The Sapphire Child (The Raj Hotel) Read online

  ALSO BY JANET MACLEOD TROTTER:

  The Raj Hotel Series

  The Emerald Affair – Book 1

  The India Tea Series

  The Tea Planter’s Daughter – Book 1

  The Tea Planter’s Bride – Book 2

  The Girl from the Tea Garden – Book 3

  The Secrets of the Tea Garden – Book 4

  HISTORICAL

  In the Far Pashmina Mountains

  The Jarrow Trilogy

  The Jarrow Lass

  Child of Jarrow

  Return to Jarrow

  The Durham Trilogy

  The Hungry Hills

  The Darkening Skies

  Never Stand Alone

  The Tyneside Sagas

  A Handful of Stars

  Chasing the Dream

  For Love & Glory

  The Great War Sagas

  No Greater Love (formerly The Suffragette)

  A Crimson Dawn

  Scottish Historical Romance

  The Jacobite Lass

  The Beltane Fires

  Highlander in Muscovy

  MYSTERY/CRIME

  The Vanishing of Ruth

  The Haunting of Kulah

  TEENAGE

  Love Games

  NON-FICTION

  Beatles & Chiefs

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542092609

  ISBN-10: 1542092604

  Cover design by Plum5 Limited

  To Connie, Timothy, Yumna, Delilah, Ajooni, Mollie and April – our young ones who bring us joy and hope for the future.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Epilogue

  GLOSSARY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Prologue

  Nicholson School, Murree, Indian Himalayas, May 1933

  ‘Coward!’

  Andrew thought he’d misheard. He stood, bat in hand, ready to face the bowler.

  ‘Cowardly, cowardly, Lomax,’ George Gotley hissed at him from behind the stumps. ‘Just like your father.’

  Andrew attempted to ignore him and concentrate on the bowler.

  ‘Lily-livered Lomax,’ George needled him again. ‘Can’t see why they chose you for the First Eleven. You’ll let them down just like your father did the regiment.’

  Andrew felt a slight sweat break out on his brow. He gripped his bat harder and, still facing forward, said through gritted teeth, ‘Shut up, Gotley. You’re jealous ’cause my dad is a Great War veteran and yours isn’t.’

  The bowler was now starting his run up.

  ‘I’d be ashamed if he was my father,’ George retorted. ‘He was a disgrace to the Rifles.’

  Andrew clenched his teeth even harder to stop himself retaliating. Gotley resented him being chosen for the school cricket team and was using this house match to taunt him, he told himself.

  ‘Do you know why your father left the army, Lomax?’ George persisted. ‘Court-martialled for cowardice – should have been shot – that’s what my papa said. Now your father’s just a box-wallah with a couple of second-rate hotels for half-halfs.’

  He could stand it no longer. Turning to glare at his classmate, Andrew shouted, ‘Shut up!’

  A moment later, the cricket ball came hurtling at him and caught him on his shin pad.

  ‘Owzat!’ bellowed George, and the umpire’s finger went up into the air.

  Andrew didn’t protest, but as he walked back to the pavilion, bat under his arm, he was overcome with anger. Behind the cricket pitch, the Himalayan foothills rose in a jagged line that pierced the blue sky. That way lay Kashmir, where his father and stepmother lived. He longed to be back there. How dare Gotley say such things about his dad!

  When George and the other fielders trooped into the changing room, Andrew was waiting.

  ‘Not such a great batsman after all, are you, Lomax?’ George crowed. ‘Out for a duck.’

  ‘What you said out there was unforgiveable, Gotley.’ Andrew advanced on him. ‘I demand an apology.’

  George sneered, ‘I’m not going to apologise for anything. It’s all true. Papa told me all about your father disgracing the Peshawar Rifles. Don’t know why they allowed you into this school, Lomax. It’s supposed to be for the sons of the army’s elite.’

  Andrew towered over George, clenching his fists. For an instant he saw alarm on the other boy’s face. ‘My father was a hero in Mesopotamia and before that he served on the North West Frontier for years. He was soldiering when your father was a puking baby in nappies.’

  George flushed. ‘My papa’s a major – which is more than your father ever was. And mine hasn’t been drummed out of the regiment for cowardice.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ Andrew glanced around at his teammates; no one was meeting his look. ‘Donaldson?’ he appealed to his friend. ‘You know my father; he’s no coward.’

  Donaldson seemed wary. ‘Leave him be, Gotley.’ Then, pulling Andrew away, he added, ‘Come on, Lomax; ignore him.’

  Despite being riled, Andrew made a supreme effort and stepped away. Gotley was known for baiting other boys and boasting about his father being a major, yet he had never picked on him before. At thirteen, Andrew was tall and muscular for his age, which perhaps had kept him from being a focus of George’s bullying.

