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‘On what I’m going to be earning that won’t be a problem. But it does mean we won’t see each other except in the long holidays. I can’t come back for your half-term and weekend leaves.’
‘We can email each other every day. But, Mum, will you be all right...in India all by yourself?’
His concern made her smile, but there was a lump in her throat. ‘You needn’t worry about me. I’ll be living in a palace.’
She began to tell him everything she knew about the Prince and the picturesque walled city on the fringe of the desert.
Soon after Dan was born, her father had taken steps to ensure that his grandson could be educated at the independent school where he and his father and grandfather had been pupils. It was a family tradition that, in some ways, Nicole would have liked to break. In her heart she wasn’t in favour of boys being sent away from home at the tender age of thirteen.
But Marsden wasn’t one of England’s famous public schools like Eton or Gordonstoun. It was a more modest establishment not far from where they lived. Also, not only had her father denied himself many pleasures to fund Dan’s education, Rosemary’s advent had changed Nicole’s view of the situation.
There was another factor to consider. The local state school had been going downhill under a lax head teacher. It had a reputation for disorderly behaviour and poor exam results. The principal of her father’s old school was a man of forceful character, with teenagers of his own. She felt Dan would be safer under his aegis than at the local day school with its overcrowded classrooms and lack of playground supervision.
Relieved to have her son’s backing, Nicole went down to break the news to her father and stepmother,
Predictably, Rosemary was outraged. ‘How can you even contemplate leaving your poor little boy?’ she expostulated. ‘It’s bad enough that he doesn’t have a father. For his mother to desert him—’
Keeping control of her temper, Nicole said quietly, ‘I’m not deserting him, Rosemary. It will only be for a short time. At the end of term, Dan can fly out to join me.’
To her relief, before Rosemary could resume her denunciation, Mr Dawson said firmly, ‘If you hadn’t taken the initiative, I was going to suggest that, with Dan away at school, it was time to broaden your horizons. You’re doing the right thing, my dear. For almost thirteen years you’ve adapted your life to Dan’s needs and that was right and proper. Now it’s time to consider your own needs...time to spread your wings. I can’t think of anywhere more exciting to do that than India.’
And then, to the surprise of both women, he directed a quelling glance at his wife and said with great firmness, ‘Nicole has made a decision which I think will benefit her and the boy. If you don’t agree, Rosemary, please keep your views to yourself.’
Nicole’s night-flight to Delhi landed early in the morning.
When she emerged from the airport building, pulling her suitcase behind her, a daunting scene greeted her. What seemed like hundreds of people were waiting to pounce on the passengers, grab their luggage and convey them to their final destination.
In her jet-lagged state she was strongly tempted to turn tail and go back inside the airport, especially as none of the placards with European names on them that were being brandished by some of the men behind the barricades had her name written on it.
Reluctantly making her way to the opening in the barrier through which other newly arrived foreigners were passing ahead of her, she braced herself to hang on to her luggage until whoever was meeting her materialised.
Then, with profound relief, she saw a familiar figure making his way towards her. She was so glad to see him, her face lit up with delight.
Towering over the crowd, Alex Strathallen was also noticeable for his air of complete relaxation in a situation fraught with the tension of too many porters and drivers competing for too few customers.
While everyone else was shoving and pushing, he moved through the crush with the ease of a tall and commanding figure to whom smaller, less assured people automatically gave way. But his expression, she noticed, was not the chilly hauteur to be seen in old sepia photographs of the British who had run India during the Raj. He was smiling as he moved through the press, exchanging friendly words with those who let him pass.
‘A bit of a madhouse, isn’t it?’ he said, when he reached her.
‘A bit,’ she agreed, with a smile. ‘I’m glad I have someone meeting me.’
‘Let’s get you out of this maelstrom. Our driver will take your case—’ he indicated an Indian who had come through the crush behind him ‘—and I’ll take your backpack.’
He slipped the straps from her shoulders rather in the manner of a grown-up divesting a small child of its coast Then, with it slung by one strap over his own broader, more powerful shoulder, he led the way through the multitude who now made no further attempts to impose themselves on her.
A few moments later she was in the back of a taxi and Alex was folding his long legs to fit the space beside her.
‘How was the flight? Did you get any sleep?’ he asked.
‘Not a lot...but otherwise it was great. I enjoyed it. Very nice food...two good movies.’
‘Who did you have sitting next to you?’
‘An elderly couple celebrating their golden wedding with a trip to see the Taj Mahal.’
Perhaps it was only her imagination, but it seemed to her that, for a moment, something strange happened... like a shutter coming down. He was sitting beside her, but his mind was somewhere else.
She wasn’t sure why, but his silence made her uneasy. After some moments, she asked, ‘How are we getting to Karangarh? By train?’
‘By air...but not till tomorrow. I have some business in Delhi and you need to break your journey. We’ll fly to Karangarh after breakfast. Tonight we’re staying at the Imperial, an oasis of calm right in the centre of Delhi.’
There were placid-looking pale grey cattle standing about, unattended, on the verges of the wide tree-lined road to the city. Near a roundabout where there seemed to be a hair-raisingly casual attitude to traffic lanes, Nicole noticed a slogan pasted on a hoarding. Be not anxious about what you have, but about what you are.
