“Fight, damn you!” Zack yelled.
“I am a man of peace. I will not!”
The missionary turned his head, offering his adversary the other check. Zack obliged the man, sending him sprawling.
“No! Stop it!” Persia was on her feet, shaky still, but determined not to allow the one-sided contest to go on. “Zack, don’t!” she cried. “Leave him alone!”
She flung herself at Zack, trying to stop the slaughter. But he shoved her away with an angry curse. Suddenly, with his eyes wild and his face a mask of hate, he looked to Persia like the devil incarnate. She shrank away from him, afraid.
“Don’t you dare hit him again!” she cried.
Hearing her desperate words, Zack let his fists drop. He swung around to stare at Persia.
“What is this?” he demanded. “You’re defending the man?”
“He won’t defend himself. And fighting won’t solve anything,” she replied, going to help Cyrus Blackwell up from the floor.
Zack’s unbelieving eyes followed her every move. “And I suppose the two of you solved everything grappling there on the floor like a sailor and a dockside whore! Persia, what’s gotten into you? I don’t understand any of this.”
“No, and you probably never will,” Blackwell answered for her. “I’m afraid, sir, that you are beyond redemption. God be praised that I reached Persia in time to save her!”
“Persia, what’s he babbling about?” Zack demanded, taking a threatening step toward Blackwell.
She couldn’t meet his fierce gaze. She was too near the brink of hysteria. She longed to suspend time once more and live only for the moment, as she and Zack had for the past months on the ship. But no! That time had not even been real. Because of Zack, she had been living an evil lie. The hour of judgment had come. She knew what she must do.
“I’m staying here, Zack. I know you won’t understand, but I have to. I have a duty. I promised. I belong here.”
“You belong with me, dammit!” He started toward her, but Blackwell blocked his way.
“My wife has said all she has to say to you. Now, you will please leave us. There’s nothing more to discuss.”
Zack turned to her, frantic now and heartsick. “Persia?” he pleaded.
“I’m sorry, Zack, for everything.”
“Go!” Blackwell ordered.
Zachariah Hazzard went. He stumbled to the door, ran through the ballroom, and roamed the streets of Bombay until dawn, stopping frequently to sample the native intoxicants. He was like the walking dead—empty, wounded, and cast adrift without the woman he loved. She was right. He didn’t understand. He never would.
The moment Zack left them, Persia turned to her husband, seeking a sympathetic shoulder for her tears. She found instead his harsh disapproval and scathing accusation.
“Only a wanton would shed precious tears over the man who led her astray. Be quiet! Dry your eyes! Hannah would never have carried on so. As my wife, you must be a woman of dignity.”
She tried, but her tears refused to stop. The awful scene with Zack had thrown her emotions into turmoil.
“Do you hear me, Persia?”
“I’m s-sorry. I can’t help it.”
The next instant, she was jolted out of her hysterics when Cyrus Blackwell’s hand lashed across her right cheek and then her left. She stumbled backward, horrified. Her crying stopped.
“That’s better. I don’t enjoy striking women, but sometimes it’s for their own good. Now come along. I have a palanquin waiting.”
They did not leave by the main entrance to the Club but exited through a side door. Persia, sure that the imprint of her husband’s hand still blazed on her cheeks, was glad she didn’t have to face the others. Quickly, he helped her into the waiting conveyance, and they sped away down the dark, fragrant street.
“Where are we going?” she demanded.
“Don’t ask questions. I’ll tell you everything you need to know from now on. The rest doesn’t concern you.”
The palanquin snaked through the streets and back alleys until Persia became quite dizzy. She was tired, too; exhausted emotionally as well as physically. Blackwell sat next to her, silent as a statue. After a time she nodded off. All through the night, she was aware of reeking alleys, squalid slums, and evil-faced men peering in at her. Sometimes when she awoke, Cyrus was beside her and they were moving. At other times, she would be alone and the palanquin still.
