by Jane Feather
Deep in thought, she went into the bungalow. Harley’s anxious “Is the captain all right, miss?” brought her out of her reverie.
“Yes, Harley. Did you hear what happened?”
The batman’s stolid countenance took on an expression of grim disgust. “Yes, miss. A bloody disgrace, it was, beggin’ your pardon, miss.”
“I shouldn’t judge too harshly,” she said. “We might all face a Ghazi scimitar soon.”
“They’ll not see my back,” Harley declared, and stomped off to his kitchen.
It was late when Kit returned. “I understand you had a frank discussion with Lady Sale,” he said without preamble, sniffing hungrily at the bowl of antelope stew Annabel placed before him.
“However did you discover that so soon?” She looked at him in surprise.
“I was waylaid by her servant on my way home from headquarters,” he told her aridly, “with the request that I pay her a short visit.” He took an appreciative spoonful of stew. “This ought to stick in my gullet, knowing how you acquired the ingredients, but for some reason it doesn’t.”
“In the circumstances, you would have to be very foolish to permit such a consideration to spoil your appetite. Everyone else is going hungry to bed,” she responded smartly. “What did the lady have to say?”
“She wanted to know who you were. I gather you weren’t too forthcoming.” He raised an interrogatory eyebrow.
“I was very polite,” Annabel said. “But she seemed to doubt that I came from Peshawar. She did, however, say that she had known you too long for you to be able to pull the wool over her eyes, and she hadn’t believed you when you denied having an Englishwoman under your roof.”
Kit shrugged. “Well, I am afraid I told her that it was none of her business, so we did not part friends.”
“Oh, dear. I suppose it was my fault.”
“You could say that.” His voice was as dry as before.
“But how can such silliness be considered important now?” she exclaimed in genuine frustration.
“Forms and ceremonies take on a great importance when the fabric of life is disintegrating,” Kit said quietly. “Customs, rituals, standards become all that is left. Once they are destroyed, then for people like Lady Sale and others, hope and energy are also destroyed.” Even as he spoke, it occurred to him that a few short months ago he would never have made the least attempt to understand, let alone defend, the needs and attitudes of those he had so freely declared prehistoric fools and bores.
“Lady Sale, for all her stuffiness, is a woman of considerable energy,” he continued. “It’s in everyone’s best interests that she maintain that energy. There are too many women in the cantonment dependent upon her leadership and strength.”
“I realize that,” Annabel said. “And I said as much to her.”
It was Kit’s turn to look surprised. “Did you indeed?”
“Yes, and she did not seem to take it amiss,” she responded stoutly. “She even said that, although I was a shameless hussy, my head was on straight.”
Kit laughed. It was not a very hearty laugh, but it was a step in the right direction, Annabel thought, refilling his teacup.
“What is being decided?” she asked, changing the subject to one of much greater interest.
Kit frowned. “Nothing at the moment, just wails from Elphinstone and trumpeting from Macnaghten and tight-lipped anger from Shelton. I’m going back as soon as I have finished eating.”
“Let me come with you,” she said urgently.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” He pushed back his chair. “The last thing anyone needs at this point is you, confusing things even further.”
“That is so hurtful, Kit. How would I confuse things?”
The effort he was making to control his impatience was clear on his face and in his voice. “Sweetheart, I am not going to present you as an erstwhile inhabitant of Akbar Khan’s zenana. I refuse to go into the intimate details of your history, and unless I do so they are not going to believe your pearls of wisdom. They would see in you only my mistress and hear from me only the rambling championship of some besotted fool. Macnaghten would laugh in my face, and Elphinstone would probably become extremely stiff-rumped about the questionable behavior of a cavalry officer who kept such an exotic creature under his roof.”
She shrugged and turned aside. “Very well. I think I’ll go to bed in that case.”
He stood for a moment irresolute, hating to leave her hurt and annoyed, yet somehow too tired and depressed himself to make the effort to placate her. “I don’t know how long I’ll be,” he said, rebuttoning his tunic.
