THE CURSE OF KALI - 2

THE CURSE OF KALI

AUDREY BLANKENHAGEN

( INSTALMENT 2 )

Chapter 7

A desperate need to see her friend the Sunyassi again, drove Helen to leave the Residency before the household was awake. She saddled up Sultana and rode out to the little temple.

It was empty: there were only the flickering lights of the clay lamps and the Goddess garlanded with flowers sitting impassively on her dais. Helen was about to turn and leave the little temple, when a figure of a man emerged from behind the statue. She was startled at first until she recognised that he was dressed in European clothes. His well oiled, black hair was parted in the middle and he had a thin moustache above equally thin lips.

Further examination of his badly tailored linen suit and dusky complexion convinced her that the man was not European, but Eurasian.

‘Good morning, Lady French,’ said the man, bowing from the waist, ‘At last we meet. I am Vincent de Silva, the brother of your housekeeper, Isabel. Are you interested in temples?’

Helen now noticed the resemblance to Isabel in the man’s dark skin and features, but Vincent de Silva’s eyes were light grey and close set and his thin-lipped mouth was curved in an insolent smile.

Before she had time to answer, he took her arm in a strong grip and propelled her towards the goddess’s statue behind which there appeared to be another entrance to the temple. He was saying, ‘You must let me show you the temple of the Goddess Kali, which is not far from here but in a cave behind the waterfall in the forest.’

Helen pulled back and said impatiently, ‘No, I do not wish to visit any other temple today. I must return to the Residency now.’

The man’s grip tightened even more on her arm as he leaned towards her, ’Kunkali insists that I bring you to visit her. Come, we must not disappoint this particular goddess - her wrath can be terrible.’

‘How dare you try to force me, Mr. de Silva. Unhand me at once!’ shouted Helen angrily, determined not to show any fear in the face of this repulsive man.

‘You heard what the memsahib said,’ a voice behind them spoke and Helen turned, relieved to see the wiry figure of her Sunyassi standing at the door of the temple, a stout lathi in his hand. Not taking his brilliant eyes off the Goan man, the Sunyassi pointed a bony finger at him and chanted some words in a dialect, which Helen did not recognise.

Vincent de Silva paled, immediately releasing Helen’s arm and fell to his knees in front of the holy man, a look of abject terror on his face. ‘Please do not curse me, holy man, I meant no harm to the memsahib, but only wanted to show her Kunkali’s temple.’

Then he scuttled away by the exit behind the idol and Helen, relieved by his departure, rushed towards the Sunyassi and embraced him like a long lost friend. Almost at once she realised how presumptuous her over enthusiastic welcome must appear to this quiet, dignified man.

‘Oh, forgive me, holy Sahib, for the liberty of embracing you, but I had come here for the sole purpose of seeing you and when that horrible man appeared and you came to my rescue, I admit it was as if an old friend had intervened.’

‘I am glad you consider me an old friend, my child. I have thought a great deal about you since our last meeting and hoped to see you once more before I continue my journey to those snow-capped heights. There I hope to find shruti,’ said the old man, smiling and pointing to the high peaks of the Himalayas, visible through the open door of the temple.

‘But must you go on that long journey so soon and I am so afraid the cold of the mountains will be hazardous for you. Why not rest for a while before leaving Mirapore as my guest at the Residency,’ pleaded Helen, not even stopping to think what Gavin would say when she introduced him to her Sunyassi.

‘You are very kind and I thank you from the bottom of my heart, but I have already wasted a great deal of time and must be on my way. The cold will not harm me, child, and I will stay at a Buddhist monastery until I am well acclimatised, before venturing out for long periods of contemplation. Come, let me escort you back to the city.’

Once again the holy man walked alongside Helen, now mounted on Sultana.

‘There is something which I do not understand, holy Sahib. Who is the Goddess ‘Kunkali’ and why is she so important to that Goanese man?’ questioned Helen.

‘Kunkali is another name for the Goddess Kali and means “Man Eater”, because of her alleged ferocious lust for blood sacrifices. She is also known as Bhowani, Durga and to the Moslem sect of Thuggees, Fatima. The legend is that she is the consort of Lord Shiva, the Destroyer and Regenerator and she defeated the demon Raktavija and drank his blood, which gave her that black appearance. The ancient cult of Thuggees sacrificed to Kali with their murderous rumels and pickaxes, preying on travellers, but your own Major General Sleeman was responsible for hunting them down and destroying them,’ explained the holy man.

‘Do you believe in this deity, holy Sahib?’ asked Helen.

‘Not in the goddess, herself, but in the evil which is perpetrated in her name by superstitious men who believe they can evade their khama by human sacrifice. It is not unlike the cult of devil worship in Christian countries.’

Helen was tempted to tell the Sunyassi about the alleged curse on Gavin’s family, but her friend did not need to be troubled by these pedestrian matters when he had his own spiritual journey to make, a journey she feared which would not be easy at his age. Tears glistened in the old man’s eyes as he gave the Englishwoman his final blessing and Helen overcome with sadness, watched him disappear up the forest path with a feeling of deep loss - something pure and beautiful was walking out of her life.

******

The masked ball, and their preparations for it, were from another world to that of her Sunyassi, the Goddess Kali and Vincent de Silva. When she was dressed in her beautiful flamenco dress, she clasped the lapis lazuli necklace about her neck and fitted the earrings to her earlobes. Gavin could have chosen their colour and design precisely for this dress, which they matched so beautifully.

He was waiting in the study with Rosita when Helen came downstairs and when he saw her standing at the door, surveying his handsome figure in the striking costume of a Spanish bullfighter, he grinned like a sheepish, little boy dressed, unwillingly, in his Sunday best. Helen chuckled, remembering how his father, Sir Terence, had hated dressing up for their masked balls at Charnwood Hall and she suddenly had an urge to clasp Gavin to her and kiss his little boy expression, so different to his customary air of self confidence.

‘So, Helen, I look as ridiculous as I feel,’ said an embarrassed Gavin.

‘But of course not, Gavin. The costume is splendid and makes you look handsomer than ever,’ countered Helen quickly.

‘Then what do you find so amusing, young lady?’

‘Oh, Gavin, it is only because your expression reminded me of your father, who hated wearing fancy dress, unlike my own parent who loved the opportunity to dress up - the difference, I suppose, between the Anglo Saxon and Scottish temperaments.’

‘Your husband is the handsomest torrero I have ever seen, Helen, and in that costume, with his dark hair and sunburned skin, Gavin could pass for one of my fellow countrymen,’ said Rosita, somewhat crossly.

The costume was indeed splendid. Rosita had copied it from a painting of a famous Spanish matador, which hung on her sitting room wall - black velvet knee breeches, with gold and silver embroidered panels at the sides and a heavily embroidered, velvet shell jacket which fitted Gavin’s broad shoulders perfectly. Even the pink hose, flat leather pumps and red cape

were an exact replica of the bullfighter’s costume in the portrait.

The drive, and the road in front of the French Consulate, were packed with carriages and the usual throng of onlookers crowded around the gates watching these strange Europeans arriving for their tamasha. Helen wondered what thoughts were passing behind their dark, phlegmatic faces. They and their forefathers had, of course, witnessed even more splendid displays organised for Moghul rulers and feudal princes, but this was different, because these people from across the seas were so dissimilar to Indians. Is that what they were thinking, mused Helen, as the carriage door was opened and Gavin helped her out?

The French Consulate was smaller than the Residency, but it was beautifully appointed and the interior tastefully decorated according to French traditions.

Blanche and her husband were standing at the entrance to the large ballroom to greet their guests. The Comtesse was dressed in the Empire style favoured by the Empress, Josephine, and her husband, the Comte (too tall for Napoleon he told his guests) was dressed in the rich scarlet robes of Cardinal Richelieu, the eminent ecclesiast and virtual ruler of France in the reign of Louis XIII.

Their Scottish friends, too, were magnificently costumed: Agnes Cameron was dressed in the sixteenth century dress of Mary, Queen of Scots and her husband as the hapless Lord Darnley: John MacGregor had donned the wild, thirteenth century Highland dress of the brave Sir William Wallace, who defeated Edward I and, ultimately, was so cruelly executed by the vindictive ‘Longshanks’.

The Spaniards, Don Hernandez and his family, were extremely effusive about Gavin and Helen’s choice of Spanish costumes and seemed to take their choice of fancy dress as a personal compliment to Spain. They, themselves, wore the fifteenth century Spanish court dress of Isabella and Ferdinand of Spain and their daughter, Pura, the gown of the Infanta.

The costumes were all so marvellous and Helen could imagine the little Indian tailors, cutting and stitching till early dawn in their ill-lit shops, to produce these strange clothes, the like of which they had never seen except in the history books loaned to them by their European customers.

The music of a waltz was playing and Gavin whisked Helen into his arms, holding her closer than the dance dictated.

‘You are looking so lovely tonight, Helen; a different hairstyle, I see,’ he whispered in her ear.

‘Thank you, Gavin. Rosita dressed it in the Spanish style so that I would look less like a gypsy and more like a Spanish lady,’ she smiled, alluding to his remark when he had come upon her, so unexpectedly, dancing the flamenco.

Helen realised that Gavin had not failed to notice the glossy, heavy coil of hair braided at the nape of her neck in a Spanish style chignon, into which Rosita had entwined blue silk flowers.

‘The style suits you,’ said Gavin softly and Helen was aware of his eyes on her neck, her bare shoulders and the cleft between her breasts.' The blue of the dress makes your eyes look deeper and almost turquoise. Do you know you take my breath away?’ he murmured and when the music stopped, he seemed reluctant to let her go.

Helen, too, could not fail to observe how Gavin stood out from all the men in the room with his dark good looks and striking costume and she found herself suddenly jealous of any attention he paid to other women, particularly the flirtatious Blanche. Even young Pura, shyly smiling and looking up at him with those limpid dark eyes, as he guided her in the steps of a dance, seemed to pose a threat and Helen felt suddenly she must get some fresh air, or scream.

Out on the balcony, the Indian night was cooler and Helen looked up to the dark skies and saw the same stars which twinkled in the firmament over England, but here they seemed brighter. Crickets chirped and bats swooped amongst the mango trees in the garden and high above the city stood the magnificent backdrop of the Himalayas whose everlasting snows had beckoned to her Sunyassi to find his shruti.

A figure detached itself from the far corner of the balcony and came towards her. It was Prince Ali who was representing the Nawab at the French Consul’s banquet. Prince Ali was dressed in a sartorially cut English dinner suit, eschewing any fancy dress, although Helen supposed his European apparel was just as much ‘costume’ to this Moslem prince.

‘Ah, the beautiful Lady French. You seemed so lost in thought, I did not want to disturb you,’ said the prince and Helen wondered how long he had been observing her.

‘Good evening, Your Highness, I trust you are enjoying the ball. I met your mother a few days ago at the invitation of Comtesse de Colbert when she was taking tea at the Consulate,’ said Helen, offering this information for no reason other than to hide her mounting embarrassment, because Prince Ali was now standing so close behind her with his hands resting on either side of her on the balcony balustrade.

‘Yes, she told me and she is quite entranced by your beauty, as I am at this moment. English women have always fascinated me and if I was not a good Moslem, I would like to take a woman such as you for my wife. Do you think I could do that, Lady French; after all my mother is European?’

Helen laughed nervously. ‘It is something for you and your family to decide, Prince Ali. Do not ask me such a question, please.’ Helen tried to move away from the circle of the Prince’s arms, but he had now dropped his hands from the balustrade and wound them around her waist, drawing her nearer to him until she could feel his hot breath, disagreeably well laced with alcohol, on the nape of her neck.

‘Helen, this is my dance, I believe,’ and once again her saviour, John MacGregor, had come to her rescue.

At the sound of his voice, the rather inebriated Prince dropped his arms and moved unsteadily away from Helen.

‘Of course, John, I have not forgotten. Come, let us go in,’ and Helen took the Scotman’s arm with an air of relief.

‘That drunken oaf will get his just deserts one of these days. It is only because I did not want to cause a diplomatic incident, that I did not punch him on his long nose. Just as well Gavin did not see his over familiarity with you,’ muttered an angry John as they joined the dancers in the ballroom.

Helen looked up into the blue eyes of her Scottish friend and smiled affectionately and it was this look that Gavin saw as he looked around the room to seek her. The bright room, the music and wine and all the other guests seemed to vanish from his sight; all he saw was his lovely wife smiling gently into another man’s eyes. A searing pain clutched Gavin’s heart and he felt a raging jealousy, which he had never experienced before in his life.

He came towards them, his face grim and said hoarsely, ‘It is time we went home, Helen. You will excuse us, John, my wife has not been well lately and has had enough excitement for one night.’

Then taking an astounded Helen’s arm, Gavin propelled her towards their hosts and in a mood of forced control, he made the customary polite exchanges with the Comte and Comtesse, before bundling Helen away and into their carriage.

Coldly furious, he sat beside her, his fingers clenched into fists and his head turned away from her.

‘What is the matter with you, Gavin? I am not ill at all and you were so impolite bundling me away from the ball like a naughty child, even before supper was served. What have I done?’ said Helen, wondering if he had, in fact, seen the Prince’s unwanted embrace on the balcony.

‘Done, nothing yet, at least not with me, but as long as I am present you will refrain from flirting with your Scottish lover,’ growled her husband.

‘Flirting with John MacGregor? Are you mad? He had just rescued me from the embarrassing attentions of a drunken Prince Ali when I went out on the balcony for some fresh air. If you had not been so taken with all the other women, you would have noticed my plight,’ Helen said angrily, not realising that she, too, was giving vent to her own jealousy.

‘So you blame me for your flighty behaviour, Lady French. I have ample proof of your continued meetings with the Scotsman whilst I have been away and of his desire for you. What was it he said the day he delivered you to the Residency; let me think. Ah yes, “Au revoir, beautiful lady. I shall see you on your wedding day, but remember if you change your mind...” ’

‘Who told you that?’ said a furious Helen, surprised, and then she remembered the words John MacGregor had spoken to her on the day of her arrival in Mirapore. Only Rosita and Isabel de Silva had heard those words and Rosita would not have repeated them to Gavin.

‘So you listen to servant’s gossip, Sir Gavin French. Did this gossip also tell you that John MacGregor has escorted me to the fort on only a few occasions whilst you were away and those were at the request of Lady Agnes to meet the other British women? I usually ride alone!’ emphasised a now seething Helen.

They had arrived at the Residency and Gavin followed Helen into the reception hall. She had just put one foot on the stairs to go up to her bedroom, when he caught her arm and turned her around to face him.

‘You are angry with me, Helen,’ Gavin said with some surprise.

‘What do you expect, accusing me of flirting and worse, and making such a fool of us both in front of all those people!’ Helen’s eyes glared at her husband, leaving him in no doubt that he had over-played his role of aggrieved spouse.

Gavin’s mood softened and his lips twisted into a fleeting smile, ‘Please forgive me, Helen. I promise I will not embarrass you again.’ Then drawing her into his arms, he kissed her gently on the top of her head and held her close for a moment before he turned on his heel and went out into the night.

Helen lay awake turning over the scene with Gavin and wondering where he had gone at this time of the night. He had displayed jealousy, which made her wonder if he loved her after all - but no, his masculine pride would insist on her fidelity, even though he, himself, was faithless. Then she heard him enter his room and his footsteps stop outside her door, but he didn’t come in and she soon fell asleep dreaming that she was sitting on an Himalayan peak, calling to her Sunyassi to help her find her love.

Helen saw very little of Gavin during the following weeks. They met at dinner and he was polite but distant.

The Clinic for the Poor was now open and Helen and the Arab doctor were busy with their patients. Helen had taken it upon herself, with the aid of Princess Muna as translator, to instruct the women in hygiene and child care, especially the young mothers.

The little princess was a charming pupil and quick to learn the skills of nursing. She seemed to enjoy this break from the harem where her only companions were the corpulent eunuchs and spoilt harem women, with nothing to do all day but pamper themselves and gossip.

‘Helen, can I ask you a favour?’ said the princess at the end of one day when they were alone in the surgery.

‘Yes, of course, how can I help?’ enquired Helen.

‘Oh, it is only that I would like to come riding with you some time. I am a good horsewoman, but am permitted to ride only in the grounds of the seraglio.’

‘Well, if Begum Shalima has no objection, I would be glad of your company, but you must ask her first,’ said Helen not wishing to break any rules of purdah.

The Begum agreed, provided that Helen always accompanied the princess, who must wear a veil and the women would have to be escorted by an armed Rohilla guard.

