THE CURSE OF KALI - 1

THE CURSE OF KALI

AUDREY BLANKENHAGEN

( INSTALMENT 1 )

‘GOD IS LOVE,

IS THIS THE FINAL MESSAGE OF INDIA’

E.M. Forster, 1924

Note to Reader

Extracts from investigations, 1835

Major General Sir William Henry (‘Thuggee’) Sleeman

Sleeman: ‘Are you afraid of the spirits you murder?’

Thuggee: ‘Never, they cannot trouble us.’

Sleeman: ‘And how do they not trouble you?’

Thuggee: ‘Are not the people whom we kill, killed by the orders of KALI?’

THUGS -A murderous, fanatical, secret society, which existed since the fourteenth century and roamed the country pretending to befriend travellers and then robbing and strangling them with their so-called sacred ’rumels’ (a scarf or cord) and secretly burying their bodies. They lived on the proceeds of their homicidal activities and were often protected by local rulers who shared their profits.

The THUGS, whose worship of the Goddess Kali was the basis for their ritual murders and primeval sexuality, had long evaded the law, because the loss of a traveller in India could be attributed to a wild animal or some other mishap. When British travellers went missing on journeys to the interior, however, the British started to investigate and the activities of this ancient secret society came to light. Lord Bentinck appointed a special Commissioner for the Suppression of Thuggee and Dacoity, William Sleeman, and his investigations and interrogations of informers revealed the full extent of the activities of the secret society of THUGS. Over 3,000 Thugs were convicted and the Sect was virtually wiped out.

This was one of the most difficult, but necessary operations undertaken by the EAST INDIA COMPANY and is considered, along with the abolition of slavery, child marriage, female infanticide and the practice of suttee, as one of the important humanitarian reforms of British rule.

Prologue

Eighteenth Century India

The cave was dark except for a few flickering oil lights in tiny clay bowls surrounding the base of the idol. The figure of a man lay prostrate at the foot of the Goddess, his fingers clutching at her feet, the knuckles tensed, his dark naked body covered in sweat even though the temperature in the cave was very low.

He raised his head to listen. Scuttling noises - bats or rats - these were not his concern, only the stealthy shadows of vengeance which he knew must come. His eyes looked up at the Goddess, her blackness towered above him, her bulging eyes glared down on him, her terrible fanged mouth with its lolling tongue poised to drink his blood. He cried out for mercy, but he knew ‘The Destroyer’ would not hear.

They came at last. A silk scarf snaked around his neck and his head was drawn back by ’The Arm Holder’. The rumel tightened and as the last breath was squeezed from his body, he looked into the face of ‘The Strangler’ and saw the face of his son.

KALI WAS AVENGED!!

Chapter 1

India - 1851

Gavin studied the woman who lay asleep: her blue-black hair spread on the pillow, her long lashes framing dark eyes, now closed in slumber, her naked form exquisite in its beauty.

She was his wife, Maria, their marriage only a few weeks old, but he did not really know her.

Last night when he came to her bed, she had rejected him, pleading her usual headache, so he had returned to his own room, angry and frustrated.

It must have been some hours later, when he awoke from a heavy sleep to find Maria straddling his body. By the pale morning light streaming through the open window, he observed that she was stark naked, her pupils pinpoints in her dark eyes, her black hair wild about her shoulders and her fingers flexed like claws, as she reached down and scratched at his bare chest, forming tiny rivulets of blood. He stared at her in bewilderment. She laughed huskily and speaking in the native language of the bazaars, invited him to make love to her, to take her as as he would a prostitute.

‘These women are my friends,’ she giggled. ‘They have shown me how to pleasure a man. Don’t be coy, my husband, take me as you would one of them.’

She slid down his body to lick his genitals, her eyes watching him like a cat studying its prey, her mouth continuing to caress him until, despite himself, he was aroused. Maria cackled in triumph and straddling him once again impaled herself on him shouting, ‘Now, now!’ They coupled frenetically, almost in hatred, until Gavin opened his eyes and saw his wife’s face, distorted and ugly, her teeth bared in feral ecstasy, her eyes growing wider and wider, as she howled her fulfillment.

Horrified, Gavin pulled free, although his erection was still alive and standing up, walked towards the window, his stomach churning. He had been repulsed by this sudden, incredible personality change in Maria, but when he turned to question her, she was watching him with cold, dark eyes, her red lips curled in a sneer. Even as he stared, she spread her legs wide, her fingers touching herself provocatively and with an obscene gesture, beckoned him to come to her again. Gavin winced, a feeling of sadness and dismay overwhelming him, as he turned away from this harlot, who bore no resemblance to the gentle, reserved woman he had married.

England 1854

It was a beautiful autumn day when Sir Terence French informed Helen of the family’s wish that she should marry his son Gavin. They had just buried her own father, Doctor Arthur Forsythe, and all the mourners had left the Grange, except Sir Terence.

Helen sat in the bay window seat, the skirt of her black taffeta dress spread gracefully around her, accentuating her tiny waist. The sun’s rays on her dark auburn hair made it shimmer like burnished copper. She was so still, her emerald eyes downcast, when she heard her uncle speak again.

‘I know the death of your father is very distressing for you, my dear, but it was not unexpected; Arthur has been suffering for many years from this debilitating disease, which both you and I know robbed him of the quality of life and his will to live. I hope you do not think it indelicate of me to raise this matter so soon.’

Helen looked up and stared, almost unseeingly, at the aspects of the comfortable drawing room in which they were sitting and that still retained touches of her mother’s taste; an elegant room, richly carpeted, with gleaming rosewood and mahogany furniture, silver-framed portraits and cameos, comfortable armchairs and a roaring fire in the grate of the white, marble Adam fireplace, above which hung a beautiful, gilt-framed Venetian mirror.

She had heard her uncle’s proposition with incredulity. Did he really wish her to marry Gavin, the secret love of her life since childhood? Her heart was fluttering so rapidly that she felt it would jump out of her chest and she pressed her hand to her breast to still its beating.

‘What do you say, Helen?’ insisted her uncle. ‘I know you and Gavin were friends when you were children. It is not as if he is a stranger.’

‘Uncle’, whispered Helen, trying to compose her emotions. ‘I was but a child when I first met Gavin and over the years, before he went to India, we saw each other on a mere two or three occasions. Besides, his wife has been dead for only two years. Does he really wish to marry again so soon?’

‘He knows he must produce an heir. There is no one in India among the European women that he wishes to make his wife and, frankly, I do not believe he is making much effort in that direction. You know, of course, about the conditions of the family inheritance. It is all explained in this letter from your father.’

Helen started in surprise. ‘So my father knew about your plans for our marriage. Why did he not discuss this with me?’

‘We decided, mutually, to await Gavin’s reply before approaching you. Your father was well aware of my wish to unite our families once again in marriage. You have always been like a daughter to me, dear niece, and I promised your father ...’

‘What did Gavin say, precisely, to your astonishing proposal?’ interrupted Helen impatiently.

Sir Terence smiled and produced a letter from his pocket in Gavin’s handwriting. He read the words, “If I must marry again, Father, well why not to my little, auburn haired cousin, Helen. She will do just as well as any other woman.”

‘Not a very romantic acceptance, Uncle, which is hardly surprising I must admit,’ remarked Helen caustically. ‘Let me think about your proposal for a few days. You know I have commitments with David and Harriet Burton at the Missionary Clinic and there is also father’s practice and, of course, Rosita to consider.’

‘Your father and I discussed that too, Helen. I will give the Burtons an undertaking to pay the salary of another doctor to take your place and ask David Burton to take on your father’s practice. It will augment his meagre salary from the Mission. And as for Rosita, I am confident she will wish to accompany you to India. You are her life!’

Sir Terence paused, his brow puckering slightly, ‘Ah yes, Helen - David Burton - your father told me about his proposal of marriage to you. You have not accepted, have you? He is a charming man, a bit too serious in my view, but hardly the right husband for you.’

Helen laughed at her uncle’s proprietary remark. ‘No, I have not accepted David’s proposal of marriage. I am very fond of both David and his sister, Harriet, but I had no intention of marrying anyone just yet. I will, however, consider your proposal, Uncle Terence. Give me two days, at least.’

How could she tell her uncle that she had already made up her mind to accept this strange, arranged marriage. To be the wife of Gavin French, whom she had loved secretly from the tender age of seven, was more than she had ever hoped. But she must behave with decorum and pretend that the proposal needed some thought.

When Sir Terence left, Helen rushed to find Rosita. She knew that at this time of day the Spanish woman would be sitting by the kitchen range with her sewing. ‘Darling Rosita, I wonder what she will say,’ muttered Helen to herself, as she made her way to the large farmhouse kitchen.

Rosita Llewellyn had been companion and nursemaid to her since her own mother’s death when she was only three years old. Rosita had come to Cornwall some forty years ago from Spain, following her English soldier husband who had been fighting with Wellington’s army on the Peninsular.

After his death, she had found work with the doctor’s family as housekeeper and nursemaid to their young child.

She looked up as Helen stood in the doorway, with flushed cheeks and shining eyes, displaying all the excitement of a little child bursting to reveal some exciting piece of news.

‘So you have accepted, queridisima,’ said Rosita in her inimitable Spanish accent, which she had never lost despite her years in England. ‘Your dreams have come true, at last, and your handsome Prince will wed my Sleeping Beauty.’

She opened her arms as Helen rushed to her and knelt down in front of her chair and as she had done so often in her life, the young woman buried her head in Rosita’s ample lap, both of them laughing and crying together. Suddenly Rosita’s words penetrated Helen’s thoughts and she looked up, tears still glistening in her lovely eyes.

‘So you too knew, Rosita, about this plan to marry me off to Gavin French. Why was I the last one to be told and, for your information, I have not yet accepted. Gavin is not exactly the ardent suitor. He is merely doing his duty by marrying me. Not a very romantic proposal.’

Rosita seemed suddenly anxious, ‘Do not let your stubborn pride, Helen, stand in the way of something I know your heart has wanted all your life. Gavin will fall madly in love with you, whatever he feels now. How can anyone fail to love you, my beautiful child.’

‘I will only accept,’ teased Helen, ‘if you will promise to come with me to India. I could not envisage life without you now, my darling Rosita. Will you brave that long sea journey and all those strange people to be with your Helen?’

‘Well, I have no intention of letting you go to any foreign country without me by your side, so tell your uncle you will marry Gavin.’

Rosita had always known about Helen’s love for Gavin French. There was nothing about the girl that she did not know. Since Helen’s mother’s death, Rosita and Helen had forged a strong bond. Her father, Arthur, had been devastated by his wife’s untimely demise and welcomed Rosita’s love and care for his motherless, little girl.

The Spanish woman remembered clearly the day when seven-year-old Helen had been brought back to the Grange by the teenage boy, Gavin. The child, who had been playing in the woods with her friends, was missing and Arthur Forsythe and Rosita were at their wits end until the message arrived from Charnwood Hall that Helen was safe.

Later, when she was safely tucked into her warm bed, Helen told Rosita about her escapade and could not disguise the effect her handsome cousin had had on her. Rosita recalled their conversation.

‘I was tied to a tree by my friends who wanted to play our favourite game of Settlers and Red Indians. I was the youngest, so they decided I should be the “Settler” captured by the Indians.’ Rosita knew this game, which the children played: it had evolved from the tales of sailors and adventurers returning from the Americas in the late eighteenth century.

‘What happened then, querida mia,’ asked Rosita as her beloved child started to look alarmed again recalling her terrifying ordeal.

‘My friends danced around me with whoops and cries and then they disappeared, saying they were going to have a “pow wow” but they forgot about me. As it grew dark and started to rain and no one answered my calls, I became afraid, Rosita, because my friends had told me that the forest is inhabited by trolls and witches, who come out at night to devour little children who had strayed from their beds.’

‘Oh, my poor little child,’ said Rosita, stroking the auburn curls as Helen’s green eyes filled with tears. ‘I will make sure that those nasty children are well chastised by their parents for their unkindness to you.’

‘It does not matter now, Rosita. My handsome cousin, Gavin, rescued me,’ and Rosita saw Helen smiling, obviously remembering her dashing cousin.

Helen remembered, as if it was only yesterday, how afraid she had been when she heard horses hooves and the sobs died in her throat because she was certain this was the devil riding to a witches’ coven. She was terrified and shut her eyes tightly, so that she could not see or, she hoped, be seen.

‘Well what have we here?’ the devil asked, for his horse had stopped near her tree and he was untying her bonds. Helen opened her eyes and saw a young, handsome, dark-haired prince bending over her, laughter in his brown eyes, as with gentle fingers he lifted her wet, dangling curls off her face.

‘Why, if it isn’t my cousin, Helen. Don’t cry, little sweetheart, you are safe now and I’ll take you home, but first we must go by way of Charnwood Hall to dry you off. It is our cook Martha’s baking day so there will be delicious pasties and cakes for supper. Here, wear my jacket, you are shivering, poor child.’

Gavin had lifted Helen onto his horse, one arm holding her tight around her waist, his warm bantering voice making her feel as happy as she had been miserable a little while ago. Gavin French, her cousin from the big house: she had seen him on one or two occasions at family gatherings in the Hall and had thought how handsome he was. After that day she knew he was as kind as he was handsome and the little seven-year-old girl had fallen hopelessly in love.

Helen met him once more, when she was fifteen years old. Gavin had completed his final year at Addiscombe College near Croydon, the prestigious military academy of the East India Company and had been nominated by the directors for a commission in a cavalry unit. He came to the Grange to bid farewell to them before his departure for India with his unit.

On that occasion, Helen served the tea and cakes and as she shyly passed a cup to Gavin, she looked up to see, once again, that bantering look in his dark brown eyes.

‘So, little cousin Helen, you have grown taller since we last met and I swear you are fast becoming a beautiful young lady. I guarantee you will be breaking many hearts before long. I hope your present beau is not one of those ungallant friends who tied you to that tree long ago’, teased Gavin, with a wink in the direction of Helen’s father and Rosita.

Helen replied, ‘I have no beau, Gavin. I do not intend to get married until I am much, much older. You see, I want to study medicine, if Father will agree.’

Gavin left for India a few days later and the family heard no more from him directly, except that he had eventually married. His career in the East India Company was meteoric, first as a cavalry commander and ultimately as Resident at the Court of a Nawab, the Moslem ruler of a state in the foothills of the Himalayas. Coinciding with this appointment, Gavin had been honoured with a knighthood in his own right. Then the news came that his wife had died from smallpox and Helen chided herself for her uncharitable relief that Gavin was single again - little consolation, she thought, when ten thousand miles separated her from her charming cousin.

Not that Gavin was really a blood relative. His father, the squire of Charnwood Hall, Sir Terence French, was an old friend of Helen’s father, Dr. Arthur Forsythe, and by his first marriage to Arthur’s only sister, had become his brother-in-law. Her aunt had died several years ago and Sir Terence had married again. Gavin was the son of this second marriage.

Helen, herself, had firmly quelled that romantic dream of her adolescence and plunged herself into her medical studies. Her success in achieving her medical degree was in no small way due to her determination to fight the nineteenth century male prejudice against women studying medicine. Unfortunately, when she graduated with honours, no hospital was prepared to give her a place on their medical staff, so all her clinical experience was gained in her father’s surgery and, ultimately, in the Missionary Clinic run by David and Harriet Burton.

‘The poor have no prejudice against a woman doctor diagnosing their illnesses or performing operations on their emaciated bodies,’ Helen told her father and he knew that their confidence in his daughter was amply rewarded: Helen was a first-rate surgeon and physician.

******

Now as she opened his last letter to her, Helen felt sure her father would approve if she shared these final words with Rosita. She unfolded the letter and read,

‘My darling Helen,

I knew this day would come and I welcome the release from my suffering and hope to be united soon with your beloved mother. My only egret is that I must leave you, my dearest child, but my dear friend Sir Terence, has promised to take my place as your guardian.’

The letter went on to emphasise her father’s wish to see Helen settled. His practice gave him a comfortable living, but he was not a rich man and wanted more for his daughter. Sir Terence French’s desire to unite their families once again in marriage through Helen and Gavin was a wonderful solution to secure her future.

‘There is another reason’, her father explained, ‘and that is the strange legacy of Sir William French, an ancestor of Sir Terence who, like many adventurers to the East, had made his fortune in India in the early 18th century.

‘On his return to England, Sir William’s substantial wealth purchased Charnwood Hall and its vast country estates and provided a rich inheritance for his heirs, but he left an unusual stipulation in his Will.’

‘How strange,’ Helen commented, interrupting the reading of her father’s letter to look questioningly at Rosita. ’Did you know anything about this ancestor of Gavin, Rosita?‘

‘No, querida, but read on, I am sure your father will explain,‘ said Rosita gently.

Helen continued reading her father’s words, ‘There was, however, a rumour that most of Sir William’s wealth had been accumulated during his work with the Thuggee & Dacoity Department1 and the black marble statue of the Goddess Kali, now in the family vault at Charnwood Hall, which had once been encrusted with fabulous gems, seems to hold the key to his strange behest.

‘I understand from your Uncle, Helen, that Sir William, before his death, set up a Trust for the family and heirs of Chandra Lal, a Thuggee leader who had been apprehended by the British for his foul deeds. On the day before his execution, Chandra Lal had escaped and it was rumoured that it was this man who gave the statue to Sir William French in exchange for his life. Chandra Lal had not survived too long after his escape, but as he had been found murdered by the ritualistic Thugee manner of strangulation, Sir William’s involvement could not be proved. It was obvious, however, that something weighed heavily on the conscience of Gavin’s ancestor, who had set up this strange bequest and, furthermore, stipulated in his Will that his fortune would revert to the heirs of Chandra Lal in the event of his own dynasty ceasing to exist.’

