The Secret of the India Orchid

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  “Yes?” Sophia twirled her hand in a circle, encouraging Charity to speak more quickly.

  “Right, yes. So she was outside with her watercolors and overheard them talking. Someone had heard from the trail of servants between here and the palace that the prince died this morning.” She gulped a breath. “But the palace is keeping the news quiet, and they are following the directive of the late prince’s advisor. The short one who always smells like cheap tobacco, which is odd, because they have so much money.”

  Cheap tobacco?

  “I’ve not met the advisor, so I cannot speak to the truth of it, of course, but Beatrice heard all of it, and she understands the dialect perfectly.”

  Sophia put her hand to her forehead. “Do you mean to suggest that Mr. Darzi is unaware that the prince has died?”

  Charity nodded, curls bobbing. Her eyes teared. “The servants said his funeral would be tonight, that ‘things would continue as planned’ so that he—Mr. Darzi—would lose favor with British officials.” Her voice broke. “The short advisor—the one with the cheap tobacco—he is hoping to enflame relations between the Indian princely states and the British military. A revolution, he calls it.”

  Sophia felt a measure of alarm. “The gossip is that the funeral pyre will happen tonight?”

  “Yes,” Charity gasped.

  Oh, no. No, no, no. “Did they offer any specifics about this ceremony?”

  “No!” Charity wailed. “But you and I both know what it means, Sophia!”

  Sophia was afraid she did.

  “And then, and then they said the dowry would be worth every penny, that it was a small thing to take the woman with it, that once suspicion had been cast on Mr. Darzi and the British imprisoned him, the advisors would rule the state as one body. They would have the dowry money by then and would have no further use for either Mr. Darzi or his new bride.”

  Charity shuddered on an indrawn breath, and Sophia’s heart was torn in two. One half ached for the girl who cared so much for her sister that she hurt when her sister hurt, and the other half was bent on murdering a short advisor to a dead prince who smoked cheap tobacco.

  Sophia took a deep breath and reached for Charity’s hands. “I am so sorry, sweet girl. Some people are quite cruel. Was Beatrice very afraid?”

  Charity nodded miserably. She faced Sophia and clutched her hands tightly. “And why on earth would Beatrice tell me all of these things? She knows I cannot keep a secret to save my life! Why would she tell me all of this?” She gulped. “She said she needed to warn Mr. Darzi of the nefarious plans. And then there is our father!”

  Sophia’s heart beat faster. “What of your father?”

  “He ranted at Beatrice last night after the midnight picnic for advancing things too quickly with Mr. Darzi. He said he had not yet secured the key to her dowry, that he had to find some code, and that the prince’s advisors would not want something they couldn’t sell. He said he was to receive half of the profits, but now he didn’t know if the advisors would honor the agreement. And then he ranted about not having the same pool of resources as the prince’s advisors or the captain and that he would never find a buyer on his own.” Charity shook her head. “He sounded like a madman! And when Mother tried to reason with him, to make sense of his ramblings, he shouted that the dowries were at stake and . . . and he hit her!” Charity bit her lip, her gaze stricken. “We were so afraid—Beatrice and I! He . . . he . . .” Her lip trembled, eyes full of misery and disbelief. “He is a man of God! How could he?”

  Sophia winced. How indeed? She had seen her share of violence against women and children on the dirty streets of London, and it horrified her every time. Her heart went out to Charity, who gasped back another sob and placed her fingers against her mouth.

  “I didn’t want him to hit her again, so I shouted at him and ran to my mother. He left the house, and has not returned.” Charity’s eyes had grown huge again. “I am so afraid, Sophia, and I do not understand any of this. What would possess him to be so completely . . . completely insensate? Nothing makes sense, nothing. The dowry money was supposed to come from his uncle. What has that to do with the prince or his advisors or something for which he needs a mysterious key and a code? And another buyer—another buyer for what?”