The sun was high in the sky by the time they reached the landing and she awakened. She came around slowly, feeling the dull ache of her body and the throbbing of her head before she could move or see. When she opened her eyes and found herself alone, her first thought was that Zack had left already to oversee the unloading of the ice.
But when Cyrus Blackwell pulled a curtain aside and looked in, the full realization hit her. Zack had left all right… for good!
“Cap’n, the pilot’s on board.” Second Mate Stoner, attuned to his commander’s somber mood, almost whispered the words.
Zack glanced back over the city of Bombay one last time as if he might see Persia there. But that was silly, of course. He’d been ashore already, combing every street. He heaved a heavy sigh. He’d been a prize fool to storm off the night before, leaving her with Blackwell. But Persia was a big girl. And she was as headstrong as they came. She’d see what a mistake she’d made in a few days, and probably come running after him to Calcutta.
He smacked the railing angrily with his hand. But what if she doesn’t? he asked himself. What will you do then?
He didn’t know. He couldn’t think. Maybe this was right for her. He’d certainly caused her enough misery in the past. Still, he felt he could have made her happy, if only…
“Weigh anchor, Mister Stoner!”
Persia had said she intended to do her duty. Well, he had a duty, too! The ice meant for sale in Calcutta would be nothing more than water sloshing in the hold if he didn’t get the ship underway immediately.
But as Bombay faded from view, the Madagascar’s captain felt his heart being torn as if all the vultures from Malabar Hill had descended upon him at once. He almost envied the real dead. For without Persia he was the living dead.
“Where are we going?” Persia asked Cyrus as he hurried her into a long boat with a red sail.
“Home,” he replied. “To Elephanta.”
“Oh!” With the daylight, she’d begun to feel very uncertain again. How could she be a wife to a man who was a stranger? The thought was terrifying.
Remembering the night before, she turned away from him so that he couldn’t see the tears forming in her eyes. She felt so helpless and empty suddenly. She must pull herself together. This was the life she had chosen. This was the only way she could atone for her mother’s death and save her own soul. She would make the best of it.
On the horizon, she spotted a ship’s silhouette. The sight stirred a deep yearning in her heart. She watched as it sailed farther and farther away. Suddenly, she knew with a terrible, final certainty that it was the Madagascar.
“Zack,” she whispered, then added silently, Zack, I did love you!
A cool hand covered hers, and Blackwell said softly, “Your Captain Hazzard turned out to be an honorable man after all. I am not at all surprised that you should have fallen under his spell, as ruinous as the association proved. But that’s all in the past now. As I was saying about the captain, he sent a message to me that I received this morning. He said he was glad you had made the proper decision so that you would be in good hands when he sailed away. He also wished us happiness.”
Persia gasped softly. It hurt to know that Zack had taken their parting so casually. Granted, the decision had been hers. But she had expected him to grieve for her a little. She certainly hadn’t expected his good wishes this soon. But then maybe this was Boston all over again. Maybe Zachariah Hazzard was not a man to be tied down to a wife. She had freed him. He was happy. She only wished she cou
ld be.
Cyrus Blackwell put his arms around her quaking body and patted her gently. “There, there, my dear. Everything will be fine. You’ll see. A new land and a new husband always take a bit of adjusting to. But you’re a strong girl. You’ll manage with God’s help and with mine.”
Persia kept her eyes trained on the ship until it passed out of her sight. When the sea lay empty before her, she felt as if her heart had sailed away with it. There was only a great, aching void within her breast.
How could she have sent him away? Or was it her doing? Perhaps fate had played another of her cruel tricks, taking him from her again… this time forever.
Persia was unaware of the fact that the boat ride out to Elephanta Island took an hour and a half. She was too confused, too distraught, too far removed from the world of reality to be aware of her surroundings at all after she saw the Madagascar sail over the horizon. Was even the salvation of her soul worth this much pain?
