Jane Steele

by Lyndsay Faye

  “Go,” Mr. Singh gasped, eyes on me. “Please bring her back. It is unfair to ask it, I know, but—”

  I was already running; the last sight which met my eyes before I flew out the parlour door was that of Mr. Thornfield viciously cursing at the spectacle of an arm without a hand attached before tearing off his gloves.

  There was no time to think about what that meant as my feet and lungs propelled me towards the stables, my ears burning in the cold. Homelike smells of leather and manure assaulted me as I charged into the refuge of my childhood, my exhalations hanging in the atmosphere like malevolent ghosts.

  The Sikh grooms stared at me in astonishment. There might have been some trouble over procuring a mount; but as it happened, Sahjara’s new mare was still saddled, having just returned, so I swung myself up onto Harbax, tearing out of the stable as if Satan were at my heels. For the first five minutes of my pursuit, I despaired of catching up to them before we reached the village, for Nalin was the fastest steed in Mr. Thornfield’s stables, and young Harbax the most unpractised.

  Gift of God. Sahjara named you that, and Mr. Singh supposed it important, though Mr. Thornfield joked about the meaning. Please, please prove to be a gift of God.

  I caught sight of them—a silhouette, really, just an outline in the gathering crystalline fog. Recalling with a thrill of hope that Nalin was the least tractable of her species I had ever encountered, I urged the more docile Harbax onward, feeling the mare surge as she sensed my distress.

  Garima Kaur heard her pursuer and craned her head to glance behind, her emaciated form looking dangerously fragile atop such a powerful beast. Nothing of Sahjara could be seen save her rhythmically swinging feet; but reader, I loved her then, for she was the victim of blighted hopes and blind circumstance, as so many are, as I am, and Garima Kaur did not have a knife any longer, and I would return Sahjara to the people who quietly, carefully cherished her if it cost me my own right hand—or worse.

  Abruptly enough that I feared snapped necks would result, Garima Kaur reined Nalin, and the mare emitted a wild, wary sound; she turned the horse with difficulty, and then it was that I saw Sahjara’s lovely face—uncomprehending and panicked.

  “Miss Stone!” she gasped. “Where is Charles? Mrs. Kaur says we are to escape to London, that there are Company soldiers making for Highgate House.”

  “Mrs. Kaur,” I cried through the mist, “there is no one more sympathetic to your situation than I. I beg you, however—”

  “You will ruin more lives, but you will not ruin mine entirely,” Garima Kaur snarled. Nalin’s nostrils flared, her hooves agitatedly stamping the ground.

  “I seek to ruin no one, I swear to you upon any holy book you like.” Harbax, conversely, was an island once halted, perfectly quiet. “Only let me take Sahjara home.”

  “Sahjara is mine!” she cried with the cracking voice of a breaking woman.

  At times disaster visits us when we least expect it; and at others, we see the fraying rope and know that the hour of peril is nigh. I did not know what form disaster would take, but I knew then that Garima Kaur would not be returning to Highgate House, knew it with every fibre of my being.

  I should have loved to stop the inevitable, but there was nothing whatsoever I could do.

  Nalin reared—triumphant, angry, frightened. One never quite knows what a horse is thinking, but I like to imagine that horses are able to sense what people are thinking.

  My frantic cry as Garima Kaur was tossed like a flour sack from the fractious horse was not so loud as the hammering of my heart when I saw Sahjara begin to slide after her kidnapper. Dismounting to catch her was impossible, and riding to meet her would cause Nalin to career off until she found the horizon.

  Helpless, I flung out an arm.

  Falling, Sahjara did the same.

  Except she did not mirror me, not quite; she hooked her arms round Nalin’s neck, swung a leg over, and tumbled almost gracefully, a pendulum swinging within a clock. When she dangled from the mare’s neck, dropping to the ground a few seconds later, I could have wept for relief; she had Nalin by the reins immediately, thanks only to instinct. Then she viewed the tragically contorted body of Garima Kaur and began to cry.

  How long I held her there in the road after dismounting Harbax, I cannot say; how long Garima Kaur took to die I can, however, for she was stone still by the time I had reached Sahjara. Not wanting to leave any erstwhile friend of Sardar’s crushed and discarded, I instructed Sahjara to mind both horses and not look at me as I hid the sickeningly light shell of a body under a holly tree.

