Daughters of the Governor E-Book

Vivian Stuart

• Herausgeber: Jentas Ehf
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Historical Romance
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 358

Beschreibung

INTRIGUE. TENSION. LOVE AFFAIRS: In The Historical Romance series, a set of stand-alone novels, Vivian Stuart builds her compelling narratives around the dramatic lives of sea captains, nurses, surgeons, and members of the aristocracy. Stuart takes us back to the societies of the 20th century, drawing on her own experience of places across Australia, India, East Asia, and the Middle East.    Kathy Gregson was still a tomboy after a year at her finishing school in Paris. When she came out to India to join her family in the province where her father was Governor, she found it very difficult to accept the rigid protocol which was a part of life at the hill station. The social errors she committed, such as forgetting names and faces, were a great worry to her. Why couldn't she be more like her sister Harriet, seven years her senior, who always did and said the right thing? But when Kathy met tall, fair-haired Desmond Conroy at a polo game, she knew that she would have no trouble in remembering his name, or his face... and she also realised that Harriet knew Desmond much better than she admitted...

Leseprobe

Daughters of the Governor

Daughters of the Governor

© Vivian Stuart, 1958

© eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2022

ISBN: 978-9979-64-478-1

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

____

Many novelists dedicate their books to their husbands, adding that, without them, the books would never have been written. In this case, it is the literal truth. . . .

So I offer Daughters of the Governor to Bill, knowing that it is as much his creation as my own.

CHAPTER I

KATHLEEN GREGSON trotted up to the little group of waiting syces and, recognizing one of them, called him over.

She said, in Urdu, “Will you hold my pony, syce? I want to watch the game.”

The syce salaamed. “Ji-ha, Miss Sahib.” He took the pony’s reins, his brown, wrinkled face puckered into a smile. Kathy thanked him and went to sit, cross-legged, under the trees a few yards away, on the tar side of the polo ground. From her point of vantage she could see across the intervening square of closely cropped green grass to the line of chairs on which most of the other spectators were seated. She could see her father and her elder sister Harriet and—easily distinguishable by his lack of height and the extreme whiteness of his impeccably wound pugaree—she could also pick out the Raja of Mirapur, who was her father’s guest and captain of the visiting polo team.

They were having tea, served from an awning-shaded table by half a dozen of the Government House servants, but Kathy felt no inclination, just then, to join them. It had clouded over during the early part of the afternoon, but now the sun shone again and in a little while the game would start. Until it did, she was content to remain unobserved, a slim, quiet shadow against the darker shadows cast by the encircling pine trees, free of all social obligations, free to think.

It was May, 1939, and she had now been a week in Fyzapore, the hill station for the Eastern Provinces, of which her father was Governor. She wanted to watch, to weigh up and assess the new acquaintances she had made with such bewildering swiftness since her arrival in India. For she had met and been introduced to so many people that she found it difficult to remember all their names or—even remembering some of the names—to connect them with the right faces in her mind.

Uniforms helped, of course. It was impossible to mistake the Rajput Lancers’ Colonel for anyone else when he appeared in all the glory of his scarlet and gold mess kit. Even in khaki he was recognizable; but——Kathy sighed. This morning’s encounter with him had been unfortunate. How could she have guessed that the grey-haired, shabbily-dressed stranger in the torn old waterproof, whose greeting she had failed to return, had any connection with the resplendent figure who had been her dinner partner at Government House the previous evening? He simply hadn’t looked the same, in spite of what Harriet had said.

Harriet remembered everyone, without apparent effort: she always said the right thing and was invariably charming, but then—Harriet was Harriet. She had taken their mother’s place more than a year ago, and now played her role so gracefully that it seemed to Kathy that she must have been preparing for it all her adult life. Indeed, she probably had, for their mother’s illness had been a long and painful one, much of it spent, poor darling, in hospitals and nursing homes.

Kathy glanced over in Harriet’s direction, smothering another little sigh. Her sister was talking to Andrew Lyle now, and the tall, grave-faced Military Secretary was actually smiling at her. Kathy couldn’t remember having seen him smile before and she wondered, watching him bend solicitously over Harriet in order to relieve her of her cup, whether perhaps he might be in love with her, as Patrick had jokingly suggested last night.

At the thought of Patrick, her face cleared. She adored her brother Patrick—they all did. Even Harriet spoiled and indulged him, and their father—while pretending a military formality on official occasions, because Patrick was now commissioned and serving with his own beloved Gurkhas—nevertheless unbent in his son’s company as he unbent in no one else’s.

