Daughters of the Governor Read online

  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!

  She talked happily enough about Paris until the great double doors leading into the State dining-room were swung open and her companion rose. “Your father is taking me in, Kathleen dear, so I’ll have to leave you. I have enjoyed our little chat—thank you so much for telling me of your doings. We’ll meet again later, I expect.”

  Kathy watched her go. Harriet followed her, on the Raja’s arm, and Kathy looked round wildly. In all the bustle, she had forgotten to ask Francis with whom she herself was supposed to sit.

  “Miss Gregson . . .” it was Lal Sagah, breathless, edging his way through the crowd to her side. He was smiling at her eagerly and his voice was the hushed, exultant voice of one with whom she had engaged in successful conspiracy. “Do you recall the promise I made you this afternoon?”

  “Well, yes.” Kathy faced him apprehensively. “I do, but——”

  “Allow me,” the young A.D.C. put in smoothly, “again to present Captain Conroy of my regiment. It will be his privilege to take you in to dinner tonight, Miss Gregson.”

  His announcement was so completely unexpected that the colour drained from Kathy’s cheeks. Her first impulse was to take flight, but she held her ground, forcing the stiff little smile back to her lips. Lal Sagah stood aside and she found herself looking up into the blue, cold eyes of Desmond Conroy. In the ornate mess kit of scarlet and gold, he looked taller even than she had remembered as he moved to her side, spurs jingling as her father’s had done, long, muscular legs ramrod-straight in their tight-fitting, scarlet-striped overalls.

  He bowed, offering his arm, and said formally, “Good evening, Miss Gregson. Shall we go in?”

  Kathy took the scarlet-clad arm. She walked beside him, her head held high. They took their places halfway down the long, brilliantly-lit table, and it was only when she bent to pick up her napkin that she realized her hand was trembling. She hid it swiftly under the folds of the napkin.

  There was a little silence. Then her companion leaned towards her.

  “Once,” he said, and again Kathy was conscious of the mocking inflection in his deep voice, “once, quite a long time ago, I had the honour of taking your sister in to dinner, Miss Gregson. Your sister”—he spoke softly, deliberately lowering his voice so that no one else should hear it—“your sister Harriet. I wonder if she will remember the occasion?”

  Kathy said nothing. Her glance went in quick alarm to Harriet, sitting with the Raja at her side, the length of the table away from her.

  Their glances met and held. Harriet was very pale, the crimson rose at her breast glowing there and accentuating her pallor with its own vivid colouring. Her hand went to it, in a nervous, plucking movement that was quite unlike any movement Kathy had ever seen her make, and slowly, petal by petal, she tore it off so that it fell on to the table in front of her and lay, a broken thing, spilled and shattered, until Harriet brushed it impatiently away.

  Kathy caught her breath. Beside her, Desmond Conroy said prosaically, “Salt, Miss Gregson?”

  She took it with shaking fingers.

  CHAPTER III

  HARRIET GREGSON looked down at the broken flower on the table in front of her. Its scattered crimson petals, reflected back to her with dazzling fidelity by the highly-polished surface of the table, were a mute reproach. They looked like drops of blood, lying there. Harriet bit her lower lip. The Raja spoke to her and she said, “Oh, yes, your Highness,” abstractedly, not hearing a word he addressed to her. He turned away and she heard Colonel Randall’s voice, replying to a question. For a moment then she could relax. But she must control herself, she mustn’t let anyone see that she was upset. Least of all must she betray her feelings to the man who, seated at her sister’s right hand, was now bending courteously forward, in order to listen to whatever effort at conversation Kathy was making.

  It had come as a shock to see Desmond Conroy with Kathy. Harriet hadn’t expected it, and she wondered, as she swept the rose petals together with agitated fingers, what could have possessed Francis Cunningham to choose Desmond as her sister’s dinner partner. Francis was usually the soul of discretion: had he, perhaps, forgotten? Were people’s memories so short, even Francis’s? It seemed incredible.

  And yet—Harriet drew a long, sighing breath. What was there to remember, if one looked back rationally, without emotion? So little . . . a few brief weeks when Desmond Conroy had paid ardent court to her; a spate of gossip and speculation, swiftly stifled as soon as it became evident that the rumoured engagement wasn’t likely to take place. Desmond had suddenly announced his intention of applying for a second tour on the Frontier, and she herself—what had she done? She had smiled and held her head high, pretending that she didn’t care when he escorted Melanie Thripps to his Regimental Ball and was seen riding with Zia Lo-max and partnering others of her friends on the tennis court.

