Veils of Silk

by Mary Jo Putney

  Aye, I deserve to burn in hell. At least I'll probably see more of my old friends there than I would in heaven.

  Laura frowned at her transcription. There it was again, that reference to a fire that might destroy India. She must speak to Ian and see if Pyotr had ever mentioned his "clever, wicked scheme." It was hard to imagine what he might have done that could cause the kind of disaster he referred to. She suspected that he exaggerated the importance of his work.

  With a sigh, she flexed her fingers to ease a cramp. The more of her uncle's journal she read, the more she regretted not having known the old reprobate better. Would he have discussed the nature of paradise with her if they had met again when she was grown, or would he have kept such irreverent speculation to himself? Now she would never know. Just as she was unlikely ever to know what his "clever, wicked scheme" was.

  She and Ian had decided to stay over the day after the ball in order to recover from the occasion, and to take care of remaining business. After breakfast—when Ian had not only eaten a sizable meal but asked for seconds—the two of them had gone separate ways.

  Laura made farewell calls to the most senior wives, including Blanche Baskin, who teased her about midnight swims with her handsome husband. Then she returned to the bungalow, packed her belongings, and was free for the rest of the day. She was glad to have the time for her uncle's journal.

  3rd May. Ian still hasn't been returned to the Well. If they made the same offer to him as to me, did he take it? I don't know, can't even guess, though we have come to know each other so well. He may have done as I once would have, thinking himself obliged to take any chance that might lead to freedom. But he's a stubborn lad, and may instead have told the tempters to do something rude and anatomically impossible. So he may be free, or he may, God forbid, have been executed. I pray that it is the former, and that he will find his way home.

  5th May. Selfish of me, but I miss Ian's company terribly. The cold seems colder, the darkness blacker, the loneliness well-nigh unbearable. I try to sleep as much as possible.

  6th May. Ian is back, raving and horribly beaten. They lowered him down like a slab of meat. There's a viciousness to the injuries that turns even a stomach as hardened as mine. If he survives he may be blind, and there might be other permanent damage. I have done what I can to help, but it is so pathetically little that I weep from frustration. I am an old man with little time left—why could they not have wreaked their havoc on me?

  Pen clamped between bloodless fingers, Laura stared sightlessly into space, the anguish of the Black Well more real than the brilliant Indian sun. So this was when Ian had lost his eye, and probably suffered the injury that had changed his life.

  Afraid of what she might see but unable to stop herself, she looked at the next brief entry.

  20th May. Ian has survived the crisis, at least physically, but barely speaks and will say nothing about what they did to him, or why. Damned fool Englishman must have defied them and is paying the price for it. I now fear more for his spirit than I did for his body.

  Hands shaking, Laura closed the Bible. It would be a pity to blur her uncle's words with her tears.

  Chapter 16

  It had been sheer chance that Ian had found Georgina visiting at her parents' home the day he first returned to Cambay. He had never been to the bungalow that Georgina and her husband occupied, but David had given him instructions, along with a curious glance, and the place proved easy to find.

  Within two minutes of giving his name to the Indian butler, Ian was summoned to the greenery-filled veranda on the side of the house. Georgina had been pinching dead blossoms from a hanging geranium plant, but as Ian entered she turned to face him, her face pale. She wore a pink morning gown and was very lovely, but there was a brittle vulnerability about her that Ian had never seen during their courtship.

  Not bothering with greetings, Georgina said stiffly, "What brings you here today, Lord Falkirk?"

  "I wanted to talk to you before I left." Ian regarded Georgina searchingly. He remembered very clearly the laughter and passionate kisses they had shared, yet now he felt no real kinship with her. Had their relationship been so entirely based on physical attraction that without desire there was nothing left? With Laura, he had felt emotional closeness almost from the beginning, even though there was no physical desire.

  Georgina's memories must have been more disquieting, for she colored under his gaze, picked up a pair of gardening shears, and began to clip some trailing vines with unnecessary violence. "I met Lady Falkirk last night. She was very gracious."

