Veils of Silk

by Mary Jo Putney

  "So that's why I've had nightmares of fire for months!" Ian rubbed his temple. "It's beginning to come back to me. I was out of my head with fever when Pyotr was taken to be executed. He tried to tell me something, but because I was delirious, the only thing that stuck in my mind was the fact that he was going to his death. Now I can hear him saying, 'a fire across India' as clearly as if he were standing here on the veranda." Ian spent several minutes searching his memory, then shook his head in frustration. "He said more, but damned if I can remember what."

  "From the way you reacted, he must have mentioned Dharjistan as well," Laura said thoughtfully.

  "Very likely, but I have no idea what he said."

  "Now that you've started remembering, perhaps the rest will come back," she said encouragingly. "Can you tell me something about Dharjistan? I know nothing about the place."

  "I've traveled through several times because it lies across the main route to Afghanistan. Dharjistan has great strategic importance for that reason." He paused to marshal the important facts. "It's a princely state with its own native ruler rather than being under British administration. The maharajah, Rajiv Singh, has always been a solid supporter of the Sirkar."

  "What kind of man is he?"

  "As Indian rulers go, he's considered very humane," Ian said cynically. "That means he'll have a man's nose or ears cut off where another ruler would order execution. But that is progressive by local standards. Now that Ranjit Singh has died in the Punjab, Rajiv Singh is the most influential prince in northern India. He's a Rajput, which is a warrior caste known for honor and fighting ability. His wife, Kamala, is said to be the most beautiful woman in India."

  Laura thought about that. "Do they have anything to do with a fire across India?"

  "I have no idea." Ian glanced at the paper in his hand. "But I do wonder how a Russian agent came to be such good friends with Rajiv Singh."

  "Why shouldn't they be friends?" she asked with a touch of defensiveness. "Uncle Pyotr was a charming, cultivated man.''

  "So he was," Ian agreed, "but if Pyotr Andreyovich was in India, it was in hopes of causing trouble for the Sirkar. He probably spent his time in Dharjistan trying to subvert the maharajah. Rajiv Singh has always seemed to recognize that it's in his own best interests to get along with the British, but perhaps he is less loyal than thought."

  Ian's brows drew together as he reread the end of the letter. "Or perhaps someone wants to overthrow Rajiv Singh. Most Indian courts are rife with intrigue, and Pyotr may have secretly aided a potential usurper. If an anti-British ruler came to the Dharjistani throne, he could cause real trouble for the Sirkar."

  "Why would Pyotr involve himself in the politics of an Indian state?"

  "His ultimate goal would be to help Russia get a foothold in India," Ian said grimly. "Russia has always resented the British presence here. Several times they've sent unsuccessful expeditions in the hope of pushing us out. That's why Central Asia is so important. If the terrain weren't so appalling, there would be Russian troops sitting at the other end of the Khyber Pass, waiting for a chance to march through."

  She looked uncomfortable with the thought. "You really think my uncle could have been involved in something like that?"

  Knowing that Laura had never really made the connection between the uncle she loved and the work that he had done, Ian said, "Furthering Russian interests was his job, and he was very good at it. I was a soldier first and a rather poor diplomat second, but your uncle was a true political agent, dedicated to doing whatever was necessary to achieve his country's aims."

  "At the end, he obviously regretted what he had done." Laura frowned, then said with determined optimism, "It's been over three years since he was in India, so surely his scheme must have come to nothing."

  "Probably," he agreed. "If I thought there was a chance that Dharjistan was about to go up in flames, I wouldn't take you there, bequest or no bequest."

  "You won't mind going, Ian?" she asked. "It will delay our return to Scotland."

  "Between Pyotr's legacy and his dark hints of past plots, it would be impossible not to go." He glanced back at the translated journal and skimmed the last several entries, chuckling when he read Pyotr's speculation about the nature of heaven.