And it was good for him to unbend, Kathy thought fondly. He so seldom had the chance nowadays. Being His Excellency the Governor was, of course, a great honour and the reward for a lifetime’s distinguished military service. But it was also, she knew, a considerable strain on a tired old man who had lost the wife he had loved and on whom, for more than thirty years, he had depended so completely.

Children—even a daughter like Harriet—however hard they tried or however much they wanted to, simply couldn’t compensate for a loss of such magnitude. Especially when the man who had suffered it was too proud and too shut up inside himself to admit to loneliness or to allow any of them sufficiently close to him to be able to help.

Not, of course, that she could ever really be of much help to him, Kathy reflected regretfully. Not to Lieutenant General Sir Rupert Gregson, K.C.B., K.C.M.G. and a host of other imposing decorations whose initial letters she somehow always managed to confuse. Not to His Excellency the Governor . . . that was impossible. Her father was clothed now in a new, dignified, unapproachable aloofness which made him seem almost a stranger to her. He was weighed down by the cares and responsibilities of his important office, impatient of the mistakes she made and invariably too busy to be able to spare the time to talk to her as, in the old days, he had been wont to talk. Always surrounded by a protective barrier of A.D.C.s and secretaries, he no longer bore the smallest resemblance to the man she had once called “Daddy”, whose favourite she had been and of whose adoration she had been so confidently assured throughout her childhood. So much so that the others had teased her about it, she remembered, and her mother had laughingly feigned jealousy.

But everything was different now, so much had changed. Kathy supposed that it had been inevitable because, of course, she herself had changed too. She wasn’t a child any more, she was officially grown up, although, alas, she still remained as clumsy, awkward and forgetful as she had always been. She was repeatedly committing unpardonable social errors, which appalled Harriet—talking to the wrong people or, even worse, failing to think of anything at all to say to those who were her father’s guests and whom it was her duty to entertain. The French finishing school, to which she had been sent in order that the “rough edges” might be removed, had failed signally in its task, Kathy decided, with faint resentment.

She had spent a year there and she had tried to learn all that Madame Lacoste, the principal, had attempted to teach her of good manners, culture and refinement. She hadn’t enjoyed it, but she had honestly tried, and yet, at the end of it, she had still been herself—une gauche tomboy, as Madame had so despairingly called her. She could ride a horse, she could shoot with rifle and shotgun almost as well as Patrick did these things. She could speak fluent Urdu and slightly less fluent French, but—this morning she had offended the commanding officer of the Rajput Lancers by staring straight through him. Now, because he was there and she was afraid to face him, she was deliberately cutting her father’s tea party, leaving Harriet to cope on her own, rather than endure the inevitable reproaches, the teasing and Patrick’s amused laughter.

Kathy bit her lower lip, feeling it tremble. She wished with all her heart that she could be more like Harriet. But she wasn’t like Harriet, she was a little coward. Only a coward would have stayed here, half—hidden by the pine trees, hoping fervently that no one had noticed her coming, that no one would see her now. She had wanted to watch Patrick playing polo against the Raja of Mirapur’s team because she had never seen him play polo before . . . but . . .

“All alone, Miss Gregson?” The voice was gentle, but it startled her and she spun round guiltily, her eyes wide with alarm. “Please,” the voice begged, “do not disturb yourself on my account. I only came to see if you were all right.”

“Oh, it’s you, Captain Sagah.” Kathy relaxed in relief. Her father’s young Indian A.D.C. was, if possible, shyer than herself, and this knowledge, coupled with the fact that she never found him difficult to talk to, formed a bond between them. He never sought her out deliberately, but they were always meeting in unexpected places like this, both anxious to escape from the public eye.

The product of an English public school, Lal Sagah was also Sandhurst trained, the son, Kathy knew, of a well-known and widely respected Calcutta High Court judge, whose friendship with her own father had led to his appointment as A.D.C. He was a slim, delicately featured young man, his brown eyes as soft and limpid as the eyes of a fawn. A fine athlete and a keen horseman, he played polo whenever his duties left him free to do so and he was, according to Patrick, the mainstay of the Government House team. Consequently, taking in the fact that he was dressed in a light tropical suit, instead of the shirt and breeches she had expected, Kathy stared up at him in surprise.

“Aren’t you playing this afternoon?” she questioned. “I thought you would be.”

“No, Miss Gregson.” Lal Sagah’s smile was rueful. “There is this, you see, to prevent me.” He held up a bandaged left wrist for her inspection. “I sprained it this morning, unfortunately. But Desmond Conroy is taking my place. I am sure he will do so more than adequately.”