  There hadn’t, all things considered, been very much talk, Harriet reflected wryly. Her father’s appointment as Governor of the Eastern Provinces had followed soon after Desmond’s defection, and the stir this had caused had effectively put an end to the gossip about herself. She had been able to go on pretending that she didn’t mind the loss of her beau. There had been the move to Government House, the end of her mother’s short reign there and her own assumption of the onerous and difficult task of acting as her father’s hostess. She had been kept far too busy to make a parade of her broken heart and her mother’s illness
had been excuse enough, in most people’s eyes, for any signs of grief or bitterness she had been unable to conceal from them.

  Even her own family hadn’t guessed how badly she had been hurt. With the sole exception of her mother, none of those nearest and dearest to her had had the faintest suspicion that she had been deeply in love with Desmond Conroy—so, perhaps, there was some excuse for Francis. It had all happened nearly two years ago. Time should have healed the wound, but—Harriet bit her lower lip again, feeling it quiver—for some reason it hadn’t. Perhaps it never would. . . .

  “No, none for me.” She waved a khitmatgar away, stole a covert glance down the long, candle-lit table. Desmond had changed very little, she thought, and a knife twisted in her heart as she studied his face.

  The candlelight softened a little the harsh lines of his profile, but, even when he played the gallant, even when he bent down politely from his great height, he still gave the impression of a conscious and unyielding arrogance. He was listening to Kathy still, smiling at her with what appeared to be very flattering interest, but his blue eyes held no reflection of the smile. They were appraising, calculating and as cold as the steel of his nickname.

  His behaviour on the polo field this afternoon was typical of him, Harriet thought, with bitterness, although to Kathy she had insisted that she didn’t know whether it had been deliberate. She did know, of course, because it was Desmond who had done it, that it must have been deliberate. As she had told her sister, Desmond Conroy was capable of anything. As capable of bringing down the Raja of Mirapur, in a friendly game of polo, as he had been capable of betraying the love she had given him, long ago. Tears stung at Harriet’s eyes and she lowered her face to hide them. The tears weren’t wholly tears of anger. To her intense humiliation, she recognized this, knew that, despite the fact that for nearly two years she hadn’t seen him, he still possessed the power to make her weep, to set her trembling, to force her to remember. And now he was sitting beside Kathy, who was a child, who wouldn’t know and couldn’t be expected to understand what manner of man he was, and who, because she resented having to take advice from an elder sister, might—however tactfully Harriet phrased her warning—refuse to accept it or believe it.

  Kathy was very young for her age and more than a little headstrong, but somehow she would have to be warned about Desmond Conroy. History must not be allowed to repeat itself. She had to be mother as well as elder sister to Kathy, had to protect and guide her. She . . .

  “. . . I hope that you agree with me, Miss Gregson?”

  The voice which broke into her troubled thoughts was the Raja’s voice, soft, faintly sibilant, the r’s not sounded as clearly as a European would have sounded them. Harriet started unhappily. She was neglecting her duty. The Raja was an important official guest, she his hostess, and she hadn’t the least idea what he had said or what he expected of her in reply.

  She began hesitantly, “I’m not quite sure, your Highness, I——” and broke off, feeling his gaze on her and sensing his astonishment. “I’m afraid I didn’t hear what you asked me,” she admitted at last, defeated.

  “Then I will repeat my question,” the Raja promised, with bland courtesy. “I am afraid that you were miles away when I originally voiced it. But your thoughts, I am certain, were not of me.”

  “No,” Harriet confessed, “they weren’t, your Highness,” She tried to make her confession sound light and casual, but, even to her own ears, it did not. “I—I was thinking about . . . about my sister.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but it would suffice.

