But it was her face that held him, a lovely face with delicate features which bore the ravages of illness. The young maid performed the introductions. "Mr. Andrew Rhoades, miss," she said. "And this here is Miss Elizabeth Eden," she concluded, then added thoughtfully, "May I fetch you something, Mr. Rhoades? Coffee? Brandy?"
To both he said no, still concentrating on the woman, who was staring upon him as though he were a ghost risen from the grave. At last, when the taut silence was approaching embarrassment, she seemed to draw herself up. "Forgive me, Mr. Rhoades," she murmured. "I've not received company for so long. Doris, please take his wraps, and two toddies would be lovely."
As Andrew handed the maid his cloak, he noticed the woman walking slowly to the Ere and noticed for the first time a curious sight to one side of the fire, a trunk, well-worn, simple compared to the lavish furnishings in the room, and on top of the trunk, two white candles, the whole spectacle resembling a shrine.
She looked back at him and motioned for him to take the chair opposite her before the fire.
"I'm sorry if I disturbed you," he began, feeling mild discomfort at sitting in a lady's bedchamber.
"You did not disturb me," she replied. "I seldom leave these chambers now, and I seldom sleep. You could have called at dawn and I would have been awake, seated where I'm sitting now."
Andrew struggled to make a connection between this woman and John Murrey Eden. But there was no connection to be made, and as his discomfort increased, he decided to state his business immediately and take his leave.
To that end he withdrew the large packet of letters. "I received this in the morning post," he began, "from the army postmaster in Balaklava. It contains letters addressed to John Murrey Eden."
He thought he saw her stiffen. "Go on, Mr. Rhoades."
"There's not much else to say." He smiled. "I noticed that a few of the letters were from you, and I came here tonight hoping to find John and deliver them myself."
He saw new suffering on her face, watched, shocked, as she bent over, both hands covering her grief.
Alarmed, he stood. "Please," he begged, and looked helplessly toward the door, longing for a glimpse of the maid. "It was not my intention to . . ." He broke off and stepped closer. "If he isn't here, perhaps you could tell me where—"
"I was . . . hoping," she faltered, "that you could tell me the same." She withdrew a handkerchief. "My apologies, Mr. Rhoades," she murmured. "I was hoping that you were bringing me a message. Now I'm afraid I must give you one." She dabbed at her eyes and seemed to concentrate on the lace-trimmed edge of her handkerchief. "Did you know John well?" she asked.
Relieved that the worst of her mysterious grief was under control, Andrew returned to his chair, still holding the packet of letters on his lap. "Well enough." He smiled. "We first met as clerks in the office of Mr. Thomas Brassey."
"John is dead, Mr. Rhoades," she said bluntly, as though feeling
the need to deliver herself of the message all at once so that someone else might share her grief with her.
For a moment Andrew felt incredible heat on his face as he tried to confront both the woman and her insane message. "Dead?" he repeated.
She nodded. "I received the message some time ago, from a dear friend who is in a position to know."
"Who?" Andrew began, still not believing the words. "Where—"
Her voice was a monotone as she worked with intense concentration on the task of smoothing the white lace handkerchief across her lap. "He was with Brassey," she began, not looking at him, "at a place called Section Three. They were building the last link of a railway, the Russians attacked, and—"
"No!"
The force of his rebuttal caught her attention.
"No," Andrew repeated. "No offense, please," he said, "but the source of your information is wrong."
A look of confusion crossed her face. She appeared to be on the verge of speaking, but he didn't give her a chance. "You see, I was there"—he smiled—"only hours after the attack. There were scores of dead, but John was not among them. Oh, he was wounded, to be sure, but I personally escorted both of them, John and Jack Will-mot, to the base hospital at Balaklava."
She was looking at him as though he were speaking a foreign language.
"It's true," he insisted with conviction. Suddenly he stopped, recalling the tragedy on board ship, wondering if she knew Jack Will-mot, if he meant anything to her. "John's friend . . ." he continued. "Mr. Willmot's injuries were . . . serious. He . . . died aboard the hospital ship and was buried at sea."