And so it was that Helen found herself riding occasionally with an excited Princess Muna and a fearsome Rohilla guard, the latter carrying a carbine and ammunition belt and the curved talwar.

It was only on their third ride that Helen noticed Princess Muna’s interest in the guard. The man that usually accompanied them was young, handsome and obviously part Caucasian, because of his fair skin, grey eyes and light brown hair streaked with blond.

Helen noticed Princess Muna drop her veil deliberately when the guard assisted her to mount and although she recovered it immediately, it was long enough for the poor boy to catch a glimpse of those lovely eyes and elfin-faced beauty. The princess alternated between imperious haughtiness and womanly wiles towards the smitten guard and Helen, although amused by the girl’s teenage antics, was slightly alarmed. A love affair between these two, even if it was conducted only by eye signals and smiles, could never be and Helen was forced to warn Princess Muna that she was not being fair to the young man, ‘Perhaps, another guard should accompany us,’ she warned.

‘Oh no, please, Helen. He will be sent away if we complain. I promise not to tease him, but he is so handsome and there are no beautiful men in the seraglio,’ little Muna pleaded and Helen did not have the heart to spoil the princess’s harmless fun. Let her dream whilst she can, because soon she will be forced into a marriage not of her choosing.

Princess Muna was as good as her word, although Helen noticed how the young guard’s fingers lingered on her little foot whenever he helped her mount and one day when the princess had organised a picnic for them by the lake, Muna thoughtfully chose some choice savouries and sweetmeats. These she arranged carefully on a silver plate and with a glass of lassi, handed them, personally, to the guard who sat some distance away from the two women.

She was rewarded with a flashing smile and a lingering look of love from the young man’s grey eyes.

The next day the Nawab, Prince Hassan and Gavin paid a visit to the clinic. Helen was in the operating theatre performing a tonsillectomy on a young boy and it was left to the Arab physician to escort his visitors around.

‘Where is my wife?’ enquired Gavin.

‘Ah, she is in surgery. I leave her to perform most of the surgical procedures as she is a first-class surgeon and more recently qualified than I am. Would you like to observe, Sir Gavin?’ enquired Mahmoud Bin Said.

He led them to an annex separated from the operating theatre by a glass wall. Helen was bent over her patient, with Princess Muna and another Eurasian nurse assisting.

Gavin watched with admiration as his wife performed this delicate operation with deft fingers and a confidence worthy of a surgeon with many years’ experience.

That night after dinner Gavin joined her on the verandah for coffee and lighting his cigar, he drew up a rattan chair near Helen and said, ‘I visited your clinic today and saw you operating on a young boy. Your skill as a surgeon impressed me, Helen. I have never seen a woman surgeon in action before.’

‘No, I expect you will not see too many of us around. There is a great deal of male opposition to women practising medicine in England, but here in India and amongst the poor at home, the sex of the medical practitioner is irrelevant.’ replied Helen, rather brusquely, remembering the prejudice she had encountered in the past.

Gavin leaned forward and touched her knee. ‘I hope I did not sound patronising, sweetheart. I have nothing but admiration for your skill and I know Mahmoud bin Said is deeply impressed. Tell me about your training and the work you did with the Burtons at the Missionary Clinic.’

Helen found herself relating all her experience at medical school and the difficulty she had as the only woman on the course and, subsequently, in finding a post as a surgeon in a hospital, despite her first-class medical degree.

‘It was only my work in Father’s practice and the Burton’s Clinic that gave me the clinical experience I needed so desperately,’ concluded Helen, suddenly realising that she had monopolised the conversation.

‘Oh, forgive me, Gavin, I am talking non-stop about myself. Tell me about your early years here in India and ... and your marriage to Maria. She was very beautiful, I believe, but I do not see a portrait of her in the Residency. Please talk about her, if you wish, I will not mind. I can imagine her death was devastating to you so soon after your marriage,’ whispered Helen, desperately wanting to know more about this woman, about whom no one spoke.

Gavin stood up and walked to the verandah balustrade and for some moments he said nothing, only stared out into the dark garden, drawing on his cigar. Helen wondered whether she had raised a subject that was still too raw for him to discuss.

Then he turned to face her and said quietly, ‘Maria … her death was a tragedy waiting to happen, because she insisted on visiting the bazaars to paint Indian women. She was an artist, you know. As for a portrait of her, she did paint a self-portrait but it was never hung because … well, it was not suitable,’ said Gavin enigmatically, making Helen even more curious about the lovely Maria, but she sensed that Gavin did not wish to pursue the conversation, because he turned once more to look out into the night.

A deep sadness clutched at Helen’s heart, for Gavin, for the tragic Maria and for herself, who would always be second-best in his heart. She rose from her chair and walked to her husband’s side and impulsively placed her hand on his bare, muscled forearm exposed by his rolled up shirt sleeve.

‘I am so sorry, Gavin, if I have inadvertently upset you. I hoped that by talking about Maria, it might relieve your pain. Please forgive me,’ said Helen her voice breaking.

Gavin turned again towards his wife and lifting her chin with one finger, noticed by the light of the oil lanterns, the tears shining in her lovely eyes, ‘Are you crying for a woman you never knew, my darling? Of course, you have not upset me. Maria died as she had lived and we were relieved when death released her, because the smallpox would have left her disfigured with scars she could not have borne. But you, my love, have had a long day and I noticed dark circles under your eyes at dinner. Please take more care of yourself, little sweetheart.’

Then drawing her shawl more closely across her shoulders, he gently guided her into the hall.

‘I have some reports to write in my study, but you must go to bed, Helen. I’ll call Rosita to attend to you.’

‘No, don’t bother her, Gavin. I can manage and my Rosita, too, needs her sleep. Goodnight,’ and Helen reached up and kissed Gavin gently on his lips. She heard his sharp intake of breath and knew, as she walked up the stairs, that he was watching her.

Did he, Helen wondered, think of his first wife, Maria, when he looked at her?

Chapter 8

Gavin was away again, this time in the Punjab. The Company used his diplomatic skills in more areas than Mirapore and he was often called away, sometimes at short notice.

Helen, determined to find out more about Gavin’s first wife, rode over to the Fort to play bridge with Lady Agnes and some of the officers’ wives. After tea, she drew Agnes Cameron aside and asked her if she had met Maria.

Looking at her curiously, Agnes replied, ‘We met her parents, of course, when we first came out to India and James succeeded her father as Commander of this Fort. Maria was already married to Gavin, but we saw little of her. She preferred to keep very much to herself and then she contracted that terrible scourge of smallpox. It was all very sad and after her death, we took Gavin under our wing. We were so happy that he decided to marry again and when we met you, my dear, we knew he had made the right choice. There, I do prattle on, don’t I.’

Helen rode back to Mirapore, escorted by some of the soldiers who were relieving the guard at the Residency.

A few days later on her return from the clinic, she met Blanche de Colbert in the European commercial centre of Mirapore. ‘Ah, the beautiful Lady French. When are you coming to see me again, Helen? I hear you are busy attending the sores of all those unfortunate natives.’

Helen laughed, knowing that Blanche de Colbert’s indifference to the poor was feigned, because the beautiful Creole devoted a great deal of time to a Catholic orphanage on the outskirts of the city.

‘Come and have tea with me, Blanche. We are near that delightful tea shop run by the English ladies and I would like to treat you to a real Devon cream tea,’ invited Helen.

In the cosy little tea shop, the flamboyant Countess quite overwhelmed the little Devon women, who outdid themselves with their delicious cream tea. The scones were freshly baked, the cucumber sandwiches the thinnest cut and the homemade cream cakes the very best. After her second cream cake, Blanche exclaimed, ‘Ladies you are ruining my figure with your delicious pastries,’ her charm making worthwhile all the culinary efforts of the Devon ladies.

During their conversation, Helen introduced the subject of Maria. Perhaps the Countess could tell her something more about Gavin’s first wife.

‘Did you know the first Lady French, Blanche? There is no portrait of her in the Residency and Gavin does not often speak of her. Was she very beautiful?’

‘Beautiful yes, but Gavin never looked at her the way he looks at you, but why this interest in a dead woman, Helen?’ quizzed Blanche.

‘I am naturally interested because no one speaks of her. Did you know her well?’ asked Helen.

‘I knew her, we all did, but well, mais non. She was not easy to know very, how do you say in English ‘secretif’ and Sir Gavin, he was charment but I think not so in love with her as he is with you.’

‘Oh Blanche, you are an incorrigible romantic,’ teased Helen, relieved that to the onlooker, at least, Gavin seemed to love her.

A few days later, Helen asked Rosita to find out from Isabel if Maria’s portrait was still stored in the Residency.

The little Goanese woman took them to an attic room which had been converted into a studio for Maria. The room was carpeted and a fireplace constructed to warm it in winter. It was clean and looked as if the occupant had only just left, because there was still the scent of oils permeating the room and all the paraphernalia of an artist carefully displayed on shelves. The pictures were housed in zinc lined chests to protect them from dampness and Isabel took each painting out of its covering and displayed it on an easel for Helen and Rosita to view.

There were six in all, five of them depicting nude Indian girls in erotic poses. The sixth was of Maria, herself, half undressed reclining sideways on a studio couch. At her head stood a naked Indian girl waving an enormous peacock feather fan and a second nude girl knelt at the foot of the couch, removing the rest of Maria’s undergarments, the portrait already revealing one naked hip. The reclining figure was so beautiful - black, long, straight hair, white skin, small pert breasts and large, dark, elongated eyes in which the artist had caught an expression of sensual languor. Helen gasped. She knew now why the painting could not be hung on the Residency walls. It was far too hedonistic for Victorian society.

‘Maria liked painting nudes,’ said Isabel, as if trying to explain the eroticism of the oils.

‘Did she never paint men and landscapes?’ asked Rosita who sounded quite shocked.

‘Yes, one painting of two lovers. Here it is,’ said Isabel, almost triumphantly producing another picture.

This one, too, was extremely sensual - a naked man and woman entwined in each other’s arms on a tiger skin rug. The woman was looking over the man’s shoulder and Helen, astonished, recognised Isabel -and the man - although his back was to the artist, that well greased hair with a centre parting was unmistakable.

‘Is that your brother with you, Isabel?’ asked Helen, trying to disguise the disgust in her voice.

‘Yes, the first Lady French wanted two models for the picture and prevailed upon us to pose for her,’ answered Isabel quietly.

‘Has my husband seen these paintings, Isabel?’ asked Helen, wondering why Gavin still allowed them to be stored in the Residency.

‘Yes, but only after Maria’s death and he wanted them burnt, but they are all that is left of Maria. Please let me keep them. I will remove them from the Residency if you wish,’ said a tearful Isabel who had obviously adored her former mistress.

Helen did not have the heart to refuse and was later soundly berated by Rosita, who felt that Gavin’s wishes should have been carried out.

‘They are well painted, but disgusting and I can understand Gavin not wanting them around. You should respect his wishes, Helen,’ said a shocked Rosita, her strict Catholic upbringing unable to accept the hedonistic subjects.

‘We must not forget that Maria had Indian blood, Rosita, and eroticism is part of their culture. You must recall those engravings we saw in that temple on our journey here,’ Helen said, remembering Rosita’s astonishment when they visited the temple near Benares whose walls were covered with carvings of the most carnal nature and even John MacGregor’s Calvinist soul had been affronted.

Helen lay awake that night thinking about those sensuous paintings and the woman who had been the artist. What sort of person was Maria beautiful and secretive, but obviously extremely lascivious? Was that the sort of woman Gavin wanted and is that why he turned to Isabel when Maria died? Despite her own passionate nature, Helen had no experience of intimate love. Oh, she was a doctor and was aware of the mechanics of mating, but the veiled references to burning desire in her favourite Jane Austen novels, was all she knew. Even if she allowed Gavin to make love to her, would she be able to satisfy him?

Helen did not have too much time to dwell on her husband and his first wife: India kept intruding by its own varied culture.

It was the festival of Bakr-Id which reminded her of Islam’s affinity to Christianity and Judaism. During this festival the Moslem servants sacrificed rams and goats to commemorate the Old Testament story of the Prophet Ibrahim (Abraham) offering to sacrifice his son as a burnt offering to God. Mirapore was mainly a Moslem state and there was much celebration of this Feast.

But how different Bakr-Id was to the poignant festival of Muhurram celebrated in the following month. On this occasion, Helen and the Arab doctor set up a first aid centre to deal with the wounds of the participants.

She had heard that this was a sad occasion for Shi’ite Muslims, who commemorated the martyrdom of Imam Hussain, the grandson of the Prophet Mohammed, but nothing prepared her for the fanatical grief which was demonstrated.

The procession started early in the morning and was proceeded by a long banner. Men of all ages and young boys, some of whom could not be more than eight years old, carried paper models of the tomb of Imam Hussain called ‘tazias’, the little ones looking proud, but bewildered. They lifted their voices in constant chants of ‘Ali, Hussain; Ali, Hussain’, raising their fists to the sky and crashing them down brutally on their naked torsos and heads.

When the main procession had passed, Helen heard a faint tinkling sound and saw a group of men carrying little oval shaped blades attached by short chains to a wooden handle. The tinkling sound was made by these blades, which were being whirled around the heads of the self-flagellators and brought vigorously down on their bare backs, until the smell of blood and sweat mingled with the sobbing cries of ‘Ali, Hussain’. Some of the men and boys collapsed and had to be drawn to the side of the road where their black veiled women, who were not allowed to join the procession, revived them with water: others were brought to the first-aid station.

Helen noticed that the display of self-torture increased when they saw the foreigner at the first-aid station, as if these sons of Islam took pride in demonstrating their heroic fervour to the Infidel.

Mahmoud Bin Said explained the history of Muhurram to Helen. ‘The Prophet Mohammed’, he told her, ‘nominated his son-in-law, Ali, to succeed him on his death, but after his death, the Sunni sect of Muslims insisted on a succession outside the family. Ali was murdered and neither of his sons was allowed to succeed him. The first was poisoned and the other died on a desert battlefield. These are the deaths honoured by the Shia Muslims at Muhurram. They say ‘Live like Ali, die like Hussain!’

‘Which sect do you belong to, Doctor?’ asked Helen, who could not imagine this quiet, dignified man displaying so much fanaticism.

‘I am a Sunni Moslem but find the grief of the Shi’ites very touching. But we are all believers in One God - Allah is God and Mohammed is his Prophet,’ said the wise Arab, once again reminding Helen of the affinity of Islam to Christianity and that other great religion, Judaism.

Gavin returned from the Punjab and Helen’s heart sang when she saw him standing on the verandah watching her dismount from Sultana. He came towards her smiling that slow attractive smile that was so much part of his charm and taking her hands in his, greeted her, ‘Hello, Helen, you look as if you have had a hard day.’

Helen, impulsively, reached up to kiss her husband and his dark eyes looked at her quizzically. ‘Is it too much to hope that you missed me a little,’ his tone, not quite as bantering, as his words would suggest.

‘But, of course, how could I do otherwise,’ replied Helen, not even trying to hide her joy at seeing him again.

She had removed her topee and Gavin reached up to touch a wayward auburn curl which had fallen over her forehead, his forefinger tracing the curve of her mouth and the contours of her face.

She left him to bath and change for dinner and when she reappeared, looking fresh and beautiful in a white muslin dress, with no other embellishment but a pink silk rose tucked into her deep décolletage, she had the satisfaction of seeing him pale and his fingers tighten on his wine glass. My handsome spouse is not entirely immune to me, thought Helen.

Despite his obvious attraction to her, Gavin stayed firmly on his side of the bedroom door and Helen’s attitude towards her proud, stubborn husband varied between coquettishness and subtle resentment. He still showered her with expensive gifts of jewellery and had arranged a generous annuity for her beloved Rosita.

Helen knew how much Rosita admired Gavin and she wondered why her beloved companion had never mentioned their obvious estrangement. Helen had always taken her troubles to Rosita, but about her marriage she was secretive and she was glad that Rosita did not probe.

March heralded the Hindu festival of Holi and Gavin warned Helen and Rosita to keep well away from the boisterous crowds if they did not wish to be pelted with pink dye or powder. ‘Foreigners are a specific target at this time,’ he said. ‘Mirapore is mainly Muslim, of course, but there is a substantial minority of Hindus amongst its citizens.’

Helen was riding back from the clinic through the European sector when a mob appeared from a side street near the Residency. They laughed and shouted to her, but they all knew and loved this English Doctor Memsahib, who had treated many of their children and wives and they deliberately refrained from showering her immaculate clothes, or her horse, with colour.

