by Jane Feather
Harley, wearing the long-suffering air of the uncomplaining martyr, accompanied him to the front door, solemnly locking it on the lieutenant’s departure. He tucked the key into his jacket pocket and returned to the kitchen.
An atmosphere of chaotic gloom hung over the headquarters bungalow as Kit saluted the sentry and entered the adjutant’s office. Lieutenant Watson looked up in distraction from the sheaf of dispatches on the table. “Oh, Ralston, thought you weren’t on duty until this evening.”
“I’m not, but I couldn’t sit twiddling my thumbs. What’s happening?”
“Just chaos,” Watson said glumly, indicating the dispatches. “The general has been shilly-shallying about Shelton ever since you left, and Sir William has now ordered Shelton into the Balla Hissar with instructions to use his own judgment, in communication with the shah, on how he proceeds from there.”
Kit grimaced. “What of Campbell?”
Watson shrugged. “The last we heard, he was attempting to push his way to the residency through the center of the city and meeting fierce resistance on every street.”
“He’s trying to take a fighting brigade through those alleys?” Kit exclaimed. “Why the hell didn’t he go around the city? At least he’d have open spaces in which to maneuver.”
“Don’t ask me,” the lieutenant said. “Not my job to question.” A querulous call came from the adjoining room and he sighed. “Our commander calls.”
Kit went in search of Bob Markham, and found him in the map room, bent over the chart table. “Oh, hello, Kit. Come and have a look here. I’ve been told to recall Major Griffiths from Kubbar-i-Jubbar. Do you think he can get through this country?”
Kit examined the map. “Griffiths is a good man,” he said bluntly.
“Good enough to make it through these passes? The Afghans will be holding them. He’ll have to fight every step of the way.”
“What about Sale?”
“Fallen back on Jalalabad; says he can’t get through to Kabul. Elphinstone’s sent a runner to Nott at Kandahar, asking him to send a brigade to Kabul.”
“I don’t give much for his chances,” Kit said grimly. “Lord, Bob, what a hole we’re in!”
“And getting deeper by the minute,” his friend agreed.
“Has anyone found out what’s going on with Colin Mackenzie? He’s in charge of the other commissariat fort containing Shah Soojah’s supplies.”
Bob inhaled sharply. “Damn, I don’t think anyone’s given him a thought. He’s completely exposed out there on the outskirts of the city.”
“Got a good many women and children in the fort, as I understand.”
The two men looked at each other, each imagining the hordes of Ghilzais and Ghazis attacking Mackenzie and his small garrison, with its vulnerable inhabitants.
“I’ll talk to Elphinstone and Macnaghten. See if they’ll authorize a force from here to go to his aid.” Bob left at a near run, and Kit bent over the maps again.
Kabul was such a tiny isolated spot; Jalalabad so near yet so far through treacherous Ghilzai-held passes; Kandahar and Quetta an impossible distance for any but a fighting force in perfect condition. Women, children, camp followers, and all the baggage attendant upon the mass exodus of an army could never make it—not in winter, and not under the continuous harassment of warrior hillmen with their long rifles.
Would Akbar Khan permit them to leave unmolested, supposing Elphinstone and Macnaghten could be persuaded to negotiate? Annabel did not think so. And from what Kit had seen of the Dost’s son, he did not think so, either.
“God Almighty, Kit! Those bungling asses won’t lift a finger for Colin.” Bob charged into the room, his face pink with indignation, fire in the usually mild blue eyes. “Captain Mackenzie must fend for himself.” He offered a fair imitation of Sir William’s pompous tones. “We don’t know that he’s under attack, after all,” he went on, sounding as quavery as Elphinstone.
Kit could not help a ruefully appreciative grin, despite the desperation of the message. “You should have gone on the stage, Bob.”
“I can think of worse careers,” his friend returned. “The army for instance. What are you doing here, anyway? You’re not on duty. I rather assumed you’d be busy sorting out that other matter.”
“She’s asleep,” Kit said. “And she’s so bloody stubborn! She’d make a good match for Macnaghten.” He flung himself into a chair by the window. “I’d rather stay here, quite frankly, than pace around at home, chewing my fingernails, wondering what new tack to take when she wakes.”
