by Olivia Drake
She glanced back and caught Damien’s eye. “Until we meet again, Miss Faulkner,” he said.
She had the distinct impression that he preferred never to cross paths with her again. His pessimistic regard accused her of being a hypocrite, the same as all the other churchgoers.
Hurt and resentment flashed in her. What did he expect? That she make herself an outcast along with him? Didn’t he see that no matter what her private feelings, to find happiness in this closed society she must obey its tedious rules?
Through the long-winded service, her anger slowly burned out. By the time Kit wailed from the waters of baptism, an ember of shame glowed in the ashes of her heart. As Damien and Shivina left with the baby, the feeling flared uncomfortably hotter.
She returned home with her aunt and uncle, and retreated to her bedroom. Perhaps Damien was right. Perhaps by failing to live her beliefs she was a fraud. Perhaps she, who prided herself on her enlightened opinions, might as well practice the same intolerance as the majority or the English.
Like a bitter pill, the possibility stuck in her throat. Only the thought of her editorials kept her from choking. At least she could rest easy with the knowledge that she worked toward educating her fellow Britons.
To exorcise her conscience, she spent the drowsy afternoon hours writing a detailed account of the sentencing parade. Yet her sense of uneasiness failed to lift. She firmly resolved to make amends for her actions by stopping for her last visit with Shivina and Kit after the evening church service.
At six o’clock, Uncle John departed to review his troops. Shortly thereafter, she joined Aunt Violet in the palka-ghari, and they left for their second ride to church.
The beauty of the hour pulled at Sarah’s heart. The sun was sinking in a blaze of blood-red heat over the plains. Golden light poured over the officers’ bungalows along the Mall. A dark-skinned boy shooed a flock of goats past, their hooves pattering on the hard-baked dirt. Black-and-white starlings pecked at the small dry figs on a peepul tree.
As the carriage neared the turnoff to the old town and the bazaar, the scents of dust and spice perfumed the air. Down the middle of the road plodded a sacred humpbacked cow, unperturbed by the closely following carriage.
“Oh, isn’t it lovely?” Sarah said on impulse.
“What is?” Without awaiting a reply, Aunt Violet leaned forward, her bosom straining against her gold bodice. “Oh, do hurry, Ram Lall. Go around the beast, else we’ll be late.”
“Yes, memsahib.”
The driver clucked to the horse. The carriage veered to the side of the road, the wheels precariously nearing the ditch as they passed the cow. At the same moment Sarah heard a distant humming, like a hive of bees. The sound came from the bazaar.
She looked past her aunt to the tiny mud-baked shops with their colorful awnings, the temple with its pointed brass roof glinting in the last rays of sunlight. The noise grew to a dull roar of voices. Out of a side street poured a mob of people. Their upraised arms brandished clubs and guns and swords.
A gasp froze in her throat. The screaming throng was pursuing a lone English soldier.
Chapter 6
Like a terrible tide, the horde surged toward them. Sarah’s hands went cold with fright. The crowd was a conglomerate of badmashes and tradesmen, whores and sepoys, Hindus and Mohammedans. Their dark faces bore identical looks of animal rage: bared teeth and wild eyes.
The Indians swarmed after the soldier. His cap flew from a shock of reddish-brown hair. He stumbled to his knees, his hands slapping the dusty earth. Curses and jeers of victory rose from his pursuers.
“Merciful heavens!” shrieked Aunt Violet. “Have they gone mad? Someone stop them!”
The man glanced over his shoulder and scrambled up. Panic paled his youthful features. Legs pumping, he ran again.
Clutching the wicker half-hood for balance, Sarah hung over the side of the carriage and waved frantically. “Over here!”
She knew he couldn’t hear her over the din. But he spied the palka-ghari and veered toward it, the mob hard on his heels.
The snap of gunfire split the air. Ram Lall dropped the reins and seized his chest. Blood blossomed on the back of his white shirt. He toppled from the seat.
Aunt Violet loosed another shrill scream.
The horse reared. Swallowing her horror, Sarah threw herself across the driver’s vacant seat. She snatched the dangling reins and pulled hard. The palka-ghari tilted drunkenly as one wheel skittered into the ditch.
