Mr. Ridley: A Whipping Society Novel

by Delilah Marvelle

  Coming from him, that was anything but original. “Sometimes being dead prevents us from seeing things best left unseen.” Her whiskers flapped against her words. She pointed at its annoying length. “Do you even see this? It hangs well past my lips and moves every time I say anything.” It kept flapping with each word she spoke and tangled against her lips.

  She pushed them out with the flick, flick, flicking of her tongue and with a pffffff. “No man keeps whiskers this long. Not even in the Orient where the emperor’s court demands it.”

  A muscle quivered at his jaw. “Facial hair has been symbolically used throughout history to change one’s identity for gain and we are gloriously partaking in that gain given I wasn’t about to further insult you by powdering your face white. You should thank me.”

  She stuck out her tongue.

  His boot hit hers hard. “Ey. None of that. I require maturity from here on out. Start. Building. Maturity. Or tomorrow will never come. And cease grouching about something that is protecting your life. Everything you are wearing is preventing others from seeing what they should: you. It’s an illusion and goes back to what you were earlier saying about pigs and stallions. They’ll point to a stallion and think it’s a pig.”

  She gasped. “I am insulted.”

  “By what?”

  “I am not an animal. How dare you call me either?”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “It was not your analogy to use. It was my analogy. An analogy I used with respect. Do you have any idea how many white British men have referred to me and my people as being animals?”

  His features flickered. “Kumar. Cease. That wasn’t what I was—”

  “Be mindful of how you speak to me.”

  His voice softened. “I will. I’m sorry.”

  It was something. “Be mindful.”

  “I will.”

  “Be mindful or I will take out the rope from your coat pocket and repeat what I did last night.”

  He lowered his chin. “I think you are now disrespecting me.”

  “There are times you men earn it.”

  “There are times you women earn it.”

  “Oyo. So I am finally a woman in your eyes, am I?” She tut-tutted. “What did it take? My being dressed like a man or that we took pleasure in each other?”

  He stared. “What the hell has gotten into you? Do you need a sword to go with that tongue?”

  She rolled her eyes and clumped her booted feet together. A part of her was annoyed that he’d avoided her all day only to shove her into male clothing. “Everything is too big.”

  “Or maybe you’re too small,” he countered. “Use the glory of the mind I know you have and cease being a child about this and everything.”

  And it was back to her being a child. “My being a woman did not last very long, did it? It ended after the soap.”

  He said nothing.

  Knowing it had to be said, she blurted, “Are you afraid the ship in my harbor will be seized by your pirate?”

  “What?”

  She cringed. “Does my being a virgin keep you from touching me?”

  “Ah.” He dug into his coat pocket, removing a cigar from his leather casing. “Did you want one?”

  “No. I fear I would only set fire to this mustache.”

  “You probably would.” He struck a match and lit it, tossing the match and puffed on the cigar to further light it, the tobacco hissing. “In reference to your earlier question, you can say some pirates aren’t known to leave survivors.”

  And it was back to cigars and death for this one. “Some pirates willingly sink with the ship.”

  He released smoke through his nostrils. “Yes. It’s called marriage.”

  She tsked. “I did not ask you for marriage. I do not want marriage. Marriage is what women do when they have no career and I now have one. With your nine books, I will open an apothecary store in Calcutta with Limazah. He and I are of the same soul. Limazah made me the botanist that I am today.”

  His jaw and face tightened as he drew in more smoke. “Did he?”

  Was that a glint of jealousy? She couldn’t tell. “You need not be jealous of Limazah.”

  He released smoke through his teeth. “Then why mention his name?”

  “For he is—”

  “I’m at an age where I don’t play games and I advise you to adhere to do the same.”

  This one was being cryptic. “Cease. Limazah is my Parsee teacher. He is eighty and equally wise. Much like you. Very, very old but wise.”

  He gave her a withering look.

