Danger at Dahlkari

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I—I want to thank you for your kindness,” I said. My voice sounded unusually stiff. “You’ve been very—” I hesitated, floundering.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t been very good company,” he replied, “but I’ll make it up to you. You be ready at nine tomorrow morning.”

  “Nine?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Our ride,” he reminded me.

  “Oh—yes. Yes, that will be fine.”

  “I’m looking forward to it, Lauren.”

  He placed his hands on my shoulders then and pulled me toward him. He looked into my eyes for a long moment, and I saw his mouth curving as he tilted his head to one side and leaned down to kiss me, and then those lips were covering my own ever so lightly. They lingered in a long caress, warm, pliant, pressing gently, and then he drew back. His brow was stern, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. I looked up at that handsome face, confused, at a loss for words. Another long moment passed.

  “You didn’t slap me,” he said.

  “I—I know I didn’t, Lieutenant, but—neither did I swoon with rapture.”

  Lieutenant Stephens smiled. “You will next time,” he promised. “Next time I shall definitely see to it that you do.”

  And then he turned and moved down the steps and toward the green, tall and splendid in his uniform, walking in brisk, confident strides. I stood there in front of the door. Moonlight spilled over the banisters, coating the wooden floor with silver. The old porch swing creaked gently on its chains. I watched him stride down the green, and my confusion mounted, mingling with emotions I wasn’t ready to acknowledge. Michael Stephens disappeared, but still I lingered in front of the door, lost in thought. It was quite some time before I finally went inside.

  Six

  Sally and I stood in front of the stables, waiting for the men to join us. It was a glorious morning, the sky a pale bluish gray awash with brilliant silvery sunlight. Behind us the horses shuffled restlessly in their stalls, eager to be out on such a splendid day, and there was the smell of slightly damp hay and old leather and sweat. A week had passed since the night of the dance. I had seen Michael Stephens every single day. He had come to call on me at the house every single evening. We were going to visit the fabled ruined city of Karbala today, Sally and Sergeant Norman accompanying us. A huge straw picnic hamper sat at our feet, a blue and white checked cloth spread over the lavish lunch Olana had begrudgingly packed for us. I could hardly wait to be off.

  I had heard about the ruined city, of course. Almost everyone had. It had been discovered quite by accident only a few years ago, and I had read an account of that discovery in one of the papers in Bath. It had caused a sensation among archeologists and, because of the nature of the carvings, had caused proper Victorians to recoil in horror. When I had learned that Karbala was a mere two hours’ ride from Dahlkari, I had begun a persistent campaign to be taken to it. Michael had had considerable reservations, and Dollie had been most alarmed at the mere idea. Reggie agreed that Karbala was interesting indeed, although certainly not suitable for an impressionable young girl. I reminded him that I was quite grown up, and he said it still wouldn’t be a good idea for just the two of us to go so far afield with the Thuggee situation being what it was. It was then that I suggested that Sally and Sergeant Norman come along. Surely with two armed men there would be no danger. The arguments continued all around, but I had finally won out.

  Sally looked unusually fetching in a dusty-rose cotton dress. Although it had seen better days, it fit snugly at bosom and waist, pointing up her abundant curves, with a flared skirt. Freshly washed, her tarnished gold hair spilled to her shoulders in gleaming curls, fastened in back with a black velvet ribbon. Since the advent of Sergeant Norman she looked even more radiant, glowing with a new satisfied air that seemed to heighten her color.

  “I can hardly wait to see those carvings,” she said. “Bill assures me I’ll be ever so shocked.”

  “I rather doubt it,” I replied, teasing.

  “I do, too,” she agreed, “but I’m terribly curious. I do wish they would hurry. They’re going to wear civilian clothes, by the way. Bill told me we’ll have to tether the horses and walk part way, and it’s rough going. They’ll not want to ruin their good uniforms.”

  “I’ve never seen Michael out of uniform,” I remarked.

  “He’d look marvelous in anything, but Bill—I’m not so sure. The uniform gives him a certain glamor. Without it he might look common as a potato. I told him so. He didn’t like it a bit.”

  “You’re not still fighting?”

