by Olivia Drake
Fire on the Wind
Olivia Drake
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Also by Olivia Drake
About the Author
To my mother-in-law and father-in-law
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I am deeply indebted to Dr. Lawrence Ligon for answering my medical questions; to Shelby McDuff and Larry Wilhelm of Quest magazine, for sharing their library on India; and most of all, to the finest critique group in the world, Joyce Bell, Susan Wiggs, and Arnette Lamb.
Copyright
This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.
This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Fire on the Wind
Copyright 1992 © by Barbara Dawson Smith
Ebook ISBN:
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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Prologue
London, December 24, 1836
Tonight his mother would finally love him.
Damien Coleridge patted the gift in his pocket, the gift he’d spent hours perfecting. The rustle of the paper reassured him. Poking his small face between the scrolled posts of the balustrade, he peered down at the foyer. The chandelier threw diamonds of light over the white columns and checkerboard floor, over the green holly and red ribbons decorating the doorways.
The case clock ticked over the tinkling of the pianoforte from the music room.
No one was in sight, not even a footman.
Damien ran a finger under his starched lace collar with its fussy bow. He hoped he’d knotted it correctly. His knee breeches itched and his leather half-boots pinched. He hated wearing girlish velvet. Such fancy clothing better suited Christopher. But tonight Damien wanted to please Mother.
Squeezing his eyes shut against the sudden sting of tears, Damien saw an image of his elder brother, asleep on his cot in the nursery, his bony hands ghostly pale against the blue counterpane, his fair hair tousled on the pillow. Christopher had had another spell today. The doctor had shaken his head and murmured for a long time to Mother, then left a brown bottle of smelly tonic.
The medicine calmed Christopher and made him sleep. Maybe it would cure him. If not, Damien would burn in hell. Just as Mother said he would.
The scents of greenery and candle wax suddenly made him ill. He opened his eyes to the mass of scars on his palms and the puckered skin on his fingers. The hands of a devil.
Could Mother ever love him again?
She must. He’d worked so hard.
Damien swallowed a knot as rubbery as Mrs. Wadsworth’s plum pudding. Tonight, Mother wouldn’t ignore him. She wouldn’t burn him with her flashing gold eyes. She wouldn’t cut him with her sharp scolding. Not in front of her guests.
He dashed away the last trace of babyish tears. Clutching the wrought-iron banister, he tiptoed down the grand staircase. His heels squeaked on the marble risers. Tonight she couldn’t help but love him. Especially when she saw how clever he was, like one of the six soldiers of fortune in the Grimm Brothers’ tale Miss Smaltrot had read to him before bedtime.
He was a storybook hero. He could shoot a fly two miles away. He sighted down the barrel of an imaginary rifle, aiming at the silver candelabrum on the newel-post.
‘‘Bang!’’ The candle flames wavered.
He could make a windmill go round from miles off. Sucking in a breath, he blew with all his might. A trio of tiny flames winked out.
He took the last two steps in a leap and landed on a black square of marble. Crouching low, he glanced cautiously around. Enemies lurked unseen behind pillars and around corners. The drawing room doors stood open to the gold-and-white furnishings. From down the hall, the pianoforte tune had given way to a sweetly lilting song. Harp music tor angels.
His chest ached again. He might be a demon, but he could run faster than a bird could fly.
He dashed down the vast hall. Statues and paintings whizzed past in a blur of color. Like a soldier of fortune, he’d win the footrace. He’d earn a prize of gold and present Mother with the treasure. She’d hug him, call him her darling—
Rounding the corner, he thudded into someone emerging from the music room. Bromley’s bushy brows lifted into a rare, startled look. “Lord Damien!” the butler said, steadying his silver tray.
Thrown off balance, Damien groped for the wall, but met the cold, carved stone of a pedestal. The figurine atop it teetered. The Chinese warrior toppled with a crash. Painted earthenware shards spewed across the floor.
The harp music ended in a jarring twang. Voices buzzed from within. Footsteps tapped and feminine skirts rustled.
“What is the meaning of this?”
The chilling tone prickled Damien’s skin. He wanted to run. He wanted to hide. He almost gagged on a clot of panic. Slowly he lifted his eyes.
Blanche Coleridge, the Duchess of Lamborough, loomed in the doorway. Wearing a gown of shiny green, she brought to mind a dragon, golden eyes flashing, slim nostrils flaring. The disloyal thought rattled Damien. No, his mother was a fairy queen, with ropes of pearls circling her regal throat and a diamond crown glittering in her piled-up fair hair.
“I asked you a question,” she said.
The words rang clear and cold as a church bell. Shamed, he looked at the shattered statue. “It...it fell,” he stammered.
“It fell.” With a sharp laugh, she glanced at the guests crowding behind her. “Imagine. My favorite Tang figurine grew weary of its place and dashed itself upon the floor.”
The ladies tittered behind their fans; the men shifted in bored amusement. Feeling as small as a worm, Damien longed to crawl away.
