Kitty’s charm soon softened any apprehension that Duleep might have had about the impending arrival of a new mistress in Pelham-sahib’s house. She’d been quick to reassure him that when she and the boys came to live here, there would be absolutely no changes required in his splendid domestic routine. But would it be possible sometimes to have an early dinner served under the willow tree in the garden? And could the downstairs windows be opened as soon as the sun was up each morning? And would he translate her recipe book for the cook? There was a lamb dish on page seventeen which she thought that Pelham-sahib was sure to enjoy.
Victoria smiled to herself and stepped away from the daily buzz of activity in the house. A tailor with his sewing machine now seemed to be permanently encamped on the floor of the veranda, busily stitching acres of new curtains, while painters and upholsterers moved from room to room creating chaos.
As often as possible, she escaped from it all by borrowing Maud’s pony-trap and having the little syce drive her away from the cantonment. She’d already begun to withdraw from the tight little groups of wives and their activities.
‘Sorry I won’t be able to come for cards this week. With so little time left here, I need to do a little sketching in the hills before I leave Kashmir.’
This became her standard excuse to avoid being caught up in the renewed swirl of tea parties and luncheons that the ladies of the cantonment were organizing for a fresh wave of new arrivals from the hot plains.
Victoria had never had any great enthusiasm for art. And very little talent, either, she reminded herself as she perched on a boulder and looked down on the long, narrow valley running beyond the little stream rushing over rocks at the foot of the hill where she was sitting. Up on the road behind her, Maud’s fat little horse stood dozing in the shafts of the trap, while the thin little syce lay curled up on the seat, snoring.
She sketched the outline of the hill across the valley and tried to draw its tree-covered folds running down to the long stretch of green grass below. The lake and the Shalimar Gardens probably lay not far beyond that hill, she calculated. Holding the sketch pad at arm’s length to study what she’d done, she screwed up her nose at the wretched effort and threw the book onto the ground beside her.
She wrapped her arms around her knees and let her mind drift while the white clouds overhead slowly changed shape until they began to resemble a flock of woolly sheep. Perhaps she should consider buying a sheep farm. In Australia?
The sound of pounding hoofbeats suddenly brought her back to earth and she sat up straight to watch the familiar chestnut beauty sweep into view around the hill. From having seen him on the cricket field, she knew that the rider was Captain Wyndham, but who was the small girl he was holding in front of him on the saddle? Was she the child with the elephant who had collided with her in the Shalimar Gardens?
Once onto the flat, the captain urged the horse into a gallop and both the man and child were laughing as the horse flashed past her vantage point.
It wasn’t long before she heard the galloping hoofs again echoing from the rocks, and the horse thundered back along the valley floor with her legs stretched and her coat shining like molten gold in the sunlight. For one moment she seemed to be almost flying over the grass, and in the next she tripped, staggered, and seemed unable to right herself. Victoria saw the captain whip his feet from the stirrups at the first stumble, then as the horse crashed, he and the child were tossed to the ground, both tumbling awkwardly and rolling.
‘Oh, no!’ Victoria sprang to her feet and began to slip and slide her way downhill over the loose rocks and, lifting her skirt, she dashed through the fast-flowing ankle-high stream to reach the scene. Initially, the man and the little girl were not moving, but, by the time she’d raced across the valley, Captain Wyndham had raised himself into a sitting position and was holding the unconscious child in his arms, rocking her.
Not far away, the chestnut squealed in agony, lying on her side and thrashing as she struggled to stand on a damaged foreleg. Broken bone protruded through the skin.
‘Belle, Belle – oh, God! Annabelle, open your eyes, sweetheart. Look at me.’ The man seemed unaware that Victoria had reached his side.
‘Captain, I think the child should be kept still,’ she said gently, kneeling beside him and putting a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Don’t move her like that – just let her lie quietly.’ She picked up one of the little hands to feel the fluttering pulse, then rubbed the fingers between her own. ‘Sir, I’m going to untie your scarf and wet it in the stream so we can wipe the blood from her forehead.’
