A Love That Never Tires (Linley & Patrick Book 1)

by Jeleyne, Allyson

  ***

  They sat for hours on the hill, watching the night sky fade from purple-blue into the pink grapefruit of dawn. Linley relished in the feeling of Patrick’s arm around her, lying tucked against his body with his evening jacket and his warmth to drive away the dewy chill of morning. Why couldn’t life be like that always? No heartaches, no goodbyes. Just an endless summer sunrise with the one person who mattered most in all the world.

  “We should get you home,” Patrick said, stirring. “There will be an uproar when the servants wake and discover you’re not in your bed.”

  Linley resisted the urge to groan. She knew he was right, but she hated knowing that the fairytale had finally come to an end. “Won’t you at least drive slowly?”

  He climbed out of the motorcar and helped her into her seat. “You could always stay, you know.”

  “It would break my father’s heart.”

  It would break Patrick’s heart, too, but he knew better than to press her. Instead, he started the engine and made the short drive back to London.

  “You can write to me,” Linley said as the outskirts of London came into view. “My father keeps a villa in Malta. We are hardly ever there, but if you wanted to send me a line or two…to let me know how you are, or anything at all…I could give you the address.”

  “I would like that very much.”

  “And I could write to you,” she continued. “It wouldn’t be very often, and you wouldn’t have to write me back...just if you felt like it, or you weren’t too busy.”

  “Write me everyday if you want.”

  Linley watched as they drove further and further into London, growing closer and closer to Bedford Square with every passing moment. “Oh, Patrick, I wish I could stay. It’s going to be awful knowing I’m so far away from you and that I may never see you again.”

  “We will see each other,” he said, turning into Bedford Square. “You know how to find me.”

  They stopped in front of Berenice Hastings’ townhouse. Patrick got out of the motorcar and walked around to open the door for Linley.

  “I’m not ready to say goodbye just yet,” she said. “Couldn’t you come see me off at the dock? We’re leaving on the British-India line to Chittagong—”

  “No.”

  It was inevitable. Linley could not put off their parting any longer, unless she stayed behind in London—which, no matter how badly she wanted to, she simply could not do. “I will miss you terribly,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  Patrick clutched her to him, not caring if all of London saw. And then, when he could not hold her any longer, he let her go.

  PART II

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  When his steam packet pulled out of London harbor, Patrick had watched the sun sink against the Tower Bridge. Now, he watched as that same sun rose, pink and warm over the port of Chittagong.

  Nearly two weeks at sea had hardened him. The musty odor of salt water and sea air clung to the thin linen of his suit. His face was tanned, the sting of sunburn long since faded. Patrick stood on the deck, feet braced apart, hands gripping the worn wooden railing. Many times over the course of the voyage he’d convinced himself he was crazy. No man in his right mind would throw away twenty-seven years of wealth and privilege to chase a girl he hardly knew half way around the world.

  Yes, many times he thought himself crazy for doing it, but this was not one of those times.

  Patrick’s steamer wound its way through the harbor, slipping between the small wooden fishing boats and tea merchants’ ships that clogged the busy port. With a blast of its whistle, the little steam ship tucked itself into a vacant wharf and lowered its ropes to the dockhands waiting below.

  Bending to pick up his leather bags, Patrick waited for the gangway to be pushed up to the deck. Once connected, he jogged down the ramp, weaving his way between the other passengers as they disembarked. He stepped onto dry land for the first time in weeks, still feeling it sway under his feet, and with a deep breath, called out to the nearest brown-skinned native within earshot.

  “Can you direct me to a hotel?”

  The Indian man nodded. “If you would follow me, Sahib.”

  Patrick stayed a few steps behind him, still taking in the sights and sounds of the busy harbor. It was filthy. It reeked of mud, rotting fish, and manure—not to mention the stench of so many unwashed bodies crowded into one place. Really, it was no different from any English harbor.

