Once and Always

by Alyssa Deane

  “Oh, yes,” said Miss Peabody suddenly, from Collier's opposite side. “Do go with him, Miss Sheffield. You will find his company most enjoyable. All the ladies do."

  “Hush,” said Grovsner, “you will sully my chaste reputation.” He laughed at that, in genuine amusement. Rose Peabody joined in. Roxane watched as the woman pivoted in her chair, laying her hand, fingers spread, on Captain Harrison's sleeve. She was smiling. Roxane was not.

  “Captain, you will not let him upstage you, will you? I should like to go, too."

  Roxane saw the man's hand come up to cover Rose's own. Annoyed, she turned her head away, and did not witness the manner in which he removed the woman's fingers from the sleeve of his uniform, without courtesy. All she heard was Rose Peabody's laughter, deep and nearly carnal.

  “Captain Grovsner, how long have you been stationed in India?” Roxane addressed her dinner companion.

  Grovsner drew himself up against the back of his chair. “I came over on the same ship as Harrison,” he said. “We graduated Addiscombe together."

  “Did you?” responded Roxane.

  “Yes,” replied the other. “We go back many years, the two of us.” And he laughed, significantly. “Here, more wine? Oh, never mind, you have scarcely touched yours. I shall have another glass."

  Roxane resumed her meal, thoughtfully. She cut her food into small pieces, spreading them about her plate, but she did not eat. After a few moments, she glanced up. Once again, she found Captain Harrison watching her.

  He smiled.

  “I hear,” he said, “from Miss Stanton, that you have engaged her ayah to teach you Hindustani. Is this true?"

  “Yes,” said Roxane. “And when I feel I have learned enough that the lessons will no longer require my entire attention, I hope to learn Court Persian."

  Collier's smile deepened. “Will you, by God?” he said. “I am impressed. That is very commendable, Miss Sheffield."

  “I am not so pig-headed that I do not recognize my shortcomings in dealing with life here. I will learn."

  “There is much to be learned,” he said.

  “My dear Captain Harrison, if I can possibly tear you away from the lovely Miss Sheffield,” drawled Rose Peabody, leaning on his arm with a precarious amount of round and powdered bosom on display, “will you kindly pass me the cold meat sauce?"

  Without a word, Roxane picked up the covered dish and passed it. Miss Peabody's gratitude was scarcely audible.

  “Do you pick up foreign languages quickly?"

  Roxane waved her hand. “I have learned a smattering of Greek and Italian, and a fair amount of French. Enough, in all cases, to get me by, if the occasion ever arises."

  “It never has, then?” said Collier.

  “Not yet."

  “But you would like it to,” he said.

  “I would like to travel, yes."

  “You are a very independent young lady. I admire that. However, I suspect your father will have his hands full. You most certainly are not the pliable little girl he surely remembers. How many years did you say it has been since you have seen him?"

  Roxane remained unruffled. “I never said, Captain. And I was never pliable. On that score you may be assured. Disappointed?"

  “Not,” he said, “in the least."

  Bemused by his reply, and her own question which preceded it, Roxane turned her dark head to study the platter being held by a pair of brown and capable hands at her left shoulder.

  “Try the peacock,” said Captain Harrison, meeting her eyes over the plate, “with the curry stuffing. You will find it delicious."

  “Thank you,” she answered stiffly. Slices of a once-beautiful bird were lowered to her plate, along with a mixture of rice and vegetables and bread, spiced with red curry. She ate, carefully. On the captain's opposite side, Miss Peabody once again claimed his attention, this time in dire need of the salt shaker. On her own right side, Captain Grovsner was on his fourth glass of claret.

  He seemed, however, to be slowing down, for he sipped the contents, lips pursed, reducing the volume by degrees, rather than by drafts. “Perhaps, Miss Sheffield, as you are from London, we might be acquainted with some of the same people?"

  “Such as?” said Roxane. As she spoke, she was aware, peripherally, of a new tactic by Rose. The young woman was now sitting with her pale arm draped across the back of Captain Harrison's chair, chatting, no doubt, with her mouth nearly to his ear. Roxane could not see beyond Collier's head to be certain. All she knew was that the woman's voice was now a low murmur, as was her laughter. She herself could not believe the young woman's parents made no objection to their daughter's behavior, and neither, for that matter, did Captain Harrison, who sat on as casually as if it were commonplace practice.

