by Alyssa Deane
“And what of your honor, Collier?” she said. “We spoke often of that. You know we did."
Placing his hands on her shoulders, Collier turned her around, easing her from the wide stone casement. She rose, clutching the falling sheet. Head bowed, she tucked the edges into one another across her breast and beneath one arm. His fingers came up to cup her chin, lifting her attention from her task to meet his earnest expression. His eyes, in the first of the morning light, smoldered like fire behind smoky glass.
“My honor,” he said, “like my love, stands before me. There can be no other that comes first ... Hush, now, don't you weep about this.” He wiped the tears from beneath her eyes with his fingers, then pulled the sheet free from its careful placement, using the roughly squared end to aid him in his endeavor.
“Do you remember,” he continued in a quiet rumble, “the first day we met? Do you?” he repeated, in mock surprise, as she nodded her head at him, smiling damply. “I knew that day that I loved you, Roxane."
“You did not,” she argued, with half a heart.
“I did,” he countered, his grin not quite stable. “And on the second day we met, I knew that I would marry you, if you would have me. I don't believe I ever felt so absolutely certain about something that was such an absolute uncertainty, in my life. You may call me a fool, if you'd like."
“Oh,” said Roxane, pressing her forehead against the bone in the center of his chest and feeling, through muscle and flesh, the pounding of his heart, “I do not think I'll do any such thing. I am your wife, so you could not have been that foolhardy."
He made a noise, a grunt of agreement, and pulled her close, stroking her back. Roxane raised her hand to a ringlet of hair on his chest, damp with perspiration. Between forefinger and thumb, she began to uncurl it, marveling, at a tangent, at how soft it felt, and pliant, almost like the curling tendrils on an infant's tender scalp.
“Collier..."
“Hmm?"
She closed her eyes. Not yet, a voice inside her whispered softly; wait.
“I love you, Collier,” she said.
He grinned above her, and kissed her on the top of her head, as he was wont to do when moved by the gravity of his affections.
“I am,” he answered, “at all times, most humbly aware of that fact, Roxane Harrison."
* * * *
That night, Roxane prepared the provisions Collier and Ahmed provided to her, for travel. Sera watched the preparations mutely, sitting on the edge of a chair with her thin legs swinging back and forth above the carpeted floor. Roxane had explained to her, very simply, where they were going, and that she must refrain from too many inquiries. From that moment on, Sera had been silent. Possibly, Roxane mused, the child was afraid that once she opened her mouth, all the questions would come tumbling out at once and she was, therefore, avoiding all speech.
Food and water were necessities which might not be readily available outside the city walls, yet as they were going to have to carry them out, the packs needed to be lightweight and unobtrusive. Collier had devised a method for carrying, something akin to a soldier's gear pack, but made of a carpet-like material which he had managed to obtain. The smallest and lightest would go to Sera, for as long as she could bear it, and then one or the other of them would have to take it up. Sera herself would probably have to be carried at some point, but this would, hopefully, not be for some time.
There was a portion of wall where a group of Europeans had managed to escape, lowering themselves on a contraption made up of gun belts and other strapping, into a dry nullah. By day, these others had been shot at, but by night, so Collier had explained, he, Roxane, and Sera could move virtually unseen.
Ahmed had procured a brown dye, rough-smelling and caustic, which Collier had applied to Roxane's skin in the daylight, while he could still see clearly enough to assure himself that he missed no patch of pale hide. It had stung unmercifully, and Roxane had had to stand in the small chamber naked while it dried, but the results she viewed in the mirror afterward had been striking.
“We travel by night only,” Collier said to her, helping her into the clothes he had brought back with him, “and no one, looking at you now, will question that you are any other but the wife of this Pathan."
Now that Roxane considered it, the strangeness of her appearance was probably enough to have assured Sera's silence. The disguises Collier provided were thorough, and the idea of traveling by night a precautionary measure that played out to both sides. For if, in their present garb, they were discovered by British troops, they might very well find themselves in as much danger as if their masquerade was detected by rebels. The only thing that would save them, at a distance, from a nervous British gunman, might be how loudly they could call out with perfect English voices.
