Flowers For the God of Love

by Barbara Cartland

  It had become smart to go out at the right Season to stay with the Viceroy and to make a tour of other Government Houses.

  The ladies would return laden with Indian jewellery, saris and boxes set with jewelled stones, which somehow lost their glitter and splendour once they were back at home.

  The women who had found the enigmatic and mysterious young Major exceedingly attractive when he was on leave would often pursue him to India.

  They wrote him excited letters on crested writing paper, telling him of their arrival and exactly where he would be able to find them in a month’s time.

  Sometimes he was intrigued and amused and sometimes he was bored, in which case it was quite easy to disappear.

  The Viceroy would explain tactfully that Major Daviot was on special duties in the North and it was impossible to get in touch with him.

  But by and large Rex Daviot found that such interludes in his strange, busy and dangerous life were like finding an exotic flower by the roadside and enjoying its fragrance and its beauty for a brief period before it faded and had to be thrown away.

  But, although they filled a need in his life, he had never envisaged having a wife who would shine like a star at every social gathering and who, if he was not there, would glitter just as seductively for somebody else.

  ‘What do I want?’ he had often asked himself.

  His ideal woman was faceless and he told himself that he had been born a bachelor and that was how he should remain if he had any sense.

  Equally there was not only Government House at Lucknow waiting for him, but there was a cry for help from Sir Terence and the note of near-desperation in his voice still echoed in Rex Daviot’s ears.

  He was well aware that he owed a debt of gratitude to Sir Terence. All through the years he had supported, encouraged and fought for him.

  If he wanted permission to do certain things that were quite unorthodox and the risks appertaining to them appalled the authorities in India, he would always insist on them being referred to Sir Terence.

  Never once had the answer come back except in the affirmative, giving him a free hand to make possible the impossible.

  Marriage!

  Rex Daviot had stirred restlessly in the slow Hackney carriage that carried him to St. John’s Wood.

  What the devil would he do with a wife hanging about, demanding his attention, his time and inevitably, if she was rich, his gratitude?

  ‘It’s impossible! I shall have to find some other solution than this,’ he told himself.

  But logically he knew that there was not one except that which Sir Terence had already proposed.

  Now, as Quenella came into the room, he found it hard for a moment to look directly at her.

  He was aware that she was there, aware that she was moving towards her uncle slowly and with a grace that he could feel rather than see.

  Then as he heard Sir Terence say,

  “Quenella, I want you to meet Major Rex Daviot,” he looked directly at her.

  He saw in astonishment that she was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen and she was quite unlike anything he had expected or even imagined!

  CHAPTER TWO

  As Rex Daviot stared at Quenella in amazement, she inclined her head and turned aside without a word to move to the fireplace.

  It meant that she turned her back on him and he saw that, above the full flowing skirt of her evening gown, she had a tiny waist and an air of elegance that was unexpected in anyone so young.

  During dinner, as she sat opposite him at the table, he was able to examine her more closely without seeming to do so.

  He supposed that it was due to her Russian blood that her eyes were dark and enigmatic.

  They slanted slightly at the corners and gave her a Sphinx-like expression that was very alluring, except that her whole attitude was one of reserve and what he was sure she meant to be indifference.

  He could understand what Sir Terence had meant when he said that Quenella had withdrawn into herself.

  This was obvious to Rex Daviot from the way she spoke for, although she was punctiliously polite and courteous, he knew that it was a facade and that underneath she was feeling something very different.

  His exploits in India had made him very perceptive.

  In the numerous disguises he had assumed from time to time he had learnt not so much to think himself into a part as if he was an actor, but to penetrate the inner consciousness of the man he represented and actually to become him.

  This had taught him to use his instinct in sizing people up and, as he expressed it himself, ‘finding out what made them tick’.

  He found it fascinating to know that behind almost everything Quenella said was a different thought and, if she had allowed herself to speak them, very different words from those that passed her lips.

  At the same time he knew that however perceptive he might be, she was an enigma that he could not yet understand, but it would be extremely interesting to be able to do so.

  They talked of commonplaces throughout the meal with Lady O’Kerry gossiping about people in Court circles and her many friends in India.

  She was a close friend of Lady Curzon, the Vicereine, and she asked Rex Daviot if when he returned he would carry for her a present of some books.

  He promised to do everything that was asked of him. At the same time he could not help adding with a glance at Sir Terence,

  “It is doubtful at the moment whether I will return to India.”

  “That, I am sure,” Lady O’Kerry retorted, “is a mere figure of speech. My husband has always told me that India cannot do without you.”

  “Sir Terence is flattering me,” Rex Daviot replied drily, “but I admit that all my interests lie in that strange bewildering country, which I find more fascinating every moment I am there.”

  He noticed that Quenella gave him a quick glance as if she would like to question him and then obviously she decided against it.

  The meal dragged on and it was with a sense of relief that Rex Daviot realised that the ladies were about to withdraw.

  He opened the door for them and, as Lady O’Kerry passed him, she tapped him lightly on the arm with her fan and said,

  “Now don’t be too long before you join us. It is bad for Terence to drink too much port and Quenella and I will be waiting for you in the drawing room.”

