Portia crumpled then, with such a keening howl of grief as I hoped never again to hear in my life. She collapsed into Mary-Benevolence’s arms and the old woman crooned softly to her in Bengali. After a moment, she motioned to me.
“I will attend to the child. She must have a wet nurse,” she said softly. I handed the infant over. The baby had made no sound, no protest, and as I gave her up, I wondered what would become of her. Mary-Benevolence took her away and Portia slid to the floor, kneeling in Jane’s blood. I gathered her into my arms and she wept upon my shoulder for a very long time, until her tears were spent and she could weep no more.
“How shall I live without her?” she asked me over and over again, and I could give her no answer. I merely held her as she grieved, and I knew there would be many more such times to come.
We buried Jane on a beautiful spring morning, just as the sun rose to touch the flanks of Kanchenjunga, spreading a pearly pink light over the entire valley. The fruit trees had just opened their blossoms, and as we stood in the little graveyard upon the side of the hill, a fresh wind rose and blew them from their limbs, scattering the confetti of petals over the graves and the mourners and spangling the coffin below. Brisbane and Plum, along with Dr. Llewellyn and Harry, had carried the coffin to the graveyard, their last service to the woman we had come to love as a sister. The Pennyfeathers had delayed their departure to pay their respects, and Dr. Llewellyn played his harp, the celestial sound of it rising on the air to bid her farewell. I could not speak for the grief that sat thick and hot in my throat, choking me, but neither could I weep. I had shed too many tears for Jane and for Portia, and all that remained was a dull grey cloud of misery.
But something in that morning, that beautiful pink morning, eased the ache in my heart. The pain of losing Jane would not leave me for a long while, if ever, but that morning I saw that in time it would be easier to bear.
I stood next to my sister and held her hand, and when the moment came for her to gather up a clod of earth to drop onto the coffin, I went with her, holding a palmful of dirt in my gloved hand as we stepped together to the edge of the grave.
But Portia did not scatter the earth. Instead she drew herself up and took a deep breath, closing her eyes against the morning sun. Then she opened them and began to sing.
It was soft and hesitant at first, but then she gathered strength as the words rose within her.
“Sleep on, beloved, sleep and take thy rest,” she sang. “We love thee well…good night.”
She faltered a little at the last verse, but I held fast to her hand and stood next to her, lifting my voice with hers. “Only ‘good night,’ beloved, not ‘farewell.’”
As the last notes died away, we reached out and let the dirt fall from our hands, striking the coffin with a note of finality.
“Good night, beloved,” Portia murmured.
We left the graveside then, making our way slowly back to the Peacocks. The others fell in behind us, giving us privacy for our pain. Portia turned to me and I slipped an arm about her. “I should not have been able to finish the hymn without you,” she told me.
“I know. I am only sorry I have not a better voice,” I said modestly.
“So am I,” she said, and she gave a little laugh which turned to weeping. “How shall I ever live the rest of my life without her?” she demanded.
I felt my knees give way at the naked misery in her face, but I knew she deserved a reply, and the best I could give her.
“You do not have to,” I told her. “You only have to live today without her. Just this minute without her. That is all you have to endure. Just this minute. And it will pass.”
“I want to believe that. I want to believe that there will come a time when I can breathe again without the weight of the world crushing down upon me.”
“You will,” I promised her. We stood in the middle of the road, hands linked. “When the wind is right and the cloud is gone, you can see down this road as far as Darjeeling,” I told her. “But it is a long and difficult road, full of perils, and if a traveller on foot were to look at the length of it, his spirit would be overcome and he would sit down and refuse to go any farther. You must not look to the end of the road, Portia. Look only to the step in front of you. That you can do. Just one step. And you will not make the journey alone.”
I tucked her hand under my arm, and we stepped forward together, down the winding and long road to Darjeeling. And as we walked, Plum came to hold her other hand, and Brisbane moved to my side, taking my arm. We walked four abreast into the morning sun. There were shadows still, dark and forbidding, that fell upon the road, but every step carried us closer to the light and to home.
The Twenty-Third Chapter
Through birth and death, in this world or in others,
wherever thou leadest me it is thou, the same,
the one companion of my endless life…
—Old and New
Rabindranath Tagore
There is little more to tell. We left India a few weeks after we buried Jane. There would not have been such a delay save that Portia insisted upon bringing a wet nurse who would be happy to remain in England for some time and it was a challenge to find her.
For Portia decided to take the child and raise her as her own. If I had expected some resistance from the Cavendishes, there was none to be had. Miss Cavendish and Harry conceded that they were not suited to raising an infant. What they did not say was that it would be a relief not to be burdened with her, for as a girl, she would be entirely dependent upon them for her upbringing and dowry. No provision had been made for a daughter, and the child was penniless and orphaned until Portia swooped in and declared she would have her. She was prepared to fight the Cavendishes, but they assented at once, and even deferred to Portia on the choice of name.
“She shall be called Jane,” Portia declared stoutly, as if defying anyone to gainsay the choice. “Jane is a good name, solid and English, and it will remind her of her mother.”
