by Alyssa Deane
“You are beautiful."
“It must be the gown, Collier,” she said.
“The gown,” he said, “is quite attractive, but when I look at you, I do not only see what it is that you are wearing."
She made a noise of amusement. “That is probably not something to which you should admit, outside of this garden.” She laughed. “And certainly not within hearing of our scandalized community."
Chuckling, he reached up, stroking the back of her neck with his hand. Roxane's breath caught, then released in something very near to a sigh.
“Collier, are you drunk?"
He laughed. “Not yet, dear heart."
Her smile deepened, and she tipped her head back, looking up at the stars beyond the light. Oh, Unity, she thought, is this what you mean? I never would have known. And she took another swallow of champagne.
The flowers in the garden were closed against the night, but their sweet fragrance was still heady. Beyond the hedge, Roxane could hear others in the garden, speaking in low voices. The path was dense with shadows, illuminated only by the fragmented light managing to reach it from the open windows of the ballroom. A soft interlude melody drifted toward them as if from another world.
“So,” Collier inquired, after a time, “what happened with Harry?"
Roxane told him.
“You said that?"
“I did,” she assured him.
He laughed outright. Roxane grinned at him, and drained her glass. Wordlessly, he exchanged hers for his, which he had not touched.
“Thank you."
“You are most welcome, my darling Roxane."
They continued in silence, her hand resting lightly in the crook of his elbow, where he had placed it. The second glass of champagne soon went the way of the first. She was not accustomed, and found herself quite giddy. She laughed, a brief spate of unabashed glee, and spun herself about to face him.
“What,” he asked, “is funny?"
“I am certain I do not know,” she replied, and kissed him. His mouth tasted like gin. After momentary surprise on his part, both of his hands slipped around her waist, trailing upward with tormenting leisure to linger in the hollow of her rib cage, beneath her breasts. She was acutely aware of this point of contact, where he had chosen to rest, to wait. She knew his restraint, understood it in her blood, for she longed to feel it break. Like a spark before the flame, she felt on the verge of brilliant life, bounded and trembling in the circle of his hands.
“You are not frightened,” he murmured, against her mouth.
“Not at all."
Reaching up behind his neck, she drew him closer, kissing him again with slow deliberation and listening in astonished pleasure to the passionate sounds he made, low in his throat. She felt the warmth of his body through his uniform. His arms tightened about her, a convulsive movement of appetite and liberation, and then he pulled away, propping his chin on the crown of her dark head. His breath, she noticed, was more than slightly ragged.
“Dear, dear Roxane,” he said.
“Yes, Collier?"
“Does champagne always do this to you?"
“Do what?” she asked.
He laughed, a soft, rumbling noise.
“We shall have to bring a bottle,” he said, “on our wedding night...."
“On our—what?"
“Dear,” he explained patiently, holding her at arm's length and smiling into her eyes, “you cannot really expect to kiss me in that fashion and not allow me to marry you ... can you? It would hardly be fair."
“Hardly,” she replied, her tone acerbic. He grabbed her elbow, preventing her from leaving.
“Forgive me,” he said.
“For what?"
“For proposing to you in that unpardonable method."
“Was that what it was? A proposal?"
“It was,” he said.
Roxane was silent, blinking up at him, noting the place where the light fell, just so, across his jaw and into his gray eyes. “Perhaps,” she suggested, hushed, “you might drop to your knee next week, when you have had more time to stage the proper moment?” Then she turned and walked away.
He gave her the space of three drawn breaths, and then he followed. She heard the fall of his boot on the path, not hurrying at all. He did not attempt to catch up, but merely kept steady pace with her stride.
“What is it,” she called back to him, with a vexed gesture of hands and glass and fan, “which makes a man seek a wife? For the necessity of children, of heirs?” He did not reply. “Mayhap, then,” she continued, her tone ironic, “to have someone to properly care for his home? To take care of him? Or, more likely, so that he never has to go to dinner alone, or to wonder who it is that someone might be plotting to introduce him to."