He gestured and, glancing in the direction of his pointing finger, Kathy saw a very tall, fair-haired man in the act of mounting a leggy, raw-boned grey pony, held for him by one of the uniformed Rajput syces. As he settled into the saddle, she saw that he was extremely good-looking—the bestlooking man, perhaps, that she had ever seen. His skin was tanned to a deep golden brown, against which, by contrast, his eyes seemed very blue, but there was a steely quality about them, a hardness that was somehow emphasized by the strong, unyielding lines of his profile. The mouth was firm, the chin a trifle aggressive, despite the smilelines etched across the tanned skin.

He seemed oddly out of place in this setting, Kathy thought. In another day and age, he might have been—what? She searched for an apt simile. A buccaneer, perhaps. A pirate captain, commanding a brigantine on the Spanish Main. . . . As she watched his blunt brown fingers gather up the grey’s reins, she became aware of a strange little thrill of excitement which set her heart beating faster and the colour rushing to her cheeks. She had never, to the best of her knowledge, set eyes on Desmond Conroy before in her life, and yet she recognized him instantly for what he was, knew him better, in that moment of watching, than she knew any of the other people to whom she had talked for long, seemingly endless hours at the functions she had attended. His face wasn’t one she would forget, his name, with his image, were burning themselves indelibly into her brain as she sat there, looking down at him unobserved.

Sensing her interest with the uncanny perceptiveness she had learnt to expect of him, Lal Sagah said softly, “Desmond is a friend of mine, he is in my regiment. Would you like to meet him, Miss Gregson? I am sure he would be delighted if I were to call him over.”

“No,” Kathy began, a curious reluctance seizing her, “no, Captain Sagah, I——” But the young A.D.C. was already on his feet, a hand raised in impulsive summons. ‘Desmond! Hi, Desmond, can you spare a moment?”

The man turned, eyes narrowed beneath the white polo helmet, fingers tightening on the reins. He swung his pony back on its haunches and into a canter almost in one movement, as if by the mere act of mounting it he had made it a part of himself. Pulling up in front of them, he sketched a casual salute with his stick, smiling without much more than perfunctory politeness in Lal Sagah’s direction.

“What is it, Willy, old boy?” His voice was deep, touched faintly with a hint of Irish brogue. “Having swilled vast quantities of H.E.’s revolting China tea, I was about to come to the serious business of the day. Don’t you approve of my riding Snowgoose in such distinguished company, or what? I assure you, he’s much improved—I’ve been schooling him ceaselessly ever since I got back.”

“I thought,” Lal Sagah put in quickly, “that you might care to be introduced to Miss Kathleen Gregson.” He bowed to Kathy, his expression anxious, lest she take offence at his friend’s tactless words. “Miss Gregson, may I present Captain Desmond Conroy, of my regiment? Desmond, Miss Kathleen Gregson.”

Desmond Conroy’s smile held mockery. “I’m sorry,” he said, without contrition, when Kathy had acknowledged the introduction, “I’m sorry for what I said about your father’s tea, Miss Gregson. I wasn’t aware of your identity when I described it as—er—as revolting. I hope you’ll take it as evidence of my bad taste rather than the slightest reflection on His Excellency’s hospitality. It just so happens that I don’t like China tea.’

“Nor do I,” Kathy confessed. “As it happens.”

“Which is why you’re here, I presume?” He waved a hand in the direction of the chairs. “Instead of over there, pouring it out?”

Kathy felt herself flush. His tone was as mocking as his smile. He didn’t care in the least if he offended her, she thought resentfully, whether by disparaging reference to the China tea or to her absence from her place of duty. But to her own surprise she answered his question quite truthfully.

“No,” she heard herself say, “that wasn’t my reason, Captain Conroy. I had a—a more personal one.”

Desmond Conroy’s level brows rose in a sceptical curve. “Indeed, Miss Gregson?” Despite the enquiry in both voice and glance, he didn’t invite her confidence. He was supremely, even arrogantly indifferent to her, Kathy sensed, and her resentment deepened. Did he imagine, in his conceit, that she wanted to know him or that she had asked Lal Sagah to introduce him to her? Her own smile faded and her chin came up, but before she could find the words with which to dismiss him, he excused himself, the parting wave with his stick, that was half salute, half mockery, as casual as his greeting had been.

Lal Sagah said apologetically, “He is like that, you know, but he is the best fellow in the world when one is in a tight corner. I know, I served with him on the Frontier—he has only just come back from his second tour there. Desmond is a fine soldier, Miss Gregson. It is born in him, I think—fighting is in his blood and he isn’t happy as a peacetime officer. He hates and has a great contempt for what is called ‘poodle-faking’, you see.”