She had nearly reached the gates of the Residency, when one of the British guards shouted and pointed his rifle at an urchin who was being urged by a man to squirt the English Memsahib with the pink dye. The urchin bolted in fright and Helen just caught a glimpse of the man who was encouraging the youngster. The thin face, close set, light eyes and well oiled, centre parted hair was unmistakably that of Vincent de Silva.

The soldier ran up to Helen and placed himself firmly between the crowds and her horse. ‘Did you see that fellow urging the chokra to squirt you with their coloured water, Milady? Diabolical cheek, I’d say.’

‘Thank you for spotting him, but I dare say to the Hindu it is only an outpouring of exuberance like our bun fights in school,’ and Helen, nevertheless grateful to the Highlander for his concern, ordered the servants to take out a further tray of cakes and tea to the guards at the gates.

Spring had come early to the delightful valley of Mirapore and the pine and cedar-clad mountain sides were now painted with giant scarlet rhododendrons and carpets of spring flowers coloured the green pastures.

Agnes Cameron, who often accompanied Helen on her rides was nostalgic for Scotland. ‘There is so much about the topography of Mirapore that reminds me of our Highlands, especially at this time of the year, Helen,’ mused Agnes. ‘But look at those rhododendrons, have you ever seen them grow to that size in Britain?

‘No, indeed not,’ said Helen,’ but then everything is much lusher in these foothills. When I first arrived, I was astonished at the size of the poinsettia bushes in the Residency and the hibiscus shrubs bearing huge exotic blooms of every colour.’

The two women were making their way back to the fort for lunch. Beyond the city, the valley narrowed and the river was no more than a fast flowing stream, swollen now by the melted snows of the high peaks.

Helen was the first to notice the two men in the distance and wondered why they were restraining a third. As they rode nearer, it became obvious that the third man was being strangled and Helen, without any thought for her own safety, urged Sultana into a gallop, and discharged her pistol into the air. She could hear Agnes Cameron’s shouts of warning behind, as the older woman spurred her slower mount in an effort to catch up, ‘Oh my God,

be careful, Helen!’

The two stranglers looked up on hearing the gunshots. They released their victim and fled into the forested hillsides, not even stopping to rob their victim.

The man they had planned to murder had lost consciousness and was turning blue, his eyes protruding. Helen, assuring herself that his neck was not broken, quickly turned him on his stomach, positioning his face sideways and, sitting astride his lower body, began to resuscitate him with artificial respiration. Agnes had come up by this time and on Helen’s instructions, placed a saddle bag under his lower chest to assist the respiration.

‘He is coming around,’ said an excited Agnes after Helen had worked on the victim for almost half an hour. The women turned him around on his back when his breathing was normal again. The man’s eyes opened. He looked at Helen in amazement and muttered something in a language she did not understand, except the words, “Alla-hu-Akbar.”

Then hearing the women speaking in English, he said in hoarse tones, ‘You have saved my life, memsahib. When I opened my eyes, I thought I had died and gone to paradise and that you were a beautiful houri. Those badmash, have they fled?’

‘Yes, but why were they trying to kill you? You don’t seem to have anything of value on you,’ enquired Agnes. The man was simply dressed in the clothes of the mountain tribes - baggy pants, a long shirt and a waistcoat.

‘I believe they were Thugs, followers of the Hindu goddess, Kali. They slaughter for the fun of it, but thanks to your timely intervention, I will live to see my home again,’ said Helen’s patient, now sitting with his back leaning against a boulder and she remembered her Sunyassi’s explanation of this worship of the Goddess Kali.

Helen observed the man closely, he was not unlike the Rohillas, but his nose was well shaped, not aquiline. He wore a well-trimmed beard and thin moustache and his clothes, although simple, were of good quality. He looked quite noble and she guessed he was an Afghan, perhaps a tribal chief. She tried to persuade him to accompany them to the British fort, at which suggestion he looked quite uncomfortable.

‘I am on my way to Mirapore, so I must continue my journey. But before I go, please allow me to present you with this token of my debt,’ and he took a heavy silver ring off his finger, with an engraving of a crescent moon, and gave it to Helen. ‘I am a Khan, a man of some importance in my country and anyone on the borders of Afghanistan will recognise that engraving. If you ever need my assistance, memsahib, please let me know by sending that ring to me.’

He rewound his turban which had become undone in the recent scuffle with the Thugs and taking his leave of the two women, went on his way towards Mirapore.

Lady Agnes dined out often on this episode, embellishing the danger and Helen’s courage, each time she told the story.

‘I did not see what was happening at first and suddenly there was our Helen galloping towards the men and firing her pistol in the air. Her topee had come off and her auburn hair was streaming about her shoulders. The two Thugs took one look at this enraged Valkyrie and fled.

‘Our handsome Afghan was so entranced with his rescuer when Helen’s medical skill revived him. He even thought he had died and gone to heaven and that Helen was a beautiful houri.’

Helen was always embarrassed when her friend related this incident, especially when Gavin was present on one occasion. He laughed with the others, but the amusement did not reach his eyes and later, when they were alone, he almost ordered her to desist from riding alone.

‘Gavin, I was not alone, Agnes was with me and I always carry one of the pistols you gave me.’

‘Nevertheless, I would prefer you to take the groom or one of the soldiers with you, Helen. Please obey me in this matter, at least.’

Helen looked at the firm set of his jaw and the steel of his dark eyes and realised that this was one occasion on which she should not argue with her husband.

Chapter 9

The clinic was as busy as ever, women and children awaiting the doctors’ attention.

Princess Muna was assisting her with a little boy. When only children and women were present, Muna threw off her veil and Helen looking up from examining the patient, was surprised to see tears in the lovely eyes of the princess.

When the last patient had left, Helen took Muna aside and asked, ‘You seem sad today, Muna, what has upset you?’

‘I have been informed by the Nawab that I am to marry a prince of the Royal family in Delhi, a man older than me by many years and, I understand from harem gossip, cruel to his wives and concubines,’ replied Muna, bursting once more into tears.

Helen put an arm around the girl and producing a handkerchief wiped away her tears. ‘Gossip is not always accurate, Princess, and I cannot believe that your father, or your great grandmother, would allow you to be married to such a man. Have you mentioned your fears to Begum Shalima?’

‘All she says is that princesses must be prepared to marry for political reasons and my union with the family of the Moghul Emperor, Bahadur Shah the Second, is a great honour for our family. But that is not all; I love another man, a man who although poor, is handsome, kind and gentle.’

Helen’s start of surprise at the princess’s confession was followed by a sense of foreboding.

‘Who is this man, Muna? You are never in the company of men, only eunuchs and guards.’ Then suddenly recalling their riding companion, Helen exclaimed, ‘Oh my God, you have not formed a romantic attachment to that young Rohilla guard who accompanies us on our rides? But how? You are so well guarded.’

Helen’s sense of foreboding increased as she realised by Muna’s downcast eyes that their rides were not the only times these two had met. Somehow the princess had found an opportunity to meet her young Afghan.

‘Muna, how far has this love affair gone? You are, I hope, still a virgin? You know the penalty for adultery in your religion.’ Helen remembered hearing how Moslem women were stoned to death and men executed when taken in the act of adultery; moral laws as old as Islam and Judaism.

‘Oh, but of course, Helen, Abdul is a devout Muslim and loves me too much to sully me. Besides we have no real contact, except on our rides, when you are there to watch over me, but he sends me such adoring letters through a maidservant of mine, who would cut out her tongue rather than betray me,’ whispered the tearful Muna.

‘Muna, sweet princess, you must forget about Abdul. You and he could never have a future together, even if you were not betrothed to a Royal prince,’ pleaded Helen, hating these customs that tore a young girl from a loving environment to become the slave of some old man. Her heart heavy for the young princess, Helen sought out her husband after dinner that night.

‘Gavin, what do you know about Princess Muna’s betrothal to a Prince of Delhi? She is heart broken to be promised to a man who, she has heard, is a heartless and debauched playboy.’

‘Bahadur Shah the Second, is a very old man, and under Lord Dalhousie’s Doctrine of Lapse, will probably be the last Moghul to sit on the Throne of Delhi. Even now, he is a mere shadow of his great ancestors, his sovereignty under the protection of the Company. So none of his sons will be allowed to succeed him. But there are not too many Muslim princes of royal blood for the princess to marry and I know that the Court in Delhi is impoverished and would be glad of the Mirapore dowry,’ said Gavin.

******

The matter of Princess Muna’s betrothal had to take second place as Helen prepared for the last ball of the season before the arrival of summer. This ball, held as usual in the British Residency, was called the Hunt Ball because it preceded the Nawab’s annual Shikar to which all the ‘guns’ of Mirapore were invited.

‘Once again,’ said Lady Agnes, ‘Helen’s organisation of such grand occasions as this ball has brought a touch of the elegance associated with our life at home - so essential in this far off land to remind us of our roots.’ Lady Agnes’s remark reminded Helen of the Begum Shalima’s words about British segregationism and she realised that she, too, was guilty of establishing a ‘Little England’ in India.

Helen, in a gown of black lace, cut low over her shoulders, wore Gavin’s emeralds around her neck and when she was held in his arms during a waltz, he remarked, ‘That is a beautiful gown, Helen, you look charming; your eyes are brighter than those emeralds, but I have never seen you wear that heart-shaped diamond ring, my gift to you on our wedding morning. Don’t you like it?’

‘It is exquisite, but the occasion to wear it has not yet arisen,’ replied Helen, remembering her vow never to wear the ring until Gavin loved her and her alone.

Gavin was looking at her quizzically and Helen was glad when the music ended and she was able to escape his further probing.

The morning of the Shikar was a beautiful May day. The Nawab’s guests set out from the palace on elephants, horses and carriages. Helen opted to ride Sultana: the swaying, ponderous elephants were slow and rather too reminiscent of a ship’s movements on a choppy sea.

The Nawab’s guests consisted of neighbouring princes and their retinues and the Europeans in Mirapore - the English, the French and the Spanish. Only Helen and Lady Agnes were considered ‘good guns’, the rest of the women coming along exclusively for the enjoyment of alfresco life, which was unlike any camping experience Helen had ever had.

The women were housed in the Nawab’s comfortable hunting lodge embellished with all the luxuries of the Court, except for the bathrooms, which were in the Indian style. Remembering her experience from previous shikars and the discomfort of having to squat over a hole in the ground, Lady Agnes had brought along several commodes.

The men camped in tents, elegant affairs in themselves, furnished with carpets, divans, desks and sandalwood chests. A great deal of food, fruit juices and wine for his non-teetotal guests, was conveyed on camels’ backs and beautiful silver tableware and crystal glasses graced the white damask tablecloths at mealtimes.

‘Each year the Nawab awards a gift to the hunter with the most kills,’ explained Gavin to Helen, ‘but this year, his award will be presented to the owner of the gun which kills “Sher Saitan” the name given to a tiger, which is preying on the villages around the forest hunting site.’

‘But is that so strange, tigers are predators, after all?’ queried Helen.

‘Yes’, agreed Gavin, ‘but the Nawab feeds his tigers in the hunting reserve to ensure their conservation and to provide his hunting guests annually with superb specimens. It is not often that a rogue animal preys on human settlements unless it is too old to hunt swifter prey, or has been wounded.’

A little hunting was done in the cool of the early morning, mainly from the backs of elephants. Helen and Lady Agnes climbed into the howdah, in this case a canvas box secured to the elephant’s back, which enabled the shikari to stand upright. Helen was amused by the love songs whispered by the Mahout into the large ears of his beloved elephant, whilst that great beast plodded through the thick jungle undergrowth crushing the foliage and disturbing the chattering monkeys.

The afternoons were reserved for a light lunch and siesta. It was only at night that the hunters occupied their machans (wooden platforms built in the trees and camouflaged with brushwood) the tiger being a nocturnal predator. A rota was drawn up by the Nawab’s chief huntsman for an early, middle and late night watch and everyone hoped that ‘Sher Saitan’, attracted by the live prey tethered in the forest clearing, would show himself on their particular watch.

However, each morning, the chief huntsman reported to the company that the elusive tiger had not yet taken the bait. Sher Saitan had been around for a great many shikars and was perhaps too wise to be disturbed from his lair by the beaters.

After an unusually sultry night for the time of year, Helen remembered the little waterfall near the hunting lodge and the delight it would give her to shower in its cool spray. Collecting her rifle, a towel and a change of underwear, she crept out of the lodge silently in the early morning so as not to disturb her sleeping companions. The sun was rising over the mountains, setting the snowy peaks and the clouds above them on golden fire. Helen was entranced, especially by the scenery around the waterfall - lush vegetation, moss covered rocks, rhododendron bushes with their enormous scarlet and pink flowers and darting in and out of the trees, exotically plumaged birds. The waterfall cascaded in cooling splendour, its three columns of water plunging into the river some sixty below.

Helen propped up her gun against a boulder and discarded her divided riding skirt and silk shirt. Suddenly she became aware of a slight movement near the ridge of the fall. Between the foliage she saw the unmistakable outline of a leopard watching her, its tail flicking like a cat’s and Helen with racing heart, reached carefully for her rifle, hoping that a shot fired into the air would frighten the animal into flight. Helen raised the rifle and pressed the trigger, but nothing happened; she pressed again, still silence: then fear clutched her throat as she realised her gun had jammed. Abruptly a shot rang out and the leopard somersaulted and plunged into the river below. Helen screamed as the heavy body fell a few feet from her into the swirling water. Another shot was fired into the animal and Helen turned and saw Gavin striding towards her, his face ashen with concern.

‘Helen, are you all right?’ shouted her husband, grabbing her shoulder in a vice like grip. ‘What the hell are you doing out here alone?’ he shouted again, the concern in his eyes giving way to annoyance at her foolhardiness.

‘I just wanted a bath in that cool waterfall. I have my gun and if it had not jammed …’

‘So you wanted a bath and decided to leave the camp without a word to anyone. Don’t you know, you little fool, that you are not in the woods of England hunting foxes or deer, but in the jungles of Asia where the fauna is red in tooth and claw. How could you be so stupid!’ stormed Gavin still clutching her shoulder and now shaking it to relieve his own tension.

‘Please let go of my shoulder, you are hurting me,’ whispered Helen fighting back tears, but Gavin tightened his grip and spun her around to face the dead animal in the water.

‘Hurting you, that is nothing to what that leopard would have done to you. Why, of all the women in the camp, it has to be my wife who decides to take an early morning swim alone. For an intelligent woman, Helen, you can be really stupid at times,’ growled a still furious Gavin.

Helen, stung to anger and remembering Gavin’s words about Maria’s death, said very coldly, her eyes blazing with indignation, ‘I am sorry you have been put to so much trouble, Gavin, but if you had lost a second wife, you could always tell the third that she brought it upon herself.’

Gavin was obviously not listening because suddenly he threw back his head and burst into laughter.

‘And what is so amusing, sir?’ asked an even more indignant Helen.

‘You, my darling, standing there in your combinations and lace-up boots, looking like a defiant little urchin.’

‘So now I look like a boy. What further insults do you wish to level at me, Gavin French!’

‘Sweetheart, you could never look like a boy; even in a suit of armour, you would still be the most feminine creature I have ever seen.’ As if for emphasis, he leaned forward and slowly trailed his fingers across her half-exposed breasts.

‘Now why are you getting dressed, don’t you want that swim? I will stand guard while you bathe,’ said her audacious husband watching her confusion as she reached for her clothes.

‘No thanks, Gavin, I have lost the urge to swim this morning,’ and Helen, too, found herself smiling at this incorrigible man, who never failed to disturb her.

‘Then get dressed quickly, darling, before Ram Das sends out a search party. If they see you and me half undressed they will jump to the wrong conclusions, unfortunately,’ said Gavin with his mocking smile.

It was then that Helen noticed that her husband had evidently left the camp in a hurry because, apart from his boots and breeches, he was naked.

Whilst she dressed, Gavin waded into the water and dragged the dead leopard onto the river bank, ‘For nature’s refuse disposal team - the hyenas and carrion crows,’ he explained, as he returned to her side, his broad, tanned, muscular chest glistening now with droplets from the waterfall. Helen wondered if he was aware of his blatant, masculine sexuality and once again she felt a weakness in her loins and a stirring of her own longing, the same emotion this man had aroused in her on their wedding night before she had rejected him. Now she found herself, perversely, wishing that he would make love to her here in the lovely surroundings of this Indian forest.

He was smiling, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement as he came towards her and Helen blushed, wondering for a brief moment, if her thoughts had been so transparent. She tensed as he put his arm about her waist but it was only to guide her back to the camp, although he tightened his grip, almost as if he was afraid she would escape.

