Veils of Silk

by Mary Jo Putney

  After studying his face, David nodded, satisfied, then went back to his bedroom, leaving Ian with the solitude he both craved and feared. Wearily he tucked the decanter in the crook of his arm, then picked up his brandy glass and lamp and retreated to his room. There, with workmanlike efficiency, he set out to drink himself into a stupor as quickly as possible.

  Before he could achieve his goal, a wave of violent nausea surged through him. Desperate for fresh air, he stumbled outside, barely making it across the veranda and into the garden before his outraged body purged itself of the brandy. Head spinning and gut churning, he fell on his knees by an oleander bush and retched until his stomach was empty.

  Too weak to stand, he buried his sweat-slick face in his hands, shaking and chilled in spite of the night's warmth. He hadn't expected brandy to be a long-term solution, but he had thought it would give a few hours of desperately needed oblivion.

  Apparently even that was to be denied him. His suffocating misery was the worst he had ever known, a pain of the mind more agonizing than any of the body.

  As Ian's hammering heart slowed to normal, he faced one last ominous truth: he couldn't go on this way. He had told David that he wouldn't do anything foolish and he meant it, for he had caused his family enough grief.

  But the world was a dangerous place for a man who found life excruciating. In spite of his best intentions, he was doomed unless he found something—or someone—to take his mind off his own despair.

  Chapter 4

  The British administration building was the largest edifice in Baipur, with a Union Jack hanging limply from a pole in front and a crowd of the inevitable petitioners and gawkers lolling about the veranda. All watched with interest as Ian dismounted. One stepped forward to take his horse while another went inside to announce that an unknown Englishman had arrived.

  By the time Ian reached the top of the steps, a sturdily built Briton of middle years had come out to greet him. "Good afternoon. I'm George McKittrick, senior judge here." He offered a hand and a smile. "What brings you to Baipur?"

  Ian had discarded his uniform along with his commission and wasn't yet accustomed to identifying himself as Lord Falkirk, so he said tersely, "My name's Ian Cameron, and I'm looking for Kenneth Stephenson. Is he here now?"

  McKittrick led the way inside. "Sorry, but he's touring the eastern part of the district. Won't be back for weeks."

  So the hunt wasn't over yet. "My business is actually with his stepdaughter, Larissa, or perhaps she's called Lara," Ian said. "Do you know if she's with him?"

  McKittrick's brows drew together. "Lara? He has a daughter, Laura. I suppose she could be his stepdaughter, though neither of them ever said as much. Yes, she's with him."

  Ian asked, "Can you give me a map of the district, and Stephenson's schedule of stops?"

  "Of course." McKittrick gave an order to a native clerk, then turned back to Ian. "It's getting late in the day. Will you do my wife and me the honor of spending the night with us?"

  India was sometimes called the land of the open door because of the unfailing hospitality that a Briton met wherever he went. However, though Ian had regained enough control to present a fairly normal face to the world, doing so was difficult, and he didn't feel up to being civil to a table full of strangers. "Sorry, I won't be stopping. I need to find the Stephensons as soon as possible, and there are a couple of hours of daylight left."

  The judge's face fell. "A pity. My wife will be disappointed. It isn't often we see a new face in Baipur."

  Ian felt a twinge of guilt. A small station like this would have only four or five British officials and a few other family members, so if Ian stayed, his visit would be the social high point of the month.

  But guilt was not enough to change his mind. He said vaguely, "If I come back this way, I'll gladly take you up on your offer, but today I really must continue on."

  McKittrick asked no more questions, and within fifteen minutes Ian was on his way again. That night he camped in the countryside, as he had every night since leaving Cambay. If Stephenson was holding to his schedule, Ian should find him within a day or so. Then Ian could present the Bible to Lara, give the necessary explanations, and be off the next morning.

  He knew that there was no real need for haste, but once he had decided to return to Scotland, he had become feverishly impatient to be on his way. With insight that he would not have had before his imprisonment, he recognized that he had replaced his obsession with Georgina with a fixation about going home. Not the healthiest state of mind, he thought with black humor, but at least obsession helped him maintain his grasp on sanity.