Bob shook his head wonderingly. “You’ve been bitten by a powerful madness, Kit. But in present circumstances, it seems curiously fitting. Only lunatic responses are appropriate, seems to me.”
* * *
Annabel woke up to an imperatively appetizing aroma. It was familiar, but it belonged to life before Akbar Khan, and she could not identify it. Her mouth filled with saliva, and her empty belly grumbled in sympathy. Starving herself was clearly ridiculous. She would have to find some other means of expressing her anger with Christopher Ralston.
Springing from the bed, she brushed down her tunic and trousers, both of which had suffered on the mad ride from Kabul, and glanced in the mirror over the dresser. Her hair was in some disorder, but she used Kit’s comb to reasonable effect, then left the room, following her nose.
It led her to the kitchen. “What is it that you are cooking?”
Harley, standing at the stove swathed in an enormous apron, jumped. “Gawd, miss, you startled me!”
“Oh, I beg your pardon. I am used to moving quietly.” She smiled. “May I come in?”
“If you like, miss.” Harley looked awkwardly around the small kitchen that he was accustomed to considering his private domain. “Shall I cook you up a bit o’ bacon?”
“Oh, it’s bacon … of course,” she said, perching on a stool at the table. “I haven’t smelled it in eight or nine years and I could not remember what it was … Yes, please, I would love some. I am famished.”
“You’d like an egg with it, then. And a piece o’ fried bread, I daresay,” Harley observed. His tone was hardly welcoming, but he no longer looked at her as if she belonged to some strange and definitely dangerous species.
“Mmmm,” Annabel agreed with hungry enthusiasm. “And a cup of tea now.” She smiled at the stolid figure wielding his spatula. “I am sorry I was so discourteous earlier. But I am afraid I was so angry with the lieutenant, I wasn’t really thinking clearly. It was very kind of you to bring me tea.”
Harley flushed, cleared his throat. “It’s none o’ my business, miss, what the lieutenant gets up to. I’ve found it best to keep me own counsel. There’s a cup o’ tea in the pot if you’d like to pour.” He indicated the fat teapot wrapped in a cloth to keep it hot.
This Englishman clearly didn’t hold with samovars, Annabel thought. He also clearly did not approve of certain of his officer’s activities, even if he did keep his own counsel.
Cups were to be found hanging on hooks in the wall. She poured the strong brew into two of them and took a deep, revivifying gulp. “Do you know where Lieutenant Ralston is at the moment?”
“Gone to ’eadquarters, miss,” Harley informed her. “He’s not on duty till this evening as I understand, but there’s a deal goin’ on at present.” With an expert twitch of his wrist, he flipped the egg over in the bacon fat and then back again before sliding the contents of the frying pan onto a plate. “There you are, miss. I’ll take this into the dining room for you.”
Annabel was about to say that she would be quite happy to eat in the kitchen with the batman, but it occurred to her that the happiness would not be shared, either because he disapproved of her, or because it would offend his sense of social propriety. Probably a bit of both, she decided, following him into the dining room, carrying her mug of tea.
“Have you been with Lieutenant Ralston for many years, Harley?”
Harley put the laden plate on the table a
nd took cutlery and linen from a drawer in the sideboard. “Five years, miss. I was ’is batman when he first joined the Seventh Light.” His lips drew together in a thin line of disapproval. “Never expected to find ourselves out ’ere, we didn’t. But I suppose, the way the lieutenant was carryin’ on, it ’ad to ’appen. But a long way from Horseguards Parade it is, out ’ere among the ’eathen.” A sudden flush darkened the leathery, rubicund countenance. “Meaning no offense, miss. I know you’re dressed like one of ’em, but it’s clear as day you’re not one of ’em.”
Annabel considered this as she sat down. “No, strictly speaking I’m as English as you. Only I don’t think of myself as such. I’ve lived among the Afghans since I was twelve.”
Harley’s jaw dropped, and he stared. “Well, I never!”
“That’s rather how the lieutenant reacts,” she said with a slight smile. “It seems to strike to the heart of his patriotism.”
