by Lane, Nina
***
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Really, darling, you must at least take the carriage if you’re going into that god-awful village,” Gerald said. He sipped his lemonade and looked out at the vast expanse of the lawn where a number of men were engaged in a spirited cricket match.
“Yes, Devora, you never know when riots are going to break out,” Mrs. Thompson added. “And certainly a tonga wallah couldn’t get you out of the mayhem in time.”
Devora didn’t even bother replying. She poured herself another cup of tea and gazed at the properly-dressed British men and women who roamed about the gardens of the club.
A number of tables with large umbrellas had been set up around the cricket field so that people could sit in the shade, drinking, gossiping, and watching the game. If it weren’t for the turban-wearing, Indian servants and the scorching heat of the sun, one wouldn’t have known they were even in India.
“Besides, it’s not proper for a British woman to simply walk around the villages like that,” Gerald continued.
“Rohan was with me. I thought you didn’t worry about me if he was around as a watchdog.”
“Of course I’m glad he was with you, but even Rohan couldn’t have helped you if something happened. You must exercise more caution.”
“I can’t imagine why you’d want to walk around that filthy village anyway,” Mrs. Thompson declared. “The smells alone make me feel faint.”
“I think it’s fascinating,” Devora said. “I even had a paan.”
“Devora, paan is for men.” Gerald was beginning to look exasperated. “And occasionally for Indian women. Certainly not for the British.”
“Gerald, I was only trying something different.”
“You’re looking well, anyhow,” Mrs. Thompson said, her pale eyes glancing over Devora’s relaxed figure. “How are you feeling? Adele said you were ill last week.”
Gerald looked at Devora. “You were ill? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh, it was just a bit of stomach flu or something.” Devora waved her hand dismissingly. “I’m fine, really.”
“Adele said that you arrived at the club, only to turn and leave again,” Mrs. Thompson went on.
“Yes, it came upon me rather suddenly,” Devora replied.
“Darling, I wish you’d told me.” Concern darkened Gerald’s expression. “Did you go and see Dr. Waterford?”
“No, it wasn’t necessary,” Devora said. “I was fine by the following morning. Do stop worrying, Gerald.”
“I hate leaving you alone in that house,” Gerald said. He took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. “I wish I didn’t have to go on tour so often.”
“My dear, you’ll have to come stay with me and Reginald the next time Gerald leaves.” Mrs. Thompson patted Devora’s hand. “I won’t take no for an answer.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Thompson,” Gerald said. “I can’t help worrying about her.”
“As well you should,” Mrs. Thompson said. “One never knows what could happen with all this talk of violent gangs running about the countryside.”
“And what about that rumor that the maharaja was involved with them?” Devora asked, purposely shifting the tide of the conversation. She had no intentions whatsoever of staying with the Thompsons at any point in time, but she would wait until Gerald left again before making her feelings clear.
“With the gangs?” Gerald asked. “I dare say he’s funding them himself.”
“Have you had lunch with him again, Devora?” Mrs. Thompson asked, glancing quickly at Gerald.
Gerald’s mouth tightened as he looked at his wife and waited for her response.
Devora shook her head. “Oh, no. We had very pleasant lunches, but I believe he has other matters to attend to.”
“Good,” Mrs. Thompson said. “As I’ve told you, it’s quite improper to dine alone with an Indian man, even if he is a maharaja.”
Devora stifled a chuckle. She’d done so much more than simply dine alone with an Indian man.
“Quite right,” Gerald agreed.
“Oh, you know, there’s a polo match this coming Saturday,” Mrs. Thompson said, snapping open her fan. “I do hope you’ll both attend.”
“Of course, we’ll be delighted,” Gerald said. He gave Devora a smile. “Won’t we, darling?”
“Utterly delighted.”
A sudden barrage of gunshots broke the air, startling them all.
“What on earth?” Mrs. Thompson sat up and clutched her chest as a number of British officers began making their way out of the club grounds.
“That’s from the village,” Gerald said. “The damned anti-British riots. Bloody hell.”
He stood, pushing his chair back. “I’d better go see what’s happening. Lord knows we’ll probably have to make some arrests.” He bent to kiss Devora. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Be careful.” Devora and Mrs. Thompson watched Gerald stride off with the other men.
“You know, you’re very lucky to have him,” Mrs. Thompson remarked, working her fan rapidly to stir up some cool air. “Ambitious fellow, he is, and intent on preserving the British way of life in India. He will become very successful in the civil lines.”
“Yes,” Devora murmured. “That’s what worries me.”
“Have a good day, darling.” Devora gave Gerald a perfunctory kiss and patted his lapels. “You look quite spiffy.”
“I don’t think I’ve told you how pleased I am that you seem to be adapting so well to India,” Gerald said, reaching for his hat. “At least, now that you understand the customs. I told you that you would adjust just fine.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve adjusted,” Devora murmured.
“And what are your plans for the day?”
They walked outside onto the sun-baked steps of the bungalow. Rohan stood at the bottom, holding the reins of Gerald’s horse.
