Meet Me in Bombay

by Jenny Ashcroft

  She left guiltily, then paused at the corner of the road, Luke Devereaux’s guidebook in hand. She squinted down at the directions to the bazaar, wiping sweat from her forehead, then carried on, around the vaulted side walls of the station. Wheels screeched on the tracks within as a train creaked to a halt; steam billowed out. Through the haze, she glimpsed a young man in a topee hat, on the platform just inside the archway. She cursed inwardly, recognizing him as one of her father’s junior secretaries. His eyes widened as he spotted her, clearly recognizing her, too. He took his hat off; he looked like he might be about to call out to her. Not wanting to have to explain what she was doing there, she hastened away, losing herself in the hordes of others walking toward the markets.

  * * *

  The wheels screeched, the delayed train from Poona shuddering to a halt. Luke, who’d been working in the otherwise empty first-class carriage, preparing for the meeting he was already late for, packed away his papers: the lists of the presidency’s battalions, the ranks and skill levels, outstanding training requirements, his guidance on mobilizing the Indian troops for war in Europe, should mobilization ever be required. (He hoped it wouldn’t, obviously, but after the past decade of rearmament, it felt depressingly likely; half the continent wanted to build their empire, the other half to block them, and if anyone tried to do either, the web of treaties in place could drag everyone into battle.) He stood, flexing his neck, his back, beyond relieved to be back, at last. It had been a relentless three months. He’d only been commissioned to be in India for two, but General Staff in England were jumpy; they’d kept wiring, adding to the regions they wanted him to report on. MOST GRATEFUL FOR YOUR SERVICE AND PATIENCE STOP. He’d lost count of the ghats he’d stayed in, the visits to cantonments, interviews with commanding officers, hours spent observing the local troops, the sepoys, most of whom had never heard of the Balkans, let alone thought twice about which parts of Europe belonged to whom. The more men he’d talked to, polishing his rusty Hindustani, the less easy he’d felt about potentially dragging any of them from their families, their villages, thousands of miles across the sea. He had no idea how the practicalities would even work. Many of the COs he’d met had shared his concerns: how the men would manage if it came to them being led by officers untrained in their language, their religion, customs, and caste system; how they’d cope, after a lifetime of the Indian climate, with warfare in northern Europe. Luke had been tempted, several times, to wire General Staff telling them to leave the sepoys well alone. MOST GRATEFUL FOR YOUR UNDERSTANDING STOP. He would have, if he’d believed for a moment it would have done any good.

  For now, he shut the fastening on his attaché and ducked, peering through the carriage’s murky window, scanning the shaded, steam-filled terminus for the man Peter had written to say he’d send to meet him. Fresh off the boat, but spectacularly keen, and useful enough. The platform was packed; all the passengers flooding from the train’s other carriages, their belongings in battered suitcases, sacks heaved under their arms. His eyes moved over them all, then settled on a sun-scorched man in a topee hat, just near the arches, bouncing awkwardly on the spot. Deciding he was a likely suspect, Luke reached up, pulled his case from the overhead racks, and, wrenching the door open, stepped into the crowds. Pausing only to pay a porter to take care of his things, he set off toward his impatient escort.

  “Fraser Keaton, I presume,” he called, voice raised above the furor.

  Keaton spun, exhaling, so visibly, earnestly flustered that it was hard not to smile. “Mr. Devereaux,” he said, “thank goodness.”

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Luke.

  “No, no, it’s not that. I’m happy to wait, of course. I hope I didn’t offend…”

  “Not at all.”

  “It’s just…” Keaton darted a look toward the sunlight outside, then back to Luke. “I’m dreadfully sorry,” he said, “but might I leave you to go on to the office without me?”

  “Without you?”

  “I hate to ask.”

  Luke could see that he did.

  “It’s just,” Keaton went on. “Well, I saw someone … I feel I should check. I mean to say…” He broke off, as though it was all too much.

  Luke advised him to breathe.

  Keaton did.

  “Right,” said Luke, losing his battle against the urge to smile. “Now, what is it you mean to say?”

  Another deep breath. “It’s Richard Bright’s daughter.” Keaton widened his eyes. “I think she’s out there. All alone.”

  * * *

  The light in the stall-packed alleyways was muted, colored by the awnings that spread out from the terraced buildings either side. The air, hot and thick, was filled with the scent of sizzling onion and garlic: pakoras frying in vendors’ pans. Maddy’s stomach grumbled beneath her tight, sweaty corset. She was half tempted to throw caution to the wind and buy one. She probably would have, had she not been chasing a man some distance ahead of her, a bolt of pink silk on his bare shoulder. She’d seen him within seconds of entering the bazaar, and her unfinished letter to Aunt Edie had popped into her mind. Deciding to parcel up a gift to post with it—a shawl to make Aunt Edie smile, distract her from Uncle Fitz and his new life for a little while (if anything could)—she’d set off after the man. He was moving so fast, though, it was all she could do to keep up; she walked faster herself, dodging piles of manure, half-eaten fruit, and discarded rubbish, growing sweatier the quicker she went, perspiration slickening her skin, pooling in her collarbone.

