by Olivia Drake
“Please.” Sarah rose from the cane stool and shot Patel an exasperated look. Turning to the cook, she said, “The pudding can be made this afternoon, and in the meantime, you’ve already measured the ingredients to bake rum cake for tea. You know how fond my aunt is of your wonderful cakes.”
Hamil grumbled under his breath, but he looked mollified as he tipped the allotment of flour from the hand-held scale into an earthenware bowl. Then he got to his feet and plodded out of the room, heading across the garden to the cookhouse.
“Quickly, missy,” Patel urged again, gesturing toward the door. “While the memsahib still lies abed.”
“A visitor Aunt Violet shouldn’t find out about?”
Patel wagged his dark eyebrows. “Come. You’ll see.”
His mysterious manner intrigued Sarah. “One moment.”
Using the key tied to her waist by a ribbon, she locked the large cupboard containing the household supplies of sugar and salt, sherry and beer, scouring soap and shoe polish. Since Aunt Violet required a daily accounting of the items in the storeroom, Sarah pocketed the notebook, then removed the white cotton apron from her aquamarine gown and smoothed her upswept blond hair.
“Perhaps I should freshen up first,” she said.
“No need.” Patel flashed her an uneasy grin. “It is not your handsome doctor-sahib who awaits.”
As he glided out, she touched the gold locket hidden beneath her bodice, and her cheeks grew warm. Did the abdur guess that three nights ago she and Reginald had pledged to marry? The native grapevine of gossip worked with mysterious speed. But no one else, not even her aunt and uncle, had heard the thrilling news yet.
Except Damien Coleridge.
Her heart did a somersault. Banishing the memory of his darkly compelling face, she stepped into the brilliant sunshine. The heat of late morning enveloped her with the intensity of a furnace. In the garden, the mali and his two boys tended the hedge of wilting fuchsia, and the snip of their clippers blended with the screech of a fork-tailed kite overhead. Mystified by Patel’s reticence, Sarah followed him around the side of the bungalow and up the steps to the rear veranda.
He waved a brown hand to his left. “I will order refreshment for you and your guest.” Bowing, he vanished into the house.
Sarah blinked against the dimness. The bamboo blinds had been let down, turning the veranda into a cool bower filled with potted plants and cane furniture. On the edge of a chaise longue sat a woman, a butter-yellow sari draping her heavily pregnant figure and a chuddur shrouding her face.
As Sarah hastened forward, Shivina braced herself on the cushion and pushed awkwardly to her feet. “Miss-sahib,” she murmured, bowing as she touched her ivory-brown forehead. “I do not mean to intrude.”
“Of course you’re not intruding,” said Sarah. “How timely your visit is. I’d meant to call on you later today.” Noticing the way Shivina’s shoulders drooped, she added, “Please, sit.”
Shivina’s serene smile glowed against her lovely features as she sank onto the chaise longue. “Thank you. Damien’s child grows heavy.”
Her maternal contentment brought an ache of longing to Sarah’s heart. “My aunt has kept me terribly busy packing these past few days,” she said, sitting in a cane chair. Guiltily, she knew that a reluctance to encounter Damien Coleridge had kept her away. “We’re to leave for Simla in a fortnight. But tell me, have you been feeling well?”
“Yes, Miss Sarah. Well enough to bring you a dali—a gift for helping me in the bazaar.” She reached for a small bundle at her feet.
“That isn’t necessary. I wanted to help you.” Reluctant to offend, Sarah took the parcel and unwrapped the brown paper. “I certainly never expected—oh! Shivina!”
Inside lay a shimmering bolt of lavender-blue silk, spangled with silver threads and fanciful embroidery. The cloth floated through her fingers like a length of twilight sky. How wonderful it would be to escape the bondage of stiff corset and skirts, and drape the soft fabric over her skin. Reginald would disapprove, but perhaps in the privacy of her bedroom... “It’s lovely,” she breathed. “Will you show me how to wear it as a sari?”
Shivina looked startled; then she gave a tinkling laugh. “How odd that you would say this. When I have come here to ask you...”
“Ask me what?”
Anxiety clouded her dark eyes. “I am glad to speak to you alone,” Shivina said, resting her hands on the mound of her belly. “I do not wish anyone to overhear us.”
