by Alyssa Deane
“And why not?” Roxane countered. “You would find, if—if you knew me better,” she rushed on, “that I am not easily put off by subjects that are considered immodest or otherwise unsuitable for discussion. If one is to learn—and that is something which I have determined to do in my life—then one cannot be deterred by convention, can one?"
The muscle in Collier's jaw twitched as the ghost of a smile passed over his lips, and was gone.
“No,” he said, “no, I think not."
“Do you enjoy reading, Captain?"
“Not especially."
“No? I would have thought—well, never mind. I enjoy that pastime immensely. I read all that I can lay my hands on. So I did with the topic of India, before coming here. The country fascinates me,” she said, adding with a sly twinkle in her green eyes, “naive though I may be."
He returned her amusement, refraining from comment.
“Look,” he said, pointing with his hand on his knee, “here is another building that might interest you. It has a particularly compelling history. Would you care to hear it?"
Roxane agreed that she would, and they spent the next half an hour in refreshing and stimulating discussion, pausing often on the road, laughing, or agreeing on some minor point more frequently still. She temporarily forgot that he had kissed her, and that she had been distressed by his having done so. He made no further attempts to touch her, and when he moved nearer, to reach across to indicate some particular point of interest, his movements seemed innocent enough. Yet, she held her breath and watched his face with a curious sense of expectancy.
Captain Harrison concluded his little tour in front of a narrow lane leading up to a small, whitewashed bungalow. A short picket fence—a bit of England, Roxane reflected—walled off a garden of oleander and hibiscus, carefully tended by the gentle hands of a native. The air smelled somewhat damp, closed about by a hedge of unfamiliar trees, and Roxane could see the water bucket with which the flowers had earlier been sprinkled when the sun was yet low in the sky.
“And what is this place?” she asked, anticipating a colorful reply.
“It is your hosts’ home,” he said flatly.
“Oh."
The disappointment was strangely acute. She was ashamed for feeling it, when all she had wanted earlier was to be here, as quickly as possible. Turning her head, she gazed again along the lane. The house seemed sleepy, inert, lacking in activity save for one native servant, on his knees beside the oleanders. She could see the ghari with her possessions parked beside the house, and beneath it, sleeping soundly in the shade, the driver. Slowly, she pivoted about. She could tell by the way the captain's eyes trailed her that he had been studying her, and the manner of her observations.
“There is a wonderful place,” he said, “a botanical garden of huge proportion which you might enjoy seeing..."
Roxane smiled, regretfully. His countenance held something grave and steady in its expression, in summation, perhaps, of the morning. “But not today,” said Roxane.
“No,” he agreed. “Not today."
For another moment, they regarded each other without speaking. Her gaze fell to her lap, to her fingers, tightly interlaced, then slid, protractedly, to Collier's white-trousered leg and his brown hand, lying motionless upon his thigh. His posture of immobility was not strained, but marked, rather, by preoccupation.
“I—I should like to thank you,” she said, “for—"
“Rescuing you?” he finished for her. Her eyes snapped upward, followed by the lifting of her head.
“You did no such thing,” she declared.
He smiled. He had a wonderful smile, of fine teeth and good humor, that went far in calming her defenses.
“Aided you, then. Is that acceptable?"
“Yes,” said Roxane.
“It was my pleasure,” he said.
Roxane felt a rush of heady warmth. In impatience with herself, she stamped her foot lightly beneath the hem of her skirt. She looked down at her hand, loosened from the other and lying upon the seat as though moved there of its own will. He moved his own, without hurry, to rest beside hers, mere inches apart. His fingers were curved in relaxation; they were long and clean and tanned by the sun. The proportions of his hand denoted strength, its position an odd gentleness. The sleeve of his jacket fell against his wrist, where the veins that ran between the sturdy bones converged in blue shadow. She stared, wondering if he were himself as strong, or as gentle.
There was no motivation to her musing, she told herself, save curiosity, a natural curiosity of the intellect, or of human concern.
