Lady Helen Finds Her Song

by Jennifer Moore

  “Newest wife—disgusting . . .” Lord Minto muttered. “I shall certainly not miss the heathen lifestyle when I return to Hertfordshire.” He tapped his thumb on his chin and stared across the room.

  Michael glanced at General Stackhouse. Lord Minto was leaving? Permanently? What did this mean for the fort? For India? Michael hoped the Governor-General would expound on his statement—or that the general would ask for clarification.

  “Well then, who shall we send?” Lord Minto sat up straight, seeming to bring his thoughts back to the present. He directed his dark gaze at Michael. “You, most certainly, Captain Rhodes. You speak the language and understand their customs.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  And, General?”

  “Of course.” General Stackhouse nodded.

  “I wonder if it would be advantageous for your wife and daughter to accompany the party.” Lord Minto pursed his lips and tipped his head to the side. “If indeed the Shah’s new bride is in a family way, perhaps the presence of ladies would further convince him that our intentions are charitable.”

  “Perhaps.” The tight muscle appeared again in the general’s jaw. “But I will not lead my family into any sort of danger.”

  “But as Captain Rhodes said, there is nothing to fear.” Lord Minto flicked his gaze in Michael’s direction.

  Michael’s stomach turned inside out. The Governor-General was throwing the words back in his face, challenging Michael’s reasoning. Was Lord Minto trying to turn General Stackhouse against him? And what of Lady Helen? Michael didn’t want her anywhere near a hostile foreign army or a power-hungry Indian prince.

  “I trust the captain’s judgment,” General Stackhouse said simply. He turned toward Michael. “Do you believe they will be safe?” A hint of vulnerability wavered in the general’s eyes.

  At the sight, Michael swallowed hard. He had fully believed his position when he’d thought a group of soldiers would make the journey, but the stakes were suddenly so much higher. He had no reason to think the Shah would hurt a diplomatic group, especially one that included women. It would go against everything his people believed, but to take any kind of risk with Lady Helen and her mother . . . How could he agree to it? And how could the general be willing to trust Michael so readily?

  The weight of his own conviction suddenly seemed heavy on his shoulders. He had been so certain until his fear for Lady Helen made him question his own judgment. But did her presence mean any greater danger? In truth, the women’s presence lessened any likelihood of an attack. He turned to the general and held his gaze, hoping his expression showed nothing but surety. “I believe they will be safe, sir.”

  General Stackhouse nodded once then turned to Lord Minto. “And will you accompany us as well, my lord? And perhaps the countess? As you are the most powerful man in India, your presence would go a long way to establishing a measure of trust with the Shah.”

  “I have no desire to make the journey.” Lord Minto rubbed his hands over his face and sagged back into the chair. To Michael, he no longer looked like a shrewd leader but an old man. “I am tired. Let my replacement attempt it next year.”

  “My lord?” General Stackhouse said.

  “I am retiring, General, though I do not yet wish to make it common knowledge. My sons live in England, and I have yet to see any one of my grandchildren. My wife, bless her, has remained here with me, though I know she misses her family dreadfully. In a few weeks, a replacement will arrive and I will bid you and this dratted sweaty, insect-infested, dust-bowl farewell.” He breathed out a sigh, patted his hand over his wig again, then sat up slowly, checking his pocket watch. “I’m sorry to call this meeting to a close, but I promised Anna Maria I would assist her today in planning for the ball. Something about china patterns or dance cards or linens or one of those trifling bothers that is so important to women.”

  He stood, and the men rose with him.

  “Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention and for proposing a solution. I shall leave its execution in your capable hands.”

  Michael and General Stackhouse saluted as the Governor-General exited the room.

  “Sir.” Michael turned as soon as Lord Minto’s footsteps faded. “I did not mean to put you or your family in this situation. If I had only—”

  General Stackhouse held up a hand, stopping his words. “I know you did not, Captain. And while I am not happy about this, what is the alternative? Hoping the Shah doesn’t attack? Hoping we can hold off his armies until reinforcements arrive? Hoping he doesn’t intend to invade Calcutta? Given the odds, your plan is the safest for Patricia and Helen—diffusing the situation before our city becomes a war zone.”

