Isabella Rockwell's War (17 page)

“I’m really
not sure, dear. You wouldn’t want to insult him by distracting him
from his job. I’d leave it for a bit. Maybe if the ambassador
dances a moment might present itself. So you speak Pashtu as
well?”

“I do.
Father’s best friend was a Pathan and there were four Pathan
families who sent all their sons into his regiment. He said they
were his best soldiers.” Mrs Jolyon dabbed her mouth with her
napkin.

“Of course
they were! Now lets wait for coffee and then when the dancing
starts we’ll see.”

Isabella’s
excitement at seeing someone she considered practically a kinsman
was a distraction and she cast around for something to occupy her
until the dancing started. Noticing Alix had left the table with
her mother, Isabella thought to join her, but didn’t find them in
the ladies’ sitting room. It wasn’t until she was practically on
top of them that she realised the Duchess and John Conroy and Alix
were arguing with each other in an alcove, tucked away from the
rest of the corridor and rooms. The heavy red velvet drape
concealed their forms but not their voices.

“You ask him,
madam, tonight,” came John Conroy’s voice sounding harder than
Isabella had imagined he could sound.

“I can’t ask
him again,” the duchess sniffled, “Alix, you must ask him. He will
not refuse you. Tell him this is the last time, we just need ten
thousand pounds, and we will not ask for more until you come of
age.”

“I won’t,
Mama.” Came Alix’s voice. There was the sound of a stinging
slap.

“You will, you
ungrateful child. If you do not, you will not see your uncle again.
I will put your little urchin back on the streets tonight and Mrs
Jolyon will be dismissed. We will move down to Brighton, and you
and I will share a room until you are old enough to behave like an
adult. I don’t care if you are heir to the throne. I am your mother
and you will obey me.”

“You can’t
make me do that!”

“I can and I
will.”

John Conroy
spoke again.

“Your
highness. The king does not have good health, if something should
happen to him, your mother will become regent until you are of age.
She will then have access to the monies available to you. All we
are asking is for a little advance.” His tone was wheedling and
Isabella disliked it even more.

Alix’s voice
by contrast sounded sad and distant. “Very well.”

John Conroy’s
voice immediately became hearty. “That’s a girl.”

Alix came from
the gap between the curtains and Isabella walked toward her.
Threading her arm through Alix’s she made no mention of what she’d
just heard. She just said, “I’m sorry…” stopping when she saw the
tears rush to Alix’s eyes. “Come, come and see something I have
discovered,” this at least would give the red handmark on Alix’s
face a moment to go down. Isabella pulled her along the stone
balcony, which lined the ballroom. The guests were just moving
through from the dining room, and Isabella caught a flash of white
and a swarthy face.

“Look, there.
Do you see the man with the hat and the white towel thing around
his shoulders?”

Alix peered
down.

“Oh yes. Who
is he?”

“He is a
Pathan,” said Isabella proudly and proceeded to tell Alix all about
the proud warrior soldiers of the Afghan tribe. “I am hoping to
speak to him, but Mrs Jolyon told me I had to wait until the
dancing started.”

“What
nonsense,” declared Alix, sounding very regal all of the sudden.
“We can speak to him whenever we like,” and she picked up her
skirts, seeming happier now she had a purpose, and tripped off down
the stairs. Isabella scurried after her.

“Alix,” she
hissed, “you cannot just go barging…” but she was cut short by the
arrival of the king at the bottom of the stairs at precisely the
same moment.

“Ah my dear,
just the person I was looking for. Will you do an old man the great
honour of opening the dancing?”

If he had
noticed Alix’s face, he wasn’t mentioning it. Isabella felt a rush
of affection for the old king. Alix hesitated, looking at Isabella,
who gave her shove.

“Off you go.”
Alix smiled and walked to the middle of the ballroom floor with her
uncle. The music began and as the young girl and old man started to
dance, others took to the floor and in a moment the room was
aglitter with the swishing of satin skirts and the winking of
jewels in the light of a million candles. Isabella watched for a
moment, her mind carried away by the music.

“Would you
care for a chocolate, Miss?” A footman stood in front of her and he
looked away politely as she took a handful, and tucked them into
her pocket. She couldn’t wait to see the children’s faces when she
told them they came from the king’s palace. Why, there was Mrs
Jolyon! And she was dancing, with the Russian Ambassador no less.
Isabella smiled. They looked handsome together, Mrs Jolyon’s face
alight with pleasure and the Ambassador more animated than before.
She scanned the room. There he was, standing as still as only a
Pathan could. With her heart in her mouth she approached him from
one side.

“Greetings,
honourable friend,” she muttered in Pashtu, careful not to let
anyone else hear her. The man turned his face to her. His eyes were
like a hawk’s, gold with black rings and his hair dark and glossy
as a raven’s wing.

“Who is this
who speaks to me in the language of my fathers?”

“I am Isabella
Rockwell, daughter of John Rockwell, sergeant of King William’s
First Horse stationed at Rawalpindi.”

He looked back
at the dancing.

“This is the
last place I thought to find a daughter of the Raj.”

“This is the
last place a daughter of the Raj expected to meet a son of the
Lion.”

His lips
twitched.

“I am Hassan
Al-Hassan, son of Shakib Al-Hassan. I serve the Russian Ambassador
and, though I am sworn to follow him until death, it warms my heart
to hear you speak the language of my home.”

“It is the
same for me also. It excited me greatly to see you here.”

He looked at
her again briefly.

“And yet you
appear as a child of England. Nothing about you would persuade me
you are not of this country, yet your language is clearly that of
home.”

Isabella hung
her head, never having felt so distanced from her home.

“My father
used to tell me I am of both, but India is my home and I wait only
until I have enough money to return.”