His face was ashen, making the thin white scar on his cheek barely noticeable. He made no response, but the look of dread in his eyes tore at her heart when she reached across the little girl to untie the knot under his chin. She ran across to the stream to wet his scarf in the icy water and, back beside them again, she wiped the child’s brow, then held it against the bleeding wound on her scalp.
‘You hand is hurt, sir. Is there a handkerchief in your pocket that I could use as a bandage?’
‘No.’ Only then did he show surprise at finding her beside him. ‘What the devil— How—?’
‘I was up there, sketching,’
His frown deepened and he jerked his head towards the pitifully thrashing, squealing horse. ‘Well, for God’s sake, go over there and put the poor creature out of her misery.’
Victoria looked at him dumbly. ‘I – I can’t. I know nothing about – I’ve never handled—’
‘Oh, Lord! Just get my rifle from the saddle, put the muzzle between her eyes and pull the blasted trigger. It’s loaded.’ His jaw tightened. ‘She can’t be left to suffer like that.’
Like an obedient child, Victoria stood and, with her knees turning to straw, she went to the stricken animal lying there, all white of eye and foaming mouth. Terrified, she heaved great gulping breaths as she dodged the flailing legs to snatch the rifle. For a moment she looked down at it in her shaking hands, felt its weight and glanced across to the captain, hoping for some signal or direction. Or a little encouragement. But his gaze was still on the child’s face.
Gathering every ounce of her resolve, she moved cautiously to the mare’s head. ‘Oh, you wonderful, beautiful creature, please, please forgive me. It breaks my heart, but I must, I must do this.’ Perhaps it was coincidence, but the animal ceased its violent struggle at the sound of her voice and watched her as she placed the muzzle carefully between its eyes, braced herself, held her breath and squeezed the trigger.
Silence. Nothing happened. She clamped her lips to stifle a wail of panic. The captain was still looking the other way. She’d never handled a gun before. What was she to do now? Common sense whispered that there must be a safety catch somewhere on this weapon. Where? Her damp hands shook even more when she turned it and located a lever beside the breech. It moved smoothly when she lifted it, then positioning the muzzle between the mare’s eyes, she tried again.
This time she forgot to brace herself and the rifle’s recoil slammed the butt painfully into her shoulder and sent her staggering backwards. But the bullet had done its job and the mare lay still at her feet.
For the next few moments she could do nothing but stand and stare in horror at what she’d accomplished. She’d killed this glorious animal! Her numbness quickly passed and she began to shake. She wiped a sleeve across her eyes, swallowed hard and turned away to carry the rifle back to the captain.
The little girl in his arms was whimpering and he shot a glance up at Victoria. ‘Quickly, look at this – see? Watch her eyelids.’
The dark lashes fluttered and the child’s eyes opened a crack. ‘Oh, Papa, it hurts. It hurts, Papa.’
The man kissed the little girl’s forehead and Victoria saw the moisture in his eyes. Then, still holding the child across his arms, he climbed to his feet.
Victoria knew that the sound of the gunshot was sure to have woken the sleeping syce, and, sure enough there was the little man already scrambling down the hill towards them. ‘Captain, I have a vehicle waiting on the high road. Can I take you and the child wherever you need to go?’
‘Thank you, but no. I’ll carry her – not far. But if you would be so good as to slip the strap of the rifle over my shoulder?’ By the way he moved it, she could tell that he was in pain.
At last he looked across to the mare. His lips tightened and she saw the misery in his eyes. ‘She was— I am most grateful for your assistance, ma’am.’
Victoria didn’t trust her voice not to break if she tried to speak. So they simply looked quickly at each other and exchanged a nod, then turned their backs and walked away in opposite directions.
Climbing back up the steep hill to the pony trap was made more difficult by the fact that she seemed to have little control of her limbs and her vision was blurred by unstoppable tears. She’d never be able to forget the expression in the mare’s eyes as she held the rifle against her forehead. She couldn’t bring herself to look back on what she’d done. It was too awful. But just then, she glimpsed the begum’s big Sikh servant come running from what she deduced must be the direction of the lake.