  * * *

  When they reached the fork in the dusty road, Laura reined in her horse. "I'll turn here, Father. If I go into the village with you, I'll get caught up in the official welcome, and it will be hours before I can get away.''

  Kenneth Stephenson halted his own mount. "You aren't needed to help set up camp. The servants will do a fine job."

  "True," she admitted, "but supervising their work gives me a good excuse to avoid sitting through all the flowery speeches, which will inevitably be followed by recitations of all the grievances that have accumulated over the last year.''

  He grinned. "It will take at least three days to deal with all of the questions about whose buffalo wandered into whose field, and whose head got broken over it."

  "But you'll settle them all to everyone's satisfaction." Laura's brows drew together as she studied her stepfather's face. Under the shadow of his topi, his skin was pale and his expression drawn. "Don't stay too long. You look tired."

  "A little," he admitted. "I'll come back early and take a nap before dinner." He made a clucking noise to his horse and turned down the right-hand path.

  Laura took the left fork, which led to the campsite. When her father finished in Nanda, they would head north, then work their way west again. Progress was leisurely, for touring was a vital part of a district officer's responsibilities. While in theory a collector like Kenneth was primarily concerned with land taxation, in practice he was also magistrate, engineer, and even physician to the people of his district. Most of all, he was the physical expression of the Sirkar, the British government.

  The campsite was in a forest clearing, and the towering trees that surrounded it gave welcome shade. All was in order, with bullock carts unpacked, a dozen tents erected, and a cooking fire lit. On the far right side of the clearing, the tethered pack animals grazed peacefully on the lush grass.

  After dismounting and handing her horse over to a groom, Laura entered her tent. Camping was an odd mixture of discomfort and luxury, and she was always amused to see framed watercolors of Britain hanging on the canvas walls, and to feel her feet sink into a thick Indian carpet.

  With a sigh, she removed her topi and pushed sweaty hair off her forehead, hoping the cool weather would arrive soon. After washing the dust from her face and neck, she went from her tent to her stepfather's. When she stepped inside, she chuckled. Not only were his furnishings correctly placed, but the book of essays he had been reading the night before had been replaced at precisely the same angle on the table.

  Even so, Laura checked everything in the camp carefully, chatting with the cook and other servants as she ensured that all was in order. Keeping Up Standards was the first rule drilled into Englishwomen when they arrived in India, and it included everything from dressing for dinner to unflinching courage in the face of mortal danger. Though Laura doubted that what she wore had much effect on the prestige of the British Empire, she dutifully did her part.

  * * *

  As he had promised, Kenneth Stephenson returned before sundown. "I'll be going hunting tomorrow," he said as he dismounted. "The headman told me there's a man-eating tiger in the area. Two villagers have been killed in the last fortnight."

  Laura gave the dense trees an alarmed glance. "Perhaps we should have camped by Nanda rather than out here."

  Kenneth chuckled. "Even a man-eater won't attack
a camp this size. But don't wander off into the forest to gather flowers, and tell the servants to be careful as well."

  Laura frowned as she studied her stepfather's face. He looked distinctly unwell. "Have you forgotten to take your quinine? You look like you're sickening with fever."

  He grimaced. "You're probably right. I'll take a couple of tablets and a nap and be fine by dinner."

  Laura's gaze followed him as he went to his tent, but she was not unduly concerned. Fever was a way of life for Europeans in India. Usually people ignored it unless they had a particularly bad attack.

  As she went to her own tent to bathe and change, a great cat roared in the forest. Laura paused to listen, wondering if it was a tiger or a lion. A lion, she decided.

  The cat roared again as Laura ducked under her tent flap. She shivered, feeling a vague sense of foreboding. In India, danger was never far away, and she sensed that tonight it was drawing close.

  Determinedly she shook the feeling away. Tonight was just a night like any other.

