by Alyssa Deane
Following the line of her gaze, Collier said, “I have been rude. Would you care for an ice?"
“No, thank you,” answered Roxane, a little too quickly. “I mean, I—no, thank you,” she finished.
He patted her fingers, and they continued to stroll. From the corner of her eye, Roxane watched him, wondering at his silence, when it had seemed so imperative that he speak with her. Revealed in the torchlight, his expression did not match the lightness of his tone when greeting others. He appeared troubled, his handsome brow lightly creased, his jaw tensed. After a moment, sensing her gaze on him, he glanced her way and smiled.
Roxane turned her head quickly. Whatever troubled him, he did not yet mean for her to know it. His smile, so warm and tenderly satisfied, thrilled her in a manner he could not imagine, she felt certain, and which she herself could not countenance.
“This way,” he said suddenly into the silence between them. Without looking at him, Roxane fell into step beside him, heedless, in her turmoil, of their destination.
Beyond the maidan, in the deep cloak of night, the coaches were lined along the avenue. The drivers had seated themselves upon the earth, smoking, talking quietly, or dozing, as they waited for the frivolities to subside. The buggy lamps shone in the blackness like stationary reflections of the fireflies flitting through the shrubbery. The captain and Roxane strolled between their ranks; the droning, hushed quality of the drivers’ speech, the jingling of harness, the occasional thud of a hoof on the white road were peaceful sounds, seeming to remove them as effectively as a wall, Roxane thought, from the noise on the maidan. Here, the illumination of the torches was hedged by shadow, fading into night. A low boundary wall ran, like a ruled line vaguely seen, just beyond. Behind that, arching out into the distance, was a field of rough grass and sturdy neem trees, arms black against the star-filled sky.
Roxane, hand tucked neatly into Collier's elbow, felt the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his uniform. She was acutely aware of the line of muscle of his upper arm, curving beneath her forefinger and thumb. She could hear his breathing, even and deep. Her own was not quite so steady.
Glancing back over her shoulder, she started. “You said we would not go far."
He peered down at her dark head, then away. “I want to show you something.” Her graceful gait stiffened, suddenly, at his side. “I have told you, you need fear nothing from me."
Roxane was silent. Though she continued to walk, she dropped her hand from his arm, clasping her fingers together against the front of her gown.
After a moment, he said, “It is a lovely night. Look at the stars. They say there are portents in the heavens. What do you think?"
Roxane arched her neck to study the night sky. She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “I don't know,” she said. “As a Christian woman, I should not believe so, but often I wonder myself. Such strong store has been placed upon their alignments, even in our own civilization's past."
“Hmm,” he murmured, and then laughed. “Really, Roxane, the question was somewhat rhetorical; I was addressing you in the process of thinking aloud. Do you mind? I may do it again, before the evening is through."
“I—I don't suppose I mind,” she said, glancing sidelong at the man. His face was heavily shadowed but for his eyes, gleaming in the dark.
“I did not think you would."
“How could you be so certain?"
“You are not the type of woman, Roxane,” he said, “to demand a man's full attention as her due."
“In other words,” countered Roxane, “I am not the type of woman to mind being used, as the sounding board in a piano, for the magnification of your thoughts?"
“Something like that,” he said, amused.
“So that you might hear them better and gain a fuller perspective, am I correct?"
“Exactly,” he said. “Are you insulted?"
“I cannot yet find cause to be, though I am trying.” She sensed him smile in the darkness. His hand came up, pushing through his black hair. “Ah,” he said, “here we are. Be careful of your step, my dear."
My dear. Somehow, she must make him stop calling her by endearments. They suggested, in the tone he used, an intimacy that was not theirs. Yet, as the determination came to her, he reached up to put his arm across her shoulders, aiding her over the uneven terrain, and she wondered if she could maintain her resolve. She had never cared for the touch of a man before, had never permitted it to move her. But now, especially now, as his arm slipped from her shoulders to his side, leaving her feeling abandoned, she recognized that it was not, nor would it ever be, a matter of permission granted or taken away. She had taken a small step into an unknown realm, and there was no stepping back outside again.
Standing still for a moment, Roxane drew several deep breaths, studying her surroundings. They had left the main path, wading through stiff, knee-high grass to a place where several horses were tethered, guarded by a fellow who was clearly drowsing at his post. One of the picketed horses whickered gently, startling the man, who challenged Collier halfheartedly. The captain greeted the man with a laugh, and strode past. Roxane followed.
A large, muscled Arabian strained against the tether at Collier's approach. The horse pushed the snow of a finely veined muzzle into the officer's shoulder. Lashes above a pair of dark, liquid eyes were white, stubbed, lending the stallion an almost feminine expression. Roxane raised her hand slowly, to stroke the head, the ears, the mane, entwining her fingers in the last. The animal abandoned its master to nuzzle about her bodice; she handed it away, but too late to prevent it snatching the flower from between her breasts. Complacently meeting her eyes, the horse munched pink-white petals.
“What's his name?” she asked.
