by Alyssa Deane
The afternoon passed too quickly, a pleasant interlude for all involved. Ahmed departed his apartments, to permit the newlyweds a short time alone. It was all he could allow them, as he was anticipating visitors before long. Roxane and Collier thanked him together, waited until they could no longer hear the soft sound of his footfalls on the stone flooring, and then turned at once to face each other. For a lengthy moment, neither spoke.
“Mrs. Harrison,” said Collier at last, with a quirk to his lip. Roxane said nothing.
“You are a married woman now."
“And you, sir,” she answered, with a rarely seen dimple, “are a married man.” She pressed up against him, encircled in his arms. He stroked the hair back from her brow. Lifting very slightly onto her toes, Roxane slid both of her hands beneath the hair at the nape of his neck, and kissed his mouth. He made a low noise that caused her skin to shiver over muscle and bone.
“No champagne necessary,” she whispered, pulling away.
“For shame,” retorted Collier, with deep pleasure. “Your sensuality is enchanting, my love, and greatly frowned upon in every social treatise regarding women's behavior. Have you not read them?"
“Not a one,” admitted Roxane cheerfully. “I had a tutor who attempted to cajole me into reading Ellis's Women in England, and I was seen to do so, faithfully, every day, but each morning before beginning, I would slip a pamphlet of some interest to me between the pages, and read that instead."
He laughed against the side of her throat.
“And you were not caught?"
“I was very good at it,” she answered him. “Besides, I absorbed enough through the occasional glimpse to properly answer the questions asked of me, or to argue them when my own beliefs could not possibly concur with Mrs. Ellis's own. I think my tutor rather enjoyed those debates, as a matter of fact."
“How fortunate,” he murmured, “for me."
She laughed gaily. Tightening his embrace, Collier pressed his lips to her forehead, and then released her.
“There is no time to indulge ourselves just now. Ahmed will be returning in a few minutes and I have duty to which I must attend. Here.” He pulled a gold chain from the pocket of his coat, dropping it slowly into her open palm.
“What is this?” she asked.
“For your wedding ring,” he answered. “Until such time as you can publicly wear it, I thought you would wish to keep it, as I plan on keeping mine, close to the heart."
“Oh."
She had not thought of that, but was glad he had. Still, as she raised her hand to view the slim gold band on her finger, she could not bear to remove it. As if reading her thoughts, Collier took her hand into his own, removing the circlet and slipping the chain through it. Taking each end into his grasp, he waited while Roxane turned about, lifting her hair for him to drape the chain about her throat and fasten it at her nape. He then slid both ring and chain into her bodice, fingers lingering for a moment against her skin as he drew her close against him. He kissed the back of her neck.
“I love you, Roxane,” he whispered. Resting his chin in the curve of her shoulder, he held out his left hand before her, and she did for him as he had done, twisting the band over his slightly swollen knuckle and then securing it to the chain. Still holding her against his chest, he took the chain, managing to maneuver it, single-handedly, over his head. He would not permit her to turn around to aid him. Pressed against him mutely, she listened to the irregular cadence of his breathing, felt the slight vibration of his form in close contact with her own.
“I love you, too, Collier,” she said.
Behind her, he did not speak, but she recognized in the silent immobility of his stance the weighted testimony of his regard.
Chapter Fifteen
When Roxane returned home, Sera was inquisitive, demanding, as a child will, to know where Roxane had gone off to, and without her. Roxane petted the girl's head soothingly, and told her that she'd had adult business to attend to, and Sera could not have accompanied her. Her tone silenced that line of questioning, and her invitation to take Courage into the garden to teach the dog a few new manners successfully steered her half-sister from further inquiry.
At dinner that night, however, Sera announced to their father that Roxane had gone into Delhi without even so much as the syce to accompany her. Roxane felt the blood rise to her cheeks as the colonel lowered his fork to the cloth, staring at his elder daughter across the table.
“Was that wise, Roxane?” he asked.
