by Alyssa Deane
Roxane was too disturbed by the recollection of the morning to heed the fact that Unity was taunting her, though good-naturedly. “I most certainly did not!” she stated vehemently, allowing the chik to drop back over the casement. Storming back across the floor, she paused before the mirrored dressing table, catching a glimpse of her rumpled skirt, and the hand that lay upon it, clenched tightly in a fist. Easing open her fingers, she unthinkingly picked up Unity's silver-backed brush, examining the strands of hair entangled among the bristles, curling from them like gossamer threads.
“He was,” she said, with a slow expulsion of the breath from her lungs, “impudent and insufferable."
Unity's blue eyes regarded Roxane with frank skepticism.
“I can only say,” added Roxane, “that I must have brought out the worst in the man."
“I can hardly believe that. Was he rude to you?” Unity asked.
Roxane hesitated. She put down the brush, and lifted her head. Honesty was inherent, and she rarely spoke without truth, even to stem a useless conversation.
“No,” she said.
“There you are,” rejoined Unity, brightening. “I am certain you found him quite congenial, Roxane Sheffield, and he you!"
The older girl laughed. “So congenial that I hope never to see him again—” she began, and stopped.
The two of them were no longer alone in the room, but had been joined, noiselessly, by a pair of servants, one bearing towels, the other a pitcher of tepid water. To Unity, it was as if they were not there, but the very fact that one of them was a male, entering a lady's chamber unannounced, struck the remainder of Roxane's speech from her throat. She stared so hard that Unity spun about in search of the cause of her distress.
“What is it?” said the girl, glancing back over her shoulder.
“I—well—nothing,” answered Roxane, after a moment, realizing that there were certain things of which her books had left her uninformed, and to which she would have to grow accustomed. The native male, dressed in a cool tunic and trousers, bent the pitcher to the basin. The water fell with a pleasant music. His female counterpart—unveiled, Roxane would have liked to point out to Unity—deposited the towels on the stand, and then both were gone, as silently and unobtrusively as they had come. Unity pulled a lacquered screen from the corner, opening it around the washstand.
“There. Why don't you get out of your gown? Your bags will be here soon, so I'll leave you to it. If I know Mother, she already has a lovely tiffin planned, and we will eat as soon as you are done."
Unity departed, skipping like a child from the room. Roxane could hear her humming, a tune straight out of the schoolroom, incongruous in one of her age and indicative of the contrary aspects of her personality. Thoughtfully, Roxane twisted the ribbons of her hat in her hands and then turned away to stand in the center of the room. Why had Miss Stanton chosen to taunt her about Captain Harrison? No doubt simply from a foolish, girlish tendency to tease. She could not possibly know how much she had provoked Roxane with her words. Eyes the color of thunderheads on the horizon: romantic rubbish!
Remembering the touch of his lips upon her own, she raised her hand to her mouth. She wanted to assure herself that she would not allow it again, should a similar situation arise, but she was no longer certain. In retrospect, Captain Harrison had been quite skilled in the gentleness of his kiss, in the brief caress, for she knew that she had not found it an unpleasant sensation. Shock had altered her perception, and shame. Determination must now keep her from a similar episode. She was recognizing, in that moment, a weakness in herself which she would not have dreamed existed.
A noise behind her brought her about abruptly, her apple-green skirt swinging wide. The servant had returned with her portmanteau. He lowered the satchel to the floor, bowing obsequiously, and departed. Taking no chances, Roxane waited until all of her luggage had been brought in before she shut the door, searching for a key with which to lock it. Finding none, she stared, vexed, at the offending keyhole, and then, moving as quietly as possible and feeling rather foolish for her foible, procured the only chair in the room and placed it firmly beneath the porcelain knob.