She heard him laugh behind her.
“I would take good care of you, Roxane,” he said.
“How so, Collier Harrison?” she countered, striding deeper into the garden. “With the purchase of frivolous things? I am not, nor will I ever be, the sort of woman who agrees to be kept, in any fashion. I cannot be bought with gifts. I will not be made happy with whimsical substitutes for a man's respect or affection. My mother lived in a house filled to capacity with such superfluous tokens, and never knew a happy day. Even I was not capable of bringing her joy in the end—
“ She stopped abruptly, in the deeply shadowed center of the path. Collier came to a halt, his arms enveloping her in an instinctive gesture of comfort. He pulled her back against his broad chest, pressing his lips into her hair.
“Hush, sweetheart, hush..."
Roxane scrubbed her head back and forth beneath his chin. Slowly, he turned her about, holding her elbows cupped in his two hands and bending close.
“I do love you, Roxane."
She stared down at the polished buttons on his jacket and shook her head.
“Collier ... how can you be certain it is me you want?"
Before speaking, he brushed the curling tendrils of hair from her shoulders. He made a long and detailed process of this, his fingers warm across her skin, and then his mouth twisted wryly.
“I don't know what I can say to assuage your fear and your doubt. I only know I am certain it is you that I want, Roxane. There has never been anyone who has resided in my heart with such magnitude and grace."
“Pretty words,” she said, and was silent. Lifting her hands to his chest, she plucked at a button's shiny edge.
“Do you love me, Roxane?"
Beneath her open palm, his heart began to beat as if he had been running. As if from a great distance, she heard the music and voices, but nearer and closer to her soul was the patient cadence of Collier's breathing, quite out of keeping with the swift flow of his blood. Her own heart contracted in a cacophony of fear and hope and a joy that was its own agony. Tears started to her eyes. She blinked them back.
“I will not weep,” she whispered. “Not for you or any other man."
“I will not ask it of you."
She made a quick movement of denial with her hand. He grasped her fingers, holding them close.
“Do you love me, Roxane?"
The earth was spinning beneath her feet; she could feel it spinning, and she fought very hard to remain upright. And then she stepped forward, into his arms that gathered her close, steadying her in her headlong flight. She pressed her forehead against his jacket, smelled the scent of him, of soap and of maleness, and of the dust and the sun of India.
“You know that I do,” she said in a voice so small he might not ever have heard her, had not the world gone so suddenly still.
Chapter Eight
Sprinkling dry flower petals in between her gowns, Roxane packed them fastidiously into her trunk. The whole house was in a fervor, preparations under way for certain of the staff and for the Stantons, including this year the colonel, to leave the heat of Calcutta behind for the coolness of a hill station. In June, the furnace days were unbearable to Augusta, though Unity tolerated the
temperatures somewhat better; afterward, the monsoons would come. These, Roxane was informed by Unity, though a relief at first, were soon worse than the heat. Roxane could not imagine how that would be possible, but she commiserated, and continued her packing.
Several days earlier, she had telegraphed her father to advise of the approximate date of her arrival. The message she had received in return with the morning post had expressed delight, and little more. She knew nothing of the house where she would be staying—not of its routine, nor its members, nor of the company she would be keeping. She had made no mention to her father of Collier Harrison, though she was not certain why. When the opportunity arose, he would visit, he had promised that he would, and there would be time enough for explanations then. In the meantime, she meant to keep to herself her relationship with the captain, and all the emotions contained therein. She felt no contrition in this secrecy. She did not know her father well enough to reveal to him the contents of a heart which had never, by his own choice, beat within his realm.
“Captain Harrison is going to miss you, Roxane,” said Unity, as if following her thoughts, as she bent to place a small pile of books into a crate. Unity read voraciously, a habit which Roxane encouraged, though not always her choice of material.
“I will miss him, also,” Roxane answered, carefully folding away between tissue paper the cream-colored gown she had worn the week before to the ball. Running her fingers over the fabric, she remembered the way it had felt with the slight pressure of his hand rolling it against her skin. She could scarcely breathe for the memory.