She had known him, of that Andrew was certain. There was shock on her face. Feeling the need to break the brittle silence, Andrew went on. "But John, I assure you, was alive and well. The wound, while painful, was superficial, a deep cut across his shoulder, caused by a Russian saber. But I sat with him at Scutari, saw him on the road to recovery, and left him to return to the war zone only after I had extracted his promise that he was returning to London."
He was about to say more, but he ceased talking as she stood. If Andrew hadn't stepped forward and caught her in his arms, she would have fallen.
As she wept against his shoulder, he held her, embarrassed to be holding her, yet enjoying the sensation.
The embrace lasted for several moments and might have lasted longer if the maid hadn't reappeared in the door bearing a small tray with two steaming mugs, her watchful eyes monitoring the tableau by the fire. "Is everything ... all right, miss?" she inquired.
At that Elizabeth left his arms, laughing through her tears. "Oh, indeed it is, Doris." She smiled. "This gentleman has just brought me the most miraculous message. He claims to have seen John alive after the attack, says he was wounded, but well recovered from his wounds and on his way home."
With no sense of putting a damper on the good news, but because she was a practical woman, the maid asked flatly, "Then where is he now?"
Andrew saw Elizabeth glance his way as though he were the font of all information. "I don't know," he admitted, "but I know he's not in his grave. I'd swear to it."
Elizabeth took the mugs from the tray and offered one to Andrew. "You have given me hope, Mr. Rhoades," she whispered, "and for that I will be eternally grateful."
He took the mug and drank too quickly and burned his tongue, all the time never taking his eyes off her.
"Thank you, Doris." She smiled, dismissing the girl, settling once again in the chair and inviting him to do likewise. When they were alone again, she leaned back, a smile on her face. "You wouldn't believe me, Mr. Rhoades, if I told you . . . what I have been through. Days, months of remorse, grief. You see, his father entrusted him to me, John's father, I mean."
Andrew settled back in his chair, sensing a story. It didn't matter, so long as he could watch her.
And it was a story, Elizabeth talking compulsively as though she'd been alone for too long, as though single-handedly Andrew had broken her acquiescence toward everything, even toward death.
At dawn, after the most absorbing night he'd ever passed, Andrew sat relaxed in his chair before the dying fire, aware that he knew more about John Murrey Eden than he'd ever known before, and very aware that he knew all about the lovely Elizabeth as well.
Apparently Elizabeth saw the look on his face and rose from her chair, and with an almost embarrassing intimacy stood before him. "I . . . don't know how to say it," she began. "It's such a comfort to be able to talk with someone."
He'd never known a woman quite like her, exhibiting all the traits of a gentlewoman, yet so at ease with him in her bedchamber. "And I enjoyed it." He smiled.
"Will you come again, Mr. Rhoades?" she asked.
"I'm . . . very busy," he confessed, "with my law studies ..." He saw her disappointment. "Of course, I'll come," he said, "whenever I'm welcome."
"Tonight." She smiled, extending a hand to him. "For dinner. Around eight."
She took his arm as he walked to the door. "We still have a problem, Andrew," she mused softly.
"The missing John." He nodded. At the door an idea occurred to him, and he voiced it, hoping it would reassure her further. "I'll speak with Sir Arthur," he promised. "He's a prominent solicitor, and a most compassionate man. Perhaps there is a way to trace—"
"I'd be most appreciative," she interrupted. She stared at him a moment longer. "How fortunate John is to have such a devoted friend," she said, and without warning, and with no sense of shame, she stood on tiptoe and lightly kissed him.
"Until tonight." She smiled. "And thank you, Andrew, for my resurrection. You saw him alive. How I'll cling to that."
Wordlessly he started down the stairs. He found his cloak on a chair in the entrance hall, took it up and looked back to see her waiting at the top of the steps.
"Good night," she called down.