  He reached the description of his own beating and his face stiffened. Thank God that when he was raving he had said nothing about the interval when he was out of the Well. The events of those four days were something he had no desire to have known, especially not to Laura. He would rather that she maintained the few illusions she might still have about him.

  He looked up to see Laura regarding him with disconcerting intensity. Not wanting her to ask any questions about the beating or the missing days, he handed back the journal. "How do you feel about the covert conflict between Russia and Britain? Since you've spent so much of your life in England, I tend to think of your loyalties as entirely English, but perhaps that's an unwarranted assumption."

  "I don't want to see my native and adopted countries come to blows," she said tartly. "If I have a loyalty, it's to peace."

  Ian got to his feet. "I think I'll get the cook to find some food to keep me until dinner. Do you want anything?"

  "Does this mean you're beginning to enjoy eating again?" Laura said, her full lips curving into a smile.

  "I do believe I am," Ian said reflectively. "Just remember that if I end up weighing twenty stone, you're to blame."

  She laughed and Ian laughed with her. As he went into the bungalow he realized that he was now enjoying food, sleep, laughter, and the companionship of a delightful woman. It was far more than he had thought possible a few short weeks earlier.

  Most important of all, he had learned not to dwell on what was forever out of his reach.

  Chapter 17

  As the road crested the high hill, Ian pointed out a straggling collection of houses on the floor of the valley. "That should be Hirsar, the village where the dak bungalow is."

  "I hope so," Laura said. "I'm ready to call it a day."

  Ian gave her a quick glance. "Have I been pushing the pace too hard? You've seemed to have no trouble keeping up."

  "The pace is perfect," she assured him. "Faster would be too fast, and slower would be tedious."

  He chuckled. "When you said you were an agreeable woman, you were telling the truth. Don't make it too easy for me to be unreasonable." He took off his topi and looked into the cloudless sky. "Today the season has changed from the hot weather to the cool. Can you feel the difference in the air?"

  She gave the sky an inquiring glance, but it didn't speak to her as it had to Ian. "It has been pleasant today, but does that mean that the heat has broken for the year?"

  He nodded. "About my fifth or sixth year in India I learned to sense the difference. One day in October, it's as if a lever is thrown. The change occurs almost in the blink of an eye."

  "I hope you're right—it will make the rest of our traveling much nicer." Laura looked across the countryside with renewed interest. "The months between October and March are so lovely that it's almost enough to make one forget the hot weather."

  "I always felt that way during the cool season," Ian agreed, "but changed my mind as soon as the hot weather came back. Once a northerner, always a northerner."

  Laura agreed. She'd learned to tolerate murderous heat, but she still disliked it intensely. "Will you miss India?"

  "Some," he said slowly. "There's something about this country that calls to anyone with a drop of Celtic blood. Maybe that's why there are so many Scots and Irishmen here. I'll certainly miss the sense of magic one sometimes finds, though I can do without the disease, filth, and poverty. If travel between Europe and India improves so that the trip is quicker, I wouldn't mind returning for a visit. Would you like that?"

  "Yes." She grinned. "It isn't only Celtic blood that responds. The Slav in me feels the same way. I'd like to visit again, as long as it's during the cool season."

  They continued into the v
alley in friendly silence, Zafir ambling some distance behind and leading the pack horse. Laura had wondered if having the Pathan along meant that the men would be constantly talking of things and people she knew nothing about, but that wasn't the case. The easy familiarity between Ian and Zafir didn't seem to require much speech.

  She had never known any Pathans since they lived in the mountains of the northwest, far from Baipur, but Zafir's affable directness was very likable. Though Laura's behavior might be brazen and bizarre by Pathan standards, as Ian's woman she received the same courtesy and loyalty that Zafir gave to Ian. And the Pathan was wonderfully efficient, which was useful in this sparsely settled country where they often had to camp out.

  Half an hour more of riding brought them into the little village. They were met by a welcoming committee consisting of most of the village's inhabitants. A villager must have seen them coming and informed the headman of their approach.