It reminded her of Rosemary’s bitter disapproval of this undertaking. Her stepmother had been careful not to express it again in her husband’s presence, but had found several opportunities to upbraid Nicole in private.
Am I being selfish? she wondered, for the umpteenth time. Saying goodbye to Dan had been agony. She could still feel his arms round her neck as they exchanged their last hug at the London airport where, with her father, he had seen her off.
If there had been tears in his eyes when they drew apart, she didn’t think she could have left him. But Dan, already keenly looking forward to his own flight to India in twelve weeks’ time, had been cheerful rather than dejected.
She had had to seem cheerful too. Only in the privacy of a cubicle in the washroom on the airside of the security and customs barriers had she cried, but only briefly. Then she had washed her face, braced herself and joined the rest of the passengers waiting for flights to places even more distant than where she was going.
Beside her, Strathallen said, ‘You’ll feel better when you’ve had a bath. Then, if I were you, I’d go to bed until lunchtime. If you didn’t nap on the plane, there’s no way you can stay awake until bedtime tonight’
‘Whatever you say. You’re the expert. How many times have you flown from Europe to India?’
Tve lost count I’ve been coming here a long time. For me the culture shock is at that end, not this.’
Nicole’s first impression of Delhi was of chaotic traffic and swarms of people. Then their taxi turned through a gateway where a short avenue of tall palms led to the porticoed entrance to a building.
The rear passenger door was opened for her by a massively built bearded and turbanned doorman. ‘Good morning, madam.’
‘Good morning. Thank you.’
When Strathallen came round the back of the taxi and took hold of her arm to escort her up the steps, it was the polite gesture of a man who at some stage of his life had been trained in traditional courtesies. But all the way up the entrance stairs and through the imposing lobby to the lift, she was conscious of the light touch of his fingers just above her elbow.
‘Shouldn’t I register?’ she asked, at the door of the lift.
He released his hold. ‘They can take your passport details later.”
‘But the room key...’
‘The door will be open.’
From the lift they entered a wide corridor decorated and thickly carpeted in a soft shade of apple-green. At the far end she saw her luggage being wheeled through a door by one of the hotel staff.
Moments later, to her surprise, she found the room he had entered was not her bedroom but an ante-room leading into a large and elegantly appointed sitting room.
‘This is Prince Kesri’s suite,’ Strathallen explained. ‘The hotel is full tonight. There’s a large wedding party staying here.’
The luggage porter reappeared through the door of an adjoining room. He smiled and bowed to Nicole. Strathallen gave him a tip and was handed the room key.
When the man had gone, he said, ‘Would you like some coffee or tea before you have your shower?’
‘What I’d really like is some water.’
‘It’s in here.’ Showing her that what she would have taken for an elegant sideboard was actually a luxury version of a mini-bar with glasses in one section and an ice-box in the other, he put some ice in a tall glass and opened the seal on a bottle of water with an effortless turn of his strong wrist. ‘If there’s anything else you need, call Room Service or Reception. The switchboard operator will give you a wake-up call if you want one. I’ll be back about one. We’ll have lunch in the garden. See you later.’
As he strode to the door, Nicole said, ‘Thank you for meeting me. I hope it wasn’t too inconvenient’
As he opened the door, he turned. ‘Not inconvenient at all. It was a pleasure.’ He gave her one of his rare and charming smiles.
She was woken, as she had requested, at half past twelve. For some minutes she lay taking in the unaccustomed opulence of her surroundings. This bedroom was many times larger than her room in her father’s house, with a lofty ceiling from which hung a large electric fan.
She had already unpacked fresh underwear and a change of clothes more suitable for lunch in a grand hotel than the combat trousers, shirt and zip-up fleece she had travelled in.
When she had dressed and put on a little light make-up, she went back to the sitting room to drink another glass of water. It was only then that she noticed there was another door opposite the entrance to the bedroom. Perhaps it was another bedroom for the use of the Prince’s wife if he had one. So far she knew very little about her employer, although his forebears were mentioned in more than one of the books on the reading list she had received from Strathallen.
Curious to see what lay behind the closed door, Nicole opened it. As she had surmised, the room within was another bedroom—and someone was using it. There was a laptop computer with a couple of floppy disks on top of it on the writing table. A book with a marker protruding from it lay on the night-table between the twin beds. A document case had been left on one of seat cushions of the sofa facing the beds.
As she took in these indications that the room was occupied and realised they had to mean that Strathallen was sharing the suite with her, Nicole remembered him saying the hotel was full. Even so, it seemed odd, to say the least, for him to have taken for granted that she wouldn’t mind this arrangement Surely the proper thing to have done was to book himself, or her, into another hotel?
Within a couple of minutes of her closing the door of his room, Strathallen joined her.
‘Did you get some sleep?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thank you. I feel much better.’
‘Good...then we’ll go down and eat. No need to bring your key. I picked mine up from the desk in case you were still in bed.’
As they were walking to the lift, Nicole said, ‘Won’t the hotel staff think it strange...our sharing the Prince’s suite?’
