Fragrant Flower (2 page)

Derek Osmund had gone to the Colonel’s bungalow. There had been a cessation of the screams, then the Colonel’s voice raised in anger, another scream, followed by silence.

It was only later that Azalea was able to piece together what had happened.

Her father had found the
dhirzi’s
daughter half-naked, being thrashed by the Colonel as if she was an animal.

It was a prelude to raping the girl, known to his junior officers to be the method he used to arouse his desires.

“What the devil do you want?” the Colonel had asked as Derek Osmund appeared.

“You cannot treat a woman in such a way, sir!”

“Are you giving me orders, Osmund?” the Colonel demanded.

“I am simply telling you, sir, that your behaviour is both inhuman and a bad example to the men.”

The Colonel glared at him.

“Get out of my bungalow and mind your own damned business!” he shouted.

“It
is
my business,” Derek Osmund answered. “It is the business of every decent man to prevent such cruelty.”

The Colonel had laughed and it was an ugly sound.

“Get the hell out of here,” he commanded, “unless you prefer to watch!”

He tightened his hold of the cane he held in his hand and reached out to take the loosened hair of the Indian girl in the other and drag her to her knees.

Her back was already a mass of weals from the beating she had received and as the cane fell again she screamed – but it was a weak effort and it was obvious that her strength was nearly spent.

It was then that Derek Osmund had struck the Colonel. His fist caught him on the chin, and the Colonel, who had drunk a great deal at dinner and was not particularly steady on his feet, fell backwards, hitting the back of his head on a large wrought-iron pedestal which stood at the side of the room.

For a younger and less debauched man with a stronger heart the fall would not have been fatal, but when the Regimental Surgeon was summoned to the bungalow he pronounced the Colonel dead.

After that Azalea was not certain what happened except that the Surgeon fetched Sir Frederick who happened to be staying with the Governor of the Province at Government House which was only a short distance from the Camp.

Sir Frederick, taking command of the situation, talked to his brother, who did not return to his own bungalow. The following morning, he was found dead outside the Camp and Azalea was told there had been an unfortunate accident when her father was pursuing a wild animal. Had he not shot himself, Azalea realised there would have been a Military Court-Martial, while inevitably the death of the Colonel would have been brought before the Civil Courts.

As it was, the Regimental Surgeon gave out that he had informed the Colonel that his heart was in a bad state and any exertion might prove fatal.

With the exception of Sir Frederick, the Surgeon, and one senior officer in the Regiment, no one knew exactly what had occurred, except of course Azalea.

“Your father’s outrageous behaviour could have brought disgrace upon his family, his Regiment and his country,” the General said now. “That is why, Azalea, you will never speak of it to anyone in the whole of your life. Is that clear?”

There was silence. Then after a moment Azalea said in a low voice,

“I would not, of course, wish to talk about it to an outsider, but I imagine that one day, when I marry, my husband would wish to learn the truth.”

“You will never marry!”

The words were a plain statement. Azalea looked at her uncle wide-eyed.

“Why should I never marry?” she asked.

“Because, as your Guardian, I would not give my permission for you to do so,” the General answered. “You must pay the price of your father’s sins and what happened in India you will take to your grave with sealed lips.”

For a moment the full meaning of what he had said hardly penetrated Azalea’s mind. Then he added contemptuously,

“As you are singularly unattractive it is unlikely that any man would wish to marry you. However, if anyone should be so misguided as to offer for your hand, the answer will be no!”

Azalea had drawn in her breath and for the moment she could find no words with which to speak.

This was something she had never anticipated, had never thought would ever occur in her life.

She was only sixteen and therefore her heart was not engaged in any way, yet vaguely she had always thought that one day she would marry and have children – and that perhaps she would continue in her married life to be part of the Regiment.

She had grown up in the shadow of it, proud of what it meant to her father and to the men he inspired with his leadership and who loved him because he cared for them.

It was interwoven in her thoughts and in everything she did – the horses, the parades, the times when the soldiers moved station with their guns, their baggage wagons, their wives and families, and the innumerable army of ‘hangers-on’ who seemed as much a part of the Regiment as the sepoys themselves.

She would wake in the morning to the sound of Reveille and she would hear ‘The Last Post’ echoing amongst the cantonments as dusk came and the flag was lowered on the flagpole.

The Regiment was her home, a part of her life, and when she thought of the pennants fluttering from the lances of the Cavalry or the men whistling as they went about their work, she would find the ache that had been permanently within her since the death of her father was intensified.

“One day,” she had said to herself as she left India, “I shall go back. I shall be with them again.”

Now her uncle was telling her that there was to be nothing in her future except to wait upon her aunt and be reproved or abused a dozen times a day.

It was not only her father’s crime for which she was being punished. Both her uncle and aunt made it very clear how much they had disliked her mother because she was Russian.

“You will not mention your mother’s ancestry to anyone,” Sir Frederick admonished Azalea. “It was an extremely unfortunate choice at the time your father married, and I expressed my disapproval very clearly.”

“Why do you disapprove?” Azalea enquired.

“Because a mixture of races is never desirable, and Russians are not even Europeans! Your father should have taken a decent English girl as his wife.”

“Are you implying that my mother was not decent?” Azalea asked angrily.

Sir Frederick’s lips tightened.

“As your mother is dead I will not express my opinion of her. All I will say is that you will keep silent concerning her Russian origin.”

The General’s voice sharpened as he continued,

“At any moment we may be again at war with Russia, this time on the North-West Frontier. Even without open hostilities they stir up the tribesmen, infiltrate our lines, and their spies are everywhere.”

He looked contemptuously at Azalea’s pale face and added harshly,

“I am ashamed that I must house and support anyone with their poisonous, treacherous blood in her veins! You will never mention your mother’s name while you are under my protection.”