For the span of a heartbeat she feared they would crash. Then the carriage righted. The horse snorted and danced. She held tight to the leads and looked over the side.
Ram Lall lay unmoving in the ditch, his face in filthy water.
Her stomach lurched. Clenching her teeth against rising bile, she wriggled upright on the seat. Her unwieldy hoops snagged on the whip socket. The buzz of the rabble grew louder. She yanked hard and her gown tore free.
The soldier made a running leap for the carriage. The instant he clung to the outside, she turned the vehicle in a wide half circle, away from the maddened masses.
Get home, a refrain ran in her head. Home to safety.
The horde bellowed in frenzy. The leaders loomed scant yards away. People hurled rocks and daggers. Blunted thuds struck the hood.
“Merciful God...” squealed Aunt Violet.
A badmash pounded alongside the carriage. From the corner of her eye, Sarah saw the flash of his curved tulwar.
He grabbed for the seat handle. Gasping, she snatched the whip and slashed it across his face. A scarlet gash striped his bristly cheek. He fell back, howling.
She concentrated on controlling the frightened horse. A stone struck her shoulder. Pain splintered down her arm, but she snapped the reins.
Jolting and swaying, the carriage pulled away from the bazaar. The horse galloped down the open road. Sarah’s heart thudded as fast as the animal’s hooves. The clamor of the crowd began to fade.
Home, she thought in a daze. Home to safety.
The soldier half fell inside. “Friggin’ beasts!” he panted. “Killed me mate, ’Arry. Chopped him to bits at the ginger-beer shop.”
The words pierced her stupor. “Killed? But why?” she asked over her shoulder. She caught a glimpse of his tumbled auburn hair, his ashen, boyish face. “Why would they attack you?”
“’Cause they’re black beasts, that’s why.” He paused, wheezing. “Christ Almighty. Look what they done to ’er.”
The shock in his voice made Sarah look around. Aunt Violet sat back, the hood supporting her sagging head. The wide-brimmed hat had slipped askew over her neat sausage curls. She held her prayer book against the bodice of her gown, the gold now dyed red with blood. From her plump breast protruded a knife hilt. Her eyes were glazed, staring in sightless dread.
Everything will become red.
“No…”
The dry wind whipped away Sarah’s whisper. With her hands tight around the reins, she tried to grasp the truth. Aunt Violet... dead! Dear, complaining, frivolous Aunt Violet.
“Bloody bastards—beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am, but them murderin’ devils won’t get away with this.”
The soldier jabbered on, but Sarah’s mind went numb. Her throat thick, she turned her eyes back to the avenue. The horse slowed to a trot and headed straight back to the bungalow.
Home. Home to safety.
All looked as before, the tamarind tree waving its feathery fronds, the veranda deep and cool with greenery, the black shutters opened to catch the evening breeze. The same golden twilight gilded the plumbago and bougainvillea bushes.
Unreality wreathed her. Had only a few minutes passed? It seemed more like hours.
Patel scampered down the front steps. His aging dark face wrinkled in concern, he hurried to the carriage.
“Missy-sahib! I have just heard—” His voice broke off and his gaze widened on Aunt Violet. He raised his hands to the heavens. “O Rama, save us. It is true, then. T
he sepoys have risen against the sahibs.”
“It’s mutiny,” the soldier said. “I’ll make them black devils pay for what they done!”
He jumped down, bobbed a farewell to Sarah, and dashed off toward the infantry lines.
“Quickly, Miss Sarah.” Reaching up, Patel took her hand and tugged. “No English safe. All the servants have run off—Zafar, Aziz, even Hamil, may he die and be reborn a snake.”
She let him help her descend from the carriage. “Ram Lall is dead, too.” Shivering from shock, she glanced back inside and fought off an overwhelming grief. “We can’t leave Aunt Violet here. We must bring her inside.”
“Later,” he said, drawing her around the outside of the house. “Now you hide in my hut.”
A dull cracking noise in the distance iced her stomach. Gunfire. From the direction of the barracks.
Dear God. Shivina and Kit.
What if Damien had gone on one of his photographic jaunts? What if he wasn’t there again to protect his wife and child?