“It will remind everyone of her mother,” I pointed out. “How do you mean to avoid confusion?”
Portia looked at the infant cradled in her arms. It was a peculiar child; it seldom cried. Instead, it merely looked serenely at the world with wide, patient eyes. Jane’s eyes, as I had observed on the night of her birth.
“I shall call her Jane the Younger,” Portia decided.
“How biblical,” I murmured.
“It will set her apart,” Portia corrected.
“You have the makings of a true parent,” I told her. “You have already given her something to hate you for.”
But in spite of my reservations, Jane the Younger she became, and to my astonishment, her most ardent companion was Morag. “Poor little motherless mite,” she crooned over the baby. “But never you mind, Lady B. will bring you up proper,” she would always add, and as the weeks passed and my sister settled into the role of mother, I realised Morag was right. This small orphaned child with the wise dark eyes called forth qualities I had not known Portia possessed. She was solemn in her grief, but with Jane the Younger she was frequently content. Organising the infant’s wardrobe and various needs occupied much of her time, and I reflected more than once that the child would be her salvation. I did not like to think what might have become of Portia had she not had the distraction of sudden motherhood. I was keenly aware of Jane the Younger’s role in preserving my beloved sister’s sanity, and that made the child doubly precious to me.
We lingered for her sake, and for the wedding of Miss Thorne to Harry Cavendish. It was a small and quiet affair, by Indian or English standards. Harry beamed with pride and pleasure, and it was at the wedding feast, when the new Mrs. Cavendish announced that her husband would be opening a school for the children of the valley, that I decided they would suit one another very well. Harry would always look to the future, toward progress and industry, whilst his bride remembered that their livelihood might be enhanced by such improvements, but it depended upon peopl
e. Miss Cavendish said little although her primmed mouth was eloquent, yet I saw how easily her niece deferred to her on household matters. It would make for a little awkwardness for the new mistress to be the niece of the butler, but Miss Thorne was nothing if not tactful, and it soon became apparent that she intended to leave the running of the household to her aunt by marriage. So long as she had her school, she would be content. Her uncle stood by, solemn but clearly delighted, and even Naresh gained new dignity with his neatly-wound turban and air of stateliness. The next day we left, amid a chorus of farewells, leaving all the darkness of the Valley of Eden behind us as we made our way down the sunlit road to Darjeeling.
It was not until our third evening at sea that Brisbane and I fully relaxed enough to talk about the investigation. We each of us had a sense of freedom and exhilaration now that the affair at the Peacocks was entirely behind us. Well, perhaps not entirely behind us, I reflected. From the dressing room came an occasional shriek that we did our best to ignore. Finally, Brisbane sat up in bed, the bedclothes at his waist, his hands fisted at his temples.
“If they do not cease that infernal noise, I will fling them overboard, I mean it,” he warned me.
“You cannot! They were a gift from Harry and his bride,” I reminded him. “He still believes we influenced her to accept him, and he was grateful to us. They are quite valuable.”
“They are a bloody nuisance,” he contradicted. “And we have peacocks in England.”
“These are Indian peacocks,” I reminded him. “And the white one is rather rare.”
“So if I drown her, the other white peacocks in the world will be worth even more,” he countered.
I pushed him back against the pillows and nestled my head into the hollow of his shoulder. “They will settle soon enough,” I soothed, although it was a lie. The peacocks had screeched the better part of the journey. They did not like to travel by donkey, by buffalo-hide raft, by horse, by train, or, it seemed now, by ship.
“Distract me then,” he ordered.
I complied for some time to our mutual satisfaction before propping myself on one elbow and studying him. His eyes were closed. He was fully sated with the pleasures of the marriage bed. He was physically exhausted and emotionally contented. In short, there was no better time to broach the subject.
“Brisbane?” I began. I traced the scar on his shoulder with my fingertip. It marked where a bullet had torn through his flesh, a bullet that would otherwise have struck my father.
“Hmmm?”
“There is one point of the investigation that troubles me still. If the Reverend meant everyone to believe his death and Robin’s were accidental, then why did he leave the boy’s handkerchief knotted about his throat? If anyone besides you had seen it, they would know the child had been murdered.”
Brisbane was silent a long moment, and I knew he was revisiting the terrible day when he pulled Robin’s body from the lake.
“Perhaps he could not bring himself to touch the boy after the deed was done. Perhaps he lost his nerve. Perhaps he simply forgot,” Brisbane said, opening his eyes again. “Such loose ends are the mark of the amateur murderer, my dear. All the better to find them with.”
He nodded toward the emerald upon my hand. I had taken it from my jewel box that morning. To my surprise, it had fitted me perfectly upon my forefinger. Had Queen Isabella worn it thus? And had it indeed been taken from the cold, dead hand of Lucrezia Borgia? The questions intrigued me.
“It is a strikingly beautiful jewel,” Brisbane commented.
“It is,” I agreed, “but that is not why I wear it.”
He quirked a brow at me. It was precisely the same look that Cassandra Pennyfeather had captured in her photograph of him, although in the flesh it was even more arresting.