“Roxane, you're looking quite flushed,” Augusta commented, breezing into the room with a padded wicker case. She paused beside Roxane's crouched form in concern. “Are you well?"
“We were discussing Captain Harrison,” Unity volunteered. Roxane shot her a withering glance from beneath her lashes, which Unity cheerfully ignored.
“Indeed,” Augusta sniffed, continuing across the room. She set about loading the wicker case with sundry items. She had not been happy with Collier Harrison, Roxane knew, since the night of the ball. She had been even less happy with Roxane, when she had discovered that her charge cared little for the opinion of their neighbors in regard to her reputation and was only sorry for the embarrassment she might have caused the Stantons. The woman had been further disconcerted to discover both her husband and her daughter siding with Roxane, and had decided to wash her hands of the whole matter. Whatever it was that they were teaching young women in London nowadays, she had proclaimed, it was ludicrously ill-conceived.
But now she seemed unable to help herself as she leaned once more in Roxane's direction.
“If that young man had declared himself, Roxane, your reputation need not have suffered at all. I am honestly disappointed to find him behaving in such an ungentlemanly fashion."
Rocking back on her heels, Roxane rose, dusting her hands on her apron. She opened her mouth to answer, yet Unity, no doubt annoyed at the attack on a man of whom she was so fond, and taking full advantage of Roxane's delay in speaking, blurted first:
“He has declared himself, Mother! He asked Roxane to marry him that very night of the ball at Government House."
Roxane's mouth snapped shut, as did Augusta's, with an audible click. Roxane watched all color drain from the woman's countenance. She put a hand to her temple, smoothing back her brown hair as she attempted to regain her composure.
“Did he truly ask you such a thing, Roxane?"
“Of course he did,” Unity answered.
“I am speaking to Roxane,” Augusta stated flatly.
“Yes,” Roxane admitted, “he did."
“Why did you not mention this sooner?"
Roxane resumed her seat on the floor, folding another item of clothing across her knee. She scarcely saw what it was, nor how badly she was creasing the fabric.
“It was talk, only. And I mentioned it to Unity later that night, after breakfast, in strict confidence."
Abashed, Unity grew still.
“What, exactly, was this ‘talk'? What, precisely, did he say?"
“I don't remember,” Roxane lied, flopping the shirtwaist into the trunk.
“If I received a proposal,” Unity said in a hushed voice, “I should remember every detail, every single word. Of course, a soldier is not free to just marry. He must gain permission to do so, by dispensation or something. Do you think he will approach Mother and Father about it before we leave?” she whispered, looking earnestly at Roxane. “I mean, as your father is in Delhi."
“It doesn't matter that my father is in Delhi, Unity,” said Roxane. “And I did not say I would marry Captain Harrison, so there is nothing to discuss with anyone."
“But surely you want to?"
“I haven't thought about it, Unity."
This seemed to give the girl enough to digest that she remained, for a few moments, absolutely silent. Roxane resumed packing, hoping no one would notice how badly her hands were shaking.
“Unity is right,” announced Augusta, after several minutes. “A soldier is not at liberty to marry; even an officer below a certain rank must gain express permission to do so, and I have heard no inkling that our Captain Harrison has engaged himself in that manner."
Roxane paid special attention to the meeting of the lacy corners of her handkerchiefs before placing them in the wardrobe.
“As I have said,” she murmured, tucking in the loose edge of a skirt, “it was only talk."
“Only talk, indeed,” murmured Augusta, rising from her seat. Coming to Roxane's side, the woman took her chin between slender fingers, lifting her face for a better study. Roxane witnessed the woman frown before she was released. Augusta returned to her own packing, yet when she spoke again, her tone had altered.
“Roxane, has Captain Harrison made improper advances to you? Has he taken advantage of your sentiments for him? Oh, good Lord,” she breathed, “has more than your reputation been ruined? Unity,” she commanded in a harried rush, “you shall leave the room, now."