  She did not pause for an answer, but moved away and Quenella passed Rex Daviot without looking at him.

  He was, however, conscious of a fragrance that he could not put a name to.

  He knew most of the favoured perfumes used often too heavily by ladies in the Social world, but this fragrance was faint and yet he thought that it still lingered on the air after he had returned to the table.

  As they sat down, Sir Terence looked at him.

  “Well?” he queried.

  There was no need for him to express more eloquently the question he was asking.

  “She is very beautiful,” Rex Daviot said quietly.

  “So beautiful,” Sir Terence agreed, “that it is quite unnecessary for her to be so rich.”

  He sipped his port before he added,

  “After our conversation this morning I went in some detail into what she possesses. It is in point of fact an astronomical amount and I am told it is likely, because of the increased demand for oil, to multiply within the next few years.”

  He coughed before he continued,

  “Her fortune is also invested in numerous other commodities, the value of which is almost certain to escalate.”

  Rex Daviot did not answer and Sir Terence knew by the set of his jaw and the hard line of his mouth that he was hating the thought that he was to be beholden to a woman for money and most of all to one who was his wife.

  He was well aware that as the law stood he would control his wife’s fortune and that to all intents and purposes on marriage it would become his.

  But he knew that because he was proud he would alw
ays feel humiliated that he must spend her money rather than his own.

  “Forget all that,” Sir Terence now said, as if Rex Daviot had spoken his thoughts aloud. “Think only that you are not taking Quenella’s money for yourself but for the good of India.”

  “Do you really mean that?” Rex Daviot asked him.

  “I know of no one, and this is the truth Rex,” Sir Terence replied, “who is more vital at the moment to the peace of the country that we both love.”

  Then there was a pause in which Rex Daviot waited, knowing that he was to receive a confidence that was important.

  “There is no need for me to tell you,” Sir Terence began, “that what I have to say was divulged to me under the strictest secrecy and I feel that I have somehow to convince you of how necessary you are.”

  “I am listening.”

  “When Lord Curzon arrived in India as Viceroy in 1899, he heard rumours of Russian activity in Tibet and became alarmed.”

  Rex Daviot knew that Britain’s position in India had often seemed threatened by Russian advances in Central Asia.

  As Russia extended her sovereignty towards Afghanistan, Britain pushed the frontiers of India farther West and North-West.

  Tibet in the far North, once dominated by China, was in 1900 independent and hostile to outsiders. It was a remote, cold inhospitable land ruled by the Dalai Lama and his Buddhist monks.

  “Lord Curzon believes,” Sir Terence continued in a low voice, as if he felt that even in his own dining room he might be overheard, “that a secret Treaty exists between Russia and China, giving Russia special rights in Tibet.”

  “I have heard that suggested, but I have always queried its validity.”

  “It is thought,” Sir Terence went on, “that Russia has sent arms to Tibet and Lord Curzon is afraid that there will be trouble, stimulated by Russia, on India’s Tibetan border.”

  Rex Daviot was listening intently.

  He was well aware that this might be possible.

  Russia had been instrumental in causing a great deal of fighting round the Khyber Pass, inflaming the tribesmen and in consequence being responsible for the loss of many British soldiers’ lives.

  When he left India, his reports, which had gone ahead of him in the Diplomatic Bag, had warned those in authority that more trouble was brewing and something would have to be done about it.

  “What the Viceroy wishes to discuss with you,” Sir Terence said, “is your original idea of having a British Agent in Gyangtse.”

  This was a post halfway between Lhasa, the Capital of Tibet, and the Indian border near Darjeeling.

  “I have always thought that it would be a good idea,” Rex Daviot remarked, “but it would not be easy to convince the Tibetans of the necessity of it.”

  “That is why Lord Curzon is extremely anxious to see you and ask your opinion on who shall be sent to negotiate with them.”

  “I think I have said before that the ideal man would be Colonel Francis Younghusband.”

  “I feel sure that you would be able to persuade the Viceroy to agree with you,” Sir Terence answered.

  “But I had rather thought of suggesting myself,” Rex Daviot remarked.

  “I imagined that this would be at the back of your mind,” Sir Terence said with a smile. “Four years ago I might have agreed with you, but you are too important to waste on what will be an isolated if important post. As you and I know, when dealing with the Tibetans, years may pass before anything is achieved.”

  Rex Daviot knew that this was true for the Tibetans were past masters of prevaricating and not giving a definite answer to any request however reasonable.

  “In my opinion,” Sir Terence went on, “the only way anything will be achieved is by more direct action.”

  “You are suggesting that Younghusband should advance into Tibet and move towards Gyangtse with a Military Escort,” Rex Daviot said quietly.

  “I thought that was what you were hinting at in your last report.”

  “It was. But peaceful negotiations must be attempted first.”

  “I agree with you,” Sir Terence said. “And one of your jobs, Rex, will be to convince impetuous Army Commanders that they must not infiltrate into Tibet aggressively until we are ready for them to do so.”

  Rex Daviot did not answer and Sir Terence brought his fist down hard on the dining room table.

