Shadow of the Moon (37 page)

What a relief it would be to see Mr Barton! He would be staying until the wedding at Ludlow Castle with Mr Simon Fraser, the Commissioner of Delhi, and would be sure to present himself at their bungalow on the very first evening. She did hope that he would allow dear Winter sufficient time to bathe and change her dress before making his appearance, for the child would wish to look her best for such a momentous meeting. Six years! … Mrs Abuthnot sighed sentimentally and remarked encouragingly that another half-hour would see them at the end of their journey.

An imposing array of household servants were lined up on the verandah of the bungalow to receive them, and Kunthi, Mrs Abuthnot's ayah, who had been prevented by illness from travelling to Calcutta to meet her mistress, wept with joy at seeing the two grown young women whom she remembered last as a toddler in socks and sashes and a babe in arms, and enfolded them by turns in a tearful embrace.

There were no less than seven letters for Lottie: fat, sealed packets, each as large, as Sophie remarked teasingly, as one of Mrs Heyman's novels, and all of them from Edward English. But there was neither letter nor message for the Condesa de los Aguilares.

Of course there would be none, thought Winter, comforting herself. There was no longer any need for letters when Conway himself was at Ludlow Castle, only a mile or so from the cantonments. In an hour - perhaps less - she would see him. She must hurry and change into her prettiest dress. Her hair was dull from the dust of the roads and there was dust too on her long lashes and at the corners of her nose and mouth. She must wash and change quickly - quickly!

Teena, a young relative of Kunthi's who had been allotted to the girls as their ayah, was sent running for water, while Winter pulled off her travel-stained dress and Sophie and Kunthi unpacked the dress-box and shook out the folds of the satin striped apple-green
barège
, and a house servant was sent hastily to summon the
dhobi
and his iron.

An hour later Winter took a last anxious look at herself in the looking-glass,
wished yet again that she possessed Lottie's blue eyes and yellow curls, and crossing the hall went into the drawing-room to wait for Conway. She could watch the gate from the drawing-room windows and would see him arrive. The servants were already laying dinner and it must be nearly five o'clock … surely he would come soon! She heard someone enter the room behind her and close the door, and turned, expecting to see Mrs Abuthnot.

‘Who are you waiting for?' asked Carlyon. ‘The tardy lover?'

Winter stood quite still. Her dark eyes widened a little and a pulse beat at the base of her throat, for it needed only one look to see that Carlyon had been drinking. He was far from drunk, but his flushed face and over-bright eyes and the slight slurring of his drawling voice were sufficient indication that he was not entirely sober.

She said in a cool, steady voice: ‘I am expecting Mr Barton. I will wait in the garden, I think. It is quite pleasantly cool out there now that the sun is so low.' She pressed back the wide flounces of her crinoline and walked quietly towards the door.

Carlyon waited until she was almost level with him and then moved with unexpected swiftness, blocking her way. ‘I think not. I haven't had a chance like this before. You've avoided me, haven't you? You've done it very cleverly. Why won't you let me speak to you?'

Winter steadied her voice with an effort, doing her best to keep it light and level: ‘But I do. You have often spoken to me.'

‘But never alone. Do you know that I have never once been alone with you? - even for a moment? Why do you behave like this? Do you do it to pique me, Winter? No! - don't go. I won't let you.'

She had tried to pass him and he had moved again, keeping between her and the door. Winter said a little breathlessly: ‘Lord Carlyon, please let me pass. I - I think I hear Mrs Abuthnot in the hall—'

‘No, you don't. And my name is Arthur. Do I have to tell you that? Do I have to tell you that you are the loveliest and most desirable creature that I have ever known? That I—'

‘Lord Carlyon, please—'

‘Arthur! And I love you. Isn't that absurd?'

‘Lord Carlyon, you must not speak to me like this,' said Winter desperately. ‘You know that I am to be married shortly and—'

‘And to some clod of a Commissioner? What nonsense! What ridiculous, damned nonsense. You know it's nonsense, don't you? Don't you, my beautiful swan - my snow maiden. Shall I melt that snow and teach you to be as warm as summer instead of as cold as your name? Shall I? Shall I—?'

