by Jade Lee
It took long, sickening moments as the conveyance slowed, dipping and swaying through the ruts. Then, eventually, Hank’s face popped in.
“Yes, yer lord . . .” His voice trailed away as he stared at his employer. Then the boy scrambled inside, grabbing hold of Brandon. “I got ye.”
They made it outside with barely enough time. Brandon was on his knees, casting up his accounts. The boy and the coachman held him up, doing their best to not jostle his wounds. They failed, of course, but perhaps it was for the best. If the pain became great enough, he would pass out.
He waited and hoped, but remained stubbornly conscious. Five minutes later, he collapsed to the side and lay in the grass. It was only because of Hank that he didn’t slide straight into the ditch.
“It ain’t much farther, my lord. Just about a half hour.”
A half hour. A half century. It didn’t matter. “Slit my throat, Hank. Finish me off. I’m begging you.”
“You’ll feel better once we get you home.”
No, he wouldn’t. Once there, he was likely to feel a good deal worse, but he hadn’t the breath to tell the boy that.
“Here,” said the boy as he pressed a torn piece of white bread into his hand. “Lady Scher gave this to me for you. She said if you get too sick, I was to give this to you to eat. Soaks up the bile, she said. Course she didn’t think you’d be going all the way out here.”
Brandon pressed his lips together, refusing the bread. The ache in his soul grew exponentially at the mention of Scheherazade. He wouldn’t take anything from her. He couldn’t. It wasn’t honorable and she deserved better than the likes of him.
“Er, now,” said the coachman gruffly from the other side. “Don’t waste it.”
“You eat it, Hank,” he whispered.
“Can’t,” the boy responded cheerfully. “She said it were fer you. Don’t make me into a liar, my lord. Not to Lady Scher.”
Brandon didn’t respond. A breeze was flowing over his body, drying the sweat on his face. He heard a bird call in loud notes from somewhere. Something else buzzed closer by. The ditch wasn’t pleasant, but the breeze brought new scents to his nose, something floral and sweet.
“It’s pretty ’ere,” commented Hank. “I ain’t never been out o’ London afore.” Then he sniffed loudly. “Smells nicer.”
“Yup,” responded the coachman. “There’s a tavern up the way a bit. Good stew.”
Scheherazade would like it here, Brandon thought. She would have her green grass and the sweet smell of flowers. Her children would have a place to run, and the neighbors were of a more tolerant sort. That’s why he had settled Channa here, pleased that the locals seemed open to an Indian woman in their midst. If only Channa had made the effort.
He took another breath and was pleasantly surprised to discover he wasn’t as nauseated as before. His pain had subsided to a dull misery. It would rise up again the moment he tried to move, but at the moment, he took another breath and felt grateful for the respite.
And when Hank pressed a mouthful of bread to his lips, he opened without thought. He chewed and swallowed before realizing that he had just eaten Scheherazade’s bread. And damn if it didn’t make his stomach settle just as she’d promised.
“Give ’im the water too,” the coachman instructed.
A flask was pressed awkwardly to his lips. Brandon had no choice but to swallow or drown. He drank. Then he ate another morsel.
“’At’s it, my lord,” Hank said. “Lady Scher would be right pleased.”
Brandon lifted his hand enough to grab Hank’s wrist. “Hank,” he rasped.
“My lord?”
“Mention Lady Scher again and you’re sacked.”
He slept for nearly a day, his thoughts miserable, his gut worse. But by morning of the second day, he was heartily sick of this tiny guest room on the sunny side of the house. Surprisingly enough, Hank was turning into an excellent young valet. With a little help from the housekeeper, he had hung up Brandon’s small satchel of clothes, assisted whenever nature demanded that Brandon move, and best of all, kept everyone else away. And now that Brandon wished to bestir himself, the boy turned out to have a steady hand with a razor as well.
And he didn’t once mention Scheherazade.
“There’s bread and jam,” Hank said cheerfully. “Mrs. Wiggins says there’ll be berries and cream any day now. But for today . . . custard!”