  “Dammit all, Rex! Why are you hesitating? You are as bad as the Tibetans. You know as well as I do that there is no one else in India at the moment who has your knowledge of the situation in the North.”

  “All right, I admit it,” Rex Daviot answered slowly.

  “And so you should!” Sir Terence snapped. “God knows you have risked your life often enough to obtain the information we needed so desperately.”

  He paused to say more quietly,

  “How you survived that last sortie amongst the tribesmen I cannot imagine.”

  Rex Daviot smiled a little cynically, but although Sir Terence waited, he made no comment.

  “Quite right!” the older man, said approvingly after a moment. “Keep your secrets to yourself, on the Frontier a word spoken can kill.”

  Then the two men smiled at each other with understanding and Sir Terence rose to his feet.

  “Let’s join the ladies and when my wife says ‘goodnight’, I wish to speak to both you and Quenella together.”

  Rex Daviot looked at him in surprise, but Sir Terence, not waiting for his comments, was already halfway out of the dining room and there was nothing Rex could do but follow him.

  Lady O’Kerry greeted them with enthusiasm when they arrived in the drawing room and Quenella rose and went to the piano.

  Rex Daviot was sure that it was because she did not wish to be involved in conversation with him and at first she played very quietly what seemed to be background music for Lady O’Kerry’s gossip.

  Then her fingers seemed to slide into a melody that he recognised as being of Russian origin.

  It was, he thought, a song that had been sung in Russia by the Serfs, who were oppressed by their often cruel owners and who, like all primitive people, could only express their suffering in song.

  It was a strange haunting melody that seemed to speak of hidden secrets, so that one listened to it not only with the mind but with the heart.

  Rex Daviot found himself wondering what Quenella felt as she played.

  He recognised that her performance was good, almost professional, and he wondered whether it was just a pupil showing off what she had learnt or something that was linked with her inner self.

  Lady O’Kerry, as if she had been well rehearsed, rose to her feet.,

  “You must forgive me, Major Daviot, if I retire early, I have had a slight headache all day. But please do not hurry away, for I know how much my husband enjoys your company. We far too infrequently have the pleasure of entertaining you.”

  “You are very kind,” Rex Daviot murmured.

  “And please come and say ‘goodbye’ before you return to India,” Lady O’Kerry urged him.

  She went from the room and Quenella, who had risen from the piano stool, would have followed her but Sir Terence stopped her.

  “I want to talk to you, Quenella.”

  She walked towards her uncle without comment and he indicated a place on the sofa near to the chair where Rex Daviot was sitting.

  They both waited and Sir Terence, with his back to the fireplace, stated,

  “I have something to say that concerns you both and it is very important.”

  Quenella and Rex Daviot waited and after a moment’s hesitation Sir Terence said to Rex,

  “After you left the India Office this morning I received a communication that has a significance which I think you will both understand.”

  “Who was it from, Uncle Terence?” Quenella asked.

  There was a note in her voice that told both men that she was apprehensive.

  “It came from the German Ambassador,” Sir Terence
replied.

  Watching her, Rex Daviot thought that she looked paler than she had during dinner.

  Her skin had a magnolia-like quality about it that proclaimed, even as her expressive eyes did, that she was not entirely English.

  Her hair was not very dark, but it was not fair and there was just a suspicion of red lights in it, which shone in the glow of the gas lamps.

  It was her hair as well as her eyes that made her unlike anyone else, Rex Daviot told himself and at the same time gave her a beauty that was unmistakable.

  ‘A strange loveliness,’ he reflected.

  Then unexpectedly he was aware that because of her reserve and because of what Sir Terence had referred to as a ‘turning in on herself’, she did not attract him as such a beautiful woman might have been expected to do.

  He admired her as one might admire a sculpture or a painting by a Master hand, but at the moment he felt no human impulse towards her.

  In fact she might easily have been made of stone for all the impact she made upon his senses.

  “I received a letter from the Ambassador,” Sir Terence continued, “asking if you, Quenella, would stay with him and his wife, Baroness von Mildenstadt, at their country house in Hampshire for a ball next week.”

  Quenella stiffened.

  “I have – heard about the ball,” she said quickly. “The Guest of Honour is to be – His Royal Highness Prince Ferdinand.”

  “The Ambassador made that very clear,” Sir Terence replied. “He also intimated in a great deal of flowery but undoubtedly threatening language that your presence was obligatory.”

  “Threatening?” Rex Daviot questioned sharply.

  “This was implemented by the simple method of enclosing another letter in the envelope in which he requested a formal interview with the Secretary-of-State for Foreign Affairs, the Marquis of Salisbury.”

  Sir Terence paused impressively before adding,

  “I am to be present and the suggested date is the day before Quenella has been asked to travel to Hampshire.”

  “I will not go!” Quenella asserted positively.

  “If you do not do so,” Sir Terence replied, “if we refuse, which, of course, we intend to do, the Ambassador has made it clear without words that he will complain to the Marquis of my behaviour towards His Royal Highness. As you are both aware, I should then be forced to offer my resignation to the Prime Minister”.