837
Clever boy!’ Alice cried, holding out her hands to Alexander, who staggered into her arms. ‘Look, Emily, he can do five steps without falling over.’ She pulled him close, hugging and tickling him.
Alexander threw back his head and let out a delighted giggle. Alice thought there was no more joyous sound than that of a child laughing.
The rain pounded on the roof, and the mountains had disappeared into mist.
Emily sighed. ‘When will it ever stop raining?’
A month ago Emily would have clapped her son’s achievement and fussed over him. But Alice noticed how tired and pale she was looking, how she visibly gagged at the smell of curried food. Her friend was pregnant again, Alice was sure of it. Nothing had been said, but she could tell. Alexander had not yet turned one. Emily was going to have her hands full; or at least her ayah was. Alice felt a twinge of envy that it wasn’t she who was with child.
Alice pulled the boy onto his feet. ‘Come on, try again.’
‘You’re not supposed to make them walk too soon,’ Emily fretted. ‘Get Ayah to put him back in his cot.’
Alice gave an exaggerated expression of shock. ‘Do you hear that, Alexander? Your mama wants you banished to your room instead of having fun with your Auntie Alice. What do you want to do?’ She leant forward, cheek to cheek with the boy. ‘What’s that? You want to carry on walking! Of course you do.’ She laughed and kissed his soft plump cheek.
Emily lost interest in trying to assert control. ‘I wonder if they’ve managed to clear the landslides yet?’ she said, staring out listlessly at the unceasing rain. ‘How many days have we been stuck indoors now? And they say it rains a lot in Scotland . . .’
Alice glanced beyond the veranda. ‘It’ll dry up soon,’ she said. ‘Then George will be able to join us. He’s probably already reached Kalka and is twiddling his thumbs there, waiting till the hill roads are passable.’
She thought of her husband with a fond pang. They had never been apart like this since they had married and she missed his company. There was so much to tell him about the school, and he would notice such a change in Alexander. She wanted to hear about Calcutta and her missionary friends, and she wanted George’s opinion on whether Auckland should support the Sikhs or the Afghans.
The Aytons never wanted to discuss politics but she knew George would have a sensible view. He was one of the few Company men still in India who remembered Elphinstone’s grandiose trade mission in 1808 to meet a previous Afghan ruler, Shah Shuja. In those days, according to George, the British had courted the Afghans with gifts and money so that they would resist an alliance with the French. Once Napoleon had been defeated though, Afghanistan had diminished in importance to the British.
Alice ordered tea and gingerbread. By the time it came, the rain had abruptly stopped and the mist begun to lift. Within half an hour, the sun was breaking through and steam was rising from the garden.
‘See, I told you,’ Alice said. ‘Here, eat some gingerbread. It’ll make you feel better.’
‘I don’t want to eat anything,’ Emily said, grimacing.
Alice eyed her. ‘Go on. Ginger stops you feeling queasy.’
Emily blushed. ‘You know . . . ?’
Alice nodded.
‘I haven’t told Sandy yet,’ Emily said. ‘How did you guess?’
‘I remember the nausea.’
Emily bit her lip. ‘Of course. I’m sorry.’
‘There’s no need to be,’ Alice assured her.
‘You and George,’ Emily said hesitantly. ‘I’m sure you’ll be blessed with children soon.’
Alice felt a familiar stab of disappointment. ‘I hope so,’ she said, allowing Alexander to clamber over her. ‘In the meantime I’m happy being a doting pretend-auntie to this one.’
Sandy appeared at the garden gate, looked around at the view for a moment and then strode towards the house.
‘Just wait till you see how many steps your son can walk,’ Alice called out to him. ‘Come on, Alexander, let’s show papa.’
The boy chortled as Alice stood up and hauled him to a standing position. He staggered forward as if the veranda was a pitching ship deck, laughing at his father. Sandy leant forward and scooped him up. He buried his face into the boy’s neck and then quickly set him down.
‘Ayah,’ he ordered, ‘take Alexander to his room, please.’
Ayah rose from sitting on the floor and padded forward, lifting the boy. Alexander let out a wail of indignation as he was carried away.
‘There’s no need,’ Al
ice said, disappointed. ‘He wants to play.’
‘Alice,’ Sandy said, looking at her directly for the first time. ‘I think you should sit down.’
Alice felt her insides lurch at the look on his face. ‘What is it?’
His ruddy face was harrowed. He began to speak and then clamped his mouth closed as if he couldn’t trust his own words.
‘Whatever is the matter, Sandy?’ Emily asked. ‘Please tell us.’
Sandy cleared his throat and swallowed hard. He pulled a letter out of his breast pocket.
‘This came from Calcutta with the office dak,’ he said, thrusting it at Alice. ‘There’s been cholera. I’m sorry. Very sorry.’
Alice felt her chest constrict with fear. ‘Is it George?’ she whispered.
Sandy nodded, his eyes welling up with tears. ‘He – he was taken swiftly . . .’
‘When?’
‘Over a month ago.’
‘He can’t be.’ She could make no sense of what he said. ‘I got a letter a week ago saying he was preparing to leave.’ But even as she said it, she knew that the letter had been written in July, six weeks ago.
‘He’s buried in the cantonment cemetery,’ said Sandy. ‘Miss Cook was taken in the outbreak too.’
Alice let out a howl of disbelief. Emily jumped out of her seat and threw her arms around her, bursting into tears. Alice clung onto her friend, dry-eyed with shock.
The hardest part was having no funeral to arrange. What hasty rites had been performed at George’s burial? Had anyone attended? Or had he been unceremoniously dumped in the ground by overworked low-caste gravediggers, their scarves wrapped around their faces to ward off the deadly miasma. The outbreak had swept through parts of the city – the docks especially – killing hundreds. Poor Miss Cook too! Had George gone to pay her a visit – collect letters to take to Alice – and caught the disease?
Alice tortured herself with guilty thoughts. She should have stayed with George and looked after him, instead of enjoying herself in Simla. Or she should have insisted he join her much sooner. Why had he not? He had thought his work more important than her. It was he who had been selfish by staying down in Calcutta. He hadn’t loved her enough!
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