  She suddenly found herself cutting into her food with a good deal too much vigor. Lowering knife and fork to the edge of her plate, she inhaled deeply, folding her hands in her lap.

  “I believe,” continued Grovsner, unconscious of the pause between, “that my sister still resides there, with her husband. Mayhap you have met."

  “Sir, what are their names?"

  “Names?” echoed the other, blankly. “Oh, yes, that scoundrel's name is Richards, William Richards, and my sister's name is Alice."

  “Well,” said Roxane, with a smile, “I cannot say that we have ever met, but I was not in the habit of keeping company with scoundrels, Captain Grovsner. Not, at any rate, until I came here."

  She uttered the statement without lengthy consideration and meant it as a jest, but Captain Grovsner stilled beside her, his glass midway to his lips. She felt warm breath against the side of her neck and along her cheek, stirring the tendrils of hair from about her ear all the way down to her nape, and she knew, without looking, that Captain Harrison had once again turned her way. His voice rumbled in her ear.

  “Scoundrels?” he said. “Is there anyone in particular you have in mind, Miss Sheffield?"

  “Possibly,” she retorted quietly, without turning her dark head, or even her eyes from their perusal of a wine stain on the tablecloth. All along the table, conversation continued merrily, masking their own. Grovsner's attention was temporarily distracted by another bottle of claret.

  “An unfair assessment,” said the captain, “considering the length of our association. How do you define scoundrel? A rascal?"

  “Undoubtedly."

  “A villain?"

  “Naturally."

  “A man without honor, or good principles?"

  “A dictionary would have us believe so, yes,” said Roxane.

  “And you?” he said. “What do you believe? Am I a man without honor or principle?"

  In a room full of people, it was as though they were alone. Roxane could feel her heartbeat increase its rate, pounding against her rib cage, rushing warm blood within her ears. His breath, his voice, were like a caress across her skin, touching, featherlight, her cheek, her throat, the exposed length of her shoulder, the roundness of her breast above her bodice. She glanced around, bright-eyed. No one seemed to take any notice of the two of them, of his gentle action and her response, nor of the terms of their conversation.

  She angled her head slightly toward his. She could see his black hair, the smooth line of his brow, his blue-gray eyes.

  “Captain Harrison,” she said, “I have no true knowledge of your honor, or lack of it. As for your being a man of principle, from personal experience, I could say that you are not."

  “How is that?” he asked.

  She turned a little further, alarmed to find her face no more than inches from his.

  “Please,” she said, “do not make me remind you of a subject which I had thought was painful to us both."

  “You mean, Miss Sheffield, the fact that we kissed?"

  “That you kissed me!” retorted Roxane, in a sharp whisper.

  “Very well. That I kissed you. Let me assure you, that one act, separate of all the implications, was not painful to me, but was, and is
in recollection, a source of inestimable pleasure."

  Respiring rapidly, Roxane snapped, “Sir, have you no decency?"

  “To the contrary, Miss Sheffield,” Captain Harrison replied, with a slow smile, “I am a very decent sort of chap."

  Roxane swung about, snatching up her knife and fork to renew her attack on the peacock. Miss Peabody, in mewling tones, recalled the captain's attention to some trifling matter. And Harry Grovsner, lowering his goblet to the table with great care, turned to Roxane, and said.

  “Would you explain your reference to scoundrels, Miss Sheffield? I am certain I misunderstood."

  Beside her, Captain Harrison saw fit, quite openly, to laugh.

  Chapter Four

  Roxane gazed through the open window at a scene of utter masculine tranquility. In the bubble of a shielded candle's golden illumination that stretched just beyond the prickly, flowering hedge of English rose and no further, the officers had gathered in their varying uniforms to smoke and converse. One could pinpoint the location of each man by the glowing end of a cigar, burning bright as smoke wreathed the head, or twinkling gently in the hand. Light reflected on crystal, and fine brandy, and polished buttons.