(Thugs - a murderous organization existing since the 14th century who under the guise of their worship of the Goddess Kali, robbed and murdered travellers by strangulation and secretly buried their bodies.)

Helen paused, wondering for a moment about this strange ancestor of Gavin, then continued reading her father’s words.

‘The Trust is administered by a legal firm in India, who refuses to divulge the names of Chandra Lal’s heirs. However, whatever the history of the statue, the family believes that Its misappropriation has placed a curse on them. You see only one son had been born to every direct male heir and as a result, the French dynasty has become, to say the least, very tenuous.’

Helen could see now why Sir Terence was eager to find another wife for Gavin. His first marriage had been childless and Gavin’s reluctance to marry again had forced his father to take a hand in his son’s marital future.

‘So you see, my dear child,’ her father’s letter ended, ‘it is not only Sir Terence’s wish but mine, too, that you should marry Gavin. I know you are fond of your cousin. He has a prestigious career in the East India Company and will be able to give you, materially, all that I could not. You will also be able to help the Indians, themselves, by your skill as a doctor, a career which I know you will wish to pursue.

‘God Bless you, my child. I leave you now in the care of Sir Terence and our faithful Rosita.

‘Your loving father,

Arthur J. Forsythe.’

How Helen had loved and respected her father. Everything she was she owed to him. Because of his love of horses, he had encouraged Helen to ride from an early age and she was a superb horsewoman. As if this was not enough, she had been trained by his friend, Count Kovrosky, an émigré from Poland, in the art of fencing and the use of firearms. Helen was always amused when she heard her father, usually a modest man, boast to anyone who praised his daughter’s beauty, ‘Despite my daughter’s obvious femininity, Helen can outride, outgun and fence as well as any man and to boot she is a strong swimmer.’

She often wondered if her father’s pride in her sporting achievements was a subconscious reflection of his hidden wish for a son.

Doctor Forsythe had not, however, neglected his daughter’s education and by the time she was fifteen, Helen could speak French, Spanish and Portuguese fluently. Her interest in science and mathematics had encouraged Dr. Forsythe to foster her wish to study medicine. He was so proud of her achievements in this male-dominated profession.

So now if it was, fortuitously, her father’s wish that she should marry Gavin French, then that was what she would do.

Chapter 2

It was six months later that Sir Terence arranged a passage for Helen and Rosita on the East Indiaman, the Prince George. The ship was one of the largest of the company’s vessels, well armed and amongst the first all iron ships to be powered by steam.

Amongst the passengers were Brigadier General, Sir James and Lady Cameron, friends of Sir Terence, returning to India after a spell of leave in England. The couple had promised to watch over his niece and her companion and deliver them safely to Gavin. Helen understood that besides the crew, there were the usual company of marines and a platoon of a Highland Regiment (some of whom were accompanied by their wives).

‘This platoon of the Seventy-Eighth Highlanders,’ said Uncle Terence, ‘is part of the British military contingent serving Company interests on the borders of Mirapore and closely liaise with Gavin as the British Resident in Mirapore. The Nawab is a distant relative, I believe through his mother’s line, of Bahadur Shah The Second, the Moghul Emperor in Delhi. The

Brigadier General is the new military commander of the fort near Mirapore and he and his wife, you and Rosita, will be escorted to Mirapore by the platoon of Highlanders.’

All this Sir Terence explained to Helen as they stood at the rail of the Prince George. A sailor was ringing the hand bell and announcing through a hand-held loudhailer the imminent departure of the ship. ‘All visitors disembark, please. We set sail in ten minutes!’

It was now time to say goodbye to Uncle Terence and as he clasped his niece to him in a tearful farewell, Helen wondered if she would ever see him again: India was so far. She had come to love this dear uncle, not only because of his kindness to his orphaned niece, but because she could see so much of Gavin in his tall frame and warm brown eyes.

Helen and Rosita watched with tears filling their eyes as the tugs steered the Prince George out to sea and the tall figure of Sir Terence disappeared from her view as the dock and, eventually, the shoreline of their beloved England receded.

Helen took Rosita’s arm, ‘Let us find our cabin. I believe it is down this companionway.’

She turned and saw a blond, bearded giant of a man, dressed in Highland military uniform, standing at the head of the companionway to which they were making, almost as if he was waiting for them. As they approached, he came forward and bowing slightly to the two women, took Helen’s hand and said in a soft Scot’s burr, ‘Lieutenant John MacGregor at your service, Miss Forsythe. Let me escort you and Mrs. Llewellyn to your cabin.’

His bright blue eyes openly reflected his admiration of Helen’s beauty. Helen, dressed in a bottle green woollen cape trimmed with arctic fox fur to match the little fur hat perched on the top of her dark auburn curls was, indeed, a striking woman, the fur enhancing her creamy, magnolia skin and long-lashed, emerald eyes. Helen was well used to the admiration she saw in men’s eyes whenever they first met her and although she was feminine enough to be thankful that she had not been born plain, she was always slightly embarrassed by their obvious attention.

Helen gently withdrew her hand, which the Scotsman seemed reluctant to release and replied, ‘Thank you, Lieutenant MacGregor. I understand that you and your platoon will be escorting us to Mirapore.’

‘That will indeed be my pleasure. This is your cabin, ladies, and along this companionway is the saloon for our passengers.’ He opened the door to the cabin and Helen glimpsed a comfortable, largish room with polished mahogany furniture, chintz hangings and sparkling brass fittings.

‘We will be dining with the captain to-night, at seven bells, as the navy would say, so I shall have the pleasure of your company again, ladies,’ said John MacGregor, his blue eyes twinkling, as he once again took Helen’s hand and raised it to his lips.

He departed with a swish of his kilt and Helen turned to see Rosita’s amused smile. ‘That giant is obviously smitten, my girl. For Gavin’s sake, you will have to discourage him.’

Helen laughed, ‘Rosita you are an incurable romantic. The man was just being polite. But tell me, did you not think, when you first saw him, that he was out of his time. Instead of meeting him on the deck of a nineteenth century British merchant vessel, I could imagine him standing at the prow of a dragon ship, wearing the horned helmet of a Viking war lord. It must be his giant frame, that blond hair and beard and those intense blue eyes set in the high-cheekboned face of a Norse ancestor, which gave me that impression.’

Dinner for his special guests was in the captain’s saloon that evening. The captain of the Prince George was seated at the head of the table. A short, sturdy man, with a complexion reddened by years of exposure to salt spray, Captain White had a jocular personality and as Helen was soon to discover, he was a first-rate seaman. His bright, brown eyes above a full,

bushy, white beard surveyed his seated guests whom he addressed after Grace with the words, ‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you will enjoy your voyage and this meal, which I always like to share with my special passengers before our supplies of fresh meat and vegetables are exhausted. Then we will be reduced to salt beef and sauerkraut until our

next port of call.’

Helen found herself seated between the Brigadier General and Lady Cameron, whom she had met on a few occasions at Charnwood Hall before their departure for India.

Sir Cameron was a tall, gaunt-faced man with a leathery tanned skin from his years under the Indian sun. His wife, Lady Cameron, was nearly as tall as her husband and reminded Helen of a haughty, thoroughbred mare, particularly when she tossed her head to emphasise some specific point. Her strong face was matched by a tightly corseted figure, which she carried with a marked degree of elegance, but Helen knew that beneath that haughty exterior beat a heart which was full of compassion for the underprivileged.

On her visit to Charnwood Hall, Lady Cameron had spent a great deal of time at the Missionary Clinic administered by Helen and the Burtons. Agnes Cameron had displayed a keen, unfeigned interest in their work and had made a more than generous contribution to their funds.

Lady Cameron, somewhat to Helen’s embarrassment, now referred to this work and addressing the ship’s doctor, James Grant, said with a toss of her head, ‘Did you know, James, that our young and beautiful Helen has a first-class medical degree? I have seen her operating with the skill of a more seasoned surgeon but with, perhaps, more gentleness and post-surgery compassion for her patient than a lot of you male doctors.’

Doctor Grant, a taciturn Welshman, who was seated opposite Lady Cameron, looked over his half-rimmed spectacles at Helen and after observing her for a disconcerting second, smiled enigmatically and said, ‘I hope Dr. Forsythe, you will demonstrate some of that skill. I would always welcome another medic on board, particularly when we strike rough weather.’

Helen noted the word ‘medic’ and thought that here is another male skeptic of a woman’s capability in the field of medicine. She was determined to avail herself of this opportunity, not only to practice her beloved medicine, but to prove that she was no slouch where her professional skills were concerned.

‘Thank you for your kind invitation, Dr. Grant. I shall be along tomorrow to see what help I can give you,’ replied Helen, deliberately adopting her softest, most feminine manner.

Helen caught the eye of the amused Scots officer, John MacGregor, sitting opposite, who winked at her and laughingly commented, ‘The lass has brains as well as beauty, Dr. Grant. I wager you will now have more malingerers than ever before, when the ship’s unofficial telegraph announces the appointment of your lovely colleague.’

His comments were studiously ignored by the good doctor who, addressing himself to Helen, proceeded to quiz her about her degree, her medical experience and her reasons for choosing medicine as her profession.

The next morning Helen reported to the ship’s hospital. This consisted of a ward with three beds, an operating theatre, a sluice room and a surgery. The first patient was a gaunt marine, named Roger Quinn.

‘What do you think is wrong here, Dr. Forsythe?’ said Dr. Grant indicating, with an arrogant waive of his hand, the patient lying on the examination couch. ‘Mr. Quinn is complaining of tiredness, a feeling of chilliness and a loss of appetite.’

Helen examined the patient and noticed his painful reaction when she pressed his liver. His temperature was high, his skin yellow and the sample of his urine reddish in colour.

‘Is this your first trip to the East, Mr. Quinn?’ asked Helen gently.

‘No, miss, I have served for several years in China but was sent home because I contracted malaria. I have been taking quinine.’

‘Was your medication supervised by a physician?’ asked Helen.

‘No, miss, doctors cost money and I needed to buy the quinine.’

Helen was certain the patient was suffering from blackwater fever, a complication of the malaria he had contracted in the Far East, which seemed to have been treated rather haphazardly.

She turned to Dr. Grant, who had been watching her carefully and said, ‘I believe we have a case of blackwater fever here, a complication of the malaria and the unsupervised use of quinine.’

‘My prognosis, exactly, Dr. Forsythe. How do you recommend we proceed?’

‘I would like Mr. Quinn hospitalized and kept lying down and he should have plenty of fluids with glucose and an alkaline mixture to alkalise his urine. We need to examine a blood sample before giving him any more quinine. Frankly, I believe he should return to Europe when he has recovered,’ replied Helen confidently, glad that she had specialised in

tropical diseases.

Her next test was a young blonde woman, the wife of one of the Highland soldiers. She had already been examined by Dr. Grant, who turning to Helen said, less arrogantly, ‘Well, Doctor, what is your diagnosis of this young woman’s condition? She is bringing up clear, tasteless fluid each morning and tells me that she is not menstruating.’

The young woman looked quite nervous and Helen smiled at her and asked her to lie down on the examination bench. ‘What is your name, dear?’ said Helen as she opened the woman’s blouse to examine her breasts.

‘Mary Brown, miss, and this sort of vomiting started before the voyage.’

Helen observed the swollen blue veined breasts, the prominent nipples and the dark areola around them with slightly raised, pimply skin.

‘Are you inclined to urinate frequently?’ she asked.

‘Yes, Doctor, up to three months ago, but not so much now.’

Helen was quite convinced that Mary was in the fourth month of pregnancy and was well aware of her condition, but had deliberately kept the knowledge to herself in case the Company refused to send her abroad with her husband.

‘Well Mary, you are pregnant. Is this your first child?’ said Helen, observing the young woman’s heightened colour and sudden nervousness, which confirmed her suspicion that Mary was already well aware of her condition.

Dr. Grant interrupted and looking severely over his half-rimmed spectacles at the nervous Mary, said, ‘If I had known, young woman, you would not have been allowed to embark on this voyage in your condition.’

‘I think that would have been unfair, Dr. Grant,’ said Helen. ‘Pregnancy is not a sickness and Mary seems a strong and sensible woman who would wish to be with her husband when the child is born. If you do not mind, I shall personally supervise her health during this voyage.’

‘As you like, Doctor. I shall have my hands full with more serious ailments during our passage,’ said Dr. James Grant grudgingly.

With the permission of the captain, Helen arranged for the Irish chef to prepare a special nourishing diet for the young mother, who was instructed to take light exercise each day in the fresh air, if weather conditions permitted.

The next day Helen arrived at the hospital area to find an irate Dr. Grant trying to cope with a queue of young men.

‘Good morning, Dr. Forsythe: please deal with these patients and refer to me any whom you think might need surgery. I shall be in the theatre,’ muttered Dr. James, making no effort to hide his resentment and firm belief that the over-crowded surgery was entirely Helen’s fault.

The queue of waiting patients was soon whittled down to only four men by Helen’s piercing questions - one with a cut leg that needed a few stitches, a sailor who had a small splinter in his eye and a bad case of constipation, which Helen treated, much to the man’s embarrassment, with a soapy enema.

The fourth patient, who had waited to the last, was Mary Brown’s husband eager to express his gratitude to Helen on behalf of his young wife.

‘My wife and I are both grateful to you, Doctor, for offering to look after Mary during her pregnancy. I feel less guilty now for allowing her to accompany me to India,’ said the young, carrot-haired Scotsman.

At the end of the surgery, Dr Grant seemed friendlier and although he did not admit as much, Helen felt that she had satisfied his curiosity concerning her proficiency as a doctor.

The voyage settled into a routine. The ship steamed up the coast of Africa, stopping briefly at a few ports to take on fresh supplies and water and then rounded the Cape of Good Hope into the Indian Ocean.

Helen had read books about this vast black continent, so much of which was still unexplored. Her glimpses of the flora and fauna of the coastal regions and the people of every shade of colour, from pale brown to ebony black, filled her with amazement. As each day passed she realised that her life was changing and that England, that little island off Europe, which she called her country, was indeed a very minuscule part of this globe and would be even further away when she reached the sub-continent of India.

Everyone was relieved that the notorious weather around the Cape had not lived up to its reputation when suddenly, just off Madagascar, they were hit by a fierce storm.

Helen in the ship’s hospital, was well aware of the increasing ferocity of the gale, as the ship bucked and reared in the troughs and crests of the raging sea, like a wild stallion endeavouring to shake off its tenacious rider. Although it was afternoon, the leaden skies darkened the small sick bay, waves beat against the glass of the portholes and the ship reared up to mount an enormous swell, pausing for a brief moment before her bows crashed down and down into a deep watery valley and then drunkenly rolled up again.

Dr. Grant said he would stay in the sick bay in case he was needed, but Helen’s thoughts were of Rosita, who hated storms even on terra firma. She would be terrified on her own in their cabin, listening to the storm’s mounting intensity. She had no alternative but to venture up on the top deck to reach the companionway leading to the passengers’ cabins.

Helen struggled up the hospital companionway like a drunk, fighting to retain her balance and the sight that met her eyes on the open deck was even more terrifying. The black, rain sodden skies were forked by lightning, the wind howled, the ship creaked and groaned, her decks awash with the constant pounding of hungry seas, which swept away anything that was not fastened down.

Helen clung like a limpet to whatever solid object she could find, but the heaving deck, the furious wind lashing her body and her sodden, heavy skirt impeded all her endeavours to reach the door aft leading to the passengers’ quarters. Battered and bruised and constantly brought to her knees by the savage ebb and flow of angry waves, Helen feared she would never reach her goal.

On the poop deck, the helmsman was lashed to his wheel and someone, noticing the woman struggling on the open deck, shouted something, which Helen could not hear above the howling of the gale.

A flash of lightning illuminated the darkness for a moment and Helen saw, to her horror, a gigantic, white-crested wall of water approaching the ship. Above the roar she heard the helmsman shout, ‘Hard to Port’! This was the end: that mountainous swell would surely overpower her and sweep her overboard. Suddenly an iron arm gripped her and a rope was fastening her to a stanchion. Her last sight before the seas rose over their heads, was John MacGregor’s bearded face leaning over her and shouting, ‘Breathe in Helen, here she comes!’

Helen was enveloped by the green wet leaves of that ancient English forest of her childhood and Gavin was holding her tightly against the terrors of the night. Then when she looked up again, it was not Gavin, but an anxious Rosita and a worried John MacGregor leaning over her in the safety of her cabin.

She smiled weakly and heard Rosita say, ‘Fetch her some brandy if you please, Lieutenant. I must get her out of these wet clothes and into a warm bed before she catches her death from the cold.’

The Scotsman soon reappeared with a flask and a pannikin, which he placed against her lips. ‘Drink this, lassie, it is not brandy, but the best Scotch whisky that will warm you inside and out.’

Then, on Rosita’s instructions he lifted Helen, now in a dry night shift, into the high sided berth and gently covered her with a blanket.

‘I believe I have to thank you for saving my life, John,’ murmured Helen, recalling his gallant rescue and then smiling wearily, closed her eyes, the fiery spirit already warming her battered body and making her long for sleep.

She felt him bend down and kiss her forehead and whisper, ‘Och, I would have given my life for you, sweet lassie,’ and Helen felt strangely comforted and safe as she drifted into sleep.

When she awoke, the storm had passed and sunlight was streaming through the portholes.

Against Rosita’s admonitions Helen dressed, breakfasted lightly and made her way to the sick bay. Dr. Grant seemed pleased to see her, not because there were many patients, but he appeared genuinely concerned for her welfare after her horrendous ordeal the day before.

