Fire on the Wind

by Olivia Drake

  Beside her on the settee, Reginald held his broad-shouldered frame erect. “Perhaps courage isn’t his problem at all,” he said drolly. “Poor chap probably suffers from brain fever. I shall have to consult my colleagues at the military hospital in Delhi. Perhaps someone there has seen such a patient.”

  Uncle John snorted. “Any Britisher who sides with the Indians would have to be mad as a jackal.”

  “Well put,” said Hewitt, lifting his empty tumbler. “The natives are rather like children, you know. We must rule them with a firm hand and guide them into civilization.”

  “As you say, sir,” agreed Uncle John. He beckoned to the servant standing impassively by the door. “Zafar, another round of sherry.”

  Zafar bowed, then fetched the decanter from the sideboard. Watching the bearded khidmutgar with his hooded dark eyes, Sarah wondered if he resented serving people who regarded him as an inferior being. She felt a stab of shame at the frank comments eddying through the hot evening air, stirred by the punkah fan flapping overhead.

  Aunt Violet leaned forward, her sausage curls wilting. The lemon-yellow gown made her plump face appear more sallow than usual. “Speaking of medical matters, Doctor, I should like to solicit your expert opinion. Is it true that a daily dose of Indian tonic water builds an immunity to cholera?”

  “Alas, no.” His handsome face came alert with professional concern. “I read so recently in a paper on cholera, published by the Royal Society of Physicians. Brought back fond memories of my days in academic research.”

  “A flannel cummerbund worn next to the skin prevents many ailments,” Mrs. Craven declared. “My Archie swears it kept him healthy during last summer’s campaign. Isn’t that so, Archie?”

  Lieutenant Craven shyly scratched his ginger side-whiskers. “’Twould appear so, m’dear. I defer to Dr. Pemberton-Sykes’s judgment.”

  The ladies began to ply Reginald with questions on ailments from mental languor to blistered feet. Bored, Sarah watched a moth swoop through an unshuttered window and flutter around one of the oil lamps, the light picking up the delicate gold-and-silver tissue of its wings. The whir of cicadas came from the darkness outside, along with the distant beat of native drums.

  An indefinable ache spread through her, the yearning to fly out of this stuffy room and soar into the black silken night. Usually she was content to guard her secret thoughts, to join in the discussions of the women, to behave in the decorous manner expected of a lady. So why did she feel so strangely restless?

  Reginald turned and patted her hand. “You’re terribly quiet tonight, darling,” he murmured. “Is something troubling you?”

  Out of habit, she shook her head. “It’s just been rather a long day.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  She considered his groomed fair hair, the starched collar and smart black suit, the genuine concern in his blue eyes. His familiar bay rum scent enfolded her like an old friend. In the past months he’d been an entertaining companion at dinners and dances, a man she could trust, a man who made her feel needed and admired. A measure of contentment flowed into her heart. Tonight she would settle their future.

  “Perhaps I do have something on my mind,” she whispered. “Meet me in the garden after dinner, and I’ll tell you about it.”

  “Alone?” A solicitous frown furrowed his brow. “It that quite proper?”

  Couldn’t he ever act on impulse? She banished the disloyal thought. She should be grateful for a man who wished to protect her reputation. “We shan’t be gone but a few moments—”

  The scuff of slippers drew her gaze to the doorway. Patel slipped through the split cane curtain, his face unnaturally solemn under the flat white turban. His eyes sought out Sarah and widened, as if he were trying to convey a message. A problem in the cookhouse? She started to rise.

  The curtain rattled again. A man stepped through. His formal evening suit and crisp white shirt lent him the civilized trappings of a gentleman. Yet he moved with the fluid grace of a panther. As he entered the circle of chairs, the lamplight cast his towering shadow over the whitewashed wall. His dark gaze swept the ladies and gentlemen, and stopped on Sarah.

  She sank back onto the settee, her heart beating as fast as the wings of a moth. Damien Coleridge—here!

  Had he come to expose her excursion to the bazaar?

  Patel bowed. “Your guest, Colonel-sahib.”

  His mustache quirked, John Thorndyke put down his sherry glass and got to his feet. “Er, I don’t believe we’ve met...”

