The Secret of the India Orchid

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  Rachael’s eyes showed clear desperation and fear, but her focus remained on Charity, who had started shifting on her tree branch. Rachael gestured toward the girl. “Watch her.”

  “Charity,” Sophia said. “Charity!”

  The girl’s eyes were trained on the fire, and Sophia braved another look at the scene. Flames had reached the top of the pyre, and the figure in red sitting so still was eclipsed by shafts of yellow and orange that danced and flickered. The processional and musicians stepped back from the pyre, but still the music played.

  “No!” The scream tore from Charity’s throat, and Sophia lunged at her as she crawled out farther on the branch. “No!”

  Sophia pulled desperately at Charity’s shoulder, trying to find a good grip while maintaining her own perilous hold on her branch. She slid forward, braced her foot on the stone wall, and hauled Charity up against her, clamping her arms down against her body as the young girl began to sob.

  “It isn’t Beatrice!” Sophia tried to tell her.

  “She’s . . . she is . . .”

  “Charity,” Sophia managed as she pulled both of them back toward the trunk of the tree. “Sweetheart, it isn’t your sister.”

  “I know,” Charity cried, and the grief in her voice was nearly Sophia’s undoing. It wasn’t Beatrice, but it was someone else’s sister. Daughter. Even mother, perhaps? She was somebody with a life. And her end was painfully, horribly barbaric.

  “Sophia.” Rachael’s voice whipped through the air, and Sophia glanced at her as she continued pulling Charity back, inch by slow inch, so terrified of the height she herself was nearly paralyzed.

  “Someone is coming.” Rachael reached the lower branches of her tree and dropped to the ground. “Slide her down to me. Now.”

  “Charity, we must go or we will be caught.” She murmured the words fiercely in Charity’s ear, and the meaning seemed to penetrate. Charity began moving on her own, shimmying back toward the trunk and then down. Sophia followed suit, her hands slippery with sweat and her dress catching and impeding her efforts with every movement. She also reached the trunk and began her descent, wondering if she should be grateful for the darkness that hid exactly how high she really was.

  A flash of light illuminated the jungle floor, followed by a tremendous crash of thunder. Sophia was ten feet off the ground and stepping to another branch when her foot slipped, and she threw her arms around the branch closest to her. Slipping again, she scrambled for purchase and slapped her hand down on a thinner branch, which emitted a loud croak. Her hand smeared along a soft, compact body, and she realized with horror she had touched a toad.

  A startled gasp and squeak squeezed from her as she released her hold on the tree and fell the rest of the way to the ground, landing hard on her side. Pain sliced through her hip and shoulder, and the breath had been driven from her lungs so fiercely it hurt.

  Rachael and Charity scrambled to her side and hefted her upward.

  “Sophia,” Rachael gasped, “we must run. Now. I am afraid the guards are coming.”

  Sophia tried to propel her legs forward as the other two women held her on either side and stumbled forward. Her breath returned by degrees, gasping and wheezing through her lungs. Her stomach and chest hurt horribly, and the pain in her shoulder and hip had her seeing stars. Finally, finally, she was able to move on her own, and she lifted her skirts and stumbled after the others, stopping to help one or the other when tree roots hampered their progress and sent them sprawling.

  There were shouts from behind, but the noise was swallowed by thunder and the mad screeching of monkeys who were irritated at the mayhem. Sophia looked quickly behind her as she ran, but could see nothing but a black void. Branches whipped across her face as she turned forward, stinging and bringing forth tears.

  It felt to Sophia as if they had run ten miles, though she knew that perception was a result of the fear she felt. Eventually the vegetation thinned, and the path widened considerably. The disappearing canopy allowed for more light that came now, unfortunately, from flashes of lightning as the moon and stars had been completely obliterated by storm clouds.

  A whinny signaled their return to the curricle, and Rachael soothed the terrified horses as Sophia untangled their leads from a nearby tree.

  “They may not cooperate,” Rachael said over the wind. “We haven’t a choice but to try.”

