In a few minutes, Bella was lightly snoring. Her mistress, however, remained painfully awake.
Amanda turned restlessly.
Seven bells. Eleven-thirty.
Eight bells. Midnight.
Squelching a sigh of exasperation, Amanda slid from the bed. She fumbled about, found her clothing, and managed to dress without waking her companions. Then she crept from the room, closing the door gently behind her.
Above, a full moon lit the deck with soft, eerie light. There were sailors about but they were busy with their tasks, their voices muted. Amanda automatically headed for her usual place at the rail. Then she hesitated. It was one thing to wander about unattended in broad day, with Mrs. Gales at the stern keeping discreet watch. It was quite another to stroll about alone after midnight.
Amanda was about to turn back when the cool breeze carried a familiar scent to her nostrils: Tobacco smoke. She saw a tall, slim figure move from the shadows of the mizzenmast to the rail. His hair gleamed silver in the moonlight. He leaned upon the rail, half-turned from her. She could just make out the tiny red glow of his cigar when he drew upon it.
She told herself she ought to leave before Mr. Brentick became aware of her presence. She was amazed he hadn’t noticed already. His senses always seemed so acute. Yet she smelled the smoke and a great, empty place seemed to open within her, and she knew only that she didn’t want to be alone.
She’d taken but two steps when his posture tensed and his head swivelled in her direction. Too late to retreat.
Heart thumping, Amanda continued, though the space between them seemed to have grown to an immense stretch of cold and hostile plain.
His greeting was warm, however, when she neared. “Miss Cavencourt,” he said softly, surprised. “For a moment I thought you were a ghost.”
“You d better pretend I am,” she said, abashed by his wondering stare. “Or that I’m sleepwalking. I’m supposed to be slumbering like a good little girl, but I couldn’t, and I thought I’d go mad trying to keep quiet about it.”
“With all due respect, miss, you are mad, you know. We have settled that question long since.”
He looked down at the cheroot he held, and frowned. As he raised his hand to toss it into the water, she cried, “Oh, don’t throw it away on my account. I don’t mind at all. In fact, I rather like it,” she added. “It reminds me of Calcutta.”
His eyebrows went up. “You miss the stench?”
She smiled and, unthinking, leaned upon the rail, and inhaled. Her entire being seemed to relax. “Not that, exactly, but the smoke. The rooms filled with incense, and the stories. My friend, the Rani Simhi, would smoke her hookah and relate myths and legends,” she explained, looking away from him and towards the moon-dappled ocean. “I felt like a little girl, transported to a mysterious place where fairy tales were real.”
“After what we’ve endured recently, I shouldn’t mind being transported to mysterious places. Will you take me?” he asked. “Will you tell me a story?”
She bit her lip. “I really ought to return. I shouldn’t be out at this hour.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” he agreed, “and I shouldn’t ask you.” He paused a moment, his eyes very intent upon her face. “But I am monstrous selfish. I wish you would stay... long enough to tell me one of your stories.”
She thought he must hear her heart thumping so stupidly, even above the moan of timbers and the splash of waves against the vessel. But he only looked at her in that strange, fixed way. Part of her wanted to run, for it reminded her of the steady gaze of a jungle cat, or a bird of prey. Yet another part of her—mesmerised or stunned, she knew not which—could not bear to go away. She thought she could look into his beautiful face, its chiseled planes silver and shadow in the moonlight, for all her lifetimes. “Earthly beauty is a glimpse of the Eternal,” the rani had said. “Earthly love is a glimpse of transcendent love.”
Eternity and transcendence, indeed. Smiling at her folly, Amanda returned her focus to the glistening blue-black water, and let her mind sink into the smoky, warm, scented rooms where the stories lived.
“When he was a young man, as I’ve before mentioned, Krishna was a devil with the ladies,” she began. “When he was a boy, he was full of mischief. One day, he stole some butter.”