  Michael hadn’t even thought of the danger Calcutta would be in should the Shah’s armies attack. He was not used to worrying about the families left behind and was grateful that the general had the presence of mind to consider that angle. He followed the general through the library toward the front hall. The marble floors of the grand entryway echoed with every step. “I thank you for your trust, sir.”

  Once they reached the main door, General Stackhouse turned to him. “I do not bestow it often, Captain, but something about you has convinced me it will not be misplaced.”

  Michael nodded, not sure what type of reply to make to a man he so respected who offered that level of confidence. “I will do all I can to ensure that your family is kept safe, sir.”

  The butler opened the door, and General Stackhouse glanced toward it and then back at Michael. “I have no doubt you will.” He looked as if he would say more but turned instead and accepted his hat and gloves from a servant.

  Michael followed suit, and the two men walked through the door and between the large columns supporting the roof. General Stackhouse didn’t seem to notice the stilted way Michael walked down the long flight of steps, and for that, Michael was again grateful to the man.

  When they reached the general’s carriage, the men separated, Michael walking toward the syce who was leading Ei-Zarka toward him. He took the horse’s reins and mounted, then turned to bid the general farewell.

  General Stackhouse stopped with one foot on the carriage step. Then, stepping back down, he turned toward Michael. “Captain, I wonder if I might ask a favor?”

  “Certainly.” Michael rode his horse closer.

  “The item you arranged for was delivered just as I was leaving home this afternoon.”

  “I am glad that it arrived, sir. I hope everything was in order.”

  “It appeared to be.” General Stackhouse squinted up at him and scratched his forehead just above his eye patch. “Helen has gone dress shopping with a friend. Taylor’s Emporium, I believe she said. Perhaps you know the place?”

  “I know it, sir.” Michael’s heart thudded into his ribs at the mention of Lady Helen’s name, and he hoped his expression remained politely curious instead of betraying the madness that was happening inside his chest.

  “Very good.” The general clasped his hands behind his back as he looked up at Michael. “I hoped, Captain, if it is not inconvenient . . . Would you fetch Helen back to the house?”

  Fetch Lady Helen? Michael wondered if he was suffering from heat stroke, or maybe the fish Naveen had prepared for lunch had spoiled and caused hallucinations. Had he imagined the general’s request?

  “I shall, of course, need to borrow your horse in order for you to take the carriage.”

  Michael stared at the general for another long second before his mind processed the realization that he had indeed heard correctly and the man was in earnest. He dismounted and attempted to act as if finding the general’s stepdaughter at the dress shop were something he did every day. “Yes, sir. I will fetch Lady Helen right away.” Handing the reins to General Stackhouse, Michael stood aside as the man mounted the horse. “His name is Ei-Zarka.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” General Stackhouse saluted, and Michael returned the gesture, wondering at the strange expression that crossed the general
’s face. It seemed to be nearly a . . . smile.

  Michael walked to the carriage as casually as possible under the circumstances and gave the driver instructions before climbing inside. As soon as the door closed behind him, Michael shook his head then leaned it back against the seat just as he’d done in Lord Minto’s library. A smile spread over his face at the thought of what an agreeable task he had before him.

  Chapter 8

  “Very pretty.” Helen forced a smile as Fanny held up yet another gown. Nearly two hours had passed since they’d arrived at Taylor’s Emporium and began the task of finding Fanny a dress for the Governor-General’s ball.

  “Oh, no, no! This is all wrong!” Fanny tossed the dress on top of a growing pile, which the shopkeeper, dressed in a green-and-gold sari, was attempting to return to some semblance of order.

  Helen looked down at the gowns Fanny had discarded. In her opinion there were quite a few that would do splendidly for the ball—one in particular that she might return for the next day without her companions. While Fanny was not satisfied with any of the dresses for herself, she did not hesitate to offer the very plainest gowns to Helen, pointing out various features and telling her how perfectly she should look in them. Helen wasn’t fooled in the least by Fanny’s attempts to outshine her at the ball. She did find herself feeling a bit disappointed. She had so wanted to believe Fanny had her best interests in mind when she’d proposed the shopping trip.

