by Alyssa Deane
Jahar laughed, a flash of white teeth in the darkness. Behind him, appearing as if on command of the moon, the great moths fluttered from the trees like ghostly wings in the air. A jackal whined in the distance.
“You must take care, Harrison,” said Jahar. He spoke in English, with a gentle, sibilant pronunciation of the captain's name. “You warn against haste. It is good advice."
Collier frowned, but without anger. Pushing his fingers through his coal-black hair, he spoke quietly in agreement to the man who moved beside him like a shadow. “Jahar,” he said, “I am no fool. I hope I am no fool. You will keep our appointment in the bazaar? Good. I will see you later."
Jahar nodded wordlessly and turned aside, disappearing into the colorless shades of twilight. Collier watched him go, remembering another time, another evening, long ago, when first he and the Sikh, despite the differences of religion and position, had discovered the type of mutual interest that demands friendship.
Collier strode on, to the narrow lane which he had cause, even in the darkness, to know better than once he had, and paused.
The chiks had all been raised, and the floor-to-ceiling casements were brilliantly illuminated. Light spilled across the verandah and into the garden, silhouetting the heavy, closed blossoms of hibiscus. He heard voices, perhaps half a dozen, and laughter. A figure appeared in one of the windows, hesitated, and then stepped outside. Collier knew her at once. He stood very still, aware that he had the advantage of being able to observe her while she was blind to his presence.
He saw her turn, glancing back. The light touched her cheek, the line of her bared shoulders, moved through her dark hair, secured demurely at the nape of her neck. She was wearing a gown of Indian muslin, deep blue, forming well to bosom and waist. The skirt flared discreetly over a crinoline that was less than the width of fashion. He did not suppose this to be an oversight on her part, but more a deliberate act of preference. She walked with a particular grace which he had not had the good fortune to witness in the course of their former meeting, a gentle locomotion, unmincing, unrestrained, slightly feline in its attributes. At the edge of the verandah, she stopped, the fingers of one hand curving about the post. He heard her speak some soft complaint about the heat, addressed to the night. She raised the glass in her hand, pressing the dripping surface not to her lips, but to touch its coolness to her forehead, her cheeks, and then, arching her neck, to the length of her throat. It was an exercise of unconscious sensuality. Collier found that he held his breath.
Exhaling slowly, he strode forward.
“Good evening, Miss Sheffield."
She started, jumping a little. A glittering spiral of chilled claret left her glass, arcing in the light. She leaped back, holding her arm out at an oblique angle, the wineglass dangling from her fingertips. Collier vaulted onto the raised deck of the verandah and took the glass from her.
“I didn't mean to startle you,” he said.
“Captain Harrison! I—we had supposed you were not coming."
The young woman was breathing hard, her green eyes wide. Her lips were slightly parted. He remembered, with exasperation and a recollection of Jahar's recent warning, that he had kissed them.
“Am I so late?” he said. “I am usually rather punctual. Tardiness is a luxury I do not afford myself. However, something held me up tonight. What's wrong?"
“I have spilled the wine,” she said, “on my gown. I tried to avoid it, but I do not seem to have been successful."
He looked down, following her gaze, and saw a spot, a spreading stain, the color of blood in the night, marring the fine fabric of her skirt just above the knee. Without speaking, he handed her a clean handkerchief from the breast pocket of his uniform and watched her apply the square of linen fiercely. She leaned her hip against the post, bent to her task. Her powdered bosom rounded against the confines of her bodice. Frowning, Collier turned deliberately away.
“Any luck?” he said, at length, staring at the wall.
“No."
He turned back. She straightened. He noted, indulging himself, that the top of her dark head came just below the height of his shoulder. She was tall, for a woman, yet not big-boned. Beyond her shoulders, in the garden, the closed blossoms still gave off a heady scent.
“I'm sorry, Miss Sheffield,” he said.
“Sorry? For what, Captain?"
He saw that her lashes were not overly long, but they were thick, and double grown, and very black.
“For ruining your gown."
“You did not ruin it."
