Lord Ravencroft eyed her curiously. "For a ladies maid you're very outspoken," he said. "Didn't you learn that you're to be seen and not heard, unless addressed?"
Eliza realized her gaffe. If she continued her outspoken ways she'd not even get to Shanti Bhavan, much less find her way inside. "I'm sorry, my lord," she said, dutifully. "I didn't realize I had spoken out of order. It is a problem I have, and I’ll say no more."
He nudged closer. "On the contrary," he said, "I want you to continue. I find it amusing. I'm also curious to learn what else you think of us British."
Heat from Lord Ravencroft's arm permeated hers and she could do nothing but remain wedged between him and the coach door. Refusing to look at him, she said, "I'd rather not say, my lord. I fear I have said too much already."
"As your master, I insist." He raised a bent knuckle and turned her face toward his.
She peered into eyes dark with challenge, which compelled her to speak her mind. "Very well," she clipped. "I think you British are here to dispense with anything you find incomprehensible, anything that puts you in danger of getting too close to India, allowing it to seep into your bones."
He let out an ironic laugh. "It's damned near impossible to keep India from seeping into our bones," he said. "It's hot as hell. And you can't deny, the lot of them worship more gods than there are people, and every god has a sacred temple. It's damned barbaric."
"Perhaps from your viewpoint," she said. "The irony of it is, Indians think the British depraved. After all, British women walk about unveiled, they mingle with men who are not their relatives, and they dance in public like harlots. The Brahmin lump the British with sweepers and other untouchables, finding it necessary to go through a purification rite if an Englishman touches them." She saw the unyielding look on the man's face and knew her appraisal was right. He was as British as the rest. Which meant: the land was there to bear riches, the people to be exploited. And the Kalki-Avatar to be returned to the Kuraver. She too could play that British game of justified appropriation. But with the opal, she'd be returning it to its rightful owners.
The hard line of Lord Ravencroft's jaw softened, and to her surprise, he reached out and traced a path from her wrist to the tip of her finger, then curved his hand around hers. "Hell has no fury like a woman scorned," he said. "Have I insulted you, gypsy girl?"
Eliza removed her hand from beneath his and folded her arms. "You asked me to tell you what I thought of the British so I did."
He gave her a curiously engaging smile. "Well, between you, me, and the lamppost," he said, "I think you're right, at least about the British being depraved. But we disguise our depravity beneath a pretense of aristocratic demeanor that we call being civilized."
Eliza focused on his mouth, intrigued by the way one side tipped upward, yet not quite into a smile. He had an appealing mouth, if a man's mouth could be considered appealing. She'd never thought of a man's mouth that way, nor had she ever kissed a man. But she thought that if she ever did, she’d like to kiss a mouth like Lord Ravencroft's...
"Is there something wrong, Miss Shirazi?" he asked.
Eliza looked into a pair of cobalt eyes as perceptive as they were captivating. "No, my lord, I was just contemplating your pretense of... aristocratic demeanor," she said, struggling to retain her train of thought, wishing he wouldn't look at her so intensely.
He smiled in amusement. "Are you sure you weren't contemplating my depravity?"
Heat rushed up her face. For a blue-blood, he was unusually insightful. Most British, she'd found, were not. "Quite certain." She turned from him, but the thought of his lips touching hers lingered, even as she vowed to guard against such foolish notions.
They overtook a cart drawn by a pair of white bullocks with splayed horns. It was then that Eliza got her first glimpse of Shanti Bhavan, the high walls of the manor house looming like a great gray fortress... But the house had been pink…
Still, she had no idea why she thought it so. Noting about the house was familiar.
Except for the fact that it should have been pink...
The coach passed beneath an arched green canopy of bridal creeper and entered a stone-paved courtyard. Verandas running the full-length of each floor came alive with white-turbaned servants, who scurried about in readiness for their master's arrival.
As Eliza stared at a sun-baked courtyard wavering with heat, the image of a squat brown pony, standing in a courtyard swept clean by rain, filled her mind’s eye. As she peered out the coach window to conjure up details of a scene in a far distant memory, the words, "My pony," escaped her lips.
Lord Ravencroft looked at her curiously. “Is my home familiar to you?" he asked.
