by Alyssa Deane
“I am not afraid of you,” she said, but somehow, no sound issued from her lips.
He turned her in his arms, and she did not resist him. Once again, as in the garden, he kissed her, and his mouth was warm. The fragrance of his skin, masculine and clean, filled her nostrils. His embrace, though gentle, was unyielding, and yet she would not have left it. Slowly, she lifted her hands to his face, pressing her fingers into his hair as he turned his mouth to her eyes, her brow, the line of her jaw, in tender caress.
“Collier,” she said, “please..."
At the sound of her voice, he straightened, looking down at her. His eyes were dark, the pupils wide, reflecting the tiny pinpoints of light in the distance.
“Collier, you mustn't ... I mustn't allow this."
“Hush...” he whispered.
“No. Hear me out. You are right,” she said. “I am afraid. I am afraid of being hurt—"
“I'll never hurt you,” he said.
“You cannot know that,” she retorted, softly.
“Who has caused you such pain that you live in fear of it?” he asked, pulling her closer in an attempt at comfort. “Tell me."
Roxane shook her dark head. She felt the firm shape of his jaw against her hair. Beneath her hands, the fabric of his uniform was stiff, the buttons round and polished.
“Roxane, I—” He laughed, a narrow sound, without humor. “Roxane ... I love you."
She broke free of his gentle grasp forcefully, stumbling headlong and blindly in the direction of his horse. The animal lifted its head, bit jangling, at her approach. She grabbed at the bridle, pressing her face close to the beast's neck. The hair pricked her skin; it smelled coarsely sweet, like hay, and warmth, and the distinct scent of horse. Tears coursed down her cheeks, dampening her own hair, tangled against the stallion's arched neck. The animal turned its head to eye her curiously through its womanish dark eyes.
“Roxane?"
She jerked away from the horse, dashing a hand across her eyes and face. She would not look at him, though she knew he was there, at her shoulder.
“Don't speak,” she said. “Let me be.” She lifted her head, breathing deeply. With fingers that shook only slightly, she adjusted her bodice and the waist of her gown.
“Do you know,” he asked, not expecting an answer, “how awkward it is to find myself loving you? It comes at a bad time in my life ... and yet, I would not change it. No,” he said, with a frown that she caught in his voice rather than in her vision, “I must resolve my own difficulties ... Roxane?"
“Yes?” She turned to him, slowly. Standing before him, she witnessed the sad smile that marked his countenance as he lifted a finger, tracing the path of tears on her face.
“You do not often weep, do you?"
“No,” she said, “I do not."
“And I have brought you to this. I am sorry. I promise not to do so again."
“Do not,” said Roxane quietly, and with conviction, “make promises which may not be within your power to keep."
For a moment, he was still, and then he nodded wordlessly. Beside them, the stallion lifted its head, ears pivoting forward as the band, in the distance, struck up “God Save the Queen,” signaling the end of the evening's frivolities. Collier untethered the animal from the picket, then extended his arm to Roxane.
“Time to return,” he said, “unfortunately. There is much to be said between us. It will have to wait. Are you ready?"
“Yes,” she said.
As they walked, the stallion's shod hooves beating a steady counterpoint to their lack of conversation, Collier looked again and again to Roxane's silent, lovely profile. She seemed, thankfully, to have recovered her composure. It had alarmed him, to see her cry as she had done; he recognized, now, a distress that went far deeper than he could fathom. He had not meant to say that he loved her. Before the instant of his speech, he had not realized the full extent of the emotion to which she had driven him.
Now that he knew, he was more impatient than ever for the arrival of a single, particular letter from home. As he had said, he must resolve his own difficulties. He understood, now, looking at the woman at his side, that he had waited overlong.
