Revolutionary Hearts

by Pema Donyo

  Warren ducked behind another tree, closer to the door. Next to the new cluster of trees, she would not be able to see him … but he was within perfect earshot of whatever she uttered.

  A creak could be heard from behind the corner. “Parineeta!”

  Hold on, I recognize that voice. It was the gardener, wasn’t it? The Indian his men had been beating yesterday. He leaned closer against the tree, craning his neck to hear more.

  “What does he think of the HRA? What information have you learned?”

  Information?

  “I have only been spying on him for two days, Raj. I do not know much.”

  Warren frowned. He’d suspected she was a revolutionary, but he hadn’t realized she’d been spying on him. The wisps of green plants before him, one of the few spots of color across the barren desert, swayed to the sound of her voice.

  Perhaps she was his own spot of color. Who possessed more useful information about the revolutionaries than another spy?

  • • •

  “Yes, but two days is still a long while!”

  Parineeta tapped her foot. She tried to peer beyond Raj’s shoulder and into the garden shed he sometimes occupied. “Can you not let me in?”

  “No, another gardener is sleeping in here.” Raj’s smile told her the person in his shed was no gardener. She shuddered.

  “Look, I do not care who she is; just listen to me.” Parineeta leaned forward. She attempted to keep her voice even. Now was not the time to worry him more than necessary. “I have been invited to the general’s party tonight at his house.”

  “What?” Then he winced. After a hasty glance behind him at whoever was sleeping, he turned back to Parineeta. He kept his voice low. “Why would he invite you?”

  “That is what I do not understand.” She smoothed out the folds in her sari. The motion gave her a sense of comfort, unlike her current task. “This mission does not make any sense. He tells me that my information is essential to his project. He’s asking me about the independence movement; he says I need to help him with his research…”

  Raj’s voice became cold. “You haven’t given him any reason to know you’re spying on him, have you? You do not want him to question your loyalties.”

  “No! Of course I wouldn’t.” She gulped. At least I hope not.

  “Good.” He pressed his lips together. “Then you should go tonight. See if you can find out any plans of how the British army is going to deal with my group. We’ll take him down. Just wait.”

  Take him down? Her heartbeat quickened at the loaded threat. Parineeta’s eyes drifted to the pocket in Raj’s white trousers where she knew he kept his gun. When she was younger, she never understood why he even had the weapon. Even after beatings from other soldiers, he’d never pulled out his revolver. Not yet, anyway.

  “Promise me you won’t hurt him.”

  He scowled. “Why do you care?”

  “He saved your life yesterday!”

  “I was fine.” Her brother looked away. His hand rested on his gun.

  Parineeta folded her arms over her chest. “Let us not rush anything. I do not think this general is the same as all the other cruel ones we’ve known.” Her memories jumped back to when her grandfather had still been alive. The past general had forced farmers to grow a crop that failed in their fields and still imposed the annual land tax that year, causing the entire village to suffer from famine. Her grandfather had given all the food they could afford to her grandmother, her mother, Raj, and herself. He’d died of starvation by the end of the winter. “But General Carton has been nothing but nice toward me.”

  “Nice enough for you to be deceived by him?”

  She nearly slapped Raj across the cheek. The nerves in her palm twitched at the imagined contact. “That’s enough, brother.” She could hardly believe this gun-slinging revolutionary was the same brother who helped her with the laundry and made her palak paneer for dinner when her mother was working in the previous general’s house. He’d seemed so innocent then. “I am nothing but loyal to the independence movement.”

  “Good.” Raj shook his finger at her. “First rule—don’t get caught. If you get caught, they’ll find out about me. And then our whole village back home. They’ll hurt our grandmother. Second rule—do not start to care for your boss.”

  Her cheeks burned. “What?”

  “You are his servant. He would never care for you.”

  “I do not find him attractive.” She whisked the thoughts of a blue-eyed, brown-haired general out of her mind. Her brother would find more comfort in her lies. “I learned from our mother that you can never trust men.”

  “You can trust me.” Raj puffed out his chest. How can he look so determined? He has no experience with fighting. He took so much of the independence movement upon himself. “I’m heading out with Dev in a train robbery soon.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I am coming with you.”

  “It is not safe for you. You should stay here.”

  Always with the overprotection. “What experience do you have with fighting?”

  “My dedication is what matters, not my experience.”

  Her thin bangles chimed as she placed one hand on her hip. “You cannot get rid of me so easily. I am as dedicated to this movement as you are.”

  Her brother turned his attention away from her. He craned his neck toward the road behind her and looked over her shoulder. “What was that?”

  Parineeta frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  He held a finger up to his lips and cupped one tanned hand behind his ear. “I just heard someone.”

  “It’s probably the wind.” She looked up at the threatening sky. The summer rains were as unpredictable as the general’s requests. Heavy rain could fall any day now or maybe not for another two weeks. “Or the roll of the incoming monsoon. That is all.”

  He nodded but still scanned the road behind her shoulder with a wary eye. “You should be careful as well. You never can trust the British.”