He looked down at her. ‘Is that an oblique way of saying you don’t want to share the suite with me?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ she began.
‘Women often don’t say what they mean,’ he said dryly. ‘It’s one of their characteristics. Taking your question at its face value, the hotel staff are paid to think about making us as comfortable as possible. What we do, unless it interferes with the comfort of other guests, isn’t their concern.’
The lift was at another floor. He pressed the call button. ‘Do you want me to move somewhere else?’
‘No...no, of course not.’ She could see that, from his point of view, it would be less convenient, not to mention more expensive. Presumably the Prince, not the sardonic-eyed man beside her, would be paying the bill for their stay here.
The lift opened. As she stepped inside, Nicole felt herself blushing. She wished she had held her tongue. All she had done, by raising the matter, was to embarrass herself.
The hotel’s garden was screened by tall trees that muted the noise of the city surrounding this exclusive oasis. Immediately outside the building there was a paved terrace where people were eating light refreshments. Beyond it was a sunlit lawn where tables were laid more formally.
A portly major-domo in leg-hugging white trousers, the knee-length tunic which she knew was called an Achkan and a spectacular crested green turban to match the broad sash round his middle came to meet them as they stepped onto the lawn.
‘Dr Strathallen...madame...where would you like to sit?’
‘In the shade, please. My guest arrived from Europe this morning. She might find the sun too hot.’
The major-domo conducted them to a table under a sunbrella. A waiter was summoned, gin and tonics brought.
‘Does the Prince spend a lot of time in Delhi?’ she asked.
‘He comes about once a month. His sister works here. She’s a gynaecologist and very involved in women’s pressure groups. The Prince also tries to influence the future of India. He also enjoys the more sophisticated social life here... something that I would pay to avoid,’ he added dryly.
‘But surely everyone needs some social life.’
‘I enjoy meeting my friends. I don’t care for large smart parties.’
He had been looking at her, but now he turned his cool grey gaze on two groups of people taking their places at nearby tables. One was a party of well-dressed businessmen. The other group consisted of three attractive young women, one wearing European clothes, the second a silk sari and the third dressed in loose trousers and a long tunic, both garments made of pale blue and white cotton voile.
‘What’s the name of the outfit the girl in blue is wearing?’ Nicole asked.
Strathallen had given them only cursory attention before turning back to Nicole. He must be exceptionally observant, she realised, when, without a second look at the three women’s table, he said, ‘That’s a salwar kameez, traditionally from the Punjab, but city girls aren’t sticklers for tradition. They wear what they like.’
At that moment Nicole caught sight of a small bushy-tailed striped creature darting across the grass towards the damask-clothed table on which, shaded by an awning, an array of puddings and gateaux awaited the lunchers after they had eaten their selections from the range of hot food in the huge silver-topped dishes on the main table.
‘What’s that little animal?’ she exclaimed.
‘A palm squirrel. They’re the reason the puddings are protected by plastic domes. If they weren’t, those little marauders would be tucking in with great gusto,’ he said, smiling.
Perhaps it was just as well that he didn’t smile often, she thought. Every time he did, it had a peculiar effect on the pit of her stomach.
He rose. ‘Let’s go and choose something to eat, shall we?’ he suggested.
When lunch was over, Nicole expected him to leave her to her own devices for the afternoon. But he said, ‘I have an hour to spare before my meeting. Do you feel like stretching your legs?’
The truthful answer would have been that she felt so full of delicious food that, on her own, she would have retired to her room for another nap. Instead she nodded and reached for her bag.
Leaving the grounds of the hotel was like entering another world, but only a short walk along the dusty, noisy main thoroughfare that Strathallen said was called Janpath was a relatively quiet sidestreet where women were selling textiles in all the roseate colours of dawn and sunset. Their wares were spread on a bank at one side of the lane like a huge magic carpet. On lines strung between the trees, hand-stitched quilts made from pieces of antique velvet and silk were displayed.
Although the vendors’ cotton saris probably cost nothing compared with the silk ones worn by guests at the Imperial, the colours were still wonderful, perhaps enhanced by long exposure to the sun and many washings.
‘How graceful they are,’ she remarked to Strathallen.
‘Grace seems to go with bare feet or flat sandals and to disappear with high heels.’ He glanced down at her low-heeled shoes. ‘I’m glad to see you don’t wear them.’
She found some of his views irritatingly arbitrary. ‘I do sometimes, when I’m not going to have to walk far.’
‘I’ll take you along to the government-sponsored emporium and leave you there,’ said Strathallen. ‘You’ll probably want to spend an hour looking round the various craft sections and it’s only a short walk back to the hotel. We’ll convene for dinner about seven.’
Nicole was ready and waiting in the suite’s sitting room when, a few minutes to the hour, Strathallen came out of his bedroom. His hair still damp from the shower, he was no longer wearing a lounge suit but had changed into chinos and a cotton shirt a little darker than his tan.
‘You got back all right then?’ he said.
‘No problem,’ she smiled. ‘After I’d left the emporium I had a browse in a bookshop where the proprietor told me I must read this.’ She held up the book she had bought.