Pieces of today’s puzzle kept teasing her as the pony clopped its way slowly back to the cantonment. There was obviously much more to Captain Wyndham than the gossips of Srinagar realized. A little girl named Annabelle had called him papa, and she was, without doubt, the child with the painted elephant whom Victoria had seen being taken out to the begum’s houseboat near the Shalimar Gardens.
What was the captain’s connection with that grand lady with whom the British people of Srinagar refused to become associated? Why was the child in the begum’s care?
Where was Annabelle’s mother?
Andrew Wyndham’s shoulder ached, his head ached, and he was bruised from the fall. Fury at the whole episode burned inside him; the nightmare of Annabelle’s brush with death today would live with him forever. And his heart ached for the beautiful mare. One false step, one unexpected depression in the surface where her hoof had struck. Damn, damn, damn! Half a yard to the left or right and there would have been no fall. It was his own blasted fault. He’d been riding like a madman.
He poured a brandy and stood at his window, staring out into the night and trying to make sense of the events. The sudden arrival of the young Englishwoman at the scene had been most fortunate, but what tale would she carry back to the gossips? Who was she, this green-eyed girl who’d shown such a cool head in the emergency? No, her eyes weren’t truly green, they were hazel—
Whoever she was, he should at least try to find her and express his gratitude. But how could he do that? Knock on every door in the cantonment?
He turned from the window and pulled off his jacket. Of course, he should have left Srinagar two years ago. That had been the original plan he’d made with the begum: she would raise Annabelle for a year or so, spending winter on her estate near Amritsar and summer on the houseboat in Kashmir where Andrew was able to pay regular visits. And during those twelve months, he was to have resigned from the regiment and found himself a position somewhere in the Indian Civil Service – some place where he, himself, could raise his child.
But now Annabelle was three years old and here he was, still procrastinating. The begum had been his salvation, but how much more could he ask of her?
In reality, though, where could he and Annabelle settle down quietly as father and daughter? He’d turned down a job in the Madras Customs Office last year when he was hit by panic at the prospect of spending his life sitting at a desk reading endless cargo lists. The position of Deputy Forestry Officer in Bangalore had sounded promising – especially as a bungalow was to have been provided. But when news came that the whole area was ablaze in a series of confused and bloody religious riots, he withdrew his application. Perhaps he could find a position in Calcutta with a merchant house? Or learn whatever skills were required to become a banker? Pity that his application for the position of manager of a tea plantation in Darjeeling had been turned down. Perhaps he should never have mentioned that he knew nothing about growing tea.
He turned away from the window and began to undress for bed. Damn it, the army had been his whole life. The regiment was the only family he’d ever known and he had no real desire to walk away from it.
But where in that masculine and often lonely world would there ever be a place for his motherless child? He had to look elsewhere to provide whatever Annabelle was going to require along her path to womanhood. Though, with his funds in such a sorry state, would he ever be able to provide enough?
He opened the safe and took a great ruby ring from its box. It was valuable and it would be Annabelle’s one day. When she asked him where it had come from, he would tell her the story of her beautiful Indian mother who lived in a far-away place called Gwalinpore.
The old ache for Ishana remained buried deep in his heart. Ishana, whose love had restored life to his broken body. Did she sometimes fret for the tiny, precious gift that she’d sent to him three years ago? In that time, had any of his messages reached her in the palace zenana? Had the healer relayed the news that her beautiful daughter was well and thriving?
Andrew realized that it would only be a matter of time before information filtered through to his father that he had been applying for a variety of civilian posts, and he seemed to be the only one in Srinagar who wasn’t surprised by General Wyndham’s unscheduled visit to inspect the regiment. The adjutants had barely sufficient warning to ensure that everything was in order before the general’s party was sighted.
Colonel Moncrief welcomed General Wyndham with full pomp at a dinner in the officers’ mess. All the grand regimental silver was put into service and the general was in fine form at the head of the table, brimming with affability, generous with his praise.