“I...I’m sorry,” he whispered.
His mother slapped a folded ivory fan against her palm. “‘Sorry’ seems to be one of your favorite words of late. Why have you left the nursery at this hour? And for what purpose are you dressed?”
His mouth went dry. The urge to flee tugged at him, but he held still. She’d never love a coward. He reached into his velvet pocket and pulled out the precious roll of paper. “I wanted to give you this. My...my Christmas gift to you, Mother.”
Hesitantly he approached her. His shoes crunched bits of pottery. She looked taller and more mighty than ever. But she would praise him at last, smile at him in the same gentle way she smiled at Christopher. Damien proudly held up the gift.
Several of the ladies cooed. “What a darling lad.”
“How very sweet.”
<
br /> “You never mentioned such a dear little boy, Blanche.”
His mother took no notice. “We’re exchanging gifts in the morning.” Frowning, she unrolled the paper.
“I know, Mother. But I couldn’t wait any longer to show you. I...I thought it would please you.”
She stared at the drawing. Her eyes widened and her expression softened. Damien’s heart thumped in agonizing hope. The fine lines of her face froze into a smile.
Whirling to her guests, she said, “Pray excuse us a moment.” She took his arm and pulled. “Come along, Damien.”
His father ambled out of the throng. A ruddy hue tinted his cheeks, and his thinning black hair was slightly mussed. He waved a glass, the amber liquid sloshing. “Here now, Blanche. ’Tis th’ Eve o’ Christmas. Don’t be too hard on th’ lad. He’s only seven.”
She glared. “I am not a hard woman, Ambrose. I merely want to thank dear Damien in private.”
Thank him? Damien’s heart took wing. His plan was working.
Papa’s blue eyes wavered. Leaning against a pillar, he took an unsteady gulp of brandy. “If you say so, m’dear.”
Mother tugged hard on Damien’s arm. Her fingers felt like claws. As she drew him down the hall, he had to scurry to keep pace. Yet she hadn’t ridiculed his work. She held the picture tight against her gown, and her smile stayed as firmly fixed as a doll’s. Joy hovered inside his chest.
She hauled him into the drawing room and let go so abruptly that he stumbled. Closing the double doors, she swung on him, her skirt swishing.
She shook the paper in his face. “How dare you?”
Bewildered, he glanced at the pencil sketch of her sitting on a garden bench, a loving smile on her face, he and Christopher at her feet. Damien had worked for hours, even when his scarred fingers hurt from holding the pencil.
“I...I wanted to give you something special. Mr. Emmott said it was my best picture ever—”
“How dare you try to place yourself in my affections? Your idealized drivel is pathetic.”
Hot tears blurred his eyes. “But I...I only wanted—”
“Two years ago you lost your right to want anything. I rue the day I gave birth to you, Damien. You’re a devil who deserves to burn in the flames of hell. You destroyed your own brother.”
Swift as an avenging angel, she swept to the hearth, where a great Yule log burned. “Watch,” she said. “Watch and remember the terror you put Christopher through.” She flung the sketch into the blaze.
“No!” Sobbing, he raced to the hearth.
Yellow flames licked at his gift, curling the edges of the paper. Horror kept him from reaching into the fire. His fingers dug helplessly into the rigid scars on his palms. The blaze devoured his carefully drawn figures. The picture blackened, burning his dreams to ashes.
Memory hurled him down a nightmarish corridor where Christopher’s frightened screams echoed.
Waves of sickness drowned Damien. Only half aware of his mother’s hostile gaze, he retched again and again.
Then he turned and fled.
Chapter 1
Meerut, India—April 27, 1857
Today she’d be caught for certain.
Sarah Faulkner tiptoed out the front door of the bungalow. The veranda lay cool and shadowed, screened from the faint glow of dawn by bamboo trellises. Despite the early hour, the sounds of India invaded the dew-wet yard: a baby wailed somewhere, a crow cawed from the feathery foliage of a tamarind tree, a bullock clopped down the dirt road beyond the compound wall. The odor of burning dung drifted from the rear cookhouse, along with the scritch-scratch of Aziz wielding his twig broom over the pathways of the garden.
The familiar scene lulled her fear of discovery. She’d been awakened by the distant calling of the muezzins from the mosque in the native sector. Rather than lie abed like Aunt Violet, sipping tea and nibbling toast, Sarah savored the freshness before the scorching heat of the day. Risking disapproval, she often stole out to visit old tombs and temples, or to wander through rural villages. The exclusions provided fodder for the essays she wrote secretly under a nom de plume for a Delhi newspaper.
Today a forbidden pleasure lured her. The thought of exploring the native bazaar unescorted made her blood thrum with reckless anticipation. Decorum barred English ladies from the marketplace, where prostitutes and thieves roamed. Yet if she hurried, she could shop and return by breakfast, with her aunt none the wiser.