“Adain,” he said.
“Wing? An interesting name. How did you acquire him? He is a cavalry horse—I recognize the breed."
Collier's eyes narrowed. Stepping around Roxane's immobile form, he leaned against the saddle, staring over the thicket into the night sky. “You are very quick. He did once belong to a cavalry officer. I won him in a wager."
Roxane stiffened. “You are a gambling man?"
“Not usually,” said Collier. “The owner was about to lose the horse to a fellow without scruples, who was known for running his mounts into the ground; I merely stepped in and won it away from him."
Slowly, Roxane turned to face him. Her skirt whispered over the grass. Beside her the captain had turned also and was watching her closely from beneath heavy-lidded eyes.
“In other words,” she said, “your course to honor was rather convoluted, Collier Harrison."
He chuckled, a soft noise. “I never thought of myself as pursuing honor that night. I had long admired the horse, and opportunity presented itself. Besides, I could not bear the thought of what would become of him, in Grovsner's careless handling."
Roxane lifted her head. “A familiar scenario,” she said, with sarcasm.
“What? You mean the garden last week? Not at all. Oh, it is not like that at all. Do you not yet realize that, Roxane? What would you have me say, or do, to prove that you may trust me?"
If he had moved, to stand above her, to touch her, to plead, she would have doubted his theatrics; but he remained where he was, leaning over the loosened saddle with his hands folded before him. She had never before seen a man so devoid of facial expression emit such pain from the depth of his eyes.
Ducking beneath the stallion's chin, she went to stand on the opposite side, facing the captain across the saddle. The scent of leather was pleasant, mingling with the odor of cropped grass. For a long moment, Roxane stood gazing at Collier's folded hands, studying the pattern of shadow and flesh, and then she lifted her own hand, laying her fingers gently over his.
“Was it not you,” she whispered, “who warned me against that trust?"
“Yes."
“Well, then,” she said, and bit her lip, moving closer to the horse so that she could feel the heat emanating from its
body. The coarse hair pricked the flesh of her palm where she held her hand flat upon its neck. With the other, she tightened her grip on the captain's fingers, as though attempting to comfort him, and to force upon him an understanding of her fears, and even of her terms.
Before her, Collier sighed. The stallion sidled, disliking being used as a prop. Roxane released her hold on both the animal and Collier. She wandered several feet away and stood quietly, listening to the music of the band, tinny with distance. Overhead, the leaves rustled, crusty with dust and tossed in the breeze. She heard footsteps behind. The captain's voice was a soft rumble, nearer to hand.
“Roxane."
She stirred, but did not turn. She knew that he stood an arm's distance from the hem of her gown. He could have touched her with very little effort, if he had cared to there in the darkness. She half expected that he would, and consciously tightened her defenses against the anticipation that shivered over her skin like the touch of cool fingers. It occurred to her that she had, perhaps, been foolish to accompany him in his stroll, but that she was capable of defending herself, not as she had with Captain Grovsner, but with a control of her own weakness, she was certain. She had always been strong. Always.
However, he made no move toward her, but stood with his hands at his sides, fingers curved at the hem of his jacket, posture relaxed, suggesting no such intent had entered his mind.
“Roxane."
“Yes?"
“I did not bring you here merely to introduce you to my horse."
“I realize that."
“Do you?” he laughed, and then sobered. “Roxane, how much do you really know about the political climate of India?"
“To be honest,” she said, not looking at him, “I know very little. To be certain, half as much as I probably should, and probably a third of what you are about to tell me. Am I correct?"
He chuckled, softly. His hand came up, against the back of her neck, for just a moment. Then he let it drop again to his side. Roxane released her breath. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him shrug, shoving both hands deep into his pockets, rocking back slightly on his heels.
“When I was a child,” he said, “I was infatuated with the tales of India, of Clive's India, which had long ago passed away. The frontier spirit of India was gone, though I did not know it until much later. I was determined, from that early age, to join the Queen's regiments, and serve the East India Company. The prospect was exciting and, I suppose, romantic."
“You sound like Unity now,” said Roxane.
He grunted. “Well, I was much like Unity in that respect, when I was young. Enrolled in Addiscombe, however, I lost the romantic image, believe me. Do you know Addiscombe?"
“Is that not the school set up by the Company for military training? And Haileybury, I believe, was for the purpose of training civil servants."
Collier's brows arched. “Very good. At Addiscombe I learned what India had become, and yet ... the dream of my youth had not faded. Once here, I found that India had changed only for the British; beneath the thumb pressure of British authority, India itself is timeless. I have grown to love this country."
“But I—I thought that you despised the native element, and their country,” said Roxane.
“What?” he exclaimed. “What on earth made you think so?"
“Something you said, the first day we met. About finding certain aspects of this country, and the people who inhabit it, undeniably cruel. Do you not recall?"