  "Yes, she is." Even if she had pushed him into the lake after her encounter with Georgina, Ian added silently. Deciding to go directly to the purpose of his visit, he said, "I owe you an apology for how I behaved when I returned from Bokhara."

  She lowered the shears and looked at him, her face stark. "They said you were dead, Ian. How could I know otherwise?"

  "You couldn't," he said gently. "Even then I knew that, but I was so devastated at finding you married that I couldn't be reasonable. It wasn't until I calmed down that I saw that the false report of my death must have been the working of a benevolent fate, because it ended our engagement."

  She looked down at her hands, turning the shears over and over. In a small voice, she said, "Are you saying that you never cared for me and are glad that we didn't marry?"

  Wanting to free her from the past and spare her pride without encouraging futile regrets, he said carefully, "What was between us was very real, Georgy. If I hadn't foolishly volunteered to go to Bokhara, we would have married and dealt very well together. When I was in prison I thought of you constantly—you stood for everything that made life worth living.

  "But the man who left, whom you promised to marry, is not the same as the one who returned. Now we are almost strangers to each other. As I am now, I would not make you a decent husband. You deserve better than that."

  Uncertainly she studied his face. "How have you changed, Ian? You don't seem so very different."

  He hesitated, unsure how to convey what he had never defined even to himself. "In prison I looked into the abyss and that changed the way I see life," he said finally. "I don't know if that's good or bad, but it's a profound, very real difference."

  Her brows knit in puzzlement. "What do you mean by the abyss?"

  "It's what's left when everything you value has been stripped away." He gave a thin, humorless smile. "The experience was... educational, but I think that whatever knowledge I gained came at too high a price."

  Georgina frowned, and he saw that she didn't really understand. He hoped she never did. Instead, she asked, "Your wife—has she also looked into the abyss?"

  "Yes, she has," Ian said, a little surprised at his own certainty, but not doubting the truth of his words. "Laura and I fit each other as you and I no longer would, but as you and Gerry can. He is the best of men. Be happy with him."

  It was absolution, and tears formed in Georgina's eyes as she understood. "Thank you, Ian," she said quietly. "I hope you and Laura also find happiness. Or if that's not possible after what happened, at least contentment."

  One last thing needed to be done. Ian pulled the diamond ring from his pocket and held it out to Georgina. "I bought this for you and no one else. I can understand that you don't want to wear it, but perhaps you can keep it for your oldest daughter. Tell her it was from someone who... admired you very much."

  "I'll do that." As she accepted the ring, she gave him the bright smile that had helped sustain him through so many dark months. He felt a surge of affection, different from how he had once felt about her, but equally real. Taking her hand, he kissed her fingertips lightly. "Good-bye, Georgy. Please give my very best wishes to Gerry."

  He turned and left. As he vanished through the door, Georgina sank into a wide cushioned chair and curled up like a child. It had been difficult to see Ian again, but now that the interview was over, she felt a profound sense of relief. Ian was right. He had changed
and she could feel the differences, though she couldn't define them.

  Very likely he was also right when he said that they would no longer suit. Not that she didn't still feel some pangs. It was no accident that she had originally chosen Ian over Gerry. Ian was special and a small part of her heart would always regret what might have been. But now Gerry was her husband; bonds had been forged between them by daily living as well as in the privacy of their bed. They had both rejoiced at the knowledge that she carried their child.

  Their marriage had been severely strained by Ian's return. She had felt guilty, almost sinful, for having accepted Gerry so soon after the reported death of her first fiancé. Ian had honored her by asking her to be his wife, and she felt as if she had betrayed his trust. She suspected that Gerry's feelings were similar, though she wasn't sure. The subject was one they hadn't been able to discuss. Perhaps he feared he was losing her to Ian for the second time, emotionally if not literally.