  She grinned. “Will you visit me in India? Will you visit the apothecary shop when I open it?”

  “Maybe in five years.”

  Her smile faded. “Five years? It only takes four months by way of boat to cross over.”

  His tone darkened. “And another three dozen years to keep us both under control.” He stared her down. “I can assure you, Kumar, what happened between us was me being incredibly tame. That was me ensuring you didn’t get hurt. Why do you think I kept the wall between us? Because I do things that make the word ‘fuck’ look like the rosary. You don’t want this. You deserve better. You are better.”

  Her face grew hot. “You appear angry about the adoration I feel for you.”

  “Angry is not the right word. Your attempt to osculate a deranged man fourteen years older than yourself is better defined as stupid.”

  “You are not deranged.” She hesitated. “What is…osculate?”

  “Mouth to mouth. A kiss.”

  This one clearly thought kissing was stupid. “One would think I tried to replace two of those s’s with two l’s.”

  “Kiss. Kill. Given who I am, it’s all the same.”

  “Death starts to lose its meaning when it becomes all I hear. Death this and death that. Death, death, death. Deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeath. Death appears to be your lover.”

  He drew in more smoke, the tip of the cigar turning red. “You’re fortunate I have a sense of humor.”

  This one had a morbid way of showing it.

  She could either continue trying to scale that immovable brick wall or…she could try to make him smile. She preferred the latter. “I will attempt to do the impossible.”

  “Is that so? How? By garnering some maturity?”

  “Hahahahahahahahaha. No. I will make you smile.”

  He averted his gaze. “Can we not do this?”

  She waved toward him, wanting to bring him cheer. Outside of her plants, bringing cheer to others was what she enjoyed doing most. “Watch. Watch, watch.”

  He grudgingly veered his gaze back to her.

  Heartily smacking her lips, whilst flapping the mustache, she leaned far back and sprawled her trouser clad legs across the length of the carriage out toward him. She widened her knees far apart and scratched at the flap, sniffing loudly. “These British men call me Kumar, but only because they fear me and my….” She paused, realizing the stockings she had generously stuffed into the flap of her trousers for the purpose of a cock had fallen down her…left trouser leg.

  He blew out smoke. “There goes your investment.”

  She burst into laughter and pointed to it. “I did not even plan that!”

  “Yes, yes. Entertaining. I’m beginning to believe you aren’t eighteen but closer to eleven.”

  She giggled. “How are you not laughing? Why do you never laugh or smile?”

  Ridley rolled his cigar between fingers. “Maybe because we’re on our way to a murder scene, Kumar.” His voice strained. “Whilst you laugh, I wish to assure you, death and the stench it brings is real. Of course if that amuses you, by all means, laugh. Laugh until your nose bleeds.”

  Jemdanee cringed, her amusement fading until it was…gone.

  Gone. Like maa.

  She eased out an anguished breath, trying not to think about the past that always hovered but one she sought to keep alive. “I am not by any means being disrespectful,” she admitted, eyeing h
im. “Laughter is what saves the parts of my soul which the world seeks to take. Finding moments of joy between too many hardships was the gift maa taught me to cherish when she was still a part of my life. It did not mean she or I were by any means happy, for we had very little and there were too many days food was sparse, but it was more comforting than cradling what everyone else did: tears. Whenever I cried, she would tickle me into a giggle, insisting it was all the gods wanted to hear. Whenever others shouted, she would tuck her veil into her ears and make faces. It was who she was and I loved her for that. She brightened a room that rarely held any light. For without humor, I doubt I would have survived everything I did. Especially now that I no longer have Peter.” Her voice cracked despite her not wanting it to. “I am alone in this world again as I was when I was eight. I have no one.”

  His rugged features softened. He searched her face and her eyes. “If you ever need anything, Kumar, regardless of where you are in the world, you have me and I will get to you. Forgive me in my constant analytical judgement and by all means, cradle what little you have left of your mother. Smile. Even if the rest of the world thinks it’s morbid. You’ve earned that right. People think I’m morbid, too. Hell, I know I am. We can be morbid together.”

