Akbar Khan salaamed, expressing regret that the Huzoor should have met with an accident and hoping that he was by now entirely recovered. But his eyes in the lamplight avoided Alex’s and he seemed anxious for him to pass on. Aware of this, Alex lingered, talking trivialities and wondering who it was who lurked in the blackness behind Akbar Khan’s back? There was no reason why the gatekeeper should not have a friend there should he wish. Perhaps it was some woman of his household. And yet …
There was a faint, familiar odour under the airless archway. A smell that was quite distinct and separate from the mingled scents of dust and watered earth, stonework, bougainvillea, the hot lamp and the cheap tobacco in the hookah that Akbar Khan smoked. It was a rank, almost animal odour, that suggested an unwashed human body and reminded Alex of the smell of the naked ash-smeared Bairagis in the underground chamber at Khanwai. His eyes narrowed and he said softly: ‘Who is it who sits within there and stays so still? Bid him come out.’
Akbar Khan’s face did not alter and now his eyes were no longer uneasy. They met Alex’s grey gaze blandly and his voice was gently deprecatory: ‘It is my wife, Huzoor. She brought more oil for the lamp, and hearing the Huzoor approach she hid within, for it being dark she had come here without a head covering.’
Alex looked at him thoughtfully. Instinct - instinct and that faint nauseous odour - told him that the man was lying. But if he were mistaken and it was indeed Akbar Khan’s wife who lurked in the darkness, to force her out into the lamplight, unveiled, would lead to considerable unpleasantness.
‘Tell thy … wife,’ said Alex grimly, ‘that to go abroad thus, even by night, is unwise, since there be others besides myself who might chance to see. And to speak of it.’
The inference and the threat were not lost upon Akbar Khan, for his eyes flickered sideways for a fractional second, and then he salaamed low as though in agreement, and Alex passed on, thinking of Khanwai and, as so often of late, of the night a year and more ago when he had witnessed that curious gathering under the banyan tree. Mussulmans (and Akbar Khan was a bigoted Mussulman) did not consort with Hindu holy men … Yet the hawk-faced man who had addressed the gathering at Khanwai had been both a Mussulman and a Maulvi. Alex stopped on the dark drive and half turned as though he would have gone back, but thinking better of it he went on, and he was still frowning and lost in thought when he walked up the porch steps and was ushered into the Commissioner’s drawing-room.
The big room was brightly lit and empty, and there was something unusual about it. It was no longer the untidy and somewhat raffish apartment with which he was familiar. The furniture had been rearranged and the place was clean, and there were no less than three vases of flowers. Alex was frowning abstractedly at an arrangement of orange lilies and yellow jasmine, his mind still on the subject of Akbar Khan, when a door at the far end of the room opened and he looked up and saw Winter.
He should have been prepared for it, but he was not. He had been so sure that, young as she was, she possessed too much character and courage to allow herself to be forced by circumstances into this marriage once she had seen the man to whom she was betrothed, and had realized, as she must immediately do, what he had become. It had indeed occurred to him that she might still be in Lunjore, but he considered it more likely that the friends she had met with on the road - possibly friends she had met at Ware or at Sir Ebenezer’s? - had already helped her to return to the Abuthnots or to Calcutta, and he could only be grateful for it. That she could have married that sodden debauchee was - must be - impossible. He was neither prepared for the sight of her nor for what it did to him.
Winter had not known of Alex’s return. Conway had not thought to mention it, and she had not imagined that she need ever see him again. Knowing her husband to be sitting over the wine with two of his friends, she had slipped into the drawing-room by the side door to fetch a pair of embroidery scissors that she had left there earlier in the evening. She had opened the door and seen Alex …
They stood quite still and looked at each other; their faces white and drawn with shock, and their eyes wide and fixed and unbelieving. There was a clock in the room; a massive affair of marble and gilt. The pendulum swung to and fro counting the ticking seconds into the silence, and the sound of them seemed to grow louder and louder in the stillness. Alex put out a hand with the groping gesture of a blind man and caught the back of a chair and held it, and Winter saw his knuckles shine white, and saw too that there were bright beads of sweat on his forehead.
Her own fingers tightened about the door-knob, gripping it desperately as she fought with a tide of shame and despair that equalled the shame and desperation of her wedding night. Alex had told her the truth about Conway and she had not believed him. He had done what he could to prevent her from being trapped by this horrible quicksand into which her own foolishness had led her, and it was unbearable that she should have to face him now.
Alex said harshly: ‘Did you marry him?’
‘Yes.’ The word was barely a breath.
‘Why?’
Winter did not answer him, but she moved her head in a slight, helpless gesture that was less a refusal to answer than hopelessness.
Something in that small despairing movement hurt Alex with savage pain that was as entirely physical as the touch of a hot iron. ‘Was it because you had no one else to go to? You could have—’ He stopped abruptly, aware of the futility of questions or answers. What did the whys and wherefores matter now? The thing was done. His hand tightened for another instant on the chair-back and then fell to his side. His head was aching abominably and it was suddenly an effort to stand erect. He said in a curiously formal voice that somehow gave the impression that he was a little drunk:
‘I suppose I must offer my congratulations. Will you make my excuses to your husband? He sent for me, but I have had a somewhat tiring day and I feel sure he will forgive me if I postpone the interview until the morning. Good night.’