Wearing full dress uniform with rows of decorations on his chest, Gordon Wyndham sat like a victorious Roman caesar about to send in the lions to devour the one man in the room who had not earned his praise this evening.
Andrew was placed well down the table, far enough away to catch only snatches of his father’s conversation, but perfectly able to interpret his performance by watching the admiration glowing on the faces of the men around him. General Wyndham was a hero, the victor of great battles. To the men in the ranks, he was known as Wyndham the Widow-maker.
Andrew studied his father and felt all his old resentment resurfacing. The general’s handsome features were beginning to coarsen, but though his hair was almost white, it was still thick. His brown eyes – Andrew himself had inherited those eyes, and so had Annabelle. He smiled inwardly as he sipped his claret, imagining what a trump card he might play one day when his dazzling Annabelle had reached womanhood and he at last introduced the general to his granddaughter. You see, Father, now you can’t deny that I’ve achieved at least one success in my life.
At the end of the evening, during which the general had made a point of ignoring his son, he called Andrew to drive back with him to the guest bungalow where he was staying. And as Andrew had anticipated, that was when the general’s affability ended.
With his hands clasped behind his back, he stood rocking on his heels, frowning down at his son lounging in a chair with his long legs crossed at the ankles. The strained silence between them grew, until the general exploded. ‘My God! What a lily-livered disappointment you’ve proved yourself to be.’
Andrew’s brows lifted in mock surprise.
The general’s voice always rumbled deeper when he was furious. It made subordinates quake. ‘It’s to my everlasting shame that my only son should have inherited every one of his mother’s character flaws, all her weakness and sentimentality.’
‘But, sir, I well remember you whipping all that kind of nonsense out of me thirty years ago.’ His voice was flat. ‘And what a fine job you made of it.’
The general took the chair opposite Andrew’s and leaned forward aggressively. ‘Did I indeed? Then kindly tell me what has happened to your loyalty, pride, honour, fortitude? I’d like to know how long you think you’ll be permitted to fritter away your life here in Srinagar?’
Andrew continued to regard him dispassionately. ‘Well, what can I say, sir? Actually, I’m looked on here as something of a wounded hero for trying to save the little Raja of Gwalinpore from being blown to pieces by that assassin’s bomb four years ago. Didn’t succeed, of course, but the palace healer managed to keep me alive and, since then, I’m sure the regimental surgeon has informed you about each stage of my recovery.’
‘Ah, yes, Doctor Lovell.’ The general didn’t disguise his sneer. ‘He’s a good friend, I assume? Willing to keep you on the “Unfit for Active Duty” list for a little longer?’
‘Naturally, I follow his professional advice, sir.’
‘And that includes playing a great deal of polo and cricket?’ A little twist in one corner of his mouth always appeared when the general became sarcastic. ‘And that morning gallop around the lake is most beneficial, too, eh?’ His smile became a leer. ‘I understand that you come back into town each morning, positively brimming with fitness.’
Andrew saw the track that his father’s thoughts were taking. Nobody knew about his early morning visits to Annabelle on the begum’s houseboat, and it gave him a perverse pleasure to play along with the general’s hint that he was keeping a little bibi somewhere in the hills.
‘Well, sir, I seem to recall that you had a similar arrangement in Benares.’
The general gave a quick, knowing grin. ‘Hmm. You were obviously more observant at the age of ten than I realized, but I can assure you that whatever time I spent on amusements, I never lost sight of my career. I was a lieutenant-colonel by your age, a full colonel by forty and a general at fifty!’ He poured himself a whisky, tossed it down and thumped the empty glass onto the table beside him.
Andrew braced himself for what he knew was coming: ‘Now give me one good reason, damnit, why you’re sniffing around for a job in the civil! Have you married some damned woman like your mother who refuses to knuckle down to army life? Or got yourself into a scrape with a female down on the plains?’
Andrew gave a cynical chuckle and shook his head. ‘Absolutely not! I keep telling you that I’m simply a wounded hero.’