  She was still on the veranda when her husband returned for lunch and sought her out, with the expression of longing and wariness that had characterized him for weeks. He stopped in the door when he saw her. "Is something wrong, Georgy?" he said uneasily. "You've been crying."

  She rubbed her eyes with the back of one wrist. "Ian Cameron was here."

  "Damnation," Gerry swore, his face darkening. "What did he say this time? I won't allow him to keep upsetting you."

  Georgina shook her head, then rose and went to link her arms around her husband's neck. "He didn't upset me," she whispered. "He came to give me permission to be happy with the man I love."

  At first Gerry didn't understand, but when Georgina's lips met his, everything became clear. He crushed his wife to him and the barrier of guilt and doubt that had risen between them shattered like the walls of Jericho.

  * * *

  A good imagination was in many ways a blessing, but it made reading Pyotr's journal a wrenching experience. His sparse words conjured up the Black Well more effectively than more lurid descriptions would have. Empathy was equally a curse in this case, where the two men who suffered were both so close to her.

  Deciding she'd had enough for one day, Laura thumbed idly through the Bible, counting the number of entries left and reading an occasional phrase of the text, the Russian words echoing in her mind with a resonance rooted in the stones of the St. Petersburg cathedral where her family had worshipped.

  She was almost ready to set the volume aside when her own name unexpectedly leaped out at her from the last page of the book. Pyotr's regular entries had ended about two-thirds of the way through the Bible, but the blank page at the end of the volume contained a letter written directly to Laura. It was dated early in August, the month Pyotr had been executed.

  The hair on the back of Laura's neck prickled as she read it through, stumbling over the translation, for Pyotr's cramped handwriting had deteriorated badly. Once she had the words straight in her head, she wrote them down in English so that she could show the letter to Ian.

  2nd August. Ah, Larissa Alexandrovna, my little Lara, last of the Kushutkins and the Karelians, is there any chance that this volume will ever find its way to your hands? I fear not, yet it is not quite impossible. I heard of an Englishman who left a prison journal not unlike mine. Twenty years after his death, it miraculously arrived in England at the home of his sister.

  So there is a chance you will someday read my musings, particularly if Ian survives, for I have charged him to try to see that you get this. Perhaps you two might meet some day, in India or England. I like that thought, for you, my only niece, are the closest thing to a daughter I have ever known, and Ian, my friend and brother, is the closest to a son that I will ever have. I think that you would like each other.

  But I must not waste this blank paper and my failing strength on maunderings. If this journal reaches you and the journey is safe and possible, I want you to go to Dharjistan, in northwest India. I became friends with the maharajah, Rajiv Singh, as much as an ordinary man can be friends with a prince. I met him while visiting India. Before I returned to Central Asia on this journey that has cost me my life, I left a casket of personal effects, mostly papers, with him. That casket is my bequest to you. If you identify yourself as my only surviving kin, Rajiv Singh will give it to you. Not only is he an honest man, but there is nothing in it to tempt a prince to theft.

  Examine the casket and its contents carefully, and I think you will find the results worth the journey.

  God bless and keep you, child. Remember that you are Russian, but use your pride as a source of love, not hatred.

  * * *

  Business done, Ian was cantering back to David's bungalow when a shout stopped him. "Major Cameron Sahib!"

  He reined in his horse and turned. "Zafir?" he said incredulously as he recognized the turbaned man who galloped toward him with the recklessness of a frontier tribesman.

  As the newcomer pulled his horse up with a wild flourish, Ian laughed aloud. "You old Pathan bandit. I had not thought to see your face again. I asked for you in the regiment and was told you'd gone on leave and wouldn't be back for two months."

  Zafir grinned, a flash of strong white teeth against dark skin and black beard. "Such was my intention, Cameron Sahib, but I heard that you had returned so I turned my horse south again. I wished to see if you had indeed survived or were just a jinn come to see if your troops were living up to your standards."