“I’m sure I shall be asleep,” she replied stonily. “Good night.” Brushing past him, she left the dining room.
“Damn!” He took a step after her, then shook his head as if dismissing the irritation. It was one last straw that he didn’t think he could pick up tonight.
Throughout the long night of an endless discussion, when acrimonious words flew in the tobacco fug of the general’s office, and suggestions were made and discarded as frequently as blame was accorded and denied, he found he had little mental energy for worrying about Annabel’s hurt feelings. And when, in the early morning, a message for the Envoy arrived from Kabul, the weariness engendered by the staleness of the night’s debate was banished.
Sir William read the letter. “It is from Osman Khan,” he announced.
“The chief who called off the pursuit yesterday,” Colin said.
“How did you know that, Mackenzie?” The Envoy looked both surprised and displeased at this interjection.
Colin glanced uneasily at Kit, who stared at the ceiling and offered no help. “I seem to remember hearing someone say it,” he said eventually.
Macnaghten huffed a little, then said, “Well, according to his letter, Osman Khan maintains that if he had permitted his force to follow up their successes, the loss of the cantonments and the destruction of our force would have been inevitable.” He glanced around the table and met only a grim acknowledgment of the Afghan claim. He continued. “It is apparently not the wish of the chiefs to go to such lengths. They wish only that we should peacefully leave their country to the rule of their own sirdars and the king of their own choosing.”
Silence lay heavy in the smoke-wreathed room as the winter dawn broke beyond the window. General Elphinstone, from the depths of his armchair, wheezed plaintively. Sir William cleared his throat and said formally, “General, is it your opinion that we have the military strength to retain our position in Afghanistan?”
“It is not feasible to maintain our position here, Macnaghten,” the general said, sounding relatively strong for once. “I suggest you avail yourself of the offer to negotiate forthwith.”
Now that the inevitable decision had finally been expressed, relief settled on every face. At least there was now a plan, even if it was the worst-case scenario, and the futility of false hopes was now a thing of the past.
“Then I will suggest we talk terms with their deputation,” the Envoy said.
“Eggs, butter, onions, and two lamb breasts, Harley,” Annabel announced, setting her basket on the kitchen table. “It should keep the wolf from the door for a couple more days.”
“Yes, miss,” Harley agreed, making no mention of the shouting match that had occurred that morning when miss had announced her intention of going to the bazaar for fresh supplies. In fact, if the captain and his lady were not shouting at each other these days, they seemed to preserve a stony silence. Occasionally, the captain would try cajoling, but his efforts were met with a mocking, taunting tone that sent him scowling and slamming out of the bungalow, and miss would take herself off to the riding school where she would spend hours practicing intricate maneuvers with Charlie.
The front door banged and Harley saw Annabel stiffen, turn toward the kitchen door with the old eagerly welcoming expression on her face, then it was wiped clean and she resumed unpacking her basket. Kit came into the kitchen. “Oh,
there you are.”
“Back safe and sound, as you see,” she said, managing to make it a taunt. “I picked up some interesting titbits in the bazaar, but I don’t suppose you would find them interesting. The feringhee is far too certain he knows what he’s doing to acknowledge a more informed opinion.”
Harley coughed uncomfortably and began to clatter saucepans at the stove. Kit jerked his head imperatively to the door, his lips set. Annabel swept past him into the sitting room.
“Don’t talk to me in that tone in front of Harley,” Kit said furiously, slamming the door behind them.
“It upsets your consequence, does it? The servants must not be permitted—”
“Stop it!”
She fell silent and they stood glowering at each other for a long minute, then Kit sighed. “How long is this going to continue, Annabel?”