Roxane looked up sharply, laying her hand on the young girl's arm to prevent her from rising. “Mrs. Stanton, there is no need to send Unity out. Nothing untoward has occurred. I remain chaste.” She pronounced each syllable swiftly and with exacting vigilance, lest she be misunderstood, before returning her attention to the petticoat in her grasp, wrinkled beyond recognition. With the heel of her palm, she smoothed the garment over her lap before folding it and adding it to the others. Behind her, the room was silent save for the ever-present creak of the punkah. Roxane looked over her shoulder, surprising a glance exchanged between mother and daughter.
Augusta stood up once again from her seat, shaking her skirts out. “Nonetheless, Roxane, I think it wise to suggest to Colonel Stanton that he speak with the captain's superior officer. Even if it was only ‘talk’ as you say, you are ill-used if he has led you astray. He can be made to keep his word, Roxane."
Roxane stood also. She untied her apron and slid it from her shoulders, dropping it over the open trunk. “I must insist, Mrs. Stanton,” she stated carefully, “that you make no suggestions of any kind. I am nearly twenty-one years of age. My honor is as I deem it. I can live with what I have and have not done in my life. But should you create a situation which forces the hand of Captain Harrison against his will, especially when I have made him no promises, although I would understand your reasons I could not forgive your methods. Now, if you will excuse me, I told the gardener I would speak with him regarding certain items he wishes carried to his brother in Delhi."
Roxane left the room without witnessing the second exchange between Augusta Stanton and her daughter; she had already exited the house by the time Unity burst into tears. And she was unaware when Unity left the residence in the company of her ayah and her father's syce to search out a certain captain's bungalow, only to find, once she had arrived, that he was not there and that no one knew where he had gone, nor when he would be returning.
There ha
d been a letter, offered one young officer, that Harrison had long been awaiting; it came today, with a note attached, and not through the usual post. He had left it lying about somewhere, if she would care to wait a moment? Oh, yes, here it was, with an address scrawled across and the hour of meeting and a mention, here, of his engagement...
Eagerly, and with no compunction, Unity took the letter from the soldier's hand, scanning it with lips moving in silent recitation of the words. And then she faltered, and read again, before mutely folding the letter and handing it back to the eager young man.
Would the pretty lady require assistance in locating the elusive Captain Harrison?
No, Unity replied, with uncharacteristic terseness, the pretty lady would not. Climbing into the buggy unaided, she drew a deep, steadying breath. For a moment, and one moment only, she vacillated as to her course of action, and then she leaned forward, tapping the driver on the shoulder. Without further qualm, she gave him the address she had read on the note attached to Captain Harrison's letter.
* * * *
Roxane paused to rest in the shade of a hedge that had been planted on the raised earth behind a low, whitewashed brick wall. At home in London, whenever she was troubled, she had walked to aid her in sifting through the problem at hand. However, in England it was never this ungodly hot. Although the day was fast approaching night, there was still that languid, steamy appearance to the air, as though when one looked into the distance, one was looking through a pall of invisible smoke. Images wavered, vanished, reappeared, depending on one's vantage point. In the garden behind the wall, Roxane could hear the strident hot-weather call of the brain-fever bird—"are you ill? are you ill? brain fever! brain fever!"—and the dreadful monotonous knocking of the barbet, as if someone were hammering with the same stroke against hollow wood, over and over.
Dabbing at her perspiring brow and throat with her handkerchief, Roxane could not help but view her departure after her interview with the gardener as less than wise. At this point, she was not exactly certain how far she had walked. A short rest was in order, to be most sensibly followed by something to drink. She turned to peer through the hedge at her back, wondering if she would be considered more rude than desperate if she were to approach the house and request something in the way of liquid nourishment. Smiling at the idea of what knocking on a stranger's door with that particular request would do to her already sullied reputation, heaping eccentricity atop moral turpitude, she decided it made no difference. Etiquette was one matter, health another.