It was a measure of Brandon’s improvement that the words did not turn his stomach.
“She let me have a bit of honey too. Never had it afore in tea, but she says it’s the best way to take tea.”
“It is,” Brandon agreed and nearly smiled when the boy pulled back enough to stare. Brandon arched a brow. “Is there a problem?”
“No, my lord! No! It’s jes the nicest thing you’ve said in a week. Not a bit of a grunt or a moan in there at all.”
Brandon frowned. That couldn’t possibly be true. He wasn’t completely surly, was he? “Finish my shave, boy,” he said with a return of gruffness, but it was softened by his smile. “As I’m obviously not going to die, I intend to get up and dressed.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Yes, my lord! Right away, my lord!” Then he returned with a great deal of enthusiasm to scraping at Brandon’s face.
“Easy, Hank. After all this healing, I wouldn’t want to die of a slit throat now.” He would have taken the razor from the boy’s hand, except Brandon’s hands were much too unsteady. It wasn’t that he trembled. The shakes only came when the pain became white hot. It was this damnable weakness. He felt quite fine for fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, but then he had to rest because he was utterly spent. Thankfully, he was much improved from yesterday and even the day before. At this rate, he should be healthy within a week. If only Scher were here to give him more incentive to remain conscious.
“Slow and steady,” Hank said, referring to his work with the razor. The boy’s eyes were nearly crossed with concentration, and he even stuck his tongue between his teeth as he worked. Eventually, the task was done without bloodshed, and Hank scrambled off the bed with obvious pride.
“I’ll need help with my clothes,” Brandon said, “and then I’d like to visit Mrs. Wiggins, please.”
“Yes, my lord. Of course!”
Brandon caught himself just before he gave the child a fond smile. He ought to feel annoyed by such overwhelming enthusiasm, but he found he was not in an irritable mood. The sun was shining, his body was healing, and he felt true hunger for the first time since being stabbed. If he wasn’t happy, at least he wasn’t suicidal.
In short, it was time again to face his future and try for some sort of happiness. His mind immediately went to Scher, but he pushed the thought away. She had made her choice as had he. Dwelling on what could never be would turn him into . . . He flinched away from finishing that thought. It was time to move forward, he repeated to himself. And so he applied himself to donning clean clothes.
An hour later, he had finished his rather grim talk with Mrs. Wiggins and was now headed at an extraordinarily slow pace down the hallway to his wife’s bedroom. In truth, it was the master bedroom, but he had given it over to her as she required the most care. Her maid was given the attached lady’s bedroom, which relegated him on his infrequent visits to the small guest bedroom beside the nursery.
The maid, Nidra, opened the door quietly at his knock. She smiled prettily, then ducked her head in respect. Dark skin, dark eyes, and a pretty white frock. Nidra must be a teenager now, he realized, and enjoying England by the looks of her robust health. What a contrast to her mistress Channa.
His wife sat by the fire, staring down at the dancing flames. She was swathed in bright fabrics that wrapped her from head to toe, and yet she didn’t appear to sweat in the blistering heat of the room. He saw little skin—only on her bare feet and face—but what he could see was sallow and dull.
“Not a good day, my lord,” said Nidra in perfect English.
“My goodne
ss,” he responded warmly, “how wonderful you speak now.”
She giggled at his compliment, then abruptly slapped her hand over her mouth with a frightened look at her mistress. Other times he had let the gesture pass. He knew Channa hated noise, any noise, but most especially joyful ones. His wife had sat before the fire mourning her family for nearly two years now. It was time for both of them to leave off this oppressive darkness of spirit.
So thinking, he reached out and pulled Nidra’s hand from her mouth. “I like the sound of laughter,” he said gently. “Never cover it up.”
Her eyes widened at his unusual firmness. Then she nodded slowly at him, before her gaze once again hopped to Channa’s. His wife hadn’t moved. In truth, he wasn’t entirely sure she still breathed.
“I hear that there is custard downstairs. You should go see if you can get some before my valet eats it all.”