“Not just the ’eart of ’is patriotism, I’ll be bound,” Harley observed darkly, putting a cruet before her. “It’s that rovin’ eye of ’is … always getting ’im into trouble.” On which profundity, he left Annabel to her solitary breakfast.
So the lieutenant had a roving eye. Annabel took a mouthful of bacon and egg. It didn’t exactly surprise her. But what had happened in London to earn him this sentence of banishment, as Harley had implied?
Dismissing the questions for the time being, she turned her attention to the deliciously familiar yet unaccustomed taste sensations on her plate and the contemplation of a bath before the bedroom fire to follow. But making plans for her day in these unfamiliar surroundings inevitably provoked other questions.
What was happening in Akbar Khan’s house in Kabul? What had they made of her disappearance? How energetically would he pursue the investigation? Or was he now so deeply immersed in building the avalanche about to fall upon the feringhee invaders that he would have no time to concern himself with the fate of one who was, when all was said and done, simply an expendable female?
It would be so much easier if the latter were the case. Easier … and safer.
Chapter Nine
Akbar Khan sat as still as if he had been sculpted. His eyes seemed to look through the weeping Soraya on her knees before him and way beyond the circle of soldiers and servants lining the room.
“You are certain that only a mantle from the hall is missing?” He spoke finally, his voice even, lacking so much as a trace of annoyance. But no one in the room was deceived. They were all to a greater or lesser extent guilty, and this stocky, powerful man in his smart green tunic and lace-edged shirt would pass just and appropriate sentence on every one of them.
“Yes, khan,” Soraya answered. “All her belongings remain in her room. She must have dressed, because her nightclothes are upon the divan … If only I had not slept so soundly!” She began to wail, calling upon the Prophet to punish her laziness and lack of vigilance over such a precious charge.
“The fault was not yours,” Akbar Khan said, breaking into her caterwauling. “You slept no later than you were accustomed to doing. The fault lies with the guards who deserted their posts and the servants who failed to bolt the doors. Ayesha did not leave here of her own free will.” The vivid blue gaze swept the room, and in its wake even the bravest trembled. “Someone entered this house and took her from it.”
“But there was no sign of a struggle, sirdar. And if Ayesha had cried out, then someone would have heard her,” his chamberlain pointed out.
“That is true.” The sirdar frowned. “Soraya would certainly have woken had Ayesha called for her.”
So why had she not summoned help? He stroked his beard. Ayesha would not have left on some whim of her own. That was a fact beyond dispute. It was not a possibility worth considering. But she had left, it would seem, without overt protest. Which would seem to imply that she knew her abductor and was not afraid of him … or had she been afraid for him?
Gently, he nodded. If she had been afraid to alert the household to the presence of this intruder for fear of the consequences to him, then it would explain much. But the only British in Kabul who were not in the Balla Hissar that night had been massacred by the mob. There had been no traffic between the cantonment and the city for many hours before the attack on the residency. Or so he had believed.
His gaze snapped into focus. If Ayesha was now in the cantonment with the British, she was being held as safe for him as if he had her under his own roof. He could retrieve her easily enough when the time came to force the feringhee to abandon their position in favor of retreat. That time was drawing ever closer, and this personal affront would make the reckoning all the more satisfying. But now he had to deal with the negligence and desertion of certain members of his household. His eyes ran slowly around the room again, and they were hard as agate.
“Campbell has been forced back to the Balla Hissar.” Watson emerged from the general’s sanctum with this gloomy report. “A runner has just come from the shah. Shelton attempted to cover the retreat, but they still abandoned their guns outside the fort.”
Bob Markham swore. “Leaving them to those savages!”
“Apparently there’s mayhem in the city,” Watson went on. “The people are on a rampage, looting, raping, butchering; only their own people at this point, but it’s certainly keeping them fired up.”
“So Kabul is now entirely in Afghan hands,” Kit mused. He sat sprawled in a chair by the window, one leg thrown carelessly over the arm. “And no one can do anything about it.”
“You think you can do better than Brigadier Shelton and Colonel Campbell, Lieutenant Ralston?” Sir William stood in the doorway of the adjutant’s office, puffing out his chest.