‘Welcome, Doctor, I hope you have not rushed back to work too soon. As I have been told, you have had a near fatal experience which would quail even the stoutest heart. We have been very lucky this time; not too many patients, despite the storm: a few cuts and bruises and a dislocated wrist. Could have been much worse, eh?‘

The voyage continued without too much further drama except for the appearance in the Arabian Sea of several Arab dhows, obviously slave ships, their dreadful cargo evident from the stench which wafted towards the Prince George on the Trade Winds. John MacGregor told Helen, as they watched the dhows change course rapidly, ‘The British Navy patrol these

waters to prevent these slave traders from carrying out their pernicious trade and no doubt the Arab captains thought our merchant ship was a Royal Navy vessel.’

A more felicitous event was the birth of Mary Brown’s child, which Helen delivered before the end of the voyage. A beautiful baby girl, with Mary’s blue eyes and her husband’s reddish hair, was born to the happy couple who named the little girl ‘Helen’ in honour of their doctor. The Regiment’s Presbyterian minister baptised the baby and Captain White threw a little christening party at which even the serious Doctor Grant smiled his approval of the couple’s happiness. Lieutenant John MacGregor was the godfather and the young couple asked Helen to be the godmother, a fact which the smitten Scot took to be a good omen for his and Helen’s future.

Helen spent a lot of time in the company of John MacGregor since that fateful storm. She was grateful to him for saving her life and half remembered his words and her feeling of security as he bent over her cabin berth. John was attracted to her, she had no doubt, but the depth of his love was only revealed to her on their last night on board the Prince George. They had just dined for the last time with Captain White and were standing by the ship’s rails watching a school of dolphins playfully swimming alongside the ship, with elegant dives and arced jumps over the water.

It was a beautiful evening, the sea calm, the setting sun shimmering on the waves and the thought that their journey would soon be over, drew the friends closer together.

Helen looked up at the tall Scot, smiling into his somewhat unfamiliar face, for he had shaved off his full beard that morning and looked even handsomer, but much younger. He took her hand and raised it to his lips. He watched her with his bright blue eyes, for a moment, a quizzical smile on his full, well-formed mouth. ‘Helen Forsythe, do you know how much I love you? How can you marry another man when you ken you hold my heart in the hollow of this little hand?’

On an impulse, Helen reached up and kissed her gallant rescuer on his cheek, an impulse which she immediately regretted because as she began to draw back, the giant caught her up in his arms and bending her head backwards, kissed her passionately on her lips, murmuring, ’Oh, my lovely lass, please consent to be my wife. I will love you as you have never been loved before.’

His full lips, so sweet and close to hers, threw Helen’s emotions into confusion and for a brief moment she wanted to stay in the sanctuary of this man’s arms as she had on the day of the storm.

Then his words, his proposal of marriage, registered and Helen drew back. John MacGregor loved her with a fierce tenderness and devotion and she must now reject that love.

‘I am honoured, John, that you should want me to be your wife, but you know that can never be. I am betrothed to another man,’ said Helen as gently as she could.

‘A man, Helen, whom you hardly know. You have told me, yourself, that you two last met when you were a teenager and what if he has changed; what if he is no longer the man of your childish dreams? Even if time has not altered him physically, then India, certainly, will have had a profound effect on his character,’ argued John.

‘Please, John, don’t ask me to give up my dream. You will always be most dear to me and I hope that if not love, then friendship can be our bond.’

John MacGregor closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them, Helen saw his pain, but with a smile twisting his lips, he withdrew his arms and stepped back saying,‘Then, fair Helen, I shall have to be content with that, but remember my heart will always be yours if you need me.’

True to his word, John MacGregor never mentioned the word ‘love’ again, but Helen knew that in this giant Scot, she had found the staunchest friend.

******

The next day the Prince George sailed into the lovely, deep-water, island-studded harbour of Bombay. Helen recalled its strange history. This city in 1661 had formed part of the dowry of the Portuguese Princess, Catherine of Braganza, on her marriage to Charles II. From a small fishing village and a chequered history as a base for pirates, Bombay had grown into a

prosperous commercial centre for the Honourable East India Company, which had leased it from the British Crown in 1668 for ten pounds per annum. Their grand, neo-Gothic buildings erected along the harbour front, testified to the commercial success of the Company’s Nabobs.

Helen leaned on the ship’s rail as the vessel docked and she saw another world - India. People of all shades of colour from the fair-skinned Indo-Arayans to the dark-skinned Dravidians thronged the port and an ambience, which she came to recognise as essentially that of India, pervaded her senses - the squawk of crows (mingled at this port with the cries of gulls) the smell of spicy cooking, of burning dung cakes used for fuel and the unpleasant odours of human excrement and rotting garbage, their odiferous presence conspicuous to the eye by swarms of hovering flies.

She listened to the cacophony of dialects - overseers instructing their teams in the unloading of the ship, vendors raucously advertising their wares, itinerant beggars pleading for alms, half-naked little boys getting in everyone’s way, shouting at and shooing away stray cows and pariah dogs, which seemed to roam at will amidst the human throng.

A fair-skinned Parsi came on board with John MacGregor to direct the passengers to the waiting horse drawn carriages, which transported them to the railway station and here Helen caught her first sight of the Indian ‘choo choo gari’, a teak-carriaged train which ran along a rapidly expanding rail track.

The station master told them with pride, ‘This is the first section of railway to be constructed between Bombay and Calcutta.’

The carriages were not as luxurious as the cabins on the Prince George, but they were comfortable enough and Helen and the other passengers had the opportunity to study the unfolding Central Indian panorama as the train snaked its way through the grand scenery of gorges, flat-topped mountainous regions, forests and wide rivers.

At last the train arrived in Calcutta and at the southern end of the City, ‘Fort William‘.

John MacGregor told Helen, ‘After the disastrous occupation of the citadel in 1756 by Nawab Siraj-ad-Daula, the defensive capabilities of the new Fort William have been greatly improved.’

Their guide, an officer from the fort, showed the travellers a plaque which commemorated the hapless British victims of the ‘Black Hole’, the tragedy that occurred at eight o’clock on the night of June Twentieth, 1756, after the capture of the fort by the Nawab of Bengal.

‘Out of one hundred and forty-five men and one Eurasian woman, Mary Carey, crammed into a room no more than eighteen foot long by fourteen foot wide with two small barred windows, only twenty-three people survived, including Mary Carey,’ said their guide. ‘The written record left by John Holwell, a senior East India Company official, told of the appalling conditions in which the British were incarcerated in the heat of June with no water. He wrote of the overpowering stench of urine, vomit, excrement, corpses and sweat and when at last, after ten appalling hours, he persuaded the guards to let them out, the press of bodies was so great that it took the guards twenty minutes to open the doors.’

The officer concluded this gory story and Helen sensed his next words were to reassure the new British arrivals. ‘That was, of course, ladies and gentlemen, almost a century ago and the company and its armies are now firmly in control.’

Before leaving Fort William, the travellers enjoyed the spectacle of the festival of Durga Puja. Their Indian guide explained, ‘This festival is based on the saga Ramayana which recalls the victory of the God Rama over the evil demon, Ravana. In this fight, Rama was aided by the Goddess Durga, another name for the black goddess, Kali.’

That goddess again, reflected Helen, as she saw the people dancing and singing in the streets enjoying this joyous Hindu festival. Large effigies of the demon Ravana stuffed with fireworks were exploded all over the city and Helen thought how far removed all this was from the tragedy of the Black Hole.

At last they continued their long journey, this time (as a rail link had not yet been constructed) along the river Ganges by wooden, gaily-painted barges towed by a steamboat. The journey was slow because the vessels were being dragged upstream against the natural flow of the river.

‘Look, Helen,’ said Lady Agnes as they stood on deck, ‘those dangerous looking reptiles basking on the banks are the river crocodiles. The snub-nosed, flesh eating ones are called “muggers” and the long nosed ones are fish eaters and are called “garrials”. They are very useful for disposing of the half-charred remains of Hindu corpses, which float down the river from Benares.’

Helen shivered with distaste as a sleepy crocodile opened its reptilian eyes and slid down the river bank. Had it spotted a corpse amidst all the flotsam and jetsam of the muddy waters of Mother Ganga?

The barges passed little Indian villages and British ‘stations’, small enclaves of British residents. At the latter, when they tied up for the night, the residents came out to greet them with servants carrying trays laden with food and drink. Helen was touched by the hearty welcomes they received from these fellow countrymen, some of whom had been away from ‘Home’ for many years and seemed so eager to hear all the latest news from that little island ten thousand miles away.

In the sacred Hindu City of Benares, John MacGregor escorted Helen and Lady Cameron to the Burning Ghats, stone steps leading from the river to the embankment, its hallowed waters sanctifying both the living and the dead. Throngs of pilgrims bathed in the muddy waters, whilst nearby blazed the burning pyres of their dead. Helen and Agnes witnessed one such ceremony, when a dutiful son walked around the body of his deceased parent three times before holding the burning torch to the mouth of the corpse to signify the passing of its soul. Finally he set the pyre alight and sat quietly watching the cremation.

‘This is one of the reasons a son is so special in a Hindu family,’ said Lady Agnes.

Agnes pointed to another pyre where a woman sat some distance away from the preparations for cremation, ‘You see that grief-stricken woman, Helen, dressed in a white sari, the Indian colour of mourning. She is probably the widow of the deceased and in the past, she would have been obliged to immolate herself on her husband’s funeral pyre in the act of Suttee, thus avoiding the stigma of widowhood. Now, thank goodness, this brutal practice is forbidden by the British.’

From Allahabad, another sacred city at the confluence of the two holy rivers, the Ganges and the Jumna, the party left the river boats to travel by the Grand Trunk Road to the State of Mirapore in the foothills of the Himalayas.

Their caravan consisted now of horse-drawn carriages for the women and bullock carts for the luggage, all escorted by the Highland platoon and a brigade of Sikh troops and their British officer, who had joined them from the military cantonment in Allahabad.

Helen observed that these tall, bearded and turbaned warriors looked proud and strangely at home in the uniform of the East India Company’s army.

Helen and Rosita shared a horse-drawn carriage with Lady Cameron who was a mine of information about the history of this great arterial highway and the cities through which it passed.

‘You know, my dear’, said Lady Cameron, tossing her head in her own inimitable ‘horsy’ manner, ‘this great highway is as ancient as India, itself, and has for centuries been used by conquering armies, merchants and pilgrims, not to forget the great religious teachers, such as Lord Buddha. The East India Company has, of course, realised the strategic importance of this Imperial Road, as it was known in Moghul times. It runs for fifteen hundred miles from Calcutta to Peshawar, within a few miles of the Khyber Pass and the British reconstructed Grand Trunk Road is now a permanent highway and an acknowledged engineering achievement, unsurpassed by any other highway in the world.’

‘Is that why there are so many British cantonments along the way?’ asked Helen, who had not failed to notice the strong British presence along the Grand Trunk Road and their depots protected by armed guards.

‘Yes’, replied Agnes Cameron, ‘they are called Bardasht-khanah and have replaced the old caravanserais (rest houses) built by the Moghuls, many of which were very beautiful, but have now fallen into disrepair.’

Helen was fascinated throughout the journey - the golden temples and stately mosques; the beautiful architectural monuments of Moghul power particularly that symbol to everlasting love, the ‘Taj Mahal’; the sites of famous battlefields of India’s past and her great, wide rivers.

But even more intriguing to Helen were the people -the faces of India: the women knee deep in the waters of paddy fields; the herdsman and his small boy sitting under a banyan tree; women in brilliant saris, carrying huge loads on their heads; the beggars and the man with the dancing bear; the water seller with his silver cups and a leather water bag; the farmer wearing an outsize turban sitting on his horse drawn cart, his thin frame matching the equally emaciated pony in the shafts.

Even after this comparatively short space of time, Helen realised that India was a country whose people were as diverse as those in the countries of Europe, but with even greater variations of caste, creeds and ethnic backgrounds, all living together under the skies of this vast sub-continent.

After several days journey and night stops at the Dak houses with their potted palms, servants and as Agnes commented, ‘the best chicken curry you will taste in India,’ they left the Grand Trunk Road and followed the course of the River Ganges into the foothills of the Himalayas. There in the distance, the stupendous backdrop of the world’s highest mountains

stretched, range upon range, towards the heavens.

The paths were now too steep to allow the lumbering carriages and bullock carts to proceed any further and the baggage was carried up the steep tracks on the backs of sturdy hill men, taking the weight of their burdens by a tumpline around their foreheads. The British women were transported in open palanquins (dandies) each one attached to poles carried on the shoulders of four men.

Helen, observing the precarious movements of the dandies, as the men moved their load from one shoulder to the other and glancing down at the precipitous depths below, decided to complete this part of the journey on horseback.

‘Horses can shy, Helen, and the dangers can be just as ominous. As far as I know, these men have never tipped a passenger over the mountain sides from their dandy,’ said John MacGregor, when Helen requested a horse.

One of the tall, bearded Sikh soldiers brought her a sturdy, little, hill pony and Helen whipped off her cumbersome riding skirt and mounted the pony with practised agility, her long legs showing to perfection in her tight riding hose and knee-high leather boots. John’s astonished admiration was only too apparent and Helen smiled, ‘You see, John, riding astride I have a firmer seat, so you have nothing to fear and this little fellow is as sure footed as a mountain goat,’ said Helen, leaning forward to tweak the pony’s ear.

‘You never fail to surprise me, Helen Forsythe,’ grinned the tall Scot ‘But, of course, I am delighted to have your charming company for a while longer, before I am obliged to hand you over to Gavin. How I envy that man.’

At last they reached the summit of the mountain and there below them was the beautiful valley of Mirapore. Helen exclaimed with delight at the panorama below. Pine and cedar clad forested hills enclosed the lush green floor of the valley, which was traversed by a meandering river whose source, she was told, was in the glaciers of the mighty Himalayas, their snow-capped peaks rising majestically in the distance.

‘You will love this valley, Helen,’ called out Lady Cameron, whose dandy had come alongside the riders. ‘The climate is alpine. Look, there are clumps of autumn heathers and in May these hills are covered with blue Himalayan poppies and giant, scarlet rhododendrons. This fertile region is famous for its fruit, especially apples and pears and as you can see, the orchards below are already being harvested.

‘There at the head of the valley is the walled city of Mirapore, where your fiancé awaits you.’

Helen realised that she would soon meet Gavin again and she took this opportunity to ask Lady Cameron about him.

‘I have not seen Gavin since I was a girl of fifteen. Do you know him well, Agnes?’ enquired Helen shyly.

‘Oh yes, we all have a great admiration for Sir Gavin French and the company values his skill as the Resident to guide and advise the Nawab. He is, I would say, a man above men. Handsome, yes, but with a charisma that sets him apart from the usual run. You will find that every woman is fascinated by him, even the purdah women in the harem of the Nawab.’

‘But how do they know the Resident; do they not have to observe strict purdah?’ enquired Helen, surprised that even these women had been able to assess the charms of her fiancé.

‘Well, as to that, I believe with pierced screens separating them, he has frequent audiences with the Dowager Begum, who is very much interested in the affairs of Mirapore. On these occasions she is, of course, veiled as are the harem women who attend her, but they are notorious gossips and their servants have reported to our servants their views on your handsome fiancé.’

‘Then I have a great deal to live up to,’ laughed Helen

You, my dear, will bowl all of them over, just as Gavin has done, for you are, I believe, just the right wife for him - beautiful and intelligent, but with an independent spirit. Don’t ever lose that,’ said Agnes, tossing her head to emphasis her words.

The travellers made their way carefully down the steep mountainside to the valley below and just before the city gates, Sir James Cameron rode up to bid farewell to Helen.

‘Well, Helen, this is where we must say “au revoir”. Unfortunately we won’t be able to accompany you any further, as protocol demands that British troops need the Nawab’s permission to enter the city, en masse. He is very prickly on the question of his suzerainty and if it was not for the diplomatic skills of Gavin, Mohammed Hassan Khan, could be a great deal of trouble to us.’

In reply to Helen’s anticipated question, the Fort Commander replied, ’Gavin has, of course, obtained permission for you and a small escort to enter the city, so Lieutenant MacGregor and a handful of his Highlanders will escort you and Mrs. Llewellyn all the way to the Residency.’

So their little company broke up. Helen was sorry to bid farewell to them, especially Lady Cameron, who had become a good friend on their long journey from England. She stood up in her stirrups to wave until they were out of sight.

Then Helen and Rosita, escorted by John MacGregor and a few Highland soldiers, made their way to the gates of the city of Mirapore.

Chapter 3

A crenellated wall encircled the city with its four gates firmly shut and no evidence to indicate that they were expected.

Suddenly, when they were within a few yards of the walls, the huge south gate creaked open to allow a troop of fierce-looking cavalry to ride out. They were tall men dressed in long, red, gold-embroidered tunics, wearing blue fez-like caps and carrying lethal curved swords at their sides.

‘The Rohillas,’ explained John MacGregor, ‘the Afghan cavalry of the Nawab; ferocious-looking lot, are they not, but good fighting soldiers. We have some of them in the Company’s Army.’

The leader of the troop, with the features of a bird of prey, cantered up to John MacGregor, who addressed him in Urdu. John had taught Helen some of this language on their long sea voyage and she understood that he was requesting permission to enter the city as escort to the bride of the Resident Sahib. The man replied, pointing to the troop of Highlanders and shaking his head vigorously, ‘There is no need for all these British soldiers: we, the Nawab’s cavalry, will form the escort.’ After a heated discussion, John MacGregor wheeled his horse’s head around impatiently and rode back to his waiting party.