Slowly, she returned her hand to her lap.
“Thank you also,” she went on, “for showing me around. It was both interesting and entertaining."
“Of course,” Collier said, “I could show you a great deal more, if you would allow me."
“I—I don't know."
“Miss Sheffield?"
“Yes?” She felt breathless, suddenly, stifling in the heat, and felt a strong desire to get away from him.
“I suppose,” he said, and his voice was a lazy whisper in the sunlit stillness of midday, “that I should apologize for kissing you earlier. It would be the gentlemanly thing to do. However, I do not think I'm sorry at all."
“Aren't you?” said Roxane.
“No."
For the briefest instant, she thought he might make another, similar attempt, yet he only continued to watch her closely. A smile, a mere curve of his mouth, crossed his countenance, very much as though his conscience was offering him the minimum of enjoyment, in spite of his claim to the contrary. Abruptly, he ran his fingers through his hair and turned away.
“These are unfortunate circumstances, Miss Sheffield. I have certainly done more harm than good in conducting myself in this manner. Come,” he said, slipping down from the buggy, “I would be remiss in my duties were I not to escort you to the door."
He would have taken her arm, but Roxane felt suddenly as ashamed of her own conduct as he was hinting at shame over his. She walked purposely ahead of the man, past the servant and his oleanders, straight to the steps that led to the front door. As she stood, waiting for her summons to be answered, she made hasty repairs to her person, smoothing her garments and tucking stray dark tendrils into place. If she was aware that Captain Harrison stood close beside her, unable to take his gray-blue eyes from her countenance, she refused to reveal it. Her own green gaze was riveted to the doorway, praying that someone would respond to her knocking quite soon.
Chapter Two
Roxane sat nearly alone in the parlor, but for a native servant in the corner, diligently operating the pulley of the punkah to waft a breeze through the airless room, while Augusta Stanton was engaged elsewhere, putting her appearances to rights. It seemed that Roxane's arrival had coincided with the woman's midday nap. Roxane longed to make repairs to her own disheveled person, but in the turmoil of her arrival, such simple courtesies as a moment at the washbasin had been unintentionally omitted.
Primly erect on the edge of a chintz armchair, Roxane sat with her fingers interlaced, buried in the folds of her apple-green skirt. With an impatient eye, she gazed about the room, smiling once or twice at the servant before deciding that the man was half asleep at his post and did not see her. The walls were painted a pale lime green, a color nearly invisible in the feeble sunlight managing to squeeze through the slats of the split-cane chiks covering floor-to-ceiling windows. Several oils had been placed strategically, an amateurish watercolor between two of them. The furnishings were either chintz or unupholstered cane; in the far corner, a rather magnificent piano stood, reflecting a bowl of flowers in a meticulously polished surface. Roxane wondered, curiously, how such an instrument could be properly maintained against the warping effects of humidity and drying heat. There was also a small mirror, of which she caught sight quite by accident; she rose to remedy the damage done to her hair.
Witnessing her own reflection, she drew back, appalled. S
he did not consider herself a vain woman, yet her condition was worse than she had suspected. Her hair was a mass of unruly, dark-brown locks in desperate need of a brush's application while her skin, normally of a fine, ivory tone, was flecked with dust and marked by unusually high color. The sunbonnet, with which she had thought to make a good impression upon her hostess, was a virtual disaster, the flowers buffeted by the wind and the starched ribbons wrinkled beyond hope by her own nervous hands. Untying the bow at her chin, she yanked the hat from her head, frowning at her countenance. No doubt he had gotten a good chuckle over the pretty picture she presented!
In a flurry of furious motion, she attempted to smooth her hair, renewing also the attack on her complexion with an already grimed handkerchief. Overhead, the punkah on its pulley creaked monotonously, the heavy matting making the scarcest breeze to dry the perspiration on her brow. She dabbed at the beads of moisture and left a streak of pale mud, which she scrubbed clear with an impatient swipe of her hand.