He turned on his heel, and Winter heard him stumble as he went down the porch steps, and then the sound of his footsteps died away into the silence until there was only the clock ticking again, louder and louder, and presently a muffled bellow of laughter from the direction of the dining-room where Conway and his friends were finishing the port.
Alex had gone. She had let him go, though she could have stopped him. Even now, if she ran after him, he might help her. He could not dissolve her marriage. That was irrevocable. But he would not refuse to help her. He would do something - she did not know what - but something. Yet how could she possibly appeal to him after what had occurred in Delhi? - after the insults she had hurled at him? She could only hope that she need not see him again. And there was no one else she could appeal to.
She would have run to Ameera, but that Ameera had told her that she could not ask her to the Gulab Mahal at that time; and she could not return to Delhi because Carlyon might be there - or upon the road. And because she had no money and no means of getting any, for Conway had taken charge of her jewel box and any valuables she possessed, saying that such things were better under lock and key. Even Hamida had gone …
The morning after her wedding Winter had awakened from the deep sleep of utter mental and physical exhaustion to the full and despairing realization of what she had done. There had been a heavy outflung arm lying across her, its inert weight hurting her breasts, and beside her, his mouth open, her bridegroom snored in sodden slumber. He had groaned and rolled his head on the pillow when she had moved, but he had not awakened, and Winter had crept shuddering from under that arm and from the bed, dizzy, bruised, sick with loathing and despair, and huddling a shawl about her had stumbled into the dressing-room and bolted the door behind her.
Hamida had been there waiting for her, and Winter had clung to her; shivering, dry-eyed and desperate. Hamida had crooned over her and petted her, but it was obvious that she considered that these things were but a normal part of life. She herself, said Hamida, had been many years younger
than Winter when she had been wed, and her husband had been a lusty man - a bear! - so that Hamida too had screamed in terror on her wedding night and had wept and shivered for many days afterwards. But in time she had come to love her husband and to welcome his embraces, and she had borne him five sons of whom four still lived, so that her grandsons were many. Husbands, said Hamida, were often rough and brutal in the marriage bed, but wives must bear such things and learn to please their lords, lest their lords turned to light women.
Winter’s hysterical assertion that she intended to leave Lunjore immediately was received with scandalized horror. Such a thing was impossible - unthinkable! Wives did not behave thus. They had their duties and their responsibilities, and to run away because they found a bridegroom not entirely to their taste was unheard of. She was married now, and that could not be undone. She had not even been forced into the marriage. It had been of her own choosing, and she could not now run away from it.
Hamida read Winter a lecture on the duties of wives. A wife must submit herself to her husband and try by meekness, diligence and obedience to win his regard. Let his defects be what they may, a wife should always look upon her husband as a god, lavishing upon him her attention and care and paying no heed to his displeasure. If her husband should threaten her, abuse her, even beat her unjustly, she must answer meekly and beg his forgiveness, instead of uttering loud outcries and running from his house.
Winter had listened numbly to Hamida’s voice, but only one thing that Hamida had said made sense to her - she was married now, and that could not be undone. Hamida was right. But within a week Hamida had gone.
It was the plump painted woman whom Winter had found sitting beside Conway’s bed on the morning of her arrival who was responsible: Yasmin, the woman who lived in the bibi-gurh behind the scarlet poinsettias and the feathery screen of pepper trees, with her sister and her own serving-women. Yasmin had recognized an enemy in Hamida and had taken steps to remove her. Conway had told his wife that she must dismiss the woman she had brought with her, as he had already made arrangements for an ayah, and an outsider would only cause trouble among the other servants.
Winter had refused flatly to part with Hamida, and Conway, to his wrath, had found that he could do nothing to alter her decision. He had lost his temper and had said things that had stripped the last rags of her illusions from her. She had not given way, but the next day Hamida had been taken ill, and had whispered to Winter that her food had been poisoned. ‘Do not fear, child. I ate only a little, and tomorrow I shall be well again. But after this I must buy all my own food and cook it apart, letting no one near, so that they cannot try again.’
But Winter would not hear of it. She would not risk Hamida’s life and she sent her away, sending gifts and messages by her to Ameera. And with Hamida went her only link with the outside world until the Gardener-Smiths should arrive in Lunjore. Perhaps they would be able to help her; lend her money so that she could return to England and to Ware. To Ware! She had never believed that she could ever desire to return there, but anything - anything - was better than life in this horrible house with this coarse, gross, brutal stranger who was her husband, and who had told her furiously to her face that he had married her only for her money.
Alex Randall had still not returned and Winter could only be thankful that she was spared the humiliation of facing him. Conway had mentioned casually that he had met with some accident that would delay his return and that it was curst careless of him. But Winter had not believed it. She had been sure that after the incident on Delhi wall Alex would prefer not to return to Lunjore, and was probably arranging to get himself transferred to some other post. She had no knowledge of officialdom and it seemed to her an obvious course of action. Alex had no illusions about his chief. He had spoken of him in unmeasured terms, and he had kissed his chief’s betrothed and had been accused by her of jealousy and lying. No, he would not wish to return to Lunjore and she would not be seeing him again.
