by Thalassa Ali
“Yes, I believe it is,” replied Uncle Adrian. “Considering his enthusiasm for Russell Clerk, I wonder why he is riding alone.”
Mariana, who did not care, did not reply.
Half an hour later, after failing to persuade her aunt to stop at the two interesting ruins they had passed, Mariana noticed a mud village ahead of them. Large enough to have a wide lane down its center, this village boasted a busy roadside market, a few tethered goats, lolling dogs, and the usual pack of small, naked children. Across from the market, a crowd of brightly dressed women and girls had gathered at a communal well.
“That is unusual, so many men on horseback,” Uncle Adrian remarked, noticing half a dozen fierce-looking riders nudging their way through the crowded market. “I did not think riding horses were particularly used in native villages.”
“Look,” Mariana cried, pointing.
Charles Mott was in the village. He stood uncertainly near a mud wall beside his tethered horse, his eyes on the women at the well.
Ignoring Mott, the women talked among themselves as they filled earthen vessels from the well. As one party of them turned away, their hips swaying gracefully, their brimming vessels perfectly balanced on their heads, another party arrived, chattering, and began to work.
Mott had not seen Mariana and her family. His back to them, he stood by the wall, his eyes on the women as he unbuttoned his riding coat and slung it over his arm, displaying his white shirt and the pair of striped suspenders that held up his trousers.
“What an odd thing to do,” exclaimed Uncle Adrian. “Why has he taken off his coat in front of an entire native village? I call that unnecessarily disrespectful, especially near those women.”
Aunt Claire made a small, astonished sound. “Why on earth should an Englishman be respectful of native women?”
“Because it is silly not to be,” snapped her husband. “I cannot think what the man is up to.”
As they watched, Mott left the mud wall and moved into the shade of a tree ten feet from the well, his head still turned from Mariana and her family, his pose suggesting inquisitive superiority.
“What is the fool doing now?” demanded Uncle Adrian.
Before Mariana or her aunt could reply, several men on horseback detached themselves from the throng at the bazaar and trotted toward Mott.
Hearing them approach, he turned to them, frowning loftily. He held his ground at first, but the horsemen spurred their mounts and came on faster, shouting in guttural Punjabi and drawing long, curved swords. From the corner of her eye, Mariana saw her uncle's horse lunge forward as Mott abandoned his superior pose and sprinted for his own tethered mount.
He was still yards from his goal when the riders reached him. As Uncle Adrian thundered toward them and Aunt Claire cried out in horror, one of the horsemen leaned from his saddle, sword in hand, and cut at Mott's back.
Mott's trousers, their suspenders sliced through, dropped instantly to his ankles, trapping his running feet. Arms flailing hopelessly, coat flying, he pitched forward, full length, into the dirt.
The native women stared. The horsemen slapped each other mirthfully, hiccupping as Mott stood up, spitting dirt, his pale legs clad only in linen under-drawers. They howled as he struggled to mount his horse while holding his trousers up with one hand.
Aunt Claire had covered her face, but Mariana was unable to take her eyes from the scene. Clucking, Uncle Adrian cantered back to them and herded them off the road, making way for Mott to ride stiffly past, pretending he had not seen them, his ruined suspenders flapping uselessly against his saddle.
Uncle Adrian shook his head. “Akalis,” he said. “That's who they were—renegade Sikhs, known for their brutal jokes. Mott was fortunate. They could have killed him. The young fool should have known better than to ogle their women in that insolent manner.”
“They don't seem to have cut him badly, thank goodness,” offered Aunt Claire as they continued on their way. “I hope someone can give him—oh, do stop making that noise, Mariana. I am certain Mr. Mott has heard you. You really have a shocking sense of humor.”
Four hours later, Aunt Claire glared across the dining table, causing Mariana to duck her head, fighting the broad smile that threatened to engulf her face.
When he entered the tent for lunch, Charles Mott had failed to offer her the smallest nod of greeting. Now, his body turned away as if he were offended by her presence, he fidgeted in his seat beside her and drummed damp-looking fingers on the tablecloth.