‘What am I to do with you, my beauty? You are far too independent for a woman. You risked your life today by venturing away from the camp alone; faced untold dangers when you rescued your unknown Khan from Thuggees and without consulting your husband, opened a clinic for the poor, exposing yourself to all manner of diseases,’ said Gavin, looking down at his wife with a half smile on his lips, as he listed her so-called transgressions.

‘I am sorry, Gavin,’ replied Helen, regarding her husband with a frown, as she registered the significance of these last words. ‘I must be a nuisance, but I have always been used to making my own decisions and with all your work, I didn’t think you would wish to be consulted about the clinic.’

Then, as an afterthought, Helen added, ‘You should have married a more submissive woman.’

Gavin threw back his head and roared with laughter, ‘Then I would have died of boredom. I think I prefer the shocks and inevitable grey hairs from life with you.’

The camp was just stirring when they arrived back and Ram Das ran out to make sure the memsahib was safe.

‘You were right, Ram Das; Memsahib had decided to take a bath in the waterfall.’

Helen gathered from this exchange that it was the Nepalese servant who had raised the alarm, when he had seen Helen leave the encampment alone with her towel and gun.

It was the last day of the Shikar and everyone hoped that Sher Saitan would not disappoint them that night. Over breakfast, served alfresco as usual, Helen looked up to see Gavin staring at her quizzically and when she caught his eye, he smiled and raised one eyebrow, winking at her mischievously. No doubt he was still amused by the incongruous picture that

morning of his defiant wife in her combinations and boots.

She noticed that the Comtesse de Colbert had observed their unspoken exchange of looks and wondered what that incorrigible French woman was thinking.

The last watch that night was reserved for Helen, Gavin and John MacGregor. They took their places on the machans, the high wooden platforms in the trees camouflaged with brushwood from another part of the forest. Gavin had explained to Helen that this was necessary, as the slightest disturbance in the surrounding vegetation would alert the tiger to

their alien presence. Would he come at last?

It was a bright moonlight night and Helen saw the little kid goat quite clearly tethered in the centre of the clearing, chomping contentedly on some grass. If the tiger came, she must save that little animal. She wondered if Gavin and John found that their eyes, too, played tricks. Every tree and shrub seemed to transform itself into the tawny body and broad, black stripes of Sher Saitan and Helen could swear fearsome, amber eyes were watching her from the forest.

Suddenly the little kid looked up and stopped chomping, then after a moment it started to bleat. Helen raised her rifle, releasing the safety catch on her gun, her finger poised on the trigger, her eyes glued to the forest edge. Branches snapped and suddenly the tiger was there, a form of pure symmetry, stealthily moving its four-hundred-pound body inch by inch towards its hypnotised prey, its belly almost touching the ground. A monkey raised an alarm in the treetops and Sher Saitan fearing, perhaps, that his prey would take flight, crouched momentarily on his muscular hind legs before leaping into the air, massive claws splayed and jaws open in a vicious snarl. Helen fired, aiming at the point just below its outstretched front leg. With a roar of pain and rage the big cat somersaulted backwards and plunged to the ground only inches from the frightened goat and then, surprisingly, he sprang up and ran back into the jungle.

‘Stay where you are, Helen!’ shouted Gavin, as she moved to climb down from her machan to follow the animal.

‘I believe your shot found its mark, Helen, but it would be foolhardy to follow a wounded tiger until we have more light,’ explained John more gently.

At first light, they were joined by Ram Das and a few beaters who had heard the shot. A trail of blood led them into the forest and there, several yards from the clearing, lay the massive beast, its head resting on its front feet as if asleep, the wind ruffling its neck hairs. Only the pool of congealed blood around the front of the body testified to its mortal wound. Helen felt guilty that it was her shot in the region of his great heart that had ended the hunting days of Sher Saitan. Never again would he roam this forest, hunt his prey or sleep under the cool trees. Never again would the jungle reverberate to his mighty roars, alarming the birds into instant flight, or transforming the monkeys in the tall trees into jabbering wrecks. The beaters tossed sticks and stones at the inert body to ensure that the animal was quite dead and then they tied the tiger’s legs together on stout poles and carried it upside down towards the camp. What an undignified end to the life of this King of the Jungle, thought Helen, as tears sprang to her eyes.

Gavin saw her distress and silently put his arms about her shoulders, recalling his own remorse when he shot his first tiger.

Everyone was waiting in the camp to see the dreaded quarry. Tape measures were produced to measure the length of the beast, and exclamations of surprise were uttered at the accuracy of the shot.

Then the villagers appeared beating their tablas and shouting,’Jai Sher Memsahib!’ for word had got around that the Resident’s wife had killed Sher Saitan with one shot.

‘They are saying, “Long Live Tiger Lady”,’ said the Nawab

The whole camp seemed to be in a state of euphoria and Helen was mobbed by laughing villagers who garlanded her with so many flowers that she felt quite overcome by their heady perfume.

The Nawab presented her with a superb hunting rifle imported from famous gunsmiths in England and the French Consul produced a case of champagne to celebrate the end of a successful Shikar.

‘Speech, Speech!’ shouted a voice and Helen found herself lifted onto a chair by Gavin, who thrust a glass of champagne in her hand and said, ‘I am afraid you have to say something, my lovely Sher Memsahib.’

Helen looked around at all the excited faces and, smiling, said, ‘I feel a fraud for accepting this honour because, although they will deny it, I know that my two gallant companions, Gavin and John, allowed me to take the first shot. Nevertheless, on behalf of all of us, I would like to thank your Highness for this memorable Shikar and for presenting me with this superb hunting rifle.’

After breakfast, the camp broke up and with a feeling of anti-climax, the party returned to Mirapore.

Helen’s memory of Sher Saitan was not to be forgotten. A few weeks later her trophy, the skin of the tiger expertly mounted by a taxidermist in Delhi, was sent to her by the Nawab.

Gavin was in his study when the package arrived and Helen brought it to him. ‘Will you accept this skin from your tiresome wife, Gavin. It will look handsome, here in front of the fireplace,’ said Helen, as she laid the trophy in front of the hearth and stroked the handsome head of the tiger, his last snarl captured forever by the skill of the taxidermist

Gavin laughed, remembering his words at the waterfall. He came towards Helen and placing his hands around her tiny waist lifted her off her feet and swung her around in circles, shouting mischievously,’Jai, Sher Memsahib!’ until she pleaded with him him to set her down.

‘Gavin, stop it, you are making me so giddy!’

He set her on her feet, his dark gaze caressing her, his hands firmly on her shoulders, pulling her towards him. Then with one hand under her chin, he lifted her mouth up to meet his. His kiss was savage, but Helen, longing for his touch, did not care as he forced her mouth open, his tongue thrusting, teasing, until she responded, whilst his hand cupped her breast beneath her thin blouse, his thumb caressing her taut nipple. Her arms wound about his neck and sensuously she moulded her body into his, feeling his unmistakable arousal, her own longing almost an ache in the pit of her stomach.

‘Helen, my darling, you are so lovely’, her husband was whispering huskily, his lips against her hair. ‘Say you want me as much as I want you. Say it!’

Taking her silence for assent, Gavin lifted her in his arms and laid her on the tiger skin before the fireplace, unbuttoning her blouse and bending his head to kiss her lovely breasts. ‘Don’t move, my darling, I’ll be only a moment.’ He left her to lock the study door, but before he reached it, the door opened and Isabel de Silva stood in the entrance with a tea tray, taking in the unmistakable love scene with a glint in her dark eyes.

‘Oh, excuse me,’ she said, ‘I wondered if you would like your tea in here.’

Helen, feeling like a harlot, jumped up and said angrily, ‘No, No!’ and without a backward glance at Gavin, she brushed past the woman and ran upstairs to her bedroom, turning the key in the lock.

Helen was unaware that downstairs, Gavin had grabbed the tray angrily from the startled Isabel and sent it crashing to the floor, shards of broken china flying in all directions. ‘How dare you enter without first knocking!’ said Gavin, a note of steel in his voice and anger in his dark eyes. Then Gavin rushed up the stairs after Helen. But her door, like her heart, was locked firmly against her imploring husband.

Chapter 10

Helen continued her work at the clinic and was surprised that Princess Muna no longer attended. The Arab doctor explained that she was being prepared for her betrothal to the Prince of Delhi but something in his manner prompted Helen to ask, ‘Is the princess now reconciled to her forthcoming marriage, Doctor Sahib?’

‘I do not think so; she is a changed person and is losing weight because she is not eating properly. Perhaps you can visit her and try to encourage her, Lady Helen.’

Helen accompanied the doctor to the zenana and was shown into an enclosed courtyard where the little princess sat strumming her sitar. She looked thinner and her dark eyes were circled with shadows. When she saw Helen, she put down her sitar and threw herself into her friend’s arms.

‘I am so glad to see you again, Helen,’ said the young woman, trying to smile through her tears.

‘You look tired, child. Have you been sleeping well?’ said a concerned Helen, who had not expected to see such a change in Princess Muna after only a few weeks.

‘Look Helen,’ said the princess removing an ivory miniature from the pocket of her kameez, ‘This is the man I am to marry!’

Helen took the miniature and saw the head and shoulders of a man already in his late forties with a thick-lipped sensuous mouth and cruel, black, downward slanting eyes, the ethnic legacy of his Mongol ancestors. But it was the fleshy face and puffy eyes, which portrayed a man who indulged himself to the full.

Oh my poor little princess, thought Helen silently. How can they give you to such a man?

‘Now you see why I am so miserable, Helen. How can I look at those features and not remember the clean, noble lines of the face of the man I love,’ whispered Princess Muna.

Helen turned at the sound of a tapping stick on the marble floor and was not surprised to see Begum Shalima leaning on the arm of a maid servant, her half blind eyes staring at the two women.

‘I am glad you have been able to visit the princess, Lady French. Perhaps you can talk some sense into her. This melancholia of hers must stop. She is to be married into the family of our Moghul Emperor, a great honour.’

The Begum sat down on a stone bench and indicated that Helen and Muna should sit by her side.

‘Let me tell you a story, little one. Years ago in the court of her father lived a young girl of just thirteen years old. She heard that she was to be married on her fourteenth birthday and even at that tender age, would become the wife of a famous prince. She was naturally sad that she would have to leave her doting parents and her beloved brother but she had read the chronicles of the Emperor Shah Jehan and his love for the Princess Mumtaz. Her girlish heart dreamed that a great romance such as theirs would be hers one day. Her prince sent her beautiful jewels to mark their betrothal and a portrait of himself, young and handsome, and every day she would look at this portrait and wonder if he would be her Shah Jehan.

‘On her wedding day, the women bathed her in scented rose water, oiled her body with perfumes and dressed her in her wedding clothes and that night when her husband came to her chamber, he lifted her veil and she saw, not the young and handsome prince of the portrait, but the pockmarked face of a much older man. You see the portrait he had sent her had been painted in his youth.’

’Oh, how dreadful’, said Muna. ‘What did the princess do?’

‘Nothing, my child. He was her husband and she bore him strong sons. In time, she even came to love and respect him, not with the blinding passion of Mumtaz, perhaps, but with the quiet love of a devoted wife. She found, instead of the fire of love, that even more powerful aphrodisiac power. She became a strong influence in her husband’s court and when he died, she was the power behind the throne of his heir.’

Helen realised that this was the story of Begum Shalima, herself, and she wondered if little Muna would have the same strength of character to overcome her adversity.

******

The evenings were now much warmer and Helen, partly to avoid Gavin, started to take a walk in the gardens after dinner.

The night was a particularly warm and balmy one and Helen returning to the house, saw the light in her husband’s study. Gaslights had been fitted a few weeks ago in the Residency and Helen could see Gavin quite clearly working at his desk.

The scratch of his pen on the document he was writing was audible through the open window. Suddenly Gavin stopped writing, helped himself to a cigar from the box on the desk, lit it and walked over to the window. Helen stepped back behind a thick bush but hidden by the darkness of the night, she continued to observe her husband. Gavin’s brow was furrowed as if he was deep in thought and his eyes were narrowed as he drew on his cigar. He was gazing upwards, as Helen often did, at the spectacular panorama of the everlasting snow-covered crests of the Himalayas, rising above the silhouette of black forested foothills surrounding the Valley of Mirapore.

Because of the warmth of the evening, Gavin was wearing only his tight doe-skin riding breeches and a white linen shirt unfastened at the neck. His strong, muscled throat and arms were revealed by his open neck shirt and rolled up sleeves and a lock of dark hair had fallen over his forehead. Helen had an unaccountable longing to brush it back tenderly. Her emotions in turmoil, she closed her eyes and saw again in her mind’s eye the deep cleft in Gavin’s chin, as he had leaned towards her yesterday in that same room in which he was now standing. She recalled with a beating heart his firm, well-formed mouth seeking hers and his dark eyes, at first soft with tenderness, but soon dark with passion as his kisses became more urgent and his arrogant, male body told her how much he wanted her.

She opened her eyes and noticed that someone else had come into the room. Gavin turned as the door opened and smiled. Isabel de Silva was standing in the doorway with a tray and Helen heard her say, ‘I have brought you your nightcap, Gavin.’

He motioned her to put it on the desk and as she turned to to leave the room, Gavin stopped her, ‘Just a minute, Isabel …’

Helen fled; she could not bear to observe her husband’s intimacies with his paramour and so she did not hear him say, just simply, ‘I am sorry for my outburst yesterday, Isabel. It was unfair of me. But you must understand that it is essential my wife and I have some privacy when we are together.’

Gavin was a man of principle and it was not within his nature to bully his subordinates. He realised that his rage yesterday at this unfortunate woman was due to his frustration at an interruption, which had strangely angered Helen and driven her away from his arms.

If only he could have guessed that he had driven his wife even further away by this spontaneous kindness to the Goanese woman.

Helen rushed blindly towards the stable and buried her face in the muscular neck of Sultana. The little mare whickered gently as if she sensed that her beloved friend’s heart was breaking and Helen stroked her velvet nose as the horse blew softly at her.

‘If only we could ride away together up there to those snowy heights where our Sunyassi has gone and we will never come down to earth again, sweet Sultana.’

******

The gold embossed invitation to Princess Muna’s wedding was delivered, personally, by the young Rohilla guard. His grey eyes were inscrutable and showed no glimmer of the pain he must be suffering, delivering this invitation to his beloved’s wedding to another man. Helen, remembering her own heartbreak, identified Abdul as a fellow sufferer in the cruel stakes of love.

‘Thank you, Abdul,’ Helen said gently, taking the invitation from the young man. ‘Please wait for my reply, but I will ask my servant to bring you something cool to drink whilst you are waiting.’

Helen understood from Gavin, that the Prince of Delhi’s caravan was already on its way and the day before the formal wedding ceremony, the huge procession of richly bedecked elephants, uniformed cavalry, troopers of the Emperor’s camel corps, covered palanquins, musicians, and foot soldiers poured through the gates of the City of Mirapore with noise and

fanfares. Helen realised that the pomp and ceremony of this colourful pageant was an echo from the glorious past of the Moghul Empire and deliberately designed to belie the decline of this once powerful dynasty.

‘A small contingent of British officials will be our guests,’ said Gavin when he discussed the wedding arrangements with Helen, ‘but will not include the British Resident to the Court of Delhi, as the prince who is marrying Princess Muna is not the Heir Apparent.’

The wedding was a lavish affair and in true Muslim tradition, the feasting was segregated: men banqueted in the large Audience Chamber and the women in the gardens of the harem, seated at little tables covered with lace cloths and lit by hundreds of coloured oil lights shining in arbours and trees.

Helen called on Princess Muna in her bridal chamber. She looked pale and distressed but whispered to Helen, ‘I have requested that the consummation of my marriage should not be celebrated until we arrive in my husband’s apartments at the Court in Delhi.’

Helen, astonished, enquired, ‘Did the prince agree, Muna?’

‘Yes, because I asked my father to tell him that it is my wish that any issue from our consummation should be conceived in his father’s, the Emperor’s Palace, to protect his right to the succession. The Heir Apparent has only one son and he is very sickly, so it is possible that a son from our marriage will succeed to the Delhi throne.’

Muna’s strange request regarding her marriage consummation and her belated acceptance of this union, troubled Helen slightly, but perhaps the story of her great grandmother’s own marriage and the Dowager’s statement that power was a more potent aphrodisiac than love, had steeled the young princess to accept her fate.

Two days later, Princess Muna set out from Mirapore in a covered palanquin in her husband’s wedding caravan and Helen, who had said a tearful goodbye to the young girl, was astonished to find the princess calm and almost joyful.