Roxane attempted to smile at him before resuming her meal. “I came to no harm,” she said.
“What were you doing there, by yourself?"
Roxane chewed, swallowed, and took a small sip of lemonade before answering.
“It was a private matter, Papa, of which I prefer not to speak,” she answered, and continued eating.
Max Sheffield narrowed his eyes and resituated the napkin in his lap.
“Has this something to do with Ahmed Ali?"
Roxane paused to sip from her dripping glass. “If you are implying anything improper, Papa, the answer to that will be no. However, if you are asking merely if I have seen him today, I will say yes."
“You have met with the man, unchaperoned?"
Roxane turned her head more directly toward her father, eyes lifting as she gave his question brief thought. Thus far, she had been careful not to lie, while still evading the core truth of the matter. She chose to follow that tack, giving the least amount of information possible while still answering him.
“No, sir, I did not,” she said.
The colonel's hand came up from his lap and down onto the table with a force that rocked the crystal and caused both Roxane and Sera to jump in their chairs.
“Bloody hell!” he swore, bending to snatch his napkin from the floor where it had fallen, and throwing the crumpled linen down beside his plate. “You are in my house, Roxane, and I will suffer no impropriety from my daughter!"
Lifting her own napkin, Roxane blotted her lips, then lowered the white square to her lap again. Her eyes narrowed as her father's had done, though he would not have been moved at that moment to admit the similarity.
“There has been no impropriety today, Papa,” she stated carefully.
If Max noted the inclusion of the qualifying ‘today,’ he made no sign, but leaned forward with an angry countenance.
“Does my daughter keep secrets from me?"
“Your daughter,” declared Roxane, “whom you have chosen for so many years to ignore, may very well have facets in her life of which you know nothing. However, as an adult woman, she is also entitled to maintain the prerogative of her privacy where certain matters are concerned. There is no shame brought to your house, nor will there be."
The colonel pushed back his chair, rising from it with the weight of his body firmly ensconced over his knuckles, which were pressed white upon the tabletop.
“Roxane, I am warning you..."
“Warning me, sir?” countered Roxane, two hectic spots burning high on her cheekbones. “Of what would you be warning me? If your statement of warning is naught but a threat, I beg to remind you, sir, that I am still of independent means and can abandon you as swiftly and surely as you did me, all those years ago. I came here to India because I chose to do so, and your veiled, written reminders to me in London of finance and maintenance were without persuasive power."
For a moment, Roxane met her father's eyes, listening to the sharp noise of his breathing through pinched nostrils, and then he straightened, tugging the hem of his jacket down over his hips.
“I see,” he said, and departed the table. Roxane lifted the glass of lemonade again, then clutched it with two hands when she realized she had begun to tremble so badly that she was in danger of spilling the contents. Her heart pounded in her breast and she, too, felt the constraint of her breathing. Her anger, she knew, was the product of more than his questioning of her whereabouts this day, or even his insinuation, yet it was dou
btful that he would understand from whence it sprang. He wanted to forget the past, and in a way she could not blame him. But it was hard to keep it at bay, when something like this occurred to shake loose the barrier she had created. Forgiveness was what he sought, she knew that, and she was ready to forgive—had been, it seemed, since she had laid eyes on him that first day, here in Delhi. It was the forgetting that was so difficult.
Suddenly, she felt a light touch on her arm and opened her eyes, turning to find Sera's hand on the lace edge of her sleeve.
“Roxane, do not leave me,” she said, her pretty, heart-shaped face in open appeal. The green Sheffield eyes were full of tears, unshed.
“No,” said Roxane, “no, of course not. Here, pull your plate closer. Let us finish eating, and then—and then we'll read together. Would you like that?"
Sera nodded her dark head repeatedly, lifting her plate and carrying it to Roxane's side. One of the servants stepped up to move the child's chair. She hopped into it, feet dangling above the floor, and obediently consumed the remainder of her meal.