  Bare-chested Indians scrubbed themselves and their cattle in the thick brown water. Others loaded and unloaded fishing boats, hauling heavy nets across the docks. Amid them, women washed clothes, keeping an eye on their children who splashed nearby.

  “Is the Sahib from London?” the guide asked, pushing aside two fishmongers thrusting handfuls of smoked hilsa in Patrick’s face.

  “Yes.”

  He stopped at the edge of a busy roadway and held up his hand. A young man pedaling a brightly colored rickshaw pulled up beside him. “Then I think he should stay at the Empress Victoria.” The man bowed. “This boy will take you there.”

  The Empress Victoria was a small, clean hotel. His guide had been wise to recommend it, because Patrick would have never been able to find it on his own. It seemed the type of place one would have to know about, perhaps have even been to before—exactly the sort of establishment frequented by archaeologists, missionaries, and other travelers of distant lands.

  Well-dressed Englishmen and women milled about the lobby, drinking tea and speaking in low, hushed voices. The only Indians were employees, serving breakfast with white gloves to their patrons, or carrying luggage up and down the carpeted stairs.

  “Pardon me,” he said, tapping his finger on the brass bell at the desk.

  The clerk, a well-dressed Indian, turned in his direction. “Yes, Sahib?”

  “I would like to know if you’ve ever heard of the Talbot-Martins.”

  He nodded. “Yes, Sahib, I have.”

  “Do you know where I could find them?”

  The desk clerk shook his head. “No, Sahib.”

  “Hmm.” Patrick said, frowning. He leaned toward the man. “Is it a matter of money?”

  “No, Sahib,” the desk clerk said. “If I knew, I would tell you. But, I do not know. However, I do know that they stayed here for three weeks in preparation for a very long journey. ”

  Patrick almost fell over. “They were here? In this very hotel? Damned rotten luck!” he cried, pounding his fist on the counter. “I cannot believe I came halfway around the world and missed them.”

  “All is not lost, Sahib,” the man said. “They only left yesterday afternoon. If you hurry, you might be able to catch them up.”

  “They left yesterday? My God!” Patrick stopped short of grabbing the man by his shirtfront. “How do I find them?”

  “I would try the train depot, Shaib.” He pointed out the door with a long, brown finger. “Only a few streets over.”

  Patrick didn’t even thank him. He ran out the front door of the hotel, pushing his way through the crush of people, animals, and motorcars until he found himself outside the Chittagong railway station.

  The large, red brick building stood at the end of a busy, tree-lined street. White people and Indians alike came and went through its doors. Fancy automobiles and ox-carts shared the same road, picking up and dropping off passengers in front of the depot.

  Patrick stepped inside the station, taken aback by the strong odor permeating the space. Dozens of Indian beggars held alms-bowls in withered hands. At least the lucky ones had hands—some had no limbs at all, dragging themselves between the feet of white men with nothing more than rotting stumps.

  Rushing past them, Patrick hurried to the ticket counter. “Excuse me! Excuse me!” he called out the to man behind the glass.

  The man pointed to a sign listing all the railway’s destinations. “Where to?”

  “No, I’m not buying a ticket.”

  He blinked, and st
arted to turn away.

  “Wait!” Patrick called, fishing in his pockets for some change and slamming it down on the counter. At the sight of money, the man seemed more willing to listen. “I’m looking for a young woman. She came through here yesterday with an older gentleman and maybe three other men. Do you remember her?”

  “No,” the man said, sliding the money through the opening in the glass. “But you can check with the porters, perhaps they can help you.”

  Patrick went down the line of porters waiting to load and unload trains and passengers as they passed through the station. No one seemed to remember seeing a pretty young English woman no matter how much he paid them.

  “Sahib!” The raspy voice of an old, blind beggar-man called out to him. “Sahib!”

  Patrick tried to ignore it, but the man grew more and more persistent.

  “I know the girl you speak of,” he said.

  Taking one look at the man’s blue-clouded eyes and the flies crawling in and out of his nostrils, Patrick dismissed him.