She settled a modestly beribboned topi helmet over her blond hair. The stiff brim shaded her fair features and blue eyes. Clutching the folds of her navy skirt, she descended the veranda steps. A man rounded the outside of the bungalow.
Her heart jolted. “Oh...Patel.” Even after seven years in India, she was still unnerved by the silent approach of the native servants. “Good morning.”
He bent into a deep salaam. The abdur wore dazzling white trousers and shirt, and a flat turban. His cummerbund was the forest green of her uncle’s regiment. The new scarlet tiki mark on his forehead told of his recent ritual cleansing.
“A thousand pardons must I beg, missy-sahib,” he said, his voice low. “My humble prayers to Shiva bring me late to our meeting time.”
His merry dark eyes, etched by the wise lines of age, looked anything but humble. Sarah smiled. “You needn’t accompany me this morning. Doubtless my aunt will keep you busy later with her plans for the dinner party tonight.”
“Ah, but the memsahib, she sleep late.” A mischievous grin lit his swarthy features. “The sahib, he share her bed last night. He wish to plant a son in her barren womb.”
Heat washed Sarah’s cheeks, but she kept a steady gaze. Patel meant no offense; he spoke with the Hindu nonchalance toward marital relations. “Nevertheless, you know how Aunt Violet will carry on if you’re not here. I can go alone to the bazaar.”
“Bazaar?” His cheery expression vanished. White rimmed his brown irises. “Bazaar very bad place for English memsahibs. Much anger, much hatred. You stay.”
“I shan’t offend anyone. I must shop for the party.”
He shook his head vigorously. His mouth formed a tight line of disapproval. “I go, then. Weapon storehouse burned last night. The sahib, he called to headquarters already.”
Shock held her still. “Was anyone hurt?”
“No, but English not safe. Too many sepoys angry over bullets. Very bad to touch. Make soldier lose caste and be reborn a snake.”
She frowned. Tension in the military stations across northern India had been escalating for months, ever since the British had issued new rifle cartridges with paper cylinders rumored to be coated with animal grease. Beef fat was offensive to the Hindu sepoys, as was pig fat to the Mohammedans. Handling the forbidden substance would cause them to suffer banishment from friends and family.
A few days earlier, eighty-five sowars, or native cavalrymen, had refused to touch the bullets. They now awaited sentencing. She’d attempted to argue the injustice with Uncle John, but he’d refused to listen to a mere woman.
“Nevertheless,” she said, “I’m going to the bazaar. I only mean to observe the people. I shan’t anger anyone.”
“Patel protect missy-sahib from wicked men.” From the folds of his shirt he drew a brass-hilted dagger. The slim blade gleamed in the pearly light. “No badmash dare to harm you.”
She shivered. Perhaps he was right; she shouldn’t venture out alone. “Very well, then. But we’ll have to hurry.”
“Yes, missy.” He tucked away the knife and fell into step beside her. “This way.”
They headed down the Mall and saw in the distance the parade ground, where troops were mustering for early drills to the blaring call of a bugle. Sabers flashed from the rows of dragoon guards, and she tipped her head down, on the off chance that someone might recognize her from afar. A palka-ghari carriage rattled past, raising eddies of dust on the hard-baked road. The muted morning light warmed the thatch-roofed barracks and, farther away, the steeple of the Anglican church and t
he whitewashed walls of the hospital. Sarah wondered if Reginald was already on his rounds.
She promptly forgot her suitor as the tidy streets of the British quarter gave way to the squalor of the native sector. The exotic sounds and scents of the bazaar beckoned. For a brief time she could escape the strict social mores and tiresome etiquette that ruled her life. She could immerse herself in the pulsing life force of India.
A gabble of foreign tongues blended with the cries of beggar children. Some of the chatter she understood from her Hindi lessons with Patel; other people spoke in unfamiliar dialects. The stench of urine and rubbish from open ditches underlay the fragrance of hot curries and frying chupatties, the unleavened cakes that formed a mainstay of the Indian diet. Flies swarmed the goat carcasses hanging inside a butcher’s stall, buzzed the sores on the backs of bullocks, and lit upon the brass trays of syrupy jilibi at the sweet-seller’s stand.
From within the tin-roofed temple came the clashing of cymbals, the chanting of a priest, and the sweetish perfume of incense. A half-naked man draped the steps. Eyes closed, hands folded at his waist, he lay as still as a corpse.
A ghastly feeling stirred in her stomach. “Patel,” she said, pointing, “that poor man is dead. Shouldn’t we do something?”
“No, missy. He is yogi, disciple of Shiva. He honors the god by slowing his breathing and disciplining his body.”
Fascination washed over Sarah. She made a mental note to mention the strange religious practice in one of her essays. The diversity of the people snatched at her imagination. The colorful saris of the Hindu ladies contrasted with black robes that veiled the Mohammedan women from head to foot, leaving only their dark eyes visible. Some men wore brilliant turbans, others skullcaps. A few sepoys sported the crimson shirt and dark trousers of the infantry.