When the dance ended, Sergeant Carter approached and asked for her hand. Then Ensign Porter and Sergeant Jacks from the ship. The night progressed, and Helen was introduced to more gentlemen. Some were officers, and others employees of the East India Company.
She looked again to the pillar where the captain had stood, but he was gone, and though she was dressed in a beautiful gown and receiving more attention from handsome gentlemen than she had at any occasion in her life, a gloom settled over her heart. She had to force herself to stop thinking of Captain Rhodes and how unhappy he’d been. She turned her attention back to her partner, a son of a nabob, who wore a brightly colored waistcoat with peacock feathers embroidered on it. She smiled and nodded and tried to focus on the words he was saying.
Helen hardly had time to catch her breath between sets, and before she knew it, the dinner dance was announced. Lieutenant Bancroft hurried to claim her hand, and after the quadrille ended, he escorted her to the dining room.
She scanned the crowd for Captain Rhodes but was beginning to suspect that he had not just abandoned his position by the pillar but had left the ball altogether.
Though she tried to keep a pleasant face, her melancholy grew. The ball no longer seemed enchanting and beautiful. She noticed the moths flitting near the candles and the sheen of sweat on the faces around her. The perfume coming from the flower arrangements on the dining room tables was nearly overpowering. The punkah on the ceiling swayed but did not seem to be stirring the air enough to prevent the room from feeling oppressively hot and stuffy.
Lieutenant Bancroft led her to the Governor-General’s table. Jim stood on the other side of the table, speaking to Lord Minto as the men waited for their wives.
Helen found her place, and Lieutenant Bancroft held her chair and then sat next to her saying something about perhaps visiting the room where Lord Minto kept his collection of hunting trophies.
She nodded as he spoke, but she didn’t give the lieutenant her full attention. Her mother had arrived at the table with Lady Minto, and Helen noticed Lady Patricia’s face was flushed. Jim stepped toward her, obviously concerned as well. He touched her arm, and his eyes grew wide. He pulled his glove off and touched it again and then placed his fingers on her forehead. Although Helen could not hear his words, she saw alarm on his face.
Helen stood and made her way around the table.
Lady Patricia began to sway, and Helen broke into a run. She pushed past the people blocking her way and reached her mother just as Lady Patricia crumpled into Jim’s arms.
Chapter 11
Michael set his bicorn hat on the table in his bedchamber and worked at the row of gold buttons, removing his jacket and then the vest beneath it, laying them over the open door of his wardrobe. He sank into a chair, letting out a groan as he removed his boots. Then, loosening the strap just beneath his knee, he eased off the wooden leg, rubbing the painful, scarred skin where his own leg ended.
Basu Ram entered the room, setting a candle on the table, and then picked up the discarded clothing. Brushing off the red jacket, he hung it in the wardrobe. “Rhodes-Sahib, you should not spend so much time on your feet.” He shook his head in disapproval.
“My foot,” Michael said, surprised by the bitterness in his voice. He kicked the wooden limb across the floor, sending Badmash screeching from the room. Anger and frustration boiled up. The ball had been worse than he’d imagined. Utterly miserable. If only he hadn’t promised to attend. He scrubbed his hands over his face, furrowing his fingers into his hair as he rested his elbows on his knees.
He thought of Lady Helen in her ball gown. She’d been beautiful. No, beautiful did not begin to describe how she’d looked. Radiant. Exquisite. Perfect. No term came close to a description. Though she was not tall, she stood straight and walked with a grace other woman should envy. Her honey-colored curls had framed her face and lay against her neck, and her bright eyes had shone with nervous excitement as she entered the ballroom. The sight had made his knees weak.
When she’d made small talk with Lieutenant Bancroft, Michael remembered her reaction to the man’s note a few days earlier. He clenched his teeth. She had blushed and lowered her eyes when the lieutenant spoke, and smiled shyly as he held her hand to walk onto the floor. Just the memory of Lady Helen dancing with him felt like a blow to the gut.