She flashed him a grin, nearly forgot to curtsey, then dashed out the door. He smiled, watching her go. Indian or English, all children liked custard.
He stepped farther into the room, closing the door gently as he moved. “I remember running down for custard too, once upon a time,” he said in his wife’s native tongue, though there wasn’t a Hindi word for custard. “And I understand that Cook’s is excellent. I should have some brought up here for us to try before Nidra and Hank gobble it all down.” He settled slowly into the chair beside the fire, though the heat was nearly unbearable. “Do you remember me telling you about custard, Channa? I promised you huge vats of it, I believe. And you laughed and asked me if it was something to wash laundry in.”
She didn’t answer, not that he had expected her to. She remained as she always did, according to Mrs. Wiggins. She sat day and night beside the fire, staring into the flames. Beside her was a basket of fabric and a pair of long, sharp scissors. According to the housekeeper, on Channa’s better days, his wife cut pieces of cloth into fantastic shapes and designs. Then she one by one fed them to the fire.
He leaned back slowly, feeling the pull of his wound. He would not last long sitting up. The ache was already traveling up his back and down his legs. Soon he would not be able to breathe without panting in pain. But for now, he would sit and talk with his wife.
“I met a woman, Channa, a most amazing woman. The daughter of an actress.”
He glanced over at his wife, trying to see some flash of life in her. She remained still, her eyes unfocused as she gazed into the fire.
“She is the most unrealistic creature on Earth,” he said with a laugh. The sound was forced, but Channa gave no sign she noticed. Or even listened. “She believes that she can be respectable, Channa. She believes that marriage will give her everything she wants.”
He sobered slightly as he looked at his wife. Her gaze had not moved. Neither had her body. So he reached forward, rooting through the fabric of her dress until he found one slender hand. She stiffened. He could tell that much, but he was determined. Slowly he pulled her hand out from beneath the cloth.
It was small and ashy in his palm. He recalled the way she had touched him so long ago. She had been shy, her hand tentative, and her fingers trembling with excitement. There had been such life in her, such wonder and giddy girl delight, and he had been seized by such lust at her fluttering caress. Now her fingers lay like dead things in his hand.
“She is ridiculous,” he continued, “but the more time one spends with her, the more one believes. She has such strength that I cannot help but think she will succeed.”
He entwined his fingers with hers. He tried to tug her closer, to somehow pull her gaze to his, but she did not budge. In the end, he was the one who moved. He shifted to his knees, putting himself before her such that she was forced to look in his eyes.
“If she can do it with her lower-caste upbringing, with her lack of anything respectable, then how much easier it will be for us, Channa.” He reached up with his free hand, touching her cheek as tenderly as he knew how. “We were happy once. We can be so again. We merely need to try, Channa.”
She didn’t answer, but her gaze was fixed on his face. She was looking at him. Maybe he was getting through.
“Tell me what you need, Channa. Tell me and it shall be yours. I am a lord in this country, a wealthy man respected throughout.” He tried not to wince at the lie, but it was true enough for her purposes. “As my wife, you can have anything. Fine clothing. Good food.”
Of course, she already had all that this last year to no avail. So he swallowed and forced himself to offer what he never had before.
“We could travel, if you like. To the Continent. There may be a way to visit India. The northern parts, perhaps . . .”
There was a flicker in her eyes at that, but no response.
“Would you like that?”
No response.
“Or,” he said softly, and then he again reached up and forced himself to caress slowly—sensuously—down her cheek. “Or if you would like to step into your life as a mother, we could try that as well. I am prepared to be a proper husband to you, if you want.” He tried not to see another face as he touched her. Another smile, another skin, another woman. “We could have children.”
He waited, his belly taut with pain, but his body still. He needed some sign from her, some hint that Channa was still with him. He didn’t care if she wasn’t the vibrant girl from two years ago. He wasn’t even sure he could handle such a woman. He simply wanted a person rather than this empty shell. Anything could be accomplished if only there was still life in his wife.