At the table's end, Lady Macnaghten interrupted the usual desultory lunchtime conversation with a little cough, laid down her fork and turned to the Vulture. “This must be the hundredth time we've eaten chicken fricassee,” she announced loudly enough for everyone to hear, gesturing with manicured fingers at the food on her plate, “but happily I have something other than dull food to occupy me— something that causes my thoughts to flee far away from all this.” She gathered her shawls about her shoulders and waved in the general direction of Lahore. “Now that we are in the Punjab,” she went on in her high, fluting tone, “and the winter chill has descended upon the camp, my thoughts have turned to the north, to the ancient passes from Afghanistan and all their stories. What greatness those passes have seen, what wonders!”
What could have persuaded Lady Macnaghten to discuss the northwestern passes, the ancient mountain routes connecting India with Central Asia? As her aunt let out a reverential sigh, Mariana exchanged a quick, wondering look with Uncle Adrian. Beside her, Mott toyed with the silverware and breathed through his nose.
“My husband has told me all about the Khyber Pass,” Lady Macnaghten went on. “He has filled my ears with stories of the conquering horsemen who from time immemorial have entered India by that dangerous defile.”
Flushing a little, she cleared her throat, her eyes sweeping the faces at the table. “For thousands of years, these brave, manly invaders have poured down through the Khyber Pass with but one object in mind: to ravish the fertile Punjab.”
Mariana shifted in her chair. Something was wrong with this lecture.
“Many times,” Lady Macnaghten added brightly, “my husband has described to me the great conquerors of later centuries, Mahmood of Ghazni, Tamerlane and Genghis Khan, all of whom thrust their way through the pass with one object—to seize and hold the defenseless plains below.”
She leaned dramatically forward. “Sir William has often said that had he been present, he would have advised Genghis Khan not to turn back after reaching Multan and Lahore. No indeed,” she finished triumphantly, her cheeks blooming, “my husband would have urged the Khan to press on without hesitation, and possess a quivering and helpless Delhi.”
Mariana glanced at her uncle again, and found him staring scarlet-faced at the poultry on his plate. Lady Macnaghten had clearly thought no one would notice what she was really talking about, but why had she chosen this moment to bring up her most private conversations with Sir William? And why when they were alone and amorous, did they discuss the passes, of all things?
“There is, of course, much more,” Lady Macnaghten added, turning to the Vulture who had thrown up his hands in self-defense. “but it must wait for another time.”
This conversation needed rescuing. One of the baggage officers took the initiative and cleared his throat. “Mr. Mott,” he put in loudly, “I saw you arrive at camp this morning after the march. You seemed to have suffered an accident of some sort. Are you all right?”
Beside Mariana, Mott stiffened in his chair. As he mumbled a reply, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to school her face, but it was no good. A moment later, a hand pressed to her mouth, she rose to her feet, offered a mirthful wave to the assembled party, and rushed headlong from the dining tent.
Ten minutes later she left the shade of the tree where she had collapsed gratefully after her escape. By now, Saboor would have gone to have his food with Dittoo. She would have a peaceful hour to write letters before her afternoon ride.
Mott must have been holding his breath, for he let it out in a rush as he dropped his arms. Even in the half-light of the tent Mariana could see the perspiration standing on his face.
“You laughed at me in front of everyone,” he croaked. “You laughed. ”
“Go away.” She stepped forward, making shooing gestures. “How dare you seize me like that? You have no right to come here!”
“Who are you to poke fun at me?” His voice had thickened. “Everyone knows what you have done. Everyone despises you. But I don't mind. I don't mind at all.”
Before she could stop him he gripped her by the arm and pulled her toward him. “Why do you ignore me?” he demanded. “Why do you pretend I do not exist? I have admired you—”
“Get out,” she shouted, twisting her head to avoid the wet, half-open mouth that now threatened to close on hers. She leaned away from him, toward her four-poster bed.