  Sophia boosted Charity into the curricle seat, insisting she sit in front, and she took one horse’s reins from Rachael. They led the horses for a time on foot until they came to the fork and the groomed path. Sophia gave Rachael a quick hug for good luck, then climbed on the back of the curricle in the tiger’s perch. She faced forward, as Charity had, and held on to the seat back as Rachael climbed in and clucked at the horses.

  Chapter 25

  To Sophia’s amazement, and possibly with help from Vishnu, Allah, or the Christian God she’d been raised to believe in, the horses ran. It was entirely possible that they were too spooked to do anything but run, but they stayed on the path and Rachael, through much straining of muscles and a few words that would have made Jack blush, guided them back to the mansion.

  The sight that greeted them was an uproar that rivaled the storm breaking outside. Lady Pilkington directed the Seadons, a few Fleet ladies, and Corporal Mailor with his entourage to the drawing room. She assured the small crowd that all would be well, that her husband and the brave men of the military would save the day and prevent heinous things from occurring at the palace.

  Sophia, Rachael, and Charity stood just inside the doorway, looking numbly on the scene. Sophia refused to think about what they had witnessed. It would have to wait until later when she had time and privacy. There were too many things still unsettled.

  Lady Pilkington turned and caught sight of them. Without taking her attention from them, she directed the staff to gather toweling and blankets, and then sent instructions to the kitchen to prepare more tea. She approached, finally, wringing her hands. Sophia stepped forward and figured she should say something, but she struggled to find anything useful.

  “Oh, my dears,” Lady Pilkington said, and her eyes filled. She stepped closer to Sophia and whispered, “Did you see . . . Did the men arrive in time to stop it?”

  Sophia shook her head, her throat tight. There wasn’t time, she did not have time to dwell on it yet.

  “And Miss Denney?”

  Sophia slowly exhaled a trembling breath. “We did not see her.”

  Himmat arrived with an armful of blankets, and she gratefully accepted one. She wrapped it about her shoulders. “Will you tell us how things stand?” she asked the butler and Lady Pilkington. “The men are riding to the palace?”

  Himmat nodded. “They gathered reinforcements from the neighboring infantry division and likely have arrived by now. I had hoped they would be in time—but at any rate, Mr. Darzi is safe and with them.”

  “Beatrice is in the palace,” Charity murmured, her brow creased. “We must notify them.”

  “They will find her.” Rachael held her own blanket around her shoulders with one hand and snugged Charity’s closer about her chin. “They will find her and bring her home.”

  “Oh, my dear,” Lady Pilkington said, “your father was here earlier, and your mother is here now.” She paused and pursed her lips, looking at Charity as though weighing a decision. “Whatever has happened, please know that you have a home here.”

  Charity frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “He left a note for you and Beatrice. Himmat, do you have it on your person?”

  The butler nodded and reached into his pocket. He handed Charity a folded paper, and the girl stared at it as though she couldn’t comprehend what it was.

  Sophia moved to her side. “Shall I help you?”

  Charity handed her the letter. Sophia unfolded it and held it so Charity could read it. />
  There is still time, but if I fail, I should rather my own flesh and blood have access to these documents than another. All I have done, I have done for my family. To my daughters: live respectably and beware of vices and temptations of the devil. When you were small, frolicking in the heart of the orchid was appropriate, and although I have forbidden it for some time, I tell you now there are still treasures to be found there. Conduct yourselves with temperance and circumspection. If you are submissive and respectful to your husbands, as your mother has been to me, you will find favor in Heaven. Only once have I been forced to discipline her, and it pained me to do so. Since Eve led Adam astray, however, man has been compelled to set the world to rights.

  Charity looked at Sophia, her head tilted, her expressive eyes showing confusion. “What on earth does he mean?” She read the letter again, and Sophia held her tongue, wanting to proceed carefully.

  “Charity, I fear . . .” She trailed off. How much could the poor girl handle in one night?

  “What? Is my father in danger? What has happened? What has he done? And my mother?” Charity shook her head, her brow drawn.