  “Oh, we fight every day, but I haven’t seen anyone else, if that’s what you mean. I wouldn’t dare. He laid down the law to me the night of the dance—ever so masterful, he was, quite thrilling.” She gave a wistful little sigh, her brown eyes dreamy. “You know, I think I may actually be fond of him.”

  “He’s certainly kept you in line.”

  “That’s because I want him to. It’s ever so nice, having just one beau. Never thought I’d take to it, but then I never met a man like Sergeant William Norman.”

  “He keeps you occupied, too. I hardly ever see you.”

  “You’ve been rather occupied yourself. I’m very happy for you, Miss Lauren. Lieutenant Stephens is such a fine catch.”

  “I—I haven’t caught him,” I protested.

  “No? It certainly looks that way to me.”

  “We’re merely friends.”

  “Friends? Every morning he comes by for you and the two of you go riding—he hasn’t missed a morning since the night of the dance—and then he comes round to the house every single evening and the two of you stroll in the gardens for hours. I suppose you just talk.”

  “That’s exactly what we do.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “Of course that’s all.”

  Sally shook her head. “It sounds dreadfully boring.”

  “It’s—quite stimulating.”

  Sally made no reply, but she didn’t need to. Her eyes told me exactly what she thought about such prim and proper behavior. It had been prim and proper. Michael had been charming and friendly and a wonderful companion on our rides, and, in the evenings, he had been attentive and polite and agreeable, but he had never kissed me a second time, had rarely taken my hand. I was relieved, or at least that’s what I told myself. The evening of the dance had left me in a state of emotional confusion, and I still wasn’t sure of my feelings toward him. I only knew that I looked forward to seeing him with keen anticipation, and in many ways this past week had been the happiest week of my life. Michael was giving me time, deliberately. I could sense that, and I both dreaded and eagerly looked forward to his next move, not at all certain what my response would be.

  “You look unusually nice this morning,” Sally remarked.

  “Thank you,” I replied.

  “I like your hair done up like that. It makes you look older.”

  I had taken extra care with my appearance this morning, but then I had been doing that for a week now and no longer tried to deceive myself as to the reason. My chestnut hair was worn in a French roll on the back of my head, secured by a number of hairpins. I wore a long-sleeved white blouse with lace ruching, a wide belt of dark blue kid and a full riding skirt of powder blue broadcloth, my kid boots the same dark blue as the belt. I was pleased with the total effect and felt I did indeed look older, less like a schoolgirl.

  “I do wish they’d hurry up,” Sally said. “These men, you can never depend on them. I suppose they had to stop by the armory to check out their pistols. Bill said he wasn’t at all in favor of this little outing, said it was downright foolhardy.”

  “That’s nonsense,” I told her. “The Thugs never attack English parties. It’s only the native caravans they go after. There haven’t been half a dozen English killed in the whole history of Thuggee.”

  “All I know is that the number was almost increased by two,” Sally retorted. “Besides, these Thugs ar
en’t like the others. The others had strong religious convictions, however grisly. These are the last holdouts, the most vicious of the lot. Although they still pay token allegiance to Kali, they’re really just using it as an excuse to kill and loot.”

  “I can see you’ve been discussing it with someone.”

  “Bill says I have a morbid interest in the matter, but, after all, I was almost strangled by the brutes. I want to learn all I can about them. Miss Lauren.…” She hesitated, as though debating whether or not to tell me something.

  “What is it, Sally?”

  “You know that yellow scarf, the one the Thug dropped on the ground when that native stabbed him—I never gave it to Reggie. I never mentioned it. He was asking so many questions and carrying on so that I plain forgot it was in the pocket of my dress.”

  “I—I forgot about it, too.”

  “Anyway, a couple of days ago I took the dress out to see if it could be salvaged, and as I was examining it the scarf dropped out. It gave me such a turn.”

  “Did you give it to Reggie?”

  There was a touch of defiance in her voice when she replied. “I folded it up and put it in the bottom of my wardrobe,” she said. “No disrespect to Reggie, Miss Lauren, but he really hasn’t been all that successful in flushing out these Thugs. I decided to wait and give the scarf to this man Gordon when he returns from his secret mission.”