  “Try,” the vendor at a bangle stall called to her, waving a red one in her direction. “Perfect fit. Perfect color.”

  “Later,” she said, not stopping, “maybe later.”

  She carried on, through the clamoring crowds, round a corner, and another, then halted, finding herself in an alley even more packed than the last, bursting with stalls, almost all of them selling fabric: cottons, silks, and muslin, thousands of different shades reflecting the dim light. She stood on her tiptoes, straining to see the man she’d been following. It was impossible. There were simply too many people crammed into the tight space. The shopkeepers all spotted her, though. She hardly had paused for breath before a chorus of “Memsahib, memsahib” broke out. They rushed out from behind their stalls, swatches held up to her face. “You look, memsahib. Look.”

  “Beautiful,” she said, weaving forward, “very lovely.”

  “I have best in city,” the man at the nearest table called, “you buy from me. Best in Bombay. Best in India.”

  “Memsahib,” shouted his neighbor, “you come this way. This way.”

  Hearing the desperation in his tone, she turned. His black eyes sparked with hope, and he waved at the cloths laid on the trestle before him, then stepped back to reveal more rolled up against the crumbling building behind.

  She looked closer. There was a color there like none she’d seen before. A deep lemon, richer than her dress, with luminous thread woven through. It looked almost like sunshine itself, and was quite perfect for Edie and those gray Scottish climes.

  “You buy,” said the man. “I have many children, big family. Need to eat.” He mimed food going into his mouth. “I give you good price. Full-power good price.”

  Maddy wasn’t sure what a full-power good price was, but she liked the sound of it. “I need this much,” she said, and drew a line on the trestle. “How many rupees?”

  He named an exorbitant sum.

  She smiled.

  He beamed back at her.

  He had no teeth.

  “Lower,” she said.

  He named another price. “My family,” he said. “You help my family.”

  “I’m not buying them a house,” she said, still smiling.

  It was then that she first heard the shout. She couldn’t make out the voice, or even the words, but there was something about it that sent her still.

  It came again, louder.

  This time she turned, pulse quickening.
<
br />   It had sounded so much like Miss Bright.

  And even though there were any number of people who might call her that, a thrill shot through her. She searched the crowds, eyes moving everywhere, but could see nothing beyond the faces of other shoppers, the stallholders, many of whom started calling out to her again. “Memsahib, you look at mine now. Memsahib, you come.”

  She shook her head. Be quiet, she wanted to say, let me hear.

  She couldn’t hear.

  Had she imagined it?

  “Memsahib?” The toothless man. “Memsahib, you buy.”

  “Just wait,” she said. “Please.”

  She held her breath.

  Nothing.

  Then, just when she was about to give up, deflated, feeling a little foolish, she heard her name once more, only it was Maddy, not Miss Bright after all, which didn’t feel right, but she spun regardless, craning her neck, hoping yet, unable to help herself …

  Then she stopped.

  Because she saw the man, plowing his way toward her.

  And it really wasn’t what she’d been hoping for, at all.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Luke hung from the step, one hand gripping the brickwork, elated, even in spite of the older man in uniform bearing down on Maddy, simply because, after all this time, she was there, her flushed face somehow even more beautiful than he’d remembered, and because he was almost certain she’d heard him just now.

  That she’d wanted it to be him.

  He could no longer see her properly, though. He wanted, very much, to do that. But she was facing away from him, toward the man in uniform—a major, from his stripes—her hat concealing her features, her expression.

  “Maddy,” the major called to her, “Maddy. Stay where you are. I just saw Keaton…”

  Bloody Keaton.

  Luke had told him he’d find her. He hadn’t thought twice, back at the platform, before running to do that.

  “You can’t,” Keaton had exclaimed, “we’re so late.”

  “I’m afraid we’re going to be later,” Luke had replied, laughing, in spite of Keaton’s aghast expression, and a little because of it, but mostly because he’d felt so damned vindicated that she was close. All these weeks away, he’d wondered whether he was running mad, so unable to shake the thought of her, and then here she was, somehow right here, just as he returned.

  “You’re not worried about her?” Keaton had called. “You don’t look worried.” The accusation, however respectfully toned, had been clear.

  “I’m not worried,” Luke had said, his mind replaying the image of her scaling that wall for a cigarette. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

  “You know her?”

  “Not yet,” Luke had shouted over his shoulder. “I will, though. You’ll see.”

  Clearly Keaton hadn’t been inclined to see anything. Because now here was this major, apparently sent by him, taking Maddy by the arm.

  Luke watched the easy, familiar way he did it, and felt his brow crease. But no. Surely not. The man looked old enough to be her father.

  Still, there was something in his expression that made Luke jump down from the grubby step and push through the busy crowds toward where they both stood, unable, suddenly, to wait a second longer before speaking to her.