  Sophia found it infuriating that the man would blame his wife for his behavior. The man was delusional. He committed murder for greed yet didn’t acknowledge his culpability or express remorse.

  “My dear, I am afraid your father may have had a hand in Captain Miller’s demise.” Sophia wished more than anything she could spare her the news.

  Charity’s mouth dropped open. “Why would you say such a horrible thing to me?” She looked at Rachael and back again at Sophia. Lady Pilkington and Himmat were awkwardly silent. “I thought you were my friend. Why, how . . . why?”

  Lady Pilkington lifted a hand to the girl and then let it fall back to her side. “Charity, your mother is upstairs in one of the guest rooms.” Her voice was hushed, pained. “Dear, she has confirmed it. I am so sorry.”

  Charity stared at the woman, her eyes luminous, the bright blue of them intensified by the moisture that gathered there. Lady Pilkington moved forward and placed a hand on Charity’s arm. “Sweetheart, look at Sophia. She is scratched and bruised, her dress is torn—she looks a right mess. She risked her life for you, for Beatrice.” She paused, adding gently, “You were all in more danger than you could have imagined in the jungle. Sophia and Miss Scarsdale, I, myself—none of us have anything to gain by being cruel or telling you lies. Your father has made some choices that have not been wise.”

  Charity dropped her arms and her blanket fell to the floor. She gestured with the letter as she spoke. “You are telling me, then, that my father, a man of the cloth, killed a man?”

  “His intentions may not have been so drastic in the beginning.” Sophia took a breath. “I am surmising, but I believe your father wanted something that Captain Miller had. Perhaps they had entered a partnership, but they must have argued, and in the end, the captain died and your father—”

  Charity narrowed her eyes and looked again at the letter in her hands. Her mouth fell open and she drew a shaky breath. “I know where he is. Dear heaven, I know where he is.” She looked up at Sophia. “I must talk to him, stop him! He doesn’t know Beatrice is at the palace. He doesn’t know she and Mr. Darzi are in danger—”

  Sophia pitied the girl with her whole heart. Beatrice’s safety was probably Denney’s last concern. “I will get word to Major Stuart. He and his men can locate your father. They will—”

  “They will kill him!” Charity’s face was ghostly pale. She may have lost her innocence with all she’d witnessed tonight; she might never again bounce or blurt secrets or read lurid novels.

  “Where do you believe he is, dearest? I shall speak personally with Lord Wilshire. He is kind and good, as is Major Stuart. They will not kill your father in cold blood.”

  Charity blinked and tears fell fresh. “He is at the place where we frolicked with our mother when we were small. It is the heart of the orchid.”

  The ­ruins. Of course.

  “The courtyard, then?”

  Charity shook her head. “The central building—the one we avoid.” Her voice broke. “We called it ‘the heart’ because it seemed to be the center of the ­ruins to us. But we never went in there because it was dangerous.” The tears continued. “He will be bitten by a snake or eaten by a bear. He is not . . .” She paused. “He is not a loving father, but he still is my father.”

  Lady Pilkington put an arm around Charity’s shoulders, surprising Sophia. The woman wasn’t running from the sadness this time. “Come to the drawing room. I shall fix you tea, and then we will see your mother. The bedchamber next to hers is empty, and I shall have it readied for you.”

  Charity moved with Lady Pilkington as though in a trance. Sophia looked at Rachael with true regret. “I wish we could have spared her that. Earlier—everything.”

  Rachael raised a brow at her. “I wish we could have spared ourselves that. I fear it is an image that will never fade.”

  “Perhaps it was quick. Perhaps the widow was not conscious before the flames—” Sophia gagged and tried to disguise it with a cough. “Himmat,” she managed, “we are not finished yet, unfortunately. Please tell me there is a man in this house who is proficient with a firearm.”

  “I can shoot a gun,” Rachael said wearily.

  Sophia turned slowly to her. “Why on earth can you shoot a gun?”

  “I was raised in the country with brothers. You’re a city girl, Sophia. Why do you need someone who can shoot?”