Philip took the story with him when he returned to his cabin, just as he took with him her voice and scent, and the dreamy, faraway glow of her eyes. The story made him smile yet, for he saw the several characters in her mobile face, and heard their voices in hers. He’d laughed helplessly when she revealed Krishna’s triumph, and her face had expressed the child-god’s ineffable ennui as he learned of the miracle he’d performed. Miss Cavencourt had touched something more, though, and Philip found it uncanny she’d chosen precisely that tale.
In punishment for stealing the butter, Krishna’s mama had tied him to a heavy mortar used for grinding and crushing food. When at length he grew bored with his situation, Krishna had dragged the mortar between two huge trees and heedlessly uprooted them.
In the roots of the trees were two princes an evil sorcerer had entombed. They’d been buried alive, but the child-god had inadvertently returned them to life.
Did it haunt them after, Philip wondered, as he sank back upon his pillow and closed his eyes. Or had Krishna freed their spirits as well? He wished he might have asked her. He wished he might ask her now. But if she had been with him now, he wouldn’t care to talk, would he?
Numskull. If only he’d got himself a tart in Capetown. At this rate, he’d be a dithering imbecile by the time the ship entered the English Channel.
Chapter Nine
“I dreamt of the robbery,” Amanda said. She sat this morning upon her customary cask in the blistering galley. Perspiration trickled down her neck, though she’d arrived scarcely five minutes before.
“A troubling dream,” Padji said as his large hands dexterously kneaded dough. “I heard you cry out three times, and my heart ached for your trouble.”
“You heard me?” she repeated incredulously. “From the other end of the ship?”
“I lay by your door, O beloved, as I do each night. So I slept by the door of the great Lioness. Such is my duty.”
“By my door? But you couldn’t have been… You must have been dreaming as well, because—”
“I moved from the place when you rose,” Padji said, “lest you stumble over my lowly person.”
“Where did you go then?”
“Above. The hour was late. The mistress must move where she chooses, fearlessly, in confidence her servant is near to protect her. I was near, O daughter of the sun and of the moon.”
“Indeed. You are... most conscientious, Padji.”
He shrugged. “It is my dharma. I am of no significance. Tell me of this dream that so troubles you.”
“I know it was only a dream,” she said uncomfortably, “yet I remembered what the rani told me.”
“The eye observes mere appearance, which the mind gives name to. His heart sees into the darkness and discerns truth. In dreams, the heart speaks to the eye and mind. So she tells us in her endless wisdom.”
“So she tells us.” Amanda sighed. “In any case, a great deal of it seemed obvious, but part of it—well, I didn’t know what to think.”
“Tell me the whole of it.”
“It was the robbery,” she said in Hindustani. “Just as it happened, except at the last. The thief had knocked me down and run off with the Laughing Princess. But this time, I jumped up and chased him. Miles, it seemed, down one long passage, then a turning, then another passage. The night was utterly still and black.”
“You saw no moon?” Padji asked.
“No moon, no stars. It was like a maze in a great void. Then I came to the final turning, and felt the breeze, which carried the scent of the sea. I stopped suddenly and looked down, and saw the sea beneath me, churning and sparkling, coal-black. I screamed.”
“That was your first cry,” Padji said,
nodding.
“A voice answered me,” Amanda went on, “The moon, enormous, white and full, broke past the clouds and shone down upon him. He wore a jewelled turban, and the rich garb of a prince, but his face remained in darkness. His voice was the robber’s voice.”
Padji gave her one brief glance before he returned to his kneading. “He called to you?”
“He said, ‘Come to me. My boat will bear you safety.’ But I was afraid of him,” Amanda said, looking down at her hands. “I turned to run away, but the passage had vanished, and I stood on a narrow ledge, the sea before me and the sea behind me. Then the ledge itself vanished, and I fell a great way. That, I expect, was the second time I cried out in my sleep. He caught me, and his cloak enfolded me.” She paused, her cheeks burning. “I had rather not describe the details.”
“He took you as a lover,” Padji said without looking up from his work.
“Certainly not!” Amanda’s cheeks flamed anew. “I would never dream such a thing.”