Michael had been able to do no more than watch, wishing above anything that it was his hand she held, that he was on the receiving end of her smiles. A wave of self-loathing and jealousy washed over him, but it soon simmered down to regret. He adored Lady Helen and knew he had hurt her feelings by acting curt to her this evening. But it was for the best. She deserved a man like Lieutenant Bancroft. A complete man who could dance with her and had the hope of rising in his career instead of a one-legged cripple who only remained in the army because of his commander’s pity. The thought of applying for a transfer came into his mind again, and he pushed out his breath in a gust.
Basu Ram set the boots next to the bedroom door to blacken and polish. He picked up the wooden leg, carefully leaning it against the wardrobe. “Have you need of anything further, sahib? Are you hungry?”
Michael did not like his servant’s scrutinizing gaze. Basu Ram had known him since he was a boy, and in spite of the casual words, his narrowed eyes and the twitch of his curled mustache indicated that he could tell that Michael was troubled.
“A drink,” Michael said. “Rum, if you please.” Though I’d much prefer something stronger.
“Yes, sahib.”
He rubbed the rough spot below his knee where the strap dug into his skin. Basu Ram was right. He should have rested his leg more today. He would be feeling the stiffness in his muscles tomorrow morning when he supervised the soldiers’ drills.
The man returned with a bottle and a glass, setting them on the table. Even though Basu Ram didn’t say a word, Michael sensed his worry.
Badmash followed behind, climbing up to sit on the arm of the chair. Michael poured the dark liquid into the glass and scratched behind the monkey’s ears as the captain leaned his head back to take a drink.
A pounding on the door jarred him from his contemplations.
He and Badmash shared a glance before the animal jumped down and scampered out of the room to see what the commotion was all about.
He heard the door open.
“I am looking for Captain Rhodes. Is this his home? Is he here?”
The voice was Lady Helen’s, and she sounded frantic. Michael jumped up and hopped to the doorway of his bedroom.
Basu Ram pulled the main door open wide, bowing and sweeping his hand in an invitation for her to enter.
She stood with a servant on the threshold of his bungalow. Something was wrong. In the light of the servant’s lantern, he saw that most of her hair had fallen from the pins and hung around her shoulders. Her eyes were red and panicked.
“Lady Helen, what’s happened?”
“Captain! Oh, thank goodness.” She hurried toward him.
He wobbled and steadied himself against the doorframe.
Helen stopped, and her eyes dropped to the floor beneath him where only one foot stuck out of his trousers. Her brows rose, and her mouth opened as if she was about to say something. She looked back up at his face and paused.
Michael could see the parade of expressions move through her eyes, and humiliation twisted hot in his belly. The sight of his missing leg must disgust her.
Her hesitation lasted only an instant before she seemed to remember herself. “Captain, please. My mother—you must help. She is burning with fever, and the doctor wanted to bleed her, but Jim sent him away, and you told me you have a friend, a native healer who uses herbs. He must come to her directly.”
Michael called for Naveen, sending him off to find the hakim and fetch him to the general’s house. Once the servant was gone, he turned to Helen. “Do not fear, my lady. We will go at once. I only require a moment if you please.”
“Oh yes.” S
he darted a glance at the space beneath his knee. “Thank you, Captain.”
Basu Ram followed him into his bedroom and closed the door. He wordlessly handed Michael the wooden leg and his boots. Michael could not push away the image of Lady Helen’s face when she had seen the truth. It made his stomach sick as he imagined her repulsion. He nestled the end of his leg against the cushion, tugged the strap tight, and buckled it, then he thrust the wooden leg into his boot. He pulled on the other boot and stood, balancing for a moment to make sure the leg was on properly.
A moment later, he found Lady Helen crouched down near his front door, scratching Badmash under his chin. Her servant and the insect-attracting lantern remained in the doorway. The monkey wore an expression of supreme satisfaction, and Michael thought he would feel exactly the same if he were in Badmash’s place.
She stood when he approached and waved her fingers at the monkey. “Good-bye, Badmash.”