  “Ah!” The Raja smiled. His gaze followed the direction of Harriet’s. “The charming little Miss Kathleen, fresh from England, with the pure, glowing beauty of the proverbial English rose! As lovely”—his glance at the crumpled petals which lay between them was significant—“as that one was, before it displeased you and you cast it away.” His slim, long-fingered brown hands gathered up three or four of the petals. For a moment he let them lie in his palm, as he coninued to smile into Harriet’s anxious face. Then he let them fall on to the floor at his feet and his smile abruptly faded. Harriet glanced up in surprise and saw that Desmond Conroy was watching them, brows knit, Kathy and his neighbour on the other side momentarily forgotten. The intensity of his regard was disconcerting, despite the fact that he was the length of the table away. As it had before, the Raja’s gaze followed hers and his mouth compressed.

  “It would seem,” he suggested, “that our friend Captain Conroy senses that we were speaking of him, Miss Gregson. He observes us very closely, does he not?”

  “But we weren’t speaking of Captain Conroy,” Harriet objected, her voice unwontedly sharp in her confusion. “I wasn’t aware that I had mentioned his name to you, your Highness.”

  “But perhaps he was in your thoughts, Miss Gregson, as he was in mine,” the Raja countered smoothly. The smile returned to his bearded face. “You see, my question concerned him—the question which you did not hear, because you were lost in thought. I wondered whether or not you would be in agreement with the idea of my inviting both Captain Conroy and his brother to the tiger shoot at Mirapur next weekend, which you and His Excellency are to honour with your presence—together, I hope, with your brother and the charming Miss Kathleen. I should like to show that I bear him no ill-feeling for this afternoon’s little upset, so—what do you think, Miss Gregson? Captain Conroy is a fine shot, I am told.”

  “Yes, I—I believe he is,” Harriet managed, “but——”

  The Raja cut her short. “A fine shot is never out of place at Mirapur,” he reminded her, “especially when we are hunting for tiger.”

  “No, of course not, your Highness. I understand that.” Harriet hesitated, and he put in quickly, “Then may I take it you agree that Captain Conroy should be invited, Miss Gregson?”

  Agree? Of course she didn’t and couldn’t agree, but how could she tell him so? Harriet still hesitated, feeling the hot, embarrassed colour flood her cheeks. Was it possible that the Raja remembered what Francis Cunningham had forgotten, that he knew what her own family had never suspected? Surely not! The love affairs of so unimportant a person as herself could have no interest for His Highness Ram Chand Rawal, Raja of Mirapur, and, in any case, her ill-starred romance with Desmond Conroy had compassed its brief and bitter span some time before her father’s appointment as Governor had brought him into official contact with Mirapur State and its ruler. Although it was unusual, to say the least of it, for the Raja to seek her agreement to the issuing of one of his personal invitations. Women—even the daughters of a British Governor whose territory bordered his own—played no part in an Indian prince’s scheme of things—her personal wishes would normally not have been considered. Harriet had enough experience of India to know and accept this without resentment. If the Raja had any doubts of the wisdom of inviting Desmond and Robin Conroy to his shoot, the normal and obvious course would be for him to consult Andrew Lyle about it, or even to ask one of the A.D.C.s, from whom he would have received a tactful answer. The fact that he had asked her consent suggested that, somehow, he must know what she had once felt for Desmond. Unless . . . Harriet glanced up once more into the dark, bearded face of her neighbour and she drew a quick, alarmed breath.

  The Raja of Mirapur was now watching Desmond and Kathy with the same frowning concentration as that with which, a few seconds before, Desmond had been regarding him. He was still smiling, his full lips parted, but his smile was a mere conventional gesture or, perhaps more accurately, it was there as a mask for his thoughts. Only it didn’t succeed in masking them, so far as Harriet was concerned. Her perceptions sharpened by anxiety, she sensed that—far from, connecting Desmond with herself—the Raja was thinking of him in connection with Kathy, though why or to what end she couldn’t imagine. Except that there was an end and that, for some reason she could not possibly have put into words, it wasn’t likely to be a pleasant one.

  She shuddered involuntarily and opened her mouth to protest against the proposed invitation, prepared if necessary to invent an excuse for her failure to agree to the Raja’s suggestion that Desmond be included in the shooting party. But as she started to speak, a servant, serving the next course, interposed the barrier of a long white-clad arm and a silver entree dish between her neighbour and herself. By the time she had helped herself, unseeingly, to the dish, the Raja was engaged in a long and involved discussion of the respective merits of various types of sporting rifles with Colonel Randall, who was an authority on the subject, and good manners forbade that she interrupt them.