The Sapphire Child (The Raj Hotel #2) - Janet MacLeod Trotter Page 0,77

if any of them had survived stirred something deep in the core of him. He had had snatched conversations with a couple of them – men from the Punjab – whose weary faces had lit with smiles of delight at his greeting them in a language they understood.

‘So it wasn’t just the British troops at Dunkirk?’ she asked.

Andrew looked at her. ‘Of course not. There were French and Belgian – and soldiers from our empires – Africans and Algerians. Men from all over.’

‘How interesting.’ Her eyes were wide in amazement.

Suddenly, Andrew didn’t want to talk about it any more. For a few short, blessed days, he wanted to bury the memories and think only of the present. He filled his lungs with sea air and put his arm about Felicity’s shoulders.

‘This is far more interesting being here with you.’ He smiled.

She turned into his hold and slipped her arms around his neck.

‘Kiss me then.’ She grinned up at him.

Andrew did so gladly.

Chapter 26

The Raj-in-the-Hills, Gulmarg, late June 1940

The Lomaxes’ relief at hearing of Andrew’s safe return to Britain was followed swiftly by worry over his safety in Scotland – and that of Tibby and others. News came through of serious bombing raids on Scotland. The radio bulletins were vague, citing only that there were attacks from over the North Sea. Tom scoured the newspapers for further details but it was only when a wire came through from Tibby that all was well in Ebbsmouth that Esmie could persuade him to stop worrying.

Tom, however, continued to be obsessive in listening to radio broadcasts and reading the papers to know what was going on at home.

‘Now that the Nazis have taken over Norway,’ he fretted, ‘they can launch attacks easily on east-coast Scotland.’

Yet up at Gulmarg, in the tranquillity of the mountains, Stella found it hard to believe they were at war. The Gujjars appeared with their herds and flocks as they did every hot season and the ‘grass widows’ of public servants brought their children on holiday. The baroness returned to spend a leisurely summer on her rented houseboat on Dal Lake just as usual. The hot temperatures broke as the monsoon rains came in thunderous downpours and laced the mountains in mist.

One day, a consignment of sea mail arrived from Scotland. Mostly it was magazines sent to Esmie by Tibby, but there was also a letter for Stella.

‘Looks like Andrew’s handwriting,’ Esmie said, handing it over with an enquiring look.

Stella took it. Andrew hadn’t written to her for three years. She pretended that she didn’t mind, but it had hurt her a little that he hadn’t written to give his condolences when her father had died. Charlie had always made a fuss of Andrew at the hotel. She had blamed herself for writing a reproachful letter criticising him for never returning to his parents in India. She’d vented her frustration on Andy instead of the real culprit, Lydia, and had regretted it ever since.

‘It’s months out of date,’ she said, tearing it open with a finger. The postmark was from February.

Dear Stella,

I feel very bad for not having written this earlier but I’m arranging my affairs before getting my marching orders with the battalion. I wanted to say how very sorry I was to hear of your father’s sudden passing. I can’t quite believe he isn’t still standing in the lobby of the Raj greeting everyone with a cheery good morning and a comment about how lovely the weather is – even when it was as hot as hell and everyone was sweating like the proverbial pig!

Mr Dubois was one of the kindest and most considerate men I’ve ever met. He was only ever interested in others – no matter how young or unimportant they were. He always made me feel special as a cherished boy whom he treated like one of his own.

I know how much you cared for your dad . . .

Stella’s vision blurred with tears. She sat down abruptly on a cane chair in the office and pressed her hand to her chest.

‘Stella, are you all right?’ Esmie asked in concern.

Stella nodded, unable to stop tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘It’s such a lovely letter about Dad,’ she said, croakily.

‘Can I get you anything?’ Esmie asked gently.

‘No, thanks.’ She wiped at her tears and read on.

I know how much you cared for your dad so can only imagine how bereft you must be feeling – your mother and brother too. Charlie Dubois touched many, many lives