  The puzzle pieces suddenly snapped together for Sophia, and she felt panic settling in. She asked for the one thing Charity had yet to tell her. Perhaps Beatrice had known her searching out Mr. Darzi on her own would be dangerous, and she knew Charity would tell someone. “Where is Beatrice now?”

  “At the palace.”

  Sophia sighed. “Of course she is. And none of the gentlemen I trust are in this house at the moment.”

  “I suppose we do need a gentleman.” Charity’s face fell.

  “Yes, especially as Mr. Darzi is not at the palace.”

  “What?” Charity leaped to her feet. “Beatrice knew he had plans away from the palace this morning, but surely he is returned by now!”

  “He is at the military compound with Major Stuart and Lord Wilshire.”

  “Are you certain? Perhaps they have left.”

  “Lord Wilshire told me he would speak with me directly upon their return. I have yet to see either of them.” She frowned. “And if Mr. Darzi has returned to the palace, he may be in danger as well. If these advisors are intent on enacting their plans tonight without his knowledge or interference, they will, at the very least, incapacitate him.”

  “Beatrice will die of a broken heart if something befalls him!”

  Sophia didn’t tell Charity that Beatrice was in far worse danger than dying of a broken heart. She also couldn’t bring herself to tell the girl that her father had probably killed Captain Miller and was now in possession of stolen British state secrets.

  “We shall have to tell Lord Pilkington about this. We can insist he take us to the palace so that we might retrieve Beatrice and Mr. Darzi, if he is there—although we have no legal right to demand they surrender him.”

  Sophia hurriedly put on her shoes and sat at her vanity table. She scribbled a note to Anthony explaining that he must come immediately to the palace, that Beatrice Denney might be in danger, but he was not to tell her parents. She also mentioned to keep Taj Darzi with him if they hadn’t already been separated, that the man was in danger if he returned to the palace.

  Charity read over her shoulder and wiped her nose with a handkerchief. “Why can he not tell my parents?” she asked, her nose pinched and voice funny.

  “Well—” Sophia scrambled. “We do not want them to worry. Not yet.”

  She folded the note and hustled Charity down to the front foyer to find Himmat. The butler was out front, settling a dispute between two of the kitchen servants, one of whom was now unclean after handling dishes the Residency guests had eaten from. Charity bounced on the balls of her feet, and Sophia impatiently waited for a break in the flow of angry words. She did not want to compound matters by being disrespectful.

  Finally, a lull. “Himmat,” she said quickly, and the butler turned around and bowed to her, palms together.

  “Where might I find Lord Pilkington, do you know?”

  “Miss, my lord is hunting.”

  She blinked. “Hunting?”

  “Yes, miss. He hunts duck with Lord Braxton.”

  “Wonderful,” she muttered. Sophia tapped the folded paper against her leg and scrambled for an alternate plan. The sun had moved lower in the sky. While most of the mansion’s guests would soon be awake from their naps, there wasn’t one person inside whom she believed would be useful in gaining entrance to the palace.

  “Fine, then.” She handed the folded paper to Himmat. “Would you please see this delivered immediately to the First Cavalry Light Brigade post? It is imperative that Lord Wilshire receive it straightaway.”

  “Yes, miss. I shall have Abdullah take it.”
r />   “Oh, Abdullah! We will need him to take us somewhere. In a carriage, or bullock cart—whatever is most readily available.”

  His old brow wrinkled. “Would you care to ride a mount?”

  Sophia brightened and turned to Charity. “Do you ride?”

  “Not so well. I fell off a pony when I was but ten and have since been terrified.”

  Sophia looked to Himmat, who nodded. “I shall send for Abdullah and a carriage.”

  Sophia paced back and forth from the large banyan tree to the porch while Charity alternately bounced and wrung her hands. Sophia’s worry grew by the moment when she thought of Beatrice attempting to confront the late prince’s advisors by herself.

  Himmat appeared at the porch, his face grave. Sophia rushed to him, her heart sinking. Now what could the problem be?

  “Abdullah is at the bazaar.”

  “For the love—” Sophia spied a familiar figure crossing the foyer and called to her. “Rachael!”