"Good morning." He smiled up, then let himself out of the door and stood for a moment on the steps, charting the passage of a milk wagon through the cold dawn as though it were the most fascinating sight in the world.
Delhi, March 1856
The first face he saw was Queen Victoria smiling down on him. Was it heaven or hell? he wondered.
He closed his eyes and felt something heavy pressing against his forehead. The pain was still there in his head, sharper than ever, and though he tried to cling to consciousness, he slipped back into the dark pool which he shared with a mass of blackened skeletons.
The second time he opened his eyes, he was aware of someone lifting his head, trying to force a warm liquid between his lips. A soft voice urged, "Swallow, Mr. Eden, please. You need your strength."
He needed more than that, though in the instant before he lost consciousness again his vision cleared and he saw a set of worried black eyes and a smooth brow.
Then he knew precisely where he was and where he'd been, and lacked only the bridge connecting the two.
"Water . . ." he whispered, his mouth feeling as though it were filled with sand.
Never had such a simple request been so gratefully received. Dhari's smile broadened, and again she called over her shoulder, "Rosa, hurry, he's truly awake."
While he was still pondering the mystery, he saw her drop to her knees beside the bed.
"Dear Heavenly Father," she prayed in flawless English, "thank You for sparing this life and for giving us courage to seek him out. We thank You, too, for placing Your hand in ours as we nursed him and we pray always that we will be worthy of Your continued mercy and forgiveness. In His Name we pray. Amen."
He closed his eyes, moved by the prayer, by the one who prayed, by his awareness that if it had not been for her, he would be dead. "Dhari-"
"Don't," she urged, standing beside him, one hand pressing gently against his lips. "Say nothing."
He looked up and tried to put that earlier vision out of his head, seeing her submitting to rape.
"Jennings—"
"He's been praying for your recovery for the last month." She smiled. "He's with the children. I'll have Rosa give him the news."
Her face was so forgiving that he thought for a moment he'd imagined the rape. Then something else caught on his slowly awakening mind. "For the last month . . ." He tried to repeat the words and failed, and grew angry at his recalcitrant lips. In frustration he tried to turn his head on the pillow, but he was blocked even there.
As he groaned at his own helplessness, Dhari leaned close. "You must lie still, Mr. Eden. I'll tell you even-thing, I promise."
There was such urgency in her voice, and besides, he had no choice. Rosa appeared, carrying a cup of cold water.
He drank the cool water until it was running down into his beard and Dhari took the cup away, murmuring, "That's enough for now."
She closed the door and stood leaning against it, filling the room with the warmth of her smile. "It's so good to see you awake," she murmured. "How many times we lost all hope. Reverend Jennings said not to worry when you didn't come for breakfast the next morning. But about noon, Aslam, my little boy, sought you out." She smiled self-consciously. "I would never have given him permission to disturb you. But I'm so glad that he did. He wanted to show you how well he could read Shakespeare, and when he didn't find you in Mrs. Jennings' room, he came and told me."
She hesitated, one hand smoothing the edge of her pale yellow sari. "Still Reverend Jennings said not to worry, that you were merely a young man in search of adventure, and like a tomcat, you'd return when you'd had your fill."
He closed his eyes, and apparently she interpreted it as fatigue. "Why don't you rest now?" she suggested. "We can—"
"No, please," he managed, his curiosity growing to anxiety. "Tell me.
She nodded as though to spare him the effort of speech. "Four days later," she went on, "I was visiting my grandfather and I over-
heard one of his wives whispering to my cousin about a white man in the dungeon cell." She shook her head. "At first I paid no attention. They gossip constantly. But as I was leaving the palace courtyard, I noticed that one of the guards was wearing your boots. Oh, I remembered them. I polished them myself that first afternoon. I considered approaching him, then changed my mind." Again she lowered her head. "None of the lower caste care for me much, I'm afraid. They take their rituals very seriously, and most of them feel I should be dead."