“Channa? Will you try?”
She moved. Her eyes remained trained on him, but her free hand slid off her lap. He didn’t dare look to see what she was doing, couldn’t risk breaking the link of their gazes. But he was excruciatingly aware of her slow movement as her hand slid down her thigh to reach below the chair.
He didn’t at first understand what she was doing. And when he did, he didn’t believe. He still remembered her laughter, half hidden behind her hand. He saw the skipping, barefoot girl he had first met that day he walked to her father’s home. His memory was filled with the happy echoes of her voice as she chided her sisters to stay away from the English master.
So when she grabbed her scissors and tried to stab him, he was both stunned and not surprised at all. She had no strength, and he was fast enough to stop her. Even as she strained with all her frail weight to impale him, he could not shake the echoes of her laughter the first time he had winked at her . . . and she had winked back.
He held her arm high and slowly twisted her wrist until the scissors clattered to the floor. He thought she was breathing heavily from the effort of trying to kill him. She was certainly panting from her exertions. But it wasn’t until he’d pulled her empty hand back down to her lap that he realized she was speaking. One word, repeated over and over in a voice so unused to speaking that it sounded more like a grunt than a word.
“Mama,” she said. “Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama!”
Her hand pressed to her belly and she began to rock.
“Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama!”
He pushed wearily to his feet, having seen this kind of fit before. When she began rocking like that, there would be no speaking to her for hours. She would continue like that, refusing food and water, soiling herself when her body demanded, completely unmanageable until exhaustion made her collapse. Any attempts to moderate the fit only made it worse.
He shuffled awkwardly to the door, hauling it open. He didn’t need to call. Nidra sat outside the door, her eyes wide with horror as she peeked inside. For an insane moment, Brandon thought to block the girl’s view. She shouldn’t be exposed to such despair.
Then he realized he was being ridiculous. Everyone in this household was well used to Channa’s fits. More so than he was. So he stepped back, pain biting into his chest as his belly wound pulled. He didn’t leave though. This was his wife. He would stay and give what assistance he could.
So he stood there and watched as Nidra
rushed to her mistress’s side and began singing a Hindi lullaby. He didn’t understand the words, nor could he really make out the tune. All he heard was Channa’s word repeated over and over as she tried to kill him.
“Mama! Mama! Mama!”
He closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall when the pain from his belly began radiating through out his chest and back. Soon his own silent chant covered his wife’s.
Scher. Scher. Scher.
Chapter 19
Brandon wiped Channa’s spit off his face and wasn’t surprised to find his handkerchief dotted with blood as well. She had used her nails this time to surprising effect. At least she hadn’t gone for the scissors. Was that progress? Probably not, since he’d had the weapon removed after her first attempt to kill him.
A week had gone by in his country idyll. He daily tried to work with his wife, and as had happened all the other times, his efforts were steadily repulsed. There seemed to be no difference in her response whether he approached her with gentle respect or firm discipline or any combination of both. Touch didn’t help. Neither did food, isolation, or firm commands. And the daily battle was wearing on them both. Channa appeared wilder every day, and he was retiring to his library earlier and earlier in the day.
It was almost noon when he heard the rider approach. He was in Channa’s room reading to her from a book he had purchased in India. His understanding of her language was not the best, but it was a children’s book and he could manage most of it. She was rocking herself, her eyes on the banked fire, but the chanting had stopped, so maybe she was listening. Either way, he heard the rider and set the book aside with a sigh of relief.
“Do you hear that, Channa? I believe that’s the doctor. You remember him, don’t you? Dr. Dandin has been studying in London. I’m going to go talk to him, and then bring him up here after lunch. Would you like that? Would you like to see Dr. Dandin again?”
Typically, she didn’t respond, but Nidra perked up noticeably. The girl actually reminded him of how Channa used to be: bright, expressive, and so curious about the world outside her doors. And every time he looked at her, he wondered what Channa would be like if she had never married him, if he had never met her family, if he hadn’t caused the death of everyone she knew and loved.