“Until you listen to reason.” She perched on the arm of the sofa beside the pungently smoldering fire and regarded him steadily. “First of all, Macnaghten peremptorily rejects terms proffered by the deputation of chiefs—”
“He had no choice but to do so,” Kit interrupted. “They were too humiliating to be considered.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Maybe so. But then what happens? He is finally forced to reopen negotiations. He takes a draft treaty to another meeting outside the cantonment, agrees to evacuate Kabul within three days in exchange for a supply of provisions and safe passage for the entire force and its followers to India. He agrees to the return of Dost Mahomed to the throne and the removal of Shah Soojah in exchange for amnesty. He agrees to the evacuation of the Balla Hissar and all forts under British occupation in the vicinity of the cantonment. Tell me that those conditions were not humiliating.”
Kit winced but could not deny it.
Annabel continued forcefully. “And now what is happening? The three days have passed and no attempt has been made to evacuate the cantonment, although the Balla Hissar and the other forts have been given up. The enemy has not honored its agreement to supply provisions, nor have they supplied the transport animals for which they were given ample sums of money. And what is Macnaghten doing now? Instead of insisting that the terms of the treaty be honored by both sides, he is continuing with his devious attempts to subvert the chiefs. Does he think they are not aware of what he is doing? I have been listening to the talk in the bazaar. Why do you think they are just sitting back, watching and waiting?” She sprang to her feet on a surge of impatience. “Does he think they’ve lost interest … or momentum … or something? Of course they have not. The weather is on their side, there’s almost no food or fuel in the cantonment, and they are waiting for Macnaghten to hang himself. And with your damned obstinacy, Ralston, huzoor, you won’t permit me to tell him that.”
Kit was silent. He could not deny anything she said. The troops were living on half rations, transport cattle were dying of starvation, camp followers were eating carrion, and there was no possible way of replenishing the stores. While Elphinstone and Macnaghten went over and over the same issues, concocting and discarding plans, the Afghans had destroyed the bridge over the Kabul river and the British in the cantonment sat and watched.
“The Envoy believes that since the chiefs have not honored their side of the treaty, he is no longer bound by it himself,” he said at last, sighing heavily. “I have told him what you think, but he won’t listen to me.”
“But he might listen to me,” she said vehemently.
Kit looked at his impassioned green-eyed lynx with the swinging copper plait, the lean sinuous lines of her body accentuated by her Afghan costume, and he thought of that derisive tone investing her voice whenever she met opposition to her opinions. He thought of quavering Elphinstone and the self-important, pompous Envoy listening to a scornful diatribe from this extraordinary creature, and he shuddered. “I will tell them what you heard in the bazaar,” he said. “I have never before attributed my opinions to an informed source, but now I will do so. Will that satisfy you?”
She shrugged. If he would not permit her to help in the only way she could, then she would have to live with her frustration. But it was so hard, when she could hear Akbar Khan’s voice, see his face, read his mind. He would be sitting there waiting for Macnaghten’s treachery to become manifest, and then he would strike with a clear conscience. There would be no mercy for those who had broken an agreement, and Akbar Khan would deny absolutely that he himself had done so. He would say simply that when there were no indications that the British were preparing to leave the cantonment, he had assumed bad faith on their part and decided not to provide the promised supplies.
Kit laid one hand on her shoulder, catching her chin with his other. “Please, let’s cry peace, Annabel. We are all depressed … at a low ebb … and it seems such a crying shame that you and I should dissipate the time we have left together in this wasteland of storms and silence.”
It was the first time he had openly admitted to himself, let alone to anyone else, his belief that he and Annabel were living now on borrowed time. The jade eyes met his calmly, acknowledging his statement as if she had been waiting for him to make it.
“I don’t wish to quarrel,” she said. “But I am so frustrated, and you are being so foolishly blind. As if it could possibly matter who knows where I come from! If there is to be any hope of extending our time together, some correct decisions have to be made.”
“And what happened to Destiny?” he said, trying to sound lightly teasing but failing miserably. “I thought you believed it did not matter what one did.”
“The outcome may be preordained, but we are still required to make the choices,” she replied earnestly. “And there are always sensible choices and foolish choices.”