‘It seems there is an objection to the presence of even our small party of British troops in the city. These Rohillas have been told to admit only one British officer and the two ladies and their baggage. Damn impertinence and a deliberate misunderstanding of the Resident’s request, I am sure, but unfortunately Gavin is away at present and I will have to comply to avoid further delay. You lads ride on. Follow the city walls to the North Gate, where I will meet you after making sure that the ladies are safely within the boundaries of the Residency.’

The gates opened and there before them was the city of Mirapore with its white painted buildings, beautiful gardens and an artificial lake in the centre of which, on its own island, stood the most magnificent building Helen had ever seen.

‘That is the palace of Nawab Mohammed Hassan Khan; lovely isn’t it?’ said John MacGregor in response to Helen’s gasp of admiration.

The palace was built in pink sandstone and white marble with intricately pierced marble screens, courts, fountains and exquisite gardens. Magnificent domes and minarets crowned its roof, Its pearl-pink beauty magnified by the clear blue sky and the shimmering waters of the lake.

‘Indeed, an architectural jewel,’ said Helen in awed admiration. ‘Where is the Residency, John?’

‘At the end of this road which skirts the lake,’ answered the Scotsman. ‘In fact, in the north of the City. The Residency is, of course, built on land bought from the Nawab by the Dutch, who were the first European Power to acquire a trading concession from his ancestors in the early seventeenth century. It, too, is a handsome building, more European than Indian in architecture.’

John MacGregor pointed with his riding whip to one of the high peaks towering above the city, on which stood the British fort. Its granite walls hewn out of the rocky massif, the fort dominated the valley below. On its keep fluttered the banner of the East India Company and the Union flag demonstrating, all too clearly, the real military masters of the State.

‘There is the fort, which is about six miles, as the crow flies, from the northern gate of the city. It was built by the Mogul Emperor, the Great Akbar, at the beginning of the seventeenth century and commands the entrance to the Pass which leads into this valley.’

As they approached the Residency, large iron gates bearing the East India Company’s crest - the Royal Arms and the flag of St. George - were opened to them by red-coated British sentries and they proceeded up a long, semi-circular gravel drive bordered by rhododendrons, oleanders, hibiscus and other exotic bushes, many of which were not familiar to Helen. The house was set in an enormous garden with manicured lawns and well-tended flower beds. A raised verandah running right round the front of the building was approached by a short flight of stone steps.

Before they had time to dismount, they were surrounded by dozens of servants dressed in white tunics and pantaloons, their red pugrees and cummerbunds bearing the crest of the East India Company. At the top of the steps stood a tiny woman wearing a bright red sari, which was a perfect foil for her jet black hair and large, slightly protruding, amber eyes.

The woman bowed over arched hands in the graceful Indian greeting, namaste, and turning to Helen said, ‘Welcome to Mirapore, madam. I am Isabel de Silva, the housekeeper. Gavin Sahib is away until to-morrow on business with the Nawab and he has asked me to ensure that you are made comfortable.’

She led the way into the large vestibule, its panelled oak walls hung with the heads of hunting trophies and portraits of the white hunters. A servant stood with a tray of iced drinks under one of these portraits, which Helen learned, subsequently, was of the Dutchman who had erected this building.

Isabel de Silva looked inquiringly in the direction of John MacGregor and said, ‘Will the Lieutenant Sahib be staying the night? If so, I will prepare another guest room.’

‘Thank you, but no, I must start on my return journey before nightfall. My platoon is waiting for me at the North Gate.’ Taking a glass from the tray, John MacGregor quenched his thirst and then turning to Helen, took her hand and kissed it lingeringly.

‘Au revoir, beautiful lady. I shall see you on your wedding day, but remember if you change your mind...’ John did not finish his sentence, but his look of longing into Helen’s eyes, left her in no doubt that he wished he was the prospective bridegroom.

Then he kissed Rosita’s hand and turning once more to sketch a half salute to Helen, ran down the steps to mount his horse.

Helen walked out on the verandah to watch the horse and rider disappear down the long drive, and wondered at her sudden feeling of loss. She knew she would miss the giant Scotsman’s companionship and gallantry and the bond of friendship forged on that long, never to be forgotten voyage.

Helen looked around her new home and was surprised at its size and elegance. It had old timbered ceilings and polished wood flooring, covered by rich carpets, beautiful curving staircases leading to the upper floors and, as she eventually discovered, spacious reception rooms including a ballroom, a dining room and study on the ground floor and several bedrooms and bathrooms on the second and third floors.

After dinner, she and Isabel walked around the garden on one side of which stood a small bungalow that Isabel told her was the guest house where Gavin would reside until after their marriage at the end of the week.

The servants had their own quarters set well back to the rear of the grounds, extending to five acres, including a stable block and paddocks. At the far end, against the forested hillside, stood a strange, but beautiful, little, domed building, resembling a miniature Moghul palace.

Helen was surprised at the incongruity of such a building amidst the European architecture of the Residency until Isabel explained,‘This building is the tomb of a dancing girl with whom the heir of the first Khan fell in love. Legend has it that his wife had her murdered before she could bear the prince any sons.’

That night, after Rosita had brushed her hair one hundred times, a task she seldom missed, and then retired to her own suite of rooms, Helen sat for a while in the window seat of her bedroom, beautifully furnished in rose pink and grey, looking out at the Indian night. The sweet scent of jasmine and other exotic perfumes wafted towards her and looking up at the moonlit sky, she wondered why the stars seemed bigger and brighter than they had ever looked in the skies over Sussex. To-morrow Gavin would be home and Helen felt that strange excitement again that even the thought of this man aroused in her.

Before she went to bed, she took a lighted candle lamp and walked into the adjoining room. It was a man’s room, with a narrow bed, a large carved wardrobe and a sandalwood chest. A roll-topped desk and shelves full of books completed the masculine furnishings. Helen opened the wardrobe and touched the clothes hanging there, wondering about the man who wore them. A dark green dressing gown lay across a chair, as if the owner had only just discarded it. Helen bent down and buried her face in its folds: it smelt faintly of sandalwood and tobacco. She chided herself for her foolishness and returned quickly to her own room.

She climbed into the large four poster bed, which, instead of heavy European hangings, had light nets all around, hanging from a central point in the ceiling, to ward off the ubiquitous mosquitoes. Its four feet rested in brass bowls of water to deter snakes, she had been told by Isabel.

Sleep soon overcame the young woman. She must have slept for some hours, but suddenly she awoke with a start of uneasiness. Someone was in her room. A figure was standing at the door leading to Gavin’s dressing room. Had he returned last night?

‘Who is that? Gavin is that you?‘ she heard herself asking softly. Then the figure vanished and Helen climbed out of the high bed and padded across the Persian rugs in her bare feet. She stood for a moment with her hand on the handle of the communicating door, then plucking up courage, opened it wide. The room was dark but appeared empty. Helen returned to her room to fetch the candle lamp on her bedside table, then slipped back into Gavin’s room and searched it thoroughly by the candle’s light. No one was there. Had she been dreaming?

Nevertheless, she decided to turn the key on her side of the communicating door before walking over to her bedroom window. Nothing moved in the garden below, but in the distance came a faint sound of chanting. It seemed to come from the little mausoleum, the dancing girl’s tomb, and through the pierced marble screens of the edifice, Helen noticed a faint glow of light. Could someone be in there? She must enquire of the chowkidar in the morning. Then shaking off a feeling of unease, she went back to her still warm bed.

The next morning at breakfast, Helen decided to ignore the night’s strange event. If she mentioned it, Rosita would only insist on sharing her room and, more importantly, Isabel de Silva would think she was a fussy little goose. Why, she mused, should she worry about the girl’s opinion; she was, after all, an employee.

However, something about Isabel de Silva made Helen uneasy. Not that she was anything but polite, but she had a manner of approaching silently, which had on at least two occasions startled Helen when she turned around and saw her standing quietly behind her. She reminded Helen of a black cat with her almost furtive movements and strange amber eyes, which seemed to follow Helen everywhere.

‘Stuff and nonsense, Helen Forsythe, you are being illogical,’ Helen chided herself aloud. Isabel was half Indian. She had told her last night that her birthplace was Goa, a Portuguese colony in Southern India, and that her father had married an Indian woman; so it was natural that she would be different to an European and was, understandably, curious about her new

mistress.

It was late afternoon and Helen decided to pick some blooms for the tall Benares brass vase in the Hall. There seemed to be a dearth of fresh flowers in the house, despite the well-stocked garden.

Suddenly she heard the clatter of horses’ hooves on the gravel drive. As the riders came nearer, she realised that one of them was Gavin. Quickly, Helen stepped behind a thick bush. She wanted to observe Gavin before he saw her. Why, she did this, she could not say, but suddenly she felt nervous to meet him again after so many years.

A groom ran up to take the horses as the riders dismounted. The other rider, a short, stocky, oriental looking man was obviously Ram Das, whom Isabel had told her was Gavin’s Nepalese soldier/servant. Ram Das untied the saddle bags and carried them into the house, whilst his master spoke to the groom.

Helen observed Gavin avidly. He was taller than she remembered, well over six feet. His boyish frame had developed into a man’s lean, muscular physique with broad shoulders, slim hips and long legs, the muscles of his thighs accentuated by his tight riding breeches. He was wearing a linen shirt, the ruffled front open at the neck and as he turned to stroke the

chestnut gelding before relinquishing the reins to the groom, Helen observed that his tanned skin was almost as brown as the Indian’s. Gavin removed his pith helmet and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and Helen saw that his thick, dark brown hair, which he had worn almost shoulder length as a teenager, had been cut short to frame his head in unruly curls. She suddenly thought of the head of Michelangelo’s David, the impressive sculpture she had so admired when she visited Florence with her father years ago. Gavin French was, indeed, handsomer than ever and Helen felt that disturbing attraction once again, which only he could arouse in her.

A servant came down the short flight of steps leading to the verandah and Helen heard him inform Gavin in his pidgin English that the memsahibs had arrived from England. Gavin nodded and bounded up the steps. Was he in a hurry to meet her, she wondered, and what would he think of her after all these years?

Helen waited a few minutes to regain her composure and then followed her future husband up the steps, across the verandah and into the entrance hall.

Isabel de Silva was standing near him with a tray of glasses and a jug of iced nimbu pani and as he reached to take a glass, Gavin looked up and caught sight of Helen framed in the doorway. She was was quite unaware of the attractive picture she made in her apple green, sprigged muslin dress, the sunlight behind her making it almost transparent, despite her petticoats, and revealing her lovely, long legs. She saw astonishment in Gavin’s eyes and then joy as he came towards her. He transferred the trug of flowers impatiently from her hands to the floor and lifting her off her feet, embraced her with such enthusiasm that she thought her ribs would be crushed. Then he put her down and held her at arm’s length while he examined her from head to foot, his obvious admiration bringing the colour swiftly to Helen’s cheeks as she heard him whisper, ‘Is this beautiful young lady my little Helen Forsythe?.’

Seeing her confusion, Gavin laughed mischievously and untying the emerald green ribbon fastening her chip straw bonnet under her chin, removed the hat. He stood back to admire her shining, dark auburn ringlets and with one finger tracing the tiny line of freckles across her nose, said teasingly, ‘And you still have those charming freckles which are so attractive but which, I recall, you disliked intensely. I had forgotten, too, how green your eyes are, little sweetheart.’

Those last two words, spoken as only Gavin could speak them, brought back memories of their first meeting in those ancient English woods and Helen recalled how deeply she had fallen in love with this man, who was still able to tease her and make her lose her composure.

Isabel’s voice broke the spell, ‘Gavin, would you like this drink now?’

Helen was surprised at this sudden interruption and the almost familiar tone in which the housekeeper addressed Gavin. He, however, was still holding Helen’s hands and gazing at her in amazement. He muttered brusquely, ‘We’ll have the drinks on the verandah. There is so much I want to talk to you about, Helen.’

Taking her by the arm, Gavin guided Helen to a cane armchair. He lifted a glass from the tray that Isabel had placed on a small wicker table, leaned his tall frame against the verandah railing, and drank the cool, citrus drink whilst steadily gazing at Helen over the rim of the glass with his dark, long-lashed eyes.

‘My father told me you had grown into a beautiful, young woman and he certainly did not exaggerate. He also told me that you have a medical degree. Brains as well as beauty,’ he quipped in the identical words that John MacGregor had used to rile Doctor James Grant, the ship’s doctor.

Then, suddenly serious, Gavin asked, ‘How is my father? I was so sorry to hear of your own loss. Uncle Arthur was like a second father to me and I regret that I will never see him again.’

‘Death was a happy release for him, Gavin. He had been suffering for many years, but he always followed your career with such great interest. As for Uncle Terence, he has been so kind to me since my father’s death. He, too, is getting older, but apart from slight arthritis in his hands, he is a very fit man. I have a letter from him for you.’

They talked on about England, about Charnwood Hall and its faithful staff. Helen told Gavin that Martha was still baking her delicious cakes and pasties and had instructed her to ensure that Gavin was eating well and sensibly in ‘that foreign land’. Then Rosita joined them and Gavin hugged her and teased her about her striking Spanish looks.

“Rosita, you are as beautiful as ever and still my favourite Spanish lady. I will have to introduce you to Don Hernandaz, the Spanish Consul, and his family.’

A servant announced that dinner would be served in half an hour and Gavin excused himself to Helen and Rosita.

‘I must have a bath and change after that dusty ride. There is still so much I want to know about you, Helen, and Rosita can tell me how many broken-hearted admirers you have left behind in England. I have met one of them this morning at the British fort, Lieutenant John MacGregor, a giant Scot who sings your praises and admonishes me for being betrothed to the only woman for whom he would willingly surrender his bachelor status. Now, the reason for that remark is something I am very curious to learn, little sweetheart.’

Gavin leaned down over Helen’s chair and taking her chin in his hand, tipped up her face to within a few inches of his own, his dark eyes glinting with a quizzical, teasing expression. Helen felt her cheeks flush again and was more than a little irritated when Gavin noticed and chuckling wickedly, kissed her lightly on the mouth before he stood up and left the verandah.

Helen’s annoyance, obvious in the way she bit her lip, was not lost upon Rosita who questioned her, ‘What is the matter, querida?’

‘He still thinks I am that little girl he rescued from the forest. Doesn’t he realise that I am now a grown woman?’ replied Helen.

Rosita smiled at the young woman’s petulance. ‘I think, querida mia, that he is well on the way to discovering that you are just that - a woman, a beautiful woman, but one who has a quick temper and a will of her own!’

Before dinner, Helen changed into a lilac muslin dress and tied her auburn ringlets off the nape of her neck with a matching lilac ribbon. She looked at herself briefly in the tall, gilt-bordered cheval mirror and was a little disconcerted to see that the dress and hairstyle made her look even younger than her twenty-four years - Gavin would surely continue to regard her as a little girl. A dinner gong was ringing downstairs and Helen wished there could have been more time to dress her hair into a more sophisticated chignon, which was the style she had adopted in medical school to emphasise her maturity and professionalism.

Gavin was already in the dining room talking to Rosita. Isabel joined them from the pantry with a tray of madeira-filled glasses and Helen noticed that she, too, had changed into a brilliant purple sari. She wore a garish display of gold jewellery around her neck and arms, the heavily engraved gold appearing too cumbersome for her tiny, slender frame.

Dinner was a lively affair with Gavin alternating his questions about England with his banter about Helen’s beaux, particularly John MacGregor.

Rosita interrupted, ‘You know, of course, Gavin, that if it had not been for that giant Scot, Helen would be at the bottom of the Indian Ocean.’

‘What’s that, Rosita?’ asked Gavin, leaning towards the Spanish woman, his brown eyes serious for once, and despite Helen’s dismissive interjection of the unimportance of the episode on the Prince George, he insisted on hearing every detail of that near tragic incident.

Rosita proceeded to outline the stormy event, embellishing every detail in her naturally loquacious Spanish manner, of Helen’s danger on the storm-tossed decks of the Prince George and the Scotsman’s courage in risking his own life to rescue her.

‘So I have John MacGregor to thank for saving my fiancée’s life,’ said Gavin when Rosita at last came to the end of her account. ‘Well, I’ll certainly do that to-morrow at the Nawab’s dinner party. Mohammed Khan is giving us a reception in your honour tomorrow night, Helen, and you will meet all his family and some of Mirapore’s important citizens. It will be a formal occasion, but Isabel will tell you what is required by way of dress. She was Maria’s lady’s maid.’

Gavin’s reference to his first wife and his assumption that Helen would need Isabel’s guidance on how to dress, irritated Helen somewhat and she replied brusquely, ‘I believe I will not let you down in the dress department, Gavin. I have brought a trunk full of formal clothes in the latest fashions from Europe. Rosita has always been my dresser and dressmaker and I see no reason to burden Isabel.’

Gavin, like most men thought Helen, seemed unaware how tactless his simple remark had been and replied, ‘You could never let me down, little sweetheart. I am sure you will look delightful in whatever you wear. Let’s have coffee on the verandah. I want to show you the lovely Himalayan sunsets. You know we do not have the long European twilights, but come, let me show you.’

Putting his arm around Helen’s waist, Gavin guided her to the verandah balustrade. As they leaned against the rail together, he pointed out that the sky in the east was already dark purple with a faint, pink glow still in the west. The smell of jasmine and frangipani scented the air, cooled by a gentle breeze. Dark, wooded foothills were silhouetted against the horizon and beyond were the everlasting snows of the high ranges, their white caps blushing with the rosy glow of the dying sun and as they watched, the moon, like a giant yellow globe, rose above the peaks. Helen exclaimed at the beauty of the scene. ’What a moon! She seems bigger and brighter in her Indian skies.’

