London - Edward Rutherfurd [543]
Tea was served at once, a choice of Indian or China, which the colonel insisted on serving himself. He seemed in high good humour and it was not long before, in answer to Mary Anne’s questions, he began to reveal something of his fascinating life.
If Britain’s empire had flourished as a purely commercial affair, the last few decades had seen a subtle shift of emphasis. Recognizing the need to control India, which had seen a mutiny in the 1850s, and to protect the passage of Egypt’s Suez Canal, in which Prime Minister Disraeli had bought a majority share, the merchant island of Britain had been forced to adopt a more imperial, administrative role. They had done it rather well. The Indian Civil Service was of the finest quality. Its highly educated élite had a profound knowledge of the subcontinent. In the army, officers were often proficient in local languages and scholar soldiers like Colonel Meredith were not unknown.
When he remarked that he had never found time to marry, he was partly speaking the truth. He had spent time in India, China and Arabia and his exploits, though he did no more than hint at them, were legendary to his inner circle. The Sikh who served him so faithfully did so because Meredith had saved his life. As for his amorous conquests, he said nothing, but many in India could have told Mary Anne that they too were legendary. Only the wives of his brother officers were sacrosanct. Just. At least a hundred beautiful women, none of whom should, closed their eyes with a secret sigh quite often, and thought of Meredith’s embraces.
For Mary Anne the effect was simple, unexpected, and searing. If she had supposed that the visit might rekindle the sympathetic attraction she had felt all those years ago, by the first cucumber sandwich she was experiencing that same giddying sensation that she had once felt when the balloon rushed her up into the sky. She had to hold on to her china cup firmly to make sure she did not swoon. By the time he served them walnut cake, and sat there quietly watching her, she knew only that she wanted to leave her house, her difficult daughter and her husband and to come to rest, for as long as he would have her, in Meredith’s arms.
To force herself back into the context of her family she remarked: “Violet wants to go to university. What do you think?”
The girl had been rather sulky when they first arrived, but during the course of conversation she had noticed the curious volumes round the walls and asked Meredith about them. Besides the usual English classics, and a sporting section with titles like Big Game Hunting in Bengal, they were a fascinating assortment. There were books in Persian, in Arabic, even some strange, thin, concertina-like scrolls of parchment, pressed between wooden boards and tied with string which, Meredith explained, were written in Sanskrit.
“Can you read all those?” Violet had asked. He had admitted that he could. “How many languages do you know?” she had persisted. “Seven, and a few dialects,” he had told her.
Now, in answer to Mary Anne’s question, he looked at Violet and considered for several moments before replying. “I suppose,” he said quietly, “it depends what you want to go to university for.”
“Because I’m bored,” she replied bluntly. “My parents’ world is ludicrous.”
Meredith seemed to take her rudeness in his stride. “Not ludicrous,” he said. “I wouldn’t agree with you there at all. But if you mean that you want wider horizons” – and he glanced round the room and at the bookcases – “university as such won’t do it for you, though I dare say it can help. I never went myself.” He smiled. “It’s really a matter of the spirit. Destiny, I expect.”
This seemed to keep Violet quiet, and Mary Anne was grateful to Meredith for handling it so well. But it seemed that, if she couldn’t succeed in getting the colonel’s support, the girl was still determined to make trouble. Just as they were due to