Once and Always

by Alyssa Deane

  Roxane sat back, leaning on her palms.

  “And now,” Max said, as if the topic of conversation had led him naturally to the statement, “to Captain Harrison."

  Roxane was obliged to the cloak of darkness. Though she scarcely stirred, the blood rose to the surface of her skin in a heated rush.

  “I beg your pardon? What of him?"

  Max puffed on his cigar. Ghostly rings of smoke curled into the night air.

  “As long as we are baring our souls, so to speak, I would ask you to be honest with me, Roxane. Our newly arrived captain is the one you spoke of to me, here on the rooftop, is he not?"

  Roxane's hesitation was minimal.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He laughed, a small sound, slapping his palm on his leg.

  “I knew it! In the corridor outside my office yesterday morning, I saw as much in your eyes. And his manner towards you was too familiar for a mere acquaintance. Of course later, at dinner, I was not the only one to notice his fondness for you, Roxane. But I was baffled, as you had told me the man was married, and when I asked him yesterday, he said he was not. And he was not lying. I could see that. So I telegraphed to Calcutta, to satisfy my own curiosity and to alleviate any qualms I might have on your behalf."

  “You didn't!"

  “I certainly did,” Max told her, mouthing his cigar, “I most certainly did. If that man was planning a career in the service, he's botched it now. Lord Waverly has much influence, and was not pleased with the outcome of Harrison's engagement to his daughter. I am sure the captain was a gentleman under the circumstances, but Waverly took umbrage at the slight. He felt, one might assume, that the captain was fortunate to find himself marrying into the family at all. He sacrificed a great deal, our good captain, when he broke ties with that family. For you, Roxane?"

  Roxane shook her head. “Not for me, Papa. He had decided the course of his life long before I came into it."

  “Hmm.” The camp chair creaked under the shifting of Max Sheffield's weight. He dropped his feet to the roof from the parapet, crossing his boots at the ankle.

  “But he holds you in high regard, Roxane. Any fool, even this one, can see that."

  Roxane did not reply.

  “If he has honorable intentions—and why would he not?—then I can only hope the two of you can tolerate a long engagement, because Waverly has seen to it that he will be granted no dispensation for marriage so long as he remains in the Bengal Army. And his commission is not up for some time yet, unless he chooses to forsake it. No doubt he will consider a change in career, since his chances for advancement have been fairly well quashed."

  Roxane's hand crept to her bodice, fingers grasping the firm circle of the ring beneath the fabric like a talisman.

  “Marriage has been discussed between the two of you, has it not? Stanton wired to say—"

  “Yes,” Roxane interjected hastily.

  “Hmm,” Max murmured yet again. Roxane felt the weight of his gaze, peering at her through the gloom.

  Tell him now, a voice in her head urged, but she remained silent.

  “When the time comes, Roxane,” Max continued, “though you are past the age when you require my consent, should you wish it, you have my blessing. Though I do not yet know Captain Harrison, he seems a good man, and I truly do know you well enough by now to trust to your judgment."

  Roxane's hand drifted from the hidden ring down to her stomach, and rested there.

  “Thank you, Papa,” she answered in a voice so stifled with varying emotion that it was nearly impossible to discern any at all.

  * * * *

  The end of the month approached, and Roxane found herself able to tell Collier, without question, that she was not carrying his child. They were both vaguely disappointed at this, but also relieved that the time for children was not yet come. There were too many tag ends flying loose, secrets and obstructions, and a new need of reason to bide a while. For on Sunday, the twenty-ninth of March, the first explosion of mutiny made itself known roughly fifty miles away in Meerut, where a sepoy by the name of Mangal Pande, apparently under the influence of an intoxicating drug, raged about with a loaded musket in his hand, dressed only in a dhoti beneath his regimental jacket, and calling upon the bugler to sound the assembly as a signal to the other men to follow him. He had been incited to do this, he exclaimed, and now the others would not come out and join him. Through a breakdown in command, no one immediately stopped him in his actions. Before long, he had wounded both an English sergeant major by the name of Hewson, and Adjutant Baugh. Only one sepoy came to the aid of the two British officers, and he was ultimately set upon by his fellows. In the end, Pande turned the musket upon himself, but did not die of his wounds. He was brought to trial less than a week later and condemned to death.

