The Midnight Rose (21 page)

“Father earns a pittance from the church, which he saves to use as a pension for when he and Mother retire. But there’s nothing left over to keep me, so I must stay at home with them, or work for a living,” she’d confided to me one night.

This led me to think that perhaps I too could have a future as a governess. By the end of my time at school, I would certainly be educated well enough to teach small children. But then, I thought, sighing, who on earth would want me? In India, it was seen as a sign of status to employ an English gentlewoman, but no family on
either
continent would want an Indian to teach their children, no matter how qualified she was.

As each day passed, I realized that I was stranded in no-man’s-land. I’d been brought up in a palace, yet I was poor; I was being educated in England, but I was the wrong color to use my skills. I was not of the working class, but I wasn’t aristocratic enough to warrant a good marriage. I thought of the little hessian sack hidden beneath the pavilion in the grounds of Cooch Behar Palace and prayed to all the gods and goddesses I knew of that it was still buried there, its contents safe and undisturbed.

F
urther rumors of war abounded at the beginning of June. There was no question of our returning home to India. Nor was there the possibility of Indira and I spending the summer in the house in Pont Street—it had been shut up and many of the staff had already joined the services. Besides, Indira’s mother was frightened of the very real possibility of bombs dropping on London, so it was arranged that Indira and I would spend the summer as far away as the Maharani could get us. We were to journey down to a county called Devon in southern England. The widow of the ex-Resident of Cooch Behar—the most senior British official present in every princely state—had offered to accommodate the two of us over the holidays.

“I can’t believe Ma is making us go there! War hasn’t even been declared yet,” grumbled Indira as she threw clothes haphazardly into her trunk. “I begged her to let me go and stay with Celestria, but she said no. What on earth am I going to do with myself for a whole summer, stuck out in the middle of nowhere with no friends?”

I
wanted
to say—wanted to, but of course didn’t—that I’d be there to keep her company. But as we set off on our journey down to Devon, she sat as far from me on the black leather seat as she could, her face turned away from me. As usual with Indira, her body language said everything that her words did not. I only wished that I’d been able to stay at school, as some of the other girls whose parents were abroad had done. Including my friend Charlotte. But how could I have explained to the Maharani that her daughter no longer wanted me as her companion?

These were thoughts I could not voice to a woman who had taken me in and then paid willingly for my expensive education, because she believed her daughter loved and needed me.

I looked at Indira sulking and knew she needed me no longer.

When we drove into the park that surrounded Astbury Hall, it took a good few minutes before the house came into view. I gazed at it with fascination, for it strongly resembled Cooch Behar Palace in its shape
and form. It was as though they were twin souls: one fashioned from heat, the other from ice. I was later to discover that the architect had once stayed at Astbury Hall and used it as a blueprint for the palace, so it wasn’t surprising that the cold monolith of a building in front of me, with its domed cupola forming the centerpiece, felt familiar.

At least it was a sunny day. When we came to a halt in front of the enormous stone steps that led up to the front door, I saw it swing open and members of the household staff started to stream out. They lined up along the steps as we both climbed out of the car. Princess Indira was certainly getting a royal welcome. She walked up the steps past the servants toward a woman, stern and wide hipped, who was wearing an old-fashioned Edwardian dress.

“I’m Maud Astbury. Welcome to Astbury Hall, Princess Indira.”

“Thank you, Lady Astbury,” Indira replied politely.

I followed in their wake as she led Indira inside.

“I hope your room will be suitable for you, my dear. We’re so short-staffed here, what with all the young men going off to join up.”

Indira, gracious to a fault when she was treated royally, nodded in agreement. “Of course, I understand. It’s awfully kind of you to have me.”

“My son, Donald, is coming home in a few days for the holidays too. At least he may be able to keep you amused.”

As usual, I was standing behind Indira, feeling uncomfortable. Eventually, Lady Astbury’s eyes fell upon me. “I see you’ve brought your own maid with you?”

“No,” said Indira quickly. “Anahita is my friend and companion.”

“I see.” There was some consternation on Lady Astbury’s face as she led Indira away from me to the bottom of the grand staircase. She bent her head toward Indira and the two of them whispered together.