  “Gordon?” I couldn’t hide my surprise.

  “I didn’t tell Bill about the scarf, I didn’t tell anyone, but from what Bill says about him I figure Gordon’s the man who’ll know what to do with it.”

  “You mean Sergeant Norman actually admires the man?”

  “That’s putting it mildly. You should hear him on the subject. Bill practically worships him, claims he’s the brainiest and also the boldest, most daring man he’s ever met. Oh, he admits Gordon’s a bit unusual, has some peculiar interests, but he says he’s undoubtedly a genius. If this Thuggee situation is ever cleared up, Gordon’s the man who’ll be responsible, Bill says.”

  “That’s not an opinion shared by others.”

  “No one else likes him. They resent him being sent in from outside to take over a job they couldn’t do properly. He intimidates them—Bill says he’s ever so cool and sarcastic, with a face like Satan incarnate. He and Bill struck up a friendship from the first, but Gordon makes everyone else uneasy.”

  Sally broke off when she spotted the men coming around the side of one of the buildings. They were talking in low voices. Sergeant Norman looked grim, and Michael seemed to be reassuring him about something. He indicated their pistols, and Norman shook his head and heaved his wide shoulders and looked resigned. They saw us then. Sally waved. Michael smiled at me, and I felt that little leap of happiness I always felt when I saw him again after being away from him for a period of time. I tried not to show it. Sally greeted her sergeant with cool disdain, informing him that we had been waiting in front of these smelly stables for fifteen minutes and when someone said ten she didn’t expect them to come shambling along at ten-fifteen. Sergeant Norman told her to shut up. Sally was delighted.

  Michael wore highly polished brown boots, snugly fitting tan doeskin breeches and a silky beige shirt with collar open at the throat and sleeves rolled up over his forearms, the tail tucked loosely in the waistband of his breeches. With the pistol hanging low on his hip in a brown leather holster, he reminded me of pictures I had seen of the American cowboys. He seemed more at ease than usual, the rather formal British officer replaced by a relaxed young man with windblown hair.

  “Sorry we’re late,” he said. “We had to stop by the armory and check out our pistols. I hope you haven’t been too impatient.”

  “Not at all,” I told him, a shade untruthfully.

  Michael took out his pistol and checked it, flicking the chamber open to make sure the gun was fully loaded.

  “There—there isn’t really any danger, is there?” I asked.

  “The pistols are merely a precaution,” he said calmly. “Norman here is convinced we’ll all be massacred by the dreaded Thugs, but I’ve assured him that’s nonsense. There’ve been no sign of them in the immediate area, and they’re only interested in rich caravans to begin with. I wouldn’t allow this if I thought there was even the slightest danger.”

  “I hope you’re right, sir,” Norman said glumly.

  “Trembling in your boots,” Sally taunted. “Big strapping fellow like you. Who’d have thought it?”

  “You mind your tongue!” he warned.

  Sergeant Norman was dressed in attire similar to Michael’s, his shirt a coarse white cotton, breeches dark gray, black boots rather the worse for wear. Sally eyed him appreciatively as he pushed a wave of reddish-bronze hair from his brow and called for the grooms to snap it up. They led out our horses, all saddled and ready to go. Sally and I both preferred to ride astride, disdaining the elegant but highly impractical side saddle. Sergeant Norman picked up the picnic hamper and secured it to the back of his saddle as Michael helped me mount the gentle chestnut mare I had been riding each morning. Sally complained that her plump dappled gray looked like a hack, but she swung nimbly up into the saddle nevertheless, and in a matter of minutes the four of us were on our way.

  Michael and I rode slightly ahead, heading east, village and garrison both in back of us. There was no road as such, only a vast expanse of rough terrain covered with stiff brownish-green grass, bleak and empty, only an occasional tree with wind-tormented black limbs breaking the monotony. The wind was strong. Michael’s locks flew about his head like short blond banners, his silky beige shirt billowing. I hoped my hairpins would hold the French roll in place. In the distance I could see a line of hills, green and dark brown and tan, all blurry in the haze of sunlight. We rode for several miles over this desolate area, horses moving at an easy pace, and gradually the land grew more verdant, greener, trees more profuse.