Kit shook his head, baffled. “Sometimes I do not understand you at all. You say one thing but seem to mean another.”
“No, feringhee, it is not me you do not understand, it is the Afghan.”
“We have now come full circle,” Kit said, releasing her chin with a sigh of defeat. “You may know Akbar Khan, but I know Elphinstone and Macnaghten, and I know that no good will come of my presenting you to them as an informed source. They will see only a woman with a dubious past and even more dubious present, and they won’t take unpalatable truths from the lips of my mistress.” He turned to the door. “I don’t know when I will be back.”
“That is hardly unusual,” she replied without expression. The door banged on his departure and she swore softly. Perhaps Kit was right, and she would have no credibility with the Envoy. But he could at least let her try. It was so ironical; here she was now, firmly aligned with the idiot feringhee, and no one would let her do anything to help.
Kit marched over to headquarters, wondering if perhaps he was being simpleminded. He did not know whether Macnaghten would pay any heed to Annabel; possibly he would. But Kit could not face the prospect of exposing her to public scrutiny, of having to explain that her knowledge came from her time as an inhabitant of Akbar Khan’s zenana. Those of his intimates who knew her secret treated it with absolute discretion, but the minute it became more widely known, her name would be on every gossip’s tongue, her story the subject for prurient speculation in mess and bungalow throughout the cantonment. He had given up concerning himself about her future reputation. His grand design of finding Annabel’s family in England, of presenting her to his parents, of a wedding in St. George’s, Hanover Square, he now recognized as a mere pipe dream. As usual her pragmatic clarity had been proved right. They would have no such future. But while the present existed, he would keep her to himself, protect her from unkind tongues, and let anyone who wished to worry away harmlessly at the identity and history of the mystery woman under Captain Ralston’s roof … except that in the harsh climate existing between them at the moment, there was little satisfaction to be gained from this exclusivity, he reflected gloomily as he reached headquarters.
Within the hour, all such considerations became irrelevant. Emissaries ar
rived from Akbar Khan with a proposal that Sir William Macnaghten found most appealing, and that Kit, fresh from Annabel’s analysis, heard with horror. Akbar Khan proposed that the British should remain in cantonments until the spring, when they would accomplish their own withdrawal. Akbar Khan would present the head of Ameenoolla Khan to the Envoy in return for a certain sum of money, and an undertaking by the British government to make him a present of thirty lakhs of rupees and an annual pension of four lakhs.
“There now,” declared Sir William, presenting this proposal to the assembled officers. “The man is as greedy and self-serving as I have always believed him. I see no reason why we should not agree to his proposals immediately, and accept his invitation for a conference tomorrow morning.”
“Sir William.” Reluctantly, Kit accepted his obligation to speak up. “They are saying in the bazaars that Akbar Khan suspects treachery. If we accept his offer of Ameenoolla’s head, we will confirm that suspicion.”
“How d’you know what is being said in the bazaars?” demanded the Envoy.
Kit glanced at Bob and Colin, who offered him shrugs of resigned sympathy. There was nothing further to be gained by pretense. He told the Envoy in full how he knew what was being said in the bazaar.
“This woman … who …” The general waved his hands and discreetly left the description hanging. “This Miss Spencer, you say, knows Akbar Khan personally?”
“Yes, sir,” Kit said woodenly. “She lived under his protection from the time that she was twelve until quite recently.”
“When she moved under yours, I take it,” bluntly said the Envoy.
“In a manner of speaking,” Kit said.
“Perhaps we should hear what she has to say,” suggested one of the Envoy’s staff officers. “If Ralston is willing, that is.”
“She has been most anxious to give her opinion for several weeks,” Kit said dryly. “Her opinions are generally delivered in somewhat forceful fashion, I should warn you.” He glanced toward the Envoy and received a dour nod of consent. He went next door to the adjutant’s office. “Ensign, go to my bungalow and ask Miss Spencer to accompany you back here.”