But even her shattered heart beat with a fierce will to survive. This was not the first time in her life that Persia had drunk the dregs of despair. She had learned, too, that after the bitter came the sweet, if only one dared sip from life’s brimming cup again. Suddenly, she felt a new surge of hope.
“Here we are, my dear.” Blackwell’s voice near her ear made her start.
The boat’s bow bumped against the dock and he jumped out to the wet stones, turning to offer her a hand.
It was hot and steamy on the island when they arrived. The silk gown Persia had worn to the ball the night before hung limply on her. The tall missionary helped her lift her tangled skirts from the boat, then led her up a winding path at the bottom of a hill.
As they made their way upward through the lush vegetation, a new strength and fire sprang to life to fill the emptiness within her. Rainbow-colored birds darted overhead, adding their brilliance to the vivid green of the jungle setting. Exotic flowers perfumed the clear air. The whole island seemed alive and vibrant, a true paradise on earth. The thought of living the rest of her life on such a peaceful, beautiful island was like a balm to Persia’s spirit. She longed, suddenly, to plunge ahead to the future, forgetting past pain.
If fate demanded that she live this life, she would live it with a vengeance. A new page had turned. A new chapter had begun. And Persia Whiddington Blackwell would see that it was written in a firm, bold hand.
Yes, she would feed the starving. Of course she would tend the sick. And, if she had it in her, she would save the sinner and convert the savage. The only thing she feared she could never do was learn to love her husband. But with God’s help, she would try!
Part Three
1847
Chapter Twenty-Six
The narrow path wound up and up to the crest of the hill visible against the brassy afternoon sky. Persia thought they would never reach the top. She was tired, hungry, and near fainting with the heat. Her silver silk gown—the part she hadn’t lost to the thorn bushes along the way—was soaked through with perspiration and clung to her like a second skin.
After the long, steep climb, she felt little inclination to survey her surroundings further. But an odd sound all about her, a shrill “churring” noise, made her glance about to find its source. After a time, she saw that the trees were alive with white-faced monkeys, signaling to one another in their peculiar, piercing voices.
“It’s not far now,” Cyrus called back to her.
She took heart and forced upward with renewed energy.
Just as they reached the crest of the hill, Persia heard the sound of bells, seeming to come from everywhere. The silvery tinkling grew loud enough even to drown out the chattering of the monkeys. She looked about, trying to find the source of the airborne music. A bit farther up the path she spied the burnt-out shell of a small cottage. The dried-mud chimney remained and half of one wall. Before the charred ruin, a strange sort of shrine had been erected. It consisted of a white wooden cross hung with silver bell-toned windchimes. An altar with flower offerings upon it stood before the cross.
“Cyrus, what’s that?” she called to her husband.
He paused on the path and looked back at her, his face a mixture of anger and pain. “I’d like it if you would address me as Brother Cyrus. It’s what my dear Hannah always called me. She loved the sound of windchimes. She always said the tinkling reminded her of a cool mountain stream rushing over smooth pebbles. She said it made her forget the hot winds from Bombay. That’s where she died, poor woman,” he said, gesturing at the ruined cottage. “Consumed in the flames before anyone could rescue her. If only I’d been here, I might have saved her.” His voice took on an odd tone, and Persia could have sworn she saw a smile touch his lips for an instant as he added, “It must have been a horrible, painful death. I’d told her often enough about the hellfires of damnation. She hated the thought of burning.”
Persia’s gaze shifted from her husband back to the cross and chimes. How odd! No one had said anything about a fire. Cunningham had told Zack that Hannah Blackwell died of some strange malady that had wasted her body within weeks of the time it struck her down. She started to ask Cyrus about it, then decided against it. She didn’t want to open old wounds.
Finally, her new home came into view. The “bungalow,” as Brother Cyrus called the house, looked like no more than a crude shack from the outside. The roof was thatched with palm fronds above the dried-mud walls. A rough board veranda ran across the front at ground level. An irregular fence of palm trunks guarded the perimeter of the tiny yard.