“Of course, I’ll see that it’s arranged. Now, Princess Indira, the maid will show you and your . . . companion upstairs to your rooms. Please do tell her if there is anything that you will need during your stay. I will see you at dinner tonight.”

•  •  •

“I’m sorry, Anni,” Indira said yet again as she looked around the dim little attic space where I’d been billeted. “Obviously Ma was in such a state, she forgot to mention that you’d be coming here too. Lady
Astbury promised that she would prepare a room on the main floor for you tomorrow. Do you mind awfully staying in here for tonight?”

“Of course not,” I said, gratified by what I felt was Indira’s genuine concern. “The view is lovely from here.”

Indira peered out of the small pane of glass, set between the eaves of the great house. “Yes, you’re right, it is. Anyway, if you can’t bear it in here, my bed is big enough for at least another four people.” She grinned at me.

“I’ll be fine up here.”

“Well, then, I’ll be downstairs if you need me. Anni”—she took my hands in hers—“I’m sorry if I’ve abandoned you at school. I haven’t meant to, really.”

And then, Indira threw her arms around me, like she used to in the old days when it was just the two of us against the world.

“Come down when you’re unpacked,” she said, giving me a tiny wave as she left.

•  •  •

A week after we’d arrived at the house, Lady Astbury seemed to have conveniently forgotten about my impending move to the lower floor and I was still lodged in my tiny attic bedroom. I found it impossible to sleep beyond six o’clock, as the sun rose through my uncurtained window and bathed the room in blinding light. I peered outside and saw it was another beautiful day. Restless, I washed my face in the basin provided for me and took the back stairs down through the kitchen to enjoy the sunrise outside.

As I walked along the enormous terrace, which didn’t need a veranda to shade it from the weak English sun, I could smell the sweet scent of newly mown grass. I trod lightly down the steps into the gardens beyond and wandered around, admiring bed after bed of magnificent roses. As I luxuriated in the stillness and calm of the early morning, my mind flashed to a typical summer dawn in India. Here in temperate and steady England, the weather did not dominate and destroy. The thermometer dropped in the winter, making life less pleasant, but as far as I was aware, there had never been a monsoon, earthquake or, in fact, any particularly dramatic natural disaster on the British Isles.

India, I thought, was the polar opposite. Everything about it was vibrant, colorful, with drama aplenty. The temperatures soared, the
wind blew, the rivers broke their banks; all was violent and unpredictable.

I was beginning to understand too, that, unlike my countrymen’s fiery natures, as a rule the British were an unemotional people. Sitting down on a bench, I thought back to when my friend Charlotte had learned of her mother’s death just before the end of term. She took the news stoically, with acceptance and few tears. Then I thought of myself two years before, weeping and wailing for the loss of my mother that terrible day in the temple.

I also knew that, even though the British were always at war in some far-flung foreign part of the world, the solid English ground on which I stood had not been invaded for more than two hundred years.

But all that might change in the next weeks or months. Would the kaiser stamp his heavy leather boots across Europe and shake his fist at this tiny nation, which had somehow managed to conquer so much of the world and build an empire on which, as the English loved to remind each other, the sun never set?

“Hello there, are you our Indian princess?”

I’d been so engrossed in my thoughts that I hadn’t heard anyone approach me. I looked up into a pair of the bluest English eyes I’d ever seen. They were contained within a face that still had the undistinguished features of adolescence before the final contours of adulthood appeared. The boy’s hair, to my Indian eyes, was the color of straw and just as coarse. He had the usual pale pink and white complexion of the English that so many Indians longed for.

To me, that sunrise, he looked like the Adonis in the Greek myths I had read during history lessons.

“I—”

As I began to answer him, the faint sound of singing started in my ears and I found it difficult to concentrate. A now-familiar shiver ran up my backbone. Someone, or something, was telling me that this English stranger would play a part in my future.

“Do you understand English?”

“Yes.” I tried to shut out the sound in my ears by telling them that I understood what they were trying to say to me. That the message had come through loud and clear. “I speak good English,” I replied.

