The Karma of Love (Bantam Series No. 14) by Barbara Cartland Page B
Authors: Barbara Cartland
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newspapers a week ago that there were in fact four hundred and eleven fewer ship-wrecks last year than in 1883 and twelve hundred fewer lives were lost.”
“I also read that report,” Major Meredith remarked dryly, “and although the figures were encouraging, there were still three thousand people who perished at sea during the year!”
“Oh, do let us talk of something more cheerful,” Mrs. Onslow begged. “I am sick of wars and explosions, and of hearing of people being drowned.” Unexpectedly she smiled across the table at Orissa.
“I am sure, Mrs. Lane, that like me, you have been longing to see the news-papers so that you could read of the engagement of Princess Beatrice to Prince Henry Battenburg? That is far more interesting to us women, do you not agree?”
“Yes, of course,” Orissa had answered politely.
She could not say that she found it impossible not to listen intently to everything Major Meredith said.
It was not only that she wanted to hear the news he had to impart, and she realised that he was in a privileged position so that he had access to military information wherever they docked, but there was something in his deep voice she found irresistible.
After a number of meals in his presence she found herself watching for him coming across the Dining - Saloon and wondering why he seemed to be outstanding even though there was nothing particularly arresting about his appearance.
He was of medium height, his hair a nondescript dark brown, his features were clear-cut but not particularly distinguished.
His face was thin and his cheek-bones stood out because of it.
In a photograph, she decided, he would look quite an ordinary English gentleman, and yet in real-life there was something about him which was different from other men.
Perhaps it was his eyes, a cynical twist of his lips, perhaps an authority or sense of purpose which it was difficult to describe.
She wondered what he did with most of the day on hoard because he was never in the Saloon before meals and usually joined the table after everyone else was seated.
She learned too that he never played any of the card-games which the other passengers found the only way to enliven the boredom of the voyage.
They also grumbled disagreeably on Sundays when there was no Whist or Bezique and even smoking was frowned upon.
There was sun-shine in the Mediterranean but the evenings were still chill until they drew nearer to Alexandria. Orissa then insisted on Neil walking round and round the deck for exercise and she also discovered other ways of keeping him in the fresh air.
She found among his belongings a painting box and a book which had a few rather stereotyped pictures he could colour and also a number of blank pages.
She suggested to the little boy that he should paint a special picture every day which he could give to his mother when they reached Bombay.
He was delighted at the idea and Orissa found herself drawing animals and people which illustrated the stories she told him.
She had never been particularly good at sketching, unlike many of her contemporaries who were prepared to spend hours painting water-colours of flowers, follies and Castles.
She could draw the outline of an elephant, sketch a recognisable tiger or song-bird but anything else was beyond her powers.
They were only a day away from Alexandria when their course converged with a battle-ship heading in the same direction as themselves.
Excitedly Neil ran back to the cabin to fetch his drawing-book.
“Ship for Mama,” he cried excitedly handing it to
Orissa who looked rather helplessly at the big ship with its centre funnel and two tall masts.
She sat down on a deck-chair and balanced the book on her knee.
“Draw all the flags,” Neil commanded as the battle-ship’s pennants swung out in the wind and Orissa thought that they must be signalling to the Dorunda.
‘It is not going to be easy to draw that big ship,” Orissa remarked.
“But I thought you
“I also read that report,” Major Meredith remarked dryly, “and although the figures were encouraging, there were still three thousand people who perished at sea during the year!”
“Oh, do let us talk of something more cheerful,” Mrs. Onslow begged. “I am sick of wars and explosions, and of hearing of people being drowned.” Unexpectedly she smiled across the table at Orissa.
“I am sure, Mrs. Lane, that like me, you have been longing to see the news-papers so that you could read of the engagement of Princess Beatrice to Prince Henry Battenburg? That is far more interesting to us women, do you not agree?”
“Yes, of course,” Orissa had answered politely.
She could not say that she found it impossible not to listen intently to everything Major Meredith said.
It was not only that she wanted to hear the news he had to impart, and she realised that he was in a privileged position so that he had access to military information wherever they docked, but there was something in his deep voice she found irresistible.
After a number of meals in his presence she found herself watching for him coming across the Dining - Saloon and wondering why he seemed to be outstanding even though there was nothing particularly arresting about his appearance.
He was of medium height, his hair a nondescript dark brown, his features were clear-cut but not particularly distinguished.
His face was thin and his cheek-bones stood out because of it.
In a photograph, she decided, he would look quite an ordinary English gentleman, and yet in real-life there was something about him which was different from other men.
Perhaps it was his eyes, a cynical twist of his lips, perhaps an authority or sense of purpose which it was difficult to describe.
She wondered what he did with most of the day on hoard because he was never in the Saloon before meals and usually joined the table after everyone else was seated.
She learned too that he never played any of the card-games which the other passengers found the only way to enliven the boredom of the voyage.
They also grumbled disagreeably on Sundays when there was no Whist or Bezique and even smoking was frowned upon.
There was sun-shine in the Mediterranean but the evenings were still chill until they drew nearer to Alexandria. Orissa then insisted on Neil walking round and round the deck for exercise and she also discovered other ways of keeping him in the fresh air.
She found among his belongings a painting box and a book which had a few rather stereotyped pictures he could colour and also a number of blank pages.
She suggested to the little boy that he should paint a special picture every day which he could give to his mother when they reached Bombay.
He was delighted at the idea and Orissa found herself drawing animals and people which illustrated the stories she told him.
She had never been particularly good at sketching, unlike many of her contemporaries who were prepared to spend hours painting water-colours of flowers, follies and Castles.
She could draw the outline of an elephant, sketch a recognisable tiger or song-bird but anything else was beyond her powers.
They were only a day away from Alexandria when their course converged with a battle-ship heading in the same direction as themselves.
Excitedly Neil ran back to the cabin to fetch his drawing-book.
“Ship for Mama,” he cried excitedly handing it to
Orissa who looked rather helplessly at the big ship with its centre funnel and two tall masts.
She sat down on a deck-chair and balanced the book on her knee.
“Draw all the flags,” Neil commanded as the battle-ship’s pennants swung out in the wind and Orissa thought that they must be signalling to the Dorunda.
‘It is not going to be easy to draw that big ship,” Orissa remarked.
“But I thought you
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