  He stood well back from the others, she knew, watching and listening in the relaxed but attentive manner which she had begun to note was his wont. Even when he spoke, it was never with the desire of full focus upon himself, but merely to add to the conversation and then retire. Except, it seemed, when he chose to address her. He provoked her, deliberately, and yet not cruelly ... or was her reaction to his converse merely the result of her own battling uncertainties?

  “Roxane, dear, do come away from the window and play us a tune on the pianoforte."

  Roxane turned from the window, blinking her green eyes once in the lamplit room. “Pardon? Oh, has Unity done? I am sorry, Mrs. Stanton. What shall I play?"

  “Whatever you would like, dear,” said the woman.

  Roxane strode to the piano and sat down, sweeping her skirt along her legs. Her fingers felt remarkably cold, and she held them clasped together for a moment, warming them. She eyed the piano, remembering the long weeks at sea and the months before of hectic preparation, when she had barely touched her own instrument. Nervously, she considered what to play. It was a silly thing to worry about, for she knew the ability to perform upon the piano had not abandoned her merely for a briefly extended lack of practice. But there was a particular individual in this room before which she would not care to falter, and she was aware that even the men outside the window could hear.

  Drawing a deep breath, she extended her fingers above the keys. As she struck the first notes of a wonderfully light piece by Handel, she heard a murmur of rushed words, followed by a burst of low laughter, quickly stifled. Roxane paused.

  “Oh, forgive me, Miss Sheffield,” said Rose Peabody. “Have I disturbed you? Play on, please do."

  Gritting her teeth ever so slightly, Roxane continued. Annoyance stiffened her fingers, so that the melody sounded stilted, ill-used, coaxed, as it was, from an instrument warped out of tune. At its conclusion, the ladies applauded, rather too politely. Roxane played another selection, a favorite of her mother's, and warmed to it immediately, oblivious to further rudeness by Miss Peabody. At her third and final tune, Unity rose and sang in a voice sweet and pure. Afterward, to Roxane's surprise, the girl threw slim arms about her in a fervent embrace.

  “That was wonderful,” the girl exclaimed. “I do not play nearly so well as do you, and that song not at all. I have always loved it. Thank you."

  Bemused, Roxane disentangled herself from the girl's embrace, telling her, in a quiet voice, that she was welcome. “You have a lovely voice, Unity, and should use it more often."

  Both Mrs. Peabody and her younger daughter, Anastasia, a rosier, less voluptuous version of her sister, agreed.

  “I wonder,” said Augusta, from the settee, “if your father heard you sing, Unity. He would be most pleased."

  “Do you think so, Mother?” said Unity, turning to the woman.

  “Of course."

  “I have no doubt,” said Rose, “that it was heard by the colonel and every man on the verandah."

  Unity pinkened with pleasure. Glancing from Unity's face to the older girl's, Roxane saw that Miss Peabody's gaze was not on Unity but on herself.

  “But,” Rose went on, “if one is in possession of a particular talent, there is no reason whatsoever why one should not display it. We all possess a talent unique unto ourselves. There are some that will serve us well in life, and others that serve merely as decoration."

  Roxane's brow furrowed as her green eyes narrowed. She stood up. “Would you care to have a turn at the keys, Miss Peabody?” she said.

  “No. Thank you,” said Rose. “I am not very accomplished in that area. My talents,” she said, with a broad smile, “lie elsewhere."

  Turning away, Roxane caught a pair of expressions as different as night from day. Mrs. Peabody was gazing at her eldest daughter with a look of complacent pride, while beside her, the younger girl stared at her sister in a horror of outraged sensibilities.

  “Miss Anastasia?” said Roxane. “Do you play?"

  The girl's dark-blond head snapped around. The expression of outrage vanished. In its place was one of withering shyness.

  “Oh, no, Miss Sheffield. I—oh, no."

  “Well,” said Augusta Stanton, rising from her seat, “I daresay we have allowed our men enough of an opportunity to discuss whatever it is men discuss over their brandy. Let us adjourn to the verandah."

  Augusta took Mrs. Peabody's arm and led the way. She was followed, in short order, by Unity, hoping to discover her father's opinion of her singing, and Anastasia, who did not want to be far from her mother's side. For a moment, Roxane and Rose were left in the room alone.

