The Renegade Wife

by Warfield, Caroline

  “I know this, Prahdi, and I expected you to manage the thing without overturning my household.”

  As if the death of one’s mistress and nominal housekeeper didn’t disrupt it enough, Clare thought. Her scorn for the man deepened.

  The old man began to wheedle, but the rotund little cook elbowed past him, turned around, and scowled. Reverend McKinsey began to talk at the same time, “This savage—”

  “Enough!” Captain Wheatly shouted. “One at a time.” He nodded to the cook who sneered at Prahdi, folded her hands in front, and looked around to make sure she had an audience before she began. “This very bad man wishes to sell Laboni’s daughters, Sahib.”

  That seemed to astonish the captain. The cook, however, rushed on before he could bring her time in the spotlight to a premature close. “Worse, Sahib. He refuses to allow the reverend to give her a decent Christian burial.”

  The reverend raised himself to his full height. “Quite correct. Sinner though she may have been, Laboni worshiped the true religion. She must not be subjected to heathen rituals.” At the word sinner, he cast the captain a baleful look.

  The captain wasn’t listening; his attention was focused on the girls. He raised a hand to quiet the minister. “Why would you sell children, Prahdi?” He stepped down from the verandah.

  “Laboni is not here, Sahib. Who will care for them? Her family will not want—” He made a helpless gesture in the direction of the girls. He didn’t say the words, but Clare and everyone in the courtyard knew that even if Laboni’s family hadn’t disowned her entirely they wouldn’t take half-caste children. The steward continued, “Money from the sale would help the household, buy food, supplies.”

  Only what money is left after you line your pockets, Clare suspected.

  The captain grimaced, and Reverend McKinsey took it for permission to pronounce judgment. “Quite right, captain. The proposal is monstrous, and those children belong in the Christian orphanage in Delhi. I will be happy to deliver them. There will, of course, be expenses and the cost of their care—”

  Wheatly walked past the preacher without listening and came to a stop a few feet from Clare. He looked down on the girls as if he had never seen them, as if they were a puzzle to solve.

  “They are your children, Captain,” Clare began. “Surely you won’t—”

  “What in the Almighty’s name am I going to do with them?”

  Fred Wheatly stared down at the unfamiliar Englishwoman who had invaded his house and the two little girls in her lap.

  You have another mess on your hands, Wheatly. How are you going to fix this one? Before he could speak or even think coherently, the older of the two little ones crawled down, stood up straight, and made a perfect obeisance.

  “Please don’t sell us, Sahib,” she pleaded, peering up at him with huge brown eyes, Laboni’s eyes. “We can work. We work hard.” The younger wiggled out of Clare’s grasp to stand by her sister. Her eyes, he noticed, were blue, but no less wide and no less frightened.

  “You let your daughters call you ‘Sahib,’ Captain? How perfectly appalling!” Clare surged to her feet like an avenging angel. Her bosom, he noticed, heaved enticingly. At least this woman has the good sense to dress in loose muslin like a native and not truss herself in wool like the righteous women who come out from England to pass themselves off as social arbiters in Delhi and Kolkata. The thin fabric outlined full feminine curves, much more voluptuous than the Indian women he was used to seeing. Unruly curls circled her head like a nimbus, and light shone through the honey gold locks as if a fire glowed inside. He suspected one did; fire made Fred uncomfortable.

  “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?” he demanded.

  “Saguna sent for the reverend.”

  “Saguna?”

  “Your cook.”

  “Ah, but why did she send for you?”

  “She didn’t. She sent for the garrison commander. When I heard the message, I insisted on coming.”

  “Armbruster is here? Hell. Just bloody hell.” He ran an agitated hand through his hair, dislodging knots, and looked around, but saw no sign of the man.

  “Your commander believed his duties took precedence over your domestic crisis. I came in his stead.”

  “What does that jackass Armbruster have to do with you?”

  “I’m his sister.”