“Well, he doesn’t have to do any poodle-faking for my benefit,” Kathy retorted indignantly, and the young A.D.C. spread his slim, dark-skinned hands in an expressive gesture.

“Ah, but he is not to know that, is he? He does not know you, Miss Gregson.”

Kathy was silent, gazing across the polo field. The players were all mounted now, and she glimpsed her brother Patrick on his new chestnut. He and Desmond Conroy were together, trotting their ponies side by side towards the far goal and engaged in earnest consultation as they went by a few yards below her. Neither looked up. They made an oddly contrasting pair, Patrick thin and dark-haired, talking eagerly, his companion sitting his pony with rock—like, assured calm, his face unsmiling but his blue eyes bright with the steely light of battle.

The Raja, on a lovely, pure-bred black Arab, cantered over to join them, swinging his stick with easy, practised skill. His team, which was reputedly very good, was conceding a two-goal handicap to the scratch Government House team, but Kathy wondered, watching them, whether the Raja had realized that Desmond Conroy would be playing and whether, if he had, he would still have agreed to the handicap. Because Desmond Conroy was so obviously — even to her inexperienced eyes — an opponent to be reckoned with and respected. She did not need Lal Sagah to tell her that he was good, she could see it for herself as soon as the game started.

The first chukker was played without score. It was fast and exciting, the players getting each other’s measure, probing without actually attacking. Patrick, at back, acquitted himself well, but Kathy, who had come expressly to watch him, found her gaze straying repeatedly to the tall, fair-haired man on the flying grey pony that now, more than ever, seemed to be a part of him. Desmond Conroy played with an effortless skill only the Raja could match. The risks he took, which might have seemed reckless had anyone else taken them, he justified by the controlled ease with which he extricated himself the instant disaster threatened. A deft flick of the wrist, the swift pressure of his heels against his pony’s sides, and he was away, the white ball miraculously still within his reach and a challenge for its possession met with and averted.

Three goals were scored in swift succession during the second chukker: two by Desmond Conroy, the third by Andrew Lyle. At her side, Kathy heard Lal Sagah laugh delightedly. The Raja of Mirapur, better mounted, leading a team whose every move he knew, was frowning when the chukker ended and he went to take a fresh pony from his waiting syce. It was a friendly game, arranged simply as entertainment, but he didn’t like losing it so easily, and clearly, as Kathy had sensed, he hadn’t expected to meet with such determined opposition.

“This will be good now,” the young A.D.C. told her softly, as the white-shirted players trooped back on to the field. “His Highness is not a man to suffer loss of temper and he is a good sportsman, but—Desmond should look out for himself, for they will be out to avenge those two goals, you will see.”

“I should think,” Kathy answered, recalling her first impression of the man she had likened to a buccaneer, “that he is quite capable of looking out for himself, Captain Sagah.”

“Oh, he is. There is no weakness in Desmond Conroy. The Pathans he led on the Frontier and the tribesmen he led them against had a common nickname for him — they called him ‘The Steel One’, which is about the highest compliment they could pay to a European. And he lived up to it, I give you my word, Miss Gregson.”

“You admire him, don’t you?” Kathy suggested. Lal Sagah smiled. “Yes, I do, very much—in spite of the fact that he insists on calling me Willy! Perhaps”—his tone was frankly envious—“because he is all the things which I am not. It is not unusual for a man to admire his opposite —or for a woman also, if it comes to that, don’t you agree?”

“I don’t know,” Kathy demurred. Her brows came together. Perhaps it wasn’t. She wondered if Desmond Conroy had anyone he cared for deeply and, as if in answer to her unspoken thoughts, Lal Sagah said reflectively, “Desmond has a young step-brother who is also in the regiment and to whom he is very devoted—Robin Conroy. I don’t think you have met him yet, they have both been on leave. You will see him tonight.”

“Tonight? But—” An outburst of clapping from the line of chairs where the spectators sat drew Kathy’s attention once more to the game and she broke off. “Oh, what’s happened? I missed it, I wasn’t looking.”

“His Highness,” Lal Sagah told her, “has scored. Mirapur have broken their duck and I see your father applauding with great courtesy, Miss Gregson. Which reminds me”—he looked at his watch and heaved a regretful sigh—“I’m afraid I shall have to leave you soon and return to Government House before the game ends. There is the Ball tonight and I have to arrange the seating at dinner.”

“Oh, dear, I’d forgotten about tonight.” Kathy’s face fell, and seeing it, he stared at her in astonishment. “Surely you are looking forward to the Ball, Miss Gregson? You dance, if I may say so, very beautifully and with much grace. I have seen you. Don’t you enjoy it?”