A few moments later she recovered. "I waited until the next day and asked two of my cousins to take me to the dungeon. At first, they refused, saying it was none of my concern. But I bribed them, and they took me to you and helped me carry you home."
It was several moments before she spoke again and came slowly around the bed until she was standing beside him.
"You were more dead than alive," she said. "I sent for the physician from the British Cantonment, though Reverend Jennings said it was a waste of time. He said you'd suffered a concussion, a very serious one, that you were half-starved and that probably you'd never wake up."
Gently she lifted his hand. "Oh, how I prayed," she whispered. "Rosa and I bathed you every day, kept you clean and comfortable, saw to it that you swallowed broth, and now. . ."
As she clasped his hand to her breast, he wondered if he would ever live long enough to repay her.
At that moment the door was pushed open and he saw Fraser Jennings, his white hair ruffled from the wind, his face stern, though softening. "So! You're awake."
Dhari turned immediately. "Yes," she whispered joyfully. "I've given one prayer of thanksgiving. Shall we kneel together and offer another?"
As Jennings' Christian voice rose into the theatrics of prayer, John closed his eyes and wondered about the heavy weights on either side of his head. He wondered why his vision was blurred, and why he was feeling only the need to escape from this room filled with Christ, Queen Victoria and Jennings.
Just when he thought he could not endure, another voice cut in, brash, arrogant, masculine. "Oh, lord, Fraser, not trying to reach God again, are you?"
John opened his eyes and looked toward the door to the most incredible man he'd ever seen, a man who literally filled the door with
his ball-like frame, as wide as he was tall, with a smaller ball for a head, which sat directly on his shoulders. Capping the bald head was a hair covering of white tufts which looked as though they had been individually attached. He was wearing a dark brown coat which strained mightily to contain the girth of his arms and chest, and moving down the front of his brown waistcoat, John noticed a line of ovals where buttons tried to meet buttonholes and failed, revealing the white of underclothes beneath.
"So! You're at it again, Fraser." He laughed. "When will you get it through that thick Methodist skull of yours that there is no one in heaven? It is all part of the massive joke the Jews played on us centuries ago. There's nothing in Rome or Canterbury either, except piles of poorly arranged masonry and two senile old men like us."
John blinked, thinking that his vision was deceiving him again. No man could be that obese and still move. A moment later, he saw Jennings get to his feet with
Dhari's help and confront the enormous man with admirable Christian kindness.
"Oh, God hears us, Reggie, make no mistake about that. Blame not the world that your eyes are blind, your ears deaf—"
"Hell," the big man snorted. He gave a little laugh of derision and for the first time looked toward John and the bed. "Good lord," he gasped. He pushed through the door with some effort and gazed in red-faced amazement down upon John. "Are . . . you awake?" he whispered.
"Only a short time," Dhari said, coming up on the other side of the bed. She looked so pleased at his return to the living. The other two looked simply amazed.
"Well, good lord," the fat man marveled, his fleshy hands out-reaching.
Suffering no desire to be touched by the man, John tried to pull away.
"It's all right, Mr. Eden." Dhari smiled. "This is Dr. Taylor from the British Cantonment. He's cared for you from the beginning."
"Get these damn things away," the man shouted, and John opened his eyes in time to see two Indian servants rush into the room, each lifting what appeared to be sandbags from either side of his head.
'There, that's better," Taylor muttered. "Well, I'm pleased to inform you, Mr. Eden, that you are alive, though according to all the rules of medical science, you should not be." He leaned closer, displaying yellowing teeth. "Have you ever cracked a good English wal-
nut, Mr. Eden, and observed the manner in which there is always one central split with small ruptures running out on either side? Well, that was your skull a month ago, sorry to say."
John listened, holding his head very still now.
"I've never seen anything like it," the doctor marveled. Suddenly there was a new look of alarm on his face. "You're not addled, are you?" he asked sharply. "Or simple-minded?"
He pulled himself out of the chair, a laborious process which left him panting, and pulled back one of John's eyelids. "What's your name?" he demanded.
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