Everything will become red.
Alarm swept away the cobwebs of sorrow. “I’m going to the caravan,” she said. “I’ll bring Shivina and the baby here.”
“Coleridge-sahib, he will see to them! Please, missy-sahib, you must guard yourself.”
Patel would stop her; she knew it in her heart.
Carefully, she said, “Go to your hut. I’ll disguise myself in a sari and join you there.”
Shaking off his hand, she rushed up the steps and into the bungalow. In her bedroom, she worked with trembling fingers at her laces and buttons until she stepped out of both gown and corset. Clad in cotton under drawers and chemise, she pulled the length of lavender-blue silk from a japanned chest.
Threads of silver shimmered in the waning light. Sarah’s heart wrenched as she remembered the day Shivina had given her the cloth. If only the baby hadn’t come so soon, Damien would have taken Shivina away. She and Kit would have been safe.
They were safe, Sarah told herself. Yet the memory of those blood-crazed faces dug into her mind like talons.
She had to make absolutely certain.
Wrapping the cloth around her like a sari, Sarah clumsily draped one long end over her head and shoulder. Then she drew the chuddur low on her brow and tucked in a few loose strands of blond hair. Peering at herself in the mirror, she caught her breath. In the evening shadows she looked like a native woman. The blue eyes and fair features gave her away, but if luck was with her, no one would examine her closely.
A weapon. She might need to defend herself.
She hastened downstairs to her uncle’s office. Her gaze went to the glass-fronted gun cabinet. No, she didn’t know how to load, let alone fire a rifle. Digging frantically in a desk drawer, she found a brass-hilted dagger.
Holding the knife at her side, she went out onto the veranda. Patel, thank the Lord, was nowhere in sight. She descended the steps and started down the Mall at a trot.
She forced herself not to look back. Ahead, a pall of black smoke draped the cantonments. A reddish glow like an unearthly sunset tinted the dusk sky. Flames? The snap of musketry fire and far-off shouts almost drowned the ordinary sounds of chirping crickets and barking dogs.
The rioting seemed restricted to the bazaar and the military sector. She prayed the rapid fall of night would prevent the outbreak from spreading.
She touched her locket, a small lump beneath the silk, the gold warmed by her flesh. Was Reginald safe? And Uncle John? Odd, she’d almost forgotten them in her worry over Shivina and Kit.
Whispering a prayer for them, she held the dagger at her side, half hidden in the folds of her san. Though the sky retained the purple vestiges of daylight, gloom lay in the ditches, along fences, and under trees. The din grew progressively louder. Too loud, she thought, frowning. As she rounded a bend in the road, near the edge of the British sector, the flames of hell met her eyes.
The thatched roof of a bungalow leaped with fire. The windows shone with orange light. Smoke billowed up in great ebony puffs. The Cravens’ home, Sarah realized in shock.
Outside, bazaar ruffians yelled and laughed and gyrated like dervishes, trampling the once-neat bushes of roses and plumbagoes. The howl of their voices joined the hiss and crackle of flaming timbers. One of the men brandished a bloody tulwar; in his other hand he held aloft a round object.
It was a severed head, a woman’s head.
His fingers tangled in a froth of light-colored hair. Firelight danced on features frozen into a mask of horror.
Mrs. Craven.
Impossible, spoke a voice inside Sarah. Impossible.
She gripped the dagger. The enormity of the crisis deluged her, weakening her knees and lapping at her courage. Then a blinding jolt of fury struck. Wanting to plunge the blade into the murderer’s heart, she started forward.
A sound stopped her. Raucous voices, coming closer. Sarah shrank into the shadow of an enormous peepul tree.
Another band of mutineers surged down the road. Their torches cast yellow light over filthy turbans, over ragged robes spattered with blood. Alongside the badmashes marched sepoys in red tunics and white trousers. They carried guns and sabers, clubs and knives. Ivory teeth flashed in swarthy faces. She spied the man from her uncle’s regiment, the man with the scar bisecting his cheek. Hindu and Mohammedan alike wore expressions of inhuman gaiety, as if they were on their way to a macabre party.
