Veils of Silk

by Mary Jo Putney

  Ian nodded, enlightened. "That must be why he talked of you as a much younger girl. That was the image he carried in his mind."

  Her hands clenched convulsively. "My mother always said Pyotr's taste for adventure would lead to death in some wild, distant place."

  "It did," Ian said, "but not before he had seen and done things most men only dream of. He told me once that only a poor-spirited coward would want to die in his own bed."

  "How did you know him?"

  "We were prisoners together in the Black Well of Bokhara." Ian's throat tightened. He hated speaking of what had happened there, but Lara had a right to know. "There are many Russian slaves in Bokhara, and the Foreign Office was worried that they would provide an excuse for the tsar to invade and annex the khanate. I was sent to Bokhara to ask the amir to release the slaves, which would remove a source of provocation.

  "Unfortunately I made the mistake of going to Kokand first, and the amir decided that meant I was a spy. He threw me into the Black Well, where Pyotr had been imprisoned for six months. We shared the cell for a year. In the end, he saved my life."

  Laura gave Ian a searching look. "How?"

  "The amir finally decided to execute me. When the guards came, I was feverish, out of my head. Pyotr Andreyovich insisted on going in my place."

  Ian stared into the fire, remembering. In the last moments before he was taken away, Pyotr had tried to tell Ian something, speaking with frantic urgency, but Ian was so delirious that he had understood only that his friend was going to die. He remembered nothing else. Ever since, he had had the frustrating sense that he had missed something vital, yet no matter how much he tried, he couldn't recall what. "Pyotr said that a quick execution was better than staying in the Black Well and dying slowly of the lung condition he had."

  Her brows drew together. "Why did the guards accept him in your place?"

  "Probably it never occurred to them that anyone would choose to be executed before his time," Ian replied. "It helped that Pyotr and I were about the same height, both skinny as scarecrows, and with beards covering most of our faces. His hair was darker than mine, but we were so filthy that the differences weren't obvious—especially not to men who thought that all ferengis, all Europeans, looked much the same."

  Tears glinted in Laura's eyes. "So because you were younger and more likely to survive, Pyotr gave you a chance at life."

  Yes, and it had been an excruciatingly difficult gift to accept. But that was not something that Pyotr's niece needed to know. "I heard later that your uncle died with great bravery. He stood straight and crossed himself, saying that he died a Christian. Then he commended his soul to God."

  "Strange," she murmured. "I didn't know he was religious."

  "Perhaps he wasn't earlier, but prison has a way of reducing life to its essentials." Ian had envied Pyotr his faith, which had grown through the months until it became a beacon that warmed them both. Then Pyotr had died, and the light had died with him.

  Visibly bracing herself, she asked, "How was he executed?"

  More and more, Ian admired her. India polarized European women, making them either frail or strong. Laura was not frail. "Pyotr was beheaded," Ian replied. "It's unpleasant to think of, but quick and relatively painless. The amir considered himself humane when he changed from hanging to beheading."

  "Forgive me if I'm not impressed by the amir's kindness," she said dryly. "But at least you managed to survive. Did the British government arrange for your release from prison?"

  "They were quite willing to assume that I was dead," Ian said, not quite able to conceal his bitterness. "My sister and her husband came to Bokhara and rescued me from that damned hole by sheer bluster."

  Laura's eyes rounded. "Your sister?"

  "Juliet is rather remarkable. If you like, I'll tell you the whole story later, but now I want to carry out Pyotr's last request." Ian dug into his baggage and extracted a small rectangular package, then handed it to Laura. "He asked me to see that you got this if I ever had the chance. Since I knew where your stepfather was stationed, I decided to deliver it in person."

  She unwrapped the waterproof covering to find a small Russian Bible. The volume was a work of art, with a cover of tooled leather and a hand-painted frontispiece that depicted the Virgin and Child in the distinctive style of the Orthodox Church. But the greatest value lay in the fact that every available inch of blank paper was covered with penciled words written in Russian.