She blinked several times and vowed to be more vigilant if further memories surfaced. “No, my lord," she said. But when she glanced around at him, she knew he wasn’t convinced.
“I’ll keep that in mind, gypsy girl. I’ll also alert Mrs. Throckmorton. She’s shrewd when it comes to evaluating new staff." He climbed out of the coach and motioned to one of his footmen. "Rana, take Miss Shirazi to Mrs. Throckmorton for instructions," he said, then strode across the courtyard towards the stables.
A sense of foreboding crept over Eliza, but she couldn’t decide if it was because disturbing memories were beginning to surface, or if her mission at Shanti Bhavan was already predestined to fail. All she knew for sure was, the next few days would be critical, and she did not look forward to her upcoming assessment by Mrs. Throckmorton.
CHAPTER TWO
Eliza followed the footman into a spacious kitchen with a lofty ceiling designed to alleviate the heat. But the heat clung, intensifying the odor of garlic and cooking oil, and turmeric and ginger and cloves, and the cow-dung that heated the huge baked-clay oven. The room bustled with dusky-skinned, sweat-dampened, ayahs clad in white saris. One ground spices on a stone. Another plucked a chicken over a blood-laden basket. Others scrubbed floors or scoured copper cooking pots and round-bottomed dekchis.
The footman turned Eliza over to Mrs. Throckmorton, who was testing the cleanliness of a shelf with the tip of her finger. A tall, angular matron, Mrs. Throckmorton had peppery-gray hair swept back in a tight bun, a pinched nose with large oval nostrils, and a mouth that held an aspect of perennial disdain. From a chatelaine about her narrow waist dangled the keys to the various larders and linen cupboards, and perhaps the closets containing the valuables. The opal would no doubt be locked behind one of those doors. And Mrs. Throckmorton would no doubt sleep with the keys close at hand, if not on her person. She turned to face Eliza. "So you're to be a cook, I presume."
Eliza dipped a curtsy. "No ma'am. His Lordship said I was to be a housemaid."
Mrs. Throckmorton eyed her with skepticism. "I will clear it with his Lordship," she said, "and if you're lying to me, girl, you'll be dismissed at once. Without references."
"Yes ma'am," Eliza replied, submissively.
Mrs. Throckmorton scanned the length of her. "I was not expecting you, so you shall not be uniformed until tomorrow. Meanwhile, that dress you are wearing will not do at all. I trust you have something less shabby to change into."
Eliza glanced down at her dress, the only one she owned that did not label her gypsy, and said, "I have a skirt and blouse, but it is not appropriate—"
"It would certainly be better than the rag you are wearing," Mrs. Throckmorton cut in. "You will change before starting your duties today."
"But, you don't understand—"
"Do not be impertinent, girl. Do as you are told. Then come to me, and I will provide you with an apron."
A wave of panic washed over Eliza. The clothes were those she'd worn to catch Lord Ravencroft's eye. Perhaps if she plucked the bangles from the skirt and dispensed with the colorful ties on the blouse, the clothes would not label her gypsy. And the apron would cover the rest. "Yes, ma'am. Shall I change now?" she asked.
The woman pinned her with a hard-eyed look. "Not until you learn your duties." She sucke
d in a breath, and said while exhaling, "You will rise with the six-o'clock gong, tend your personal needs and go directly to the parlor, where you will cover the furniture with dust sheets, beat the curtains, sweep the floor, strew moist tea-leaves on the carpets and sweep them up with the carpet broom. Then you will go to the dining and drawing rooms and do the same. The library and master study are locked when not in use, so you will clean those rooms only under my supervision."
Eliza's mind snapped to attention. The library and master study? Locked when not in use? Why? Because one of the rooms guarded something valuable...?
"…and with the eight-thirty gong," Mrs. Throckmorton continued, "you will go to the bed chambers where you will dust, sweep and scrub floors. At noon you will take tiffin with the servants, after which you will gather laundry, mend sheets and mark linens. The six o'clock gong will announce porridge, after which you will retire to your room. At nine-o'clock, lamps are extinguished. You will enter through the servant's entrance, have no male visitors, attend church on Sunday, and if you find yourself in his lordship's presence, you will curtsy, lower your eyes, and address him as 'My Lord.' Have I made myself clear?"