  * * *

  Laura had dressed and was about to have her maid pin up her hair when the bearer, Padam, summoned her. His voice agitated, he called through the canvas, "Miss Laura, come quickly. Stephenson Sahib is ill."

  Her earlier foreboding returned with a vengeance. Ignoring her loose hair, Laura brushed by her maid and ducked out the door of the tent. The sun had set and it was full dark as she hastened across the clearing, Padam right behind her.

  A lamp was lit inside the tent and the canvas glowed with mellow light, but as soon as Laura stepped inside she was struck by the stench of illness. Her stepfather was sprawled on his bed, and even through the mosquito netting Laura saw that his face was grayish white and his breathing rapid and shallow.

  Her heart accelerated with terror. India had diseases that could kill in a matter of hours; one could lunch with a healthy man, then learn that he had died before dinner.

  Struggling to control her fear, she went to her stepfather's bedside. As she laid a hand on his forehead, his lids flickered open. It took a moment for his eyes to focus on her, but when they did, he murmured in a voice of eerie calmness, "You'll have to be strong, Laura. My time... has come."

  "Papa, no!" she cried out. Alarmed by the hysteria she heard in her voice, she swept aside the mosquito netting and perched on the edge of the bed, then lifted his wrist to feel for his pulse. The beat was fast and thready, as fragile as a songbird's.

  He managed a faint smile. "Try not to be... too upset, Laura. I always said... that I wanted to die in India."

  Fiercely she said, "You'll die here someday, but not yet."

  His feeble headshake denied her words. "I think it's cholera, my dear." He drew a long, shuddering breath. "Remember that you promised... not to choose aloneness. And... don't mourn for too long." His eyes closed again.

  Cholera was a messy, undignified disease, and the variety that Kenneth had contracted progressed with unbelievable swiftness. The only treatment Laura could offer was laudanum for the pain, and fluids to counter the dehydration caused by vomiting and diarrhea. Padam and her stepfather's valet, Mahendar, helped with the nursing, but their stricken expressions showed that they had already given up on their master.

  In spite of Laura's furious attempt to save her stepfather through sheer will, his life inexorably ebbed away. She felt a curious duality; in one sense the moments dragged with agonizing slowness, yet at the same time they raced past, spilling away like the sands of an hourglass.

  Kenneth spoke only once more. As his stepdaughter sponged his forehead, he whispered, "Laura."

  "Yes, Papa?" She bent over to hear his words.

  Her unbound hair tumbled across his wrist, and he touched the tawny strands with shaking fingers. "You and Tatyana... were the best thing that ever happened to me."

  He drew a labored breath, then his expression brightened, the marks of pain disappearing. Once again his lips formed the syllables, "Tatyana," as if in greeting. Then his eyes closed.

  Laura sank to her knees beside the cot, clenching his hand between hers. Bending her head, she wept uncontrollably for the man who had been loving father, kind teacher, and beloved friend.

  When she lifted her head again, he was gone.

  * * *

  It was nearly midnight when Ian finally reached the village of Nanda. There he was given instructions and a village youth to guide him to Kenneth Stephenson's camp. After passing through a series of moonlit fields, they came to the edge of a dense forest that spread as far as the eye could see.

  The young guide stopped and pointed into the woods. "Follow this track and you will come to Stephenson Sahib's camp. I would go with you but panthers hunt the paths at night."

  Ian didn't blame the boy. He wasn't keen on going through the forest alone himself, though the risk of wild beasts bothered him less than leaving the moonlit fields.

  But he'd learned it was possible to bear darkness when he was in the open air, so he thanked the guide, then set his teeth and urged his tired horse into the forest. Very soon, his mission would be accomplished, and he could start for home.

  * * *

  Laura was given no time to mourn. She was still kneeling by her stepfather's bed when Padam said, "Miss Laura, the tiger is near. We can hear it growling in the forest, hunting for prey."

