was impossible to speak. Lord Sheldon gave his order then turned his attention to the wine waiter, who handed him a leather-bound wine list. Finally he looked at Azalea.
“Are you a good sailor?” he asked.
“I think so,” Azalea managed to answer in what she hoped was a cool, calm voice, but which sounded a little breathless. “I have only been to sea once before.”
“And when was that?”
They might, Azalea thought, have been meeting for the first time at a vicarage tea party, but because the manner in which her heart was behaving made it difficult to reply, it required a superhuman effort for her to manage to say,
“Two years ago – when I came from India.”
She thought Lord Sheldon looked surprised as he asked,
“From India? So you know that country?”
“It is my home.”
Azalea could not help speaking a little defiantly.
“Why?”
It was only one word and yet she knew that he was interested.
“My parents lived there – my father was in the same Regiment as my uncle.”
She wondered as she spoke if she was saying too much. Then she told herself that her uncle could not expect her to conceal the fact that her father had served in what was to all intents and purposes the family Regiment, as his father and grandfather had done before him.
Besides, she told herself, there was nothing to hide except the manner in which he had met his death.
She knew she should have anticipated that these questions would be asked sometime, but she had lived such an isolated existence since she had gone to live with her uncle and aunt.
She had been to no parties or Receptions of any sort, and it had never occurred to her that she might one day have a conversation such as this and with, of all people, Lord Sheldon!
“So at one time your father was stationed at Lahore?”
“Yes.”
Azalea made up her mind that the only way to protect herself would be to reply to his questions in monosyllables. He might think her dull and nit-witted, but at least he would not think she was trying to grab or claw at him, nor would he dare to describe her as a ‘man-eating tiger-cub.’
The steward poured out his Lordship’s wine and he tasted it.
“I always think Lahore is one of the most beautiful cities in India,” he said reflectively. “The city of roses.”
Azalea could not answer, as the memory of the roses in Lahore brought her a sudden pain and a sense of homesickness that was a physical agony.
She could see her mother coming in from the garden carrying a whole armful of them. She could smell the fragrance now and knew that their beauty was there, stored in her memory more vivid and more real than anything that had happened to her since she had left India behind.
“Where else in India have you been?” Lord Sheldon asked.
“Many places,” Azalea answered, hoping he would not think her stupid.
“I am sure that among them you have seen your namesake in the foothills of the Himalayas. I cannot believe that anything could be more beautiful than when the azaleas are in bloom and the snow still lies on the mountain peaks.”
He spoke quietly, but again his words evoked a memory that was hard to bear.
If only he knew, Azalea thought wildly, how she had lain awake night after night thinking of the azaleas, gold and red, crimson, pink and white, and wishing that once again she could be amongst them.
She could remember saying to her mother,
“Why did you call me Azalea, Mama?”
Her mother had laughed.
“What could be a more perfect name? Your grandfather had said that all his granddaughters were to be given the names of flowers and when you were born, my dearest, I could look from my window onto a rainbow that had fallen from the sky.
“‘What are you going to call her?’ your father asked me. So I smiled up at him from the bed where I was holding you in my arms. ‘Have we any choice?’ I questioned. He looked out of the window and laughed. ‘But of course – she must be called Azalea! And may she be
“Are you a good sailor?” he asked.
“I think so,” Azalea managed to answer in what she hoped was a cool, calm voice, but which sounded a little breathless. “I have only been to sea once before.”
“And when was that?”
They might, Azalea thought, have been meeting for the first time at a vicarage tea party, but because the manner in which her heart was behaving made it difficult to reply, it required a superhuman effort for her to manage to say,
“Two years ago – when I came from India.”
She thought Lord Sheldon looked surprised as he asked,
“From India? So you know that country?”
“It is my home.”
Azalea could not help speaking a little defiantly.
“Why?”
It was only one word and yet she knew that he was interested.
“My parents lived there – my father was in the same Regiment as my uncle.”
She wondered as she spoke if she was saying too much. Then she told herself that her uncle could not expect her to conceal the fact that her father had served in what was to all intents and purposes the family Regiment, as his father and grandfather had done before him.
Besides, she told herself, there was nothing to hide except the manner in which he had met his death.
She knew she should have anticipated that these questions would be asked sometime, but she had lived such an isolated existence since she had gone to live with her uncle and aunt.
She had been to no parties or Receptions of any sort, and it had never occurred to her that she might one day have a conversation such as this and with, of all people, Lord Sheldon!
“So at one time your father was stationed at Lahore?”
“Yes.”
Azalea made up her mind that the only way to protect herself would be to reply to his questions in monosyllables. He might think her dull and nit-witted, but at least he would not think she was trying to grab or claw at him, nor would he dare to describe her as a ‘man-eating tiger-cub.’
The steward poured out his Lordship’s wine and he tasted it.
“I always think Lahore is one of the most beautiful cities in India,” he said reflectively. “The city of roses.”
Azalea could not answer, as the memory of the roses in Lahore brought her a sudden pain and a sense of homesickness that was a physical agony.
She could see her mother coming in from the garden carrying a whole armful of them. She could smell the fragrance now and knew that their beauty was there, stored in her memory more vivid and more real than anything that had happened to her since she had left India behind.
“Where else in India have you been?” Lord Sheldon asked.
“Many places,” Azalea answered, hoping he would not think her stupid.
“I am sure that among them you have seen your namesake in the foothills of the Himalayas. I cannot believe that anything could be more beautiful than when the azaleas are in bloom and the snow still lies on the mountain peaks.”
He spoke quietly, but again his words evoked a memory that was hard to bear.
If only he knew, Azalea thought wildly, how she had lain awake night after night thinking of the azaleas, gold and red, crimson, pink and white, and wishing that once again she could be amongst them.
She could remember saying to her mother,
“Why did you call me Azalea, Mama?”
Her mother had laughed.
“What could be a more perfect name? Your grandfather had said that all his granddaughters were to be given the names of flowers and when you were born, my dearest, I could look from my window onto a rainbow that had fallen from the sky.
“‘What are you going to call her?’ your father asked me. So I smiled up at him from the bed where I was holding you in my arms. ‘Have we any choice?’ I questioned. He looked out of the window and laughed. ‘But of course – she must be called Azalea! And may she be
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