If she could reach her bedside table, her oil lamp would be weapon enough. But as she threw her weight backward, he let go of her. Crying out, clutching instinctively at his arm for balance, she toppled backward onto her bed.
His own balance lost, he, too, fell, and lay, panting, full length on top of her.
As she struggled beneath his weight, he took hold of her face, squeezing her cheeks as he tried to bring her lips to his. She screamed hopelessly….
“Quiet!” Distracted, he slapped a careless hand over her open mouth, letting one finger slide between her teeth. Heedless that her lip was in the way, that she would hurt herself, she bit down on his finger with all her strength.
For an instant, she thought she had lost, that he felt no pain, but then he jerked backward with a sharp cry. “You bit me!” he squealed, pulling away from her. “You savage!”
She seized her advantage. “Get out!” she snarled into his face, tasting blood, not knowing whether it was his or hers. She forced herself to her feet and pushed him, temporarily shocked and unresisting, toward the doorway, using her hands, her shoulders, any part of her that would serve. When he hesitated she pulled up her skirts and kicked him hard in the buttocks, sending him sprinting clumsily into the door blind, then out of her tent.
Had someone heard? Had someone come to rescue her? Her thoughts whirling, she held the blind aside and looked outside, to see Charles Mott making his escape and Ghulam Ali standing not ten feet from her tent, a long-bladed knife in his hand. The albino stared, his pink eyes wide, taking in the blood on her face, before she let the blind drop into place.
So it had come to this, all the gossip, the disgrace, the lies. It was too late for aid, and she could expect no sympathy. Ghulam Ali had seen and heard. Every servant in the camp would soon know, and they would certainly talk. Punishing and vindictive, Mott would now tell whatever lies he chose to about her and be believed. He spent so much time with the Vulture and the army officers
Alone against them all, she would have no chance.
Before Mariana had time to move from her doorway, a familiar, ringing voice came from outside. “I am coming in, child,” called Aunt Claire. “I have something to tell you about tonight's dinner.”
“Please, Aunt Claire, I am resting,” Mariana protested shakily Not Aunt Claire, not now.
“Why are you resting? You never rest at this time.” Her aunt pushed the blind aside. “It is about Mr. Clerk,” she said, holding the blind open, her bonneted head bobbing decisively. “He will be—but what is this? What is wrong with your face? Blood! Oh, my dear child! What has happened to you? How badly are you hurt?”
“Charles Mott did this.” Mariana put trembling fingers to her lip, still feeling his fingers gripping her face. “He followed me here and tried to—”
Aunt Claire started backward. “Mr. Mott?”
“He came inside and seized me,” Mariana whispered. “I fell down there.” Tears leaked onto her cheeks as she pointed to the bed. “I made him leave before he could—but he will talk. He will say bad things about me. He—”
“But Mr. Mott is a gentleman,” Aunt Claire interrupted, her eyes glazing with confusion. “Why should he speak ill of you?”
“Because I bit him. Because I would not let him do what he wanted.”
“Do what he wanted?” Aunt Claire glanced toward the doorway, as if looking for assistance. “Mariana,” she said, her face a map of conflicting feelings. “I do not understand. I am sorry you are hurt, but I cannot believe that poor Mr. Mott is capable of the behavior you describe. What had you done to provoke him into it?”
“What had I done?” Fury replaced Mariana's tears. “I have barely spoken to your ‘poor Mr. Mott’ since we left Calcutta!” She dashed at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. “Your Mr. Mott is a pig. ”
“You are not to use that language with me.” Aunt Claire drew herself upright. “Whatever this is about, the fact is that you are to be ready for dinner half an hour early tonight, as we are eating at half past seven.” She twitched her shoulders as if relieving herself of an unwanted burden. “And tell that blond ruffian outside to sit somewhere else. I do not like native men sitting so near your tent.”
With that, she swept off without a backward glance.
THE BLOND ruffian in question had been squatting beneath a thorn tree a short distance from Mariana's tent when she returned from lunch, followed moments later by the Englishman.