His father scowled. ‘And I’ll lay a bet that you were fool enough to come away from that débâcle in Gwalinpore with empty pockets, too. Why didn’t you have the wits to tell your royal hosts that a contribution from the palace treasury would be the appropriate compensation for your injuries?’
Andrew kept a straight face. ‘But I’ve always been told that kind of thing is against regulations, sir!’ God alone knew how much his father had accepted in gifts and bribes over the years.
‘Lord, Andrew! Have you no ambition? No thought of what the future holds for you? It’s been ten years since you were made captain, and here you are, thirty-four years of age and still a bloody captain with the job of running messages between the soft-headed British Resident here and that lying old rogue of a maharaja up there in the fort! Military attaché, be damned! You’re nothing but a lackey!’ Now he was shouting.
Andrew held his temper and offered no denial. The general gave a huff of exasperation, pulled a cheroot case from his pocket and offered him one. For some time they sat facing each other, smoking in silence. His father rested his head on the back of the chair, brooding as he blew perfect smoke rings and watched them wobble their way towards the ceiling.
‘You’re a bloody fool, Andrew,’ he growled at last. ‘If you burn your bridges and leave the army, I’ll have done with you and you’ll get not one penny when I’m dead.’
When Andrew simply lifted one shoulder and said nothing, the general again lost patience. ‘Why the devil won’t you spare a thought for your career? Before that Gwalinpore business you were well regarded at the highest level, and with my influence you had every chance of getting a command of your own before long.’ He glared at Andrew, ground the stub of his cherooot into the ashtray and waited for an explanation. None came.
‘Listen to me! The North-west Frontier is still the place to see real action and make a name for yourself. I could have arranged your transfer into the Guides, y’know, and if you’d proved your worth with them, you’d soon have been given command of one of the forts they’re building along the border. Very likely, you’d have been promoted to lieutenant-colonel by forty.’
‘How splendid.’ Andrew gave an exaggerated yawn. ‘I’ll sleep on it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I must say goodnight.’
His father’s voice echoed in his head as he mounted his horse and rode back to his own quarters in the residency compound. Being accepted to serve in the elite Corps of Guides in Mardan was the goal of every ambitious officer, but if he should ever win a place with them, it was going to be on his own merits and not because he was Gordon Wyndham’s son. His mind played with the thought. What if he did apply now to join the Guides?
Challenging images of commanding a frontier fort filled his head as he prepared for bed. He could see it clearly: bringing his junior officers and the troops to the peak of readiness, settling quarrels and negotiating peace between the warring hill tribes. God! How he wanted to be given that kind of responsibility. And those forts were built with accommodation for the commander’s family.
He lay on his bed watching the moon shadows on the ceiling and wondering how the Corps of Guides on the North-west Frontier would view the arrival of an unmarried officer with a small daughter of mixed blood and her ayah?
It was impossible. Annabelle would never be accepted. He gave a grunt and heaved himself on to his side. The whole evening had left him with an aching weariness, and the sane part of his brain told him to forget about the Guides and go to sleep quickly. The other part kept him awake. Might there be some way to change the impossible?
After another hour of sleepless tossing he flung back the sheets and went to his writing desk. Why shouldn’t he put his name forward for a transfer to the Guides? Not through official channels at this stage, just a polite enquiry in a personal letter to Major-General Roberts at Mardan.
Andrew’s pen flew over the paper as he diplomatically reminded Bob Roberts of their meeting five years previously when his company had fought alongside the Guides at the Bolan Pass. Modesty prevented him from mentioning the medal he’d won in that action. In any case, he didn’t think that the major-general was a man who would forget the night that Lieutenant Wyndham, as he was then, had used his initiative to move his company out under cover of darkness, circle a hill, scramble up over rocks and boulders to rout a large force of hidden Pathans. It was an action that had prevented a surprise dawn attack on the main force.
