The Sapphire Child (The Raj Hotel #2) - Janet MacLeod Trotter Page 0,19
at Bombay. His name was Hugh Keating, and he seemed a genial enough young Irishman. He worked for the Agriculture Department in Quetta, a mountainous outpost in semi-desert. He’d been shot in the leg by a wild tribesman while out riding just before going on furlough, but was determined not to miss out on a trip home. Andrew had been so impressed that he’d asked to see the bullet wound, but the Irishman’s kneecap had been shattered and was well bound up.
Hugh had asked a lot of questions about Stella.
‘Her family works for my father,’ Andrew had told him. ‘Dad has two hotels – one in Rawalpindi and one in Kashmir – the Duboises run the Raj in Pindi. But Stella’s more like a friend of the family, really.’
‘And a very pretty one too,’ Hugh had said with a wink.
Andrew had blushed. ‘I suppose she is.’
He might have felt resentful at his prying into Stella’s life but Hugh was so good-natured and easy to talk to. Besides, he had told eye-popping stories about living among the savage tribes of Baluchistan. They were just the sort of tales that he wished his father would tell him about his army life on the wild North West Frontier.
‘She’s quite elusive, your friend Stella,’ Hugh had said after the first five days at sea.
‘She’s been very seasick,’ Andrew had explained. ‘Never been on a boat before.’
When they’d docked at Aden to take on coal, Stella had emerged from her cabin, and Andrew had introduced her properly to Hugh.
‘It’ll be much calmer all the way up to Port Said,’ Hugh had reassured her.
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Stella had said with a wan smile.
She had soon revived. For the past two days, Stella and Moira had entered into the evening revelry of deck quoits and dancing. They were never short of suitors from among the young men who had spent the last couple of years in remote postings in the mofussil where the only European women were either married or missionaries.
Hugh, despite being on crutches, took part in the quoit-throwing with great gusto, but couldn’t compete on the dance floor for Stella’s attention. Instead, for the past two nights he’d kept Andrew company on deck. Last night Hugh had offered him sips of whisky from a hip flask and cigarettes, and he had accepted both.
Sitting on deck now, trying to keep in the shade, Andrew’s temples throbbed and his throat was parched. Was that what whisky did to you? Why on earth was it so popular? He thought of his father’s erratic moods after drinking liquor and wondered why he bothered. It just seemed to be something that all the British in India did – or at least the men. He’d never seen Esmie drink more than a glass of sherry on special occasions.
Andrew went in search of lemonade. Sauntering along deck he saw that Moira was playing cards with Hugh and felt a twinge of jealousy on Stella’s behalf.
He flopped down beside them and asked, ‘Where’s Stella?’
‘Probably writing up that diary of hers,’ said Moira, fanning herself with her cards. ‘She won’t let me read any of it which just makes me all the more curious. Your go, Hughie.’
He picked up a card and eyed Andrew in amusement. ‘How’re you feeling today, young man?’
‘Felt better.’ He grimaced.
‘So, what were you two up to last night?’ Moira asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Man talk over a few nightcaps,’ said Hugh with a wink.
Andrew hardly remembered their conversation. Had he told Hugh about Nicholson’s or just wittered on about The Raj-in-the-Hills and Kashmir? He hoped he hadn’t opened up about his surge of feelings towards Stella.
To his relief, Stella appeared and diverted the conversation. She was looking fresh and pink-cheeked under a straw hat, wearing a yellow frock with a heart-shaped neckline that he was pretty sure belonged to Moira. It suited Stella better, showing off her fuller figure. Andrew felt himself blushing and looked away.
Stella smiled. ‘Playing cards without me?’
‘Join us,’ Hugh insisted at once, using a crutch to pull a deckchair into position beside him.
She ignored this and sat down beside Andrew. ‘Are you okay? You look a bit feverish.’ She put a hand to his forehead. It was deliciously cool against his hot skin.
‘Nothing an aspirin and some baking soda won’t cure,’ Moira said with a laugh.
‘Meaning?’
‘Too many chota pegs with Mr Keating last night,’ Moira explained, a tease in her voice. ‘Hurry up and play, Hugh.’