by Jane Feather
“I just felt like it,” she said. “I wanted to wash things away.”
“What sort of things?”
Her bare shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug. “Murky bits and pieces that were lurking around.”
“Are we free and clear now?” His eyes held hers.
“Oh, yes, Christopher Ralston. Free and clear, the jorchi has sung for us.” She laughed and grabbed his hand. “Come run with me so that I may dry off in the sun.”
Pulling him behind her, she set off at a merry gallop along the bank, her hair bouncing free of its knot to tumble down her back as she ran naked as a river nymph, and he laughed aloud.
Eventually, she stopped, panting for breath, and flung herself onto the mossy bank, patting the ground beside her in invitation. Kit dropped to his knees, regarding the lean, lissom, glistening length of her with narrowed eyes.
“I have been thinking,” she announced. “And I have had an idea.”
“Oh,” he said. “Would it distract you too much if I were just to stroke you a little while you tell me about it?”
“It might,” she said, her eyes glinting at him. “But it might distract you as well.”
“Oh, it’s bound to,” he agreed cheerfully. “But I think we’ll take the risk. Say away.”
“Well, when we leave this country—”
“You think that will happen?” he interrupted, a finger poised over the rosy crown of one full round breast.
“Yes,” she said with quiet confidence. “Akbar Khan says that the time is not far off now. Whether we will be rescued or surrendered is the only issue, as far as I could gather.”
“So, when we leave this country—” he prompted, unable to hide the joy that was filling him as if he were a porous vessel that has been too long empty and absorbs into its dry surface the moisture of life. She was talking as he had never heard her talk, with confidence and acceptance of a future they would share away from this land.
“I would like to visit all the places I have always wanted to visit, even when I was little,” she said, closing her eyes dreamily. “China and Tibet and Egypt. And I would like to go again to Persia and maybe even Africa—”
“Sweet heaven!” Kit groaned. “I have married a nomad.”
“You do not like the idea?” Her eyes opened and she made as if to sit up, but his hand slipped to her belly and held her down.
“Of being married to a nomad?”
“No, I did not mean that … well, perhaps I did by extension. There’s so much to discover in the world, so many different peoples to understand. I want to understand them all.” Her arms swept wide in an all-encompassing gesture. “Does it not appeal to you at all?” Her eyes were now anxious.
“Lady Hester Stanhope has clearly found a successor,” he observed wryly. “Do nomads have babies?”
“I suppose they must,” she said with mock solemnity. “Otherwise, how would there be lots of little nomads to make big ones? Anyway, I do not think we should have ordinary children, do you?”
He grinned. “I think it would be impossible.”
“So does the idea not appeal to you in the least?” she persisted.
Kit thought for a minute, then he said, “Yes, it does.” Kneeling beside her, he looked gravely down at her. “But have you no desire to visit England, my Anna?”
“Not yet,” she said. “I don’t think it’s my place, Kit. If you must, then I suppose I will—”
“No, you won’t,” he broke in. “I did say visit, not live, sweetheart.”
“Oh.” This time she pushed against the restraining hand and sat up, resting her chin on her drawn-up knees. “Well, I suppose I would like to visit it, since I have never been. And I daresay your parents will wish to see you from time to time.”
“I daresay they might,” he agreed with the same gravity. “I expect they will wish to make the acquaintance of my wife, also.”
“Oh, dear.” She sighed. “Could we go to Tibet first?”
“Wherever you wish, my sweet, just as long as we go together.”
“That’s all right, then,” she said, lying down again. “Shall we try now to go to the very top of that mountain up there, where the golden eagles have their nests?”
“Close your eyes,” he said, “and I’ll see if I can take us both.”
Her arms went around him as he came down beside her. “You have never failed me yet, Ralston, huzoor.”
“And while I have breath, my green-eyed lynx, I never will.”
Author's Note
At noon on September 17th, 1842, the British hostages passed into the guardianship of Sir Richmond Shakespear, who had been given the task of ensuring their liberation. The Afghan resistance was technically defeated by reinforcements sent from India, and in retribution the British destroyed the principal bazaar in Kabul, where the bodies of Macnaghten and Burnes had been exposed. On October 12th they left Afghanistan for India, harassed again through the passes by Ghazi tribesmen, who, it might be said, had the last word. Dost Mahomed returned to his previous position, and all traces of the British invasion were obliterated.
Thus ended what is regarded as one of the worst examples of nineteenth-century imperial interference. The entire episode was so mismanaged that its catastrophic conclusion was inevitable. A few of the military participants in the debacle shared this view but were ignored by the decision-makers. I have presented the historical facts from this viewpoint.
The character of Akbar Khan remained an enigma for contemporary chroniclers as well as later historians. His fanatical detestation of the British invaders was both understandable and unquestionable, but his kindness and courtesy to the hostages is well-documented, as is his brutal attitude during the disastrous retreat from Kabul. Opinions differ as to whether he could have influenced the tribesmen during the massacre and deliberately chose not to.
They also differ as to whether he cold-bloodedly planned the murder of Macnaghten, or whether it was accomplished in an impassioned moment of blind rage at the political officer’s treachery. I have obviously fictionalized the character of Akbar Khan, but have attempted to incorporate the paradoxes of his nature into my portrait.
Colin Mackenzie was one of the few heroes of the fiasco to survive. The events in which he participated I have recorded as accurately as possible; however, I have taken certain liberties with a temperament that I suspect was too stern and highly principled to have permitted him to accept with equanimity Kit and Annabel’s situation.
General Elphinstone, Sir William Macnaghten, Sir Alexander Burnes, Lady Sale and others are shown to the best of my ability as history has presented them to us.
The exploits and characters of Kit and Annabel are entirely fictional.
Bold Destiny
© 1990 by Jane Feather
ISBN: 0380758083
AVON Books
Ed♥n