Chapter Six
In the morning, Roxane awoke early, earlier than she would have expected considering the late hour at which she had retired, strangely exhausted, to her bed. She could hear movement in the bungalow, but it was the soft tread of servants rather than the full-heeled sound of Colonel Stanton, or even the patter of his wife, in slippers. Unity was still patently asleep, lying partially on her back, lips parted in a gentle snoring and her flame-red hair in disarray on the pillow beneath her head. Slipping into her dressing gown, which she firmly closed to ensure no impropriety, Roxane lifted the chik and stepped through the window onto the verandah beyond.
The sun had not yet risen, and the garden stood in shadowless night. The ever-present drone of insects was absent, stilled as by magic, awaiting daybreak. On the eastern horizon, a faint line showed like a froth of water at the shoreline of a cerulean sea. Roxane felt the breeze tug her wrapper, the length of her unbound hair, and she lifted her face to it. Even the scent of dust seemed, for the moment, in abeyance.
She moved to the edge of the verandah, leaning against the railing. Something moved in the garden, and she listened to it, a whisper among the leaves and through the dust. She had heard of the great, hooded snakes harbored in India, some as long as eighteen feet, and wondered, with a narrowed look into the undergrowth, if this might be one. Were they nocturnal? She had no idea. Perhaps what she heard was only the common garden variety of snake, whose progress through flowers and greenery was said to be impeded by the shells which paved the pathways.
She would ask Collier, later, what he thought it might have been ... No, no, of course she would do no such a thing. She would go to the library, and take out a book, if they had one on snakes, to seek her explanation. Why should she rely on a man to tell her what she could just as easily discover for herself?
Frustrated, she flicked a dry leaf off the railing and continued around the verandah to the back of the house, the windowless expanse which faced the east. Her bare feet were silent, her robe a murmur of silk and wind. She did not want to think of him. There was no point in fabricating excuses to spend time in his company. No gain, either, in dwelling on the pleasure of his touch, or the timbre of his voice. No possible reason to stand about in contemplation of the color of his eyes, or of his hair. And as to his declarations of love, she would have no more of them. Next time ... there would be no next time.
A sound, a whisper of sulfur striking to flame, elicited from her a gasp of surprise, and she turned in time to discover Colonel Stanton leaning on the back legs of a chair against the wall, lighting the end of a cheroot. Wordlessly, she watched him turn the cigar in his fingers, puffing now and then on the end in an attempt to evenly ignite it, before casting the match into the garden, trailing a thin edge of smoke.
“There are few mornings like this,” he said to her. “I try to greet them all."
His remarks did not seem to call for a rejoinder, and so she gave none, leaning her hip into the corner where post met railing and folding her arms across her breast. The glowing tip of the cigar waxed and waned as he puffed the bitten end.
Pausing in his ministrations to the cigar, the colonel lowered it.
“Did I startle you?"
“A little,” Roxane admitted.
“Hmm,” he said.
“I did not mean to disturb your solitude, Colonel Stanton. If you would like, I will return inside."
“Stay right where you are, Roxane. I can think of no one who disturbs me less."
Pivoting on her heel, Roxane leaned into her hands on the railing, arching her back slightly to relieve the stiffness of a restless night.
“Are there snakes in the garden?” she asked.
“Quite a few,” he replied.
“I thought I heard one."
“Hmm,” he
said again, noncommittally.
“If you heard one,” said another voice, “it was most likely not a snake at all."
Roxane neither jumped nor gasped, but said, with what she viewed as remarkable calm, “I did not know you were here, Captain Harrison."
“I dropped over to speak with the colonel a few moments, before setting about my duties."
“I am interrupting then,” said Roxane, clinging to the railing and making no move to depart.
“Nonsense,” interjected the colonel. “He came to speak with me about you, dear girl."
Roxane's eyes closed. “About me?” she echoed idiotically.
The colonel laughed.
“Yes,” he said.
Drawing a deep breath, Roxane removed her fingers from the wooden railing and stretched them out along the front of her gown. The fragrance of flowers not yet open drifted toward her, provocative and sweet. She could hear him breathing in the darkness behind her, slow and deep and even, and the counterpoint of the colonel, mouthing his cigar.