A carriage waited in front of the bungalow. Michael sat on the bench across from her and banged his hand on the roof to signal the driver. “My lady, if you please, explain the situation again, more slowly.”
In the dim carriage, she twisted her hands together. “I do not know what is wrong with my mother. She seemed fine earlier today, but at the ball she was suddenly burning with fever. She fainted, and Jim carried her to the carriage and then sent for a doctor. The doctor met us at home and insisted that Mamá had too much blood, but as I told you before, my mother does not allow herself to be bled. I do not know how much she overheard—she seems to drift in and out of sleep—but on that point, she was adamant.”
Though Michael could not see her clearly in the darkness, he could tell that Helen was making an effort to keep her voice steady.
She wiped at her cheeks. “Jim was furious with the doctor for not having a remedy and threw him out. He is worried it is ague, and he told me he had seen men sick with fevers in the West Indies and the jungle, and we did not know what to do. But I remembered you mentioned a healer, and I knew you could help, Captain.”
He found her shaking hand in the darkness and clasped it, only now realizing that neither of them wore gloves. Her hands were soft, and her fingers trembled. Heat moved up his arm from the feel of her warm skin. “You did the right thing. Lal Singh is the best healer in this city. He will know what to do.”
Lady Helen shifted, and he thought she might pull away, but instead she scooted forward on the bench, laying her other hand atop his. He lifted it off and grasped it tightly, holding both her hands in the space between them, hoping she felt comforted and hoping the pounding of his pulse was not apparent beneath her palms.
The carriage ride ended much sooner than he was ready for. Michael reluctantly released her hands then followed Lady Helen into the entry hall. “The hakim will be here soon; do not worry.”
She glanced at the stairway and then nodded, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “Captain, I wanted to tell you—”
A knock at the door interrupted her, and the butler admitted Naveen and Lal Singh. Michael thanked Naveen and dismissed him then greeted the hakim.
Lal Singh was a small, thin man wearing white cotton clothing and a red turban. He carried a small bag. Deep wrinkles creased the dark skin around his eyes, and he wore small, round spectacles. Michael had no idea of the man’s age, but by the amount of gray in his mustache, he appeared above his fiftieth year.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Michael said in Hindustani.
Lady Helen took a step closer, and Michael made introductions, explaining that the hakim did not understand English.
“Please tell him thank you.” Helen’s smile didn’t fully ease the tightness in her face. She lifted her hand toward the stairway. “If you will follow me, my mother is in her bedchamber.”
Lady Patricia lay on the bed, covered with blankets, shivering. Her skin was flushed, and her damp hair stuck to her face. Michael did not have to touch her to know her body was extremely heated.
General Stackhouse sat on a chair beside the bed. He stood as they entered, and when he turned toward them, Michael saw pure panic in his eyes. “This is the doctor?” He motioned to Lal Singh.
“Yes. Lal Singh,” Michael said.
“She has hardly moved.” The general swallowed hard. “She is mumbling incoherently. It looks very much like the ague.”
Michael understood the general’s fear. Ague set in quickly, and most who were afflicted did not survive. During jungle campaigns, he’d seen healthy men drop with no warning and burn with fevers until they were buried a few days later.
Lady Helen slid her arm around General Stackhouse’s waist, and he pulled her against him, resting her head on his chest. Her lip trembled, and the sight was nearly more than Michael could bear.
Michael translated the general’s words for Lal Singh. He explained what Lady Helen had told him about her mother collapsing at the ball and the general sending away the doctor when the man had wanted to bleed Lady Patricia.
The hakim tapped his finger on his mustache, nodding as he listened, then spoke to Michael, who translated for the general. “Sir, Lal Singh asks your permission to examine your wife.”
“By all means,” General Stackhouse said.
The hakim started to lift away the blankets, and Helen left her stepfather’s side to assist him. Michael saw that Lady Patricia still wore her ball gown—and the garment was soaked.
When the bedding was pulled off, she shivered more violently.