  Chapter Four

  You never could trust the British. One moment you felt sure you were accepted as one of them, and the next moment you received a letter saying they’ve found out about your secret identity. He bent his head back to finish the rest of the pale Scotch in his crystal glass. Trust the British, indeed.

  “I said, this is my new fiancée.”

  Warren looked away from the fireplace to the woman standing before him. Ah, Shelly Hastings. And a simpering, slouching man in a starched collar next to her.

  “How do you do?” He set his empty glass down on the mantel and shook the man’s hand. His large palm enveloped the smaller man’s clammy hand. “I hope you and Miss Hastings are well.”

  Shelly cleared her throat. “Lloyd and I were thinking of a spring wedding.” She narrowed her emerald-green eyes at Warren. “You always loved the idea of a spring wedding, didn’t you?”

  He resisted the urge to groan. Agree with a woman once and she reminded you forever. Shelly Hastings would never forgive him, would she? He hadn’t even realized she’d been flirting with him until she’d already started babbling on to all the other officers about their supposed wedding details. “That was some time ago, Miss Hastings.”

  Shelly huffed in indignation. “Not so long. Just a season, I think.” The turquoise silk of her dress strained against her figure as she wrapped her arm around the simpering sod’s. “Lloyd and I are much better suited, though, I do believe. Don’t you, Lloyd?”

  Lloyd grunted. He didn’t seem to have much of an opinion on the matter.

  She smiled. “See? He and I are well-suited.”

  “I wish you two all the happiness in the world.” Warren managed to force a small smile for her sake.

  Shelly batted her thick lashes at him as a self-satisfied smirk crossed her features. Her blond curls bounced against her shoulders as she gestured to the other side of the ballroom. “Do not despair, General Carton. Someday you will find your own domestic bliss. Lloyd an
d I must say hello to Lady Lanister, if you’ll excuse us.”

  Warren watched her walk away with her fiancée’s arm in tow. God bless him. Shelly was lovely to look at; there was no real reason he hadn’t been able to marry her. A general should be married, or so all the other ladies loved to remind him. Shelly especially.

  He turned his gaze back to the fireplace, where he knew the ashes of the cryptic letter remained. Where was the time for love in a profession such as his? How could he allow himself to settle with a woman when he knew he would have to leave her in a few years when his assignment ended?

  Not that he’d remained very long in the current one. And who was he supposed to report to now—the National Bureau of Criminal Identification or the Federal Bureau of Investigation? His gaze flickered between the different generals present. Brass buttons shined to perfection beneath the light of the hanging chandelier. Half the uniformed men tolerated him, and the other half were all plotting to become viceroy and surpass him. Any other powerful officer was a threat.

  Warren bit back a bitter smile. He was no threat to professional success. Just an agent passing through, looking for some answers and a mission to complete. Speaking of a completed mission … where was the vital instrument to his?

  He scanned the crowd for a sight of her tan skin and curled mane. Crepe dresses in pastel colors swayed across the floor, their reflections bouncing off the mirrors on the upper half of each wall. Gentlemen in suits escorted women with finger wave hairstyles from the sidelines to the center of the ballroom. All the ladies were either plump wives of British generals or their innocent daughters. The same fair hair, fairer skin, and delicate steps as dainty as they were demure.

  Several of the women met his gaze, fluttering their lashes in what Warren suspected was a half-hearted attempt to capture his attention. His eyes shifted to each one, searching for the Anglo-Indian beauty with fiery responses and unabashed opinions. He expected a swish of bright sari to come sweeping through the crowd at any moment, pushing aside the sea of pearls and silk tulle dresses with the beat of her bangles.

  Yet she was nowhere to be seen. Not in the mass of starched tuxedos and lace evening dresses, anyway. Where was Parineeta?

  He walked into the long hallway, past the party guests and beyond the violinists and even further than the swirling dresses and shining brass buttons of the dancing couples. His footsteps quickened as worry settled in his gut. Maybe she’d decided not to show up.

  He’d given specific instructions to the maid to have her ready hours ago. There was no chance she would still be waiting next to the…

  “Parineeta?”

  The slender figure rested one delicate hand over the polished staircase railing. She’d placed one foot onto the first marble step of the winding staircase. Her back was facing him, and her position was frozen in place. Yet her torso remained twisted to the side, as if he’d caught her in a sudden movement to run away from the crowd.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I cannot go out there.” She lowered her foot and placed the slipper back onto the ground. The draped silk fabric of her black evening gown brushed against the floor as she stepped down, contrasting against the white marble tile.

  He could hear her voice tremble. How strange that a girl who seemed so spirited and full of passion for independence could feel so insecure before facing the men she proposed to fight. Surely it wasn’t about her appearance. She was prettier than all of the other women in the room.

  “And why is that?”

  “They will recognize me.” Her voice sounded tight. “They will know I am half-caste. I am not one of them.”

  The music from the other end of the hall drifted along the corridors and played softly around the stairwell, the once lively rhythm settling into a mellower tune. He straightened the front of his shirt. “What is the matter with that?”

  Parineeta’s voice gained strength. Irritation crept into her tone. She turned to the side, half of her face exposed to the light. “You would not understand.”