‘I believe I have misread Princess Muna, Gavin. She is more like her great grandmother than I believed. The girl that left Mirapore was not the shy, sad, little princess, but a proud, almost cheerful bride,’ Helen remarked.

It was not long before the reason for Princess Muna’s change of mood was tragically apparent. Helen’s work was interrupted a few days later by an urgent summons to the palace.

Waiting for her on the steps of the zenana was the Chief Eunuch, Ibrahim. He looked serious as he said, ‘This way please, Lady French.’

Helen was shown into the private audience chamber of the Begum Shalima, who sat on a raised divan, her head bowed and her old hands clutching a telegram. It was a few moments before she looked up to acknowledge Helen’s presence, her half blind eyes wet with tears.

‘Can you read Urdu, Lady French?’ she said curtly. ‘Perhaps I had better tell you what is written here, so you will have no doubt concerning the dishonour which has overtaken my family.’

“Princess Muna fled Stop Rohilla guard also missing Stop Villagers report two riders answering their description seen making for mountains Stop Search party following Stop Prince Hassan.”

‘You are her friend, Lady French. Do you know anything about her liaison with this man? I believe he was the guard who usually accompanied you and the princess on your rides,’ said the old woman, her blind eyes now staring at Helen as if they were trying to read her soul.

‘Are you suggesting that I encouraged any intimacy with this guard, Your Highness? Muna was veiled whenever we were together and never left my side during these rides. Why do you connect this man with a romantic liaison? Could he not have kidnapped the princess?’

Helen’s voice was severe and cold and she realised that she could give no hint of her knowledge of Muna’s affection for Abdul and the girl’s unhappiness at her arranged marriage. If they found Muna, her honour could be saved only by a case of kidnap. Anything else would mean disgrace and perhaps death.

‘I wish that was the case, Lady French, but Muna’s maidservant has confessed, under questioning, that she delivered love letters for the princess and this guard, Abdul.’

‘Questioning? you mean torture, Begum Shalima,’ said Helen coldly, ‘Confessions extracted under this sort of coercion are often worthless. I am surprised that you can believe this of your beloved great granddaughter.’

‘Feringhi ideals are not Moslem standards and I must blame myself for allowing the princess to be so much in your company. You may go, Lady French,’ and the Begum rose and left the chamber, her back straight and haughty, almost as if she had no need of the support of a stick, or her maidservant’s arm.

Helen sought out Gavin in his study as soon as she returned home. He looked up from his work and saw his distraught wife standing in the doorway.

‘Helen, what is the matter?’ he said, coming towards her and taking both her hands in his.

‘Princess Muna has escaped from the wedding caravan with her lover, the Rohilla guard called Abdul and the Begum blames my influence for this disgrace,’ said Helen, fighting back the tears so close to the surface.

‘Does she, by Jove! I will soon put the arrogant Dowager right on that matter. But come, sit down, darling, and tell me everything that you know,’ said Gavin, guiding her to an armchair.

Helen found herself unburdening herself to Gavin with every detail of the rides, the picnics and her stern advice to the young, flirtatious princess when Muna had told her about her love for the young guard and their clandestine correspondence conducted through her maidservant.

‘I suspect they tortured that poor servant to extract her confession,’ Helen said bitterly, her voice breaking at the thought of this needless cruelty, and in an effort to fight back her tears, she bit her lower lip.

Gavin, who had been standing with his back to the fireplace, listening to Helen’s account, took just two strides to reach his wife and lifted her into his arms. Her pent up emotions, her anger at the Begum’s audacious dismissal and her fears for Muna, found relief in sobs, as he held her close and stroked her hair. Once again, Helen was that little girl in an English forest

enclosed in the safe haven of her big cousin’s arms and listening to his deep reassuring voice calming his ‘little sweetheart.’

A week later, the search for the lovers ended and Mahmoud Bin Said, looking suddenly stooped and very much older, came to the Residency to break the news to Helen and Gavin. The Arab doctor told them that the Prince of Delhi had offered an enormous reward for information concerning the runaways and they were betrayed by the headman of a village, where they were resting, before continuing their journey.

‘I am afraid, the Rohilla soldier was executed by the guards from the Delhi Court and Princess Muna …’

‘What about the princess?’ interrupted Helen quietly, fearing the worst.

‘She was made to watch the execution of her lover before she was brought back, bound in ropes, to Mirapore.’

‘My God, how did they execute him?’ asked Gavin.

‘By impalement, the Moghul punishment for treason. I fear that it has driven the little princess half out of her mind,’ said Mahmoud Bin Said, a shudder passing through his tall frame.

Then turning to Helen, he said, ‘If you could come to the palace with me, you may be able to help her, Doctor. She needs a woman’s touch now and, preferably, a Western woman, who would not remind her of her own people.’

Gavin insisted on accompanying his wife to the Palace. ‘There are many things that I would like to clear up with the Nawab concerning this matter, so I will accompany you and my wife to the palace, Effendi.’

Mahmoud Bin Said bowed in acceptance. Gavin’s reluctance to permit his wife to venture unaccompanied into a Court, which he now considered barbaric, was understandable.

Helen and the Arab doctor were taken by the Chief Eunuch to Muna’s apartments. Bars had been fitted to the windows and armed eunuchs stood outside the door leading off the inner courtyard. The room was dark when Helen entered, only tiny, clay lamps placed very high on the topmost beams, illuminated the chamber. It took Helen's eyes some time to accustom

themselves to the gloom but then she saw little Muna, sitting quietly in a sort of rocking chair, crooning tunelessly to herself, her beautiful eyes blank and staring at the ceiling. A tray of food lay untouched on a table by her side.

‘Muna, my poor child,’ sobbed Helen as she knelt by the chair and took two, little cold hands into her own.

Muna stopped staring at the ceiling and looked at Helen as if she did not recognise her, then she smiled and started rocking and crooning again.

‘How long has she been like this, Doctor? Has she eaten or drunk anything?’

‘She was like this when they brought her back,’ replied the Arab doctor. The palace guards were instructed to take her to Delhi, but Prince Hassan insisted that she should recuperate in familiar surroundings before rejoining her husband. As for food, I believe all she has taken is a little water.’

‘Please bring me some dhai and honey. I will see if I can tempt her to eat,’ instructed Helen.

The little princess submitted to Helen’s administrations, sipping each spoon and then crooning and rocking before she took another. The simple meal seemed to take ages and suddenly Muna focused on Helen’s wedding ring.

You are married, beautiful doctor, to a man you love, I know. I, too, am married to Abdul, my handsome Rohilla. We are going to his country far away,’ mused Muna, an almost beatific smile playing on her lips.

A voice behind Helen spoke harshly in Urdu. Helen turned and saw the Begum, her face twisted with anger.

‘How dare you speak of this man! Haven’t you brought enough disgrace on your family, Princess!’

Before Helen could stop her, Muna grabbed the bowl of curds out of Helen’s hands and flung it over the old lady, shrieking, ‘You killed him, you and my father, killed him because you could not bear to see me happy.’

Then turning to Helen, she said in a voice filled with rage and anguish, ‘They made me watch while they murdered him. Do you know what they did to my Abdul?’ The Begum tried to silence her, but Muna insisted on continuing. ‘The Angressi must learn what Moslem princes do in the name of justice!’

Muna continued her voice now filled with hatred, ‘They tied him face downwards on a saddle and thrust an eight foot pointed stake through his anus until it came out of his chest. His cries of pain, Oh Allah, were terrible to hear and I fainted before they ceased. When I was revived by water in my face, I saw that they had driven the stake into the ground and left him hanging there, his beautiful face contorted with pain and his perfect body hanging limply on that unspeakable gibbet.’

Then as if she could still see her tortured lover, Muna walked up to a marble column and started gently to stroke and croon to the cold marble.

Helen turned angrily on the Begum, ‘Why did you have to remind her of that horror? We were just getting her to eat something. Her mind had temporarily blocked out that horrendous scene she had been forced to witness. She was remembering her dream of love, a necessary safety valve if we are to save her reason.’

‘Your husband is waiting for you, Lady French. Leave the princess to our own doctor,’ commanded Begum Shalima and Helen nearly laughed unkindly at the old Dowager’s efforts to appear regal with streaks of dhai dripping down her face. What sort of woman was this who put family honour before compassion for her beloved great granddaughter?

Gavin held Helen close, as their carriage made its way across the causeway, and she told him, in a voice broken with emotion, about Muna and the terrible memories of her lover’s execution.

‘The Begum was unspeakably cruel to the child, Gavin. Did her father really order her to witness that impalement?’

‘Apparently not, although he did not try to stop it. It was at the command of her husband, the Moghul Prince. I have told the Nawab that the Company will strongly disapprove of this summary execution and the manner in which it was carried out and a full report will be made by me to the Governor General.’

‘Will they be able to stop Princess Muna being forced to join her husband in Delhi? She has suffered enough and I am sure she will be treated as an outcast in the Badshah’s Court.’

‘The Company will be reluctant to interfere in what is an internal matter for Mirapore and Delhi, who have suzerainty in feudal matters, but I will insist that no supplementary dowry is paid to the prince, which he is now demanding from Mirapore,’ said Gavin.

Helen was not allowed to visit the princess again. It was rumoured that she lapsed each day deeper into madness and was refusing food. Inevitably, news came of her death, brought to the Residency by the Court Physician.

‘Sir Gavin and Lady French, I am sorry to be the bearer of sad tidings, once again. Our beloved Princess Muna died last night in her sleep, but I am sure that you, who knew her so well in happier days, will be glad for her release from a life of further misery at the Court of Delhi. Before she became too weak, she gave me this book as a gift to you, Dr. Helen. She said it is her translation from the Persian of the love poems written by her ancestor, the sixteenth century prince, to his beautiful dancing girl, whose tomb is sited in your garden.’

Helen took the little, red, leather-bound book and opened it to see Muna’s rounded handwriting on the fly leaf with the inscription: “To my dear friend, Helen, in remembrance of our friendship and another tragic love story.”

Tears made the writing swim before Helen’s eyes until she could see in her mind’s eye the sweet face of Princess Muna, as she galloped by Helen’s side, glancing occasionally at the handsome Rohilla guard who was trying, desperately, to avoid those lovely, laughing eyes.

‘I will treasure this gift in remembrance of a beautiful and delightful girl whose own love story was as tragic as her ancestor’s,’ said Helen. ‘Thank you for bringing it to me, Doctor Sahib.’

The dignified Mahmoud Bin Said smiled one of his rare and beautiful smiles and said, ‘I, myself, have decided that the time has come for me to become Hadji by making a pilgrimage to Mecca and so I must bid you, my dear and honoured friends, farewell. I will not be returning to Mirapore but you, my friends and Princess Muna, will always hold a special place in my heart.’

Before he departed he bowed in the way of his people, touching his breast, lips and forehead to bid them farewell with those wonderful Arab words. ‘Alaikum Alsalãm’

Helen had a strange feeling that Mahmoud Bin Said knew more about the little princess’s death than he was prepared to admit. The thought struck Helen that she may have been poisoned. Whatever had occurred, she had to agree with her Arab colleague that death was a happy release for little Princess Muna.

Chapter 11

Helen missed the old Arab physician at the clinic They had formed a mutual respect for each other’s skill and Mahmoud bin Said, unlike many of her European fellow practitioners, had no difficulty in accepting, from the first, that her sex did not preclude her from being a first-class doctor and surgeon.

The work at the clinic was as heavy as ever and Helen was now assisted by a Parsi, Doctor Patel, who had been engaged by Mahmoud Bin Said a few months ago and the nursing staff had been increased by two Eurasian nurses.

Gavin was called once again to the Punjab for negotiations between the Company and Sikh leaders and the morning he was leaving, he came to the stables where Helen was grooming Sultana. She did not hear him come in and was startled when she looked up and saw him leaning against the stall watching her with a cryptic look in his brown eyes.

‘Sorry I startled you, Helen,’ he said, his eyes admiring the tableau of the beautiful woman and her pretty mare. ’You two make such a pretty picture, I was reluctant to interrupt. So you groom Sultana, yourself, every day?’

‘Yes, it is the best way of bonding with her and she loves the attention,’ replied Helen.

Gavin came into the stall and took the curry brush from his wife. He placed both his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. ‘And what about bonding with your husband, sweetheart,’ he said softly, that enigmatic look still in his eyes and a smile twisting his lips.

Helen looked up at him, all too aware of his disturbing proximity - the faint smell of sandalwood and tobacco from his clothes, his dark eyes with those impossibly long lashes and that cleft in his chin which she longed to kiss.

Her green eyes looked into his, and she wondered what she should say, but before she could reply he said, ‘I have to go away for about a week to ten days but when I return, I am taking some leave to take you away on a holiday. We have a houseboat on Lake Dal in Kashmir, which you will love and after this business with Princess Muna, you need a well-deserved rest.’

‘The clinic …’ Helen started to say, but Gavin placed a finger on her lips to silence her.

‘Now, Helen, I won’t take no for an answer. You will have time, when I am away, to make the necessary arrangements for the clinic and it is important that we spend some time alone together. I must find out why you have erected this barrier between us, my green-eyed minx,’ he said, now tracing the contours of her face gently with his fingers, as if he would etch them on his memory. He drew her closer within his arms and lifted a strand of her lovely hair to his lips. He bent his head and kissed the delicious hollow in her throat, visible above the open-neck of her silk blouse and unfastening the top buttons, buried his face in the scented cleft between her breasts, his breathing now quickening. Gavin lifted his head and Helen saw his eyes dark with passion and instinctively swayed towards him. His mouth

was on hers and he was kissing her with savage sensuality. Then he let her go and she stepped back putting her fingers on her ravaged lips, her green eyes soft with wonder.

‘Just a little souvenir, little sweetheart, so you won’t forget your husband,’ and with a roguish chuckle and a pat for Sultana, Gavin left her feeling drained and unfulfilled. Why did he always manage to break down her defences, thought Helen, chiding herself for her weakness and wondering how she would be able to resist him when they were alone together in Kashmir. Strangely, she had to admit, that thought both disturbed and thrilled her.

The days before Gavin’s return passed slowly even though Helen tried to fill them with her work at the clinic, visits to the fort to see Agnes and her little goddaughter, baby Helen Brown, and, occasionally, rides and fishing trips with John MacGregor. She always felt so comfortable in the big Scotsman’s company. He never tried to make love to her, although she often caught his look of tenderness.

One day when they were riding back to Mirapore after visiting the fort, John asked her, ‘Are you happy, beautiful Helen? I cannot help noticing that sometimes there is a look of sadness in your eyes.’

Helen smiled at the big, blond man and thought how uncomplicated life would have been if she had fallen in love with him instead of Gavin. He was such a good friend and suddenly Helen wanted to share some of her burden with him; to confide in him her suspicions concerning her husband’s secret life, which were driving her mad.

‘Do many Englishmen take Indian mistresses, John, especially when their wives are still in England, or dead?

John MacGregor started and looked at his riding companion quizzically, ‘Where did that question come from, Helen? I know it is not just idle curiosity. You are not that type of person.’

‘I was just wondering what a man like Gavin would do after his wife died. He was widowed for a few years before our marriage. Like any normal man, he would have had his needs, especially in an environment such as India where the very atmosphere is charged with the erotic,’ said Helen, feeling herself flush to the roots of her auburn hair at her almost indelicate conversation.

‘Your husband is a man of discrimination, Helen. But surely you do not believe he has a mistress now?’

Then seeing the look of distress in her eyes and the tears which were not far behind, he dismounted and lifted her off her horse. He tethered the two animals nearby and came back to Helen, who was standing gazing, unseeingly, at the stream at the foot of the mountain, gurgling over its boulder-strewn river bed.

John took her hands in his and turned her to face him, asking again, ‘Is this what is making you so unhappy? Why do you think your husband has an Indian mistress?’ You are thinking of Isabel de Silva; am I right, Helen?’

Tears were now glistening in Helen’s eyes as she said, ‘So even you have noticed, John. How many others know of this, this liaison?’

‘I know nothing of any liaison and there has certainly never been any gossip about Gavin and this woman, either before or after your marriage. It was just that I had noticed how she looks at Gavin when she thinks she is unobserved, but I am sure the attraction is on her side, alone. Your husband has eyes only for you. One has only to look at him to see how besotted he is with you, Helen, and I know, only too well, what that feeling is,’ chuckled John, wiping the escaped tears off Helen’s cheeks with the cushions of his thumbs.

‘I feel she resents me and I know she was very close to his first wife, Maria. So perhaps it was only natural that Gavin should turn to her when Maria died. She never fails to interrupt us when we are alone,’ explained Helen.