  Rachael came to the door and shaded her eyes against the ever-sinking sun.

  “Is Professor Gerald here?”

  “No, he is at the University.”

  “Oh!” Charity stomped her foot and tears filled her eyes.

  Rachael looked at Sophia, brows raised high. As Sophia told her the story as quickly as she could, Rachael’s expression turned from grim to horrified. She grasped Sophia’s arm. “We must go right now.”

  “We are trying to, but Abdullah isn’t here and Charity cannot ride.”

  Rachael turned to Himmat. “Please, will you have a curricle readied?”

  “You drive?”

  Rachael nodded. “I do. I believe the Pilkingtons’ is a two-seater, but we can manage.” She looked at Charity. “As she is the smallest, she shall be the tiger.”

  Within a matter of minutes, the three women were settled into the curricle, Charity situated behind in the seat normally reserved for the driver’s groom. The palace was roughly two miles away. Rachael had ridden to it on horseback with several ladies and a handful of soldiers the afternoon before, though they had not entered the palace compound.

  Rachael handled the curricle and team of matched grays admirably, and Sophia was impressed. They left Malabar Hill and headed toward the palace on a road that was fairly well groomed for most of the journey. They had traveled fifteen minutes in tense silence when Rachael pulled on the reins at a fork in the road.

  “We have a decision to make.” Rachael looked at Sophia. “The groomed road takes us directly to the palace and, from what I gather, directly to the outer courtyard. We shall likely encounter a show of force by way of soldiers and possibly a tiger or two.” She glanced back at Charity. “An actual tiger.”

  Charity lifted a finger. “I should like to hear the second option.”

  “The path to the right circles around the palace and approaches from the side. When I came here before, we took that path, but it grows quite thick with underbrush. We could go with the horses only so far before turning around. On foot, we could have pushed through.”

  Sophia took a breath and blew it out. “What are the dangers, do you suppose, of approaching from the side?”

  “As much as we were able to tell, there were no tigers circling the perimeter outside the palace walls. The horses were not spooked, at any rate, and the tigers we did see inside the walls were contained with long lengths of chain. We did not encounter soldiers, but the wall around the compound is quite high so I cannot say for certain what sort of defenses lay beyond it.”

  Sophia nodded. “The logical thing to do is approach the front gates and request an audience as Beatrice suggested she was going to do.”

  Rachael shook her head. “Supposing we are detained? They would certainly separate us. Once inside, we are utterly defenseless.”

  “My sister is in there,” Charity whispered.

  Sophia made a decision. “By this time, or surely before long, my note will have reached Lord Wilshire. He will return to the mansion, gather fresh horses or possibly Lords Pilkington and Braxton, if they are back from their hunt, and come here. We needn’t go in ourselves at this point. I suggest we secure the curricle, take this path to the right while we still have some daylight, and see what we can on the other side of the wall.”

  Rachael nodded once. “Excellent.” She drove the ­curricle some distance down the path, which did, indeed, become rougher with each turn of the wheels. Some distance into the trees, she reined in the horses and set the brake. She secured the horses and vehicle while Sophia and Charity ventured slowly ahead. Rachael caught up to them, and Sophia set a brisk pace along the path.

  The farther they traveled, the more the walls of trees and plants closed in around them. Animals sounded to the left and right. Birds squawked at the invasion, as did several angry monkeys who swung from branch to branch and chattered. Charity pulled her arms close to her body and walked right next to Sophia, who was irritated and yet strangely comforted by the contact. She didn’t want to be afraid, but once under the thick of the jungle canopy, what little light still in the sky dimmed significantly.

  “Not much farther.” Rachael walked ahead and shoved at branches, holding them aside for the other two. Her dress snagged, emitting a horrible ripping sound. She looked down and then back at Sophia with a wry grin. “My petticoat is exposed, but not my ankles. My modesty is preserved.”

  Sophia laughed, grateful for Rachael’s presence. Had she come alone with Charity, they would probably have been eaten by the tigers at the front gate.