“I startled you,” he insisted. “I am at fault."
The scent of her reached his nostrils, over that of the garden. She smelled of lavender, he thought, of England. Of home.
“You may be at fault for many things, Captain Harrison, but the ruining of my gown is not one of them."
She returned to him his handkerchief, creased with the vigor of her application, and stained with wine.
“Do not,” she said, “trouble yourself with apologies,” and she swept past him into the house.
Collier did not move. Beside his head, a bottle of wine hung wrapped in a damp towel, chilling in the breeze. He twirled it in his fingertips. A servant darted from the house to collect the bottle from its hook. He nodded at Collier, bowing from the middle, the wine held close to his ruby-sashed waist.
“Dinner, sahib,” he said.
“Thank you,” answered Collier absently. With one hand, he shoved his handkerchief back into his pocket; with the other, he tossed the remaining contents of Roxane's glass into the garden. Then he pivoted on his heel and went inside.
* * * *
Unnoticed by the others in the parlor, Roxane slipped away. Quietly, she entered the dining room, startling the servant who stood just within the door arranging large, orange-tinted blossoms in a vase. At his inquiry, she answered that she merely wanted to look at the table. He stood aside.
In the center of the room, the Stantons’ dining table was a massive device, carved and crafted in North America, seating fourteen, although on this night two of the chairs had been pulled. Considering the size of the bungalow, and the colonial status of the British resident in India, the mahogany set seemed almost as incongruous as it was lovely. The table had been covered with a lace-edged cloth and set with Augusta's best china, her silver, and her crystal. Two massive candlesticks rose at either end of the table, reflecting the contents of the room in their polished silver length. Roxane could see herself in them as she moved along, an elongated figure in blue muslin, undulating with the flames of the candles like a brilliantly colored reptile over the surface. She paused behind each chair to study the name card folded to stand in the center of each flowered plate. The names were written in Unity's pretty script, she did not have to bend to read them.
At one place in particular she stood overlong, staring at the name. Harrison, C. Captain. He was to be seated to her left. There was significance to that. Who had planned it so? Unity, the romantic? Or her mother, who was determined to find Roxane a husband before long? After all, thought Roxane, in India she was considered, at twenty years of age, a spinster. One married young here, she had heard. For some, she supposed, it was now or never. As for herself, she was in no hurry, no hurry at all. In fact, she did not care if she were ever to be wed.
She was not certain what prompted her, unless it was the idea that certain individuals were attempting to manipulate her life, or just the fact that he was to be seated near throughout the meal, but quite suddenly and almost without conscious transfer of thought to action, she found the captain's card resting in the palm of her hand.
She stared at the thick white parchment and the letters, boldly black, across its surface. Extending a finger, she traced the writing, wondering at her own desperation, that she would contemplate something so childish as exchanging his placecard for another. Why? It was not Augusta Stanton's designs that made her uncertain. She could handle those without the slightest qualm or difficulty. No,
it was Captain Harrison himself who was the quandary. Captain Harrison who puzzled her with his ability to disarm her, and yet make her start away in fear. And it was with Captain Collier Harrison, only minutes earlier on the verandah, in a situation that should have been perfectly innocent, that she felt a quickening of her senses in experience beyond permitted knowledge and control. She had had no use for men in the past, save for the possibilities of friendship. Yet, this very night, when the captain had startled her with his arrival, she had been aware, quite annoyingly, of a certain giddiness at knowing he had come.
Biting her lip, she pulled her finger away, dismayed at the smudge she had made. The tip of her digit was slightly black with the product of Unity's ink well. Slowly, she replaced the card and stood away, hands folded against her skirt.
Collier Harrison. The name had a peculiar cadence to it; it rolled on the tongue like something difficult and intractable, like the man himself.
With an impatient, imprudent word, Roxane turned away from the table to the door. And there she saw him, leaning against the frame, as confident and relaxed and handsome in his uniform as any man could manage. His black hair was ruffled at the brow, just above the widow's peak, where he had obviously run his fingers through it.