He nodded.

“This country
has little promise, from what I see. They believe themselves
civilized and yet they have no god. They drink and starve and hurt
each other and I see little honour.”

Isabella
thought of the duchess and John Conroy, the Molesey’s and Mrs
Trotter.

“There is
honour here sir… it’s just… well hidden.”

He smiled.

“I will accept
your view, Isabella Rockwell, though not possibly agree with it.
How is it you come to be here, when it will soon be spring at
home?”

“I am a guest
of her majesty Princess Alixandrina Hanover.”

“Are you her
companion?” He had turned fully toward her now, his attention more
focused. Isabella laughed.

“Sort of, I
suppose. I am her highness’s friend.”

“You are fond
of her?”

“Oh yes. She
is very dear to me. A kind and loving person and an honourable one.
She will make an excellent queen.”

“That is good.
There is nothing worse than a worthless ruler.” As he spoke he
looked directly at the Russian Ambassador, who was, now he was no
longer dancing, scowling to himself and making his way toward his
bodyguard. Al-Hassan’s face didn’t move.

“You must go
now, daughter of Hind,” the was a momentary silence in the music
and then he said, “be of great courage and watch the wind at your
back.” Isabella slipped away and stood at the foot of the
staircase, whilst Alix said goodbye to the king.

Why had Hassan
said that? It was an old and well know Pathan saying, ‘watch the
wind at your back for it might bring knives,’ but why should he say
it to her? She was quiet as she got into the coach behind Alix and
leant her head against the freezing window.

“Did you enjoy
it?” asked Alix, her face pink from the dancing.

“I did. I
liked your uncle and aunt.”

Alix
nodded.

“Me too.” As
they left the palace, Isabella heard a bell strike eleven. Her head
started to nod and she fancied she could feel the snug warmth of
her bed at the palace.

The shriek of
wheels on gravel brought her to her senses, sharply, unpleasantly.
Opening her eyes she found herself lurching to one side and putting
her hands out she steadied herself, as the coach seemed to corner
on two wheels. Alix’s eyes were wide with horror.

“What’s
happening?”

“I don’t know,
but sit still! If we crash, we are safer sitting down.” There was
another lurch and Isabella wrapped her arms around Alix, pushing
her head down under one of her arms. There was shouting and hoof
beats from outside as their escort tried to bring the coach to a
stop, but it was too late. With a terrible shriek of wood and metal
the coach lurched all the way over the road and rolled over onto
its side. The horses still continued to pull it and Isabella lay on
her side and prayed for them to stop. Her left arm was painfully
crushed beneath her, but at least she could hear Alix moaning, so
she was still alive. Slowly, slowly the coach came to a skidding
sideways halt. Isabella lay still.

“Are you
alright, Alix?”

Alix
groaned.

“I think so…
are you?”

A soldier’s
worried face appeared at the window above them.

“Your majesty,
Miss Rockwell, are you well?”

“I think we
are sir,” replied Isabella. The door above them was opened and
strong arms lifted first Alix, then Isabella, to safety. The coach
stood on its side on the bridge over the Serpentine River; one of
its wheels had rolled down the bank and half into the frozen water.
The horses blew steam crossly, their flanks heaving.

“Did we lose a
wheel?” Isabella asked unable to believe they were still alive. The
coach was a wreck. The head guard was shaken to his polished boots,
but was spared replying by the arrival of another coach. It was
Prince Ernest, his wife and Mrs Jolyon.

“My god man,
what happened here?” Prince Ernest bent over the axel where the
wheel had sat.

“I don’t know,
sir.” The soldier was quaking. “One minute we were fine, and the
next the wheel was bouncing down the road and the horses bolted.”
The prince was running his hand over the metal and Isabella saw his
face change; become suddenly closed, like a sheet of music suddenly
put into a piano stool. Alix started to cry and Isabella put her
arms around her.

“There,
there.” Mrs Jolyon rushed to her with a blanket. “Come dearest,
let’s get you warm.” Both she and Princess Fredericka made clucking
noises as they wrapped the two girls in the scented fug of their
coach. The Prince addressed the coachman.

“Get the
ladies home and then send for Dr Monroe. I’ll follow on.” There was
the crack of the whip and they moved off.

Alix couldn’t
stop crying.

“I’m so sorry,
I’m not usually this wet…”

They were in
Alix’s peaceful little white living room just off her bedroom;
having had a warming bath which Isabella had put the remainder of
her lavender. “For shock”, she had said. It wasn’t until Dr Monroe
had given Alix a sedative that she started to calm down.

Mrs Jolyon
brushed her hair.

“You had a
horrible night, what with one thing and another. I’m not surprised
you’re crying. It’s just shock.”

“You’re not
crying though.”

“No, but I
didn’t get slapped in the face by my mother beforehand…” Alix
gasped and looked at Mrs Jolyon, who smoothed a tear from her
cheek.

“Don’t worry
dearest, I’ve known for a long time how unkind to you your mother
is. It is my deepest hope she finds out how much she loves you
before it is too late.” Alix’s face crumpled again and she cried
herself out against Mrs Jolyon’s shoulder and was nearly asleep by
the time Mrs Jolyon led her to her bed and tucked her in. Isabella
sat on a chair next to her bed.

Alix smiled
sleepily at her. “You really are my lucky charm now.”

Isabella
waited until her breathing was regular and then went back to where
Mrs Jolyon was warming a scone for her in front of the fire.

“I cannot
believe neither of you were hurt. How extraordinarily lucky!”

“Very,” agreed
Isabella as she sat down in front of the fire. She didn’t think
she’d ever been so tired.

Mrs Jolyon
handed her the scone.