  "It's Pyotr's prison journal," the major said. "He wanted you to have it."

  She thumbed through the Bible, aching inside at the knowledge that her only uncle had written these words, and now he was dead. "Have you read what he wrote?"

  Cameron shook his head. "I learned some spoken Russian from Pyotr, mostly curse words, but I don't read or write the language at all. Can you decipher it?"

  She stopped on a middle page and studied the Cyrillic script, which was so small as to be almost illegible. "My Russian is still fluent and I'm familiar with Uncle Pyotr's hand since he wrote me regularly, but this is almost like a code. He seems to have used abbreviations and left out words to save space." Brow furrowed, she slowly translated, "I think this says 'God be thanked, company has arrived. An Englishman, more's the pity, but better than nothing.'" She smiled, then bit her lower lip. "I'm sorry. I'm sure he didn't mean it as an insult."

  "You needn't apologize for Pyotr. I was equally unenthralled at finding myself sharing quarters with a Russian officer. But in time I realized that I could not have asked for a better companion in adversity.''

  "You knew him far better than I did. To me, Pyotr was a magical figure, not quite real. He would swoop in every few years bearing gifts and telling tales, I remember one story about a great bear that traveled the ice fields of the north searching for the Pole Star. Instead, he found a princess named Lara. The next day, Pyotr was gone again." Remembering, she ran her palm over the gilded leather, wishing she could draw out the essence of her uncle. "Thank you for bringing me this. It helps a little to have something of his."

  The Scots burr in Cameron's voice became more pronounced. "I'm sorry he isn't here in person. If he hadn't sacrificed himself, perhaps he would be. Juliet and Ross would not have left Pyotr in prison if they had found him alive instead of me."

  Hearing the guilt and regret, Laura said, "But you told me Pyotr was very ill. He always had weak lungs, so he probably would not have survived the extra time in prison."

  "There's no way to be sure of that," Ian said tightly. "Neither he nor I were physicians. He might have been strong enough to last another six months."

  The pain in the major's voice made Laura feel a fleeting sense of kinship with him. Pyotr and Kenneth might be beyond grief now, but their survivors would be suffering for a long time. "You mustn't blame yourself for living," she said gently. "If you hadn't, I might never have known what happened to my uncle, nor had this to remember him by."

  Her words didn't go far enough, but she was too drained to manage more. "I'd better get dressed. As you said, it's going to be a difficult day."

  * * *

  For Laura, the hours passed with the distorted, heightened reality of a dream. By the time she had dressed in her one dark gown, the headman of Nanda had arrived. After praising Kenneth's justice and wisdom, the headman offered a burial site on a hill overlooking the small local river.

  Two "untouchable" women came from the village to help Laura prepare her stepfather's body for burial. She was grateful for the women's sympathy and experienced help, and was unsurprised to learn that they had come at Major Cameron's request. His aid was nothing if not practical.

  In a hot climate, burials took place as soon as possible, and all too soon it was time to take Kenneth Stephenson to his final resting spot. His wrapped body was carried on a bamboo bed borne by eight men. In a Hindu family the pallbearers would be close relatives, but these were a mixture of Kenneth's most senior servants and volunteers from the village.

  Laura walked
behind her stepfather's bier. Major Cameron was beside her, silent but quick to help when her steps faltered. Behind them followed the whole population of the village, the women wailing with grief at the loss of the man who had been not only the face of the British Sirkar, but their friend.

  The grave had already been dug and a sturdy wooden cross planted at the head. It was a peaceful place, shaded by a jacaranda tree and cooled by the breeze from the river. In spring, the air would be fragrant with blossoms. Laura watched numbly, her only goal to get through the burial without breaking down in public. This was one occasion when she might have discarded British calm for tempestuous Russian emotion, but over the years control had become second nature to her.

  With no clergyman or prepared service, there was an awkward moment of silence after the interment. Smoothly, before the interval grew too long, Major Cameron began to recite in English, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want..."