  The report of the initial ruckus came to Delhi on Monday, and to the Sheffield household just after the dinner hour. Save for the engendered outrage, reactions at the table were mixed. The general feeling among the officers present was one which was summed up by Colonel Sheffield, when he said:

  “Thank God, sirs, that will never happen here. My men have shown no inclination to revolt."

  The women hastened, in their nervousness, to agree, but Roxane sat back a little from the table, weighing her words before speech.

  “Have you not noticed, though, Father, the agitation pervading the native regiments? Although they might not have any plan of action except resistance to a breach of their religion, I believe it undermines thought and deed."

  Roxane watched as, across the table, Max Sheffield lowered his glass with a look of stern reproof. “I am disinclined to suppose that more than a handful of sepoys are so persuaded of threat to caste and faith that they will resort to violence in reaction. What a gloomy outlook you possess, Roxane."

  “Nonetheless,” Collier spoke up beside her, spinning the crystal stem of a wineglass between thumb and middle finger so that the light caught in the ruby liquid, shooting arrows of flame across the tablecloth beneath, “all of the components of combustion are at hand, and cajoling the men like children with a pat on the back and an admonition to take notice of what we view as the truth of the matter, will soon serve us naught. Begging your pardon, sir, but the men no longer believe us, and have thrown off restraint."

  For a moment, Roxane saw that not only her father, but the three other officers present at table appeared inclined to anger at Collier's words, until the colonel laughed, nodding his head.

  “I am certain you are far wiser than we, who have been longer at this particular post, Captain Harrison."

  Roxane heard Collier draw his breath in sharply, but he smiled in return, albeit stiffly, and acknowledged his place.

  From that point, conversation turned advisably to other topics. Brandy was brought out and consumed informally at table, while the women remained with their husbands. Shortly after, Collier excused himself. Roxane rose, ostensibly to see her guest to the gate. Knowing glances were exchanged. The news of their previous acquaintance had traveled swiftly.

  Under the stars, Roxane enjoyed the leisurely caress of Collier's mouth on her own. She snuggled into his embrace, heartened by the words he murmured against her ear.

  “Do you know how very much I've missed you, dear?"

  Leaning against him, Roxane murmured, “I could, perhaps, hazard a guess, based on the physical evidence which has begun to present itself...."

  “Ouch. You have cut me to the quick,” he teased. “Is it not enough that I possess a wife, but have none of the pleasure which should accompany my married state—oof!” She jabbed a knuckle into his rib cage.

  “Say not one word about wifely duty,” she warned.

  “Heaven forbid,” he concurred, drawing her closer. “If you should ever make love with me out of a sense of duty rather than connubial joy, I swear to you I will take a vow of celibacy and retire to a hermitage for the rest of my days."

  She laughed, turning her head beneath his chin, and w
ondered at the change in her person which enabled her, upon the breakdown of reserve, to give herself so fully, and in absolute trust. Blindly, she reached up, tracing the line of his brow, his cheekbone, the smiling curve of his lips. He took her hand in his own, singly kissing the tip of each finger.

  “I love you, Roxane."

  “I know you do,” she said, and felt the enchantment of that knowledge in every fiber of the force which was her life and soul.

  “Collier, it is probably foolish at this juncture to take any risks, what with the dark tenor of the reports from Meerut, and the information my father imparted regarding your chances for official dispensation, but I—"

  “Roxane,” he forestalled her, “we are married now, and nothing will change that fact. Military regulations cannot alter what has been sanctioned by the church. Given Lord Waverly's interference, it would at this point make no difference who knew of our union, save that I would wish to retain my commission until I have seen this coming rebellion to its end."