  Bloody damned hell in a basket. He vaguely remembered Armbruster’s sister had come out to visit. He had gone to great pains to avoid her. Ladies only visited India on a husband hunt, and he didn’t need that kind of trouble.

  “What do you plan to do with these babies,” the twice-damned sister demanded. “Your babies if I’m any judge.”

  Laboni’s daughters. Laboni, his mistress, lay dead in his house. Poor dove. He had killed the snake that bit her and tossed it in a fire, but it hadn’t helped her. It had been one more catastrophe in an extraordinarily bad summer. The two girls are probably mine as well. That sounded unworthy, even to him, drunk as he was. He had no doubts that he had sired them; he just didn’t know what to do with them.

  “If I may suggest, Captain, you are in no position to take care of small children,” Reverend McKinsey broke in.

  The man has that right, Fred thought. “What do you suggest?”

  “As I attempted to say, I would be pleased to deliver them to the orphanage in Delhi for you. The costs for their care would be minimal for a man such as yourself.”

  “That hellhole? Over my dead body!” Fred snapped. He had seen the place. “I wouldn’t send a dog there. They work them like drudges and turn them out as the lowest kind of servants. No child deserves that.” How Laboni’s daughters would make their way as anything other than servants, he had no idea, but he could do better than that.

  Armbruster’s sister beamed at him, and for a moment, he felt like a schoolboy who had answered a particularly tricky question correctly. The moment didn’t last.

  “Wise, Sahib, very wise. Such a thing would be a waste. Many families will pay much for girls such as this. Good homes. No doubt, Sahib. I can manage it.”

  “Why would you do that?” Fred asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “He believes you have no use for them, and their mother’s people won’t want half-caste children, especially girls. He thinks it’s his job to relieve you of unpleasantness,” Clare spat. He could see the outrage in her eyes, her very attractive eyes. She went on, “And he undoubtedly hopes to make a bit on the side.”

  Do I have use for the girls? Probably not, but I doubt that matters.

  “You can’t do it,” she said.

  I can’t, he agreed silently. The old reprobate probably intends to sell them to a house, all right. Probably one of ill repute. He looked the woman up and down. She seemed to care for the girls.

  “Would you like to have them?” he asked.

  The horror on Clare’s face exceeded even that which he intended to provoke. “Captain, they are your children! How can you say such a thing?”

  “You can at least help me,” he said flatly.

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Convince your stiff-arsed brother to give me time to attend to my ‘domestic crisis’ before he has me running around the hills on patrol.” Time to mourn their mother, too.

  Armbruster’s sister gave a stiff nod. “I’m sure my brother would be compassionate enough to—”

  “What is your name?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I can hardly refer to you as ‘that Englishwoman’ all the time. What is your name?”

  “Clare Armbruster,” she said through tight lips.

  Unmarried, as I thought. “Go tell your brother what you found here, Miss Armbruster.”

  She held his eyes longer than he thought she could before d
ipping down to hug each girl in turn, telling them to behave for their papa, and leaving with a swish of her skirts. He watched her departing form with devilish satisfaction while pointedly ignoring the avid eyes of Reverend McKinsey and his steward.

  “Can we stay then, Sahib?” the older girl asked, pulling his attention down to the two of them waiting patiently. He wished he could remember their names.

  “Yes, you may stay. If you obey Saguna.”

  “We will work hard, Sahib. We will—”

  Her words triggered a sense of self-disgust in him, rising as if from a neglected storage bin, all dusty and worn. “Don’t call me ‘Sahib,’” he snapped, shocking the girl into silence. “Don’t ever call me that again. Call me Papa.”

  He stared at the two little girls who waited calmly, gazing back with sad, unflinching eyes, before he turned tail.

  “Saguna, take care of them. Prahdi, show Reverend McKinsey the door.”

  “But the funeral, Captain,” McKinsey broke in.

  “Take care of it, Reverend. Take care of it. Just don’t bother me again.”