* * * *
Tiffin was a light luncheon, for which Colonel Stanton did not return. It was served on a tea table in the parlor, with three servants in attendance. As far as Roxane was concerned, one would have been more than sufficient: three got in the way and made her feel extraordinarily uncomfortable, for it seemed that she was not allowed to perform even the smallest task for herself. Tiny sandwiches were served, along with fruit and various cheeses, and a beverage of cooled, weak tea with spices and slices of a fruit that appeared very much like citron. Roxane ate with a surprisingly ravenous appetite, upon which Augusta Stanton commented with a smiling eye.
“You are little affected by the heat,” said she.
“I beg your pardon?” said Roxane, dabbing at her lips with the piped edge of her napkin.
“Your appetite,” explained Augusta. “It is little affected. This is only your first day, of course. The heat grows much worse, and we all become a little more—oh, what is the word?"
“Irritable?” supplied Unity, looking up from her plate.
Augusta rolled her blue eyes in her daughter's direction, and the dimples in the woman's round cheeks lessened appreciably. “No,” she said, “that is not what I meant. We, of course, are spared that fate,” she went on, once more addressing Roxane, “by the generosity of Colonel Stanton. He has, at great cost, ensured that yearly we summer in the cooler clime of the hills. It is a shame that you could not join us in Simla, Roxane. But then, your time with your father would be considerably shortened. How long is it since you have seen him?"
Roxane lowered her napkin over the folds of her pale blue skirt, smoothing out the corners absently with the tips of her fingers. “Fifteen years,” she said.
“Fifteen years? Dear me, has it been that long? You must be eager to meet him again."
“I suppose so,” answered Roxane, popping a neatly cut square of melon into her mouth, pulling the fruit from the tines of a narrow fork with her teeth. Augusta and her daughter exchanged curious glances.
“I was truly sorry to hear about your mother, Roxane."
“Thank you, Mrs. Stanton,” Roxane rejoined, with little reaction. Neither her mother nor her father were subjects she cared often to discuss. That she had done so with Captain Harrison, a total stranger, was a source for contemplation—and an indication of her disturbance at the time of their ride together.
“I do not know if you are aware of this,” Augusta continued, “but your mother and I were once good friends. That was many years ago, of course, when we were girls. She was quite beautiful, your mother. The envy of many a young lady whose claim to fortune or title might have made them the better catch. Her hair was quite like yours, Roxane, and her figure, but not her eyes. No, her eyes were—were—"
“They were brown,” said Roxane, stiffly. Slowly, she lowered her fork to the scalloped edge of the china plate. In her left hand, the napkin was balled tightly in her fist. The material was stiff with starch.
“Yes, brown. A lovely shade of brown,” continued Augusta, oblivious to the sudden immobility of Roxane's posture, aware only of the unaltered state of her countenance. “I recall the night when she first met your father. He asked her to dance; no one knew quite who he was, nor where he had come from. By the end of the evening—evening?” she exclaimed, with a girlish laugh of recollection. “It was no less than four in the morning—there was not a man nor a woman there who could not see they were in love."
“Like a fairy story,” said Roxane, flatly.
“Yes, exactly,” agreed Augusta.
“How romantic,” declared Unity, with an audible and, to Roxane's ears, ridiculously theatrical sigh. “How wonderful, that they should fall in love so quickly."
Roxane released her napkin, shook it once, and spread the linen across her lap, making a face at the mass of wrinkles sh
e had created. With the heel of her palm, she tried to smooth them. “The trouble with falling in love, so quickly,” Roxane countered, her voice soft but carrying well across the small, cloth-covered table, “is that there is no guard against the falling out, which, inevitably, did occur. As I have said, my father has been gone for fifteen years. That was not my choice, nor, I believe, was it my mother's—it was his."
A silence descended upon the group. The servants, always noiseless and temporarily forgotten, went about their business, gathering plates and pouring cool tea into glass tumblers. An insect, unseen, buzzed at close quarters. Overhead, the punkah swung to and fro, squeaking like a frightened mouse on its pulley. After a moment, Augusta Stanton cleared her throat, a delicate noise, and spoke.
“I should have realized,” she said, “that you would have been hurt by this. I have been thoughtless. Forgive me."