Since the overland journey had begun, Ghulam Ali had made a habit of watching the soldiers of the armed guard lounging outside their tents following their afternoon meal. He liked to imagine that, given the opportunity, he could have become a soldier like them, smart in a red woolen jacket with white cross belts, a flintlock rifle near him at all times. Engrossed in the men's gossip about the other soldiers and their discussion of drilling and marksmanship, he had not looked behind him when the Englishwoman's easily recognizable steps turned toward her tent, but when other, rapid footsteps had followed hers, taking the same route to her doorway, he had taken notice.
To Ghulam Ali, those footsteps had sounded strangely uneven, as if the person approaching were in the grip of some strong emotion. Wondering, he had turned his head in time to see an Englishman's back disappear into Memsahib's tent. The man had been bent oddly forward, as if he were carrying something heavy.
Something was definitely amiss.
Ghulam Ali had never imagined Hassan Ali Khan's wife to be a loose woman, for all her clumsiness and odd behavior. Absorbed in caring for her stepson she had never seemed to take the slightest interest in the pallid, black-coated men of the English traveling party.
What then was the reason for this mysterious visit? Frowning with curiosity, Ghulam Ali had risen to his feet, approached her tent and leaned forward to listen.
The lady had spoken first. At the sound of her voice, the hair on Ghulam Ali's arms had stood up. Although her words had been unintelligible, there had been no mistaking the sharp fear in her tone.
A man's voice had responded, arguing. Seconds later, Hassan Ali Khan's wife had given a guttural scream.
Bitterly regretting his curiosity, Ghulam Ali had turned to flee those frightening sounds, but then, cursing his own cowardice, he had stopped.
Someone must aid the lady. Someone must protect her honor, for surely her honor was at stake. Ghulam Ali had glanced over his shoulder looking for help, but had seen only the soldiers squatting by their tents, too far away to have heard. There was no sign of anyone else. He would have to face this horror alone.
Now the man yelped in pain. Shaikh Waliullah's daughter-in-law, it seemed, was fighting back.
&nbs
p; Ghulam Ali drew the long Khyber knife he had carried since his childhood, then hesitated. What could he do to save Hassan Ali's wife? How could he decently intervene? Who knew what fearful shame he might encounter if he rushed uninvited into the lady's tent?
As he hovered irresolutely, knife in hand, the door blind billowed outward and the weak-faced nephew of the senior memsahib burst into the sunlight, clutching his left hand.
A moment later the blind reopened to reveal Memsahib, panting and scarlet-faced, blood staining her lip. Her eyes met Ghulam Ali's. She withdrew and the blind thumped dustily shut.
Almost at once her aunt, the fat memsahib, bustled up and pushed her way into the tent, only to reappear soon after and stalk away, her chin held high.
Ghulam Ali squatted beside the tent, his knife across his knees, considering what he had seen and heard. He had guessed from the first that the Englishman was a weakling, but that alone did not explain why the son of a jackal felt entitled to follow Hassan Ali Khan's wife into her tent and to treat her with disrespect, perhaps even violence. And why had her aunt appeared and then gone away without showing sympathy? Surely the fat memsahib was not stupid. But if she were not, why had she taken the attack so lightly? Why had she not emerged from the lady's tent shouting with rage, bent upon punishing the man?
Ghulam Ali stared down at his knife, remembering what Dittoo had told him: that the English people seemed to abhor the young memsahib's marriage to Hassan Ali Khan, and that as a consequence she had been suffering at their hands.
Believing that anyone would be proud to boast a family connection to the Waliullahs, Ghulam Ali had refused to accept Dittoo's claim, but what if it were true? What if, despised by her own people, Hassan's wife had somehow become subject to indecent attack? If so, that would explain what Ghulam Ali, the reader of faces, had seen in the brief, unguarded moment when she had looked out of her tent: not the shame and rage of an innocent woman but the haunted, hollow stare of the outcast.