“And your name is Indira?”

“No, I’m her companion. My name is Anahita Chavan—Anni for short.”

“Hello, Miss Chavan, or Anni for short,” he said, holding out his hand, “I’m Donald Astbury. How do you do?”

As with all the English, his manners were impeccable.

“Very well, thank you,” I replied demurely.

He sat down companionably next to me on the bench. “So, may I ask what you’re doing out in the garden at such an early hour?”

“The sunrise through my window wakes me. And you?”

“Oh, I arrived home from school late last evening. The bell there rings at six thirty, so I woke up here on the dot. It’s such a glorious morning that I decided to get up and go and check on my mare in the stables.”

“I love horses,” I said wistfully.

“You ride?”

“Yes, I learned before I was able to walk on my own two feet.”

“I didn’t realize they taught riding from the cradle in India the way they do here.”

“Of course! How else would we have got about for thousands of years?”

“Good point, good point,” Donald said with a smile. “Then how about I show you our stables?”

“I’d love to see them,” I agreed eagerly.

“Come on, then.” He helped me up from the bench and we started to walk across the gardens. “So, how are you finding England?”

“There are some things I like, and others that I do not.”

He looked at me suddenly. “You’re awfully sensible and your English is excellent. May I ask how old you are?”

“I’ll be fifteen in a few months’ time,” I answered, exaggerating a little.

“Goodness. Most of the English girls I meet of your age are still silly little children.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all,” he replied as we approached the stables. “Now, look here, this is my mare, Glory. My mother had her named Gloria after some maiden aunt, but I really didn’t think the name suited her, so I changed it. What do you think of her?”

I looked at the horse and saw that Glory was indeed glorious, and a Thoroughbred. By my reckoning, she stood sixteen hands high. I offered her my palm and put it under her chin as I stroked her long, sleek face.

“Gosh, I’m impressed,” Donald commented. “Normally she’s whiny and complains when a stranger strokes her. You obviously have the touch, Anni.”

“I seem to understand them, somehow.”

“Well, how about a ride? I’d love to see if Glory would stand you on her back. Normally, she bolts and throws unknown riders off. Let’s see if she’ll allow you to mount her.”

“I’d love to try,” I said eagerly.

“Lead her out and I’ll saddle her up,” my new friend instructed. “I’m sure she’ll let us know if she’s in a mood to oblige us.”

I did as he requested, then, once Glory was still, I jumped onto her back, hitching up my long skirt as far as modesty would allow for me to sit astride her.

Donald smiled. “It seems she’s perfectly happy to have you up there. I’ll get the stallion.”

Five minutes later, we were trotting companionably together across the park. He brought his horse up short and looked at me. “Are you up for some rougher terrain? Dartmoor is literally a few minutes that way,” he said, gesturing to his left. “It’s the most wonderful hack and I think you’re good enough to cope.”

“Of course.” I agreed, not knowing what this “Dartmoor” place might be, but feeling happier and freer than I had for months. “I’ll follow you.”

“Righty-oh,” Donald said, and immediately cantered off, with Glory and I doing our best to keep up with him.

As we left the park and flew out onto the moor, a warm breeze pulled through my hair and I felt the heaviness that had recently assailed me begin to lighten. At first, I concentrated on steering our way through the rocky, uneven terrain. But Glory seemed to know exactly where she was going, and realizing that she was in charge, I relaxed, sat back and enjoyed the ride.

Forty minutes later, we arrived back at the stables, both horses and riders panting with exertion.

“My goodness,” said Donald as he climbed off his horse and handed him to the yawning stable lad for attention, “you’re by far the best girl in the saddle I’ve ever seen.”

I realized he was looking at me with genuine admiration.

“Thank you. I’m sure you’ll find that Princess Indira is equally competent,” I added loyally.

“Then I’ll look forward to putting her to the test too, but I doubt she could possibly be better than you.” He offered me his hand to help me dismount. “Well, Anni, I hope you’ll join me on further rides,” he said as we walked back together toward the hall. “Tomorrow morning, perhaps? Six thirty sharp?”