Thanking the man at her side for the beverage, Roxane lifted her glass and drank, collecting herself. She put the glass down, positioning its bottom in a ring of condensation upon the white linen tablecloth.
“You mustn't apologize. I am far too sensitive on this matter. Please,” begged Roxane, “let us talk of something else, and forget what I have said."
“Agreed,” said Augusta, in amiable satisfaction. “Of what shall we speak?"
Roxane looked at the woman, at her attentive expression and gentle features. She was not pretty, as was her daughter, and Roxane wondered if ever she had been. She attempted to visualize the woman and her own mother as friends, enjoying society and all its attendant frivolities. Had Augusta ever felt overwhelmed by the beauty of her companion? A fire of beauty which had, in later years, been quenched by the dampening pain of remorse. Roxane had often stood before the portrait of her mother, painted when the woman was a girl of sixteen. She had studied the countenance, the expression, the slope of shoulders, the gleam of hair falling darkly upon ivory flesh. There had been real beauty, yes, but the deepest beauty of all had been within, borne like a thorn embedded in the body's tissue. For Louisa Sheffield was capable of love, of loving, more than any other person Roxane had ever known. But poor Louisa had been forced, through abandonment, to bury it deep, and hold it close, and never risk loving again. Through the years, Roxane had watched her mother wither for want of its release.
Well, she would never be so foolish as to live for the want of one man, any man. She had schooled herself to independence, to strength, to reliance on her own resources. There were few men, if any, who found the prospect of such a woman attractive, and that suited her very well. Even Captain Harrison would find a woman who failed to dote on him, to worship him, less than satisfactory. That was the way with men. They could do nothing to help that aspect of their character.
“Roxane?"
“I'm sorry,” she answered, giving herself a mental shake and divesting herself of the image that had come to mind of a particular pair of blue-gray eyes. Nothing remarkable in them, nothing at all.
“What would you like to know of our routine?” asked Augusta, amiably. “As you see, we eat lightly in the middle of the day, but breakfast is a hearty meal, which takes some getting used to. The evening repast takes place after the sun sets. By then, there is usually a cool breeze, sometimes quite fierce, and we can open the house to it. Often, we go for a stroll, or to ride, or to listen to the regimental band. We are all very closely associated here. We Europeans, I mean to say. Even"—in a lowered voice—"many of the native peoples are quite affable."
“Are they?” Roxane said, concerned with the manner in which the woman had uttered that last statement. To her left, Unity stirred.
“They give marvelous parties, I hear,” the girl interposed, with a look of slight reproof at her mother, “though it is mostly only the officers who are allowed to attend."
“And that is as it should be,” said Augusta. “Everyone must know their place. We mustn't mingle too freely. However"—this to Roxane again—"there are splendid balls given frequently, and numerous other social affairs. Your time here will not be spent idly."
“With all that you have just outlined,” concurred Roxane, “I daresay not."
“There are other opportunities, as well,” said Augusta, indicating to the servants that their luncheon was concluded. She rose, glass in hand. Her daughter and Roxane did the same.
“Such as?” Roxane queried, her good nature returned. Something about the morning's events had managed to quench her humor, and make her argumentative. Fractious behavior was not independent behavior, she knew. She must take herself in hand, forget the episode with the captain, and concentrate on the days to come.
Holding her arms crossed, cupping the elbow of one in the hand of the other, she pressed her glass against her chin, cooling the skin over slightly squared bone. The atmosphere of the room, despite the punkah, was uncomfortably close. She followed Augusta to the settee, and sat down.
“You know,” went on the older woman, “there is no dearth of eligible bachelors in the employ of the East India Company. No doubt,” said Augusta, offering the statement as if both the circumstance and the words were a personal gift to Roxane, “we will find you a husband among them."
“A husband?” echoed Roxane, a smile still at play about her mouth, but hard-edged, as she controlled the rise of annoyance. Had she not made herself clear on that point? Obviously not. “Mrs. Stanton,” she said, calmly, “I do not plan on marriage."