  Roxane nodded. The fabric of his uniform scratched her cheek. “I understand that,” she said.

  “Do you, sweetheart?” He stroked her hair, the length of her spine, and she trembled beneath his touch. “You are far more gracious than I deserve. I wish to God that you were safe in England."

  “But I am not. I am here and prepared to stand beside you, no matter what should occur.” She felt his arms tighten around her in a spasm that seemed almost desperate.

  “Roxane!"

  It was her father, calling in a loud whisper from the verandah. Collier backed away, holding her at arm's length in the shadows.

  “You had better go, love."

  “Roxane!"

  “I am coming, Papa,” Roxane called over her shoulder, and then, very quietly, to Collier, “I want to be alone with you again.” She felt him move, a sudden, involuntary, impassioned step nearer.

  “When?"

  “Soon."

  “Where?"

  “I don't know, Collier."

  Behind her, she heard the sound of a booted heel on the shell of the path as her father stepped down from the verandah. “Harrison,” he called, “are you still there?"

  Collier moved into the light.

  “Yes, sir."

  “Don't leave just yet. We've decided to get up a card game, after all. You'll join us, won't you? Roxane, Sera has awakened and is calling for you. I'm sorry."

  Ducking her head so that her father would not witness the flush to her cheeks, nor the shine in her eyes that she knew must be there, Roxane told him there was no need to apologize and hastened inside to tend to her sister.

  * * * *

  The hour was late as the last of the night's guests departed. Roxane had long since retired to her room and was sitting at her dressing table brushing her hair with long, repetitive strokes, when she heard male voices thick with drink bidding good night to her father. She listened, unable to discern if Collier's was among them. At the sound of heavy steps on the staircase, she turned to the doorway, waiting for her father to come into view.

  “Did the captain leave early?” she asked him, as he paused in the doorway to say good night.

  Max leaned against the doorframe, a bit unsteadily.

  “No, Roxane, he is here still. I left him on the verandah, waiting for you. I told him that if you were still awake, I would send you down.” His speech was slightly slurred and held a note of wistful melancholy. Roxane stood from the bench, hastily braiding her hair down her back. In the mirror, she could see her father watching her.

  “Am I to lose you so soon, Roxane?"

  Tying a blue ribbon to the end of the braid, Roxane met her father's bleary eyes in the glass.

  “What do you mean, Papa?"

  He took a staggering step into the room, and paused.

  “Am I to lose my daughter so soon upon her return into my life?"

  Roxane forced an answering smile to her lips and took his arm, leading him from the room to steer him toward his own. “Of course not,” she soothed. “Even if I should live on the other side of the earth, I would still be your daughter, now wouldn't I? We have proved that. Now, you just ready yourself for sleep, and I will go say good night to Co—to Captain Harrison, Papa."

  Helping him to sit on the edge of his bed, she bent and assisted her father in removing his boots. He laid a loose-jointed hand upon her hair.

  “You are a good girl, Roxane,” he muttered.

  “I am a woman, Papa,” she reminded him, tossing his boots aside before standing.

  “I know,” he said, nodding his head. He reached with shaking fingers for the polished buttons of his jacket. Impulsively, Roxane bent, kissing him tenderly on his balding pate before departing. In the hallway, she turned, gazing back into the room to where he continued to sit, hands folded now between his knees as he stared blankly at the rug between his feet. He looked, she thought, with no other words that would suit, absolutely forlorn.

  “I ... I love you, Papa,” she whispered softly.

  If he heard, he gave no indication of it. Quietly, she shut the door, then hurried lightly down the stairs and into the night to meet again the man who was her husband.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “What date is today?"

  Collier stirred sleepily, rolling himself with a smile over Roxane to view the calendar hanging on the wall above his bunk. The guttering flame of a candle stub shielded behind an open book flickered across the embroidered length of cloth. He frowned, attempting to focus, then turned to glance at the clock.

  “Considering the hour, I would say it is now the seventh of May. Why do you ask?"