Before leaving, Roxane took a quill and ink and wrote out a brief letter on a sheet of creamy linen parchment. Sanding the surface, she permitted it a moment to dry, then rolled the parchment and tied it with a narrow length of silk. Taking Ahmed aside, she handed the missive to him.
“If the British win the day, this may save you from loss of property or privilege, Ahmed. And if they—if they do not, well,” she said lightly, “just destroy the letter. You will have no use for it then."
He nodded, bowing low over his hands and the rolled statement. When he stood straight, his eyes met hers gravely.
“Thank you,” she said, “for everything. For saving my life and Sera's most of all, of course, but also for all that you have shown me by allowing me to be your friend. I have seen and learned much that I would not have, had I committed myself solely to my father's house."
“You are very welcome,” he answered her quietly. Kissing her hand, he then let it fall, turning to Collier. Roxane walked away from them, anticipating a need for privacy. She led Sera to the myna's perch for a farewell. Courage was sitting obediently near the carved roost, leashed and muzzled. After much discussion it was agreed, against Collier's better judgment, he declared, that the dog would come with them, but only if it could be made not to bark. The muzzle was tight, but still provided ample room for the movements of the animal's tongue. There had been no choice. It was that or leave the dog behind.
The most complicated segment of their escape involved the departure through the outer palace, where Ahmed had his rooms. Servants and loitering sepoys were everywhere, in the halls and in the courtyard. In the end, a diversion was planned, whereby Collier would precede them outside, setting fire to a line of powder leading to a small keg. The resulting explosion would be minor, but enough to gain the attention of men whose spirits were already high on blood lust or alcohol. Once she heard the noise, Roxane was to lead Sera out. It was risky, and frightening, but there was nothing else to be done.
Roxane waited by the door with Sera and Courage, listening for the report of the powder over the singing of the blood in her ears. Ahmed waited beside her, poised and untroubled.
“You will get away safely,” he whispered to her, “I swear it."
The minutes passed, and Roxane heard nothing. She glanced at Ahmed once, twice, then finally shook her head.
“Something has occurred. I must go to him."
“No! No, you must not. He made me promise that you would wait here, even if he should never return. There was the chance that he would be discovered, setting the flame to the powder. If he is not back soon, I will lead you out myself."
Roxane nodded, near to tears. For Sera's sake, she must not be hasty. But the thought that Collier might, at this moment, be fighting for his life was too much to bear.
“Ahmed—"
He laid his hand on her arm, holding her back, steadying her.
“Listen. He is here. At the far end of the hall. Come with me, both of you. Walk with your heads down. Sera, you too. Give me the dog."
Roxane obeyed without question and saw to it that Sera did also, following Ahmed down the length of the corridor toward a dimly revealed shadow at the opposite end. Suddenly Colli
er's words came back to her: Ahmed's own life is at risk ... he may be forced to give us up ....
“Oh, God."
Ahmed's head whipped around at the sound of her voice, his expression both fierce and intent. Roxane faltered, her hand on Sera's shoulder. Ahmed moved quickly, taking them both in a grip that was not gentle, shoving them with force into the shadowed end of the hall. Hands reached out, clutching the fabric of her clothes as she fell, dragging Sera with her. She fought them off, until she realized that it was, truly, Collier standing there, helping her to her feet.
“Ahmed still has the dog,” whispered Roxane, turning to look back down the hallway. She saw that he was unmuzzling the animal, lifting it into his arms, with his hand firmly closed about Courage's mouth. He spoke words into the dog's ear, and she saw the puppy's tail wag.
“Ahmed will be good to Courage."
This from Sera, who was watching them both as they turned back to the apartments. Ahmed glanced once more in their direction, then hurried along, his robes whispering over the floor.
“Courage always liked the gardens."
Roxane scooped her sister up into her arms. “Let us be gone from here,” she whispered to Collier, “if there is a way."