  ‘And that’s not all.’ George followed Andr
ew and prodded him in the back. ‘Your father’s a double disgrace. Carrying on with that woman you pretend is your stepmother. What’s it you call her? Meemee?’ He repeated the name in a whining, babyish tone. ‘Meemee! Meemee!’

  Andrew spun round, anger flaring again. ‘Don’t you dare talk about my stepmother like that!’

  ‘But she’s not your stepmother – not according to my papa – because your father never married her. She’s just his whore—’ George said with glee.

  ‘Steady on, Gotley,’ Donaldson said, trying to intervene.

  Andrew brushed his friend aside and pushed George back in the chest. ‘You rat, Gotley.’

  George laughed in his face. ‘Funny; that’s what my papa said about your father and his mistress – they’re like a couple of sewer rats copulating. And she’s not even pretty. Got breasts like pancakes—’

  Andrew could no longer hear a word of what Gotley or anyone else was saying. Anger coursed through his whole body, making his head and ears pound with noise. He sprang forward at George, giving off a great roar of rage, and tackled him to the ground, and with Gotley immobilised he let his fists fly. George screamed and struggled. Andrew saw blood spurt from George’s nose, but he didn’t stop.

  Suddenly, a voice barked, ‘What in God’s name is going on?’

  Someone grabbed Andrew round the neck and pulled him back. Choking, he resisted, still trying to swing at George. Captain Rae, their games master, had seized him by the collar and hauled him to his feet. George was still writhing on the floor, hands over his face, moaning in pain.

  ‘Explain yourself,’ Captain Rae ordered.

  Andrew stood panting. He wasn’t going to tell tales.

  ‘Lomax savagely attacked Gotley, sir,’ one of George’s friends piped up.

  ‘Gotley provoked him,’ Donaldson defended Andrew.

  ‘Enough!’ bawled Rae, bending over George. At the sight of blood, he said, ‘Help him up, boys, and take him to Matron.’

  When Andrew moved to lend a hand, Rae grabbed his arm. ‘Not you, Lomax. You’ve done enough harm already.’

  ‘But, sir—’

  ‘Don’t “but, sir” me,’ he snapped. ‘You’re in big trouble, Lomax. Now, get out of my sight!’

  Chapter 1

  The Raj Hotel, Rawalpindi, India, May 1933

  Twenty-year-old Stella Dubois quickly brushed her honey-blonde hair and sprayed on eau de cologne – a gift from her friend Baroness Cussack – before rushing out of the manager’s bungalow and across the servants’ compound. Frisky, her ageing dog, ambled out of the shade of a jacaranda tree and wagged his curly tail in welcome.

  ‘Hello, old boy!’ She bent and hugged him round the neck, receiving licks to her pink cheeks. It wasn’t even seven o’clock in the morning, yet the air was already hot and oppressive.

  ‘Stella!’ her mother called from the bungalow steps. ‘Don’t get distracted. Mrs Shankley will be waiting for you. Chop chop!’

  Stella gave Frisky a final pat and leapt up.

  As she hurried across the hotel courtyard, she exchanged grins with Sunil the porter, who was sprinkling water from a bucket to dampen down the dust.

  In the foyer, beneath the noisy whir of overhead fans her father was hovering behind the polished reception table, waiting to greet his guests for breakfast. Charlie Dubois, electric light glinting off his bald head, was dressed immaculately in a dark suit and faded lilac cravat. No matter how high the temperatures climbed, he refused to wear lightweight white suits, dismissing them as too casual for the honoured position of manager of The Raj Hotel. Catching sight of his daughter, his round moustachioed face creased in a broad smile.

  ‘Good morning, Sweet Pea!’

  ‘Morning, Pa!’

  Threading her way through the profusion of potted ferns and jumble of cane tables and chairs, Stella hurried past the dark teak staircase and down the corridor. She knocked on Mrs Shankley’s bedroom door and then entered, knowing the old woman wouldn’t have heard.

  ‘Morning, Mrs S,’ she shouted. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  Once stout and robust, the former missionary had shrunk to a frail and forgetful elderly lady who constantly misplaced her new electrical hearing aid, her reading glasses and on occasion even her false teeth. Myrtle, Stella’s mother, was of the opinion that their long-time guest should be placed in a nursing home, but Stella couldn’t bear the thought.

  Winifred Shankley was kind and gentle and had been a resident of The Raj Hotel for as long as Stella could remember. Mrs Shankley was half-dressed and peering under the bedside table.

  Catching sight of Stella, she smiled. ‘My dear, I seem to have mislaid . . .’ She gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Well, I’m not sure quite what. Do you think you can help? Sorry, I’m such a nuisance.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said Stella, getting down on all fours and searching. ‘Here it is – your ear trumpet.’ She stood up and handed over the ancient brass device. ‘You don’t need it any more, Mrs S. You use an electrical hearing aid now, remember? The one with the battery that goes inside your handbag.’

  Stella quickly retrieved the slim headset from the bedside table and fitted it over the woman’s head. ‘That better?’