  A part of her was honored hearing him say it.

  Sticking the cigar into his teeth, he swiped up the stockings that had rolled to the floor and held it out. “Do what all men ought to do and keep it in your trousers,” he softly chided.

  An exasperated breath escaped her, fluttering the mustache, knowing it was the most she’d ever get out of him regarding a smile. She grabbed the stockings and stuffed them into her flap.

  She glanced toward Chaucer who stared at her unblinkingly whilst rocking. He looked unnerved. “Poor, poor Chaucer. What you must see from the sky above is what truly darkens your feathers to soot. How do you manage to be inspired enough to fly in a world such as this?”

  Chaucer clicked.

  “You must come to India,” she openly conversed, reaching out and grazing her fingers across his wings and head. “We have jungles.”

  “Ey.” He pointed at her head with the cigar. “Cease attempting to steal my bird.”

  “To bring your poor bird to a murder scene is what I am commenting on. He does not need to see such vile things. He may molt.”

  He lowered his chin. “It isn’t that I want him to partake in a supper and a theatrical. I simply prefer not to keep him in the house by himself. He is the only true associate I have and follows me everywhere, even into the cellar of the house. And if I’m ever bold enough to close a door to keep him out, he’ll stand outside it and peck at the wood informing me I’m being rude. He gets incredibly agitated when I’m not around and goes straight to stripping wallpaper. Sometimes, even books. Which costs me money.”

  She lowered her own chin. “Perhaps you ought to set him free. He should be with nature. Keeping him in that house is cruel. He only has a parlor, your study and your room and mine to fly in. He deserves more. Does he not? Might I take him with me to India? Would he not benefit from a life amongst vegetation and other birds? If I take him with me, then I will be guaranteed you will visit.”

  A low whistle escaped Ridley as he tapped on his shoulder.

  Chaucer perked and hopped up onto his seat, his knee and then onto his shoulder. Holding her gaze, he touched the head of his bird that nuzzled his hand.

  His tone remained velvet. “I can assure you, Kumar, I have repeatedly released him to the sky to offer him the freedom he deserves. More than once I have locked every window to inform him he is free of me and able to leave anytime given I am not an easy soul to understand or please. Yet he not only comes back, he taps at the window to the point of cracking it for he knows I offer him what the world cannot: everything. That, to me, is the sort of unending devotion I want and that is why he is my closest confidant and true friend. For he offers me allegiance and fidelity without question as to who and what I am in a world that offers none. Something I have yet to receive from anyone. Especially a woman.” He stared.

  Jemdanee sensed window cracking loyalty was what this one wanted. Yet he’d pushed away her arms the moment she attempted to offer her own. She swallowed, noting the way he continued to watch her whilst Chaucer settled himself more comfortably onto his shoulder.

  She wrung her hands. “If devotion is what you seek, Mr. Ridley, then why do you refuse to permit us the opportunity to explore what we could mean to each other?” Her tone was overly serious, even for her liking.

  He said nothing.

  She picked at the wool on her trousers. “Is it because you think me too young? Or do you not find me attractive enough given I am not of your culture?”

  He averted his gaze, dragging in a breath of smoke. “Men like me have long grown bored of trying to define attraction. Nor is osculation necessary to the existence of one’s persona or mind. I look for pieces of what I need and put them together. I look for cracks I can fill with rope.”

  That didn’t sound like a compliment. “Last I knew being broken leads to an inability to be of much use to anyone.”

  “That is because you have no understanding of real life, Kumar. You have yet to live it apart from others to permit yourself to grow and break not by the whims of others but yourself. Because being broken isn’t always a bad thing. In fact, it enables us to strive for more knowing there are pieces missing from who we are. That, in turn, enables us to find better pieces we can fit into those cracks that have failed us.”