‘You will soon fall in love with this country, Helen. It is fascinating and one can forget even the heat and the flies on an evening like this. There is so much I want to show you, little sweetheart,’ said Gavin softly, looking down at her with tenderness in his eyes and Helen aware of his nearness, felt a weakness and a longing that surprised and disturbed her. She knew she wanted to be alone with him, to feel his man’s mouth hard on hers and his hands caressing her body, but they were not alone and Helen felt herself resenting the presence of the others. Helen was used to being in control of her emotions and Gavin’s proximity was unsettling, to say the least.

She moved away from him and said, ‘Our coffee is getting cold. When does the Nawab expect us? Tell me something about him and his family, Gavin.’

‘I have ordered our carriage for six o’clock to-morrow evening. This banquet is a twofold celebration - to welcome you and to celebrate the end of Ramadan, the Moslem month of fasting.

‘As for the Nawab, now what can I tell you? His ancestor, an Afghan mercenary, came to India with the armies of the first Moghul Badshah, Babar. He helped Babar defeat the Moslem ruler of Agra, a fabulously rich city at the time and for his loyalty was appointed diwan, that is to say, revenue collector of this province. Eventually the Nawab’s forebear became the subhadar - or as we say in English - governor of the state, with complete control over its tax collection and administration.

‘You see,’ chuckled Gavin, ’How this family have always been careful to choose the winning side and after the death of Aurungzib, who I would say, was the last truly great Moghul Emperor, the Nawab’s great grandfather sought the protection of the British against the warring factions of the fragmenting Moghul Empire.

‘Needless to say, part of my job here as Resident, is to maintain the company’s influence in this province, which is of immense strategic importance, particularly against the aspirations of Russia to establish a foothold in India.’

‘What about the Nawab’s family?’ asked Helen.

‘There are two sons, Prince Hassan, the Heir Apparent and Prince Ali. Hassan’s mother is dead, but he has the support of the old Begum, the Nawab’s mother. Ali’s mother, the Nawab’s second wife, is French and very ambitious for her son and there are rumours that she would not hesitate to implicate the French in the succession; something, you can imagine, the company is determined to prevent at all costs.

‘On the advice of the previous Resident, Prince Ali was educated in England and, according to the irascible Dowager Begum, has forgotten his Indian roots. Unfortunately, our playboy Prince prefers the company of beautiful European women, so watch out Helen,’ teased Gavin. ‘He is determined to resist all the Nawab’s efforts to arrange an Indian bride for him.’

‘What a fascinating dynasty, Gavin; all the intrigue of our own Plantagenets and Tudors,’ said Helen, her eyes bright with enthusiasm.

Then, as a teasing afterthought, she rose from her chair and curtsied to Gavin, saying, ‘I salute you, Sir Gavin French, the King Maker!’

Gavin roared with laughter and rising from his chair, picked Helen up and swung her around. Then putting her down, but still holding her with one arm, he lifted her face towards his with his hand and kissed her soundly on the lips. ‘A little more respect for your future husband, little sweetheart. Remember you will soon promise to love, honour and obey this King Maker.’

‘Then I will say, goodnight, Sir. I shall need all my rest to prepare myself for my future bondage!’ retorted Helen, twisting herself out of Gavin’s arms and smiling at him provocatively over her shoulder as she ran up the stairs.

When Rosita joined Helen later in her bedroom, Helen was half undressed and was sitting dreamily before her dressing table, staring at her reflection in its mirror. Rosita smiled and taking the silver-backed hairbrush from her, began to brush the beautiful, auburn hair saying, ‘Still dreaming, querida mia. What do you think of your handsome Gavin?’

‘He is dangerously attractive, Rosita, and I will have to be careful not to become his slave in body and soul. Do you think he will learn to love me as much as I have always loved him?’ mused the young woman.

Rosita only smiled, remembering Gavin’s look of frustration when Helen tore herself out of his arms a few minutes ago and his enigmatic remark to her, ‘You have nurtured a dangerous, green-eyed siren, Rosita. I can quite see how our young Scot, John MacGregor, is so entranced by her.’

Gavin French was a man, Rosita knew instinctively, who would love with fierce passion and jealous possessiveness and would brook no rivals. His love, when it was given, would be all consuming, different to the gentle, patient love of Dr. David Burton or even the unshakable ardour of the Scot, John MacGregor.

The Southern Spanish woman prided herself on her ability to look behind the public masks that people displayed to the world. After all, Moorish and perhaps even gypsy blood ran in her veins, making her something of a psychic. Was Gavin French the right man for her Helen? Rosita had always believed that each human being has a soulmate with whom a union in this life would bring inexplicable bliss to the fortunate couple. But such a love, because of its intensity, could be destructive if things went wrong and Rosita suddenly feared for her lovely girl who had to walk this rocky road of marriage with such a man as Gavin French.

She stopped her brushing and kissed Helen gently on the top of her head, ‘Now, querida mia, I think it is time we both went to sleep. You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow and must look your best to meet the Nawab and his guests.’

Chapter 4

Gavin had already left the house for the Palace when Helen came down for breakfast. She breakfasted lightly and then made her way to the strange chaatri of the former Khan’s mistress. The door to the little monument was padlocked and Helen asked one of the malis working nearby where she could find the key.

‘De Silva memsahib has the only key, madam. If you like, I will go and ask her for it.’

But the problem was solved when Isabel, herself, appeared suddenly from the direction of the house.

‘Ah, Isabel, I believe you have the key to this monument. I would like to take a look inside if you will open the door,’ said Helen, noticing with surprise the housekeeper’s hesitation.

‘It is empty, madam. No one ever enters except to sweep it occasionally. There is no need, as it is only a bare chamber containing the marble tomb of the dancing girl.’

‘I would, nevertheless, like to look inside and ensure that it is being cleaned and maintained. I shall remove my shoes before entering, which I believe is the prerequisite for visiting Muslim holy places; so fetch the key please, Isabel,’ said Helen, amazed that the woman was so reluctant to let her have access and wondering yet again about the strange glow and chanting she had heard on her first night in the Residency.

Isabel was soon back with the key and the obviously well-oiled door opened to reveal an octagonal room in the centre of which stood a marble tomb inscribed in Persian script. There was a stone bench at one end, presumably where the prince had sat to contemplate his love’s resting place. Helen detected a faint smell of joss sticks and noticed fresh flower petals strewn near the bench.

‘How strange!’ exclaimed Isabel looking at the petals. ‘Someone has obviously placed flowers here recently. No doubt the Nawab’s family have a duplicate key, as I have not been asked to open the door.’

Helen was forced to accept this explanation, although she was uneasy at the glibness of the reply. She must ask Gavin if the Nawab’s family had a key to the monument. In view of that Ruler’s recent refusal for her British escort to enter the City, she wondered if the British soil of the Residency was subject to equivalent constraints on the Nawab’s people.

Helen moved on to the stables where the groom was attending to Gavin’s chestnut gelding. A pretty, grey mare was munching hay in one of the adjoining boxes. Helen exclaimed, ‘Oh you little beauty!’ and holding the back of her hand against the horse’s nostrils, allowed the little animal to sniff her gently.

‘That is Sultana, the horse that belonged to the first memsahib,’ said the syce, coming towards Helen.

‘Who exercises her now?’ asked Helen, her expert eye detecting that the little mare was a bit plump and obviously not as fit as she should be.

‘The sahib takes her out occasionally on a lead rein when he exercises Sultan. The other memsahib did not like riding very much and was a bit nervous of Sultana’s high spirits. Would you like to try her?’ enquired the syce, clearly trying to judge Helen’s reaction.

‘Yes, of course, but please don’t saddle her up until I return. I would like to do that myself,’ said Helen, returning to the house to change into her riding habit, once again eschewing the usual heavy riding skirt for a divided doeskin garment (copied from women’s riding fashion in the former American colonies) and knee-high leather boots. This was the way she liked to dress when she rode out alone except, of course, on formal occasions when ladies were expected to ride the more elegant side saddle. The syce had already led Sultana out of the stable and Helen went up to the little horse, blew down her nose and whispered in her ear, ‘Don’t be afraid, my beauty, we are going to be good friends.’

She ran her hand along the horse’s back and down its hocks and then picked up each hoof to examine the shoes. Taking the saddle cloth and saddle from the groom, Helen confidently tacked up Sultana, all the while talking to her. She secured the bridle, tightened the girth and pulled the stirrup irons down before mounting lightly. Then she sat quietly in the saddle for a moment, before applying slight pressure with both her legs. Sultana stepped forward immediately and Helen, keeping gentle contact with the horse’s mouth, guided her to the paddock. Here she asked the horse to trot, squeezing gently with both calves and after a while rising to the rhythm of Sultana’s movements. The horse soon realised that these hands holding her reins would not pull on her mouth and the little mare relaxed and whinnied with the joy of being outdoors. Helen had no trouble in urging her into a light canter, sitting firmly in the saddle and moving supplely with the horse’s rhythm, then shortening her reins and leaning forward slightly, she extended the pace to a gallop.

When she returned to the stable, the syce who had watched this display of horsemanship with amazement said, ‘Memsahib, I believe Sultana has found the right rider at last.’

‘Thank you, syce, I will ride her every day and if time does not permit, I will show you how to exercise her on a lunge line. Let me dry her off now and then give her some warm bran, fresh hay and a thick warm bed for the night.’

Helen left the stable feeling that Sultana and she were well on the way to becoming firm friends and would share many hours of good riding.

Rosita was waiting anxiously for Helen in the hall and reminded her that it was time to wash and dress her hair for the evening. Helen had chosen her gown carefully. A heavy, emerald green satin ruched overskirt parted to display a slim cream satin and lace underskirt shimmering with tiny seed pearls. The fabric of the underskirt was repeated in the front of her low-cut boned bodice, which was laced at the back and revealed her lovely, creamy shoulders and arms. Rosita had dressed Helen’s hair in the formal Grecian style and her only jewellery was a string of tiny seed pearls plaited gracefully through her thick auburn curls. Little cream satin slippers, gloves and a quilted taffeta cape in the same emerald green completed her beautiful outfit.

Gavin was waiting for her in the hall, examining a velvet case lying on the hall table. He was wearing the formal dress uniform of the Resident cream pantaloons and a dark red jacket interfaced with navy blue facings and silver lace, beautifully tailored across his broad shoulders. Helen’s heart fluttered at the sight of his handsome profile. He looked up at the sound of the switch of her skirts and came forward to the bottom of the staircase, the admiration and wonder in his eyes confirming Rosita’s comment that Helen had never looked more beautiful. He was smiling that gay, yet audacious smile she was beginning to know so well and stretched out his hand to guide her down the last few stairs.

‘Ah, the beautiful Helen - the face that launched a thousand ships. I hope there is no young Paris to kidnap you tonight,’ quipped Gavin.

‘If King Menaleous had been as handsome as Sir Gavin French in that splendid uniform, Helen would not have been tempted by Paris,’ replied Helen, her green eyes sparkling with amusement.

Gavin smiled at the reference to his uniform and said by way of sexplanation, ‘The Company expects their civil administration to don formal attire on these occasions so as not to be eclipsed by the elegant uniforms of the Army, or the ostentatious dress of the Indian princes.’

He picked up the oblong velvet case from the table, which he now unlocked and removed a sparkling three-tiered necklace of emeralds set in delicate filigree gold, each gem as perfect as its companions.

‘To my beautiful Helen, an engagement gift. Will you wear it tonight, little sweetheart?’ asked Gavin as he led Helen to the large oval mirror in the hall and fastened his gift around the young woman’s slender neck, his fingers lingering on her soft skin. Helen stroked the beautiful jewellery lightly and turning suddenly to the man who stood so close behind her, flung her arms about his neck in childish joy and kissed him exclaiming, ‘Oh, Gavin, I have never seen anything so beautiful! How can I thank you for this lovely gift?’

‘Another kiss would be adequate for now,’ whispered Gavin, his dark eyes glinting with some hidden emotion, as he crushed Helen to him and claimed his kiss.

Gavin moved away from Helen and taking the taffeta cloak from Rosita, who was standing nearby smiling at their loving tableau, wrapped it around the young woman’s shoulders saying in a voice still gruff from emotion, ‘Come, my little sweetheart, we are the Nawab’s guests of honour and must not be late.’

Then turning to the Spanish woman, he said, ‘Don’t wait up for us, Rosita, we may be quite late tonight.’

Helen sitting in the darkness of the phaeton, felt a glow of happiness. She was soon to marry this man, seated so close beside her, who had always been in her heart. She stole a glance at his handsome profile and was surprised to see that he was looking at her and even in the darkness of the coach, she saw the gleam of his white teeth as his well-formed lips parted in a smile. He reached for her gloved hand and turning it upwards, kissed the palm, saying, ‘Are you looking forward to this evening, little sweetheart? You will be surprised at the opulence of the Nawab’s court and I will be the envy of every man there with such a beautiful woman on my arm.’

Then abruptly changing the subject, he said, ‘The syce tells me that you have been riding Sultana today. What do you think of her?’

‘She is a lovely little mare, and from her beautiful head and conformation, she appears to have quite a lot of Arab blood. Am I right?’

‘Yes, quite right. How did you learn so much about horses; the syce was quite impressed?’ asked Gavin.

‘Count Kovrosky - you remember him, Gavin, the Polish émigré who was a friend of both our fathers - he taught me not only to ride, but more importantly the art of handling and caring for a horse and that was not all I owe to his expertise. He also taught me the skills of fencing and use of firearms.’

Helen heard Gavin chuckle and knew that he was going to tease her again, ‘Helen Forsythe, you never fail to surprise me. Am I marrying a little Amazon? Ah, here we are.’

The carriage turned into the causeway linking the palace to the city. On either side and along the whole length of this raised pathway were flaming torches lighting the way to the fairy tale palace and setting the waters of the lake on reflected fire.

So that his guests would not need to step on the grass, the Nawab had laid dark red carpets leading right up the marble steps into the magnificent Audience Hall.

The opulence, which Gavin had mentioned, was all too evident in this vast rectangular room - marble floors covered with Persian carpets, rich tapestries adorning the walls and crystal oil lamps set in burnished gold holders suspended from the high vaulted ceiling. Beautiful arches formed little alcoves, along two sides of the room, each alcove furnished with gold cushioned divans and low, black marble-topped tables. The marble above the arches was pierced like lace and set with semi-precious stones traced with gold.

At each of the far corners of this vast hall stood a pair of magnificent elephant tusks formed into an arch and mounted on brass stands. From the centre of each arch was suspended a brass vessel burning aromatic oils, perfuming the air with exotic scents.

By the entrance to the hall stood a diminutive man with a birdlike face, wearing a dark blue, embroidered tunic and white pantaloons, his head swamped by an enormous blue pugree. Gavin introduced him to Helen as the Prime Minister of the Court, Abdul Asaf Khan, who greeted Gavin and Helen with the ritual namaste, his dark, bright eyes taking in every detail of the handsome couple.

His voice, surprisingly loud for such a small man, announced, ‘Your Highness, your honoured guests,The British Resident, Sir Gavin French and his betrothed lady, Miss Helen Forsythe.’

Helen, her hand resting lightly on Gavin’s arm, walked to the foot of the dais on which the Nawab sat cross-legged on the cushions of a magnificent golden throne. Mohammed Hassan Khan was a corpulent man, dressed in a jewel-encrusted, gold tunic and tapered gold pantaloons. He wore a gold pugree in the middle of which sparkled a ruby the size of a goose egg, The Nawab was beardless, but sported large whiskers pointing downwards in the Moghul fashion.

On his right, behind the throne, stood the Heir Apparent, Prince Hassan, a younger version of his father, but already well on the way to equalling the paternal girth. On the Nawab’s left stood Prince Ali, tall and slim, his golden skin and pale eyes testifying to his half French descent. Prince Ali would, Helen thought, have been extremely handsome if it were not for his rather hooked nose, but this served, somehow, to make him more impressive than the Heir Apparent. Both sons were dressed in blue, bejewelled tunics, although the Heir Apparent wore a heavy gold chain about his neck.

At the foot of the dais, Helen curtsied and Gavin bowed as the Ruler of Mirapore came down the steps of the dais to greet his guests of honour.

‘Welcome to Mirapore and I congratulate you, Sir Gavin, on the beautiful lady you have chosen to be your wife.’ Then taking Helen’s hand, he introduced her to his sons. The Heir Apparent was content to shake her hand in the English fashion, but Prince Ali kissed it, his bold eyes raking her from head to toe, ‘Are there many women, Sir Gavin, in your country with hair the colour of autumn leaves, eyes as green as emeralds and skin like magnolia petals?’

‘My fiancée owes her beautiful colouring to her Scottish descent, a country which has many redheaded women and men,’ replied Gavin, his eyes not reflecting the smile on his lips, as he led Helen away from the dais to join Sir James and Lady Cameron.

Agnes Cameron was dressed in elegant black lace, her hair topped by black feathers which made her look even taller. She tossed these in her habitual horsy manner as she embraced Helen warmly and said, ‘How I have missed you, my dear, but Mirapore agrees with you; you look ravishing.’

Then turning to Gavin she said, ‘When all the hubbub of your wedding is over, you must bring Helen to the fort, Gavin. She should meet our little British community.’

Assuring Agnes that he would certainly do so, Gavin excused himself and took Helen over to another couple, a tall, dark, elegant man, dressed in a well-cut dinner suit with a French order on the lapels of his black tail coat. By his side stood an attractive, brown haired, golden skinned woman whose extremely low décolletage left very little to the imagination.

‘Helen, let me introduce you to the Comte and Comtesse de Colbert, of the French Consulate in Mirapore,’ said Gavin, who seemed amused by the flashing eyes of the Comtesse, smiling flirtatiously at him over her fan.