  Laura blinked back stinging tears, grateful that Cameron had chosen a psalm that Kenneth had loved rather than the somber burial service.

  After ending, "and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever," Cameron added, "By a man's works we shall know him. Though I didn't have the privilege of knowing Kenneth Stephenson in life, the love and honor shown today by those he served is the highest tribute a man can receive. May he rest in peace."

  The major repeated everything he had said in Urdu, the villagers nodding in approval. After the grave had been filled in, people pressed forward to lay garlands of marigolds on the earthen mound, many of the women openly weeping. As the major had observed, Kenneth Stephenson had been much loved.

  But no one would miss him as much as Laura. As she walked stiffly back to camp, she had never felt so alone in her life.

  Chapter 6

  After the funeral, Laura went straight to her tent, for only there could she allow herself to cry. Tears racked her as afternoon faded and night fell. She was shamed by the knowledge that she wept not only for her stepfather, but also from sorrow for the empty life that lay ahead of her. It was unlikely that she would ever again be so close to another person.

  Eventually her tears dried from sheer exhaustion. She managed to sleep for a few hours, only to wake again in the still hour before dawn. This time there was no disorientation. She knew exactly where she was and what had happened.

  Nothing would bring her stepfather back; it was time to face the rest of her life. Getting to her feet, she located by touch the robe and slippers that her maid always left by the bed.

  Outside the air was pleasantly cool. The forest never slept, and she paused in the door of her tent to take stock. The scene was rather like the morning before, with the servants sleeping around the larger fire. In the distance a hyena howled.

  Much closer was Major Cameron, who sat cleaning a shotgun by the nearer fire. His figure was silhouetted against the light, giving an impression of dark, whipcord power. He was very unlike the civil service administrators Laura knew. Even the other army officers she had met could not match his air of taut, finely honed menace.

  She should have been wary, yet instead she was drawn to him, and not only because he had been kind to her. Something about the man made her feel safe, even though he was not a safe man.

  Hearing her movement, his head came up sharply. Laura held still until he identified her. "Don't you ever sleep, Major?" she asked as she approached the fire and sat in a camp chair.

  "Nowhere near enough. But since I'm insomniac anyhow, I might as well make use of it." He fixed a rag in the split end of the cleaning rod. "This gun should have been cleaned after being fired the night before last, but with so much going on, it got overlooked." As he lifted the barrel of the disassembled weapon, he added, "Call me Ian. I'm not a major anymore."

  "I thought military titles followed a man around for the rest of his life." Laura saw that the shotgun was Kenneth's. She was glad the major had thought to clean the weapon. Her stepfather had always been meticulous in caring for equipment.

  "The army is behind me," Ian said tersely. "I've no desire to be defined by it for the rest of my life."

  Laura must have still been a bit sleepy, or she never would have asked, "Why did you resign?"

  He raised his head and gave her a hard glance that made her sorry she had asked, but before she could withdraw the question, he said tersely, "I'd had enough of the army."

  Wanting to smooth over the awkward moment, she said, "Thank you for... taking care of so many things. The funeral, the guns, everything. I don't know what I would have done without you."

  He began rubbing the pieces of the firing mechanism with an oiled rag. In the ruddy firelight, his face was a dramatic collection of shadows and sharp planes, both fascinating and disquieting. "One way or another, you would have managed."

  "I suppose. But you made everything much easier." She gazed into the fire. "Strange how quickly things can change. A day and a half ago I had a life and a family. Now they're both gone. I'll find something to fill in the empty spaces, but I have no idea what. The idea is a bit frightening."

  Ian frowned as he held the gun barrel to the fire, peering through it to check for cleanliness. "You've no family at all?"

  "Pyotr Andreyovich was the last. I suppose there are some distant cousins in Russia, but none that I remember. My first father was an only child, so there are no near relations on that side. My mother had two older brothers, but one, Sergei, died fighting Napoleon before I was born, and Uncle Pyotr never married. So now there is just me."