  Michael drew his horse closer to mine, looking at me with a faint smile on his lips.

  “Disappointed?” he inquired.

  “I don’t know what you mean. Why should I be disappointed?”

  “I thought it might have been the uniform that dazzled you. I feared you’d take one look at me in these clothes and decide I was an unglamorous fellow not worth your time.”

  “I think you look quite dashing,” I told him. “I’m not sure that I don’t like you better without the uniform. You look less formal, less remote.”

  “Formal? Remote? Are you talking about Michael Stephens? I thought I was an engaging chap too whimsical for words. I see you’ve gotten some false impressions. I’ll have to correct them. Today might be just the day for it.”

  “Indeed?”

  “You’re still going to swoon with rapture, you know. I imagine Sally and Sergeant Norman are going to want to wander off by themselves once we get to Karbala. Perhaps I’ll have an opportunity to correct a few of those false impressions then—once we’re alone.”

  It was light banter, nothing more, but I felt a nervous tremor inside, not certain whether it was dread or anticipation. Behind us I heard Norman give a loud guffaw, and I turned to see Sally clinging to the reins with one hand while trying to control her flying skirts with the other. The sergeant was grinning broadly, his blue eyes atwinkle. Sally controlled the unruly skirts and tucked them about her legs, giving the sergeant a look that should have felled him. Michael and I smiled at each other, and I was thankful for the distraction.

  We rode past a small native village, a collection of wretched hovels, women in dusty saris working in stony fields, half-naked children running about as starved-looking dogs barked vociferously. Ironically enough, there was a rather magnificent old temple at the edge of the village. It looked like some bizarre wedding cake with hardened pink icing, a polished blue dome reflecting the sun rays. The columns were festooned with garlands of flowers. An emaciated old fakir clad only in loin cloth sat in the doorway, scrawny legs folded beneath him in the lotus po
sition, his eyes glazed, an empty wooden bowl before him. I knew that he might well have been sitting there for years. Not a single person looked up to watch us pass, not even one of the children, but all were aware of us. I could sense their hostility, and those backs seemed to stiffen as the despised English galloped past on their expensive, well-fed horses.

  Several miles beyond the village the vegetation grew thicker, and we rode under tall trees that blotted out the sky, flowering vines hanging from the spreading branches. It was cool and shadowy, not really jungle, but I saw a large gray monkey dart across one of the branches, and the birds cried out loudly. We finally stopped near a large, rushing stream, mangrove trees growing thickly on either side. There was a small clearing, and it was here that we dismounted. I was weary from the long ride, but not too weary to marvel at the immense flamboyant tree that towered nearby, trunk a tannish-gray, branches abloom with thousands of showy scarlet flowers. Karbala was at least another mile on the other side of the stream, Michael informed us, and we would have to leave the horses here and go the rest of the way on foot.

  “There’s a rough, rocky slope on the other side. It’s a difficult climb for humans, impossible for the horses. The jungle beyond is extremely dense.”

  “If I’m going to climb rocky slopes and plunge through jungles, I want to eat first,” Sally declared.

  “I thought we’d lunch here in the clearing,” Michael said.

  “Haul down that hamper, Norman!” Sally ordered. “I do hope Olana packed some nice things. I wouldn’t be greatly surprised if the old witch had filled the hamper with rocks. I thought she was going to throw a knife at me when I asked her to make some of those delicious honey cakes.”

  Temperamental or no, Olana had done herself proud with the lunch basket. Sally spread the blue- and white-checked tablecloth over the ground and proceeded to take out from the basket an abundance of delicious items: tiny sausages, sandwiches, hunks of cheese, fruit, even the famous honey cakes. Sergeant Norman had watered the horses and tethered them to trees nearby, and he returned with a wide grin and two rather dusty-looking bottles of wine he had smuggled into his saddlebags. The four of us sat on the ground. It was spongy and slightly damp, and above us the leaves rustled and birds darted. A monkey perched on a limb, jabbering quietly and watching us with greedy eyes as we ate, gradually inching closer. Sally tossed it a bun. The monkey caught it with a thin gray hand and scurried away in a burst of excited shrieks.