At first Azalea had been too miserable to realise what was happening to her. Then after a year, when she was no longer permitted to continue with her education, she found she was little more than a drudge and an extra servant.

At seventeen, when her first cousins, Violet and Daisy, the twins, were excited about making their debut and going to Balls, she had become lady’s maid, seamstress, secretary, housekeeper and jack-of-all-trades.

Now at eighteen she felt as if she had spent her whole life as a domestic servant and there was nothing to look forward to, except years and years of attending to the same chores, day in and day out.

Then like a miracle out of the sky had come the news that the General’s command at Aldershot was over and he was to be posted to Hong Kong.

Azalea could hardly believe it. And at first she was quite certain they would leave her behind.

But she guessed that they were concerned to keep her under their eye – for the stigma of her father’s death was still to the General a menacing secret which he was afraid she might expose.

It was this she knew, and the memory of her mother, which made them keep her out of sight of their social friends.

They could not deny that she was their niece, but they told everyone that she was shy and retiring.

“Azalea is not interested in parties or dances,” she heard her aunt say to a friend who had tentatively suggested she should be included in an invitation extended to her cousins.

She longed to cry out that this was untrue, but she knew that to do so would only bring down her uncle’s wrath upon her and her position would remain exactly the same.

But at least in Hong Kong she would be nearer to her beloved India. At least there would be sunshine, flowers and birds, and people would smile at her.

“If you are going to be kind enough, Miss Azalea, to take the sandwiches along to the Library,” Mrs. Burrows said, interrupting Azalea’s thoughts, “there’s a decanter of whisky in the pantry. The General said we were not to put it out until the party was nearly over, otherwise the guests might drink it. You know, he likes to keep his whisky to himself!”

“Yes, I know,” Azalea said, “and I will take it along too. I am sure Burrows is feeling the rheumatism in his legs by now and I do not want to give him any more to do.”

“You’re real kind, Miss Azalea, that’s what you are! I don’t know how I’d have got through the dinner or the supper without your help.”

That was true enough.

Azalea, who had now become quite an experienced cook, was responsible for nearly all the supper dishes and half of those that had been served at dinner.

“Well, I am glad it is over!” she said aloud as she picked up the plate of sandwiches neatly decorated with parsley. “I will have a cup of tea with you, Mrs. Burrows, when I get back.”

“You deserve it, Miss Azalea,” Mrs. Burrows replied. Azalea went from the large, high-ceilinged kitchen with its flagged floor that was very tiring to stand on, along the passage to the pantry.

Old Burrows had left the square-cut glass decanter filled with the General’s whisky on a side table.

It was standing on a silver salver and Azalea put the sandwiches beside it and lifted the tray with both hands. She could hear in the distance the sound of the music coming from the big drawing room that had been cleared for the dancing.

It was a large, attractive room with French windows opening out onto the garden which, as it was winter, were closed.

But Azalea could imagine how attractive it could be during the summer when it was warm enough to walk from the gas-lit room into the fragrant garden which seemed to her to be on the very top of London.

She could look from the windows down into the green valley which Constable had painted in many of his pictures. But it was in fact the garden which interested her because she knew the General’s father had been a famous gardener and after leaving the Army had spent his retirement in making it not only beautiful, but also famous among horticulturalists.

He had managed to grow many new and exotic plants and flowers which had not been seen in England before, and which he had obtained from all over the world.

It was his obsession with flowers which had made Colonel Osmund decree that his granddaughters should all be christened with the name of a flower.

“It is typical,” Lady Osmund had said acidly, “that your mother should have chosen such a singularly inappropriate name for you.”

Azalea longed to retort that she thought both ‘Violet’ and ‘Daisy’ were commonplace and rather dull, but she learnt after a few months of living with her aunt that it was very unwise to answer back.

Her aunt did not beat her, although Azalea was quite certain that she would have liked to do so, but she had a habit of slapping and pinching which could be very painful.

She was a large, overpowering woman, while Azalea was small and delicately made, and it was obvious who would come off the better in any physical contest.

After having her face slapped until her cheeks were on fire and her arms pinched until the bruises were purple against her skin, Azalea did her best not to antagonise her aunt.

Now, hurrying along the passage which led to the Library and carrying the sandwiches and drink which constituted the General’s invariable night-cap, Azalea wondered what it would have been like if she could have had a new gown and attended her uncle’s party.

She knew from the invitations that only a small number of younger guests had been invited, and those were in fact either officers or the sons and daughters of families which her aunt considered of social importance.

“If I had been having a party,” Azalea told herself, “I would want to ask my friends – my
real
friends.”

Then she remembered that she was never likely to have any.

She entered the Study which was at the opposite end of the house from the other Reception Rooms and saw the fire was burning brightly in the grate, which meant that Burrows must have remembered to make it up.

The gaslight gave out a mellow glow which hid the shabbiness of the armchairs and the parts of the carpet which were worn with age.

But there were books all around the room and Azalea, although she had very little time, had already sneaked a number of them away upstairs to her bedroom and read them with joy.

In the house in Hampstead, it was, however, hard to read late into the night because her bedroom was so cold. Violet and Daisy, like her aunt, had fires in their rooms, lit by an under-housemaid first thing in the morning, and kept burning throughout the day.

But Azalea was not accorded such a privilege, and no amount of blankets could keep her from shivering and her nose from turning blue and pinched even with the windows closed.

She put the whisky and the sandwiches down on a table and turned towards the fire holding out her hands to the blaze.

As she did so she saw the reflection of herself in the mirror which hung over the mantelpiece.

Her appearance had altered in the last two years – her breasts were still a little immature, but her bones no longer stood out sharply.