Kit rose in leisurely fashion to his feet. “Not in the least, Sir William. The time when we could have succeeded with vigorous military intervention is past. Early this morning we might have achieved something, but the city is too securely in rebel hands now.”
“It seems extraordinary to me, Lieutenant, that your brilliant analyses and well-timed advice have railed to earn you the promotion I am certain you richly deserve,” said the Envoy with icy sarcasm. “General Elphinstone is feeling most unwell and is taking to his bed for the rest of the day. There is no more to be done here, so I suggest you all return to your quarters and hold yourselves in readiness should you be called.” He turned and strutted off.
“Did I hear aright?” Bob Markham blinked. “Have we just been given a holiday?”
“That’s what it sounded like to me,” Kit said. “Afghan rebels are amusing themselves with a little rape, a little looting, a little murder in Kabul, and we shrug our shoulders and take to our beds.”
“And meanwhile, Colin Mackenzie is stuck out there—Goddamnit, Kit! I need a drink.” Bob slung his cape around his shoulders. “I’m going home to drown my sorrows.” He stalked out of the room, and Kit followed him out into the bitter November afternoon.
The cantonment seemed to be in a state of shock, he thought. The bungalows were shuttered tight; there was none of the usual activity in the narrow streets, no one in their gardens, no children with their nursemaids. There were no servants to be seen making their usual rounds from bungalow to bungalow, bearing invitations and messages. Smoke curling from chimneys was the only sign of occupation, and that would not continue for long, he reflected grimly. Not unless they were able to replenish the fuel supplies—something that could only be done outside the cantonment in the open plain where Afghan tribesmen were massed, waiting.
He reached his own front door and turned the handle. It wouldn’t budge, and he remembered his instructions to Harley. He knocked loudly. How would he find Annabel now? Still angry, still resistant? Or had she reached some acceptance in the hours since his departure? Eager anticipation prickled his spine, reverberating in his voice as Harley pulled open the door.
“How is Miss Spencer?”
“Havin’ a bath, sir,” the batman informed him in wooden accents. “She aske
d me to prepare it for ’er twenty minutes ago.”
Kit stepped into the hall, shrugging off his cape. “Has she had anything to eat?”
Harley took the cape and hung it on a waiting hook. “ ’Ad a good breakfast, sir.”
Breakfast and baths had to augur well, Kit decided.
“Is there any news, sir?”
Kit paused long enough to bring Harley up to date with the news from Kabul and the Balla Hissar before heading for his bedroom. He knocked but did not wait for invitation to enter.
She lay in the hip bath before the fire, her copper hair piled high on top of her head, her skin white as milk in the firelight.
“Am I to have no privacy?” Her voice did not match the warm, glowing room. She turned her head against the rim of the bath. Her eyes, cold and polished as green quartz, appraised him.
“I’m sorry. I was just so anxious to see you,” he said with what he hoped was disarming candor. “Shall I go away again?”
The smooth milky shoulders lifted in a nearly imperceptible shrug, as if his presence were a matter of complete indifference. She raised one shapely leg high out of the water and began to soap it with an air of absorption.
Kit’s hands moved as if they were performing the task of her own and his breath came swiftly. “Could I do that for you?”
“No.” The flat denial seemed to admit of no negotiation.
He went to sit on the bed, where he could watch her. “I thought you might be interested in the news from the city.”
She switched legs. “Has the might of the British raj quelled the riot, then? Avenged the murder of its citizens?”
Kit winced. “No, on the contrary.”
She returned both legs to the tub and sat up, hugging her knees, regarding him now with interest. “They must have done something?”
Kit told her the events of the day and she shook her head in disbelief. “No Afghan could believe that you would not avenge your dead. They will despise you even more.”
Kit could not find the words of argument on this score. Besides, he was losing interest in the conversation. In fact, if the truth were told, he had only begun it as a means of overcoming the chilly indifference of this entrancing bather. She was leaning back again and her breasts rose enticingly out of the water, rose-crowned, smooth and full as he had remembered them so vividly in the last weeks. He came over to the tub, dropping to one knee.