“Ah, well, I do believe I have some business which requires my attention,” the colonel announced suddenly, lowering the legs of the chair to the ground with a faint thump. “I can trust you two to wisdom, can't I?"
“You can, sir,” said Captain Harrison.
Roxane did not answer.
As soon as she heard Colonel Stanton retreat around the far end of the residence, Roxane turned her head, addressing the younger officer.
“A bit early for a visit, isn't it?” she drawled.
“Not in India,” he reminded her. “A great deal of what we do is dictated by the sun and the subsequent heat."
“I see."
She heard his chair creak and knew he had risen, and in a moment, he was beside her at the railing, leaning, as she had done, upon his palms.
“I came to request the colonel's permission to take you to see the sights today. We had spoken of that, you and I, when first we met. And he agreed that it would be a fine thing. Unity will come along, and her ayah and my jemadar as chaperons. That is, if you wish to go. Do you, Roxane?"
He was very near, so that she was aware of the solid nature of him, warm in the darkness. His head tipped slightly toward her, every breath swirling the hair up from her temples. She could smell his skin now, the clean, masculine scent of it, and saw the narrowed glitter of his eyes. Insulated by the ending night, she found herself accepting his closeness, found herself wrapped in it, in a custody of trust.
“I suppose so,” she whispered.
He laughed softly and moved to stand behind her at a very small distance, fingers sliding along her arms to lift her hands to her shoulders, where he held them. He propped his chin on the crown of her head.
“Roxane, there is something I want you to see. You must stand perfectly still—no, I am serious. This is no ruse. Stand still, with your head back. There. Now look to the eastern sky, and wait."
Scarcely breathing, she did as he asked, focusing her gaze on the horizon. Her hands trembled, and he fastened his fingers over them in gentle restraint.
“Don't be afraid,” he whispered.
“I'm not..."
The noise he made in his throat pitched through her senses, like the rumble of a distant storm.
“Wait,” he murmured, “hush..."
On the horizon, the sun rose from the froth, a bloody coin edge burning with a dull red fire, hovering at the very edge of the world. Beside her ear, he respired softly.
“Hush,” he said again. “It comes ... now."
And the sun exploded, illumination lapping like a voracious lover into every crevice and around every curve, robbing the night of chaste anonymity, to thrust it, exposed and gilded, into the brilliant light of day. Roxane winced, blinded by the radiance, but did not turn away as gold melted into amethyst shadow, lifting on the other side in a pearly translucence that tumbled yet again into emerald greens and blues as deep as night. All the world before her eyes was defined in color, more color than she could imagine and hold on to, trembling like water on the lip of a fountain. Then the water fell, just as swiftly, and without warning, and the jewels lay dusty over the earth.
For a long moment, Roxane did not speak. Her fingers clutched tightly within Collier's own, seeking an anchor in a severely canted world.
She felt his mouth against her hair as he lightly kissed her just above the ear. Then he stepped away. A chill tripped along her spine in the absence of his warmth.
“I know,” he said, and slipped his fingers behind her neck to draw her forward, pressing his lips to the crown of her head, then stood away once more. He ran his hand through his hair. She noted how very black it was.
“I should very much like to show you all the beautiful things in this world, Roxane,” he said, “if you will let me.” Not waiting for a reply, he departed, pausing only briefly at the gate to the garden to remind her that he would be returning within the hour, with a carriage.
For some time after, Roxane stood in a posture of deliberate concentration, one hand folded within the other at her waist, afraid that if she moved, she would, of a sudden, lose all sense of direction. A large insect dropped onto her shoulder from the verandah ceiling, and she turned her head distractedly, blowing on its wings to dislodge the creature from the fabric of her robe. Beyond the verandah, the gardener appeared, carrying a watering can and smiling, then disappeared as quickly from sight. The gardener was a Brahmin, the highest cast of Hindu. Unity had warned Roxane early on not to approach the gardener in his hut while he was eating, for even her shadow darkening the man's food was enough to pollute it, and he could not then eat it.