  Rather belatedly, Zafir gave a respectful salaam. Ian responded by taking the other man's hand and shaking it heartily. Zafir had been his orderly for several years before the trip to Bokhara, and Ian had regretted that the two men would not see each other. "I'm no longer an officer so you needn't worry about my standards. But I fear this must be a short visit, for tomorrow I leave for Bombay to sail for home."

  "I shall accompany you," Zafir announced without an instant's hesitation. "I have a wish to see Bombay." He smiled slyly. "They say the women there are very fine."

  A little taken aback, Ian said, "Do you truly wish to spend your leave in such a way?"

  Zafir had the surprising gray eyes sometimes found among his people, and now a distinct twinkle showed in the smoky depths. "It is as good a way to spend a leave as any other. If you have hired another servant, discharge him. I will do the job better."

  Ian laughed again. False modesty had never been Zafir's strong suit. "I have no servant but I have taken a wife."

  The Pathan's shaggy black brows rose. "Then truly you need a servant. A man should not waste his time on mundane matters when he has a new woman."

  Ian debated a moment. There had been a pleasing intimacy in traveling alone with Laura, but the journey to Bombay was long. It would be convenient to have a servant, especially one so capable. As he came to a decision, Ian recognized that his need for solitude was diminishing. He also liked the idea of traveling with a man whose company he enjoyed. "If you're willing to make the journey, I'd be delighted to have you."

  The men spent several minutes more catching up on news, and a time was set for Zafir to join them the next morning. Then, whistling softly, Ian rode the rest of the way home, eager to see Laura and tell her of his day. Eagerness was as new as laughter.

  A pleasant breeze was blowing, and he found Laura taking advantage of it by sitting on the veranda. He went up the steps two at a time, then gathered her into his arms for a hug. She was a delightful armful, soft and faintly scented with jasmine. After the ball last night, he'd slept the whole night through with her in his arms. It was the best rest he'd ever had.

  Though Laura seemed abstracted, she smiled up at him. "You're in tearing high spirits. You've had a successful day?"

  "I made the arrangements for Leela and her son." Ian perched on the veranda railing, one leg swinging. "And you were right that I should talk to Georgina. Not only does she feel better now, but I do as well."

  "Really?" Laura cocked her head. "Why is that?"

  He toyed with his topi as he thought about it. "I th
ink it was another step in putting the past behind me. Accepting what I have rather than being angry about what I haven't. A simple concept, but as you once said, it's the sort of thing that one must put into practice over and over again." He gave her a rueful smile. "Sorry I've been such a slow learner."

  Laura nodded, her topaz eyes glowing with warm approval. She was the most restful woman, except when she was furious. He liked her that way, too. "The last news of the day is an unexpected bonus—we've acquired a servant for the last leg of our journey," he said. "My Pathan orderly, Zafir, came back from leave to see if I really was alive. Since I am, he has decided to accompany us to Bombay. I was glad to see him, and he'll do an excellent job."

  She bit her lower lip. "There's something we must discuss. I was translating more of Uncle Pyotr's journal and I found this at the end of the Bible. It's a letter to me." She handed him the English transcription she had made.

  As soon as he hit the word "Dharjistan," a vision of fire flared through his mind. "Bloody hell," he swore, closing his eye against a wave of disorientation.

  He felt Laura's hand on his arm. "Is something wrong, Ian?"

  Her touch steadied him. "I'm not quite sure," he said slowly, opening his eye and seeing her concerned face. "When I read 'Dharjistan,' I saw fire."

  "What was burning?"

  He took a deep breath and thought about the image, which was much clearer than the vague flashes that had haunted him since Bokhara. "This will sound strange, but what I see is like a map of India, only more real. Flames shoot up in the northwest, then sweep across the whole country, destroying everything in their path."

  "A fire across India?" she said, startled. "Several times in his journal, Pyotr used that phrase." She flipped through the journal, then read aloud what her uncle had written.