The woman's condescending attitude was degrading, and before she could check herself, Eliza said, with an air of erudition, "I shall endeavor to follow the rules and conduct myself in the precise manner of which you have outlined."
Mrs. Throckmorton's eyes narrowed into scornful slits. "Watch your tongue girl. Don't be talking with high-flown ways, patterning yourself after your betters, or you'll find yourself working in the laundry. Now, I shall show you to your quarters."
Eliza followed the woman up three flights of stairs and down a hallway to a stifling, inferno of a room tucked beneath a hot tile roof. The headboards of two narrow beds butted up to one wall, and at the foot of each stood a scuffed, wooden chest. On the opposite wall, with barely enough room to pass, were two small tables, each bearing a pitcher and a wash basin. In the corner stood the thunderbox—a stark wooden commode with arms and a lid that closed over an enameled chamber pot. Eliza stepped to the window and peered out. Below stretched the veranda roof. If she were cautious, she could crawl out the window at night and sit on the roof and wait for the moon and coolness...
"Girl! Do you think you have been employed to dawdle the day away?"
Eliza sighed. "No, Mrs. Throckmorton."
"One more thing." She leveled stern eyes on Eliza. "There will be no prowling about the house after the lanterns are extinguished. And, I pray you will not disgrace us as Alice did, sneaking out and engaging in a tryst. And see where it got her. Unwed and with child. Why his lordship employed the wretched girl remains a mystery. And why he enlisted your services is also a mystery. It's obvious, you are willful and untrained."
"I beg to differ with you, Mrs. Throckmorton," Eliza said. "I was a ladies maid for—" she paused on the verge of announcing her fictitious Lord Hall, then shut her mouth.
"You cannot remember the name. I thought so. And a liar you be also. Well, you'll not be lying to me." Mrs. Throckmorton slapped Eliza 's cheek. "You are flippant and impudent and I will not tolerate such insolence."
Eliza balled her fist to keep from striking back. If there were not so much at stake, she would. The tedious, despicable old termagant certainly gave her reason.
"Change your clothes," Mrs. Throckmorton snapped, "and meet me in the sitting room where I shall acquaint you with your duties before his lordship's… lady arrives."
Eliza looked at the woman with a start. "I thought there was no Lady Ravencroft."
Mrs. Throckmorton's nostrils flared. "There is no Lady Ravencroft. Now, you shall not discuss his lordship or his lordship's lady. Gossip among the servants is not tolerated." Turning abruptly, she marched off, the jangling of keys accompanied by her brisk steps echoing down the hallway.
Eliza stared after her. So, there was a lady in Lord Ravencroft's life. But then there would be. The man was breathtakingly handsome, she begrudgingly acknowledged, even if he was a pompous jackass. Naturally he'd be pursued by women.
What was the future Lady Ravencroft like? Poised? Genteel? Exquisite? Which was of no concern to her... Unless, of course, the lady was the intended recipient of the opal and it were to leave the premises on her person. That would complicate matters greatly. So, perhaps a lovers' spat was in order, one that would send the lady off in a huff for a week or so, enough time to locate the opal and abscond with it.
***
Cedrid Hadleigh raised the opal, and the gem burst into fiery flashes. "What are you talking about? Napoleon and Josephine? Burning of Troy?" he said to Damon, his eyes focused on the gem. "I thought it belonged to the gypsies."
"It did," Damon replied, "but before that, it belonged to Empress Josephine. It disappeared after her death, and that's when it fell into the hands of gypsies."
Cedric eyed the stone with renewed interest. "How much is it worth?"
"Enough to clear my name, pay my way to England, and restore Westwendham." Damon took the opal from Cedric's hands and slipped it into a velvet pouch, then placed the pouch in a strongbox and shoved it under his desk. "You were asking about a loan?"
Cedric stared at the strongbox for an inordinate amount of time, then shifted his gaze to Damon. "Three-thousand rupees would tide me over until the crop comes in."
"Three-thousand! Good God. You want a bloody fortune! I'll loan you five-hundred."
"But... I've got a staff of forty-four."