“I hope you don’t mind if we forgo the ritual of the groom carrying the bride across the threshold. I’m rather too tired to be lifting hefty loads right now.”
Persia didn’t know whether to laugh or be angry. She was a large woman, and because of her size she’d been called a lot of things in her day, but never a hefty load. Still, she was quite happy to walk into the house under her own power. The idea of Cyrus Blackwell carrying her in seemed ludicrous. And the last thing she felt like at the moment was a bride.
Inside the house, the floors, though covered with grass mats, were nothing more than hard-packed earth. But the furniture was quite another matter. Lovely pieces of French and English design were liberally interspersed with crudely made native stuff. Persia guessed that the expensive, elegant pieces must have been gifts. Surely a missionary could ill afford such luxuries.
“I hope you’ll find this a comfortable honeymoon cottage, my dear.”
While Persia was surveying her new surroundings, Cyrus moved to her side. He now stood very near, smiling down at her with a look she found most disquieting. Surely he wouldn’t demand a husband’s rights this very night. She needed time to get used to the whole idea of being married… to get used to him Most of all, she needed time to put Zack from her mind and her heart, if that were possible.
“Brother Cyrus—”
“You’ll want to bathe and change, I’m sure. Then you’ll feel better. Your bedroom is the first down the hall. The water closet is attached. I’ll send one of the women to see to your needs. After you’ve rested for a bit, we’ll have supper.”
“Thank you.” She meant it with all her heart. Never before had she been in such need of soap and water, privacy, and a place to lie down for a time.
She was on her way down the hall—nearly to the bedroom door—when it suddenly struck her that she had nothing to change into after her bath. Certainly she couldn’t put on her silk gown again. It was filthy and in tatters. She turned. “Brother Cyrus, my trunks. They’re still at the India House in Bombay.”
He looked unconcerned. “You won’t need them. Everything has been provided for you.”
Persia nodded her thanks and entered the room. Again she heard the tinkling sound of unseen windchimes. The grass matting over the window was drawn down. The bedroom was dark and stuffy. She could make out only shapes in the dimness—a brass bed, a vanity and mirror, an armoire, and a washstand. She went to
the window and pulled up the mat far enough to let in just enough light to see, but as little heat as possible. Reflected sparkles danced about the room from the sun’s rays glancing off the silver chimes that hung just outside the window. She knew in that moment that this room had been meant for Hannah Blackwell.
Brother Cyrus had spoken the truth. Everything had been provided, right down to a silver brush on the vanity that still contained strands of its previous owner’s black hair. Persia frowned. She went to the armoire and opened the doors. The chest was filled with simple cotton dresses in white, black, and gray. They were clean. The odor of strong soap and starch permeated the air. But they were not new by the look of their faded seams and worn cuffs and collars. Like the brush, they were hand-me-downs.
She answered a knock at the door to find a lovely young Indian woman waiting with an enormous clay water jug balanced on her head.
“Brother Cyrus send me to serve you. I am Indira.”
“Come in,” Persia said, then reached for the jug. “Let me help you with that.”
“No, no!” protested the girl. “Sister Hannah, she always allow me to do for her. Now, I am yours, Sister Persia. I will serve you.”
Indira’s words struck home. This girl was not the only thing Persia had inherited from Hannah Blackwell. The silver brush, the clothes, the bed, even the husband. Her flesh crawled at the thought. She determined to have Cyrus send to Bombay for her own things.
During the time that Indira was in the room helping Persia with her toilette, the pattern became ever clearer. No matter what she suggested, Indira would respond, “But no, Sister Persia. Sister Hannah likes this soap… this powder… this gown…” Always in the present, as if Hannah Blackwell were still among the living.
When Persia objected to having a dirty brush used on her hair and insisted that Indira wash it thoroughly first, the girl almost dissolved into tears. “No, no! Brother Cyrus would be very angry with me. This is Sister Hannah’s brush!”
Hot Winds From Bombay Page 33