“There is,” he said, relieving Roxane of the additional burden of her sister, “if we move quickly. There is some sort of demonstration claiming everyone's attention. It seemed detrimental rather than otherwise to ignite the keg. Step carefully."
Using extreme caution and stealth, they attained the city streets without incident and hurried toward the breach in the outer wall. No one was nearby. Collier had to go first, to make sure the way was clear below, leaving Roxane crouching up above with Sera in her arms. Sera was tired, and leaning her weight heavily against Roxane, so that she knew Sera would be unable to climb down unaided. Unless Collier came back up, Roxane would have to carry her. She leaned over the broken wall, waiting for the signal. Shortly, she heard a low snarl and moved over the edge, clinging to the loose stones. Collier was directly below her, taking Sera from her embrace.
“You'll have to wait a moment,” he said, in a whisper so low she could barely hear it. “The straps won't hold us all."
Clinging to the face of the stone escarpment, Roxane held her breath. She struggled to maintain her footing against the red stones, trying to keep her weight from the gun belts which had been left, fortunately for them, to hang, even though the escape of the Europeans in daylight had been witnessed. She could hear men in the streets, but it did not appear they were searching. Instead, their voices were loud and drunken, and there was a woman among them, whose laughter spun shrilly into the night. Below, she heard Collier's signal repeated, but she did not move. The voices were too close now, and she dared not risk it.
She held herself flush against the stones, sandy grit abrading her cheekbone. Collier, with some instinctive understanding of her predicament, did not repeat his signal again. In the nullah below, all was silence. Roxane had, finally, to breathe, and did so in shallow respirations. Perspiration beaded her brow and made her palms slick. The men had stopped to dally with their female companion, no more than fifteen feet away.
As she waited, her arms began to tremble, for she was supporting nearly the full weight of her body on their strength alone. If she tumbled, the fall might not kill her, but discovery most likely would. With a sudden and dangerous inspiration, she pressed herself closer against the wall, gripping as tightly as she could with the curved fingers of one hand. She hefted a small stone in the other, then threw it as hard as possible, nearly unbalancing herself. She heard the rock hit the cobbled surface of the street, skittering to rest with a small bell tone against some metallic object, a good distance away. The men, only mildly curious, wandered off nonetheless in that direction, dragging their companion with them. Roxane did not wait any longer, descending in hasty silence. Collier's hands reached up for her just as her own arms gave out. He lowered her into the nullah beside Sera, where they rested.
Collier leaned his head close to Roxane's ear. “It is a good thing those men were drunk, Roxane, and not looking to the wall. In the starlight, I could see your arm before you threw that stone more plainly than I do now. But it was a grand job, dear."
Roxane nodded against him, struggling to catch the breath she had denied herself. The respite was short-lived, for Collier soon was urging them on. “Watch your step on these stones. They roll easily, and with noise."
Once again, Roxane nodded. Sera was in Collier's grip, hoisted with her thin, trousered legs about his waist, her arms clinging to his neck. The route along the dry watercourse was torturously but necessarily slow. For what seemed like hours, they made their way through the ditch, stopping often and at the slightest noise, until at last they came to a place where Collier hoisted first Roxane, then Sera, onto the ground above. He followed shortly thereafter.
Roxane turned to Collier suddenly and smiled at him. She leaned forward, tucking her chin against the side of his neck. “My heart,” she whispered, “will never again know a slower pace than this."
He smiled in return, teeth white in the shadow of his sun-browned face, and hooked his arm across her shoulders, planting a noiseless kiss upon her temple. Then he lifted Sera once more to his hip, seemingly inexhaustible in her care, and took Roxane's hand, leading them beneath the starred blanket of the sky and the tender curve of the crescent moon, away from the city of Delhi.
Chapter Twenty-Two
August, 1857
Roxane watched the rain undulating like gray silk buffeted in the wind. She could barely see more than a dozen feet ahead. The sound was a vast sibilant hiss, or, where it pounded onto the grease-covered canvas tented over the ox-cart, the deep rolling of a hollow drum. She could hear nothing beyond it. The sucking turn of the wheels through ankle-deep mud was lost. If the ox made any complaint, she was not aware of it. And if the road ahead was washed away, so near to the river, she would not know it, until they were upon it.