  “My fault, old chap.” Hewitt pushed himself up from the armchair. “Slipped my mind, y’ see, what with all the goings-on at headquarters. Hope it isn’t an imposition, Thorndyke, that I took the liberty of inviting a guest to your dinner.”

  “Of course not, sir,” said Uncle John.

  “Then may I present Lord Damien Coleridge,” Hewitt went on. “Recently arrived in Meerut. Thought he’d enjoy hobnobbing with the best of our local society.”

  Stiff with awe, Uncle John bowed. “A most unexpected pleasure, your lordship.”

  “Mr. Coleridge, if you please,” Damien stated. “I use no other title.”

  Shock and curiosity tumbled inside Sarah as she leaned back against the chintz cushion. A lord! She would never have guessed this rude, unconventional man belonged to the aristocracy. How had he come to wander India in a caravan? Why did he live openly with a Hindu mistress? And why would he forswear the status awarded him by fortune of birth?

  The answer was obvious. He’d somehow disgraced himself.

  Her eyes agog, Aunt Violet bobbed a curtsy, her crinoline puffing her skirt into an enormous yellow bubble. “Oh, dear me, your lordship...I mean, sir. If I’d known we would be entertaining nobility at our humble table—”

  He cut her short with a slash of his hand. “I trust my unexpected appearance shan’t cause a problem?”

  She stared at his scars, then clutched the handkerchief to her throat. “It’s no trouble to set another place, sir,” she hastened to say. “No trouble at all. My niece will be happy to see to the arrangements. Won’t you, Sarah?”

  Pinned by her aunt’s sharp frown, Sarah had no choice but to rise. “Yes, Aunt.”

  In the dining room, snow-white linen covered the long table, laden with cutlery and chinaware. Ropes of ivy snaked down the center of the cloth, and scattered about were small dishes piled with pralines, stuffed dates, and pickled ginger. Patel was lighting the incense bowls; the smoky perfume would keep the mosquitoes at bay.

  He blew out the match and scurried toward her. “Praise Rama, you come here, missy. Where you seat Coleridge-sahib? He is higher than Hewitt-sahib?”

  While he could rattle off without error the intricacies of Hindu caste, Patel was invariably confused by British social precedence. “Mr. Coleridge claims to be an ordinary gentleman,” she said tartly, “and so we’ll treat him as such. We shall place him between Mrs. Craven and my aunt.”

  “Ah, the cock perch between two squawking hens.”

  Sarah gave a small smile. “Perhaps they’ll keep his attention occupied.”

  Bending nearer, Patel whispered, “Coleridge-sahib, he live with Shivina. He know you go to bazaar today.”

  “Yes, I know.” Trembling inwardly, she considered the consequences should society learn of her role in a near riot. Now she’d be caught for certain, just as she’d feared. She would suffer censure. Worse, she might lose Reginald.

  Burying her trepidation, she gave instructions to Zafar. By the time another place of Dresden china and gleaming silver had been set, and she’d asked the servant boy outside to begin pulling the fan rope, Patel was ushering the guests into their chairs.

  Seated halfway down the table, Sarah had a disconcertingly clear view of Damien Coleridge. The flames atop the branched candlesticks danced in the breeze of the swaying punkah. The servants began ladling out a creamy almond soup.

  “What brings you to Meerut, sir?” Uncle John boomed down the table to Damien.<
br />
  “I’ll be spending a fortnight here, photographing the sepoys for a book I’m compiling about India.”

  Aunt Violet leaned forward, her jet brooch clinking against her soup bowl. “Why, how very singular. I’ve always believed that the less one consorts with the natives, the better.”

  Picking up his spoon, he regarded her with a polite smile. “Ignorance is bliss?”

  A dull flush crept over her sallow features. “Oh, sir, pray do not misunderstand me. I merely wish to shield myself from a race that worships idols. We are, after all, a Christian people.”

  “The Hindus attribute their illnesses to evil spirits,” added Reginald. He shook his head in amused pity. “They seek to heal themselves with a dip in the filthy Ganges, or by making a pilgrimage to one of their shrines.”

  “They merely practice their own religious customs,” Sarah felt compelled to point out. “Just as we pray to our God in times of need.”

  He smiled down the table at her. “But thank heaven we also have the sense to rely upon the medicines developed by modern science.”