Once Roxane had seen Sera to her bed, she went in search of her father, hoping to find him in his office. The smell of alcohol as she entered through the doorway made her recoil, and she hesitated to come further into the room until she saw that the source of the odor was a broken bottle on its side, puddled whiskey eating through the finish of the desk. Searching for a cloth with which to soak up the corrosive liquid, she was met in the hallway by a servant who had been sent by her father for that purpose.
“Where is the colonel, the sahib?” Roxane asked.
“He goes,” answered the man, “to the roof."
Lifting the hatch, Roxane climbed up onto the roof where the stored heat of the day rose from the flat surface in wavering sheets which warped one's vision of the earth beyond the parapet. Above, the sky was inky black and clear, spangled with stars of a variety of colors splashed across the sky in milky coalescence. Max Sheffield sat in a camp chair he had brought up with him, his feet propped on the low parapet, the cigar he was smoking a glowing ember hanging to his side. He turned as Roxane approached. She saw, in a glint of light, a tumbler in his other hand and the splash of liquid within. His movements were deliberate and unsteady, but his voice when he spoke was remarkably sober.
“Have you brought a chair with you, Roxane? No? Give a shout down the stairs and have someone bring one up for you."
“That's all right, Papa. I don't mind standing."
“I know. But it makes me feel damned uncomfortable having you hover above me like that. I would stand beside you, but I don't feel my legs could manage that feat at the moment."
Wordlessly, Roxane subsided to the floor, where the red Indian dust marred her skirt and the sides of her shoes. The roof had, however, been recently swept, and the damage was minimal.
“Roxane, I'm glad that you are here—"
“Yes, I wanted to speak with you, too, Papa, about what happened at dinner tonight,” she interrupted, determined to come to the heart of the matter quickly. “I am sorry I lost my temper—"
He turned his head and gave a wave of dismissal from the hand bearing the cigar.
“Roxane, I did not necessarily mean here on the roof. I meant here in India. I had no expectations of ever returning to England, you see, for I did not believe I would live that long. India has a way of sapping a man's strength, taking the best of him, until he is wrung dry."
“Nonsense!” cried Roxane, with a small, suppressed shiver in the temperate air. “You are healthy enough! More so now, since I ... since..."
“Since you have arrived and taken my health into your hands?"
Roxane looked down at her skirt, twisting the cloth between her fingers. “I did not mean—"
“Of course you did! Of course you did. And it may be that I need reminding, every now and then, of how much you have done for me, despite how you've felt—how you continue to feel—regarding my decisions in the past. I am sorry that you viewed my concern for your financial well-being as emotional extortion to get you to come to India. I don't believe I would have done that consciously. In fact, I don't believe I would have cared to meet any daughter who would have given in to such manipulative tactics. But you are neither weak nor swayed by the peculiar handling of others. I somehow thought you might be, though. I thought you would be more like me than you are, because I feared very much that you would be like your mother, and the guilt of seeing her in you would crush me."
Although this speech was not uttered in a tone to elicit sympathy, Roxane felt moved nearly to tears. She pulled her knees up, hunching forward to prop her chin upon their calicoed contours, her arms wrapped firmly about her limbs as she stared out into the night.
“And now?” she asked, at length.
“Hmm?” he responded, as if drawn from some reverie. “Now? Oh, I see. Now.” Swallowing a mouthful of liquor, he tipped his head back in contemplation.
“I have always been proud of you, Roxane, for being your own thinker, for being strong, and funny, and wise, even at a tender age. Did you think I could not know you, through your letters, even though you struggled to maintain the barrier between us? Your character was there, between every written line."
Roxane closed her eyes, then slowly opened them again. “Why did you not come home? Why did you not call us out to India, to be with you?"
“Your mother would not agree,” said Max quietly. “She hated India."
“You asked her to come back here, and she refused?"
“I asked her to come back here,” agreed Max, “and she refused. She did not understand the country and was afraid of it. For you, especially, I think, for India is particularly harsh with its children, native or not."