“Mostly painting,” Devora replied. “I might call on Louise later this afternoon.”
“Very good. I’ll be back later this evening. As you know, there’s been some trouble in the village.”
“Is everything all right?” Devora asked. “With the rioting, I mean.”
“Well, we had to make a number of arrests,” Gerald replied as he descended the steps. “We’re expecting a demonstration today at the city jail. Of course, we’ll have to make an example out of those we arrested.”
“An example how?”
“Why, by keeping them in jail, of course. The magistrate has also ordered several of the rioters to be publicly flogged. That will undoubtedly make a point.”
“Publicly flogged? Why, that’s barbaric!”
“You forget, darling, that we are dealing with barbarians.” Gerald swung up into the saddle of his horse.
Devora watched him go until he was no longer visible. Then, she looked at Rohan, who still stood at the bottom of the steps. Even the mere sight of him elicited a rush of desire in her, particularly now that she knew how unbearably passionate he could be. He was wearing his knee-length, white jacket, sash, and black trousers again, appearing every inch the proper, Indian servant. If her night with him hadn’t been so terribly vivid, Devora might have believed that it hadn’t even happened. But vivid it had been. So vivid.
“What are you doing today?” she asked.
“I will go into town to make some purchases,” Rohan replied. “Then I must find another stablehand, as the one who has been caring for the horses is returning to his village.”
“I see.” Devora glanced up at the sun, which hung halfway to the summit of the sky. “You’d better go into town now. It’s going to be terribly hot later this afternoon.”
“Yes, memsahib.” Rohan climbed the steps, not glancing at her as he passed to enter the house.
Devora followed him inside. They had reverted back to their roles as mistress and servant, although of course neither one of them could deny what had taken place. At least, Devora couldn’t.
“Rohan.”
He paused on his way towards the back of the house and turned to look at her. His expression had once again taken on that impassivity that Devora so disliked.
“You know, I don’t blame you for anything,” Devora said. “You don’t have to avoid me.”
“I apologize. I was not aware that I was doing so.”
Devora sighed. “Oh, stop talking to me as if we didn’t fuck each other just last week.”
“Memsahib, that was my mistake. I have dishonored my position in this household by taking advantage of you in such a manner.”
“You didn’t take advantage of me,” Devora snapped. “I was perfectly willing, in case you didn’t realize it at the time.”
He didn’t reply, but an emotion flickered in the depths of his dark eyes that made Devora realize he wasn’t as immune to their attraction as he would have her believe. She crossed the room and stopped right in front of him, folding her arms over her chest.
“You know, I can understand your coldness when it comes to your role as head servant,” she said. “You have a job to do, and you do it extremely well. However, given what I recently experienced with you, I know for a fact that you’re not a cold man all the time. And it’s foolish of you to think that you can treat me the same way you did before.”
“How would you have me treat you differently?” Rohan asked. “I am certain you do not want your husband to know what has transpired between us. Treating you differently would give him cause for suspicion.”
“My husband isn’t here right now!” Devora said, feeling frustration start to build inside her again. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Look, I think it’s safe to say that we’re friends now. At the very least.”
“You fail to understand the intricacies of British-Indian relations,” Rohan replied. “Friendships develop, of this there is no doubt. But not between British women and Indian men. This is not acceptable.”
“Since when are you so concerned with what is or isn’t acceptable?” Devora said coldly. “Was it acceptable to do what we did?”
“No. That is why it was a mistake.” He turned and started to walk away.
“Funny,” Devora called after him. “I was under the impression that mistakes didn’t feel quite that good.”
Her words caused him to hesitate for the briefest second, but then he disappeared outside, letting the back door close behind him. Irritation swelled in Devora’s soul as she realized that not even such intimacy could fully break through Rohan’s implacable veneer.
With a sigh, she went to the dining table and began to organize her paintings and drawings. She had already done at least fifty drawings of temple art, both erotic sculptures and statues of gods and goddesses. She looked at the sketch she had done of Rohan, thinking she would love to turn it into a painting.
Well, why couldn’t she? Simply because he was choosing to be a right bastard didn’t mean she couldn’t paint him. His attitude didn’t distract from the strong, sculptured planes of his face and the incredible beauty of his eyes. Devora stared at the drawing for a long moment, then placed a small, primed canvas on the easel.
Using a charcoal pencil, she copied the drawing onto the canvas with strong, confident strokes that would combine to form the base of Rohan’s personality. Strength, confidence, and an almost complete inflexibility.
Almost. Devora smiled. When a person broke through that shield, what treasures she would find. Devora remembered what Kalindi and Lota had told her about Rohan’s supposed bride-to-be. What if he really had been in love with her, she mused as she stared at his charcoal likeness. What humanity she could instill in his painted expression if she knew that he had locked himself away over a broken heart.