“Here you are. You have been missed."
“Have I?” she said, trying to hide her discomfiture in the coolness of her reply.
“Sorely,” he answered with a smile.
“By whom?"
“I can vouch for one, in particular,” he said.
Roxane's dark brows lowered. “I have worried Mrs. Stanton, I am certain. It was rude of me to leave. Will you kindly let me pass?"
She paused before him. Behind her, the servant glanced up, once, and then back to his flowers. Standing so close to the captain, she was made fully aware of his height and the breadth of his shoulders, more so than she had been while sitting at his side in the buggy. Yet, for all his height, she stood nearly at chin-level to him. She kept her eyes from his, staring straight ahead. She saw that his hair curled, darkly, just above his collar.
“You need a trim,” she said, inconsequentially.
“Do I?” he said. “I must see to it, then."
She waited, wordlessly, for him to move aside. He leaned his head forward, speaking beside her ear. His voice was a low, quiet rumble.
“What were you doing in here, Miss Sheffield?"
She supposed, after, that it must have been a certain tone that alerted her to the fact that he had been standing there a good deal longer than she had realized. She decided to be blunt.
“I was contemplating moving your place-card, Captain,” she said.
“Indeed? Why?"
“Because the idea of sitting beside you throughout dinner,” she said, breathing deeply, “is unsettling to me."
“Indeed,” he said again. He straightened, dropping his crooked arm from the doorframe. “Is my company so abhorrent to you, Miss Sheffield?"
She lifted her head; then, staring straight and with fiery accusation into his eyes, said, “If you cannot comprehend what your company is to me, sir, than I would rather not trouble myself with saying. I do not play these games well, Captain Harrison. Flirtation was never my forte, nor does it interest me in the least."
“This is not flirtation, Miss Sheffield,” he answered gravely.
Her breath came out between her teeth in a sharp hiss of anger. “No? Then what, exactly, is it? Am I to guess?"
“No,” he said, very softly. “No, there is no need to guess. I will tell you, if you wish, exactly what this is that has sprung up, with sudden and unexpected potency, between us. Do you want to know?"
Such was the quiet force of his words that it was as if he had physically taken her into his arms. She felt held by them, enveloped by the sensuality of their meaning, and by the heavy weight of his eyes, direct and volatile.
“Oh, goodness, so this is where you two have gotten yourselves! Well, no need to return. It is time to dine. Did you not hear the call? Oh, we shall all dine splendidly. The evening is actually quite comfortable, would you not say, Captain Harrison?"
“Depends,” said the man, backing out of the doorway, “on your viewpoint."
Patently confused by his reply, Augusta Stanton giggled, and led the way to the table.
Roxane allowed Collier to pull out her chair. Aided by the small circumference of her hoop, she sat down without difficulty. Not so Miss Rose Peabody, the young woman seated on Collier's left-hand side, for whom he also held the chair. After a degree of manipulation, the eldest daughter of Colonel and Mrs. Peabody, two other guests of the Stantons’ for the evening, was able to gain her chair. However, when Collier sat down, Miss Peabody's skirt was so voluminous that it draped clear across his left leg. He was forced, in order not to trample the hem, or to rustle the stiff underskirt, to keep that leg immobile. Roxane could almost pity him.
On her own right hand was another officer—a captain, as was Harrison, of the Native Infantry. He had arrived late, just as they were all sitting down, in fact, and after introductions she had noticed that the man, Harry Grovsner by name, had turned to exchange a stiff pleasantry or two with Captain Harrison. The latter's response was anything but friendly.
From this brief intercourse Roxane concluded, quite reasonably, she thought, that the two men knew each other. She also realized that there was no affection lost between them. Though she tried not to, she immediately became wary of Captain Grovsner, as if the very fact that Captain Harrison found cause to dislike the man was reason enough to distrust him. Recognizing this fact was not enough to alter it; she merely realized how deplorable was her state of mind.