  It wasn’t as easy to reach her, though, as he needed it to be. People kept getting in his way. He moved as fast as he could, head raised above the sweaty press, but it took too long.

  When he got to where she’d been standing, she was gone.

  He cast his eyes around, desperate to spot her, sure that he must, struggling, even in spite of the evidence, to accept that she wasn’t there.

  “She go with the sahib,” the toothless vendor supplied. He was no longer grinning. Quite the opposite, in fact. He seemed to be struggling with the turn of events, too.

  “Did you see where?” Luke asked.

  The man shook his head. “You buy?” he said, holding the gold fabric up.

  Luke expelled a breath of frustration. He couldn’t have lost her.

  Cursing, because it seemed he had, and because she go with the sahib, he told the vendor to give him a minute, and set off toward the bazaar’s entrance, retracing the steps he’d taken before, when he’d first come from the station to find her, hoping that she and the major had done the same.

  Even more people had massed into the bazaar in the short time since he’d arrived (it was hard not to take against them), stealing the space, fueling the furnace-like air. By the time Luke had fought his way to the entrance, his shirt was sticking to his chest, his shoulder blades; his lungs swelled from the chase. He broke into the harsh noon glare, the clamor of rickshaw bells and motor horns, and, shielding his eyes with his forearm, scanned the pavements, the saris and linen smocks, for her straw hat, a glimpse of her lemon dress.

  But it was only Keaton who he saw, advancing toward him with some pace of his own. His pink, mottled face was even more wrought than when Luke had left him, back at the terminus. (A not inconsiderable feat.)

  “Keaton,” Luke called, “I thought we were friends.”

  “Friends, Mr. Devereaux?” Keaton came to a halt, clutching his side.

  “Friends, Keaton.”

  “I don’t quite follow,” Keaton said. “And we need to go.”

  A truth, Luke knew it. Even so. “Why did you send that man after Miss Bright?” he asked.

  “Major Bowen?”

  “I assume so,” said Luke. “Let’s hope it was him, at least.”

  “Who else would it be?”

  “I have no idea, Keaton. Or why you sent him. Which leads me to ask again…”

  “Why I did?”

  “Very good.”

  “Because he knows her, Mr. Devereaux. You said you didn’t. I wasn’t sure how you’d find her.”

  “She’s a white woman alone in an Indian bazaar.”

  “Well, yes,” said Keaton, “of course. But since she and Major Bowen are going to be married…”

  The words landed in Luke’s solar plexus. “What?” he said. “Married?”

  “So I’m told,” said Keaton.

  “You don’t know?”

  Keaton shook his head. Was it a no, or a yes?

  Luke couldn’t bring himself to ask.

  Married?

  Married?

  “They’re over there anyway,” said Keaton, and pointed across the wide road, where, a hundred or so yards in the distance, Luke finally saw her, getting into a hoodless saloon motor.

  He watched her do it. How she reached down to gather her skirts, slipping into the seat in one fluid movement. He saw her again, as she’d looked at New Year’s, the slender cut of her silhouette on that dark promenade, her hand on his chair. The way she’d turned, toward him.

  Married?

  It didn’t make sense.

  He couldn’t make it make sense.

  He kept his eyes fixed on her. He realized that he was waiting for her to look around, just as she had beneath those fireworks, see him again.

  But she didn’t.

  The motor roared away, with her in it.

  He stared after its dusty wake, still just about able to make out her hand holding her bonnet to her head. She’d been holding something before. He frowned, thinking of it. He was sure she’d been holding something.…

  “We really do need to hurry,” said Keaton. “We’re beyond late. If you’d just come with me. Oh no, Mr. Devereaux. No. Where are you going now?”

  * * *

  Maddy reached up, hand to her hat, just in time to stop it flying off as Guy sped them away, rickshaws swerving to let them through. He was driving a deal faster than normal, with several degrees less courtesy. He’d propelled her fairly rapidly to his motor, deaf to her protestations that she wanted to stay, or at the very least buy the silk she’d been looking at. (That poor stallholder and his family. Poor Aunt Edie.) “Maddy, please,” he’d said, when she’d pulled back, telling him to wait, “I’m meant to be in theater
.”

  “Go then,” she’d said, unable to keep the impatience from her words. It was his assumption that she needed a rescuer, her disappointment that he wasn’t who she’d thought. Her irritation at herself for hoping. (Why had she done that?) “I can manage perfectly well myself.”

  “Of course you can’t,” he’d said, gently, conciliatory, very much as though he were breaking bad news to a patient.

  It had made her even crosser.

  “Why on earth shouldn’t I?”

  “You’re too clever to ask that question,” he’d replied, steering her toward a side alley. “Now come this way, it’s quicker.”

  She’d given in, not because she was mollified (she wasn’t), but because it had been clear he wasn’t going to, and because of the thought of the anxious soldier waiting on his operating table.

  “I’m so glad I found you,” Guy said now, his voice raised above the engine. He clunked the gears. “I almost didn’t drive this way. Think of it, I wouldn’t have seen Keaton.”