He shrugged, and she recommenced. “I struggled, needless to say,” she added, glaring at him, “and he laughed. When the laughter died, he’d vanished. I was chilled. I picked up his cloak to put around me, and found the Laughing Princess at my feet. I tried to pick it up, but it was too heavy. I was weary and hungry and cold, and all alone on this great, black sea, so I wept, and called to the moon—to Anumati— to help me. Then the breeze blew. It came warm this time, filled with the scent of agarwood. The air grew thick with smoke. I raised my hand,” Amanda said, lifting her arm as she had in the dream. “A dark form swept down from the heavens. It was a falcon. It circled my head three times, then alit upon my wrist. ‘I will serve you,’ he said.”
Padji paused, his brown eyes alert. “The hunting falcon is female. This spoke to you in man’s voice?”
“The robber’s voice, again. At least, so I believed in the dream, because I told him he was false, and a thief. I shook my wrist, but his talons gripped painfully, and I cried out.”
“The third time.”
Amanda nodded. “That last cry must have wakened Bella, because she woke me. I was too agitated to go back to steep. That’s why I went above,” she added without meeting Padji’s gaze.
Padji threw the dough into a bowl and placed a cloth over it. “The dream is plain enough,” he said. “Anumati sent it to you. She knows you grow anxious and impatient. She warns you the statue cannot be moved until you are no longer upon the endless sea. You understood that wisdom, for we spoke of it many weeks ago.”
“Of course I understand. That isn’t what bothers me.” Her finger traced the outline of a bud embroidered on her skirt. “I only want back what’s mine. But sometimes, when I think about what must be done, I wonder if it’s wrong.” She glanced up. “You promised not to—not to hurt anybody, you know.”
“I obey your wishes in all things, my golden one.”
“I am not... convinced that M Brentick knows anything about it,” she said, unconsciously lapsing into English. “It’s possible his master has not confided in him. Mr. Brentick s not been long in his employ and—and men of law are very secretive. My brother certainly doesn’t confide in his valet. It’s even possible Mr. Wringle objected to his own role, but hadn’t any choice. Or maybe he doesn’t know the statue was stolen. It may have come through another intermediary. Lud, even Randall Groves.”
“One cannot know. One cannot look into another’s heart,” Padji agreed.
“In fact,” Amanda went on with more assurance, “if either were truly dangerous men, Anumati would have warned me, wouldn’t she, in the dream?”
“You did not see the man’s face in the dream.”
“But I heard his voice,” Amanda reminded. “It was not Mr. Brentick’s. And Mr. Wringle hasn’t the same form. He’s too short and square.” She glanced away, frowning. “Why did I dream of a prince and a falcon, though? Can there be some other on this ship? But that doesn’t make sense at all. What the devil did it mean?”
“Thrice he changed his form,” Padji said reflectively. “A thief, a prince, a falcon, each held you by turns. One robbed, one loved, one brought pain.” He shrugged. “Most strange. A prophecy, perhaps.”
Amanda shook her head. “No. Dreams may help explain what is, but I am still too English to believe they can tell what will be. I am certainly no oracle. Nor do I wish to be.” She shivered, despite the heat.
Amanda certainly never intended to return to the upper deck at night. The trouble was, the closer they got to England, the more anxious she became.
Two months passed, during which more than one night lengthened into morning while she lay broad awake in her bed. She didn’t venture above every time she was restless, only when it became intolerable. That added up to a mere half-dozen late night rambles. She found Mr. Brentick there every time.
Still, he could not possibly get the wrong impression. Amanda had let him know, the second time she’d crept above, that Padji was lurking about. Padji must have let others know as well, and in his own inimitable way, solicited discretion. Certainly, not one whisper of Miss Cavencourt’s nocturnal wanderings reached Mrs. Gales’s ears, even though Captain Blayton told her everything.
The Evelina was at long last approaching the Channel. She’d probably be sailing up the Thames in a matter of days, if the winds held favourable. In a matter of days, the Laughing Princess would be Amanda’s at last... if all went well. But she would not think about that, she chided herself this night as, for the seventh and positively last time, she escaped her cabin and sneaked up to the deck.