‘Ah, at last we meet your beautiful fiancée and the rumours I have heard of her loveliness are no exaggeration. Gavin, you have exquisite taste; your betrothed is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,’ gushed the attractive Comtesse, smiling charmingly at Helen.

Despite her obvious attraction to Gavin, Helen warmed to this woman whose charm and gaiety were so infectious. She heard herself replying in French,’‘Thank you Comtesse; such a compliment from so lovely a lady as you, yourself, is very flattering indeed.’

‘Ah, how charming you are and what perfect French you speak, my dear; but you must call me Blanche as I hope you will allow me to call you Helen. I feel we are going to be such good friends,’ said the irrepressible Comtesse.

Then taking Helen’s arm, she said, ‘Let us leave our men to discuss affairs of state, Helen. You must introduce me to that handsome, Nordic-looking Scotsman who has hardly taken his eyes off you since your dramatic entrance. I have a great regard for the Scots, who have been so involved in my own country’s history.’

Helen found herself propelled firmly by the Countess in the direction of John MacGregor, who was examining one of the tapestries at the far corner of the hall.

The giant Scotsman turned as Helen and the Countess approached and the tenderness in his eyes as he looked at Helen was all too obvious.

‘John, let me introduce you to the Comtesse de Colbert. She is a great admirer of the Scots and Scotland.’

‘My pleasure,’ said John MacGregor, bowing low over the Comtesse’s gloved hand, which he raised to his lips. ‘Scotland and France are, indeed, old allies.’

‘Have you known our charming Helen for a long time?’ asked Blanche.

‘Perhaps as children in your beautiful country, because am I not correct in thinking that Forsythe is a Scottish name?’

‘Yes,’ said Helen, ‘I have my Scottish ancestry from my father - my mother was, however, an Englishwoman. John and I met only a few months ago; we were fellow passengers on the long sea voyage from England and he, at great risk to his own life, saved me from being swept overboard during a ferocious storm off Madagascar.’

A deep voice behind Helen interjected, ‘For which I have yet to thank him.’ Gavin, who had come up behind Helen placed one arm possessively around her waist and drew her so close to him that she could feel the buttons of his jacket through the material of her dress.

John did not miss this almost proprietary gesture of Gavin’s, but replied calmly, ‘No thanks required, Gavin. Och, I would ...’ For a breath stopping moment Helen thought John would repeat the words he had whispered on the night of the storm ‘Och, I would have given my life for you, sweet lassie.’ But after a brief pause the Scotsman said, ‘I would gladly do so again, if the opportunity arose.’

Helen noticed Blanche de Colbert’s brown eyes darting from the tall Scotsman to the equally tall Englishman, her quizzical, yet amused look scrutinising the reaction of both men. Gavin, perhaps sensing her interest, smiled at her in his impudent, mischievous manner and said, ‘For that I am doubly in my Scottish friend’s debt. Do you not agree, Comtesse?

‘Now if you will both excuse us, I must introduce Helen to the Spanish Consul and his family, who have just arrived and to the Nawab’s Arab physician, who is anxious to meet her.’

With that, he steered Helen away and when she turned to look over her shoulder at John and Blanche, Gavin murmured whilst looking straight ahead, ‘Don’t worry about your friend, John MacGregor; our charming Creole will keep him amused.’

So, thought Helen, that was where the golden skin of Blanche de Colbert came. She was a Creole and she remembered that other famous Creole who had enslaved the heart of the Emperor Napoleon in the last century.

The Spanish Consul, Don Hernandez and his wife, were delightful and their dark-haired daughter, Pura, was obviously flustered in Gavin’s presence, stealing sly glances at him through thick black eyelashes and blushing as he bent over her hand in greeting. Both women were dressed in the Spanish fashion of black lace over coloured underskirts and wore lace mantillas.

Helen spoke in Spanish which seemed to put these fellow countrymen of her beloved Rosita at ease.

The tall Arab physician, Mahmoud Bin Said, was even more interesting. He wore the traditional Arab caftan and his dark intelligent eyes above his pointed grey beard, seemed to hold all the knowledge of the world in their depths.

‘I have so much to discuss with you, Dr. Forsythe, for we are both disciples of Hippocrates,’ said the Court Physician, the only person in the assembly who had given Helen her professional title.

‘Unfortunately, I shall have to postpone that pleasure until after dinner, for here comes Abdul Asaf Khan to invite us to take our seats,’ said the Court Physician as he offered his arm to the young Spanish Pura, to escort her behind her parents into the large dining room leading off the reception chamber.

This room, Helen noticed, which was referred to as the ‘English Room’, would not have been out of place in the setting of an English stately home. In fact, it was not unlike the banqueting room at Charnwood Hall. A thick, wine coloured Turkish carpet covered the marble floor and set off, perfectly, the oyster pink silk upholstery of the Chippendale chairs arranged around a highly polished mahogany dining table. From the ceiling hung crystal chandeliers and the centrepiece of the table was a magnificent vase of Dresden china in the shape of a swan which was filled with exotic blooms.

The walls were covered in oyster pink silk and hung with gilt framed paintings of English hunting scenes and landscapes. A large, bow-fronted, mahogany sideboard stood against one wall and an elegant Adam fireplace completed the English decor of the room.

The meal was, however, entirely Indian served, nevertheless, on a fine English porcelain dinner service. Moghul dishes: flaming lamb kebabs; chicken pilau rice garnished with plump raisins, roasted almonds and edible silver paper; roasted goose; succulent fish in delicious sauces and a variety of vegetable dishes, each spiced to enhance the flavour of the particular vegetable which was its main ingredient: all expertly served by white coated servants. Cut glass goblets of pomegranate juice replaced the European wines, the Nawab being a strictly teetotal Muslim. After the dessert of halvas and kulfis, large golden platters of fruits and nuts were placed before the guests and at the end of the meal, the servants brought little golden bowls of rose scented water and damask linen napkins for the guests to wash and dry their fingers.

Gavin guided Helen through the menu and the exotic names of the delicious dishes. Helen was glad that silver cutlery was available for the Europeans, although she was intrigued by the dexterity of the Indians who ate with their fingers, picking up the food delicately and transferring it to their mouths without any spillage.

The meal over, the guests were asked to retire to the adjoining room, once again Moghul in its decor and they sat on low, cushioned divans placed around the room to be entertained by dancing girls and Indian musicians.

Then it was all over and time for the guests to depart as the Chief Minister organised their carriages.

Helen, sitting once again close to Gavin in the dark interior of the carriage, felt the proximity of his disturbing masculinity and shivered at the awareness of her own sensuality.

Gavin feeling her shiver said, ‘Are you cold, sweetheart? Come, let me keep you warm,’ and putting his arm around Helen’s waist under her cape drew her to his side adding even more to her confusion as she caught the faint, evocative scent of his cologne. She was glad of the darkness of the coach to hide her emotions.

‘Did you enjoy the evening, lovely lady?’ said her unwitting tormentor.

‘Oh yes, Gavin, it was wonderful - so exotically different to anything I have ever experienced. It was lovely, too, to meet my friends from the fort again.’

‘Especially, your handsome Scot,’ chuckled Gavin, tightening his clasp on her waist.

‘I have asked him to be my Best Man. I hope you do not mind,’ continued Gavin.

Helen surprised, replied, ‘How kind of you. Did he accept?’

‘Yes, with the enigmatic remark that if he could not be the bridegroom, then he must be content to be the Best Man,’ said Gavin cupping Helen’s chin in one hand and turning her to face him, and by the faint light of the coach lamps, she saw his quizzical smile. Then he brought his mouth down onto hers in a lingering kiss, which he ended, reluctantly, when the driver of their carriage was challenged by the sentries at the Residency gates.

The house was quiet when Gavin took Helen’s hand and led her into the library where a roaring fire was still burning because the late autumn evenings in the Himalayan foothills were quite cool. A carafe of wine with glasses and a cold collation were set on a table in front of the fireplace and Gavin filled two glasses, one of which he handed to Helen.

‘Would you like something to eat, darling?’ asked Gavin, an unmistakable caress in his voice and his dark eyes as he came towards Helen.

‘No thank you, I have eaten enough already,’ smiled Helen, her green eyes looking up at him as he took the glass from her hand and enveloped her in his arms.

‘Oh, Helen, I have wanted to do this all evening.’

Held so close in his arms and swept along by the storm of his passion as he rained kisses on her lips, the little hollow in her throat, and the gentle swell of her breasts above the low-cut dress, Helen, her senses reeling, entwined her arms about Gavin’s neck. She felt his strong arms tremble as he held her even closer to him until the beating of both their hearts was as one. Gavin’s mouth was on hers again, sensuously demanding and Helen’s lips parted to answer his demand. His teeth nibbled softly at her quivering lips, his tongue traced the contours of her mouth and penetrated the sweet moistness within.

With his lips still on hers, Gavin’s hand loosened the lacing of her bodice and slid her dress down her shoulders to reveal her beautiful, round, full breasts. Helen heard herself moan softly, as his hand cupped first one breast and then the other and he bent his head to kiss and lick their taut nipples. She wound her fingers through his dark hair and before he came back to reclaim her mouth, she whispered his name with all the pent up love she had felt for him over the years, ‘Gavin, oh Gavin.’

Then, suddenly, he released her and held her at arms length, his frustration twisting his lips in a crooked smile, his face flushed with emotion, his dark eyes burning into hers.

‘My darling, you are a green-eyed siren who would tempt the gods. Another minute and I would have taken you here, tonight, before our wedding ceremony,’ said Gavin huskily.

Then adjusting her dress and putting her cape around her shoulders again, he guided her masterfully across the hall to the foot of the stairs, that buccaneer’s smile playing once again about his lips.

‘Now be a good girl and go to bed, before I change my mind and ravish you tonight. I promise I will not be so scrupulous on our wedding night, my lady,’ and then with a courtly bow and an impudent grin, he returned to the library. As Helen mounted the stairs, she thought she heard another door open and close softly. Perhaps one of the servants was still awake, although it was very late.

Once in her room, Helen undressed in a dream, her emotions in turmoil. Gavin had kissed her, made love to her, not like a cousin but like a lover. Was this the threshold of love?

Helen blew out the candles and walked over to the window in her thin cotton shift. She opened it to let in the cool night air and saw the light burning in the little guest house. Gavin was in there! She touched her lips and her breasts, feeling once again his mouth caressing her. Her body was trembling, not entirely from the cool night. She reached for the catch to close the window, but hesitated when she saw the front door of the guest house open and a small woman in a sari come out to stand on the threshold, looking back to say something to someone in the room. The light behind her went out and the woman moved towards the main house, the bright moonlight making her red sari look almost black, her demeanour silent and furtive. Helen recognised Isabel de Silva.

Helen gasped and staggered backwards. She sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and hid her face in her hands. Isabel de Silva was Gavin’s mistress! The thought swept over her, making her feel quite sick. A knot of pain clutched at her diaphragm and she found herself shivering uncontrollably. Subconsciously her medical training made her realise that she was suffering from shock and, automatically, she sought the warmth of the blankets on her bed. As her blood pressure returned to normal, Helen remembered the cause of her distress.

Now she clenched her fists in anger and beat them on the bedclothes. How dare he, this man whom she loved and placed so high on a pedestal. He had gone from her arms to the arms of his mistress - the Eurasian woman, who was his employee. And yet he had been swept by passion for her a short while ago in the library. Helen had no doubt that Gavin’s ardour had not been feigned; she had seen his eyes swollen with passion, the flush on his cheekbones and felt his heart beating against hers. But, of course, he was a man with all that sex’s weakness for a desirable woman. How many others had there been since his wife Maria’s death, or had this Isabel de Silva been his mistress even while Maria was alive? So that was why he had been reluctant to remarry and when pressed by his father had consented to marriage with his little cousin hoping, no doubt, that she loved him and would be glad for any crumbs from his table! Well he was wrong. The little, lost child he found in the English woods was now a grown woman with her pride and independence of spirit.

All these thoughts raced through Helen’s mind making rest impossible until as the first light of dawn lit her window, her exhausted brain and body succumbed to sleep.

Chapter 5

It was late morning when Helen at last awoke to see Rosita standing by her bed. ‘Ah, my beauty is awake at last. How you have slept, querida; unusual for you. Gavin told me not to awake you but to serve you breakfast in bed.’

At the mention of Gavin’s name, Helen shuddered and Rosita, thinking she was cold, placed a warm cashmere shawl around her shoulders.

‘Gavin has already gone out. He said not to keep him waiting at the church tomorrow and he has left this letter and gift for you.’

Helen took the letter and gift and put them unopened inside the drawer of the bedside table. She poured herself some strong black coffee and watched Rosita fussing about the room, hanging up her beautiful dress from the night before and she remembered that she would not see Gavin again until the church ceremony. Agnes Cameron had insisted, before they left the

Nawab’s palace, that he should be their guest and she could still hear her words spoken in that rolling Scottish accent, ‘Now Gavin, laddie, you must be our guest tomorrow night. It is unlucky to see the bride on her wedding morning and I am a great believer in not tempting Lady Luck.’

How could luck change anything now, Helen thought. She was to marry a man she did not really know. A numbness had possessed the young woman making her indifferent to everything about her.

She knew, of course, that the wedding ceremony was to be conducted in the chapel at the British fort and the guests would return to the Residency for the wedding breakfast. Sir James and Lady Cameron would call on the wedding morning to escort Helen from the Residency. Sir Terence had already asked them, before they sailed from England, to be Helen’s proxy parents, a task which they had gladly accepted.

She could not alter events now, could not break her promise to Sir Terence, or flout her dead father’s wishes. This was an arranged marriage and she had no right to expect a romantic union. Gavin had never said he loved her. She would have to go through today as if nothing had changed. Now she would need all her reserves of courage to hide her heartbreak.

She smiled at Rosita and asked her to bring out her riding clothes. ‘I feel like a good gallop this morning to counteract the effects of all that rich food we were served at the Nawab’s banquet.’

Sultana whinnied with delight as Helen gave the little mare her head and she took her rider away from the city onto the winding forested paths, almost as if she knew Helen wanted to escape. At last Helen pulled her up in a grove of tall pine trees in which she had noticed a little ornately-carved wooden temple. She dismounted and taking a picket peg from her saddle bag, tied Sultana’s halter rope to it. Helen loosened the girth and unfastened the snaffle at the cheek piece so that the little grey could graze on the lush grass nearby and then she entered the temple, wondering if she should first ring the bell hanging above the door. A marigold-garlanded Hindu goddess, sitting in the lotus position, watched her impassively from a raised dais around which were offerings of rice and sweetmeats in banana leaves. Little oil-filled clay lamps lit the temple and scented joss sticks perfumed the air. Helen was alone in this pagan chapel and she fell to her knees and cried as if her heart would break.

Suddenly a hand touched her shoulder and she look up startled to see a wiry, old man wearing a saffron robe and a string of brown beads about his neck.

‘What breaks the heart of the young and beautiful memsahib?’ said the old sunyassi in perfect English.

Helen, surprised said, ‘You speak English, sir.’

‘Yes, I was sent to one of your hill schools when I was a boy and taught by the good Christian Brothers, although I, myself, am not a Christian. But why are you so sad? Is it a faithless lover, or perhaps the death of someone close to you which troubles your heart? If it is the first, then you must forget him and if the second, death is only a door to eternal life and you must not grieve so much for their passing.’

The sunyassi lifted Helen to her feet and the dark pools of his compassionate eyes seemed to hold the key to all human life.

He picked up her palm and turned it over and after a while said, ‘You will find your Nirvana in this life even before you cross the Kala Pani to return to your own country, but you will need courage and determination, for I see a rocky road ahead.’

‘So, I will return to England soon?’ asked Helen, fascinated by the depth of meaning in the holy man’s words.

‘No, not soon, but it will happen. Our people long for swaraj and the British will not be able to deny them for long. But my people, too, will suffer greatly and some may long for the stability of the old days under the guidance of the British.’

The old man took his beads from around his neck and gave them to Helen.

‘Please accept these holy beads, my child, as a talisman against the evil which will seek to destroy your family. You need not wear them but keep them with you always, especially when you are alone.’

Helen was touched by the little gift from one so poor and she undid her gold stock pin and gave it to the old man. ‘Sadhu Ji, please accept this from me; it is gold and may be of some use to you on your long journey.’

The old man looked at the shining pin in his hand and seemed to hesitate for a moment before placing it in his wooden bowl and covering it with a cloth.

‘Unless it is stolen from me, my child, I shall not part with it in this life. Now let me escort you and your horse out of this forest. It is not good to travel alone. Dacoits and badmashes are no respecters of even an Angressi Memsahib. But before we go, let me give you my dharshan.’ The old man raised his hand and muttered a prayer. He helped Helen to mount Sultana and then walking quite rapidly for his age alongside horse and rider, did not utter another word until the walls of the City of Mirapore came into sight.

‘Farewell, my child; remember what I have said and do not judge your lover too harshly. If he is the man I believe he is, he will be worthy of your love no matter what he has done,’ and Helen wondered if the old sunyassi, his eyes filled with merriment as he spoke these words, had guessed the cause of her grief and knew who she was.

Rosita and Isabel were waiting for her with some agitation. ‘You have been gone so long and the caterers are here already with the wedding breakfast menus,’ said Rosita, leading Helen by her arm into the study. A sharp-faced man rose from the chair and bowed to her.

‘I am Monsieur Boucher of Boucher et Fils, Caterers. We have been recommended to your husband by the Comtesse de Colbert.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Helen, ashamed that she had forgotten this appointment and kept this poor man waiting. ‘I was rather delayed on my morning ride but please accept my apologies for keeping you waiting. I hope you have had some refreshment.’