Intrigued by the possible romanticism of the story, Devora put down her charcoal pencil and hurried outside to the servants’ quarters. A small, white-washed building stood some distance away from the main bungalow. Gerald had told her that it consisted of two rooms, one of which was used for storage and the other for Rohan’s living quarters. Devora knocked on the door sharply.
“Rohan?”
He opened the door, looking mildly exasperated by her persistence. “Yes, memsahib?”
“I want to ask you something. May I come in?”
“That would not be—”
“Oh, sod propriety,” Devora snapped.
She pushed her way past him and went into the room, her gaze sweeping over the neat, clean furnishings. A large bed sat pushed against the wall, draped by a mosquito net. Toiletry items were arranged with meticulous care on the dressing table, and a small desk held writing paper and pens. Thankfully, the air was not coated with the thick, cloying scent of incense, but instead smelled fresh and clean.
“Do come in,” Rohan said dryly.
Devora gave him a cheeky smile. “Why, thank you. What a nice place.”
“Please, sit down.” Sounding resigned to her presence, Rohan pulled the chair away from the desk and gestured towards it. He then sat down on the bed and fixed his gaze on her. “What is your question then, memsahib?”
Devora realized rather suddenly that it wasn’t exactly polite to start questioning someone about their personal life. Still, she seethed with curiosity to know the truth behind the rumors. She shifted on the chair as she tried to think of a way to voice her thoughts.
“Well,” she said, “I don’t know if it’s a question, really, but perhaps more of a curiosity.”
Rohan’s eyebrows lifted. “Curiosity about what?”
“You. I mean, your past, to be more specific.”
“I’ve told you about my past.”
“Yes, I know, but you haven’t told me everything.”
Rohan frowned. “How do you know what I haven’t told you?”
“I’ve heard rumors of a woman.”
His expression darkened suddenly. Devora sensed his emotional withdrawal as if he had closed a door between them. She put out a hand to try and assuage him.
“Wait. Wait, I don’t mean to be rude. You must know that people have talked about you.”
“What people?” Rohan snapped. “Kalindi?”
“Don’t be angry with her. She’s simply repeating what others have said.”
“As are you, apparently.”
“No, I haven’t told anyone,” Devora protested. “I don’t know anything, Rohan. That’s why I’m asking you.”
“This is not your business, memsahib.”
“I know.” Devora could think of no earthly rationale as to why he should tell her anything at all, so she decided to simply ask him. “Did you love her?”
He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes still flashing with anger. The silence stretched between them like a taut, rubber band until Devora thought that she had made a serious mistake in coming here. She clutched her hands together and prepared to stand.
“I’m sor—” she began.
“No,” Rohan interrupted.
Startled, Devora met his gaze. “No?”
“No, I didn’t love her.”
“Oh.” Devora didn’t know what to say, but she was aware of a slight disappointment. For some reason, she was hoping that his stoicism was the result of a bittersweet love story. “I’m sorry.”
Rohan shook his head. “There is no need to be sorry. I simply did not love her.”
Devora eyed him cautiously. “Yet you were supposed to marry her?”
“Yes. I was working for a British family near Delhi. They knew of another British family who had an entire family of servants working for them. They were seeking a husband for their daughter, and so they asked to meet me.”
“And what happened?”
“We met and agreed to marry,” Rohan replied. “I wanted a son just like any other man.”
A horrific thought struck Devora. “Did she die?”
“No, nothing quite so dramatic,” Rohan said. “I heard five years ago that she was living in Delhi.”
“Well?” Devora said, unable t
o keep the impatient note out of her voice. “What happened? Why didn’t you marry her?”
“I learned she was pregnant,” Rohan replied.
“Oh my.”
“With a British man’s child. Unfortunately, the British man happened to be the master of the household in which I worked.”
“What did you do?”
Rohan lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I thought it was best if I terminated my service with them. I could no longer respect the sahib, so I decided to leave and seek employment elsewhere. I soon found that it was not so easy.”
“Why not?”
“One of the British daughters had developed an attachment to me. She told me I couldn’t possibly leave, and that she would seek revenge on me if I did.”
“What did you do?”
“I left. I cannot abide by a threat.”
“But did she carry through with it?” Devora asked.
“Yes. She accused me of raping her.”
Devora gasped in shock. “No.”
“It became a scandal. I did go to trial, but of course there was no evidence to substantiate the accusation. The city magistrate, who was Indian, dismissed the case, but I had to leave town. All of the British were against me. None would have hired me.”
“I expect that was also because of the Indian magistrate.”
“Probably.”
Devora was quiet for a long moment. So much for romance and love. A nagging thought occurred to her, creating an unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach. She glanced at Rohan almost hesitantly.
“You don’t like the British very much, then,” she said.
“I have reason not to,” Rohan replied.
“You also have reason to use a British woman for your own type of revenge, don’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose I do.”
Devora waited for him to deny her implication, but he didn’t. A tremble went through her body with the force of a lightening bolt. She hadn’t particularly cared about the motivations behind the maharaja’s interest in her, but Rohan was different. Devora didn’t know why, but he was.