Moving her head, she observed through the mirror a movement at the doorway as the cloth hanging over the entry was borne up in the grasp of a small hand. Not wishing to be caught at her impromptu and ineffectual toilet, Roxane spun on her heel, retreating to her chair. She got as far as the center of the room before she was discovered.
“Hello, you must be Miss Sheffield. Do you remember me?"
Roxane gazed at the girl in the lavender dress—a tiny girl, with flame-red hair and pale blue eyes—and could only answer, in all honesty, “No. No, I am afraid I do not. Though I could hazard a rather safe guess."
“Yes?” said the girl, most persistently.
“The last time I saw you, you were little more than a baby. You could not have been more than five, perhaps not even that. Unity Stanton, I am surprised to find that you remembered me!"
The red-haired girl laughed.
“Mother,” she said, “told me you were here."
Unity swept fully into the room.
“I look younger than my age,” she said, “which you probably do not recall. I am fourteen, soon to be fifteen. Incorrigible, Mother says. Romantic, I say."
Roxane wrinkled her brow, nearly amused. She would have found the girl's candor endearing, if not for the recent mention by Captain Harrison of romantic inclinations and the fact that Unity Stanton was, for all practical purposes, still a stranger, and the open discussion of private matters between her mother and herself, especially disagreements, less than acceptable behavior.
Something of this must have shown in her face, for Miss Stanton said, “No need to come off the prude with me, Miss Sheffield. If I remember anything, it is that you were just as unheeding of the rules of convention as Mother claims me to be."
“Indeed?” countered Roxane, dryly.
“Quite."
“That may be,” said Roxane, “but I do not think that I was ever romantic, at any age."
“That is only because you are too tall,” answered Unity, matter-of-factly.
“What?"
“Did you know, most Indian women are small, like me? I like that. They lead very romantic lives.” With a funny little tilt of her head, she lifted a chintz-covered cushion from a chair, plumped it, and replaced it carelessly.
A frown creased Roxane's brow. “In what way?” she asked.
“They are kept sheltered and protected by the men who love them; they wear such terribly fascinating clothes, veiling themselves from all but their husbands; and, when that man dies, they die with him. Well,” she added, with a frown, “that is the least romantic part. I suppose it is a good thing that we have put an end to that practice."
“Suttee, you mean?” retorted Roxane, swinging her hat against her skirt. “There is nothing romantic about immolating oneself on one's husband's funeral pyre. Miss Unity Stanton, I am surprised at you! Thank God that horrible practice has been abolished!"
Roxane shivered, her frown deepening as she regarded the girl she had known, but briefly, as a child. In his corner, the servant made a small sound, reminding her of his presence. “Besides,” she said, lowering her voice, “you may be certain that all Indian women do not live a life of pampering and luxury. There are drudges in this society, as in any other. And I hear they are treated no better than a man might treat his dog."
“How do you know this, Miss Sheffield?” demanded Unity, with a small show of her tiny, perfect teeth.
“I have read,” said Roxane, “a great deal."
“There you are!” cried Unity, with a laugh. “Do not believe everything you read!"
Roxane ignored that remark. “And your own servants? Are there no women among them? Have you ever asked about their lives beyond this house?"
Across from her, the red-haired girl's expression changed. She looked as though she had been greatly disappointed.
“You are a very serious sort of woman, Miss Sheffield,” she said, quietly.
“Yes,” agreed Roxane, “I often am.” She smiled apologetically. “I'm sorry. We've gotten off to a bad start, have we not? I did not mean to argue with you."
Unity dipped her head. “Do not trouble yourself. It only means that we are meant to be friends."
“How,” asked Roxane, “do you read that?"
“We did not go through the usual channels of meaningless chatter, but went straight to the heart of what we felt. I think it splendid! And as for the initiation of this entire discussion, I was merely trying to make a point about my stature. When you are small, men tend to want to protect you; they think you are helpless."
“And are you helpless?” asked Roxane, angling her dark head to regard the smaller girl.