“Oh, pooh,” said Unity. Augusta Stanton's glance was withering. Unity grinned.
“Perhaps not now,” continued the woman, “with a reconciliation ahead of you, but soon. After all,” she said, cheerfully, “we are bred for that state, are we not? It is what we all look forward to, as our ultimate goal. You will want to settle yourself—"
“Not to disagree, but I am quite settled,” said Roxane. Augusta smiled knowingly.
“So it seems to you. But how will you live? An inheritance does not last forever."
“If properly managed, it may,” answered Roxane.
“It may. But there are no guarantees."
“No,” agreed Roxane, readily enough. “There are none."
The fan swung overhead, back and forth and back again, heavy in the silence that followed. Unity sat forward in her chair. Her hair, subdued by a ribbon of satin, was nonetheless in flight, wisps of flame and amber standing across her crown and sailing about her small face. She clapped her hands together in her lap.
“Tell her about what you've done, Mother. Tell Roxane."
Augusta's spine straightened further, if that were possible, and she put aside her glass. The look that came over her features was a mixture of apology and self-righteous defensiveness. The battle of emotions was distressing to witness.
“I pride myself on doing the proper thing,” she began.
“Of course,” said Roxane. A narrow line appeared between the sweep of her dark brows. She lowered her glass. Condensation dripped onto her gown.
Augusta's hand came up to tuck a few stray tendrils of chestnut hair into the snood at the back of her neck. She cleared her throat, as she had done earlier, with delicacy and the minimum of sound.
“I always return a kindness done. And it was very kind of him to take the trouble to deliver you here to us, today."
“You mean Captain Harrison,” sighed Roxane.
“Naturally. The captain is a fine man. Colonel Stanton speaks highly of him, of his work. He deserves our proper gratitude. Therefore, I sent a chit—"
“A chit?” murmured Roxane, with a sinking sense of resignation.
“A note—a written message, dear. I sent a note down to Captain Harrison's residence, inviting him to dine with us here in three days. I know that you are not yet rested from your voyage, but we will make it a small affair."
Roxane sighed again, inaudible above the sudden noise outside of childish laughter. She wondered, at a tangent, to whom the child belonged. “And he has agreed to come?” she asked. Glancing down, she traced an aimless pa
ttern in the moisture on her glass with her thumb.
“I have not yet received his reply."
Roxane said nothing. Across from her, Unity suddenly kicked her heels, which did not quite touch the floor as she reclined into the chair. She looked like a child, an imp, with her close, secretive smile, and the laughter full-blown in her china-blue eyes.
“Oh,” she cried, hands clasped together in her lap as though to prevent their involuntary movement, “he will come. If there are any guarantees in life, Roxane, that is one of them."
Roxane studied the girl's bright expression soberly. Heartache, she thought, could be another, but she did not say the words aloud.
Chapter Three
Collier Harrison gazed out over the shadowed cantonment to the western sky. The sun was setting in a blaze of amethyst and rose, and a gentle shade of apricot—the mark of India's perpetual dust. It was the hand of God at work, Jahar would say; the masterstroke of Allah.
As Collier walked, his stride long and purposeful, he watched as the varying shades coalesced, the sun disappearing with a final, golden flicker and the night sky ascending from the east across the dome of the world, like a wash of ink, mingling at the horizon in a shade of green like bottle glass, with a flame inside.
Her eyes were like that, he thought, that color, that odd clarity flecked with the gold of flame.
“You think of her,” said the tall Sikh beside him, a twinkle of amusement in his fierce eyes. “Of that one."
Collier smiled, narrowly. “Of which one?"
“Is there any other?” said Jahar. “You break our engagement in the city tonight, in the hope of a word or two."
“I am responding,” Collier retorted dryly, “to an invitation. It would be rude not to—"
“You have been rude before."
“The presence of Miss Sheffield is an added incentive—"
“The presence of the lady is your only reason for going."
“Does it not sicken you, to be always right?"