This was not something Roxane had known. In all the years of separation, there had been no mention. Roxane chewed her lip, studying a particularly bright star, before speaking again.
“And yet, you did not come home."
“No."
“Why not? Did you ... did you never truly love my mother?"
Max Sheffield shifted in the camp chair, lowering the tumbler to the crusted surface of the roof. He sat back to chew on the end of his cigar, then lowered this, too, balancing the tobacco-wrapped cheroot across the top of the glass.
“Roxane,” he said, folding his hands across his stomach as he slouched in the chair, “I loved Louisa very much—more, perhaps, than she ofttimes realized. I never stopped loving her, nor she me. We wrote sporadically, but intensely, back and forth through the years. Is this something you did not know?” he asked, at a movement from Roxane. Beside her father, Roxane shook her head.
“Yes,” he went on, with a short, nasal sound of embittered humor. “We loved each other most every day of our lives, but with all that love, we never learned the skill of compromise. It was, perhaps, too much sacrifice for either of us, though your mother's reasons were, in portion, more noble than mine."
“And Cesya?” Roxane could not help but ask. In the starlit night, Roxane saw her father's mouth twist, although whether from pain or fond recall, she could not tell.
“In the course of self-abnegation, Roxane, I became a lonely man."
With her arms still coiled about her knees, Roxane rocked back on her hips, sinking her teeth into her lip. She closed her eyes. Down in the road, she could hear the sound of tiny bells as a goat wandered loose along the lane. She thought of Cesya's dark, empty cottage and of Sera, the constant reminder to her father of the woman who had been his companion, if not his love, and the violence of her death. What, exactly, were his feelings regarding that tragedy? Roxane had never really asked him. She could not bring herself to do so, even now.
“Sera,” she said, after several minutes, “is a very fine child."
“She is that,” he concurred quietly.
“She's very quick,” Roxane went on, warming to the topic. “She can learn anything I give her, almost without trying. And she reads beautifully! Have you heard her?” Not wait
ing for him to reply, Roxane rushed on. “She is eager to please, but only, I think, because it pleases her. She can be domineering, if she chooses, and if you let her, although she never makes demands without giving thought to that which she is trying to achieve.” Remembering a particular episode, Roxane laughed, turning toward her father. To her surprise, he reached out, tugging lightly on a loose strand of her hair.
“How very much like her older sister,” he said, with a sad, slightly drunken smile.
Roxane frowned thoughtfully at her father's shadowed countenance. After a moment, he dropped his hand.
“She is, you know,” he said, fumbling for the cheroot, which had rolled off the glass onto the rooftop. He placed the end of the cigar back into his mouth, reaching for the box of lucifers, but he did not immediately light it. “Always has been,” he murmured, tapping the little wooden box on his knee.
“It was certainly an unforeseen circumstance for you,” he went on, “coming here with the idea of making amends with your father, only to discover there was more to your family than you knew."
“I did not resent Sera for that little shock,” Roxane said, with no small irony. Her father chuckled in appreciation.
“But you did resent me."
“At first,” Roxane admitted.
“And Cesya, too."
Roxane drew a long, deep breath, letting it out in a rush.
“And Cesya, too. Now that she is dead, I regret the childishness of my own behavior, which would not permit me to see beyond resentment to whatever there was about her that made you fond. She is dead now, and it is too late for even an overture of friendship."
The flare of the match was blinding in the night. Max chewed and puffed on the cigar, turning it between thumb and forefinger until it was once more evenly ignited.
“Roxane,” he said, “Cesya might have lived for years without that overture ever being presented. There is nothing proclaiming you had to care for the woman, merely because I bore her affection. That which stimulated my interest and sentiment is not necessarily anything you might ever have recognized, let alone understood. If you feel guilt because you could not befriend her, Roxane, leave it rest. Your kindness in her need was enough. Cesya was grateful for your efforts, as was I."