Creating a hullabaloo of obscenities and lewd songs, the gang hastened by without seeing her crouched form.
The sheer number of them snapped Sarah to her senses. Fear bruised her fortitude. What was one woman against the maddened throngs?
Already the men poured into neighboring yards. Feminine screams and pleas for mercy drifted into the night. She bit her lip so hard that the metallic taste of blood flooded her tongue.
She must not get herself killed for naught. She must save Shivina and the baby. Even Damien might die at the hands of the mob.
Choking down a sob, she forced herself to turn from the grisly scene. Keeping to the back streets, she skirted the edge of the bazaar. Mayhem reigned everywhere. The sharp report of firearms blended with the excited calls of the mutineers and the sizzle of numerous fires. She took care to hold the veil low over her forehead. Their blood-lust focused on the British, the hooligans paid no heed to a lone native woman slipping through the shadows.
Turning a corner, Sarah stumbled over a heap in an alley. She blinked from the sting of smoke and looked down. The corpse of a British infantryman rested in a crimson puddle. His eyes were wide and staring. A lock of auburn hair draped his youthful brow. He had been hacked to death; both his arms lay a short distance from his body.
He was the soldier who had climbed into her carriage.
The sight overwhelmed Sarah. Bending, she lost the contents of her stomach into the stinking gutter. She leaned against a whitewashed wall and took shallow breaths, her head tilted back. The moon had not yet risen. Flames illuminated the heavens so brightly she could see no stars.
Dear God. Dear God, this cannot be happening.
Her eyes were parched, her throat sour, her heart dulled. Cold perspiration dotted her hot skin. Only the pop of gunfire in the distance rallied her.
She walked past the huts of the native quarter, down cramped streets where women huddled in darkened doorways and beggar children cried in fear. At last she neared the cantonments.
Hoping by some miracle to find the caravan already departed, she came upon the open area behind the bazaar.
Her prayers went unanswered. Ten yards away, by the low mud-brick wall, the boxy vehicle rested in its usual spot. The traces lay empty; nearby, a pair of bullocks bellowed mournfully, pulling at their tethers. In the doorway of the caravan, her face a dusky oval in the fire glow, stood Shivina.
A weakening wash of relief brought Sarah to a halt. The din of yells and gunshots kept her from calling out a greeting. Clad in the emerald hooped gown of an English lady, Shivina looke
d slim and exotic and scared. She hugged the doorframe and peered toward the cantonment wall, as if watching for someone.
For Damien Coleridge, no doubt.
Sarah pursed her lips. So she’d been right to come here. She’d been right to think he’d he off somewhere, leaving his wife and son alone in the midst of peril. Shivina might believe Damien had saved her life once, but the man was far from reliable.
At least Sarah had arrived in time to guide them to safety beyond the city walls.
“Kali! Kali!”
The demonic chant rose above the noise. Sarah swung sharply to the sound. From the bazaar streaked a saffron-robed man. His oily black locks flapped around a thin brown face. In his hand gleamed a tulwar.
Her limbs went numb. The fakir!
“Sub lal hogea hai!” he shouted. “Kali be praised.”
Calling on his vengeful goddess, he dashed toward the caravan. Shivina turned. Her scream pierced the hot night air. She made a move to slam the door, but the fakir was too quick.
He reached up and yanked at the dress that marked her a traitor. She crumpled across the short steps, the crinoline billowing around her in a cloud of green silk. Like a butcher wielding a cleaver, he raised his tulwar. “Kali, Kali!”
A sob burst from Sarah. Her paralysis ended and she raced across the compound. Her legs seemed to churn in slow motion.
The curved sword sliced downward.
A mist of horror and rage enveloped her. She aimed her dagger at his gaunt yellow back.
“You guarantee this stuff will keep my family well?” Damien asked.
He lifted his gaze from the amber bottle in his hand to the man peering into the opened drug cabinet. Dr. Reginald Pemberton-Sykes straightened, squaring his shoulders. The last rays of sunset streamed through the study window and illuminated his classic features. He looked like an artist’s conception of male perfection, Damien thought with a touch of acidity. Like one of the statues the Duchess of Lamborough collected.