  Roxane stretched languidly beneath him, arms extended along the pillow. He ran his hands over the sinew and soft contours of flesh, circling his fingers about her narrow wrists and holding them there, above her tousled head, very gently. She moved against him without protest.

  “Only wondering,” she said.

  He smiled down at her, a crooked twist of his lips, then kissed the tip of her nose. He ran his mouth along her cheekbone, down her jaw, nuzzled against the side of her neck. She smelled like the night, sultry, sensual, and marked by appetites which dimmed in the sun. He maneuvered himself once more between the curved silkiness of her thighs. She held herself very still beneath him, breath in abeyance. The heat of her naked skin along his own was like flame.

  “I am very much looking forward to Monday,” he commented, conversationally, above her, “aren't you?"

  He could see her eyes, dark, like green, shaded water beneath the riverbank with here and there, where the candlelight reflected, a glint of sun. Her pupils were wide and black.

  “Monday? I—oh! Yes, yes, I am looking forward to Monday."

  “I have taken care ... to arrange ... the entire day ... to please you."

  “Oh! Goodness, yes ... I know that, Collier. We will take Sera ... and Ahmed, and I ... I will—oh! I will ride in a howdah for the first time and ... and—Collier, please, if you want to talk, you will—you will have to stop—"

  He laughed, a low, throaty noise and released his hold on her wrists, crossing his hands beneath her head, tangled in her hair.

  “Forgive me, love, for teasing you. I could not help myself. I am enamored of the expression on your face, when I—oh God, Roxane, do stay still for a moment—and the way you breathe, and the heat rising from your skin, and that gentle arch, here beneath your back....” He closed his eyes, reveling in all he had described, and felt her hands drawing him near as she kissed him on the mouth. The candle shuddered and went out. All mastery of the situation slipped away from him, spiraling down to the sensation of contact, of physical harness and harmonic totality, and the vast emptiness that so frightened him at his weakest was no longer empty. She was, as always, his anchor, his haven, enveloping for release the fire of his passion, to cradle within her womb and nurture in her soul.

  Afterward, Collier floated just above sleep, cradling Roxane, spoon fashion, against his body. Ro
xane, trusting to his innate time-keeping abilities, slumbered soundly, lips slightly parted, respiration gentle and even. At two-thirty, he would see her home, just as he had been doing once or twice a week for little more than a month. So far, they had been undiscovered, but he worried, constantly, otherwise.

  If not for the palpitating undercurrent of trouble with India's native army, he would have addressed the situation directly and accepted the consequences. But he could neither turn his back on the country that he served, nor the country of his birth. Roxane, patient and remarkably understanding, spoke to him of his honor, and ignored the fact that she was caught within its coils.

  A noise outside called him from his musing, and he slipped stealthily from the bed, tugging the sheet over the pale, curving sheen of Roxane's hip. Pulling on his trousers, he went to the window and lifted the edge of the covering to peer out into the night. Someone had left a fire burning in the cantonment, and in its harsh light Collier could see men moving about. He went to the door, checked that his gun was loaded and sitting on the table beside it, then stepped out onto the shadowed verandah. From a charpoy snug against the wall at the farthest end of the porch, the dark, slight figure of Collier's groom rose and padded to his side on naked feet.

  “How long has this been going on?” Collier asked him, quietly.

  “Several hours, sahib. It is the pulton, the infantry."

  “Why did you not wake me?"

  “Ah,” the man prevaricated with a small shrug of his narrow shoulders, “you were occupied, sahib. It did not seem so important as that."

  Collier snorted. “What, exactly, is the trouble? Do you know?"

  Beside him, the syce shuffled his feet over the rough boards. "Sahib, the havildar, upon passing an hour ago, has said the news came to the men tonight of the court-martial of those men in Meerut."

  Collier narrowed his eyes, rocking back slightly onto his heels as he stared out over the parade ground to the regimental lines, where another fire had sprung up. So far, there seemed no problem, save that the men were gathering at a very strange hour.