‘No doubt she does resent you, or would resent any woman he married, because Gavin is a very attractive man, damn him,’ laughed John, ‘and I have no doubt the little Goanese woman is in love with him, herself. But if she worries you, why don’t you discuss this with Gavin? Promise me you will do so when he returns from this trip.’

Helen smiled at her friend and on an impulse reached up and kissed his cheek, ‘John MacGregor, you are the sweetest man I have ever known and I hope and pray that one day soon you, too, will find the love of your life, because that woman will be very fortunate indeed.’

The Scotsman helped Helen mount Sultana, and as he looked up at her, she saw, once again, the pain in his blue eyes that told her more than any words to whom his heart was already given.

The summer days were now getting very warm, although Helen was assured by her European friends that here in the valley of Mirapore with its Alpine climate, the heat was never as stifling as in the plains of India. The monsoons were not very far off and all nature seemed to be waiting with bated breath for the rains, even the call of the jackals seemed louder at night, as if they, too, were waiting in anticipation of the coming monsoon.

Then the storm broke. Helen and Rosita watching from her bedroom window were lost in wonder at the force of their first monsoon, which dwarfed anything they had ever experienced in England. Lightning leaped in forks across the mountain tops and filled the valley below with sheets of electric light. The thunder roared and rolled from the peaks, echoing across the valley as if the gods were shouting their anger from their mighty mountain tops at these insignificant humans who had dared to scale their heights. Then the rain began. At first dimpling the dry dust of the pathways and then escalating into a deluge.

Rosita, never very comfortable in storms, slept that night in Helen’s bed and Helen was glad of her company and wondered if Gavin was dry and safe.

Two weeks after Gavin’s departure, a hot and very wet Ram Das appeared in the Clinic compound on his little mud splattered mule.

‘Memsahib,’ he shouted as Helen rushed to meet him, a feeling of gloom clutching her heart at the frantic expression on the servant’s face.

‘What is it, Ram Das? Has something happened to Gavin Sahib?’ Helen almost shrieked.

‘Yes, Memsahib, Afghan tribesmen have taken him hostage. The Sahib gave me this piece of paper and a newspaper cutting, which I have to take to the fort, but I had to see you first.’

Helen snatched the paper from Ram Das. It was in Gavin’s writing.

‘Dear James,

These chaps have taken me hostage in exchange for their leader, who is being held in Fort William by the Governor General. Please do not give in to their demands. Our negotiations in the Punjab and Afghanistan are at a very delicate stage. The release of their leader will foment trouble for the ruler, Dost Muhammad Khan, who as you know, is now our ally against Czarist influence in Afghanistan. Ram Das has a newspaper cutting of the man who is responsible for my kidnap. I filched this from his tent when he was not looking. Apparently he came to India to visit his leader in prison earlier this year, when the press took this picture.’

Helen looked at the almost crumpled cutting and saw the face of the Afghan Khan whose life she had saved from the Thuggee assassins and a glimmer of hope lightened her fearful heart.

‘Ram Das, do you know where they are holding my husband? I think I know a way to save Gavin Sahib, but it is important we leave without delay. I will arrange for this message to be sent to the fort by one of the sentries on duty at the Residency.’

Having been assured by Ram Das that he would be able to recognise the area where they were captured, Helen sent for a sentry at the gates of the Residency.

‘Please take this without delay, Corporal, to Sir James Cameron but give this letter first to Lady Agnes. The Afghans are holding my husband hostage on the borders between Afghanistan and Kashmir.’

Seeing Helen’s obvious distress, the soldier said, ‘Don’t worry, milady, we will get him back alive and well from those damned Afridis.’

After much argument from Rosita and Isabel against her decision to travel to Afghanistan, Helen and Ram Das set out on the three fastest hill ponies Ram Das could buy, one each for themselves and a third for the baggage. She hoped that her letter to Agnes, reminding her of the incident with the Khan and his promise to assist her if she ever needed his help, would explain her reasons for the journey.

‘Dear Agnes,

My intervention with this man, whom you will remember promised to help me if I needed his assistance, stands more chance of achieving Gavin’s release, than an attack by British troops, which may even precipitate his murder. I hope, dear Agnes, you can persuade Sir James to delay his military intervention until I have had time to reach this Afghan leader, Abdul Muhammad Khan.’

On the journey, Ram Das explained that after his meetings in the Punjab with the Sikh leaders, Gavin had decided to visit Kashmir to make arrangements for his holiday with Helen. A few miles from the border with Afghanistan, they were set upon by armed tribesmen and taken prisoner.

‘The Sahib fought like a lion’, explained Ram Das, not disguising the pride in his voice, ‘but he was overcome and ordered me to drop my kukree, which I had drawn in his defence. We were taken by the tribesman to this Afghan Khan who forced my Sahib to write this note about their demands.

There was this newspaper cutting pinned to the wall of the Khan’s tent that the Sahib quietly removed and passed to me, unobserved by the Afghans.’

‘Was the Sahib injured, Ram Das?’ asked Helen, feeling an intense pride in her husband’s brave resistance, but fearful that he had been wounded.

‘Just a few cuts and bruising from the skirmish, but he seemed well enough when I left him.’

Helen and Ram Das travelled all day and rested themselves and the ponies for a few hours each night, usually in a Dak bungalow, as long as they were in British protected territory. At Rosita’s prompting, Helen dressed as a man and knotted her long hair in a topknot on her head, which she covered with a solar topee. They caused little comment from native fellow travellers, who were not surprised to see the effeminate Englishman and his servant travelling alone. The English were a race apart and nothing they did surprised the Indians. As soon as they came near the border, Ram Das suggested that Helen should now wear the shalwar kameeze of a northern Indian Muslim woman and travel in purdah and he purchased a green tunic, embroidered in gold, matching trousers and a black Burka that covered her from head to toe - a stifling, but even more effective camouflage.

The scenery across the border began to change. The mountains were indeed high but the landscape lacked the lush vegetation of the Himalayan foothills. The ground over which their ponies picked their way, was strewn with rocks and boulders and only a few stunted trees grew wherever there was a source of water. Sheep and goats grazed on the almost barren mountain sides, foraging for whatever hardy plants grew in this harsh ground that was covered, in the main, by powdery white dust from centuries of erosion. The dust coated their clothes and Helen longed to tear off her enveloping shroud and immerse herself in any little stream they passed.

The villages were scattered, the people very suspicious of these strangers, but Ram Das at last recognised the narrow, boulder-strewn ravine at the end of which stood a small settlement.

Forgetting their agreement not to address her as ‘Memsahib’, he said excitedly, ‘Memsahib, this is the place where the Sahib and I were ambushed and that is the village to which we were taken.’

‘Hush, Ram Das, remember that I am not your memsahib,’ said Helen, quietly.

‘We are being observed,’ whispered Ram Das. ‘Look there is a mirror flashing a signal to another at the end of this valley and I am sure there is a warrior behind every boulder on these hillsides,’ and Helen’s eyes followed the surreptitiously, pointed finger of her servant’s hand resting low on the pommel of his saddle.

As if by magic, wild looking men suddenly appeared, firing guns in the air and surrounded the two strangers. They were well armed with rifles, bandoleers of ammunition and dangerous curved knives tucked into their belts. Ram Das shouted to them in their language,’Pushto’, which he had learned during his Army service on the North West Frontier. Helen heard him mention the name of Abdul Muhammad Khan and turning to Helen he said, ‘Show them the ring,’ remembering, thankfully, not to address her as memsahib on this occasion.

Helen stretched out her hand from under the burka with the Khan’s signet ring displayed on her little finger and suddenly realised that it was not only the ring with its conspicuous engravings, but her white hand and manicured fingernails which caught the attention of the Afghans.

‘Who is this woman and what is her business with the Khan?’ asked one of the tribesmen, his dark eyes trying to pierce the veil of the woman before him.

‘Her business is the Khan’s business and he would not be pleased if you delayed our meeting with him,’ answered Ram Das sharply.

The men spoke together for a few minutes, each head turned to stare at the veiled woman and then the Afghan who had questioned them, indicated that they should follow him.

They brought them to the village and led them to a small hut in which an old crone was kneading coarse flour for bread. The hut was sparsely furnished - a string bed covered by a ragged flowered quilt, a few cushions and rugs and dented pots and pans on a rickety wooden table. The leader of their captors spoke briefly to the old woman, who went out and then he turned to Ram Das and said, ‘Wait here with this woman, and I will bring the Khan to you. My mother will bring you food and water presently.’

He left them alone, but Helen noticed that two of the armed warriors squatted just outside the hut. The old woman returned with freshly baked, large, Chappatis breads, a bowl of curried goat and a brass jug of water. Helen rolled some of the curry in the bread and turning her back to the inquisitive old woman, lifted her heavy Burka sufficiently to feed herself. The meat was very strong and stringy despite the spicy seasoning, but Helen was hungry and ate ravenously.

The old woman suddenly burst into high pitched laughter and said something to Ram Das who was also eating his food. He ignored her comments, but when Helen asked him what she had said, he replied in English, ‘The old woman believes you must be very ugly to keep yourself veiled even when you are eating. I thought it best not to satisfy her curiosity.’

The old woman soon tired of staring at these strangers and left the hut, probably to tell her neighbours about the ugly woman who was her guest.

A few hours passed and Helen wondered if the Khan would send for them before evening. Ram Das suggested that she should try and get some sleep. Helen realised, suddenly, how tired she was, her weariness brought about not only by the journey, but by anxiety for Gavin. They were now alone, so Helen removed the heavy Burka covering her green and gold shalwar kameeze and lay down on the flowered quilt. She had no idea how long she had slept until Ram Das shook her awake. Helen sat up with a start and saw a man standing at the foot of the bed. His face was in shadow, although a kerosene lamp had been lit and placed on the wooden table. He lifted the lamp and came towards her and Helen saw that it was the man she had saved from the Thuggees.

‘Ah, the beautiful houri from Paradise!’ exclaimed the man with an impudent smile playing on his lips. ‘What fortune has made our paths cross again?’

Helen stood up quickly and adjusted her creased clothes before she replied, ‘I come to ask for your assistance, Khan Sahib, because you gave me your ring and told me that I could rely on your help if I ever needed it. You are holding an Englishman hostage. That man is my husband and I beg you to release him.’

The Afghan, stroking his full beard with one hand, regarded Helen with a strange glint in his dark eyes. Then at last he said, ‘A woman as brave as you, who would risk her own life to save her husband’s, is a pearl without price. It would be easy to grant your request if I was the only one to make such a decision, but I must consult my fellow leaders first.’

‘Please, Khan Sahib,’ said Helen, desperate to convince the Khan that he alone should decide, because she feared his fellow warriors would not agree to lose their valuable bargaining chip. ‘My husband has already advised the British Commander in the letter he sent with his servant, not to agree to your request and I must tell you that the British do not make bargains with kidnappers, even if it means the death of the hostage. But I have not come empty-handed. Here is a great deal of money and a priceless emerald necklace which will buy you food and guns and whatever else you require,’ pleaded Helen, putting the wad of notes and the beautiful emeralds, which had been her wedding gift from Gavin, on the table before the Khan.

The rebel leader fingered the notes and the necklace and then he looked up at Helen, his dark eyes holding hers for several moments before he said, ‘You saved my life, beautiful lady, and I am honour bound to give you your husband’s in return, because I am certain that if the British do not agree to our terms, my people will kill him. He, too, is a brave man. Wait here, I will bring him to you later tonight but you must leave immediately, because there will be some of my comrades who will want to bring him back.’

Then he picked up the money and emeralds and left and Helen and Ram Das waited in trepidation. The Khan’s final words left no doubt in Helen’s mind that her instinct, personally to call in her debt with the Khan before the British soldiers stormed the village, had been right. Silently she prayed that the Khan would keep his word and bring Gavin to her and she knew that without her husband, life would be worthless.

It was very dark when they heard voices outside the hut and when the curtain covering the low doorway was pushed aside, Gavin still manacled, entered with the Khan. Helen gasped in surprise, because her usually immaculate husband was almost unrecognisable with several days growth on his chin, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and a bloodstained bandage around his forehead covering, no doubt, a deep wound.

‘Helen, what on earth! Ram Das what is my wife doing here?’ shouted Gavin, addressing his servant, but staring at the vision in the garments of a Muslim woman with her beautiful auburn hair tumbling about her shoulders.

Before Ram Das or Helen could answer, the Khan replied, ‘Your wife is responsible for your release, Englishman. She has given me something very precious and the bargain was your liberty. So brave and beautiful a woman is my houri from Paradise, and I must tell you that I am tempted to keep her for myself.’

Helen drew in her breath at these words and said, ‘Khan Sahib, that would be against the teachings of your Koran to take another man’s wife.’

‘Yes, my beautiful houri, you are right; as a devout Muslim, I would offend our laws whilst your husband is alive, but his death would release me from that obligation.’

Then clasping Helen’s hand in his own he said softly, staring hungrily at her with his hawklike eyes, ‘Don’t worry, if I killed him, I know you would hate me and that I could not bear,’ and taking the emerald necklace from his pocket, he clasped it about her slender throat, his fingers lingering on her soft skin.

‘The money I will keep, my beautiful memsahib, for my people are hungry, but these are yours and your husband’s life discharges my debt to you. Now go quickly, all three of you; your horses are tethered outside. Do not stop till you cross the frontier,’ and saying this, the Khan cut Gavin’s bonds and turning on his heel left the hut, bending his tall, lean, frame to exit the low entrance.

Gavin had said nothing during this exchange and Helen, whose instinct was to run to him and clasp him in her arms, saw instead the glint of anger in his eyes and was surprised at the severity of his voice when he addressed her at last, ‘Let us go, as your Afghan friend commanded, before your sacrifice on my behalf is worthless!’

They rode all night, just stopping once to water the ponies at a tiny stream and as dawn broke over the mountains, they came to the borders of Afghanistan and India. Throughout the ride, Gavin had not uttered a word, nor even deigned to answer Helen’s question about his wound, except with a shrug and a brooding look in her direction. She wondered at his anger with her. Would he have welcomed martyrdom in his country’s cause and did his anger arise from frustration at her efforts to save him: or was there another reason? When they were safely over the border, they stopped to refresh themselves and have a simple meal in a wayside inn and then continued their journey to Kashmir.

Helen was puzzled by Gavin’s morose silence and before they reached the Residency houseboat on Lake Dal, her mood, too, had changed from gratitude at the Khan’s magnanimity and relief that they were all safe, to anger at her husband’s unwarranted stubbornness.

Chapter 12

Despite the atmosphere between Gavin and herself, Helen could not help being entranced by the spectacular Vale of Kashmir and could well understand the Emperor Jahangir, two centuries ago, whispering the name of Kashmir with his dying breath.

The beautiful Lake Dal, the summer retreat of Moghul Emperors in the past and now of the British, was spectacular. Its waters, with its unusual floating gardens, formed a perfect setting for the moored Residency houseboat, the only type of property, Gavin had told her, that the Princely Ruler of the State permitted foreigners to own.

Helen was surprised how well furnished and spacious their houseboat was, its design copied by the English from their houseboats on the River Thames. Constructed entirely of wood, the rooms had walnut panelling and ceilings. A large, open drawing room, with elegant furniture, crystal wall lights mounted on the panelled walls alongside beautiful paintings of Kashmir and floors covered with thick Kashmiri carpets, added to the air of luxury. An equally well furnished and elegant dining room, two cosy bedrooms and a bathroom with the latest Victorian fittings, including a large china bath standing on clawed feet, completed the stylish accommodation.

The drawing room led onto a shaded verandah, with a wooden carved fretwork balustrade running all along the front of the boat. Moored alongside the main boat was the kitchen boat which also housed the servants and a rowing boat, comfortably cushioned, called a shikara, which was manned by a young Kashmiri, whose only duty was to row them around the lake, or to and from the mainland.

The servants in the kitchen boat, a cook and his wife, were also the caretakers of the houseboat and it seemed their sole aim in life was to cook delicious meals and pamper the Resident and his guests.

After a very welcome bath, Helen opened the wardrobe in the bedroom and found some pretty muslin day dresses and a yellow silk Japanese kimono, clothes that had evidently belonged to Maria. She chose a pale cream dress embroidered with posies. Maria had, obviously, been the same height as Helen, but the bodice of the dress was a little tight, clinging to Helen’s more curvaceous figure and she recalled the nude portrait of Gavin’s first wife depicting a woman with small breasts, a tiny waist and voluptuous hips.

The meal was ready for them when Helen joined Gavin in the dining room. He, too, had bathed and shaved and discarded the bandage around his head, revealing a very red, three-inch knife wound.