Mr. Brentick looked round at her approach, his countenance half surprised, half—was it pleased? Amanda recollected that in a matter of days, he would be out of her life forever. Well, what did she expect? she asked herself crossly. Did she think that, like Padji, the valet would suddenly develop an irresistible need to abandon his employer and follow her to Yorkshire? If he looked pleased, it was because he liked her Indian stories.
“Another difficult night, Miss Cavencourt?” he enquired sympathetically. “I suppose you long to be home, and its being so near makes you restless.”
“It’s good to hear some rational excuse,” she said. “I simply felt wild to get out of the cabin. Now I shall sleep the morning away again.” She glanced up. “Are you always here?” she asked. “Are we seized by similar demons at the same time? Or do you never sleep?”
“Old habits the hard. In the military, I grew accustomed to a few hours’ rest snatched here and there.”
“Oh.”
He glanced about. “I suppose Padji is of similar habits.”
“I wonder if he sleeps at all.” She, too, looked around her. “Where is he? I told him there was no need to skulk about. Everyone knows he’s there.”
“Evidently, he’s well schooled in discretion.”
“Yes.”
“He’s been with you a long time, I take it.”
She considered briefly how to answer. Perhaps it wasn’t wise, but if she told the truth, Mr. Brentick’s response might tell her something. She wanted reassurance. Not that it mattered, really, whether he was innocent. She’d never see him again. But how unpleasant to part, suspecting him, feeling unsure...
“I might as well speak frankly,” she said. “We’re nearly home and I doubt the captain would have Padji tossed over at this late date, even if he could find anyone audacious enough to attempt it.” She stood a bit straighter, her posture half-defiant. “Padji wasn’t my servant. He ran away from the Rani Simhi. He’d committed an offence, and was terrified of what she’d do to him. You may find that difficult to credit, considering his size and strength. So did I. But I got on this ship and there he was... and so I told the captain a lie.”
“What hideous crime did the fellow commit?” Mr. Brentick asked.
With some relief she discerned only genuine curiosity in his tones. “I was attacked... and robbed one night, and he was supposed to be protecting me.”
“The rani sounds monst
rous unforgiving.”
“That’s what Padji would have one believe. Nonetheless, I’m happy to have him with me. He is an excellent cook.”
“And an excellent watchdog.” He sounded peeved.
“Does he make you uneasy, Mr. Brentick?”
“My dear lady, the fellow is over six feet tall, big as an ox, and strong as one. Only a nitwit would not be uneasy.” After a short pause, he went on, “Do you know, I’m terrified to move a muscle when you’re by, lest it be interpreted as an unfriendly act, and result in my immediate demise.”
“Padji is big, but he’s not stupid,” she defended. “I’m sure he can distinguish an unfriendly gesture from a friendly one.”
“Can he distinguish friendly from too friendly, Miss Cavencourt?” he asked.
Her face grew warm. “I don’t think I wish to know what you mean,” she answered firmly. “You’re getting that tone in your voice, Mr. Brentick.”
“What tone is that?”
“Your flirting one.”
“And you find it disagreeable.”
She threw him a sidelong glance. “You know perfectly well that women find it agreeable. I’m sure you practised for years to get it just right.”
“Practised? For years?” he echoed aggrievedly. “You make me out to be thoroughly unscrupulous.”
“Not at all. You told me you’d developed diligent habits of study. One might naturally assume you applied them to more than Cicero’s orations.”
“Natural philosophy, for instance?”
“Call it what you like. I only request you not do it with me,” she said nervously. “I know I shouldn’t be here, but you needn’t make me feel I’ve sneaked off to an assignation. I realise flirting is practically an addiction with you, Mr. Brentick, but you must try to show it who is master. If I were a man,” she added in earnest tones, “you wouldn’t try to flirt with me, would you? Why not just pretend I’m a man?”
He gazed at her a moment, then laughed.
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