“I enjoy dancing. It’s the dinner party beforehand that I dread. I’m always put beside people I haven’t anything to say to, colonels and . . .” She flushed. “Well, colonels and senior political officers. I forget their names and—oh, I don’t know, I simply dread it.”

Lal Sagah jumped to his feet. “If that is all, then you may safely leave the matter in my hands—I understand how you feel and I sympathize deeply. On previous occasions it has been Francis Cunningham who has been responsible for the table platings, but tonight it is I who am to do it. I will see that you are given at least one dinner partner whose conversation you will enjoy. You may trust me, Miss Gregson, I promise you.”

What would Harriet say, Kathy wondered. Harriet would have His Highness on her right hand. . . . “I don’t think,” she objected, “honestly, Captain Sagah, I don’t think you ought to interfere. Francis has been A.D.C. for a long time, he knows what my father wants, what he expects of me and——”

“Does anyone ask you what you want, Miss Gregson?”

“Well, no.” Francis Cunningham certainly didn’t, Kathy reflected. He only worried about seniority and what was correct, and it had probably never occurred to him that, at eighteen, she found senior political officers and battalion commanders rather terrifying company. Or perhaps he thought that it was time she learnt to make conversation with them, so that she might relieve Harriet occasionally. Francis, like Andrew Lyle, was, in his stolid way, also a great admirer of her sister Harriet. . . . “Captain Sagah, you——”

But Lal Sagah, for once, wasn’t listening to her. His dark eyes were fixed on three galloping figures just below them and he was suddenly as tense as a coiled spring. Kathy’s gaze followed his and she, too, fell silent.

Desmond Conroy, riding a bay pony now, was in pursuit of a long pass from Patrick and, on either side of him, so close that their knees were touching, two of the Mirapur players were racing to cut him off. One of these was the Raja himself, his dark, bearded face grimly set under the dazzling white pugaree, his mouth a tight, hard line. This was a game, Kathy reminded herself as they thundered past her—a game, nothing more, although all three of them seemed momentarily to have lost sight of the fact. They were certainly not playing a game now.

Desmond Conroy was smiling, his eyes narrowed slits of steely blue. . . . The Steel One, as both his Pathan troopers and his enemies had dubbed him. The nickname was at this moment a very apt one. She saw his hand move on his pony’s neck, saw the bay change legs and alter direction. The next second, so swiftly and so unexpectedly that she couldn’t have described exactly what had happened, he was in front, clear of the other two, his stick raised to make contact with the flying white speck that was the ball Patrick had passed to him.

It rose, to skim cleanly between the goalposts as the Raja’s pony, checked too harshly, stumbled and, receiving a glancing blow on the quarters from the Mirapur Number Three, went down in a flurry of flailing hoofs, its rider a splash of crumpled white somewhere beneath it.

Kathy heard Lal Sagah let out his breath in a long, horrified gasp, and then she was running blindly after him, on to the field, towards the still white figure lying beside the prostrate pony. Out of the tail of her eye she saw Desmond Conroy bring his pony to a halt. He sat where he was, motionless, looking back, his smile abruptly fading, but a fugitive gleam of triumph still lighting his eyes.

The Raja picked himself up before any one of them could reach him. There was a dazed expression on his face, but he shook his head to Lal Sagah’s anxious enquiries and went over, limping a little, to the pony which, by this time, was making an effort to struggle to its feet. He spoke to it gently, as if to a child, and the animal nuzzled him as his fingers passed questingly over each limb in turn, seeking for any sign of injury.

Finding none, he straightened himself painfully, motioning to his syce to bring him a fresh mount.

“There is no harm done. We will continue the game.” His voice was flat, devoid of feeling, but Kathy sensed that he was making a great effort to control it. He saw her and smiled. “I gave you a fright, Miss Gregson? I am sorry. Tell His Excellency for me, will you, please, that I am quite unscathed. Thank you.”

The other players gathered round him, Patrick dismounting from his horse, but the Raja waved them away. His eyes met Desmond Conroy’s across the intervening distance and his smile widened. Brusquely, he cut short the younger man’s apologies. “Come, what is a toss, after all? You are a worthy opponent, Captain Conroy, and I am anxious to resume our tussle. Let us not waste time saying we are sorry or the light will go before we have finished our game.” He took the reins of the fresh pony his syce had brought him and lifted an immaculately booted leg. The syce bent, palm extended, and swung him into the saddle.