‘Gavin, would you like me to redress that cut? It should be kept clean until it has healed completely,’ said Helen, approaching her husband to inspect the rather angry wound.

‘Don’t fuss, Helen, I have had worst injuries than this in the past.’ There was a glitter in Gavin’s eyes which were as hard as steel as he looked at the woman standing in front of him, as if he was seeing her for the first time and Helen was very aware that his angry mood had not changed.

The meal progressed almost in silence except for polite conversation, mainly on Helen’s part, about the beauty of Kashmir and the comfort of the houseboat. Was this the congenial holiday Gavin had promised her, when he had held her in his arms that morning in the stables, before he left on his ill-fated trip? The man opposite was almost a stranger, allowing only a taut smile to register occasionally more, she believed, for the servants’ benefit than hers. What had caused him to turn on her like this? True, she had been the first to raise a barrier between them when she had refused him his conjugal rights but in the days and months that followed, Gavin had been a pleasant and affectionate companion.

Helen suddenly felt bone-weary: the events of the past few days were taking their toll and Gavin’s inexplicable coldness towards her was more than she could bear.

‘I’ll have an early night, if you don’t mind. Perhaps, tomorrow, I will return to Mirapore with Ram Das. You seem to prefer to be on your own.’

Gavin looked up with a frown and said curtly, ‘I am afraid you will have to put up with me for a few more days, Helen. Ram Das has already set out on his return journey to Mirapore with a message for Sir James. I expect your friend, John MacGregor, and a few soldiers will be here soon to escort us back to Mirapore. Now if you will excuse me, I must prepare my report on my recent negotiations with the Sikhs.’

Gavin walked out on to the verandah without another glance at Helen. She too rose and thanked the cook and his wife for the delicious meal and went to her bedroom. She took off Maria’s dress and put on the kimono, the silk feeling cool against her bare skin. From the bedroom window she could see the spectacular mountain, Nanga Parbat, the ninth highest, Gavin had informed her, in the Himalayan range, the setting sun blushing its peak to a rosy hue. Kashmir was made for lovers but the man she loved suddenly seemed so far away. She heard the servants leave and Gavin’s voice bidding them ‘Goodnight’ and Helen knew that they were now quite alone. Would Gavin come to her tonight?

Helen waited, lying on the top of the bed, eschewing the sheets because of the warm night and wearing only the silk kimono. It was dawn when she awoke, the pale morning light drifting through the open window. A man was standing at the foot of her bed looking down at her. He was naked from the waist up and with a start Helen recognised her husband. His hair was dishevelled, his eyes bloodshot and the cut on his forehead bleeding slightly. He had obviously torn off the dressing and reopened the wound.

Gavin’s tall figure seemed to dominate the room. He stood watching her, with arms folded across his broad, bare chest, observing the way the silk of her kimono clung to her tantalising body, the nipples of her full breasts pointing seductively through the thin garment. He was smiling, almost leering, and suddenly he reached out with his strong brown arms and pulled Helen to her feet.

The smell of whisky invaded Helen’s nostrils and she knew that Gavin had been drinking heavily. Suddenly she was afraid. Never had she seen her husband the worse for drink and the look in his eyes showed no gentleness, only a burning lust. His hands were unfastening the kimono and he drew back slightly without releasing her, devouring her naked body with

his eyes and Helen was reminded of a slave dealer assessing the merits of a potential slave.

‘Yes’, he said, almost reluctantly, ‘you are the most desirable woman I have ever seen. Your lovely, auburn hair framing that perfect face and a body that even Venus would envy; your beautiful eyes which change colour with the clothes you wear, sometimes green as emeralds or turquoise as the sea, eyes that could steal a man’s soul if he was not aware of the falseness underneath all that beauty.’

Helen flinched as Gavin’s trembling hands touched her hair, her face, her breasts as he defined her charms, ending with those unkind words.

‘Gavin, you are drunk, you don’t know what you are saying,’ said Helen, cut to the quick that her husband should accuse her of duplicity. She tried to shake off his strong arms, but he held her tighter, laughing cruelly at her discomfort.

‘Come, my little whore, you give to other men what you refuse your husband, but tonight I am determined to take what is mine by right. I have been too patient, too gentle. Obviously, in the light of recent events, your preference is for a rougher lover!’

While he was speaking, he had lifted Helen in his arms and laid her on the bed. Still holding onto her with one hand, he divested himself of his breeches and, completely naked, knelt over her. Helen closed her eyes, slightly shocked at the sight of his aggressive manhood; his face so close to hers, twisted with desire as he swept her body with kisses and caresses, stopping only to whisper loving endearments interspersed with insults. This was a Gavin she did not know, ruthless and determined, but his caresses were inflaming her and despite her indignation, she found herself entwining her arms about his neck, allowing herself to be carried along on the wave of his ecstasy. His savage loving was a far cry from the tender, controlled passion he had displayed in the past but, Gavin, her love, her husband, was at last making her his.

’Gavin, why are you punishing me like this? This is not how it should be between us,’ Helen heard herself pleading, but he paid no attention. He continued to kiss and caress her, smiling as he saw her response to each touch of his lips and tongue, as if he was deliberately playing her body to achieve a crescendo of love, like a virtuoso plucking the strings of his violin. She responded to his every touch and she heard him say hoarsely, ‘I am the only man for you, Helen French, the only one who can send you to paradise like this,’ as if he was challenging her to recognise his expertise as a lover.

Helen felt his lips caress her breasts, his tongue licking her nipples to hardness and then as she arched her back to thrust her breast into his mouth, she winced at the slight pain when she felt his teeth. He was laughing, hoarsely, as his fingers explored the sensitive, secret places of her body and she groaned with ecstasy, her body writhing under his lover’s caresses, aware only of the unimaginable pleasure Gavin was giving her. Then the seducer became the seduced, as Helen, shyly and tentatively, encircled his arrogant manhood with her fingers and whispered, ‘Gavin, oh my lover.’ She heard his involuntary gasp of pleasure and, instinctively, arched her body to meet his own. With an oath he drove hard into her and

froze.

She cried out at the sudden pain and felt him still within her and murmur against her mouth, ‘Helen, oh my little sweetheart, what have I done?’ She felt him quiver with strain and saw his eyes mist over with emotion, but he was inside her, part of her now and no matter how sharp the sudden pain had been, she knew she wanted his loving to continue. Her green eyes

widened as she held him enclosed within her and her body responded to the sensations he was creating, as he gently stroked and caressed her. Then arching her body convulsively, she once more invited his deeper possession. Her sweet, hot, moist, tightness overwhelmed him so completely that with a cry as old as primeval man, he drove deeper into his woman until their bodies were swamped with the scents and euphoria of their mutual climax.

When the waves of passion ended, Helen heard Gavin’s voice, as if from a long way away. She was conscious of the rapid beating of her heart, or was it his, as he lay collapsed on her shuddering body. She felt him move away and when she opened her eyes, he was stumbling towards the door. What was wrong? Why did he leave her so soon? Had she disappointed him with her inexperience? Helen, perplexed and feeling that she had been used, was suddenly ashamed and angry, sobs tearing her body as she buried her face in her pillow. How could she have given herself so completely to this man, who had betrayed her?

The day went by with hardly a word from Gavin. Apart from breakfast, he locked himself in the other bedroom to work on his report and instructed the Kashmiri boy to row Helen around the lake. Helen, too, wanted to keep her distance and when the boy suggested she should hire a pony and guide to take her trekking into the mountains, she jumped at the opportunity. The magnificent mountain scenery, the snow-clad peaks and the carpet of wild summer flowers filling the valley floor, could not ease her pain. She stopped for tea at a Swiss style hotel and when she could not prolong her absence any longer, she hired a shikara to take her back to the houseboat.

Gavin came that night to her bedroom but he stood awkwardly inside the doorway for a moment before coming towards her. He took her arm and guided her to the window seat, sitting beside her and keeping hold of her hand.

‘I believe I owe you an explanation for my brutish behaviour last night, Helen,’ he said quietly.

‘You were drunk, Gavin, but I do not understand why you had to insult me and treat me like a bazaar woman,’ and Helen, with perverse pleasure, watched her husband wince. ‘Is that the sort of woman you want in your bed?’

‘Of course not,’ Gavin stood up and walked away from her, his hands held behind his back, clenching in agony as he continued, ‘I was angry, jealous, if you like, because I believed you had given yourself to the Afghan leader in exchange for my freedom. I remember his words as clearly as if they had been etched in stone, “She has given me something very precious and the bargain was your liberty.” As he gave you back your emeralds, I could only assume that you had slept with him in exchange for my liberty. He was obviously enchanted with you. Please forgive me.’

‘The Khan was the man I rescued from the Thuggees in Mirapore and ‘the precious gift’, to which he referred, was his own life,’ explained Helen quietly.

She watched her husband’s broad back and suddenly thought of Isabel de Silva. No Gavin French, you are not going to be forgiven so easily, what about your own duplicity, but Helen did not utter these words, instead she said, ‘Even if I had given myself to the Khan to save your life, you should have been grateful, not treated me so unfairly. But what made you change your mind about my morality?’

Gavin turned to face his wife again and said quietly, ‘I knew when I took you last night that I was the first. Can you forgive me?’

Helen looked at her husband’s pale, drawn face and she should have felt compassion, but Isabel de Silva’s image kept intruding and she did not know whether she loved or hated this handsome man standing so dejectedly in front of her.

She said, half to herself, ‘You men are all the same, one rule of morality for your wives, but another for yourselves. Even Princess Muna had to die to wipe out the dishonour she brought to her dissolute Prince, who would have continued in his profligate ways even after he took her to his bed.’

Gavin looked puzzled and his eyes narrowed. ‘What has Princess Muna’s marriage to do with us? I have explained the reason for my brutish behaviour to you last night, which I regret with all my heart. I hoped you could forgive me but it seems you are determined to continue this war between us. Well so be it, I will not grovel,’ and with those words Gavin French, his arrogant male pride ruffled, stormed out of Helen’s bedroom, banging the door behind him.

The next morning Helen awoke to the beautiful sunrise over Dal Lake, the sunshine turning the waters of the lake into burnished gold. Fishermen were casting nets from small boats, birds hovering to share their catch and in the distance she could hear the call of a muezzin summoning the faithful to prayer. It was a beautiful day.

Gavin, too, seemed to recover his self-control and surprised Helen by suggesting that he should show her some of Kashmir whilst they awaited their escort from Mirapore.

‘I am taking you on a visit today to the beautiful Shalimar Gardens and some of the other sights for which Kashmir is famous. I am sure you will wish to use these few days before we return to Mirapore to see more of this beautiful State.’

Gavin was an attentive and congenial host and the upheaval of their recent encounters was almost forgotten by Helen, as he took her arm and guided her from one exquisite sight to another. They picnicked in the lovely Shalimar Gardens, built by the Moghul Emperor, Jahangir, for his queen, Nur Jehan, and were entranced by the terraced Nishat Gardens designed by her brother Asaf Khan. They walked around the bazaars of Srinagar and took a boat across Lake Dal to Nagin Lake to visit Hazratbal and the famous mosque in which is housed a hair of the Prophet Mohammed.

That evening after a typical Kashmiri meal of several courses, Gavin took Helen on a doonga, a pleasure boat, where musicians sang love songs to the accompaniment of Kashmiri musical instruments.

The night was lit by soft moonlight, the scenery around them exquisite and Gavin put his arm around his wife’s shoulders as they reclined on comfortable cushions and listened to the haunting melodies. His lips brushed her hair and when she looked up at him, she saw that unique smile of his that always reminded her of ‘The Buccaneer’, the subject of a painting, which had hung in her father’s study. Gavin’s smile was the same as that bold man’s - bright and audacious.

‘Are you enjoying yourself, little sweetheart? There is so much more of this lovely part of India, which I would like to show you. I promise I will bring you back here one day. Would you like that?’

‘Oh, yes, very much and I would like to bring dear Rosita with us, Gavin,’ smiling up at her husband, her beautiful eyes no longer flashing anger at him and Gavin recalled how dark they had become with passion when he held her in his arms, not so many hours ago.

His own eyes darkened as he looked at her, remembering her cries of ecstasy, her sweet voice calling his name and suddenly he wanted her again and was forced to withdraw his arm from her shoulders, because the touch of her was more than he could bear.

His gesture was not lost upon Helen and she wondered if he regretted his display of affection towards her. The barrier between them was as high as ever and Helen, too, moved slightly away finding Gavin’s proximity very disturbing.

That night as she lay in her bed, through the thin walls of the bedrooms, she could hear Gavin pacing up and down in his room like a frustrated, caged prisoner. Was he, too, longing for love? Then why did he not come to her again, take her in his arms and drive her to distraction? But she waited in vain and when his pacing stopped, she knew he would not seek her out that night. He had been disappointed in her; she was not comparable to his first wife, the voluptuous Maria. She hated herself for being so inexperienced in the art of pleasing a man. Her puberty had been spent in studying medicine, passing exams and becoming a doctor. But how was she to learn how to please her husband if he did not teach her?

At last asleep, her cheeks wet with tears, she did not hear the quiet footsteps of Gavin as he came into her room and stood at the foot of her bed watching her. She looked so vulnerable lying there in all her beauty, one round breast escaping from her night dress, her beautiful hair fanning out on the pillow and he stooped and kissed her gently, afraid to awake her in case he saw, once again, the contempt in her eyes.

Last night, he had taken her savagely, wanting to hurt and humiliate her in his jealous rage but when she had responded so passionately, whispering his name and touching him shyly, his control had snapped and he took her unexpected virginity so ruthlessly. He should have known; he recalled how amazed he had been when she responded to his every touch, as if she had never been touched before. He saw the desire in her emerald eyes, eyes which had haunted him in his dank prison in the Afghan village and he thought of her looking at the Khan with that same wide-eyed passion, and almost hated her. Only when his passion was spent and he felt her quivering body beneath his, and looked up to see her eyes closed, long, damp lashes hiding their expression, that he cursed himself for his brutality. He stumbled from her room, not wanting to face her contempt and just outside the bedroom door, heard her distressed sobs. How she must have despised him.

Now, looking at her lying there, with the moonlight shining on her loveliness, he remembered his delight when he first saw her standing in the doorway of the Residency, with the sunlight outlining her figure through the thin stuff of her dress. She was so beautiful and as the days and months went by, he found himself more and more entranced by her, not just by her beauty, but by her intelligence and, yes, even though it had irritated him many times, her independent spirit.

Helen was like no other woman he had ever known and he knew that he had never loved this way before. He had no false modesty in denying his own appeal to women. There had been many lovers before Maria, his first wife, who attracted him because she, too, was different. It was only after their marriage that he realised just how different Maria was and the direction of her sexuality, which had repulsed him.

But Helen, from her instinctive responses to his love-making was, without doubt, a passionate woman yet to be awakened to her full potential and he was determined that he would be the man to turn that key, despite her efforts to keep him at arm’s length.

‘Be warned, my beautiful Helen,’ Gavin whispered to his sleeping wife, ‘when we get back to Mirapore, things are going to change between us and I will woo you until you are mine and mine alone.’

Chapter 13

The escort from Mirapore, soldiers from the Sikh platoons and John MacGregor, arrived the next morning. The little houseboat was quite crowded and the cook and his wife almost overwhelmed with this sudden influx of British military power. John, with his usual Scottish bluffness, embraced Helen and turning to Gavin said, ‘What a woman you have here, Gavin. To ride into the remote Afghan mountains to barter for her husband’s life is truly in the spirit of our own Flora MacDonald. Lassie, you had us all worried sick!’

Gavin smiled, his mouth twisting wryly in acknowledgement of the Scotsman’s words, but recalling his own churlish behaviour and jealousy, he drew Helen into the circle of his arms and said softly, ‘I will never forget what my wife did for me, John.’ Then whispering into her ear so that she, alone, heard his words, ‘and how I repaid her.’

The journey back to Mirapore was long, but uneventful. Helen rode between John and Gavin and listened to their conversation about the Santal tribal rebellion in Bengal against British efforts to control them and to tax their land.

‘There has also been unrest in the Bengal Army whose sepoys are reluctant to be sent to Burma over the Kala Pani, as they call the ocean.

Why they should consider the colour of the sea ‘black’, when it is either blue or grey according to its moods, is very strange,’ commented John.

‘Perhaps it is because the Europeans came by sea to conquer this sub continent, whereas all the other invaders came overland from the North. I have also heard it said, by some of the more conservative Indian rulers, that the British sent their young Indian princes overseas to be educated in our schools and universities and they returned more English than the English,

changes which their parents could not understand. Perhaps ‘black’ reflects their apprehension,’ said Gavin.