There remained Mrs Gardener-Smith, who had called upon her from mixed motives on the afternoon of their arrival. The motives appeared to be curiosity, a desire to impart all the news of Lottie Abuthnot’s wedding and to lose no time in making the acquaintance of so senior an official as the Commissioner, coupled with a wish to express disapproval of Winter’s unmaidenly conduct.
Mrs Gardener-Smith was most affable to Mr Barton, and Mr Barton, much taken by the looks of her daughter Delia, who was in every way exactly his idea of a handsome young woman, had set himself out to be pleasant. Mrs Gardener-Smith was favourably impressed by his manner and surprised to see that his bride was not in looks. The girl appeared to have aged ten years. The drawn pallor of her face was noticeable even in the shaded drawing-room where the blinds were drawn against the sun, and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes that made them look too large for her face. She was, however, perfectly composed and much interested to hear of Lottie’s wedding. She had asked permission to call upon Mrs Gardener-Smith on the following day, and had arrived at eleven o’clock. But the interview that had followed had been painful to both.
Mrs Gardener-Smith’s views on young wives and their duties towards husbands - especially husbands as senior and affable as the Commissioner of Lunjore - appeared to be much the same as Hamida’s. She had not only been unsympathetic, she had been scandalized. Of course all men drank! and on occasions drank too much and behaved accordingly. But ladies did not mention such things. They looked the other way. As for the suggestion that she should assist Winter to leave her husband, she would have nothing whatever to do with such a preposterous proposal. Such a course could only involve her in unpleasantness with the Commissioner, and on those grounds alone she would not think of it. But even if Winter should be mad enough to run away, she would not get far, since the law would be on Mr Barton’s side and could force her to return. Mrs Gardener-Smith had pronounced herself shocked that dear Winter should be so lacking in restraint, and so lost to all sense of responsibility towards her husband and to society, as to even think of such a thing! She must remember that she was no longer a heedless girl but a married woman, and marriage entailed responsibilities …
Winter had driven away down the dusty, shadow-barred roads of the cantonment with her last hope gone. Mrs Gardener-Smith had been right, as Hamida had been right. She had married Conway and she could not run away; because there was nowhere to run to, and because however far she ran it would not be far enough, for the law would send her back to her lawful husband. She had indeed made her bed and now she must lie on it.
Returning wearily to the big white house that was now her home she had not thought it possible to experience more humiliation or more despair. Until on the evening of that same day she had opened the door into the drawing-room and had seen Alex Randall, and known that she was wrong.
In the slow days and weeks that followed Winter had seen Alex only rarely and never to speak to. He had not left Lunjore, and she who had once - how long ago it seemed! - meant to influence Conway to send him away, had grown to be almost glad of it. The fact that he was here, even if she did not speak to him or see him, was curiously comforting; the one strong link in a rotted and rusty chain. If ever life and living became more than she could endure, there was Alex. He at least would not refuse to help her. He knew Conway.
Alex spent a large part of his time in the outlying areas of the district, and when he was not on tour he avoided entering the living-rooms of the Residency. But he was often in the Commissioner’s office and Winter would hear the murmur of his level voice that always seemed to her, when he was addressing her husband, to hold something of the restraint of an adult explaining a problem patiently and tactfully to a spoilt, backward and fractious child. She was obscurely aware that Alex rode his temper on a tight rein, and often wondered why he should trouble to do so, for the truth of Mrs Cottar’s flippant remark that Captain Randall did the work while Mr Commissioner Barton took the credit was soon patently obvious.
Conway did l
ittle work and was content to leave the greater part of his duties in Alex’s hands. He signed papers that Alex laid before him, and agreed to decisions that Alex had made, imagining, from the way in which they were presented to him, that the decisions were his own. He had not, after all, sent in his resignation, for rumour had it that the Governor-General was contemplating an extensive tour, which would include Lunjore, in the following year, and the Commissioner scented a possible knighthood. The prospect of being able to retire not only as a rich man but as ‘Sir Conway’ appealed strongly to his vanity, and he decided to postpone his resignation for a year; and also to make that year as pleasant as possible. He ceased to take even a casual interest in the affairs of Lunjore, and Alex’s work was greatly simplified thereby, though it meant that he spent more time in Lunjore itself and less out in the district.
Secure now in the possession of large wealth, the Commissioner entertained lavishly and the Residency was always full of guests. He ordered new furniture and furnishings from Calcutta so that his house should be fit to entertain the Governor-General and his Staff in, and talked of building a new wing. He was proud of his wife’s looks and poise, and it pleased him that her dresses and jewels and her youthful dignity made an impression on his guests. But he had early tired of her as a woman. She had never again screamed and wept and fought him, but the passive, rigid disgust with which she had endured his subsequent embraces had soon robbed them of any pleasure, and he had returned to the coarser and more co-operative Yasmin for his entertainment.