But she could not stop again today. Before Collier had slipped once more into the delirium of his fever, he had promised her they were not far now from Calcutta. Somehow he had recognized, in the sodden landscape, a familiar sign. Or at least he said that he did. If this had been merely a result of the malaria, she could not know and would not dwell upon it. After so long, they had to be almost there. They had to be, for she had run out of the quinine she had taken from the burned-out shell of her father's house, and Collier's fever was worsening. Run out of quinine, and any food that would not go to mold in the weather, and clean, whole, or dry clothing. The only thing they had in abundance was fresh water, which they kept in constant supply by catching the rain in a bucket affixed to the side of the cart.
The ox stumbled, recalling Roxane's attention to the road ahead, what little she could see of it. Mud, all of it, with a churning slick of water on the surface, falling too fast to be absorbed into the morass beneath. Traveling by night had become an impossibility once the rains began, for there were no stars, no moon, to shed light on their course. Before that, the days had been unbearably humid and fearfully hot, and they had rested where they could during the sunlight hours, one of them, either she or Collier, always keeping watch as they lay in a dry nullah, or beneath a covering of vegetation. Thank God, she mused with a nearly silent laugh, they had recently been able to acquire the cart, albeit it in exchange for all the coin that was left to them, for if they were to have to try such a thing as hiding near the ground now, they would surely be drowned.
The thousand kilometers to Calcutta had increased again nearly by a third, as they backtracked or traveled wide to avoid the conflict where they could. They had passed Fategarh, Cawnpore, Lucknow, all the stations and villages where smoke was seen rising and rebellion was rife. Sometimes, Collier would leave them, she and Sera, in Govind's charge, burrowed into some relatively safe position, and he would go with stealth nearer to these places, to gauge the situation. Always he came back grim-faced and silent, his gray ey
es fiercely avoiding her own, and Roxane knew, at those times, what it was he was thinking. These were his countrymen—both his and her own, she wanted to remind him—dying in those stations, and because he had sworn to see her safe, he could do nothing to aid them. It was not that he blamed her for his frustration, but merely that he recognized an impotence that was beyond his control, and it smote him to his soul.
A fistful of rain slashed across her face on the wind, and she rubbed her hand across her eyes, glancing back into the dimly illumined interior of the cart. Govind was cross-legged on the floor, nodding over the sleeping form of Sera in his arms, while Collier lay on the single rope cot, secured into place by several strips of linen, for she had feared he would fall from the low bed onto the other two as tremors shook him. For the moment, except for a slight movement of his fingers on his chest, he was still. There were times, in his fevered state, when Collier would rail against the illness which kept him weak; he had set out to save them all, and now he saw that power relinquished to Roxane. In the morose stages of his illness, he was bitter. The malaria was warping his perspective. Roxane knew that when he was well, he would not remember these incidents, and if he did, they would be as fevered dreams and nothing more. She vowed never to reveal to him the words he had used against her.
Pivoting back to the road, she thought of the first night out of Delhi, picking their way beneath the sliver of moon through what remained of the British camp. The bungalows were all burned nearly to the ground, smoke trailing to the sky in thin, feathery wisps. All the beautiful gardens were trampled, flowers torn out and dying on the soil, and the fences scattered like cordwood. Furniture broken into pieces littered the ground, and clothes lay in smoldering heaps. She remembered that Govind was sitting by the place where Collier had buried Papa, on an overturned bench. The strange image was seared into her mind's eye. Govind among the ruins, white robes ghostly in the light of the little moon, rising up from the bench upon their approach with a dignified greeting, just as if he had been waiting. He said that he had been. He said that he knew she would be returning. He had not even seemed surprised by Roxane's mode of dress, nor Collier's. Roxane stood by the rough grave to bid her father farewell, and then she turned and went inside the ruined house, to gather what items she knew would be necessary on their journey, and her father's sword. This she would not leave behind.