  He spoke with affectionate benevolence, as if she were a child. Annoyance stirred in her, yet Aunt Violet was already frowning at her, and Sarah reluctantly withheld further comment.

  “These Indians haven’t the sense of a cavalry horse,” said Hewitt. A drop of sweat trickled down his ruddy features. “This incident over the rifle cartridges is proof of their ignorance.”

  “If I may be so presumptuous as to disagree.” Damien Coleridge glanced around at the guests. “The British military have long disregarded the sacred beliefs of both the Hindus and the Mohammedans. The natives will not continue to take abuse of their beliefs lightly.”

  “Abuse?” echoed Mrs. Craven, daintily patting her mouth with a linen napkin. “That would seem a rather harsh term for asking a sepoy to handle the same cartridges as all soldiers, English and native alike.”

  Cocking a dark eyebrow, he set down his spoon. “Perhaps you fail to grasp the problem, madam. A Hindu would starve before eating food that an Englishman’s shadow had passed over. He would die of thirst before drinking from a vessel polluted by an Englishman’s touch. He would risk imprisonment, even death, rather than ingest fat from a sacred cow. To do otherwise is to lose his caste.”

  “I must confess,” said Aunt Violet, “I’ve never understood all this nonsense of castes and forbidden tasks. Why, just this morning I asked Patel to remove a dead lizard from my bath, but he refused. He had to call the sweeper for such a simple task.” She glowered at the abdur, who stood sedately by the sideboard, watching Zafar clear the soup bowls.

  Piqued by her aunt’s insensitivity, Sarah abandoned caution. “His caste is his reward for piety in a previous incarnation. A good Christian like yourself can hardly blame Patel for wishing to preserve the sanctity of his soul.”

  Everyone turned to look at her, Damien Coleridge included. Their eyes caught and held. She saw surprise there, along with a cool appraisal that ignited a curious warmth inside her. She’d been wrong to judge him another intolerant Englishman, believing in the imperial right of the British to rule. Instead, he shared the views she’d dared to express only in her editorials.

  Except in regard to Shivina.

  Lips pursed, Sarah lowered her gaze. He was a hypocrite, for his arguments on behalf of the natives failed to include honoring Hindu women.

  “Reincarnation,” snorted her uncle. “I’m astonished, niece, that you’re even familiar with pagan hocus-pocus, let alone condone it. And defending the natives, who breed like ants because of their unchaste practices.”

  “Because they read that vile book,” Mrs. Craven murmured.

  “Are you referring to The Kama Sutra?” asked Damien Coleridge.

  Aunt Violet gasped. Mrs. Craven blushed. Sarah sat on the edge of her chair and studied his dark features. She’d heard whispers of the Indian guide to erotic love. Had he read the forbidden book? The thought sparked a strange tingle inside her.

  “We do not mention such filth in mixed company,” Uncle John snapped. “Rather, we must concentrate on our duty to save the poor heathens from eternal damnation.”

  A reply jumped to Sarah’s tongue, but she kept silent. As long as she lived in this household, she owed her aunt and uncle love and esteem. Better to save her rejoinder for another editorial by I. M. Vexed.

  “Yet your niece is right,” Damien Coleridge told her uncle. “The Hindus believe the English are condemning their souls. They’ve no wish to be converted to Christianity. India can never be at peace until all of us come to respect the religious beliefs of the natives.”

  “Rubbish,” said Hewitt. “Surely you aren’t giving credence to these rumors of an uprising? Such talk’ll come to nothing, just like that ridiculous chupatty movement a few months back. Can’t imagine how passing filthy cakes all over India could be construed as a signal to mutiny.”

  “By Jupiter,” Uncle John said, thumping the table with his fist, “the natives lack our organization and leadership. They shan’t revolt.”

  “Indeed?” Damien replied. “You might consider the riot in the bazaar this morning.”

  The ladies gasped. Blood buzzed in Sarah’s ears. Lounging in his chair, his bronzed features gilded by candlelight, he stared straight at her. A faint gleam of challenge shone in his eyes.

  Would he reveal her role in the episode?

  “Riot?” Aunt Violet wheezed, waving a napkin at her flushed face. “In that sordid place? Oh, dear me, I may swoon.”