Roberts himself had recommended him for the medal. ‘Just the sort of man we want for the Guides,’ he’d said at the time. So why shouldn’t Andrew see if that was still the case? But what would he do about Annabelle? Was there a kind-hearted woman somewhere who would be prepared to become mother to a soldier’s child and go out to the frontier with him? Hah! The only candidate for such a position would have to be a woman with lunacy in her family, and he already had enough of that running through his own.
Even with a stream of craftsmen at work throughout Pelham-sahib’s house, Duleep insisted on noise being kept to a minimum.
But next day, as Victoria sat reading in the last of the afternoon light in the garden at the side of the house, a great hullabaloo broke out indoors. A moment later, she was startled to see the orphaned child, Molly Collins come scrambling out of the drawing room window and dropping to the ground with something in her hand. The girl darted across the lawn and into the shrubbery, just as a young cavalry lieutenant along with two troopers pulled up in a flurry of dust at Nigel’s gate and ran to the front door.
Victoria could hear the officer speaking urgently with Duleep and a moment later, they turned the corner of the house together and strode across the grass in her direction. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Molly’s patchwork skirt moving amongst the bushes.
Until she learned what trouble Molly had got herself into this time, she was reluctant to give away the child’s hiding place.
‘Why, Lieutenant Woodley, this is indeed a pleasant surprise. Whatever has brought you here in such a lather?’ She stood quickly and walked towards the spotty-faced young man, wearing her brightest smile and hoping that this might divert his attention from the bushes beyond.
He pulled off his white helmet. ‘My apologies for disturbing you, Mrs Latham, but I’m searching for a child named Molly Collins. I have orders to take her back to the regimental chaplain.’
‘Oh! Does that mean he’s been able to locate her relatives in Ireland?’
‘No, ma’am. But she can’t stay any longer with Mrs Williams because the 24th Rifles have been ordered to Jaipur, and all the wives and families are packing up to follow them.’
‘Oh! But is there no other family here prepared to look after the poor girl?’
The young man blew a long breath between his lips. ‘Not Molly Collins, ma’am. She’s known to be too much of a handful.’
Those words send Victoria’s heart plummeting. ‘So what does the chaplain plan to do with her? Please don’t tell me that he’s going to put her on a boat and send her back to England on her own!’
‘No, I assure you that won’t happen, Mrs Latham. He’s made arrangements for her to be sent to a mission station outside Poona. The good Christians down there might be able to teach her to change the error of her ways.’ He lifted his high-bridged nose. ‘Are you aware that child has just stolen certain property from this house?’
That child. ‘The girl has a name, Lieutenant! It is Molly Collins and in the last twelve months she has lost her father and her mother, and even her two little brothers have been sent away to school. And, as you know, when they finish there, those boys are likely to serve the rest of their lives in the army, so when will she ever see them again?’ Victoria’s throat tightened and her voice became thin. ‘Don’t you agree that Molly must feel that the world has been very unfair to her? Perhaps she wonders how she is to survive if she doesn’t take matters into her own hands.’
The young officer’s face turned scarlet and Victoria took pity on him. After all, he was simply the messenger. She drew in a deep breath and changed her tone. ‘Well, thank you for telling me about the chaplain’s plans, Lieutenant. I’ll know what to do now if I should happen to see Molly.’
‘Oh, oh – thank you, Mrs Latham. Yes, if you do see her, please send a message to the chaplain’s office and he’ll – well, he’ll—’ He replaced his helmet quickly and adjusted the chin strap. ‘Good evening, ma’am.’
‘Duleep,’ she said, watching his dark eyes scan the shrubbery. ‘Not one word of that conversation is to leave this house. I will speak with Pelham-sahib as soon as he comes home, and then we will decide how best to handle the matter concerning the young person who is at this moment hiding in those bushes.’
She raised her voice a little and spoke clearly so that her words carried. ‘Tell me, Duleep, what did Miss Molly Collins take from this house?’
‘Pink velvet ribbon, memsahib. About two yards that the upholsterer had cut for—’
‘Oh, it was something pretty. I see. Thank you, Duleep, I’ll not keep you from your duties any longer.’ She sat on the chair again, opened her book and pretended to read until he’d walked back into the house.