Above his soft, slurred voice Winter could hear horses' hooves on the drive.
Conway
! She tried again to pass Lord Carlyon, and he reached out and caught her wrist. The touch of those hot fingers sent a sudden shock of revulsion through her, but she knew that she must not struggle. It would be fatal to struggle. In a moment the door would open and they would come looking for
her: she could hear voices on the verandah. She must not let Conway find her struggling degradingly in the arms of another man. What would he think? He might even think she had encouraged Lord Carlyon. She must keep calm …

She said quite steadily: ‘If you do not let me go I shall call out.'

Carlyon laughed. ‘No, you won't. It would make a vulgar scandal, and this is no moment for a vulgar scandal if this is your chosen clod arriving. So as time is short—'

Before she realized what he meant to do, or had time to cry out, he had jerked her to him and caught her close, pinning her arms to her sides in a grip that was agonizingly painful, and kissing her with a bruising violence that deprived her of breath. She struggled wildly and soundlessly, anger and disgust swamping out thought as the greedy mouth moved to her throat, kissing its cool whiteness with a savage intensity and travelling downwards to the warm hollows of neck and shoulder.

She tried to scream but the only sound she could make was a choking gasp for air. And then the door into the hall opened, and at the sound of it the arms that had held her dropped and she leapt back, one hand to her bruised throat and the other clutching desperately at a chair-back. But it was not Conway who stood there. It was, astonishingly, Captain Randall.

‘
Alex
!' She was not in the least aware that she had called him by his Christian name, and the word was barely more than a gasping breath.

Carlyon turned. He was entirely self-possessed and it did not seem possible that this was the same man who only a moment ago had been gripping her in a paroxysm of greedy physical desire. ‘Ah,' said Lord Carlyon blandly, ‘Mr Barton, I presume?'

Alex's hard grey eyes took in Lord Carlyon from head to foot in one coldly speculative glance, and he raised his brows: ‘No, sir. Am I to take it that you were expecting him?' He looked past Carlyon at Winter and bowed slightly: ‘Your servant, Condesa.'

A sudden flush burnt in Carlyon's cheeks and his lips tightened. He drew himself up to his full height and said in his coldest drawl: ‘You have mistaken the room, sir. You may find Colonel Abuthnot in his office, I think.' He nodded a brief dismissal, but for once that quelling manner which had hitherto invariably succeeded in putting the pretentious in their place entirely failed in its effect.

‘Very likely,' said Alex, strolling forward into the room. ‘But I did not come to see Colonel Abuthnot. I am charged with a message to the Condesa de los Aguilares.'

‘Then pray deliver it, sir, and go,' snapped Lord Carlyon. ‘You interrupt us.'

‘So I observe,' said Alex, his gaze dwelling lazily on the red blotches that disfigured Winter's white neck and shoulders. ‘The message, however, is of a somewhat personal nature, and when I tell you that it is from this
lady's future husband I feel sure that you will permit me to deliver it in private. I shall not keep you above a moment.'

The dismissal was entirely plain and Carlyon's languid haughtiness deserted him. He said violently: ‘Why, you—!' And then with a rustle of skirts Winter was standing beside Alex, her hand on his sleeve. She did not look at Carlyon but spoke in a small breathless voice: ‘Will you take me into the garden please, Captain Randall? You may deliver your message there, and - and it is cooler outside.'

‘But very public,' said Alex pleasantly. ‘I think you will find it more agreeable in here.'

He walked over to the door, and holding it open smiled at Lord Carlyon. Alex's acquaintances would have recognized that smile. Carlyon did not. The fury died out of his face and contempt took its place. He looked at Winter and said: ‘For the moment then, my dear,' and walked past her into the hall. Alex closed the door upon him and Winter sat down very suddenly on the ottoman, feeling ridiculously weak at the knees and seized with an absurd desire to cry.

‘Who was that?' inquired Alex without interest.