  They continued to walk until Sophia was convinced Rachael had been confused in her directions. As she was considering suggesting they turn back, Rachael called out in triumph.

  “Aha. Ladies, I give you, the wall.” Rachael looked at Charity with an encouraging smile, and Sophia realized the other woman’s aim all along had been to keep Charity busy, to distract her from fretting herself into insanity.

  “Excellent,” Sophia said. She examined the bank of trees that grew up, over, and into the stone structure. The roots were gnarled, exposed, and great knobby protuberances stretched from the wall into long branches that hung on either side of the property. The wall itself stood fifteen feet off the ground, which meant that one of them needed to climb the tree. Sophia remembered her experience with the elephant and exhaled slowly. She wanted to be the heroine but doubted her ability to stay in the tree once up high enough.

  The air was humid; she was sticky, filthy, and exhausted. Animals scuttled, insects chirped, and the air—already cooler under the canopy of vegetation—seemed to drop degrees steadily.

  Rachael examined one of the trees, fumbling in the dark and slipping as she stepped on a low hanging branch.

  A breeze blew across the jungle canopy, and Sophia put her palms together and thanked Vishnu, the preserver, for the tiny relief. The falling twilight illuminated the small space, and another gust of wind showed a bright moon rising and settling over the jungle. The smell of coming rain permeated the air, and the leaves overhead continued to rustle. Light danced over the trees, casting flickering shadows on the wall.

  Low music and chanting from within the compound propelled Sophia forward, and she took to the tree beside the one Rachael had claimed. The music from the palace was rhythmic, steady, and stately, and Sophia’s heart climbed into her throat even as she climbed higher into the massive tree.

  Charity’s words echoed in her head. Prince—dead—­ritual. The acrid smell of smoke filled the air, and Sophia remembered a summer evening the year before when her family had visited one of the estates and enjoyed a village bonfire.

  No, no, no . . .

  Sophia reached the wall and shimmied onto a thick branch that rested atop the stone. She started at movement beside her and nearly lost her grip, only to see Charity perched on the branch next to hers. She looked to her left at the next tree over and realized sh
e was close enough to grab Rachael if she stretched—somehow it brought a measure of comfort.

  The sun had fully set, and the sky deepened by degrees from the horizon. Directly overhead, stars popped into view and began filling the sky as she watched. She shifted for a better view of the palace grounds, leaning to her left toward Rachael, who leaned to her right.

  The grounds were pristine, and a procession lined beside a funeral pyre set on a bed of carefully groomed logs. The fire had already been lit, and the wrapped form atop the pyre was far enough away that exact details were unclear. There was nobody else on the pyre, however, and Sophia hoped desperately it would remain that way. Her pulse pounded, and she looked at Rachael, who met her gaze, her eyes mirroring the uncertainty Sophia felt. She turned to her right to ascertain how much Charity was able to view, and her heart sank to see the girl’s attention riveted, focused.

  Sophia shifted closer to Charity and saw that the tree branches parted to offer a clear picture of the funeral ceremony below. The musicians continued to play, the whine and drone of the instruments so unique to the strange land. Strange to me, of course, Sophia thought and rested her chin on her hand. Meaningful, special to those who revere it. There was a reverence to the ceremony, a tribute to honor a fallen ruler. She could only imagine that the speed with which the ceremony was happening was to keep Mr. Darzi from putting a halt to it, and she prayed that the new prince was safe from his late cousin’s men.

  Movement to the left of the pyre caught her eye, and Sophia noted a procession of men who carried a palkhi on their shoulders, in which sat a veiled woman dressed in red.

  Sophia’s pulse thudded, and she hoped desperately that the widow was simply there to observe. Her hopes were dashed as the men lifted the palkhi high and, with great care, set it atop the pyre next to the wrapped body already laying there.

  Get out! In her mind, she called to the widow, screamed to her. Get out! Run! Sophia felt the exact moment when Charity realized what was happening. The young girl sucked in her breath, and as the flames continued to climb steadily upward, Charity’s breath came in gasps.