“Never!” cried Unity. “But I am treated that way, nonetheless. I doubt, Miss Sheffield, that anyone would ever think you helpless, though."
“I should hope not,” declared Roxane, with conviction.
“Truly?” countered Unity, coming forward to slip her arm through Roxane's. She tucked her small fingers into the older girl's elbow.
“Truly,” Roxane assured her. She allowed herself to be led from the parlor into the hall. “Where are we going? I was waiting for your mother."
“To my room,” said Unity. “You are a mess."
Roxane threw back her head and laughed. “And you, Miss Stanton, are outspoken, and I admire that greatly, even if I do not agree with what you say. But I am a mess, and was just wondering when I was going to be able to amend that situation. We shall get along splendidly after all, I think."
Unity's bedroom was at the rear of the house, facing west. The room was still pleasantly cool, with the window covering dimming the harsh sunlight, and the pale walls furthering what might have been no more than an illusion. A young Indian woman waited there—Unity's nurse, or ayah—to whom the girl issued several orders before turning to Roxane.
“Sit down, Miss Sheffield. We will be sharing my bedroom, until our departure. Do you mind? I have sent for your things, and some water and towels. You will soon be as good as before, which I dare say, from what I can see beneath the grime of travel, is remarkable. You are very beautiful. Mother said the same. She said that when you were a little girl, you were rather plump and did not promise much beauty, but she admits now that she was wrong."
At each word uttered, Roxane's green eyes widened, her dark brows arching in amazement. She was not quite sure what to say in response to such an unexpected accolade. It seemed, however, that no response was needed, for Unity went right on without pause.
“She came hurrying in here—as much as Mother ever hurries—and said to me, ‘Wake up, Unity, we've forgotten Miss Sheffield, she's waiting in the parlor, you'll scarcely recognize her.’ At which point, she took the time to comment on the change in your appearance. Well, I would not recognize you anyway, would I? You were no more than a dimly recollected figure to me when first we received notice of your coming. Except your eyes, now that I see them again. Extraordinary eyes, you have. I fancy Captain Harrison took a liking to them."
Roxane st
arted as if she had been prodded. “I—what?” she said.
Unity tipped back her head and laughed delightedly. Her red hair, unbound, tumbled down her back in a careless cascade, combining with her tiny countenance to make her look somehow elfin—a child-woman, just outside the boundaries of the earthly.
“His eyes are charming, don't you think? Such a strong color, dark, yet full of light all around, like storm clouds on the horizon while the day is yet sunny."
“You are, indeed, a romantic,” Roxane retorted crisply, rising from the seat she had just taken. “I had not noticed anything nearly so remarkable about them."
“Did you not? You are not very observant, then, considering the amount of time you spent in his company.” The girl was smiling still, tiny, pearl-white teeth set into her lower lip.
“I am always observant.” Roxane found herself, to her chagrin, replying defensively. “We spent some time together, it is true, but no more than was necessary.” With a deliberate step, she crossed the floor, lifting the chik to gaze, with narrowed eyes, onto the verandah. The sun, almost directly overhead now, barely illuminated the room, obstructed as it was by the marked depth of the porch running round the house. Prompted by Unity's words, she envisioned the captain's tanned countenance and his eyes, which were, she told herself, just an ordinary shade of slate gray. There was nothing whatsoever about them to move a woman to profound statements such as Unity's; it was the girl's own tendencies that made her utter such nonsense.
“Did you not disembark just after dawn?"
Roxane jumped, ever so slightly, and turned her head on her shoulder. “Yes,” she admitted, reluctantly. “And I waited about for two hours before making an attempt to depart."
“For that,” said Unity, contritely, “I am dreadfully sorry. Mother is highly embarrassed. I've no doubt that Papa, when he returns home, will be both. However,” she said, reverting to her earlier insinuation, laughingly applied, “it is now nearly noon."
Roxane recognized the implication. She said nothing.
“Did you not, in the time spent with him, find Captain Harrison both handsome and agreeable?"