‘Yes, thank you mademoiselle, your staff have been very attentive,’ and Monsieur Boucher handed Helen a selection of printed menus. She chose one which was not dissimilar to the food served for grand banquets at Charnwood Hall. Gavin had ordered the best wines and champagne and Helen asked the Frenchman to lay on a good supply of pomegranate juice for the Nawab. She reminded Isabel, who had now joined them, to ensure that the Residency’s silver, plate and crystal were at their sparkling best.

There was not a great deal more for Helen to do except to inspect the banqueting room. Gavin had thought of everything, even to the ordering of fresh flowers for delivery on the wedding morning: it seemed that he had been planning this occasion for many weeks. She heard again the Sunyassi's words,‘If he is the man I believe he is, he will be worthy of your love no matter what he has done.’

Rosita insisted that Helen retire early that night. ‘Tomorrow is a busy day for all of us but especially for you, querida. You will no longer be my little girl, but Lady Helen French. But I am happy for you because you are to marry the only man you have ever loved.’

Darling Rosita, Helen mused, when the Spanish woman had left her room. How could she guess that the man she admired had feet of clay? Then Helen remembered the letter and little box in her bedside table. She opened the box and found the most exquisite ring - two flawless diamonds cut in the shape of entwining hearts set on a circlet of gold. With trembling fingers, Helen opened the letter and read:

‘My little sweetheart,

This ring is a symbol of my love for you. You hold my heart in your little hands. Treat it gently.

Until the moment I hold you in my arms again,

Your loving husband to be,

Gavin.’

Tears welled up in Helen’s eyes as she saw the unmistakable, bold flourish of Gavin’s signature. And the ring, it was exquisite and, she was sure, extremely costly.

‘Oh, Gavin, my darling, how could you pretend you love me when another woman is in your heart,’ whispered Helen, as she kissed Gavin’s signature, unable to dispel his image from her mind and her heart. She saw again his teasing smile, felt the strength and sweetness of his lips and his sudden surge of passion as he held her last night in the library.

Then falling on her knees at her bedside, she prayed for strength to bear this unexpected cross. The letter and ring she placed carefully in the little safe behind a portrait of her parents and vowed that the ring would never grace her finger until ... until what? she wondered.

The sun was shining on Helen’s wedding morning as Rosita helped her to dress. Helen looked in the mirror and the image reflected in it was of that of a lovely bride. Her gown of heavy oyster satin with its long train was cut skilfully by one of the top couturiers of London to emphasise her superb figure and lovely colouring. The low cut bodice was encrusted with seed pearls and Helen wore no jewellery except for a glittering diamond diadem to hold her veil in place. This jewelled circlet and the wedding dress had been presented to her as a wedding gift from Gavin’s father, Sir Terence French, before she sailed from England.

The Brigadier and Lady Agnes arrived early. ‘With the express intention of inspecting the wedding presents,’ said Lady Agnes, as she was smartly saluted by a uniformed Ram Das discretely guarding the cornucopia of silver, gold and crystal displayed on a damask-covered table in the library. The centrepiece was a magnificent solid gold replica of the Nawab’s palace standing on a crystal simulation of the lake. The present had been delivered

the previous morning by the fierce Rohilla guards. To Helen, however, the most treasured wedding gift was a beautiful tapestry, worked by Rosita, depicting her favourite English landscape in all its autumnal glory.

Helen felt that events were overtaking her too swiftly. The carriage with its passengers - the bride, an emotional Rosita and her proxy parents, Lord and Lady Cameron - was climbing the steep track that wound around the mountain at the peak of which stood the British Fort. The enormous iron gates of the fort were raised at their approach and the horses trotted smartly to the door of the little chapel. An Honour Guard of the 78th Highlanders gave a cheer as they caught a glimpse of the beautiful bride of the Resident.

Their spontaneous acclaim had been heard in the chapel and everyone was looking around towards the entrance as Helen, on Sir James’ arm, walked slowly up the aisle to the strain of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. She heard the gasps and whispered comments, ‘Lovely, beautiful, exquisite!’ from voices either side of the aisle but her eyes were fixed on the two men standing at the end of the chapel. John MacGregor, tall, blond and adoring and Gavin, even handsomer in his light grey wedding suit, watching the approach of his bride with pride and admiration. How could he look at her like that after what she had discovered, thought Helen, but immediately steadied herself by smiling at his Best Man.

As if in a dream she heard the chaplain intone the words of the marriage vows and heard herself agreeing to love, honour and obey and she looked deep into Gavin’s eyes as he promised to put all others aside and cling to her until death. The love she saw in their dark depths seemed to mock the silent pain in her heart.

Then the minister pronounced them man and wife and her husband kissed her long and tenderly and whispered, ‘I love you, little sweetheart.’ They were words she had longed to hear since the boy, Gavin, had put his arm around that seven-year old girl and lifted her onto his horse: now what did they mean to the woman he had betrayed.

Helen felt throughout the reception - the wedding breakfast and the speeches - that it was not her, but someone else seated next to Gavin and she recalled the painted Goddess, Sati, in that little Hindu chapel in the forest and wondered if Helen Forsythe (no, now she was Helen French ) had been turned to stone.

Finally, the last guest departed and Helen saw Gavin exchange some words with Rosita, who was about to follow her up the stairs to help her undress.

Helen removed the pins from her hair and brushed it into a shining cape around her shoulders. The fastenings of her dress were more difficult to manage on her own and she wondered why Rosita was taking so long. Suddenly the door to the bedroom opened and it was not Rosita, but Gavin who stood there. He had removed his coat, waistcoat and neck cloth and was wearing only his tight grey pantaloons and silk shirt open at the neck, more or less as she had seen him at their first meeting in Mirapore. He was holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses, which he placed on a little table as he came towards her.

‘Are you waiting for Rosita, darling? I have sent her to bed so that I can perform her duty as lady’s maid,’ he smiled with that strange quality of teasing impudence she had come to know so well.

‘Come, turn around, I will undo those fastenings for you. You’ll see how adept I am at undressing a beautiful woman.’

Yes, thought Helen, a born seducer of women and as the dress fell from her shoulders and he undid her flowing petticoat to join the satin material about her feet, she stood before him naked, proud and as beautiful as Boticelli’s Venus.

Gavin gasped at her loveliness as he drew her to him and crushed her in his strong arms. Then lifting her up as if she was a feather, he carried her over to the large bed and laid her down gently, still holding on to her as if he was afraid this fantastic woman would disappear. His dark head bent over her as he explored with lips and hands her beautiful body, his mouth encircling her full, firm breasts and taking the rosy nipples softly between his teeth, then his fingers followed by his lips, traced a path over her stomach and her pelvic bones until they stopped at the sweet triangle of her Venus mound, covered with soft auburn hair. He was moaning with longing,

‘My beautiful wife, how I want you!’ Helen gasped as his intrusive fingers and tongue sought out the sweet, moist secrets of her womanhood. Her breathing quickened as the delicious sensations Gavin was creating in her threatened to undo her self-control -she, a doctor familiar with male and female physiology, had never dreamed that desire could be so

overwhelming and as she tossed wildly on the bed, her nerve endings on fire, she suddenly envisaged, in her mind’s eye, the dark body of Isabel de Silva writhing under this connoisseur’s caresses.

‘No, No!’ she heard herself scream and pushing her astonished husband away, sprang to her feet, shivering with frustration and anger.

‘What is the matter, Helen?’ implored Gavin, now on his feet too, his arms seeking her again as she moved away from him. ‘Are you afraid, my darling? I promise I will be gentle, but you are so lovely and I wanted to bring you to ecstasy before I made you mine. Come let me show you how much I love you.’

But Helen beat her fists on his chest, trying desperately to escape his imprisoning arms and her own desire. ‘Go away, please. Go away,’ she whispered huskily, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Gavin released her and stepped back his arms falling to his sides and a look of bewilderment and then of anger darkening his face. ‘Not you, too,’ he murmured and moving away, walked stiffly towards the communicating door, only turning once to say, ‘Don’t worry, madam, I will not trouble you again. I have never taken a woman by force,’ and then he added caustically, ‘never had the need to. Goodnight, little virgin. Sleep well in your cold bed.’

Helen found herself shivering in the cool night air and snatched the embroidered silk night shift at the foot of the bed. It had been crushed by the weight of Gavin’s body and she could smell the male scent of him on the silk, as if he was still there beside her. She climbed between the sheets but sleep did not come to still her chaotic emotions. Gavin, too, was restless; she could hear him pacing up and down in the adjoining room like a caged animal and then she heard the door to the landing open and shut and his footsteps running down the staircase.

Was he going to Isabel? But, of course, not; Helen remembered that Isabel had left after the wedding on a few days’ leave to visit her brother in Lucknow.

Gavin had told Helen, shortly after she arrived from England, that Isabel had been Maria’s lady’s maid but that he had kept her on as the housekeeper after his wife’s death, partly because that is what Maria had wished and partly because Isabel needed the money to support her feckless brother. Helen knew now that it was a ruse to keep Isabel by Gavin’s side. Had she, by refusing her husband his marital rights, made Isabel even more indispensable to Gavin?

Helen did not wish to see anyone that morning after her wedding night and she crept downstairs before the household was awake to saddle up Sultana. The groom was just awaking to attend to the horses and his surprise to see his master’s bride so early, was reflected in his all too obvious astonishment. Helen was, fortunately, unaware of his unspoken thoughts that no Indian bride would leave her wedding bed so early to ride a horse, but then these Angressi were all mad!

The ride was invigorating in the cool of the morning but did nothing to dispel Helen’s image of the previous night. How easy it would have been to give in to her desire to hold Gavin close in her arms and return his ardour, kiss for kiss and touch for touch. That he was a master in lovemaking, Helen had no doubt. A man like him could enslave a woman and she even felt a little sorry for Isabel de Silva. The little dark, half-caste must have been overwhelmed by the attentions of the handsome British Resident.

Helen had heard that many British men had taken Indian wives and borne children of mixed blood in the early years of the Company. She recalled that a former Resident to the Court of Hyderabad, Lt. Col. James Kirkpatrick, had married a great niece of the Diwan and his close

association with the Indians had deterred a pro French faction gaining influence over the British. Then there was the famous Colonel James Skinner who founded the distinguished cavalry regiment, ‘Skinner’s Horse’. He, too, was the son of a Scots captain serving the East India Company who had married a Rajput woman of noble family. Maria, Gavin’s first wife,

had Indian blood from her great grandmother.

Now, however, this practice was frowned on, not only by the Army, but also in the Civil Administration. Europeans, whose wives had not joined them in India, still took willing mistresses from among the native population. She could even see the attraction of these Eastern women to a Western male - they were so submissive and learned the arts of loving and serving a man even before they reached puberty.

Whatever Gavin had done in the past, he had no right to inflict his mistress on his wife and for that Helen could not forgive him.

The day was now reaching mid-morning and Helen decided she could not delay her return to the Residency.

A rider was coming up the track she was taking and as he came nearer, she recognised Gavin. He rode his horse across the narrow bridle path to block her escape and anticipating her urge to turn back, leaned forward and restrained Sultana’s reigns causing the little animal to shy at these unexpectedly forceful hands.

‘Don’t pull at her reins; her mouth is so soft,’ said Helen, irritably.

‘Then sit still while we talk. What was all that about last night? I know you are not a prude or frigid. Is there someone else?’ Gavin’s dark eyes looked questioningly at her.

Helen smiled bitterly, ‘How like a man to believe that a woman who resists his charms must be either a prude, frigid, or in love with someone else. You really have an enormous conceit.’

Gavin’s face darkened and he clenched his fingers on his riding whip as if he would like to strike her with it.

‘Tell me, Helen, why did you marry me?’ he asked in a deceptively soft tone of voice.

‘I know why you married me, Gavin. You needed an heir and I was to be that simpering little wife who would be your brood mare.’

This was too much for Gavin, who reached forward and grabbed her shoulders, nearly unseating her.

‘You know that that is not the sole reason for our marriage. But tell me, why did you consent to be my wife and what a consummate actress you are to have played so well the part of a loving, delightful fiancée? Answer me!’ There was no mistaking the cold anger of the man whose face was so close to hers.

Helen looked deeply into his blazing eyes and after a moment said, ’Perhaps I, too, wanted something from you - a husband, a title and a fortune. Most girls of my age are already married, so your father’s offer was very opportune. Don’t worry, Sir Gavin, I intend to keep my part of the bargain and give you an heir when, and only when, I am ready.’

Gavin blanched under his tan; he looked as if she had hit him with a sledge hammer. He started to say something but stopped and releasing her reins, wheeled his horse around and galloped back the way he had come. Helen knew she had wounded him deeply and she was glad because of the pain he had caused her.

She wanted desperately to see the old sunyassi again to ask him what he had seen in her palm, perhaps even to hear him say that Gavin loved her. The temple was deserted except for a young woman performing some puja rite in front of the goddess. Helen remembered reading that this particular Hindu deity was a goddess of fertility.

The woman looked up as Helen came in. Her features were not Indian but more Mongolian, like the hill people of Nepal. Perhaps she was the wife of one of the Ghurka brigade stationed at the fort. Of the sunyassi there was no sight, so Helen, not wishing to disturb the rather nervous woman, smiled and left the temple.

Would Sati bless her with the heir she had promised Gavin? She laughed bitterly at her own thoughts and the ridiculous impasse of the situation she had created in her marriage.

Chapter 6

Helen went straight to her room when she returned, hoping she would not have to face Gavin again. As usual after her ride, she stripped down to her underclothes and poured some warm water from a china jug into a wash basin on the marble-topped washstand. She never failed to be surprised how this water was always in her room at the right temperature and exactly in time for her return from her morning ride, almost as if one of the many servants had nothing to do but watch and prepare for her mistress’s return.

She was just about to soap a sponge when the door to Gavin’s room opened and he stood there, smiling at her dismay and obvious embarrassment. He said impudently, ‘Don’t look so alarmed, Helen, we are married, but I have not come to force myself on you, simply to wish you adieu before my journey.’

‘You are going away, Gavin?’ Helen heard herself framing the unnecessary question, as she saw Gavin’s eyes wander over her state of déshabillé. White cotton combinations, with broderie anglais frills tied below the knees with baby blue ribbons, were hardly the garment she would have chosen to face her disturbing husband.

He was still smiling as he came towards her and said, ‘Yes, I am afraid so; a telegram arrived this morning from the Governor General bringing forward the date of his conference in Simla. I would have asked you to accompany me, but I fear you would not wish to burden yourself with your unwelcome husband.

‘I just wanted to give you this invitation from the French Consul to a masked costume ball in a few weeks. I shall, of course, be back to escort you and I believe Rosita has some ideas for our costumes.’

Helen took the gold embossed invitation but noticed Gavin was opening another case containing two, pearl-handled pistols.

‘I want you to carry one of these whenever you are out alone on your daily rides. I hope it won’t be necessary to use them, but there are a few unsavoury characters wandering these hills. The holsters can be strapped to the front arch of your saddle, cavalry style. I have organised this with the syce.

‘Come,’ he continued, ‘taking her arm and leading her to the open window. ‘Show me how good a marksman you are. Aim for that tree.’

‘I shall do better than that,’ challenged Helen, checking and loading the pistol. ‘See those three lemons on that branch? I shall hit the middle one.’

She forgot about her state of undress, not even noticing Gavin’s appreciative smile as he stood behind her, arms crossed against his chest, and observed with narrowed eyes, the unconscious wriggle of her shapely derrière as she positioned her knee on the window seat and took aim. The designated lemon exploded and fell with her shot and Helen turned to Gavin with a triumphant smile on her lips.

‘Bravo!’ exclaimed Gavin, then taking the pistol from Helen’s hand, he uncocked it and laid it back in the case.

‘You amaze me, Madam French. Which of these women are you really? The intrepid Amazon who can shoot and ride as well as any man, the scientist, the foolish woman who fears she will be an old maid and travels half-way across the world to marry a man she does not love, or this green-eyed siren who can drive a man mad, if he lets her get under his skin? Pity I do not have the time at the moment to find out. But never fear, I shall be back and you have a lot of explaining to do, Lady French.’

His brows lifted sardonically and moving towards her, he cupped her throat in his hand and forced her mouth up to meet his in a bruising kiss. Then he was gone and Helen heard the clatter of horses’ hooves in the forecourt below. She slipped on a lace negligee and stood by the window. Ram Das and a chaprassi with two pack mules were awaiting Gavin. He ran down the steps and mounted Sultan and then, as if he sensed she was standing at the bedroom window, looked up and gave her a half salute, his lips parting in that audacious, buccaneer’s smile, before he spurred Sultan into a brisk canter.

Helen, watching the dust from the horses’ flying hooves as the broad back of her husband disappeared from sight, felt her breath catch in her throat and she knew that whatever kind of man Gavin French was, she still loved him with every fibre of her being. Life without him now would be meaningless for her and and she fell to her knees and prayed for his safe return.

Rosita was bursting with eagerness about the masked ball. She had thought of a costume idea - Helen dressed as a flamenco dancer and Gavin as a matador. They would make a striking couple, she thought.

Helen not being inclined to suppress Rosita’s excitement, was persuaded by her Spanish friend to take the Residency phaeton into the bazaars of Mirapore to find suitable material.

As they drove along, Helen was struck by the many faceted aspects of this city. The beautiful palace rising from the glistening lake, around the banks of which were gardens and marble pavilions. Then behind this gardened embankment stood the tree lined Mall serving the commercial centre of English banks, stores and, incongruously, an English tea shop run by two ladies from Devonshire. Higher up on the hillocks nestled pink and white bungalows, the summer residences of rich Indians and the English.