"Then dismiss that Delhian mehra of yours!"
"Get rid of Hasan?" Cedric said, forlorn. "But a chap's got to eat."
"Not like a maharajah! Get yourself a British cook." Damon eyed Cedric with vexation. Bloody hell! The man should feel lucky to have a square meal. The problem was, Cedric had never known hunger, never stared at a pastry cook's window while dreaming of eating plum cakes or raspberry tarts. Never stood by an eating house, inhaling the sultry air wafting from the wall gratings while imagining sinking his teeth into an eel pie or a round of beef or a pen'orth of pudding dripping in fat and plump raisins...
Cedric slumped into a chair. "I can't get rid of Hasan,” he groused. “He uses almonds and pistachios instead of rice and lentils and no one knows until they taste it. He cuts the almonds to look like rice and the pistachios to look like lentils, so you think you're getting khichri. And once tasted, the dish is never forgotten. And with his roghni rot—" Cedric kissed the tips of his fingers with a smack "—the bread's no thicker than paper."
Damon dipped his pen in the inkstand and scrolled a note, and handed it to Cedric. "This is it, old chap. Keep your mehra or dismiss him, it's up to you. But you won't get another rupee from me until this is paid in full, with interest."
Cedric took the note. "Perhaps it will see me through until harvest—"
"Damon!" Mara glided into the library, sari swishing against her ankles, cheeks flushed with anticipation. "I come for black horse."
Damon looked at her with at start. He'd completely forgotten to send word that she not come. "I didn't get the horse," he said.
"What you mean? Not get horse?"
"My lord? If I might interrupt." Eliza appeared in the doorway, clad in the skirt and décoletté blouse she'd worn at the horse fair. But now a bibbed apron stretched tight across her breasts and hugged her tiny waist. "Could you direct me to the sitting room?"
"Damon!" Mara gasped. "Who is this... person?"
"My name is Eliza," she replied. "I'm the new housemaid." She turned to Damon. "I am sorry to disturb you, but like I assured you at the horse fair, I truly want to please you."
"If you want to please me," Damon said, "you will leave at once."
She batted her lashes. "Yes, my lord, if you will direct me to the sitting room."
Mara leveled furious eyes on Damon. "You must take me for complete, what you say, ninny! Am I to believe this woman is housemaid?"
"It's true, my lady," Eliza said. "Lord Ravencroft offered me a job as a cook, but when I
told him I could not cook, he offered me the job as a housemaid which—"
"Eliza!" Damon cut in. "Enough. The sitting room is down the hallway to your right. Leave at once, and do not disturb us again."
Eliza had barely left the room when Mara said to Damon, "She not cook so why you employ her in first place?"
Damon inhaled a long breath to clear his mind of flashing eyes and a pair of moist lips begging to be kissed. "I did not intend to, but when I was ready to make an offer on the horse—"
"My lord?" Eliza appeared in the doorway again. "I couldn't help overhearing. Let me explain what happened since it was because of me that you failed to purchase the horse. You see, my lady, with Lord Ravencroft chasing me across the meadow and tussling with me in the grass, he missed the chance to purchase the horse. But he had fully intended to do so. Now, I must meet with Mrs. Throckmorton." Turning quickly, she left.
"So, she not what I think?" Mara seized a book and hurled it at Damon, sending it crashing against the wall. "I saw how you look at her." She seized another book.
Damon rushed over and captured Mara's wrist. "Enough! Either go back to the bungalow or back to your maharajah, but don't come here telling me what I can and cannot do. I'll do whatever I damn well please. Is that clear?"
“Very clear. You also find cold bed in bungalow!” Mara made a dramatic sweeping turn and stormed out of the room.
Damon started after her, set on having the final say, but stopped short when he met Eliza in the hallway. "My, but your lady rushed out hastily," she said. "I certainly didn't mean to stir up a hornet's nest."
"Didn't you though?" Damon gave her a black-hearted smile. "Well, it might please you to know that I don't entertain high hopes of salvaging the alliance."
Eliza looked at him, mirth glimmering in her eyes as she said, "I don’t know why you'd want to be entangled with such an emotional women. I'd think you'd be glad to be rid of her."
Her Master's Touch Page 3