‘Well, Molly, I’m not cross with you, but I’d like you to come out of the bushes now and let me know what you think about the chaplain’s arrangement to send you to Poona.’ She heard the rustle of leaves, but the child didn’t appear.
‘Has any one ever asked Molly Collins where she’d like to go?’ Victoria kept her head down, but from the corner of her eye she saw a movement and a peep of colour. ‘I’d like to talk to Molly about this. Perhaps she’ll come over here and tell me about it, and what she’d like to do when she grows up.’
‘Mil-ner.’
Victoria strained to catch the soft voice coming from her left. ‘Did you say that you’d like to become a miller? A flour miller?’
‘Nah! A mil-ner that makes ’ats for ladies.’
‘Of course! A milliner. And I’m sure a milliner always needs pink velvet ribbon, doesn’t she?’
The girl slowly emerged and sat cross-legged on the grass several yards away from Victoria’s chair. ‘Major Fairweather’s wife always wears the best ’ats. Flowers and feathers and veils. And she’s even got one with a pearl brooch on the front.’
‘That sounds very smart. Perhaps I’ll be able to come and buy a hat from your shop one day.’
When Molly looked up at last, her eyes were awash with tears. ‘I’m sorry I took your ribbon, missus. But I don’t want to be sent away to a mission. Please.’ She moved closer and put the now grimy length of velvet onto Victoria’s lap. ‘And if you tell me that I’ve got to go back to school, I will.’
‘Thank you for the ribbon, Molly, and yes, I think that school is very important for someone who wants to become a milliner. There’ll always be letters to write to customers and money to add up at the end of the day.’ The girls tears began to overflow onto her freckled cheeks.
‘Now, Molly, my name is Mrs Latham, and this house belongs to a very kind man called Mr Pelham. As soon as he comes home I’ll talk to him about the plans that the chaplain has been making for you.’ Molly sniffed loudly and wiped her sleeve across her eyes. ‘But first, I think that a warm bath in my room would be the best idea.’
That bath was a novel experience for the girl, and it was followed by a big supper arriving on a tray. Though Duleep couldn’t hide his disapproval, a bed was made up for Molly beside Victoria’s, and her clothes were taken away to be washed.
‘Duleep, until I discuss this situation with Pelham-sahib, I don’t want one word about the child to leave this house. Is that understood?’
The sun had barely set when Molly’s head settled on the pillow and she was asleep well before Nigel arrived home.
‘Oh, no, Victoria! She can’t possibly remain here,’ he said, when she presented him with Molly’s predicament. ‘You mustn’t meddle. It’s a matter for the regiment to handle. This child is not your responsibility!’
‘Oh yes, she is, Nigel. An unprotected girl is the responsibility of all decent people.’ She looked at him squarely. ‘From what I’ve learned about your Maud, I’m certain that she would have had no hesitation in doing all she could to help Molly Collins. It’s just a matter of deciding what will be best for her.’
When Kitty arrived for dinner and heard the story, Victoria immediately gained an ally. ‘Nigel, my darling, we need to consider this carefully, so you must write to the chaplain right away to say that Molly Collins is here, but a little unwell and not fit to be moved until Mrs Latham deems it advisable.’
While Nigel went into his study and put pen to paper as she’d directed, Kitty and Victoria began searching for a possible solution.
‘If only we could find another woman to take her in – a capable, tolerant woman – kind, but firm,’ Kitty said.
‘And if the Regimental Benevolent Fund isn’t prepared to pay for Molly’s board and lodging for a few years, I’ll do it myself,’ Victoria added.
They drew up a list of names. It was a very short list that was quickly whittled down to one: Mrs Pettigrew, wife of the deputy health officer.
‘Oh, it’s hopeless!’ Kitty threw down her pencil. ‘Mrs Pettigrew is leaving here in two weeks. She’s taking Oliver home to start school.’