The players cantered off, leaving Kathy alone with Lal Sagah. The game had restarted long before they had skirted the field, and Kathy, seeing that her father was absorbed in watching it, didn’t bother him with the Raja’s message. Harriet, too, was deep in conversation and didn’t notice her either so, stifling a sigh, she went to collect her pony. She had suddenly lost all interest in the outcome of the game and, in any case, it was time she returned to Government House to bath and change preparatory to the evening’s festivities. The others had come by car, but she had half an hour’s ride in front of her.

She jogged slowly up the steep hill road, only dimly conscious of her surroundings. Before her half-closed eyes floated tantalizingly the image of Desmond Conroy’s tanned, smiling face. She saw it as it had been an instant after the Raja’s fall and, catching again that swift gleam of triumph she had glimpsed in his blue eyes, Kathy shivered involuntarily. And, try as she might to banish it during the brief ride back, the memory lingered in her mind and she was suddenly, inexplicably afraid.

CHAPTER II

KATHY had just finished dressing when Harriet came into her room. Her sister looked very lovely, Kathy thought with a twinge of envy, calm and serene and poised, completely mistress of herself. She wore a charming dress of grey taffeta which rustled as she walked gracefully across the room. It was low-cut to display to advantage the creamy beauty of her neck and shoulders, and Harriet had added a touch of colour to relieve it in the wrap of soft rose-coloured tulle and the tiny, brilliant-encrusted evening bag she carried in her left hand. Her other hand caressed the single crimson rose she wore pinned to the front of her dress, a lovely rose, fresh—picked and not quite out.

Harriet was only seven years her senior and yet, looking at her now, Kathy felt absurdly as if she were a child again and Harriet her mother, come to bid her goodnight before leaving for some grownup function which she herself was too young to attend. But alas for such illusions: her sister’s first words shattered the brittle dream.

“Kathy darling, aren’t you ready yet? Goodness, child, bestir yourself—it’s nearly eight, you know, and Daddy does so hate it if we’re late. It holds up everything.” She spoke kindly, without impatience, but Kathy’s cheeks burned with shame.

“I’m sorry, Harriet. I’m almost ready. Only my hair just won’t look right, I can’t think why. Ayah’s tried and I’ve tried, but you can see for yourself how awful it looks.”

Kathy gestured to the mirror helplessly.

“Let me try, then,” Harriet offered. She held out her hand for the hairbrush. The ayah they shared, who had been Kathy’s own ayah when she was a baby, gave it to her and beamed at them both, her faded old eyes bright with sudden tears. She murmured something in her own tongue which Kathy didn’t catch and then shuffled away, bare feet padding across the polished floor and the anklets she wore making a small, musical jingle as she walked.

“What did she say?” Kathy asked, as Harriet plied the brush with deft gentleness.

“Only that I look like Mother. Lift your head, will you, Kath? I can’t see what I’m doing.”

Kathy obeyed. “You do,” she said eagerly, “Harriet, you do look awfully like her, you know. I thought so when you came in. Perhaps it’s that dress—Mother always loved grey, didn’t she?”

“Yes, I think she did,” Harriet agreed. She brushed more vigorously. Kathy saw the reflection of her face in the mirror, saw that she had paled. “Don’t you want to look like her, Harriet?” she questioned, surprised. “Aren’t you glad you do? Mother was beautiful.”

“Yes,” Harriet agreed briefly, “I know she was. Now then, how’s that? Any better, do you think?”

Kathy studied her reflection critically, seeing no beauty in her own small, high-boned face. She was dark, like her father and Patrick, and her eyes were smoke-grey, like theirs. It was only Harriet who had inherited their mother’s exquisite, pink and white colouring, and her hair, growing in soft tendrils about her face, shone in the light, as smooth and bright and delicate as spun gold.

“Well?” Harriet prompted, a trifle impatient now. She looked at her watch. “We really ought to go down. It’s five to eight.”

Kathy sighed. Harriet’s skilful brushing had certainly improved her hair, though it still didn’t look as she wished it would. It was too thick and long to be manageable. She herself wanted to have it cut quite short, as so many girls wore their hair nowadays, but her father was old-fashioned and wouldn’t hear of it.

“I suppose it’s all right,” she said doubtfully.

“Of course it is.” Harriet inserted the last hairpin and smiled at her in the mirror. “You look sweet, Kath. It suits you long, you know, honestly it does. Now do come on, we simply must be downstairs before the Raja appears. Francis and Lal Sagah will look after the drinks, of course, but could you see that Mohammed Bux offers everyone a cigarette? He’s convinced, for some reason best known to himself, that memsahibs don’t smoke. I’ve told him till I’m tired that they do, but it never seems to penetrate. And last night I saw Mrs Randall smoking her own. . . .” Still talking, she slipped Kathy’s wrap about her slim shoulders and urged her to the door.