“Roxane?"
Turning toward the voice, Roxane blinked twice as Augusta Stanton approached around the corner.
“Was that Captain Harrison I saw leaving, Roxane?"
“It was."
“I do not know what you are accustomed to in London, Roxane, but might I recommend you greet your guests in future suitably clothed?"
Roxane glanced down in dismay at her wrapper, then hurried inside.
* * * *
In the shaded interior of the buggy, Roxane toyed with the frayed ends of the seat cover, frowning ever so slightly at the sound of Unity's voice in the rear bench, where she sat wedged between her ayah and Captain Harrison's jemadar, a native in the Indian army who had, by dint of service and performance, been promoted to junior officer in the infantry. It was not Unity's words she was frowning at; in truth, she did not really hear them. Nor was it the girl's high volubility, though she knew the jemadar was completely nonplussed by many of the girl's references and merely grunted in occasional agreement for lack of a suitable reply. Indeed, it was not Unity at all with which she was displeased, but the entire slant of the morning.
Stealing a sidelong glance at the captain from beneath dark lashes, Roxane noted, as she had that first day, his insouciant and misleading ease, elbows resting on knees in summer-dress uniform and leather reins held with deceiving ease in his hands. His helmet lay on the seat between them, and his black hair bore testimony of the fingers recently pushed through it. In profile, his eyes were like smoky glass.
Roxane turned away, tugging at the frazzled wool strands in earnest.
“Roxane."
“Yes?"
“It will be all right, I promise you."
Releasing the harried seat cover, Roxane folded both hands carefully into the lemon-striped fabric of her skirt.
“Where are we going?"
“Well,” he said, “for a start, we will drive by some of the larger residences and the Town Hall, the courthouse, and perhaps the Writer's Building, where all the poor young clerks work their fingers to the bone on the Company's ledgers. They are all excellent examples of classical architecture. I believe I showed you some of them when you arrived. We can drive through the native bazaar, on the outskirts of town, and—I don't know. I think I should like you to see the regiments. What do you think?"
“That sounds fin
e,” she answered.
“Which? All of it?"
“Yes,” she said, “all of it."
He made a sound, much as a horse might, in rebuttal.
“I made arrangements for tiffin in Eden Gardens. They were the pride and joy of the Lady Emily. Did you not tell me you had read some of her published letters?"
Despite her mood, Roxane was roused to reply.
“As a matter of fact, yes. Emily Eden is a woman of remarkable intelligence and irony. I—I actually met her once. She must have been a wonder in her youth. She is ill now, of course. Has been, I was told, since the passing of her brother."
“Lord Auckland?” said Collier, steering the buggy around a slow-moving cart. “A bit of uncommon attachment there, I'd heard."
“I suppose,” countered Roxane, “that she loved him."
“She never married,” Collier continued, “but doted on the man as if he were brother, husband, father, lover, and son all bundled up into one package."
Roxane felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “Are you implying some impropriety, Captain Harrison?"
Collier laughed and shook his head. “Impropriety would hardly be the word, were that the case. No, Roxane, I merely suggest that it is a shame she so devoted herself to a man with whom she could not have an entire relationship. She has remained a spinster her whole life. I wonder if he appreciated her sacrifice."
“Sacrifice, Captain?” Roxane bristled. “Do you suggest that a woman is unfulfilled outside of the particular incumbency of matrimony?"
“Oh,” drawled Collier, “I do not think I would dare, my dear,” he said, and returned his attention to the road ahead, a telltale leaping of the muscle in his jaw evidence of humor suppressed.
Annoyed, Roxane folded her arms and leaned back into the seat. Behind her, Unity was regaling her captive audience with a detailed account of a party she had, most likely, not been permitted to attend while in Simla with her family. Obviously, it was a secondhand telling, though her enthusiasm was bona fide. Roxane closed her eyes.