  “Maybe I would, maybe I wouldn’t. That does not mean you shouldn’t come out here.” Warren started forward.

  All he could see with her back turned to him was her black dress. The gown covered her shoulders, and long, lace gloves fitted over her hands and wrists. There was even a beaded cloche hat placed on the top of her head.

  “I am sure you look fine.” He struggled to keep the exasperation out of his voice. He stepped closer again and drummed his fingers against the wooden railing next to him. “I told the maids to spare no expense on buying you clothes for tonight.”

  He watched her shoulders rise and fall with a sudden intake of breath. “You should not have done that.”

  Warren smirked. “Most women would say thank you.”

  “I am not most women.”

  “Clearly.”

  She sighed. “I look nothing like myself.”

  “Let me see.”

  She turned slowly at first, with a hesitating step, and then with a swish of her gown she stood directly in front of him.

  Warren’s jaw dropped.

  Good lord…

  Her natural beauty hadn’t been altered by her attire. It was still there, the golden perfection of her skin and the intense gaze of her eyes. But the woman in front of him looked nothing like the bangle-wearing, veil-covered girl his gardener had presented to him a few days ago. This woman had her naturally wavy hair brushed into an up-do, a string of pearls around her neck, and shining jeweled earrings placed on her lobes. The light of the chandelier above them illuminated the light brown highlights in her otherwise black tresses, while the silver accents of the sides of her black dress sparkled against her creamy skin. She looked beautiful.

  “I look bad.”

  Warren blinked. “What?” He blinked several more times, trying to register the sight in front of him. “What did you say?”

  “I look terrible.”

  “No, no, you look…” He searched for the right words. His entire vocabulary suddenly fled his memory at that moment, leaving him at a loss. All he could do was shake his head like a dumb mule. “You look…”

  “Ridiculous and out of place, I am aware.” She pulled at her left earlobe, fiddling with the diamond-encrusted earring. “These clothes are not very comfortable.”

  “You look amazing.”

  The thin lining of kohl framing Parineeta’s eyes made her bright expression appear even braver. She arched one full brow at him. “Is that so, sir?”

  “Call me Warren tonight.” He lifted the cuffed white sleeve of his coat, offering his arm to her. “You are my research assistant, and I am your employer. That is all we are for tonight.”

  She slipped her glove-covered arm around his. A loose tendril of wavy black hair grazed the top of her right cheekbone as she regarded him with suspicion. “Why are you doing all this for me?”

  “I have my reasons.” Warren guided her into the bustling ballroom full of British generals and their wives. “Just as you have yours.” He felt her arm stiffen around his at the last sentence.

  Now was not the time to be distracted, especially by another spy, no matter what beauty she may have been hiding. His shallow breath filled the quiet corridor.

  He pressed his hand into the small of her back. She arched at the movement, the soft black fabric beneath his hands slipping out of reach at the sudden contact. There was a certain elegance to her movements, a lightness of step he had at first attributed to the sway of her sari. But even in the evening dress she retained the same poise, her slim shoulders pressed back as the curve of her hips shifted from side to side.

  The chandelier threw light against the walls, reflecting across the several gold-leafed mirrors and directly along the center of the floor as the pair entered the room. As he and Parineeta slowed to a halt, a hush descended over the crowd. All eyes turned to Parineeta as his hand fell from her back. Her arm gripped his tighter, and he winced.

  “There’s no need to worry,” he
whispered.

  Or so he hoped.

  The elder women at the party had already started fanning themselves, disguising their scowls of Old World disapproval beneath their white ostrich feather fans. The younger ladies took more brazen approaches to the sight, some openly gawking with their jaws wide open while others pointed.

  Among these spectators, he spotted Shelly’s mop of blond curls out of the corner of his eye. If her whispers to Lloyd were supposed to be private, she wasn’t doing a tremendous job of keeping quiet. “Who’s that girl?”

  In truth, he could barely answer the question himself.

  “General Carton!” A young colonel strolled up to Warren. His breath smelled of whiskey, but his smile remained harmless. “How are you and your lady?”

  A weight lifted off Warren’s chest. He’d always liked Colonel Williams. The man refused to use punishment on his Indian servants, and he was known for paying his employees more than other British masters in the area. He was also, thankfully, much less judgmental than the other generals. “Fine, just fine. May I introduce my research assistant, Parineeta Singh?”

  “A research assistant? Whatever for?”

  The voice sounded cold and clipped. Definitely not from the colonel. Warren turned to the source and resisted the urge to groan. Lieutenant Colonel Ellington.

  “What are you doing, cavorting with a coolie?” Ellington practically spat the words into Warren’s face. His wrinkled forehead pressed into a map of thin lines and crow’s feet as he peered at the couple.

  Warren kept his tone even. The whiskey from earlier in the evening began to warm his cheeks, and a flash of annoyance flared through him. “Your remarks are unwelcome by everyone, Ellington. This woman has a name; I suggest you use it.”

  “I will not learn the name of a half-caste wastrel,” the old man said. He laughed, the hollow sound empty and mocking. “You must have fallen upon hard times indeed if you must turn to the other race.”

  “Race does not matter in this house,” he managed to reply through gritted teeth.