  Her lips parted. “If I were to experience any more of this life, between my mother, the hovels, Peter, people and their judgment of me and my culture and now murder, there will be no pieces left of me to gather.”

  He dashed out the cigar into the ash pan on the arm of the seat. “The right man will know how to put you back together when it’s time.”

  “Are you insinuating you are capable of being such a man if I wished it?”

  He grabbed the walking stick from the seat beside him and angled the gold-headed cane. He unsheathed its length, revealing a thin sharp blade within it, startling her. “We return to the topic of what is most important: your safety. It will ensure you don’t end up in real pieces.” He sheathed it hard and set it into her gloved hands. “Any questions?”

  This one enjoyed his weapons and being cryptic too much.

  She drew in her legs and leaned her hands and chest forward against the head of the walking stick. “Yes. I do have one. When will you osculate me?”

  He stared. “Ask me before you leave for Calcutta tomorrow night.”

  She pulled in her chin. “I leave for Calcutta tomorrow?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow night. You’ll be escorted to safety by Finkle’s best whilst I do what I do best: finish this case without interruptions.”

  Her stomach dropped. “What if I find the source? Will that not enable me to stay longer?”

  “No. For the outcome might not be in your favor and I refuse to take that chance. You leave tomorrow night. That was etched into stone well before I yanked you out of that prison.”

  “What of Peter?”

  He no longer met her gaze. “He will follow you in a few weeks, unharmed. You may choose to address him at a time when you are situated in a realm of your own where he cannot manipulate you or your mind. Whilst we may never see each other again, I wish to offer you this parting advice: You need to be your own person, Kumar. You need to belong to yourself first before you can belong to anyone else, especially someone like me. Do you understand?”

  She nodded and softened her voice. “Haan.” She hesitated. “Though it would be morbid of me to say our time together was pleasantly spent, I have endlessly enjoyed getting to know you and thank the gods for bringing you into my life. I have not known you for very long and yet my soul whispers of more. Why is that? How is that possible?”

  His expression was tight with strain. “Because great minds can see past the jargon.”

  Is that what he
thought this was? A meeting of the minds? “Will we survive the jargon to perhaps see each other again?”

  “In five years.”

  “You will forget about me in five years,” she grouched.

  “Quite the opposite, Kumar. It will give me time to think about the things I will miss.”

  She bit back a smile, sensing he meant it.

  The horses whinnied as the carriage rolled to a stop.

  The glass window at her elbow revealed a looming, three story building whose glass windows were dimly lit from inside.

  Her stomach squeezed knowing what awaited inside.

  The carriage door swung open revealing a dimly lit pavement.

  The footman unfolded the steps.

  “Mentally prepare yourself for the worst and expect it will be twice that.” Ridley lowered his head, to keep his top hat from hitting the door of the carriage, and jumped down onto the pathway.

  Chaucer flew down from the seat past her and hopped down each stair and onto the pavement, waddling his way past the footman.

  Because that was normal.

  She grabbed the satchel of copper instruments she required, which Scotland Yard had earlier confiscated from her, but one Ridley had returned. She stood, cane in hand, and was about to extend her free hand to the footman, when she realized she had no free hands.

  The cravat the chambermaid had affixed around her throat too tightly seemed to be choking her further into grudging submission.

  Hopping down onto the walk without any assistance, Jemdanee widened her stance, hoping to garnish a measure of approval that she was playing the part of a man quite well.

  Ridley only moved to the already open door of the theatre, his great coat billowing around him as Chaucer flew up and alighted perfectly on his shoulder.

  It was like witnessing the gods of justice descending onto earth.

  She drew in a steadying breath at the thought of it, and strode into the large foyer lavishly graced with black and white marble tile.

  A constable stoically closed the door behind them.

  “This is Mr. Limazah,” Ridley announced in a deep tone, gesturing toward her. “He will be conducting observations of the bodies as arranged.”