Winter looked away from him and said in a difficult voice: ‘Lord Carlyon. He - accompanied us from Calcutta and is staying here. But you must not think - I would not want you to—'

She broke off and bit her lip. There was, after all, no reason why she should justify herself to Captain Randall, and he could not possibly suppose that she had been a consenting party to the scene that his entrance had interrupted. But how much had he actually witnessed? Carlyon had released her so swiftly, and she had not cried out. Alex must know that if she had cried out he would have heard her. Did he imagine—?

She looked up quickly, the hot colour in her cheeks, and said: ‘I know that it must look most singular to you, but—' And then she saw for the first time that Alex carried his left arm in a sling, and forgetting what she had been about to say, said instead: ‘You are hurt! What has happened?'

‘A shooting accident,' said Alex indifferently.

‘An accident?' A sudden recollection of stories of risings and the murder of men in outlying districts drove the blood from her face, and she stood up quickly: ‘Conway—! Has there been trouble in Lunjore? Is that what you have come to tell me? Is anything the matter with him? Is he ill?'

‘Not as far as I know,' said Alex in a completely expressionless voice.

‘Then why are you here?'

‘The Commissioner found himself unable to come to Delhi after all. He asked me to explain the matter to you and to arrange if possible for you to travel to Lunjore with the Gardener-Smiths, who will be going there shortly.'

‘But …' Winter put out a hand and clutched at a chair-back as though for support, ‘but they are not going for nearly three weeks.'

‘I know. I am sorry. But there appears to be no one else going there at present, and you cannot travel alone.'

‘Why can't I go with you?'

‘The Commissioner does not consider it would be suitable,' said Alex drily. ‘Besides, I do not go myself for at least two weeks. I have some business here that the Commissioner wishes cleared up.'

Winter sat down slowly, the apple-green flounces that had been intended to please Conway foaming about her. She looked very small and forlorn, and as once before on the deck of the
Glamorgan Castle
at Calcutta, Alex found himself reflecting that strangling was probably too good for Mr Barton. Yet was this slender young thing quite as unsophisticated as she appeared? It would be interesting to know just what was behind that scene that he had interrupted. Young ladies, particularly young ladies who were engaged to be married, did not normally indulge in
tête-à-têtes
with unwelcome admirers, and if she had not wished to be alone with Carlyon she had only to call out. The bungalow appeared to be swarming with servants, not to mention four Abuthnots.

Lord Carlyon, decided Alex dispassionately, appeared to be a strikingly handsome man of a type who might be expected to exercise a considerable appeal to women of all ages; and if he had travelled from Calcutta to Delhi with the Abuthnots, it would not be surprising if he had succeeded in making an impression upon the Commissioner's betrothed. If this was so Alex could not feel sorry for it, since he was of the opinion that almost anyone would be preferable to Mr Barton as a husband for the Condesa.

He wished that he did not feel so responsible for the girl. It was an absurd feeling and it irritated him, for there was no reason for it. What happened to her was no concern of his and she was, when he came to consider the matter, an extremely fortunate young woman and one whom many might envy, being possessed of a title in her own right, a plethora of aristocratic relations, a considerable fortune and unusual personal beauty. Nevertheless he could not rid himself of this nagging feeling of responsibility. It had weighed upon him ever since that night over a year ago when the Commissioner had asked him to take home letters to Ware and escort his bride back to India, and it remained with him still; intensified by his discovery that the girl's august relatives appeared to take little interest in her and were in fact only too anxious to be rid of her.

Alex looked down at the bent head and the small hands that were clasped together so tightly among the absurd apple-green ruffles, and frowned; aware of a disturbing tug at his heart, and thinking again that India was really no place for such women and that if there ever should be a rising on a serious scale they were going to be a devilish responsibility.

Winter, looking up at this point in his reflections, caught that frown and it brought back her courage and a sudden spark of anger. She rose, straight-backed, and said in a cool, composed voice: ‘It has been most kind of you to
trouble yourself on my behalf. I hope you will not think me ungrateful. Did Mr Barton not send a letter?'

‘There was no time. The alteration in plan came at the last moment and I myself left at less than half an hour's notice,' said Alex curtly. He considered it unnecessary to explain that the Commissioner had been in no condition to stand upright, let alone write a legible line, when he had last seen him.