Helen looking at the tall, bearded Sikh soldiers riding ahead of them could not believe that these splendid warriors could be anything but loyal to the Company they served.

‘Do the Indians really understand us?’ questioned Helen, remembering the Begum Shalima’s words of criticism. ‘We keep ourselves segregated in our homes, our clubs and our cantonments, as if we are afraid to be corrupted by their culture and we may give them the impression of arrogance, even of disdain.’

Gavin looked at his wife, surprised that she, after so short a time in India, had observed something, which many an old Indian hand failed to see.

‘You are quite right, Helen; our segregation might strengthen our position as rulers, but it does nothing to endear us to the people of this ancient land with its long history and its vast differences of castes and creeds. I despise the protocol and prejudice, which creates such a barrier between the Indians and the British. As Lord Bentinck said, “We must never forget that we rule India for the Indians”.

Helen, hearing Gavin’s words, felt a deep respect and admiration for her husband and was not surprised that Gavin’s understanding and love for the Indian people made him one of the most effective ambassadors for the Company.

At last they arrived at Mirapore and were greeted with rousing cheers by the sentries at the gates of the Residency. Their arrival had been announced even before they entered the City gates and Rosita and Isabel were standing, expectantly, on the steps of the house, with all the servants lined up on either side like a guard of honour.

Helen had barely dismounted when she was clasped to the ample bosom of a tearful Rosita, who laughed and cried as she thanked God for bringing her dear child safely home and she was not content until Gavin, too, had been encompassed in her motherly arms.

Noticing his wound, she broke into a stream of Spanish, thanking all the

saints that he was still alive.

Gavin laughed and lifting her off her feet said teasingly, ‘With all those saints to protect me, how can I fail to return to you, querida Rosita.’

Then seeing Isabel’s quiet, tearful emotion when she said, ‘I, too, have prayed for your safe return,’ Gavin put his arm around the little Goanese woman’s shoulders and smiling, said gently, ‘Thank you, Isabel. You see, all your prayers have been answered; we are both safe and well.’

Helen felt a stab of pain as she saw Gavin’s gesture, wondering if he was deliberately suppressing his desire to hold Isabel de Silva close in his arms.

She looked towards John MacGregor, who was smiling sweetly at her, no doubt guessing her thoughts about Gavin and Isabel and she wanted to run to him and feel the safety of his arms as she had on the night of the storm at sea and hear his strong voice soothing away her fears.

John was their guest that night and after dinner, he and Gavin talked late into the night.

The next morning Helen was awakened by a flock of noisy mynah birds imitating the calls of other birds in the mango trees outside her bedroom window. She stretched and walked to the window to watch the squabbling colony and noticed on her dressing table a single red rose and a blue velvet box. A note was propped up against the box and it read, ‘

‘My sleeping beauty, you looked so lovely and peaceful this morning that I did not have the heart to awake you. I hope you will like this little gift which I meant to present to you on our

holiday in Kashmir, but you were so angry with me that I felt the gift would have been misunderstood.

‘I have to go back to the Punjab again, but John and a platoon of Highlanders will be accompanying me at the insistence of Sir James, so I shall be quite safe.

Until we meet again,

Your loving husband.’

Once again the unmistakable flourish of Gavin’s signature ended the little note and Helen wondered when he had crept into her room to leave the beautiful ruby and diamond bracelet and the red rose.

She picked up the lovely flower and placed it against her lips, remembering her husband’s kisses and their angry night of passion on the houseboat, which had left her emotionally confused.

‘What an enigma you are to me, my darling husband,’ Helen whispered to her reflection in the mirror. ‘If only you could love me as much as I love you, Gavin, because there is no room in my heart for any other man.’

After her morning ride on Sultana, who showed such equine delight when Helen greeted her in the stable, Helen felt restless. The day promised to be humid and the cool of the marble mausoleum seemed to be the obvious place to read the little book of the Khan’s love poems, translated so lovingly by Princess Muna.

Helen entered the little chaatri and noticed a trug of flowers at the foot of the tomb. She wondered why they had not been arranged in the crystal vase that had been provided for this purpose. She sat down on the stone bench and opened the book to the first poem and a picture of the grieving Khan contemplating his lover’s resting place was not hard to imagine, as Helen read the poignant words of love he had dedicated to his dead beloved. She thought, too, of the beautiful Princess Muna, who had come into her life for such a short time and left it so tragically. She hoped that the long dead Khan and the little princess were at last reunited in Paradise with their respective lovers.

The faint sound of a flute reached Helen’s ears and she wondered where she had heard that refrain before. A rustling noise and sudden movement in the trug of flowers caught Helen’s eye. Her blood froze; the head of a cobra rose amidst the blooms and started to sway to the melody of the pipe. Then she remembered where she had heard that music before. Men with dancing bears and snake charmers often called at the fort to entertain the children and it was the snake charmer’s flute that she could hear now. She had also been told that when the music stopped, the snake was at its most dangerous. The snake continued to sway, its flat head moving to the tune of the pipe, its hooded eyes watching her. Helen stood up cautiously and moved slowly towards the door of the chaatri, praying that the music would continue to hypnotise the reptile until she had reached the exit.

Suddenly the door flew open and the gardener stood there with a trug of flowers in his hand.

His eyes opened wide as he saw the swaying snake and he rushed back into the garden shouting, ‘Sarp, Sarp! Helen was too terrified to call him back and then Ram Das was there with his kukree.

‘Don’t move, memsahib,’ he whispered and stealthily approached the trug with its deadly occupant. A quick flash of his curved blade and the decapitated cobra was writhing in its death throes.

Helen sat down on the stone bench, her legs refusing to bear her weight any longer until she noticed the gardener looking fearfully over Ram Das’s shoulder. ‘Why did you bring another trug of flowers, mali? Did you not remember the first trug?’ asked a puzzled Helen.

‘Memsahib, I did not bring those other flowers in here. I have only just

cut these fresh blooms for the vase and came to arrange them, when I saw

the snake.’

Ram Das had picked up the dead cobra and replaced it in the trug.

‘Memsahib,’ he said, ‘something is not quite right here. I too heard the snake charmer’s music even before the mali shouted, “Sarp,Sarp!’” If you will excuse me, I will find the snake charmer and bring him back for questioning. Why should he be in the Residency grounds charming snakes?’

Helen picked up her book of poems and rose to leave the mausoleum, when Isabel de Silva appeared in doorway. She took one look at Helen’s white face and the dead snake in the trug and shouted, ‘Oh my God, have you been bitten, Helen?’

‘No, Isabel, thanks to the deftness of Ram Das’s kukree.’

Ram Das searched the grounds of the Residency, thoroughly, without success and was told by the guards at the gates that no snake charmer had, or would have been allowed to pass them. It was a mystery and Rosita, particularly, was very anxious.

That evening she came to Helen’s bedroom and told her of her own strange experience whilst Helen and Gavin were away in Afghanistan.

‘I went to your bedroom to repair the lace on one of your shifts, when I heard chanting that seemed to come from the mausoleum. I looked out of the window and in the moonlight I saw a woman’s figure, and yet it was not a woman, because it was slithering like a reptile towards the monument. It may have been clouds crossing the moon, but the figure was suddenly huge and black, like an enormous shadow. I was so afraid, I fell on my knees and prayed to Our Lady to save me. When I opened my eyes and looked out of the window again, there was nothing, even the chanting had stopped.’

Helen listened to Rosita and then told her about her own experience on the first night of their arrival in Mirapore.

‘I believe, querida,’ said Rosita, ‘that something evil is in that monument. This is a strange country full of idols and mysticism. To-morrow I will visit my friend, the Senora Hernandez, and ask her to let us borrow her Catholic chaplain, Father Carlos. He will exorcise any evil there is, I am sure.’

‘Oh, Rosita, do you think we should reveal our fears to the Spanish Consulate? Besides this is a Muslim mausoleum and the Nawab may not appreciate an infidel defiling the tomb with the Christian rites of exorcism.’

‘He need never know. I will ask Father Carlos to call at the Residency, as if he is visiting me and then I will take him quietly to the tomb when no one is around. If there are any repercussions, then you can blame your superstitious Spanish companion,’ said Rosita.

Father Carlos visited the Residency whilst Helen was at the Clinic and she heard from Rosita, later, that he had performed the rites of exorcism, but it was his firm belief that the evil was not in the tomb, but came from another source.

It was six weeks since their return from Kashmir and Helen awoke one morning feeling quite nauseous. She wondered if a stomach bug was the cause, but a brief look at the calendar confirmed the lateness of her period. Could she be pregnant, or had her recent stressful episode with the snake upset her cycle? She would have to wait and see.

Helen had taken Sultana for a gentle ride, aware that if she was pregnant, strenuous riding would not be advisable. The forest paths were cool and sitting astride a horse enabled horse and rider to approach even the shyest animal before it took fright and fled. Helen had halted Sultana near a clearing and was admiring the little spotted deer grazing on the edge of the thicket. Suddenly the animal looked up, a look of anxiety in its alert eyes and Helen reached for her gun in its gunboot, strapped to the offside of her saddle, but the sound which disturbed the deer was not a predator but the hoofbeats of another horse.

The rider came galloping into the clearing and Helen’s heart jumped for joy when she recognised Gavin and Sultan. He whooped for joy when he saw her and vaulting off his horse even before the animal had stopped, Gavin bounded towards Helen pulling her from her saddle into his arms and claiming her mouth with a kiss so passionate, it left her breathless.

‘My darling, little sweetheart, have you missed me as much as I have missed you?’ he said, huskily, when his mouth finally released hers, but before Helen could reply, he was kissing her again, whispering endearments and torturing her with his hands and his lips on her body.

Then the rain began to fall, large drops which threatened to drench them and Gavin lifted Helen in his arms and ran for the shelter of the tree with the densest foliage, a large banyan, its spreading branches forming a perfect shelter.

They were both laughing now and as Helen leaned against the sturdy tree, Gavin’s strong body formed a barrier between her and the rain.

‘Shall I tie you to this tree, little sweetheart, and rescue you again when it is dark?’ chuckled Gavin and Helen knew that he, too, was thinking of that evening so long ago in the English woods.

Helen looked up at his dark, teasing eyes, his wet tousled hair and reached up to kiss the cleft in his chin, an impulse she soon regretted, because Gavin was suddenly serious, ‘Helen I want you so much, tell me that you want me too,’ his fingers already unbuttoning her shirt. With a low moan he kissed each naked breast, his tongue circling the dark pink areola, before taking the sensitive tips into his mouth. Helen felt her pulses pounding, her body shuddering and she knew that she had no resistance left and would soon become this man’s creature as much as Isabel de Silva.

‘No, no!’ she heard herself protest.

Gavin released her and stood back, his jaw set, a fierce look replacing the love in his eyes. He bent over her once more and said angrily, ‘So you are determined not to forgive me, Helen. I will not beg, nor will I take you again without your consent. But remember this, I am a man with a man’s needs and if my wife rejects me, there are other women who would gladly welcome me to their beds.’

Without another word or glance in her direction, Gavin mounted Sultan, who was grazing nearby with Sultana and rode off leaving Helen shaken and angry.

She heard herself sobbing and shouting to the trees. ‘Yes, I know Gavin French, you have another woman who will always welcome you to her bed but I will not play second fiddle, even if I am carrying your child.’ But Helen’s heartbroken sobs and her words of reproach echoed through the forested foothills and were carried by the winds to the high peaks of the Himalayas and beyond, but they did not reach her husband’s ears.

Gavin did not appear again that day, locking himself in his study, ostensibly for work and ordering his meals to be served there.

Helen asked for the carriage to take her to the clinic and there she immersed herself in work until late evening. Then bone weary and with a feeling of deep depression, she ate a light supper and retired for the night.

A worried Rosita watched the pale face of her beloved child as she brushed her hair and knew that something had upset her. Was it Gavin’s fault? Yet when he had returned that morning, the first thing he did was enquire after Helen and hearing that she was out riding, had barely stopped to change his clothes before setting out to find her, his eagerness all too

obvious to Rosita.

‘Is everything all right, querida mia? You look so pale and tired,’ she asked.

Yes, I am fine, dear Rosita, but I am very tired. There was a lot of work at the clinic today. I think that is enough hair brushing for tonight. I’ll feel better after a good night’s rest,’ said Helen, as she kissed Rosita on her cheek and climbed into her large bed.

The next morning, Gavin watched his wife from his study window climb into the phaeton. She was carrying her medical bag so he guessed she was on her way to the clinic. He noticed that Helen looked pale and cursed himself for upsetting her the day before. Why did he threaten her with another woman? His heart was filled only with thoughts of her but she had made him so angry, at first looking at him as if she loved him and then rejecting him when she had aroused his passion. No other woman had ever had this effect on him, driving him to despair and frustration and yet he would give his right arm if she would only love him as he loved her.

Several days passed and Helen and Gavin were like polite strangers when they met, which was not often as they avoided each other as much as possible. Helen was glad when Gavin had to leave Mirapore with the Nawab to inspect the Company’s plans to build a railway to connect Mirapore to other hill stations in British India.

She knew that Gavin had used all his diplomatic skills to persuade the Nawab that a railway link would be mutually advantageous to Mirapore and the Company, and he was determined to guide the ruler through these final stages.

The monsoon had been intermittent this year and the few early storms had not filled the nullahs to irrigate the land in village India, bringing a threat of famine to the drier regions. Here in the foothills, there was enough rain and the Nawab had made a good profit selling the bountiful produce of his valley to Indian merchants. Gavin had pointed out to Mohammed Hassan Khan, that when the British completed their ambitious plans to link all India by rail, a railway link would, in times of drought, bring in even more revenue for the State. Its produce could be transported direct to the dry kingdoms of the wealthy Rajput Princes, cutting out the middlemen, rich bunias who made an enormous profit.

Helen continued to feel lethargic and she finally had to admit that it was not only her difficult marriage, but pregnancy which accounted for her state of mind. Morning sickness was now the norm and it was this latter symptom that she could not hide from Rosita’s sharp eyes.

‘Helen, querida mia, I believe that you are going to have a baby. You must tell Gavin when he returns. He will be thrilled.’

‘No, not yet, I will tell him when I believe the time is right. Please do not say anything to anyone, Rosita,’ implored Helen and Rosita knew that her child had good reason to keep her husband in the dark. The barrier which she had noticed between these two seemed higher than ever and she was afraid to delve deeper, feeling powerless to help her beloved child with something she knew only husband and wife must solve. That they loved each other, she had no doubt, but something was keeping them apart.

Rosita felt that it was the evil she had sensed which was blighting the lives of these two beloved people and, once again, she asked Father Carlos to bless the whole area.

Helen came home from the clinic, hot and tired, to hear voices raised in anger coming from the tomb. She opened the door and was surprised to see Rosita and Isabel shouting at each other and a very embarrassed Father Carlos trying to calm the two angry women.

‘What is going on here?’ exclaimed an irritated Helen.

‘Mrs. Llewellyn is defiling this tomb by inviting this priest to perform his mumbo jumbo not only here, but in the house and in the gardens,’ yelled an unbelievably rude Isabel, her eyes glaring at Rosita and the priest and her little fists clenched as if she would like to strike them both. Helen was taken aback at the ferocity of Isabel’s attack, especially as the woman had always been so meek and subservient.

‘You realise that they are putting Gavin in a very difficult position as the British Resident to a Muslim court,’ she continued, now addressing herself directly to Helen.

Helen, stung by the woman’s arrogance and rudeness, said with an icy voice,’You forget your position, Isabel. Sir Gavin does not need your sympathy. He is diplomat enough to deal with any problem. Now, as to the question of Father Carlos’s blessing, I believe even Islam believes in the might of Allah over Saitan and if Mrs. Llewellyn, as a good Catholic, wishes her priest to bless our home, then she has my support. Please leave us, I wish to speak to Father Carlos and Mrs. Llewellyn.’

Isabel de Silva left the tomb, but the anger and spite in her face was apparent for all to see.

‘Please excuse my housekeeper’s behaviour, Father. I thought as a Goanese, she would be of the Catholic faith and pleased to have your blessing,’ said Helen.

‘I do not understand the woman, myself,’ said the priest. ‘Rosita and I were speechless when she burst into the tomb and harangued us. As for being a Catholic, I do not believe that is her faith, Lady French. As I have told Mrs. Llewellyn, the evil she senses is not in this tomb but elsewhere. Nevertheless, I have faith that the holy rites I have performed will keep its malign influence at bay, at least in the Residency and its grounds.’

CONTINUED IN

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