Jim pressed a fist against his tight lips.
Lal Singh touched Lady Patricia’s forehead with the back of his fingers, then lifted her eyelids, bending close to see her eyes. He muttered to himself and laid his ear against her chest to hear her heartbeat. He pressed gently on her stomach and then pushed his fingers against her neck. Straightening, he spoke to Michael then picked up his bag and sifted through it, finally pulling out a small parcel.
“Lal Singh says Lady Patricia should be examined thoroughly for a sting. He suggests the men leave the room while her lady’s maid and daughter search her body.”
“The insect bite!” Lady Helen hurried to her mother and lifted her shoulder off the bed, pointing at a dark patch of inflamed skin. The hakim bent closer, peered at it, nodded, and spoke again.
“She should be examined for more,” Michael translated. He knew all too well the seriousness of a scorpion bite. Over the years he’d had a number of them, with varying degrees of illness following. Some had merely left an itchy bump, and others had caused fevers and hallucinations that lasted for days.
“He does not think it is ague?” General Stackhouse asked.
“No,” Michael said, “but it is imperative that the fever is brought down as quickly as possible. He will make up a tea, and she should be dressed lightly and cool water used to bathe her skin.”
With Michael’s help, Lady Helen sent a servant for a teakettle and another for cool rags. Then she made a shooing motion with her hands in the direction of the men. “We shall do it immediately.”
Lal Singh spoke again as he walked toward the door. Michael translated his words. “He says it is lucky you did not allow her to be bled.” The hakim kept talking. “She needs her strength, and the loss of blood might harm—” Michael turned back to Lal Singh, asking if he’d heard his words correctly. Receiving an affirmative answer, he cleared his throat, feeling extremely uncomfortable at the message. “Might harm . . . the baby,” Michael finished.
Lady Helen and General Stackhouse froze midmotion and stared at him. They looked at the hakim with wide eyes then to Lady Patricia.
In the silent room, Lady Helen’s gasp seemed like a blast from a cannon.
“What did you say, Captain?” General Stackhouse’s voice sounded like he was being strangled.
Michael turned to Lal Singh, speaking in Hindustani. “Are you certain?”
“I felt the growing womb, Sahib.”
Heat flooded Michael’s face at the man’s direct terms and was g
rateful the general and Lady Helen could not understand the words. “He says he is certain, General.” Michael looked away, completely mortified at having to deliver the surprise news to his superior officer that his wife was increasing. He did not dare to look at anyone and instead studied the pattern of the silk wall covering.
Hearing a crash, Michael turned his gaze quickly back. General Stackhouse leaned with one hand pressed against the wall, the other rubbing his forehead. He looked as if a dizzy spell had overcome him. On the floor beside him, a small table lay on its side, and pieces of a vase were scattered among the water and flowers it had held.
“Jim, you must sit down,” Helen moved toward him and clasped his arm with both of hers. “Captain, please help him.”
Seeing that the general’s legs were in danger of giving way, Michael slung the man’s arm across his own shoulders as if escorting someone home who had drunk too much at the tavern.
General Stackhouse looked at him with a dazed expression that would have made Michael laugh if he’d had any less respect for the man.
Helen called for a servant to get the general a drink and for another to clean up the broken vase. She pushed the three men from the room, closing the door behind them.
“Apparently the baby is a shock,” Lal Singh said.
Michael saw humor in the man’s eyes and held his lips tightly to keep from smiling. He eased the general into a hallway chair. “Of that, I think we can be fairly certain.”
***
Lady Patricia was examined, and no other stings were discovered. Lal Singh and Lady Helen spooned the herbal tea—which Michael thought smelled like bitter tree bark—into her mouth and supervised the process of cooling her fever.
Michael tried to assist at first but found that he and the general just seemed to get in the way. After a while the two men sat in the hallway chairs just outside the bedchamber—one waiting anxiously for news of his beloved and the other ready to translate when needed.
Lady Helen Finds Her Song Page 10