Sarah stiffened. What had Damien Coleridge done now? Abused Shivina? Announced his intent to leave her? “You needn’t be afraid of Mr. Coleridge. I won’t let him harm you.”
The Hindu woman shook her head, rippling the silk chuddur and revealing a cluster of button-sized marigolds tucked behind her ear. “Oh, but Damien would never harm me. It is only that he left early this morning for his photograph work. I did not wish him to return and guess what I am about.”
“What is it, Shivina? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong. I would seek a favor of you.”
“Anything.”
A shy earnestness stole over her face. “Will you teach me to dress as a lady? An English lady?”
Stunned, Sarah sat back, the cane chair hard against her spine. She fingered the silk in her lap and tried to imagine Shivina wearing a corseted gown. Absurd! She was the picture of exotic beauty, her slim nose pierced by a tiny gold ring, her smooth skin the hue of burnt ivory, her features as fragile as a jasmine bloom. The sari enhanced her natural grace of form and gave her the aura of Ganga, the heavenly river goddess. To bind her into the mold of a proper Englishwoman would be a sacrilege.
“Gowns are too hot, especially for a woman in your condition,” Sarah argued. “You’ll be far more comfortable as you are.”
“It is not for now,” said Shivina. “I wish gowns for after the child comes.”
“But why would you truss yourself up in this stifling heat?” Sarah persisted, then fell silent.
Zafar glided onto the veranda, a salver balanced on the flat of his palm. His black eyes widened slightly, and he hesitated at the sight of her receiving a Hindu woman. Sarah motioned the Mohammedan forward. He presented each with a glass of soda and lime, then left a pitcher on a nearby table.
She leaned forward and murmured, “Why do you wish to change yourself, Shivina?” Anger stirred inside her. “Is Mr. Coleridge displeased with your appearance? Is he forcing you to do this?”
A wistful smile touched the woman’s mouth, and she set aside the glass without drinking. “No, miss-sahib,” she said. “It is my wish. I seek to honor him. To become the woman of his heart.”
Resentment crowded Sarah’s throat as she sipped the cool lime drink. Damien wasn’t worthy of unflinching adoration. “You already honor him. You’re the mother of his child.”
“Yes, but even a son is not enough. I have not given Damien what he needs most.”
“Nonsense,” Sarah snapped. “The man is too callous to appreciate your devotion, your kindness, your sacrifice in choosing him over other men.“
“But that is why he needs understanding. He cannot love like other men.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The answer lies hidden in the shadows of his past. I think his childhood was most unpleasant.”
“His childhood?”
“Yes. He will not discuss it. But sometimes he has terrible dreams. He cries out for help.” Shivina’s gaze drifted to one of the bamboo blinds, where filtered sunlight played over a potted fern. “My heart can hear the pain in his soul. It is a pain that makes him fear to show love.”
Sarah remembered the story of the fire, the accusation of murder, the scars, the stuff of nightmares. Yet she couldn’t help but think Shivina fancied depths to him that didn’t exist. “You’re a beautiful woman just as you are, Shivina. Don’t change yourself for a scoundrel who neglects you.”
“But I must change. I wish to look like you, Miss Sarah. And I wish to
show my humble gratitude to Damien. You see, he saved me from death.”
Frowning, Sarah set down her drink. “What do you mean?”
Shivina went as still as a statue of Parvati. Her dark eyes were wide and staring, as if gazing into faraway thoughts. The quiet snip-snip of clippers drifted from the garden, along with the distant clang of pots from the cookhouse.
The Hindu woman bowed her head and sighed. “I must not say. Damien has forbidden me to speak of what happened.” Holding her abdomen, she looked up. “But you must believe me, miss-sahib. I live now for the child Damien has given me. You must see why I wish to become a lady, to honor him.”
Bubbling with questions, Sarah gripped the lavender-blue cloth in her lap. She had no right to pry; she had to trust Shivina’s word. “I’d like to help you, truly I would...”
“Please, I have the means to pay you.” Shivina slid several rich gold bangles from her slim arm. “Take these.”