“I recall,” he answered her, staring thoughtfully at the ground before his feet, “You misunderstood me, I am afraid. The statement was double-edged. There is much cruelty in India, but with the natives, it encompasses a way of life which, I must admit, I should like to see amended with the minimum of interference, but which I also accept. It is, rather, the cruelty of the ‘conquering’ race which so appalls me."
“How do you mean?"
“How do I mean?” he said, an acerbic edge to his tone. “I shall provide you an example that is by no means isolated. A man, a nameless soldier, finds himself displeased with his groom. What does he do about it? He kicks the man, repeatedly, until that man is dead."
“Oh, no,” whispered Roxane, hand to mouth.
“Yes. And the worst of it? European sympathy is, in general, with the soldier, for the shock it must have caused him."
“I—I don't believe you,” said Roxane.
“No? And why not? I have no cause to lie to you, Roxane. No cause ... There, there, I've upset you. I'm sorry."
“You are not sorry,” retorted Roxane, swinging about to meet his dark expression. “You meant to upset me, to make your point."
“Possibly,” he said.
She made an unfeminine noise in her throat. “You are honest, I give you that."
He laughed, and pulled his hand from his trouser pocket to grasp her own. “But it is true, Roxane. The Company is corrupt, and the people are bearing the weight of that corruption in their daily lives. We have become the tax collectors, the ultimate landlords of a vast, untamed country, overextending ourselves, taking power where it may be snatched up, giving little, if anything, in return. Once, that was not so. Even though the Company ruled in the past with the sword—even the lowest clerk was as quick with a blade as with his pen—there was mutual respect for the strength and cunning of both races. That respect has degenerated. We possess a dangerous disregard for the peoples upon which the Company, as an enterprise, must depend."
Every word entered her brain and sang there with the horrible ring of truth, yet they were in such opposition to that which she had gleaned from her father's letters that she wanted to deny them. Biting her lip, she riveted her gaze on his hand, and the way his fingers encircled her own. Browned by the sun, his fingers were long, and strong, and clean. They held her, much as his arms had once held her, but gently, with the smallest amount of pressure, a gesture entirely more masculine than if he had taken her roughly and held her with fierce intent.
“Roxane? Are you listening?"
She looked up quickly. “Yes,” she said.
“Do you understand what I am trying to explain?"
She removed her hand from his grasp, pressing it into the folds of her skirt behind her back. “Of course,” she answered him. “There was nothing all that difficult to comprehend. Times have changed. And for the worse, it would seem to you."
“You do not see it,” he said, resignedly.
“What are you suggesting will be the end result of all of this?” she asked. “Holy war?” She had mentioned the last quite seriously, thinking of that time when she had seen the fakir in the city and Collier had translated the man's words for her. Somehow, unintentionally, her delivery sounded flippant. She saw him frown angrily.
“Holy war? No,” he said. “There is no common cause to bind Muslim and Hindu together. Not yet, anyway. It is the sepoy troops who worry me. Discontent is not unknown. There have already been instances of trouble. A full-scale mutiny would be horrendous. There are no more than forty-five thousand European troops, compared to native troops amounting to well over two-hundred thousand."
“The colonel,” said Roxane, “does not seem to doubt the loyalty of his men."
“Few do,” said Collier. “At the moment, there is, perhaps, little cause."
“Neither,” added Roxane, “does my father. He has written that he is quite fond of his troops, and that they, in turn, feel the same. He is a father figure to them. As he never was to me.” She was not certain afterward why she added that last statement, but instantly upon doing so, she bit her lip and turned away, not caring to witness the softening of Collier Harrison's expression. The stars burned brightly in the sky, and below, in some darkened place, she saw the orange glow of fires, scattered over the shadowed earth like tiny flowers blooming, incandescent, in the night.
“Roxane..."
She waved her hand to silence him, to stifle whatever words had been about to follow the tender utterance of her name. She heard him
move, and then felt the shifting of her skirt before the pressure of his knees, as he came to stand directly behind her. His hands fell, gently, onto her shoulders, fingers folding over the exposed roundness at the top of her arms.
“Roxane,” he said again, and he was so near that his breath ran, like a small, warm breeze, over her hair and down her back. “I told Lord Canning tonight that I feared, should there be a crisis, for the safety of the women and children. That was a general statement. I fear for you, my dear. So swiftly I have come to care, but there it is. And I fear for you."
Roxane stood as still as stone, all sensation spiraling down to that point where his hands touched her skin, and his breath, amplified by his voice, ran featherlight.
“You are but one man,” she whispered, “with but one man's opinion. I will judge, in time, for myself whether there is cause for concern."
“You are avoiding my declaration,” he said, softly, with a small laugh that caused a shiver along her spine. “I do care, Roxane Sheffield, very much."
“That is very commendable,” Roxane persisted, in a voice so low she could scarcely be heard, “that you should concern yourself so deeply over the fate of women and children you can hardly know—"
“Roxane! Roxane,” he repeated more softly, giving her a little shake before sliding his hands down the length of her arms to her wrists, lifting them to slip his fingers about her own. “You silly goose, do not persist in twisting my words. There is no cause to be afraid of me."