  Fanny plopped down in to a chair, her lips pressed into a pout. “None of these gowns will do at all.”

  “There, there, my angel,” Mrs. Cavendish soothed as she patted her daughter’s shoulder. “We shall find the perfect thing.” Fanny’s mother was an older, plumper version of her daughter. She cupped Fanny’s chin and lifted her face. “This shopkeeper must not understand that the most beautiful young ladies simply require finer gowns than her regular customers.”

  Helen looked at the shopkeeper, who met her gaze with raised brows. Helen rolled her eyes, and the woman smiled before schooling her face and offering another dress to the Cavendishes. It was rejected every bit as quickly as the others.

  “I do not even wish to attend the ball.” Fanny crossed her arms and bounced in her seat, much as a three-year-old child might do. Her eyes scrunched shut, and her pout turned into a trembling lip. Tears fell onto her cheeks, and she started to sob.

  Her mother sat next to her, pulling her close and dabbing her cheeks with a handkerchief. “Do not worry, my dearest darling. We shall ask your father to employ a dressmaker. You will have a splendid dress, my love—the most splendid in the country, and that is all there is to it.”

  Fanny’s weeping grew louder.

  Helen thought it quite ridiculous that the daughter of an attorney for the East India Company should behave as though she were the queen of Sheba. Helen pulled her eyes from the embarrassing spectacle and looked around the emporium. The ceilings of the large warehouse were supported by columns that somewhat separated the room into sections. Dishes, linens, and clothes were all sold under one roof with native shopkeepers hurrying around to tend to mostly British customers.

  “Lady Helen,” Mrs. Cavendish marched toward her, pulling Fanny by the hand, “I am sorry, but we shall simply not be able to remain in this shoddy place any longer. Perhaps we will have better luck at Hogg Market.” She lifted a spencer jacket from a display table, sniffed, and then tossed it on the ground.

  “Of course,” Helen muttered as the Cavendishes marched past her. She started to follow them but then turned and hurried back to the woman who was returning the gowns to their hanging rods. “I am very sorry.” Helen reached toward her, but she pulled her hand back when she remembered what Jim had told her about religious differences and the offense some Hindis took to being touched by an outsider. Helen picked up the discarded jacket, returned it carefully to the table, then pulled the gown she had noticed earlier from under the pile. “This one. If you don’t mind, I shall return for it tomorrow.”

  The woman smiled and bowed her head. “Thank you, Miss-Sahib.”

  “You keep a lovely shop.” Helen gave her a last smile and hurried to join the Cavendishes.

  Fanny, it seemed, had managed to stop her weeping once they stepped out of the emporium. “Oh, this filthy bazaar. It is disgusting.”

  Helen could not possibly have disagreed more. The street was filled with people in colorful costumes, calling out words that Helen didn’t recognize as they held up their wares. Others perused, talking and laughing. Large burlap sacks held spices and fruit. Silk fabric hung from clotheslines. One man scampered up an enormous tower of watermelons. She was astonished to see cows walking through the crowd, folds of skin hanging under their necks. People simply moved aside to allow them to pass as if it was no trouble at all. She heard the clanging of bracelets, sounds of music, and syllables of languages that her own mouth would struggle to produce.

  Trees with thin, winding trunks grew in clumps along the edges of the street; the branches were filled with noisy crows and other more colorful birds. The scents of spices and unfamiliar food wafted through the air and mixed with the smells of sweet fruit. It was all strange and a bit frightening, but Helen thought it fascinating.

  A sound like a low-toned flute caused Helen to look around. The slow, lilting rhythm reminded her of the drone of bagpipes but much more nasal sounding and higher in pitch, with a scale system that was distinctly non-European. The man making the music sat on the dusty road with his legs crossed, blowing through an instrument shaped like a gourd. Helen gasped when she realized that in front of his bare feet a black cobra rose from a basket, swaying back and forth to the rhythm.