  “After you, Miss Peabody,” said Roxane, with dignity.

  “No need for that,” said Rose. “We'll go together."

  The young woman stood up, shaking her skirt. She adjusted her bodice with a sharp tug that brought the neckline further down on her bosom rather than the opposite. She patted her hair. The glance of her blue eyes was sly.

  “I suppose you don't care,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” asked Roxane, frowning.

  “You're a new item, you know. And pretty, in a dark way. You can have your pick of any fellow in the cantonments, unmarried or otherwise. The challenge comes, Miss Sheffield, when the novelty wears off. One must find other means, other wiles, to ensure one's enjoyment—and, in the end, one's security."

  Without giving Roxane an opportunity for retaliation, Rose turned on her heel and swept from the room, trailing her distinct, flowery brand of perfume. For a full minute, Roxane stared after her, stared at the empty rectangle of the window, chintz curtains billowing in the night's balmy breeze. There was, she thought, something of truth in the woman's acid commentary. Something, very uncomfortably, of the truth.

  Absently, Roxane closed the keyboard, running her hand across the polished wood. As she departed the room, a servant was already moving behind her, extinguishing the lamps to discourage further entry of winged insects.

  The very first circumstance to which her eyes were drawn upon stepping out onto the verandah was that of Rose's proximity to Captain Harrison. She clung to his arm, to his coat sleeve, her pale hair nearly white in the candlelight, her skin gilded—a sybarite of ivory and gold. She knew just how to move, to bend her head, turn her eye, incline her shoulders, display her “talents” to their best advantage. And, it seemed to Roxane, Captain Harrison was going to no great pains to discourage her performance.

  “I wondered if you were not going to join us, after all."

  Roxane turned to find Captain Grovsner gliding out of the shadows to her right. In his hand, he held a snifter of brandy, nearly depleted. She could smell the liquor, even where she stood, but the man looked, in countenance, to have sobered.

  “How could I not?” she r
ejoined. “The night is too lovely to neglect."

  “As,” answered the man, “are you."

  Roxane made a face of impatience, which went unnoticed by her companion.

  “Some women,” continued the man, “are so obvious. While others are subtle with their charms."

  “Indeed,” said Roxane, beginning to lose interest in the conversation. She turned away. He moved to stand beside her.

  “Miss Peabody,” he commented, “is one of the former. Look at that, will you? One wonders whether to envy Harrison his position, or pity him."

  Roxane stared across the verandah. The sight of Miss Peabody's hand on his arm, her pale head at his ear, her powdered breast lifting in a sigh of coquettish pleasure, was irritating beyond belief. Such a vulgar display was disgusting, maddening. And Captain Harrison, with his expression of casual indifference, as if accepting both the behavior and its direction as nothing out of the ordinary, was infuriating! She did not pity him. Oh, no, not at all! Nor, being female, had she cause to envy him. All she wanted at the moment was to be clear of the sight of the two of them. He would be like any other man, like her father had been with her mother; when the novelty is gone, so goes the interest and the claims, as with her father, to affection and love.

  It did not occur to her, until after she had found herself agreeing to the suggestion by Grovsner—a man who appeared, in the heat of the moment, to be eminently sensible—to stroll the garden, away from such obscene exhibit, that Collier Harrison had not made any such claims. It was jealousy on her part that prompted her anger. Jealousy that made her act without proper thought. Jealousy, which she had never experienced in her life before, and to which, even as she trod the verandah steps, exiting into the garden, she would not now admit.

  * * * *

  The paths lay silvered under the moonlight, shadows crisscrossing the earth and the sky in sharp silhouette. Beyond the brilliant sphere of the moon's illumination, the stars were multitudinous. Floral scents, muted behind closed petals, shifted through the night. Roxane's gown ruffled in the breeze. At her shoulder, she could hear Captain Grovsner's increasingly labored breathing. She wondered if she had misjudged his inebriation, or if, in fact, he were ill. The colonel had said something, just yesterday, about the malaise that brings down even the youngest of men in the heat. Well, it was not hot now. In fact, the evening was delightfully temperate.