“Wait,” Kathy pleaded, seized with last-minute panic, “my bag. I don’t know where on earth I put it. And I haven’t got a handkerchief.”

The ayah found her bag, Harriet lent her a handkerchief and then there was no excuse. Kathy braced herself.

“All right,” she said, “I’m ready, Harriet. I’m frightfully sorry if I’ve kept you waiting.”

“It doesn’t matter, darling, I always keep my watch a few minutes fast,” Harriet confessed. She put an arm on her sister’s. “Why, Kathy, you’re trembling! Do you really find these parties so hard to cope with?”

“Yes.” Tears misted Kathy’s eyes. “I hate them.”

“Silly little goose! You mustn’t let it worry you so much. The dinner party can’t last for ever and the Ball is going to be fun, you’ll have a lovely time. And lots of extremely attractive young men who’ll be longing to dance with you.”

“I don’t mind the young men, I can talk to them. It’s the old ones, the frightfully senior, important ones. Oh, Harriet”—Kathy halted and turned to face her sister—“Colonel Randall. This morning I——”

“Darling, I heard all about it,” Harriet assured her consolingly. Her smile was tolerantly sympathetic. “Colonel Randall wasn’t in the least offended—in fact he was most amused. He said you’d put him properly in his place!”

“I was afraid he’d be annoyed.”

“Well, he wasn’t. Was that why you weren’t at tea, why you were hiding in the trees when the polo was on?”

“You saw me?” The guilty colour rose in waves to Kathy’s cheeks.

“Oh, Kath!” Harriet was laughing, she wasn’t angry or reproachful, as Kathy had feared she would be. “Of course I saw you, silly. Even if I hadn’t spotted you earlier—which I did—I’d have seen you when you rushed on to the field after the Raja’s pony came down.”

She linked her arm in Kathy’s and they started to descend the long flight of marble stairs leading to the great, imposing entrance hall with its glittering chandeliers. Chuprassis in scarlet and gold and some of the household servants in white, with scarlet sashes, were moving about below them, waiting for the Governor’s guests to arrive, and Kathy caught a glimpse of Lal Sagah, magnificently uniformed, standing in the doorway of the anteroom in which they would be received.

Of her father there was, of course, as yet no sign. He came only when all his guests were assembled, and was announced, like royalty, as the representative of His Majesty King George. Kathy still found it strange that on such occasions she must curtsey to him, although it always gave her an odd little thrill to do so.

She glanced at Harriet. “The Raja wasn’t hurt, was he? Not badly, I mean?”

Harriet sighed. “He won’t admit to being hurt at all, but I think it shook him a good deal—he’s not young, you know, and he fell with the pony on top of him. My heart was in my mouth when I saw him flying over its head. It was quite unpardonable of Desmond Conroy to bring him down like that—Daddy was simply furious about it.”

“But it was an accident,” Kathy said, and hesitated, seeing her sister’s brows come together. “Harriet . . . wasn’t it? Surely he didn’t bring the Raja down deliberately? No one would do a thing like that on—on purpose, would they?”

Again, almost against her will, she had a swift mental vision of Desmond Conroy’s face, the bright, triumphant blue eyes, the smile, the jutting, aggressive chin. She heard his voice, indifferent and faintly mocking, as if it were coming from beside her, and she waited, suddenly anxious, for her sister’s answer to her question.

“I don’t know,” Harriet said slowly. She was still frowning. “Desmond Conroy is capable of anything, Kathy. So, if it comes to that, is His Highness, of course.” She had lowered her voice and her frown was frankly worried. “Both the Conroys are coming to dinner tonight which, in the circumstances, is a pity. But it’s too late to do anything about it now, I suppose. Oh, well”—the frown vanished, to be replaced with her normal, charming, serene smile—“that can’t be helped. Come on, we’ve wasted enough time talking. Don’t forget about the cigarettes, will you? And if you’re stuck for a dinner-table topic—talk about Paris. You know it better than anyone else is likely to—but keep off Hitler and the European situation if you can.”

“All right,” Kathy promised, trying to take in this sage advice. “Harriet, do you know Desmond Conroy well?”

It was Harriet’s turn to hesitate. “I know him,” she answered finally, and there was an odd note in her voice which puzzled Kathy, who glanced up at her in swift enquiry. Harriet’s lovely face was expressionless, but her eyes, as they met Kathy’s, were wary, her smile no longer serene. “Why do you ask?”

“Only because we were talking about him. And because I was introduced to him this afternoon.”