  "What about Stephenson's family? They may not be blood relations, but you've been one of them for years."

  Laura's mouth hardened. "They didn't really approve of his marriage to a wild Russian. My mother was too dramatic and unconventional for them—like a peacock among pigeons. She and I were tolerated for my stepfather's sake, but never welcomed."

  Ian began to reassemble the shotgun. "It's hard to imagine having no relatives. I don't see mine very often, but knowing that they exist is a kind of anchor in the world."

  "Be grateful they're an anchor, not a millstone."

  "I've some of both sorts." He gave a faint smile that softened his features. "Do you have plans for the future, Miss Stephenson? Or haven't you had time to think about that?"

  "If I'm to call you Ian, you must call me Laura." She smiled wryly. "I've only known you for a day, but it seems much longer."

  "You don't like the name Lara? Pyotr always called you that, and the name suits you. It's unusual."

  "I prefer Laura. I'm used to it and there's nothing unusual about me," she said uneasily. "I'm a thoroughly unremarkable female. As for plans... I really don't know. My father left me a bit of income, enough for me to survive, but not much more, so I suppose I'll go to a city and look for employment. I'd make a decent teacher or governess, and the work would save me from boredom. After running my father's household for years, I'm used to being busy."

  "That sort of menial job would be burdensome for a woman used to being independent." He hesitated a moment. "I know it's none of my business, but marriage and family are what most women want. It's to your credit that you chose to make a home for your stepfather, but now he's gone. India must be full of men who would be honored if you would accept them. In return, you would have comfort, family, and the security of being loved."

  He sounded just like her stepfather. Laura recalled that she'd told Kenneth that she would look for a husband if he died. She dismissed the promise; she had given it only for his peace of mind. Wanting to avoid the topic of marriage, she said, "I don't know if I'll stay in India. I might return to England."

  He reassembled the shotgun, the barrel locking into place with a decisive snap. "Then you won't want a husband whose career will keep him here. But for a woman as attractive as you, there will be eager suitors wherever you go."

  Though the words were a compliment, his manner was so detached as to be downright irritating. He might say she was attractive, but he certainly didn't act as if
he believed his own words. Tartly she said, "I really don't wish to tie myself to a husband. I've gotten along without one perfectly well for twenty-four years and I don't see the need to marry now. I'm quite capable of taking care of myself."

  He gave her an appraising glance. "You sound like a woman who has been pestered on this subject before. My apologies."

  He saw more with one eye than most people saw with two. Hastily Laura said, "Are we leaving for Baipur in the morning? I was so distracted yesterday that I didn't make any preparations, but there's no reason to stay here any longer."

  He lifted her father's rifle and began to break it down for cleaning. "Unfortunately there's still the man-eater. With your father gone, the responsibility for killing it has devolved on me. This afternoon the headman asked if I'd have a go at it."

  "I'd forgotten about the tiger," she admitted. "Tracking the man-eater could take days or weeks."

  "I'm afraid so," he said apologetically. "You might prefer to return to Baipur with your servants rather than wait for me to escort you. While I won't stay here indefinitely, I should try for at least a fortnight before giving up."

  Laura hesitated, feeling that the decision of whether to stay or go back alone was beyond her. "I'll wait and see. Perhaps you'll shoot the beast on your first attempt."

  "That could happen. The villagers have been diligent, wanting everything ready for when your father came. They've built a machan, a platform, at a water hole that the tiger visits regularly." He used the cleaning rod to push an oiled rag down the rifle's barrel, scrubbing up and down to remove all the corrosive grains of black powder. "The moon will be almost full tonight, so they'll stake out a kid as bait. If the tiger cooperates, it might be all over by tomorrow."

  "I assume you've hunted tigers before."

  "Yes, though it's been five years." He began rubbing the rifle's hammer with the oiled rag, his expression distant. "The last time was when my brother-in-law visited and I took him hunting in the hill country north of Cambay. We spent several days stalking a tiger before cornering it in a rocky gorge.