‘Well, my dears,’ Nigel said when he rejoined them, ‘I’ve sent a message to the chaplain, though you must realize that keeping Molly here for a few more days is merely delaying the inevitable. This can’t become her haven.’
Victoria frowned as she scribbled mindless circles on the pad. Nigel was right: Molly needed to find a haven. Just as she, herself, had needed a haven following that dreadful night in Hanover Square when her parents cast her out of their lives.
But she’d found her haven at Cloudhill with Emily and Martin. If only she could talk to Martin about Molly Collins.
She voiced those thoughts to Nigel. ‘Can’t you just imagine Molly being cared for at Cloudhill and going off to the village school each morning? Perhaps Mrs Frost could train her to become a parlour maid, or she might be given work with Mrs Dobson in the kitchen and even learn to cook if she showed some aptitude.’
Nigel agreed. ‘Any girl with a good reference from Cloudhill would have no difficulty finding employment in any great house.’
Victoria chewed her bottom lip. ‘But even if Mrs Pettigrew said that she was willing to take Molly back to England with her in a fortnight, I can hardly pack the poor girl up and send her over there without first writing to Martin and Emily and asking if they’d be prepared to find a place her at Cloudhill. Even if they said yes, it would take – oh, I don’t know how long to hear back from them.’
‘Then why not send Martin a cable?’
‘Is that possible?’
‘Of course. There’s not a corner of the Empire that can’t be reached by undersea cable these days. We could telegraph your message to Bombay and it would be relayed from there to England. It’s possible for an answer to arrive back here within a week.’
Actually, it took five days to receive Martin’s reply. ‘Happy to oblige. Send arrival details.’
When Victoria and Kitty put the proposal to Mrs Pettigrew she was less than enthusiastic, but her attitude softened and she almost smiled when Victoria proposed a purse of £50 to cover Molly’s travel expenses. ‘I think that this should cover any out-of-pocket charges that you might meet along the way, Mrs Pettigrew.’
‘I won’t pretend that I’m delighted to take on the responsibility of delivering Molly safely to your relatives in England, Mrs Latham, so please tell her that she must do everything I say. And remind her that I will tolerate no bad manners.’
Once the arrangements for Molly had been settled, Nigel presented them to the regimental chaplain. ‘Yes, the child has recovered her health – and my cousin in Somerset has offered to provide a place for her in his household. He’ll see that she’s given training in some useful area.’
The chaplain shook Nigel’s hand warmly. ‘Thank you, m’dear chap! You’ve taken a great weight from my shoulders. And I only hope that your cousin in Somerset has a strong constitution!’
Even though Victoria went to great pains to explain these plans in a positive light, Molly, who had grown up in a tumbledown house behind the barracks, was overwhelmed by the size of the changes that were about to come into her life.
‘The first thing, Molly, is to learn good manners and always remember to use them. We’ll start right now.’
Molly seemed eager to follow Victoria’s demonstrations on how a twelve-year-old girl should behave in adult company, how to handle her knives and forks at the table, how to chew her food quietly, how to keep her hands and face clean at all times.
‘You see, Molly, learning good manners is really like learning the rules of a game, or finding the answer to a secret code that everyone else knows. Once you know the rules and always follow them, the walls that keep people apart begin to disappear. Mrs Frost and Mrs Dobson at Cloudhill will teach you all kinds of useful things and help you grow up into a capable young lady.’
Molly’s anxiety eventually started to disappear when Kitty arrived at the house with six dresses – all donated by families whose own daughters had outgrown them.
With her tawny hair washed and brushed and tied back with ribbon, Molly tried on each one, and gazed in disbelief at the reflection she saw in Victoria’s looking glass. ‘You mean I can keep every one? Oooh!’
Nigel permitted her to dine with them several times before she left for England.
‘You’re a bright girl, Molly m’dear, and a credit to your mother and father,’ he said, and slipped a gold sovereign into her hand as she was saying farewell to them all.
‘Remember to always eat slowly with your mouth closed, blow your nose quietly, don’t forget to say “please” and “thank you” – and you’ll do very well, m’dear.’