  Fanny linked arms with Helen and curled her lip in disgust as she gazed around. She blew out a heavy sigh. “I do not know how I shall manage in this dreadful place. The bazaar is utterly filthy.”

  “It is wonderful,” Helen breathed. “The colors and the smells. And did you see the monkeys?” She pointed to a rooftop where a group of monkeys sat chattering together and watching the crowds below. A group of women in beautiful saris embroidered with colorful detail walked past, the bangles on their wrists and ankles jangling with the movement.

  “Helen, Mother and I have decided the only way we shall survive in this primitive land is to remember whence we have come.” Fanny turned toward Helen, and her voice took on a scolding tone. “We are civilized British women and will not tolerate the ways of these dark-skinned heathens in the least. It would not do at all.” She opened her parasol and pulled Helen along as she followed her mother toward the carriage. “You would do well to remember that we are to be an example of all that is refined and elegant. It is a service, really, to these primitive people who simply do not know any better.”

  “Fanny, do you not think, perhaps, we could appreciate the differences of this culture? Most of the people we know will never travel to India, and how fortunate that we have the opportunity—”

  “Opportunity? Hardly,” Fanny spat the words. “It is more of a punishment that is to be endured.” They reached the end of the bazaar and turned, following the street to where the carriage waited. Mrs. Cavendish climbed inside.

  “But—”

  A familiar sound stopped Helen’s words. Azān. She glanced up and realized the singing was coming from a tall tower with open windows at the top. The tower rose above a large mosque on the other side of the road. The sound was every bit as beautiful as the first time she had heard it. Helen breathed in, closing her eyes for a moment as she listened. When she opened them, she noticed men walking quickly toward the mosque.

  Helen released Fanny’s arm and made her way closer to the building to where she could see the courtyard filling with people. Men washed their hands and feet in fountains, unrolled rugs, and knelt to pray. Row upon row waited until the voice stopped and the prayer began. As one, they rose and knelt, prostrating themselves and kneeling again, saying the words of their prayer.

  The sight touched something inside Helen
, and she felt tears pricking her eyes. She pressed her fingers to her lips, feeling a hint of guilt at intruding on something that to these people was so sacred. She took a shaky breath through her constricting throat. The sight made her heart swell. The feeling of devotion was overwhelming and beautiful and—

  “Oh, Helen, come away from here. This is hardly a respectable place for a Christian woman.” Fanny’s harsh voice contrasted loudly with the reverence around them, and she tugged at Helen’s arm. “Completely ridiculous.”

  Helen kept her gaze down, both overcome by her surge of emotions and embarrassed by Fanny’s brazen mockery. She brushed away the tears from her cheeks, hoping her bonnet provided enough shade that the other girl hadn’t seen them.

  Fanny pulled on her arm, nearly dragging her toward the carriage, but stopped abruptly.

  “Pardon me, ladies.”

  The familiar voice sent a wave of relief over Helen, and she raised her eyes. “Captain Rhodes!” She did not think there was a person on the earth she would be happier to see at this moment. “What a surprise to find you here.” Helen unwound her arm from Fanny’s grasp. “Captain, may I introduce Miss Cavendish. Fanny, this is my dear friend, Captain Rhodes.” Helen took a step closer to the captain as he and Fanny made the appropriate greetings.

  Captain Rhodes turned to Helen. He squinted slightly, his gaze seeming to search her face, and she wondered if he saw the relief that his presence had brought or if he noticed the aftermath of her tears. “I am afraid it is not as much of a surprise as you would believe, my lady. The general sent me to the emporium to fetch you.”

  Helen grasped his arm. “Has something happened? Oh, Mamá! Captain, is she ill?”

  “No, nothing of the sort.” He patted her hand and then, taking hold of it, slid it around his arm to rest in the crook of his elbow. “It is no cause for alarm—quite the opposite in fact. He—a surprise awaits you at the mansion, and General Stackhouse is eager for you to return home.”