Sarah’s objections faded before the appeal in Shivina’s eyes. Setting aside the silk, she reluctantly took the bracelets. “You’ll look stunning in English garb, although I warn you, you’ll be uncomfortable. I’ll speak to my aunt’s dirzee about sewing your gowns.”
“May the gods bless you. You are so kind—” Rising, Shivina gasped. A gush of liquid pooled around her sandal-clad feet. “Sita help me,” she gasped. “The birth waters...”
Sarah’s heart rolled over. “The baby?”
Shivina drew in a breath. A weak smile curved her lips. “It is three weeks too early. But today I hope to hold Damien’s son.”
Alarmed, Sarah slipped an arm around the Hindu woman’s frail shoulders. “Come inside. It’s cooler there—”
“Gracious! Patel didn’t mention hiring any new servants.” The startled voice rang from the door. Aunt Violet stood waving a handkerchief at her fleshy face.
“She isn’t a servant, she’s my guest,” Sarah said. “If I might help her into the house—”
“Into my house?” Her aunt blinked at Shivina. “But, my dear Sarah...a native woman? It hardly seems suitable to entertain her here.”
“I’m not speaking of a social call. Shivina needs to lie down.” In blunt disregard for modesty, Sarah added, “Her water has broken.”
Aunt Violet’s gaze skittered away from the puddle. The handkerchief fluttered faster. “Oh, mercy. Oh, mercy me.”
“Please,” Shivina murmured. “It will be many hours before the baby comes. I will go home.”
Aunt Violet blew a heavy sigh of relief. “A capital notion. I shall be happy to lend you the use of our palka-ghari.”
“No,” Sarah said, recalling the hot, cramped quarters of the caravan. “She’ll be more comfortable here. I’ll send for Reginald.”
“But, my dear girl—”
“It’s best this way, Aunt.” She played her trump card. “Surely you wouldn’t wish to offend Lord Damien Coleridge.”
“His lordship? But what has he to do...”
“I bear his son,” Shivina said, pride glowing in her eyes as she cradled her belly.
A flush tinted Aunt Violet’s pasty cheeks. She sagged against the doorframe. For once, she appeared in true danger of swooning. “His...oh, merciful heavens.” Twisting the handkerchief, she looked torn between the disgrace of harboring a fallen woman and the chance to win the favor of a nobleman. “Oh, dear me. I suppose we mustn’t turn the poor creature out.”
Chapter 4
The brassy sun dazzled Sarah’s eyes as she hastened through the sector occupied by the
native soldiers and their families. She’d gone first to the caravan, but Damien Coleridge wasn’t there. She’d also checked at the garrison headquarters and the canteen; no one had seen him.
A heat rash prickled under her tight corset, and her brow felt stickily wet beneath the brim of a new topi. Dust clogged her throat and gritted her eyes. She longed for the shuttered coolness of the bungalow, then felt a spurt of shame.
Shivina suffered from the increasing pains of labor. She’d begged for Damien. The least Sarah could do was to find the scoundrel. It wasn’t fair that he went blithely about his business while Shivina endured the agony of bringing his bastard into the world.
The encampment lay in drowsy silence. Mud huts crowded dirt streets that stank of dung and rubbish. She made a mental note to address the issue of better living quarters in a future editorial.
In the shade of an occasional tamarind or peepul tree, men napped or sat talking. The scorching midday hours after the morning parade were leisure time, and most of the native soldiers had discarded their heavy uniforms in favor of looser dress.
Their stares followed Sarah, and a few men whispered behind their hands. She wondered if they’d known the sowars who had refused the new bullets and now awaited sentencing in the Meerut gaol. A cold shiver crawled over her hot skin.
Sub lal hogea hai. Everything will become red.
Nonsense. She didn’t feel malevolence; her imagination was fired by the memory of the fakir. Her anxiety over Shivina stoked the sensation. The soldiers likely commented on the curious sight of an Englishwoman hurrying through their domain, that was all.
Before one thatched hut, a barefooted woman in a turquoise sari bent over a cook fire. The pungent aroma of curried rice drifted from the pot. Nearby, several sepoys crouched on their heels and smoked a hookah. Cinching the white tunic of one man was a cummerbund the forest-green color of Uncle John’s regiment.