  “She dropped a few coins into my bowl,” the old man explained. “As she did so, she took my hand, saying she would pray for me. She was an English woman, but her hands were calloused like a man’s.”

  Patrick stopped in his tracks. “What else do you remember?”

  “She smelled like jasmine,” the old man said. “And a woman that kind-hearted could not help but be beautiful, Sahib.”

  The jasmine water perfume! Patrick dropped to his knees beside the man. “Do you know where she went?”

  “Assam, Sahib,” he said. “After the train to Assam, I did not smell jasmine anymore.”

  Grinning, Patrick reached into his jacket and pulled his wallet from his breast pocket. He crammed a fistful of five-pound notes into the old man’s twisted brown hand. “Take this. Here is twenty pounds. Go home and feed your family for a lifetime.”

  “Thank you, Sahib.” The beggar smiled, missing most of his teeth.

  Dusting off the knees of his trousers, Patrick went back to the counter and purchased a ticket on the next train leaving for Assam. He had no idea where that was, but if there was a possibility that Linley was headed there, so was he.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Linley fell to the floor of the train and slid across the filthy carpet.

  “Oh!” she cried.

  Schoville, who had been sitting in the seat beside her, now lay sprawled across her. Her father, Reginald, and Archie bounced in their own row of seats, knocking their heads together.

  “Oh!” they all cried, trying to upright themselves in the chaos.

  “Are you all right, Button?” Sir Bedford Talbot-Martin asked.

  Linley pushed Schoville off of her and scrambled to her feet. She could hear the other passengers’ screaming, the shouts of the train employees as they ran from car to car, and something else—a sound so horrible that her brain could not register it. But the sound did not come from inside the train. It came from outside her window.

  “I asked if you were all right, Button,” her father repeated himself, giving her a hard shake. “Can you hear me?”

  She nodded, her head still reeling. “I—I’m fine, Papa.”

  Schoville helped her back into her seat. His nose bled, and the bright red fluid trickled down his chin. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face and hands. “What in God’s name happened? Did we derail?”

  “I don’t know,” Archie said. “But I will go check.”

  Before he had time to get up from his seat, a disheveled train employee stopped at their compartment. “I apologize, but we have had an accident,” he explained. “The train has hit a herd of elephants, and we can go no further.”

  “Hit a herd of elephants?” Linley asked. So that was the noise she heard—the dying cries of an elephant. “How incredibly tragic.”

  “Yes, Memsahib. Very tragic.”

  Sir Bedford Talbot-Martin leaned forward in his seat. “So what will we do now?”

  “We will reverse to the last station we passed,” the man said. “The locals will not remove the carcasses from the tracks, Sahib. They mourn them.”

  Linley thought of those poor elephants and her mind flashed back to the woman at the Derby. She saw her twisted body thrashed beneath the horse’s hooves. She heard the bellows of the elephants just outside her window. She remembered every vivid detail, one accident blurring with another, and she thought she would be sick.

  “Excuse me!” she cried as she pushed past the train employee. Linley ran to the lavatory and slammed the door behind her, making it just in time to wretch into the toilet. She heaved for a few moments, sobbing. This was a bad omen. She braced her hands on the wall in front of her. A very bad omen.

  When she caught her breath, she staggered over to the sink and splashed cold water on her face. Her hands trembled.

  “Are you ill, Button?” her father asked, knocking on the door.

  It took Linley a few tries to find her voice, and when she did, it came out no more than a whisper. “I…I had a shock…but I’m fine now.”

  “Then come out of there,” he said. “This is no time to lose one’s composure over a few pachyderms. Our entire expedition could be in jeopardy if we cannot get to Guahati before the rains set in!”

  Linley opened the lavatory door, glaring at her father through bleary eyes. For once—just once—she wished she could tell him that everything was not all about his damned expedition.