“It is a reminder to me of the lesson I learned from Black Jack, to look beyond the façade and to remember that there is some lesson to be learned from every investigation, even from the un-likeliest of teachers.”
I paused and cleared my throat. “And whilst we are on the subject, I think I did rather well in this investigation,” I told him. “I did manage to discover the truth of what happened to Freddie Cavendish.”
His mouth curved ever so slightly, as if he were trying to suppress a smile. “Accidentally. And you neglected to disclose your activities to me and forced me to spy upon you to learn of your whereabouts.”
“Yes, that was rather bad form,” I admitted. “Although I could point out that you did not share all of your endeavours with me.” He scowled and I hurried on. “But that is neither here nor there. The point is I think I bring something fresh and quite unique to your work. I know I cannot be involved in all your cases, but I rather think I might have a place in some of them.”
I paused to let the words work upon him for a moment as I prepared my next argument.
But before I could open my mouth he grunted at me. “Agreed.”
I sat up. “Do you mean that?” I poked at his chest. “Brisbane, open your eyes and say that again.”
He complied. He opened his eyes very wide and said, “I agree. I believe you can be useful to me during some investigations. You are curious and quick, you have a deft mind, and for some unaccountable reason, people tell you things—useful things.”
I sat very still, basking in his praise like a contented cat sitting in the sun.
“But you are woefully unskilled, you have the attention span of one of the more vigorous varieties of monkey, and you have no sense whatsoever of personal danger.”
“Well, it was lovely while it lasted,” I said dryly.
“What was?”
“Your enthusiasm for my talents.”
He sat up, the bedclothes sliding perilously low. “Julia, if you will put aside your own feelings for a moment, you will see that I am right. You rush headlong into dangerous situations with no regard for your own safety. You take ridiculous chances, and you court catastrophe at every turn.”
“I may court catastrophe, but I married you,” I said with a winsome smile.
He reached out and clasped my wrists. “I am deadly serious. There is no possibility whatsoever of you involving yourself in one of my investigations ever again.”
He paused and the chill of his words penetrated to my very bones. Never again to sleuth at his side? Never again to puzzle over some thorny problem? Never again to unravel a Gordian knot?
“Unless,” he said, and I threw myself at him, knocking him backwards onto the pillow and smothering him with kisses.
“I haven’t finished,” he reminded me, his words muffled by my lips.
“I do not care. You said ‘unless.’ That means you will let me work with you.”
“No, it means I will let you work with me conditionally,” he corrected.
I flapped a hand. “Whatever the condition is, I will meet it,” I promised.
His eyes glinted dangerously. “Very well. You will be permitted to join my investigations at my discretion and upon the completion of a course of study which will only be concluded with your mastery of a specific set of skills which I feel are necessary for your own safety.”
I blinked at him. “I do beg your pardon?”
He smiled, a smile of purely feline satisfaction. “You are going to be my pupil. I am going to teach you everything you need to know to be a private enquiry agent. I will teach you how to handle weapons and how to defend yourself with only your bare hands. I will teach you the basics of chemistry as it applies to detection, and the same with botany. There will be lessons in phrenology, graphology, mesmerism, and psychology, as well as the more practical skills such as picking locks, artful disguise, and cheating at cards.”
“Cheating at cards?” I asked numbly.
“You would be surprised how often one finds a use for it,” he advised me. “It is particularly helpful if one requires ready money and is a trifle short.”
I sat back, unable to take it all in. “You expect me to learn all of the skills
you have mastered before I can detect with you?”
He shrugged. “Some of them are less essential than others.”
“It took you forty years to master them,” I pointed out icily. “Is that what you mean to do? Keep me locked away with books and chemistry experiments until you deem me fit to send out into the world a few decades from now?”
He affected a wounded expression. “You doubt me. But I would remark that you will have the benefit of my instruction. I learned all that I know by trial and error. You will have the advantage as I will already know what to teach you. It should shorten the process by some years at least.”
I reached behind me for a pillow to throw at him, regretting it was not heavier. “You are the most impossible man I have ever known,” I told him through gritted teeth.
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But I am also your teacher. And the lessons begin now.”
He produced a length of chain and a sturdy lock. Before I knew what he was about, he had slipped the chain around my ankle and the post of the bed and clasped it with the lock, snapping it neatly into place.
“Brisbane,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “You cannot lock me to the bed. It is unseemly. What will the cabin steward think?”
“No one will know so long as you get yourself free,” he returned cordially. He placed my lockpicks next to me on the bed. “Now, that lock is a trifle more challenging than the ones you have been accustomed to, so I am giving you a bit of an advantage by putting the lockpicks nearby. I ought to have hidden them somewhere in the room and made you hunt for them,” he told me.
He rose from the bed and slipped into his evening clothes.
“Where are you going? You are not leaving me here like this,” I demanded.
He shot his cuffs neatly. “I am doing more for you than any villain would.” He dropped a kiss to the top of my head. “I am going for a stroll on the deck in the moonlight. Join me if you can.”
Dark Road to Darjeeling Page 35