  “As it happens, miss,” Himmat said, “Abdullah is here, and he is quite proficient.”

  Sophia frowned. “He is so young, Himmat. I would hate for him to come to harm.”

  “We are not in our dotage, you know.” Rachael eyed her flatly. “Abdullah is quite competent. He can accompany us, at least—”

  Lady Pilkington rushed to the foyer, her face red. “She is gone. I cannot find her anywhere!” She wrung her hands. “Why do people go missing so much lately?”

  Sophia’s heart sank. “Charity?”

  “Yes! I left her in the drawing room, went to instruct a maid to open a room for her, and she is gone! One of the servants saw her slipping out of the servants’ entrance.”

  Sophia sighed. “Do you have a firearm, Rachael?”

  “Not with me.”

  Lady Pilkington cleared her throat. “I have a gun.”

  Sophia and Rachael turned to face her.

  She lifted a shoulder. “Well, it is my husband’s. I shall retrieve it.”

  The lady rushed off, and Sophia unwound the blanket from her shoulders, immediately feeling a chill. She folded it neatly and handed it to Himmat with a weary smile. “I suspect we shall need these again later.”

  “Where are we going?” Rachael asked, folding her blanket.

  “The ­ruins.”

  Lady Pilkington returned presently with a flintlock pistol, and Sophia eyed it dubiously. “Will that work?”

  Rachael took it comfortably into her hand and Sophia shrugged. “Perhaps we shall only need it as a deterrent. Lady Pilkington, I do not know how long the men will be occupied at the palace, but should any of them return before we do, please send them to the ­ruins. My aim is not to waylay Mr. Denney, I want to retrieve Charity.”

  And that blasted document.

  Chapter 26

  The Residency descended into further chaos as neighbors and friends gathered and plied Lady Pilkington with questions. The stables were inundated with new arrivals and a few carriages, and it took many long minutes for Sophia’s and Rachael’s horses to be readied. Sophia swung into the saddle with a groan she couldn’t contain. Everything on her right side hurt, and her feet were in agony from running and climbing trees in shoes meant for sitting in a drawing room. She glanced at Rachael, who was scraped, bruised, and filthy, and was glad to have made such a good friend. She did
not have many, and Ivy was very far away.

  Rachael led the way out of the stable, and Sophia wished they would have thought to put on a light pelisse. For all that it was India, it was winter, and still raining. It wasn’t torrential as in monsoon season, but steady enough that by the time they neared the ­ruins, Sophia was soaked and irritated.

  The thunder and lightning continued intermittently; occasionally the sky split and the horses shied. Grateful her mount wasn’t nearly as tall as an elephant or a stone wall surrounding a palace, she controlled it with relative ease. She wasn’t the horsewoman Rachael was, but she had done her fair share of riding in two years.

  They passed the courtyard ­ruins, and Sophia looked through the rain hoping to see Charity. The letter, though, had said “the heart,” which Charity had identified as the frightening building beyond the courtyard. If the clergyman had hidden the stolen document somewhere among the ­ruins, it would have to be a fairly sheltered spot. She and Rachael guided their mounts slowly through the buildings, skirting fallen statuary and bending down to ride under arches and around tipped pillars as they approached the enclosed sanctuary.

  “I was hoping we might see them out here,” Sophia admitted. “At least Charity. We were delayed in leaving, but she was still on foot. She must already be in there, and we have no torch, no light source at all.”

  Rachael drew her mount alongside Sophia’s. “She was upset; even in the dark she could easily have made it here in twenty minutes. It took us almost that long to get saddled up.” She drew a deep breath and exhaled, shoving wet hair out of her face. “We can assume if Denney is in there, he will have a torch or lamp.”

  Sophia nodded and followed Rachael. They drew closer to the imposing structure, charmingly haunting in the daylight but terrifying at night. She dismounted, tied her horse next to Rachael’s, and wiped the rain out of her eyes. She was cold, and wet, and so very tired. She wished for the ability to send Anthony a message with her mind, and she realized she was fatigued enough that her thinking was muddled.