  An elderly man of great dignity emerged from the center of the waiting group and greeted them. "Namaste, sahib. You will be spending the night at the dak?"

  Agreeing that they would, Ian dismounted, introduced himself, and exchanged courtesies until the headman said, "Forgive this impertinence, Cameron Sahib, but the nobility of your bearing suggests that you are an officer in the army.''

  "Your honor is perceptive," Ian said politely. "Though I'm in the army no longer, I was for many years."

  The headman nodded with satisfaction. "A dispute has arisen which should best be resolved quickly. Will you judge it?"

  Surprised, Ian said, "But I am not trained in the law. Wouldn't a judge of your own district be a better choice?"

  "It will be long before one visits again, and it would be a great burden for everyone to journey to the court," the headman explained. "As an officer of the Sirkar, sahib, we know you will be just. If you are willing to act, the case could be heard right now. All parties involved are here in the village."

  "Very well. If everyone concerned agrees to accept my judgment, I will hear the case." Turning to Laura, Ian said in English, "This will probably take at least a couple of hours. I assume that you prefer to go to the dak and relax?"

  "Yes, great wise one," she said demurely. "So convenient in this case to be a mere woman." Laura remounted and she and Zafir continued to the dak, which was a small one with no resident servants. While Zafir went off to buy food, Laura decided to go for a walk to loosen muscles tightened by a day of riding.

  She felt at peace with the world as she strolled along the road away from the village. She and Ian had been on easy terms since leaving Cambay, and mutual laughter was commonplace. Though Ian still withdrew into himself for long spells, she no longer sensed that his remote manner concealed desperation.

  The only difficulty was her increasing physical attraction to her husband. She had become accustomed to the slow burn of longing that occurred whenever Ian touched her—and as his state of mind improved, he was becoming steadily more affectionate. Sometimes at night she woke up feeling restive and too warm, her body intertwined with her husband's solid sleeping form.

  The discomfort wasn't anything she couldn't tolerate— compared to the Indian hot season, it was a minor inconvenience—but she sometimes wondered what would happen if her longing continued to strengthen. Would she grow hotter and hotter until one day she incinerated, leaving only a small char of ash?

  Smiling a little at her exaggeration, she rounded a bend in the road and saw a sadhu sitting cross-legged with half a dozen villagers around him. Sadhus were holy men who had renounced all material possessions and traveled the land with only a few rags and a begging bowl to sustain them. This one appeared to be a Bengali from eastern India. Like most of his fellows, he was half-naked and sported a wild beard and a mane of grizzled hair.

  Laura was about a hundred yards away and hadn't been noticed, so she decided to withdraw rather than intrude. But before she could, a woman carrying a baby flushed with fever stepped forward and laid the limp child on the ground in front of the sadhu. Laura frowned, for the infant appeared critically ill.

  The holy man laid one hand on the infant's head and the other on its tiny chest, then closed his own eyes. Though he said nothing, the air around him seemed to shiver with unseen forces.

  As Laura watched, the child's unhealthily high color began to recede and it began moving its small hands and feet restlessly. After about five minutes, it gave a healthy wail of infant indignation. Weeping with gratitude, the mother dropped to her knees and thanked the sadhu profusely before leaving with her child.

  A little shaken, Laura reminded herself that children's fevers could break very quickly. Miracles might take place in other times and places, but they didn't occur in front of one's very own eyes, even in India.

  Once more she was on the verge of retreat when the sadhu raised his head and looked straight at her. "Eh, Larissa Alexandrovna," he said in fluent English with only a slight singsong accent. "You don't believe the evidence of your own eyes?"

  Laura's jaw dropped. The English was surprising enough, but there was no possible way that the sadhu could know her Russian name. On the other hand, he had just spoken it. Weakly she said, "I don't know what to believe."

  He beckoned for her to come closer. She did, though part of her wanted to run away and pretend that this impossible, unsettling incident had never happened. The villagers drew back as she approached. Uncertain what to say, she pressed her hands together and bowed her head over them. "Namaste, holy one. You speak English very well."