  When I emerged again, I was a wreck and Sahjara similarly blasted. We embraced for a long while, each supporting the other, until I realised that I was freezing to death.

  “We must get back to the house,” I grated. “Ride Harbax, and I’ll take Nalin?”

  “Miss Stone,” she sobbed. “We can’t leave Mrs. Kaur so. What if—”

  “There are no more what ifs for her, darling,” I said, hoping Mr. Thornfield’s favourite endearment might calm her. “She is sleeping peacefully, and no one can hurt her ever again. Ride back with me—the gentlemen are worried sick over you.”

  “Because of the Company men?” she asked, touching the knife in her hair.

  “Yes,” I lied. “We’re going home now, as fast as ever we can.”

  “Miss Stone?” She raised her tearstained face. “You won’t tell Charles that I learnt to hang from the neck of a horse—”

  “Oh, Sahjara,” I gasped, pulling her back to me. “I’ll never tell. You’re alive, and you’ve a secret—well and good. Live as long as you can, and have as few secrets as possible. Mr. Thornfield wouldn’t last a day without you—remember that, for all our sakes.”

  • • •

  When we arrived back at Highgate House, my first task after guiding Sahjara to her bedroom was to take Sam Quillfeather’s neglected horse and trap to the stables. The grooms were absent, probably speculating as to what the deuce had happened to Sardar Singh; so I rubbed the beast down and afterwards stood, silently weeping, with my brow against its ribs.

  I simply did not wish to face learning that anything disastrous had befallen Charles Thornfield—for he would equally be lost without Sardar Singh, and I had begun to suspect that I might be similarly affected by his absence.

  After cursing myself for a weakling, I hurried to the main house, tapping upon doors and tumbling through them as if I had a right to be there. They had made me feel as if I had a right to be there, after all—they had made me feel as if I had a home.

  At last I found Charles Thornfield in the kitchen, speaking urgently to Jas Kaur as he washed his bare hands; they were already clean, but his crusted shirtsleeves told a gruesome story, and his white hair was liberally speckled with blood.

  “How is he?” I questioned. “Did he tell you … did he—”

  “Jane!” Mr. Thornfield dived for a cloth, drying his fingers; seeing them naked again was peculiar, as if I ought to turn away and grant him privacy. “Say that you found Sahjara, I beg of you. If she—”

  “I’m here,” came a small voice, and I saw that the commotion had brought Sahjara out of hiding; she stood in the hall just outside the kitchen, eyes puffy and strained.

  I am not proud of many of my actions; most were committed for selfish reasons, and bringing Sahjara back ought to be numbered among these, for I could not bear the thought of losing her. However, the look on Mr. Thornfield’s face as he crossed the flagstones in a frantic leap and swept her up into his arms, cradling the shivering child’s face against his shoulder without any barrier between them, I thought might be cause for celebration.

  “Mr. Singh?” I asked again. “I must know how he fares, and what he told you. Please—”

  “He told me, in brief, everything. And he will live, thank God. I was just arranging with Jas here to steep claret with oil, rosemary, and oregano to prevent infection. Supposing that fails us, I’ll resort to pine pitch, but Sardar is an acc
ommodating bastard, so I don’t suppose he’ll put me to the trouble if he can help it. I’ve knocked the poor fellow cold with laudanum, so now it is merely a matter of vigilance. All right, darling, hush,” he spoke against the crown of Sahjara’s head. “I was sick with worry over you, but I was busy saving your uncle’s life.”

  “My uncle?” she repeated, dazed.

  “Yes, I know you don’t remember,” he returned tenderly. “Your uncle Sardar he has always been, and ever will be. I didn’t quite know how to introduce the topic. Forgive me?”

  “Of course,” she murmured. “What happened to him?”

  “He was hurt.” Mr. Thornfield shifted as if to set her down, but she clung to him. “All right, all right, Young Marvel—he’ll be fine. Everything is fine now.”