  ***

  The train backed down the tracks until it reached a small station on the outskirts of a tea plantation. Fields of little green leaves stretched for miles on both sides of the red dirt road. Women with woven baskets on their backs picked the tea, their brightly colored clothing dipping up and down amidst the emerald green background. Far beyond them, the whitewashed walls of the plantation house gleamed in the afternoon sun.

  The station itself was no more than a lean-to with a few worn wooden benches set beneath it. The man who sold the tickets also acted as porter, and he helped Linley off of the passenger car.

  “There is a village a few miles walk from here,” he told them. “Or you can wait for the wagon, but it only comes when the trains are due…and another is not due for many hours.”

  Thank god they planned to wait until they arrived in Guahati to purchase supplies, or else the team would have quite a time dragging a month’s worth of provisions down this dusty dirt path. Linley and the others set off down the road in the sweltering heat, promising to send the wagon back for the rest of the passengers.

  As they walked, Linley studied the tea fields and the spotting of trees between the rows. Her father explained that the trees were planted to shield the tea bushes from the relentless Indian sun. She watched the women in the fields wade through the sea of green, their heads sheltered beneath wide straw hats and swaths of tightly wrapped cloth.

  Linley adjusted her own straw hat. The old thing showed every bit of every mile it ever traveled. Her nice clothes had been shipped to their villa in Malta soon after they left London. She wondered if there would be a letter from Patrick also waiting for her whenever she finally went home. Linley thought of him often. More often than she liked to admit to herself.

  She wondered what he was doing at that exact moment, whether his sister had her baby yet, and if he really meant what he said about not marrying Gaynor Robeson. Linley knew she would be hurt if she found out he ever married, but she would be crushed if it were Gaynor. Even if she lived to be one hundred years old, and had long forgotten what either of their faces looked like, her heart would shatter into a thousand tiny pieces at the news.

  Linley wished she had a photograph of him. Perhaps he would send one to her someday. She decided she would have Archie take one of her during their trip, and when she went home, she would send it in her first letter to Patrick. Hopefully, he would get the hint and send one of his own.

  Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he would never write to her. With all those beautiful, rich
London girls turning themselves inside out for him, why would he bother with a spotty-faced, tangle-haired girl seven thousand miles away? She kicked a rock with the toe of her boot. Linley hated feeling sorry for herself, and that was exactly what she was doing. If Patrick forgot about her, it was her own fault. Not a day went by that she didn’t wish she’d stayed in London. All the ‘maybes’ and ‘what ifs’ haunted her, and they probably would until the day she died.

  ***

  Linley’s team sat on the side of the road, sipping from their canteens in the shade of a banyan tree. The sun was at its highest then, and they rested in the cool dirt beneath the tree branches. Besides the voices of the tea-pickers singing, there wasn’t a sound in the air. So when they heard the rumble of an automobile engine, everyone turned to see who it could be.

  Speeding down the path came a man and two women in a Renault torpedo. As they drew closer, they slowed to a stop amid a cloud of bright orange dust.

  “Hullo, there!” the man called out to them.

  Linley’s father waved in return. “Good afternoon!”

  “We don’t see many visitors…have you come by rail?”

  He answered that they had indeed, explaining the accident and how they came to the spot on the road where they now sat.

  The three people in the car glanced at each other, shocked. “Then we will send someone for the wagon, and you will come have tea with us! You must be famished!”

  No one could see the harm in stopping to enjoy a good meal, and one by one, the team piled into the motorcar, apologizing for their dust and grime. As soon as they were settled, the motor sped off down the dirt road.

  It turned at the gate of the great tea plantation, rattling toward the whitewashed main house. Away from the tea fields, the grounds were neatly clipped and meticulously maintained, leading up to the columned veranda that wrapped around the home. The motor stopped at the front steps, and an Indian footman stepped off the porch to help them out of the automobile.

  The man driving peeled off his dusty motoring gloves and held out his hands to Linley’s father. “I apologize for not introducing myself earlier. Frank Howard.” He gestured to the woman beside him. “This is my wife, Madeline, and her sister, Adeline, but we call her Ada to avoid any confusion.”