  “It was a minor disturbance,” said Hewitt. “A few rabble-rousers tried to stir up the crowd. Nothing to bother yourself over.”

  “Like as not, the fire last night was set by the same few scoundrels,” added Uncle John. “You mark my words, all of this unrest will die down in a few days.”

  “And in the meantime you needn’t fret, Mrs. Thorndyke,” said Reginald. “Most natives prefer to live in peace. We mustn’t fly into a panic at every rumor coming out of the bazaar.”

  Nods and murmurs of agreement circled the dining table. Aunt Violet sat back, a limp smile on her face. Damien Coleridge merely arched a black brow and studied his glass of white wine.

  Freed from his piercing regard, Sarah felt a dizzying relief. She bent her head and pretended interest in dislodging a flake of whitewash that the punkah breeze had wafted onto her tinned salmon.

  Yet the words of the fakir haunted her. Everything will become red...

  Was Damien correct in his assessment? Had the Indians been pushed too far, their religious practices degraded to the breaking point, their dignity trampled upon until they would tolerate no more? She had seen for herself how easily the fakir had whipped up the angry mob.

  No, she must have faith that a nonviolent solution could be found. That Reginald was right, and the majority of the Indians preferred to live in harmony. That her editorials might eventually help her fellow Britons learn to heed the local customs.

  As Zafar silently served slices of mutton, she found her gaze straying again to Damien Coleridge. He enthralled the ladies with a lively discourse about his visit with the Maharaja of Kashmir, and Aunt Violet and Mrs. Craven vied for his attention. This charming side of him intrigued Sarah. How she envied him the liberty to express his views! Being a man—and a member of the ruling class—Damien Coleridge needn’t protect his reputation.

  With a twinge of bitterness, she recalled Uncle John’s rebuke over her unguarded remarks. She detested subterfuge, yet what other choice had she? Except for the pittance paid by the newspaper, she had no source of income, and no prospects save marriage to Reginald.

  With pride and hope in her heart, she looked at him as he smiled and talked with the ladies. She would find contentment as his wife, as the mother of his children.

  Laying aside her discontent, she joined in the conversation. After the final course of mango cream and lemon tarts, the men remained at the dining table while the ladies withdrew to the drawing room.

  No s
ooner were they settled in chairs than Mrs. Craven leaned forward. “What do you make of his lordship, Violet? Quite a deliciously handsome man.”

  “But entirely too eccentric for my tastes. Imagine, traveling all over this heathen land just to photograph the natives.”

  “Still,” mused Mrs. Craven, “it’s a shame he bears those dreadful scars on his hands.”

  Aunt Violet shivered, her huge yellow bosom quivering. “Simply appalling. Dear me, it was a trial to keep from staring.”

  Sarah’s stomach twisted with sympathy. “But imagine the pain he must have suffered. The scars must be the result of terrible burns.”

  “Quite so.” Her gray eyes alight, Mrs. Craven went on in a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you know, I recall a scandal surrounding his lordship.”

  “Scandal?” echoed Aunt Violet, vigorously fanning herself. “Why, Amelia, whatever do you mean?”

  “Damien Coleridge is the second son of the Duchess of Lamborough. I know, because my Archie’s family comes from the neighboring district. The strife between Lord Damien and his mother had tongues wagging for years.” Mrs. Craven clucked, shaking her elegant head.

  “Poor woman, to have such a wicked son. A son who’d brought her so much tragedy.”

  Sarah couldn’t resist asking, “What tragedy?”

  “For one, when he was only a boy, he deliberately set a fire and nearly burned down the ancestral mansion. That’s where he must have gotten those scars. The frightful incident turned his elder brother—the current duke—into a halfwit.”

  “Dear heavens!” said Aunt Violet.

  “Then, just before I left England ten years ago, the old duke died in a fall from a balcony at their home in Kent. There were rumors that the death was no accident.”

  Aunt Violet gulped. “Do you mean...he took his own life?”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t say any more,” Mrs. Craven demurred, primping her cherry-stripped skirts. “After all, nothing was ever proven.”

  “Pray, don’t stop now, Amelia.” Aunt Violet patted a bead of perspiration from her upper lip.

  “What is it? What happened?”