The Indian staff entered at this point with the fare, preparing to serve the first course, setting many dishes onto the table and the buffet behind. There were eggs and melon and toasted delicacies that Roxane did not recognize. Fruit jellies covered poultry, including peacock and waterfowl. Roxane spied, to her amazement, a fresh York ham and sausages. In small dishes was a sauce, a frequent addition to all meals, which was to be used as a condiment to titillate a palate much jaded by the deleterious effects of the heat. The sauce consisted of spices and horseradish, or curry. Roxane's own palate had not yet been reduced to this epicurean amenity.
Suddenly, Roxane's ears were treated to a peal of voluptuous laughter, stifled behind a hand. All eyes turned to look past her along her side of the table, and away again. Roxane leaned forward, ever so slightly, to peer past Captain Harrison's turned head. At his side, a golden-haired Rose Peabody was laughing into her palm. Her other hand was lying, quite openly, upon his sleeve.
“Oh, Captain Harrison, you are the funniest fellow,” she said. She tossed her head, her complexion fashionably pale, and slid him a long-lidded look from her light blue eyes. Roxane sat back firmly against her chair and picked up her napkin.
“Miss Sheffield,” said Captain Grovsner, as he picked up his wineglass. He twirled the stem between thumb and forefinger, catching the candle flame and that of the oil lamps beyond in a multifaceted glimmer. “Miss Sheffield,” he said again, “how do you find India, so far?"
Roxane smoothed her napkin across her lap. Head bent, she replied, soberly.
“I find it interesting."
“Surely, though, having come from London, you must think it strange, or at the very least, quaint?"
“Quaint?” she repeated, lifting her head to regard him. He was, like Captain Harrison, a dark-haired man, but his locks lacked that man's luster, as did his features, and his brown eyes. He was also considerably shorter. “There is something quaint, yes, about what I have seen, and undeniably Indian culture is strange, but that is as it pertains to me personally, and what I know and have lived with. What I think or feel about Indian culture is irrelevant to the culture itself. We are in a country not our own; what we witness is natural to the people whose country we inhabit. When it comes down to the point of understanding, or approval, neither you nor I count at all."
“Oh."
The man quickly brought his glass to his lips and drank. His brown eyes were red-rimmed—from lack of sleep, Roxane suspected. He downed the contents of his glass and called for another. Roxane picked up her spoon and began the cold soup.
Beside her, Captain Harrison leaned close, under pretense of retrieving his napkin.
“Well said, Miss Sheffield,” he whispered. In his eyes, she witnessed a look akin to admiration, she thought. “That should keep Grovsner mulling for a while."
He straightened, then, and he, too, enjoyed the contents of the flat bowl before him.
“Miss Sheffield."
Roxane lowered her spoon to the edge of her plate. “Yes, Captain Grovsner?"
“Have you seen much of Calcutta since your arrival? There is much in India to enjoy. You must let me show you around, Miss Sheffield."
“So I have heard,” said Roxane, managing to defer replying to his offer until some time when she could tactfully tell him that she was not interested in his escort.
“My acquaintances,” continued the man, toying with his soup rather than eating it, while he delayed Roxane from consumption of her own, “give splendid parties. The entertainment rivals that of London, though you may not believe I speak the truth."
Roxane ducked her head, permitting her bowl, still half full, to be removed. “I do not care for parties, Captain Grovsner,” she said quietly. “My idea of entertainment is a stroll through someone's lovely gardens."
“The Botanical Gardens here in Calcutta are astounding, I have heard. Perhaps, you will allow me—"
Roxane looked up, attention distracted by a sound from near to her ear. She turned her head away from Captain Grovsner, and her gaze met Captain Harrison's.
“Miss Sheffield and I have discussed the gardens before, Grovsner. She has a great interest in seeing them."
As the captain spoke, he held her gaze with his own, although he was speaking to the man at her side. After a moment, he leaned forward, looking at his fellow officer. His expression was hard and calculating.
“Has she, Harrison?” said Grovsner. “Well, then, I will be certain to take her.” Confident, the officer lifted his glass of wine and once more downed the contents, signaling for another.