  “It isn’t fine,” she choked, clutching his collar. “Garima was thrown from Nalin. Miss Stone dragged her out of the road, but she’s …”

  Charles Thornfield had endured such atrocity in his life that he simply glanced at me and then closed his eyes, nodding after he had seen the answer there. Yes, his jaw tightened painfully, but he gave no other sign. I do not think he meant to be stoic; he had already suffered so deeply, however, and gained so much back in a single hour—Sardar’s life, Sahjara’s safety, Karman’s fortune—that news of Garima’s death caused him to bend rather than break.

  I shall never forget, however, that after he turned to Jas Kaur and told her the news in Punjabi, she sat at her worktable and split in two—sobbing, palms upwards in helpless anguish before her, her breaths like a death rattle.

  It was a lesson, and a welcome one, that one member of the household had not been indifferent to Garima Kaur’s existence; it was a lesson that everyone—even myself, I dared to hope—would be mourned by one fellow traveller.

  Mr. Thornfield pressed her shoulder warmly and carried Sahjara from the kitchen. As I likewise exited, granting Jas Kaur some privacy in the rawness of her grief, I called, “Mr. Thornfield, there is much which I can explain to you, if you will allow it.”

  “Allow it?” Despite all which had occurred, a spark of gallows humour entered his eye. “Jane, I think it is safe to say I shall insist.”

  He was about to take Sahjara upstairs when a forceful knock sounded; instead, he set her down with a quiet, “Stay with Jas, darling,” whisking her behind the kitchen door and shutting it firmly.

  It is a testament to how well used to this household I had grown that I did not even blink when he pulled a short sword with a carved ivory handle from its place upon the wall. When I snatched up a dagger from farther down the corridor, however, he hissed, “What the devil can you be thinking? That could very well be half a dozen Company soldiers.”

  “Your point, Mr. Thornfield?”

  “For God’s sake, Jane, I—”

  “Mr. Singh is incapacitated, and if you think I am going to allow you to face badmashes alone, you’re cracked in the head. Sir.”

  Mr. Thornfield pronounced several exasperated curses, barked, “Keep well back, do you understand me?” and then strode for the entrance, where our visitor was creating still more of a racket than previous.

  When he threw wide the door, however, I dropped the blade upon his pile of correspondence there on the table, weak with relief; Sam Quillfeather stood at the top of the steps, his aquiline nose thrusting urgently indoors. Mr. Thornfield gripped his hand even as he turned to cast a concerned eyebrow at me.

  “Inspector, I hardly dare inquire as to what happened between you and the Company men—though last I saw you, this pixie vanished seconds later, and that sits poorly enough in my gut. We have much to discuss.”

  “Yes, upon this very instant lest disaster befall you!” Mr. Quillfeather returned. “And Miss Stone will correct me if I am mistaken, but I think she and I have reached an amicable understanding? Good heavens, Thornfield, whose blood is that?”

  Mr. Thornfield gripped his neck, rubbing exhaustedly. “Sardar’s, I am sorry to say. He will live, thank heaven, though ’tis a grievous injury. There are tales to be told.”

  Mr. Quillfeather’s fingers clenched around his tall hat. Stepping within, he scuffed his boots upon the rug.

  “Then shall we pour a spot of brandy, sit before a fire, and tell them?” he suggested. “Perhaps if we are wise enough, there may be a happy outcome after all?”

  “I don’t think after all this anyone will accuse me of possessing a speck of wisdom, but I can certainly contribute the brandy and fire.” Mr. Thornfield sighed, taking the inspector’s place before the door. “Only let me quick march to have men sent for Garima’s remains and I’ll join you in the parlour.”

  “Remains?” Mr. Quillfeather asked softly when Mr. Thornfield had vanished. “Oh, Miss Steele, what must you have seen today?”

  “Enough,” I admitted, drying my eyes. “But far less than some.”

  We talked much that afternoon, and though I explained that I had schemed to outwit Mr. Sack—much to Mr. Thornfield’s belated but vocal dismay—I said nothing yet of my greater history with Inspector Quillfeather, nor did that gentleman press me into broaching the subject. The most difficult moment, therefore, occurred when we had reached an understanding and regarded each other in the pale amber glow of the dying fire, knowing we could postpone the inevitable no longer.

  “I shall glance at Mrs. Kaur’s remains and fill out the death report, as the task would pain you, Thornfield,” Inspector Quillfeather kindly offered. “There is, if all I have heard is true, no need for an autopsy?”