But it was not to any of these that the gleaming carriage, with dark red leather upholstery and the Company crest emblazoned on its sides, was bound. The road wound down, past the walls of the mosque built by the Nawab’s grandfather, to the bazaar in the hollow of the valley, its narrow streets and wooden stalls spreading even beyond the city walls. Here all life seemed to be congregated and the scents of India assailed the nostrils spices, frying sweetmeats, dung fires. The vendors squatted on the wooden platforms of their stalls offering silks, cottons, coloured saris and jewellery to the passing crowds, whilst women from the fields outside the city spread their fruit and vegetables on sacking, noisily advertising their wares. Half naked children and pariah dogs ran after the phaeton, the former soliciting bucksheesh and when Helen reached into her purse to throw a few coins to

them, her hand was held by Rosita.

‘Not now, querida, when we are leaving, perhaps, otherwise we will be harassed every step of the way. Ah, here is the shop I was looking for.’

The carriage stopped in front of a larger and brighter shop with a fat bunia sitting cross-legged at the door, smoking a beedi through his clenched fists. When he saw the two women alight and recognised the Residency crest on their carriage, he came towards them bowing obsequiously and smiled, displaying his red, pan -stained teeth.

‘How can I be of assistance to the memsahibs?’

‘I would like to see some blue and dark blue silk satin, black woollen cloth, embroidery silks and gold buttons,’ said Rosita, ready to bring all the bargaining power of her race to obtain the best price for these materials.

When at last she was satisfied with her purchases, Helen instructed the driver to return and stop at the Devon tea shop. The smoke from the dung fires, Rosita’s haggling and this unfamiliar market had given her a craving for a cup of genuine English tea.

The little tea shop was already full with the wives of English soldiers, all seeking some familiarity in this foreign land. The proprietors, Misses Minto, had come out to India looking for husbands - two of the ‘Fishing Fleet’ as these hopeful ladies were uncharitably dubbed. The elder and prettier had married a British soldier who had been killed on the North West Frontier and she and her younger sister, reluctant to leave the luxury of British life on the sub-continent, had settled in Mirapore and opened their tea shop. The little shop was a slice of Devon set in the foothills of the Himalayas. It had low wooden beams, gleaming brassware and fresh flowers on the net curtained window sills and blue checked table cloths. The proprietors served the most delicious cakes and pastries and an assortment of teas in fine English bone china crockery.

On their return to the Residency, a chaprassi from the palace was waiting patiently with an invitation from the Begum for Helen to attend her.

Helen wrote her formal acceptance to the invitation on Residency notepaper and handed the envelope to the servant.

The next day, the Residency phaeton conveyed Helen across the causeway to another part of the palace. Huge carved wooden doors set in high walls marked the entrance to the seraglio guarded by the fierce Rohilla guards. They examined the invitation handed to them by the driver and then opened the gate to admit the carriage. Beyond the walls was a beautiful garden with fountains, scented shrubs, flower beds and proud peacocks in full display strutting on the manicured lawns. At the end of the drive at the front door, stood the dignified Arab physician, Mahmoud Bin Said.

He bowed and touched his breast, mouth and forehead in the formal Arab greeting saying,‘Alsalãm Alaikum’, to which Helen replied, ‘Alaikum Alsalãm, Doctor.’

‘Please follow me, Lady French. As you see, we are now in the harem, the domain of only women and eunuchs.’ The Arab doctor laughed, at Helen’s unspoken question, and explained that apart from the Royal family, he alone as the Court physician (although an ‘entire’ as he laughingly put it) was permitted into this cloistered seraglio with its scented gardens, inner courts, fountains and marble pavilions. At the entrance to a covered passageway leading to one of these inner courtyards stood a tall, hairless Ethiopian dressed in a rich gold silk tunic and baggy pants, with black kohl outlining his eyes and a curved dagger tucked into a jewelled belt. His voice when he spoke was high-pitched, although unlike most of the other eunuchs Helen had passed on her way though the harem, the Chief Eunuch was not corpulent.

Bowing low to the guests, this noble personage, who introduced himself simply as ‘Ibrahim’ said, ‘Please come this way; Her Highness awaits you.’

They followed the eunuch across a paved courtyard with a fountain at its centre gushing rose-scented water from the mouth of a golden dolphin. Coloured fretwork lanterns were suspended from trees and pillars surrounding the walled garden, which at night, Helen guessed, would create a magical ambience. The soft music of a sitar emanated from the marble pavilion to which the eunuch was leading them. When he stepped aside at the open, carved sandalwood door, Helen saw a beautiful room - marble floors covered with rich Turkish carpets and red and gold cushions strewn against the walls. Seated on a gold upholstered divan raised on a platform, was a striking gray-haired women dressed in a white silk kurtha and pantaloons. Over her head she had draped a long, white silk scarf anchored with a diamond circlet and Helen guessed that this was the Queen Mother, the Begum Shalima. The Begum’s beautiful unlined skin belied her age, only her blue veined, brown speckled hands identified her advancing years, but it was her eyes which held one’s attention. The colour of agates, they gazed out on the world with the unseeing stare of the blind.

The musician of the sitar was an elfin-faced, raven-haired girl of about fifteen, sitting at the feet of the Begum. The young girl’s beauty was a mirror image of the Begum as she must have looked in her youth and even before they were introduced, Helen guessed that this was Muna, the daughter of Prince Hassan and the great granddaughter of the Dowager Begum.

‘Welcome, Lady French, it was good of you to visit me,’ said the Begum in singsong English. A gilt, high-backed chair had been brought into the room by one of the servants. Princess Muna placed this opposite the enthroned Begum and with a smile indicated that Helen should be seated.

‘As you will observe. I am almost blind but if you do not mind, Lady French, Princess Muna will describe you to me,’ said the Begum.

Helen was embarrassed when she heard the young Princess extol her beauty, but seeing Muna’s mischievous smile, guessed that she was often called upon to perform this unusual task.

‘Then I am pleased, for Sir Gavin is an outstanding man and deserves a beautiful wife. Unlike so many of your countrymen, he is without prejudice and loves this country and its people. What are your impressions of India and Mirapore in particular, Lady French? I understand from my son, that you come from a place called Soosix in England.’

‘Sussex, a county in the Southern part of the British Isles, Your Highness. As for my impressions of India, from what I have observed on my journey to Mirapore from Bombay, it is a fascinating country and one which I have been warned gets into the blood of every visitor. As for Mirapore, my first impression from the mountain ridge overlooking the valley was of a veritable garden of Eden,’ replied Helen.

‘You say India gets into the visitors’ blood, Lady French: but the British are no longer just visitors - they are our virtual rulers. But will they ever really become Indian? I have heard that they live in their cantonments, their forts and their bungalows and carry on their English way of life as they would in your Soosix, segregated from the people of India.’

Helen was surprised at these almost critical words spoken in the Begum’s soft, singsong voice as her blind eyes stared straight ahead and she felt compelled to answer, especially as she knew Gavin worked so hard for the good of the State to which he was appointed Resident.

‘It is natural that foreign communities tend to cling together in a country which is not their own. In England we, too, have Jewish, Chinese and even Arab quarters in our cities. There are, however, many English, like the two ladies who run the tea shop in Mirapore, who have made India their home and have not returned to live in England and many of our famous soldiers have married Indian ladies.’

‘What will the British do for India? We have had many conquerors, from the Harapans and Arayas to the Moghuls and each has put their stamp on this country,’ continued the Begum.

‘I believe you will find that unlike the great Moghuls, whose Courts were excessively opulent and who spent vast amounts on their armies and monuments, the British, although not entirely altruistic, will do a great deal more for the territories they administer. Give us time and you will see already we have begun to build a railway system that will link all of India and there are universities and hospitals in the main cities. I am sure you will agree, your Highness, that our system of government has brought stability to a country formerly torn by the internecine struggles of warring rulers. But I hope you have not invited me to discuss politics, your Highness: I am the Resident’s wife, not the Resident,’ replied Helen, politely, but firmly refusing to continue a conversation along these lines.

The Begum smiled and clapped her hands for a servant to bring refreshments, then she said, ‘I see you are a woman of courage and integrity, Lady French. Your husband, Sir Gavin, is one of the few Englishman who understands India and his advice is invaluable to my son, the Nawab. Tell me, what should we do to help our own people?’ enquired the Begum.

‘It is not for me to advise your Highness, but when I was in England I found that clinics for the poor, who could not afford medical fees, was one way we could bring relief to the under-privileged.’

‘Will you help us to set up such a clinic, Doctor French, especially for the peasant women and children? It is something my good Mahmoud Bin Said has always wished to establish,’ said the Begum, turning her blind eyes in the direction of the Arab physician, who sat cross-legged and upright on a cushioned divan, observing with dignified silence the exchange between the two women.

‘I will be honoured to be of assistance,’ said Helen, wondering if the irascible old lady’s request was a test of Helen’s personal altruism.

‘Good, then that is settled. Mahmoud Bin Said will contact you. Come, let me offer you some refreshment.’

Princess Muna handed Helen a silver cup of cold spiced milk and a little plate of sugary sweetmeats, smiling sweetly at the English woman. The conversation turned to Helen’s life in England, the English Royal family and, finally, the movement for women’s suffrage in that strange country across the seas.

Before she let Helen leave, Begum Shalima had one last request.

‘Will you, Lady French, allow my granddaughter to assist in the clinic? She will need to be veiled, but it is my wish that she should learn her responsibilities as a princess and one day a prince’s wife.’

Helen liked the little princess and was only too pleased to agree to this request, but she wondered what role the young woman would be allowed to play in any forthcoming marriage to a strict Muslim prince.

Before she left the palace, she handed a printed copy of Lord Lister’s paper on antiseptic surgery to Mahmoud Bin Said, which had been sent to her from England by David Burton. The Arab doctor was very touched at Helen’s thoughtfulness and when he escorted her to her carriage, he bowed and said, ‘It will be a privilege to work with you, Doctor, and I hope there will be many opportunities for further discussions on subjects concerning our mutual interest. Assalãm Alaikum and may Allah go with you.’

The days before Gavin’s return passed quickly and Helen had to admit to herself that she was longing to see him again. She accompanied the Arab physician on many occasions to inspect the warehouse behind the Mosque that was to be converted into their Clinic for the Poor and together they drew up a list of all that was required to equip the little hospital.

Money was so readily available from the Nawab’s coffers that Helen could not help but write to the Burtons, ‘When I think of how we struggled to equip and maintain our little Mission Clinic, I feel somewhat embarrassed to write to you about my new venture. Suffice it to say that these people have a great need. Poverty on the Indian sub-continent is on a far greater scale than on our own little island and these people have to suffer the ravages of epidemics, floods, earthquakes and famines with little or no personal resources. What horrifies me, too, is the mutilation of some children in the poorest families to attract alms. This is something both my Arab colleague, Mahmoud Bin Said, and I are determined to stop, at least as far as Mirapore is concerned.’

Isabel de Silva returned from her holiday looking thinner and more troubled. Her brother had lost his job in Lucknow and was now seeking work in Mirapore. Helen remembered that Gavin had told her that Vincent de Silva was on no account to be admitted to the Residency. Maria, Gavin’s first wife, had thought that he was light-fingered and had noticed several valuable ornaments missing after his calls on his sister. Helen felt no need, however, to remind Isabel of this ban for the moment, unless she had reason to believe it was being flouted at any time.

That night Helen awoke suddenly, hearing again the strange chanting she had heard on her first night in Mirapore. She got out of bed and leaned out of the open window. The garden was bathed in the bright moonlight of a full moon and once again the faint smell of incense drifted into Helen’s room and she saw a glimmer of light through the pierced screen of the little tomb.

She quickly covered her nightdress with a travelling coat and tying a scarf around her hair crept down the stairs and out into the garden. As she made her way to the monument, she noticed that there was no sign of the chowkidar and made a mental note to question him in the morning. The aromatic smell of incense was stronger as she approached the monument

and she reached out a hand to try the door.

Strong fingers gripped her wrist and Helen startled, turned to see Isabel standing beside her, but an Isabel so different in appearance to the little housekeeper. Her hair was tousled and wet and hung about her shoulders in black, snake-like strands; her diaphanous sari only just covered her naked body. But it was her eyes that were so disturbing - black pools with strange pinpoints of light - staring at Helen with undisguised malevolence.

Helen gasped, suddenly afraid, ’Isabel, is that you, where did you come from?’ and Helen noticed again the vicious strength of the claw-like hand which gripped her wrist.

The woman laughed a deep throaty chuckle and her red lips parted to reveal sharp pointed teeth. The clouds suddenly obscured the moon and in the momentary darkness, the figure before Helen seemed to grow and grow and the throaty chuckle became a rasping cackle.

Then, just as suddenly, the cloudy veil over the moon was lifted and the woman before Helen was indeed only Isabel de Silva, who looked anxiously at Helen and whispered, ‘I saw you come out of the house and I was worried that you might be sleep-walking, madam. Why are you trying to open the door of the chaatri at this time of night?’

‘I thought I heard chanting coming from within and a gleam of light and I can still smell some sort of incense,’ said Helen, watching the woman closely.

‘The chanting you heard was probably made by pilgrims going to the tomb of Sita in the forest and also the smell of incense was from their lamps. As for the gleam of light, look through the window again, it is quite dark inside, but it may have been a reflection of the moonlight on the white marble,’ explained Isabel, once again in her normal singsong voice. Helen wondered if she had indeed imagined the whole thing, but she went back to the house, closely followed by Isabel, with a feeling of disquiet that she had been in the presence of something really evil.

The next morning Helen decided not to mention the matter to Rosita, who was too busy with the preparations of their costumes for the masked ball that evening.

Rosita’s skill as a needlewoman had produced a beautiful, Spanish flamenco gown in sky blue satin, cut low over the shoulders and close fitting to the hips, from which the skirt flared into rows of dark and light blue flounces, stopping just above the ankles. When Helen tried on the dress, Rosita produced her guitar and to the rhythm of the flamenco, had Helen whirling and snapping her heels with all the passion of the dance, which the Spanish woman had taught her beloved foster child years ago in England.

So absorbed was Helen in the intricacies of the dance, that she did not notice the door open and the tall figure of her husband enter the room, a burning glint in his dark eyes as he observed the beautiful dancer. Helen, oblivious to everything but the passion of the flamenco, twirled and moved seductively from her hips. She raised her lovely arms outlining the curve of her full breasts and stamped her feet to the beat of the castanets, her glorious hair flying about her shoulders as she moved her head from side to ide. Then, unintentionally, the movements of the dance catapulted her into the body of the enraptured man who caught her in his arms, holding her fast in their circle.

‘Gavin!’ Helen exclaimed in surprise, momentarily unable to mask the joy in her voice and in her eyes.

He was laughing now, smiling at her confusion and saying, ’So, a lovely Spanish gypsy has invaded my home, Rosita. Where did she come from with all that fire and beauty? I thought I had married a reserved Englishwoman.’

‘Don’t tease me, Gavin,’ chided Helen, extricating herself reluctantly from his encircling arms before he became aware of the rapid beating of her heart, which was only partly caused by the exertions of the dance. ‘This is my costume for the masked ball and you should see how handsome your own is.’

‘You must try it on after lunch, Gavin, I may have to make some adjustments,’ said Rosita.

I’ll certainly do that, Rosita, but first let me remove the grime of my journey with a hot bath and I promise to be your patient model immediately afterwards,’ said Gavin following his blushing wife with his dark eyes as she left the room.

Lunch was a genial meal for Helen, seated opposite her husband, who seemed determined to put their differences behind him. He had bought presents for them all, a beautiful lapis lazuli necklace and earrings for Helen, thin gold bangles for Rosita and a box of aromatic oils for Isabel’s massage therapy.

‘Have you benefited from one of Isabel’s massages yet, Helen? She is an expert masseuse, and will do your muscles a power of good, especially after a long ride,’ said Gavin, as if to explain the gift he had bought for the Goanese woman.

‘Isabel has offered her services, but I have not yet had the need,’ replied Helen, unable to dismiss the disturbing picture of her handsome husband stripped naked for the subtle administration of Isabel de Silva’s skills. She felt, once again that gnawing pain in her diaphragm which she had experienced that night when she had observed Isabel leaving the guest house and she remembered, with clarity, the horrible apparition of the night before. The room started to spin and Helen felt herself slumping sideways, but before she touched the floor she heard a chair being overturned violently and Gavin’s strong arms encompass her.

‘My God, darling, what is the matter; are you ill?’ Gavin was asking anxiously and as he spoke, he picked her up and carried her to a chaise lounge near the window. Helen had not quite lost consciousness and through the mists of her dizziness, she heard him telling Isabel to send Ram Das immediately to the fort for the army doctor.

‘No, no, please don’t bother Doctor Graham, Gavin. I am a doctor, myself, and know that I am suffering only from slight vertigo. I know what has brought it on. Please let me go to my room. I’ll be better soon,’ argued Helen faintly.

‘What is it? You are not the fainting type, Helen. You must be ill,’ said an unconvinced Gavin.

‘It is only a stomach upset from which I have been suffering lately. Perhaps something I have eaten,’ said Helen quietly.

‘She is doing too much, Gavin. Every day taking long rides and spending so much time at the Clinic, but she is too stubborn to listen to me,’ complained a distraught Rosita trying to hide her concern under a barrage of complaints.

Gavin insisted on carrying Helen up the stairs to her bedroom and laid her gently on the bed. Then reluctantly, on Rosita's insistence, he left the room. Rosita drew the drapes to shut out the sunlight in the hope that the darkness would encourage Helen to sleep.

‘You need rest, querida mia, especially if you are to be radiant for this evening’s masked ball,’ Rosita said anxiously, watching Helen’s closed lids and wondering why her dear child had felt so faint. Her constitution had always been as strong as an ox and it was too early for her to be enciente.

CONTINUED IN

NEXT INSTALMENT