  "I worked for the Sirkar as a clerk in Calcutta for many years. Then, with my children settled and my wife dead, it became time for me to turn to higher things." The holy man's black eyes were piercing, seeming to look into her very soul, but Laura felt no sense of menace.

  "How did you know my name?"

  "Knowledge is all around us." He made a deprecatory gesture. "Learning your name was a mere parlor trick. Such things are useful to get the attention of the unenlightened."

  "Why would you want to get my attention?" she asked. "I'm just a foreign woman, and most assuredly unenlightened."

  He smiled. "True, but you have an open mind and a caring heart. The proof of it is that you have not already flounced off in anger because of my nigger impertinence."

  Laura winced, sure that the sadhu had heard the ugly phrase from a British mouth. "I was raised to respect all spiritual beliefs, even when I do not understand them."

  He nodded. "Aye, your father of the heart was a fine man. Would that all British in India had his understanding." He smiled again, ironic amusement in his dark eyes. "I wish to offer you a bit of unsolicited advice. Seekers such as I should not do such things, but I, alas, am still far too human. I shall not free myself from the wheel in this lifetime."

  More and more intrigued, she said, "What is your advice?"

  "There is darkness in front of you. When it seems invincible, you can find light by accepting a truth demonstrated by the gods of India." Anticipating protest, he raised a hand. "It will not interfere with your Christian faith. You need only be open to views different from those you were raised with."

  Laura thought about his words, then shook her head. "I'm afraid that I don't understand."

  "You will in time, Larissa Alexandrovna." Audience over, the sadhu turned back to the villagers.

  "Thank you, Father," she said softly, as she would have to a priest of the Orthodox Church. Though she didn't understand his methods or message, his spiritual quality was evident. She dug into her purse and left a generous donation in the begging bowl.

  Laura walked slowly to the dak bungalow. Yes, there was magic in India, and a rather alarming commodity it was.

  * * *

  Ian's impromptu stint as a judge took nearer three hours than two and he was tired and hungry when he finally made his way to the dak. As he entered, Laura walked into his arms, freshly bathed, sweetly scented, and wearing a loose white gown. He gathered her close, luxuriating in her soft, womanly
feel.

  "Was the case a complicated one?" she asked.

  After nuzzling her silky hair, Ian said, "Not really. Most disputes involve women, property, or land, and this was no exception. There wasn't even much disagreement about the facts."

  Laura smiled. "Was most of the village sitting and watching the trial as if it were a stage show?"

  "Exactly, and offering comments as well. It was probably the most exciting thing to happen in Hirsar in months." Ian linked his arm around Laura's waist and drew her down on the shabby wicker sofa. "A man called Manoj claimed that his wife Rithu had been abducted by a fellow called Kasturi. Kasturi denied that there was an abduction and insisted that Rithu was living with him of her own free will. Rithu agreed and flatly refused to consider returning to Manoj, then listed her reasons why not in embarrassing detail."

  Laura chuckled. "Women must be independent in these parts."

  "Rithu certainly is," Ian said, amusement in his voice. "Manoj was resigned to losing her, but since she had cost him seventy-five rupees, he demanded that amount in compensation."

  "That's a lot of money to a villager."

  "She was a very handsome wench," Ian explained. "I agreed that compensation was in order and there followed much dickering over price. Everyone in the audience had an opinion. Even though she must have known it was a negotiating position, Rithu herself was quite insulted when Kasturi said she was worth only twenty-five rupees since she was no longer new. I decided that fifty rupees was a fair price and ordered Kasturi to pay that. He didn't have that much money, but friends contributed the rest and Manoj received his compensation.

  "All well and good—until a haggard woman stood up and asked what would become of her, Kasturi's wife? With tears running down her face, she explained that she was ill and without relatives in the village. Now that her husband had taken a younger wife, was she to be put out to starve and die?"

  Laura frowned. "The judge's task became more difficult."