  For Laura, past and present had melded together, and the anguish she felt for Kenneth's death rekindled the shock and grief she had experienced when she lost her first father. Once more she was nine and alone and terrified.

  Padam's voice dragged her back to the present. She wished he would go away. What did a tiger matter compared to the death of the only person in the world whom she had loved?

  Urgently Padam said, "Stephenson Sahib's spirit has departed, miss. It is time to be concerned with the living. All in the camp are in danger. Something must be done."

  Dully Laura realized that her stepfather's death meant she was in charge of two dozen people. The knowledge helped steady her grief-stricken mind. "Build more fires around the edge of the camp. That will keep the tiger away."

  "There isn't enough fuel, memsahib, and gathering more would be dangerous," the bearer explained patiently. "A man-eater is usually an old tiger, perhaps injured, always unpredictable. You must be ready with the guns if it decides to attack."

  Guns? Laura opened her mouth to protest that her marksmanship was nonexistent. Kenneth had tried to teach her to shoot. She had managed to learn how to load and fire several kinds of weapons, but she had found the lessons so upsetting that her stepfather had discontinued them.

  But no one else would do better, for her minimal experience was more than any of the servants had. It was her responsibility to set aside her grief, even though she loathed and feared guns. She closed her mouth and got to her feet. With bitter humor, she recognized that she was about to Keep Up Standards with a vengeance.

  Kenneth had not been an avid hunter, but firearms were a necessary part of life in India. He had brought three weapons on tour: a pistol, a double-barreled shotgun, and a powerful rifle for big game. Her father's valet, Mahendar, brought out the guns, and one by one she loaded them with clumsy fingers.

  After showing Mahendar and Padam how to cock and aim, she put the pistol and rifle in their charge. The shotgun she kept herself, since she thought it would be the best weapon for frightening off a tiger.

  Laura led the way outside and gave orders for a second fire to be built fifty feet from the main cooking fire. There was enough fuel for two fires, and she thought that if the servants slept between them, they would feel safer.

  Though she dutifully went through the motions of securing the camp, she doubted there was real danger. Tigers seldom attacked humans, and even a man-eater was more likely to drag a solitary laborer from a field than to invade a busy camp. Still, tigers invoked panic far out of proportion to the risk, and Laura owed it to her servants to deal with their anxiety.

  She managed to keep her voice calm and her step
steady, but inside she quivered with grief and fear. She had always refused to consider what she would do if her stepfather died; in India, where disease was swift and lethal, she had been as likely to die as he was.

  Now he was gone and her life would change utterly. She had lost not just her family, but her home and financial security. She wanted to collapse on the ground and wail like a child.

  When the fires were steady and the servants had begun to settle down, Laura beckoned to the three grooms. "Come, we must move the animals closer. They are in more danger than we are."

  The men exchanged uneasy glances. "Don't worry, I'll guard you." Laura tried to sound cool and confident. "Padam, stay here with the pistol. Mahendar, bring the rifle and come with me."

  Laura made a show of cocking the shotgun, then led the way through the cluster of tents. Behind her the youngest groom carried a torch. Their shadows swayed wildly as the small group walked to the edge of the clearing where the horses and bullocks were tethered. The animals were nervous and hard to handle. The grooms had their hands full soothing their charges so the beasts could be led to a safer spot near the center of the camp.

  Laura took the rifle from Mahendar so that he could help the other men. Then she chose a position between the line of animals and the forest and waited, shotgun in hand, the rifle lying ready at her feet. Again she reminded herself that no animal was likely to attack the camp, but this close to the forest it was harder to maintain her calm.

  The tropical night pulsed with life, mysterious and dangerous. Shifting shadows looked like crouching beasts that vanished when she looked directly at them. In the distance jackals howled, and once the distinctive cough of a panther sounded from a spot that was shockingly near.

  She jumped and tightened her grip on the shotgun, but there was nothing to be seen in the teasing shadows. After wiping sweaty palms on her skirt, Laura raised the barrel of her weapon again and trained it at the forest darkness.