Buoyed by the familiar sight, Sarah walked toward the soldier. He and the other men fell silent, watching. She was careful to keep her shadow off the cooking vessel, since most sepoys belonged to one of the two highest castes, Brahman and Kshatriya, and practiced strict religious views on pollution.
She salaamed and murmured, “Greetings. I am the niece of Colonel Thorndyke.”
The man stroked the jagged scar bisecting his cheek. Then he drew on the hookah. Its watery rattle pierced the stillness as he looked her up and down. Was he surprised by her fluent Hindi or by her identity?
“What do you wish of me?” he asked.
“I seek only the answer to a question. Might you know where I can find the English photographer, Mr. Coleridge?”
The man shrugged and looked to his companions. She had the oddest impression that the other sepoys relaxed.
A sallow-skinned Hindu said, “I saw the feringhi at the temple at Shiva, near the bazaar.” He gestured out of the encampment.
“Thank you,” she said, then turned and walked away. The prickly sense of unease persisted, but she forced herself to resist glancing back.
The smells of dust and spices and sewage heralded the bazaar. A few brown-skinned children darted past, chattering and laughing. The shrine marked the entrance to the maze of shops. Sunlight glinted harshly off the pointed tin roof. Offerings of withered marigold garlands and grains of rice strewed the steps. In the shade of the arched doorway, an aging priest sat cross-legged, his thin body swathed in a saffron robe. His eyes were closed, and she couldn’t tell if he was meditating or sleeping.
Before the temple stood a cumbersome camera on a tripod. Several urchins clustered around it, talking excitedly while peering at the strange black box.
“Is the Englishman here?” she asked in Hindi.
One of the boys pointed to a small tent erected in the shadow of an acacia tree. “There, memsahib. He pay us a rupee to guard his camera-machine.” Dark eyes aglow, he held out a coin in his grubby palm and added in coarse bazaar dialect, “But he say not to bother him.”
“Thank you, but this is a matter of urgency.” She marched across the dusty ground and stopped before the closed canvas flap. A faint metallic aroma tugged at her memory. It was the same smell that permeated his caravan. “Mr. Coleridge? Are you in there?”
“For God’s sake, don’t open the flap,” came his muffled reply. “I’ll be out in ten minutes.”
“It’s Sarah Faulkner. I must speak to you immediately.”
“I don�
��t care if you’re the Second Coming. You’ll just have to wait.”
Perspiration seeped down her neck. Annoyed by his sarcasm and worried about Shivina, Sarah flung back the flap. “Excuse me, but this can’t wait.”
He swung around, his broad form crouched within the dim interior. Foul fumes poured from the tent. In one hand he clutched a dripping square of metal.
“What the bloody hell!” he exploded. “You made me ruin another plate.”
Equally angry and unwilling to indulge his unsavory language, she said, “I’m sorry about your photograph. But you see—”
“I doubt you see anything but your own narrow-minded interests.” He dropped the flat square into a bucket of liquid, where it landed with a splash. Then he seized a rag to dry his hands. “Damned oven in here, anyway,’ he muttered. “Chemicals get too hot to develop the plates properly.”
She held herself stiffly. “I hope you’ll be interested in what I have to say. It’s about Shivina.”
He cocked an inquiring eyebrow, then ducked out of the tent. Beads of sweat rolled down his throat and dampened his white tunic. He tilted his head back and wiped his neck with the rag. In loose Indian clothing, his lower legs bare, he looked startlingly like a native. Sarah touched her locket. He was handsome, she conceded, in a hard and unrefined sort of way. For no discernible reason she recalled that night in the garden, the scent of jasmine swirling around them, her skin tingling from his touch and her heart thrumming madly with the urge to kiss him...”
“Well?” he said rudely. “Speak up.”
Sarah lifted her gaze from the dark hair furring his calves. “Shivina came to visit me this morning. While she was there, she...started her labor. She’s resting now at my uncle’s house.”
Damien went still, the rag dangling from his hand. “You mean...the baby? But it’s not supposed to come for a month.”
“Fancy that. The little mite already has a mind of its own.”
“Damn,” he said, frowning. “I was planning on leaving here in a few days.”