This time Harriet’s hesitation was barely perceptible. She said coldly, “He isn’t at all your type, Kath. But his brother Robin is a dear. And he’s a friend of Patrick’s. I must see that you meet him and—oh, there is Patrick.” She released Kathy’s arm. “I’ve got a message for him from Daddy. Behave yourself, won’t you?” Her parting smile was distrait as she hurried after Patrick.

Left alone, Kathy went reluctantly into the anteroom to be met by a harassed Francis. Her father’s senior A.D.C. was a short, broad-shouldered young man who took his duties very seriously. His expression was habitually glum and he had a nervous manner which always increased Kathy’s shyness. But he was undeniably efficient and an excellent organizer, and before she had time to protest he had enlisted her help and kept her so busy, from the moment the first guest arrived, that she had scarcely a moment in which to draw breath, still less to think over all that Harriet had said to her.

In passing, she noticed Patrick, who looked very attractive in his mess kit, talking to one of the Mirapur polo team. He raised a languid hand and grinned at her encouragingly.

“Well done, Kath. We’ll make a social success of you yet, you know.” His words were teasing, but Kathy took heart from them. Patrick never failed to tease her, but, beneath the banter, she sensed approval and was glad. Patrick’s approval wasn’t easily won. She took the silver cigarette box from a khitmatgar’s uncertain hand and passed it to Mrs Randall and, across the crowded room, saw Harriet smiling at her. Filled with new confidence, she greeted Colonel Randall, who stood beside his wife, and was able, for the first time, to laugh with him over her mistake of the morning.

“I simply didn’t know who you were. It was—it was that mackintosh, you see, and——”

“There, Tony”—this from Mrs Randall—“what did I tell you? That ghastly old mac, you should have thrown it away years ago. No wonder Kathleen didn’t recognize you: I scarcely recognize you myself in it. And what’s more, I don’t think I want to. . . .”

There was a stir as the Raja came in, bowing graciously to either side. Harriet went to meet him. He was limping a little still and, with unobtrusive tact, Kathy saw her sister guide him to a chair. He made a picturesquely exotic figure in his native dress, ablaze with jewels, striking even in this splendid gathering of elegantly gowned women and brilliantly uniformed men. Kathy had only previously seen him in the European clothes he usually wore, and she couldn’t restrain a swift breath of wonder at the sight of him now, decked in all the magnificence of a fairytale Eastern prince.

There was another stir, as she moved away from the Randalls with her cigarette box. She saw that both Francis Cunningham and Lal Sagah had gone to stand together by the door and knew that in a moment, one of them would call for silence, so that he might announce the Governor.

The call came, from Francis, as she watched him.

“Your Highness, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, may I ask you to rise, if you please? His Excellency is about to join you. . . .”

Those who had been seated rose at once to their feet. The others parted, so as to make a way between their ranks, and Kathy saw her father come in. Her throat tightened in the familiar, aching pride that the sight of him always caused her to experience now. He was so tall, so dignified, so good-looking, she thought, with his white hair and his thin, austere face with its grave smile. And he was a fitting representative of the majesty of the British Raj, the orders and decorations gleaming in serried rows on the chest of his wellcut evening dress uniform, the gilt spurs clicking at his heels as he walked.

She dropped him her dutiful curtsey and he said, “Kathy, my dear,” and touched her bent head as he passed her, his fingers gentle, their touch affectionate. And then he had passed on, to exchange greetings and handshakes with a score of others, eventually to seat himself beside the Raja of Mirapur and accept a glass of the dry sherry he liked from an alert, attentive Francis.

Kathy, greatly daring, went up to him with her cigarette box. He shook his head. “Not now, my dear. But it was thoughtful of you to remember me.” He smiled at her, her father for an instant, and then, the Governor again, he turned back to his official guest. “We shall fight, of course, if Hitler invades Poland—I think there’s no question of that. We can only hope he won’t, because it will mean a world war if he does. . . .”

She wasn’t to speak of Hitler or the European situation, Kathy recalled, with momentary bitterness: Harriet had advised her to talk about Paris and not to mention the possibility of a war. Well, obviously Harriet knew best. A stiff little smile curving her lips, she returned to Mrs. Randall.

“I was at school in Paris,” she said, and then, seeing the older woman’s expression of bewilderment, thrust the cigarette box towards her. “Er—would you—would you like a cigarette, Mrs. Randall?”

“I’ve just put one out, dear,” Mrs. Randall told her, “and I think we’ll be going in to dinner in a minute, won’t we? But do sit down”—she patted the chair beside her own invitingly—“and tell me all about your school in Paris. I should love to hear about it.”

Mrs Randall was sweet, Kathy thought gratefully. If only her husband were as easy as she was to talk to!