  Winifred’s face lit up in a smile. ‘Stella, you are an angel. What would I do without you?’

  As she helped the resident dress, Stella chatted about their mutual friend, Baroness Cussack.

  ‘The baroness is already in Kashmir staying on the Queen of the Lake. I had a postcard from her last week.’

  ‘Postcard from the queen?’ Winifred marvelled.

  ‘No, from Baroness Hester.’ Stella laughed.

  The missionary gave a girlish giggle. ‘Ah, silly of me. Well, dear Hester is the nearest we have to royalty at the Raj, isn’t she?’

  ‘She is! I can’t wait to see her. I’ll be travelling through Srinagar next week on my way up to Gulmarg and will spend a couple of nights with her.’

  ‘Gulmarg?’

  ‘Remember, that’s where Pa’s bosses, the Lomaxes, live now? They run The Raj-in-the-Hills Hotel – open it every hot season and I go up there to help.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Kashmir.’ Winifred nodded. ‘How are Captain Tom and dear Esmie?’

  Stella reached for a hairbrush and began to tidy and fluff up the woman’s thin white hair. Only the most long-standing residents still called the hotel owner ‘Captain’. It was a throwback to when the dashing Tom Lomax had been an officer in the Peshawar Rifles before the Kaiser’s war. But Tom didn’t like to be referred to as such and never talked about his time in the army or that part of his life before he married his third wife, Esmie. To do so could precipitate one of his dark moods – ‘black monsoons’, as Esmie called them.

  Stella adored them both. Tom had saved The Raj Hotel from bankruptcy and kept on the Dubois family to manage it, for which her parents would be forever grateful.

  Stella also had a soft spot for their thirteen-year-old son, Andrew. Despite his age he was generous and kind and made her laugh. She hadn’t seen him since Christmas, even though he was at school in the hill station of Murree, which was only two hours away.

  ‘I’m longing to see the Lomaxes,’ said Stella. ‘They haven’t been down here for months. I love Kashmir, but I wouldn’t want to spend the winter there – it’s far too cold and there’s nothing to do once the holidaymakers leave – and I’d miss my family and the hotel and all my friends here.’

  Winifred gave her an expectant look. ‘Am I going with you to Gulmarg?’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs S, not this time. I’ll be working. My cousin Ada is going to come in and help you like she did last year. You like her.’

  The old woman looked unsure. ‘Ah, Ada. That’s kind of her. But I’ll miss you, Stella. No one can take your place.’

  Stella kissed her soft cheek. ‘I should hope not,’ she said, smiling. ‘Because I’ll be back before you know it.’

  Stella kept busy all day. After helping Mrs Shankley to the breakfast tab
le, she took a turn at the reception desk while her father chatted to the guests. She supervised the replenishing of flowers in the hallway and the lounge and helped her mother draw up menus for the week ahead. In the afternoon she played cards with Mr Ansom and Mr Fritwell, two of the other residents who had lived in the hotel for as long as Stella could remember. Ansom was a stooped, craggy-faced retired engineer with sparse hair who walked with the aid of a stick; Fritwell was a portly former army quartermaster with a trim white moustache and a penchant for pink gin. They spent most of their days sitting in their favourite cane chairs in the foyer, where they could gossip and keep an eye on the comings and goings in the hotel. They dozed under copies of the Civil and Military Gazette or sat in the fug of Ansom’s cigarettes and played cards.

  ‘Are you courting yet, Stella?’ asked Fritwell.

  ‘No.’ Stella gave a smile of amusement as she shuffled the cards.

  ‘Charlie Dubois would send them packing, eh, Stella?’ Ansom gave a throaty laugh.

  ‘Your brother must have suitable friends,’ persisted Fritwell.

  ‘I’m not interested in Jimmy’s friends,’ said Stella. ‘All they talk about is cricket or cars. The man I marry will be interested in the things I like. I believe what the baroness told me: marry for love or not at all.’

  ‘Bravo, Stella!’ Ansom grinned. ‘That’s you told, Fritters. Now deal the cards and stop trying to put Stella off her game.’

  That evening, Ada came to the Dubois’ bungalow to discuss the duties she would take over from Stella. Her cousin was plumply pretty with wavy dark hair and an infectious laugh. They sat on the veranda steps trying to catch any lick of evening breeze.

  ‘Watch out for Fritters,’ Stella warned. ‘He’ll quiz you about your love life and try to marry you off before the summer’s out.’

  ‘Well, if he can introduce me to some charming army officers,’ Ada said with a grin, ‘then I’ll not complain.’

  Stella nudged her. ‘They’ll be over seventy and probably incontinent.’

  Ada laughed. ‘It’s all right for you – you’re going to the hills where there’ll be heaps of young officers on leave looking for girls to flirt with.’

  ‘I’m going there to work, not flirt,’ Stella reminded her.

  Ada arched her brows. ‘I’m sure there’ll be time for both.’