  “I should not be offended,” I assured them.

  “No need.” Mr. Thornfield tapped his fist against his brow, the curve of his wide shoulders slack with grief. “I just stitched up what Garima did to Sardar—she could have been in no state to manage Nalin. I only thank Christ you were there, Jane.”

  Mr. Quillfeather rose. “I shall also get a message to Mr. Sack, and arrange for the village physician to be here by morning. Time this was ended, don’t you think?”

  “High time,” Mr. Thornfield grated, donning his hat and coat as we three exited the parlour.

  Mr. Quillfeather headed for the underground mortuary, Mr. Thornfield and I out of doors. The stars were a cold spill of glass shards in the darkening sapphire canopy, sharp and treacherously beautiful; I wondered whether they looked the same in the Punjab, and if Garima Kaur thereby had at least the same sky to wish upon, or if they were hung at another angle in England, and the housekeeper thus entirely alone. Mr. Thornfield, seeming to see me for the first time, shook his head in annoyance.

  “You’ll catch your death without an overcoat, you mad thing.” He passed his own round my shoulders and coughed, abashed. “Your cloak is quite irretrievably ruined, by the by.”

  “I should think so.”

  “You’d not have wanted it again in any case, I imagine.”

  “No, Mr. Thornfield.”

  “Your new frock suits you much better than governess weeds, though you did ’em better justice than most.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Is that what you wanted the advance in wages for—to convince Sack you were a thief?”

  “No … well, yes, but I’ve also had an inheritance. I shall tell you about it when we are through.”

  “Confronting Sack in such an audacious fashion—I hardly know what to make of these extraordinary efforts upon your part.” He gazed upwards as if only the firmament were equally unfathomable. “You could have found a far better recipient for your loyalty, you realise, than a ruffian with a curse upon his house.”

  “I don’t agree,” I said, and all my heart was in those words.

  “Jane, blast it to pieces, I don’t know whether I can do this.”

  “At least you need not do it alone,” I breathed, wanting only to reach out and fold my arms around him.

  Charles Thornfield shifted upon the grass, shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, and strode towards the cottage.

  I hastened after. We traversed the
grounds in lockstep, lit a lantern within the cottage’s sitting room, carried it with us as we trotted up the stairs; the door to the garret remained open and Mr. Thornfield made at once for the crate, flinging the lid aside and digging through papers until he arrived at the false bottom and tore it open.

  The treasure gleamed with the too-saturated colour of poisonous vipers and venomous toads—a rainbow’s spectrum of danger, those jewel tones which Nature employs to warn keep away.

  “Yes, these are Karman’s,” Mr. Thornfield said, and it scored my heart to hear his voice breaking. “Oh, Jane, so much suffering, and for this pile of trinkets? You cannot know how I loathe myself, little friend, and the only riddle left to solve is why Sardar doesn’t detest me as well.”

  Then I recalled one of Garima Kaur’s last confessions, and why the seemingly trivial detail mattered.

  “Garima Kaur said that Karman had her first Khalsa cavalry uniform altered to fit her when she was eighteen.”

  “What?” Mr. Thornfield’s rugged face tilted in confusion.

  “She wanted to fight long before her jewels went missing.” My entire frame was taut with nerves and desperate hope. “Garima told me so. So now you know it had nothing to do with you—she would have risked all for glory anyhow, can’t you see? No object is served by flaying yourself over the circumstances of her departure. War was in her blood and bones, and doer of deeds is what Mr. Singh said her name meant, and perhaps you left the Punjab to escape your heartbreak and made mistakes afterwards, but maybe the rest of it—the death, the loss—that was only what happens to us after we are born, and not a punishment at all.”

  “How do you know she died in battle?”

  “Mr. Sack told me.”

  “Damn his eyes.” Mr. Thornfield drew a shaking breath. “Jane …”

  “I learnt in London that there was no subject upon which I was more mistaken than that of myself, sir.” Brushing my fingertip over the blood still soaking his sleeve, I met his tearful gaze with my own. “Of you, however, I have made a close study, and I vow that I think no man more deserving of a measure of happiness, and that if I could fetch it for you, I should travel the globe.”