by Olivia Drake
Amelia Craven arranged her skirt of topaz silk. “Do sit back, Sarah. You needn’t perch like a caged canary.”
Sarah slid back a fraction. “I’m just so terribly anxious.”
“We all are. I wouldn’t have missed this exhibition for a furlough to England.”
“It isn’t meant to be a spectacle,” Sarah said sharply. “Imagine how those poor prisoners must feel, about to be sentenced like common criminals simply for displaying the courage of their convictions.”
“They’ve been court-martialed for disobeying orders. My Archie witnessed the firing-drill during which they refused to touch the new cartridges.”
“Because they believe the fat on the bullets violates their religious beliefs.”
“Humbug. A jury of their own native officers convicted them.” Mrs. Craven wagged a kid-gloved finger. “You’ve a tart tongue, Sarah Faulkner. I’m chaperoning you today as a favor to Violet. She and your uncle, the colonel, would be scandalized to hear of your radical remarks.”
“Forgive me,” Sarah murmured. “I meant no offense.”
“It’s quite all right.” Mrs. Craven grimaced. “This dreadful heat can get the best of one. Thank heaven we’ll be off to the hills next week. Why, my Archie swears he saw the thermometer reach one hundred and twenty-five degrees here last summer.”
As the woman droned on about the weather, Sarah’s thoughts veered to more troubling matters. The past two days had dragged. She’d related Patel’s warning to her uncle, but he, too, had scoffed. Half of her shared his faith in the native soldiers; the other half brooded upon their complaints. Her own danger she discounted. A few Indians supported zealots like the fakir, but the natives she knew and loved would never rise against women and children. If mutiny did sweep the ranks, she prayed it would mean only a reading of grievances, a bloodless attempt by the sepoys to convey their protests to the English officers.
Ram Lall jockeyed for position at a choice spot near the infantry parade ground, where red-coated sepoys marched in under the keen eyes of the English. The tramp of their booted feet lent an air of solemnity that Amelia Craven must not have noticed, for she immediately engaged in a lively dialogue with the ladies in the neighboring carriage. As if they’d come to watch snake charmers and sword swallowers, Sarah thought in distaste.
She leaned forward again. The entire garrison assembled in the dusty heat to witness the punishment. Rows of men formed lines along three sides of the square: cavalry, native infantry, dragoon guards, horse artillery, foot artillery. Apprehension jerked at her stomach; the English troops held rifles ready beside the unarmed sepoys.
At the open end of the square waited a group of soldiers on horseback. Straining to see past the throng, she recognized the robust form of Commander Hewitt, flanked by her uncle and Colonel Carmichael-Smythe, the officer whose cavalry regiment now faced sentencing.
Then she spied Damien Coleridge.
Stationed near the officers, he tinkered with a camera mounted on three long wooden legs. In deference to the sober occasion, he wore the white shirt and trousers of an Englishman, though without a coat or topi. A gust of wind ruffled his black hair.
An odd thought struck her. In his own way, Damien had the same purpose today as she—to chronicle the event.
Her hand strayed to the gold locket at her throat. A queer tumbling sensation assailed her insides. She couldn’t abide the man, she told herself; it was a struggle to respect him even for doing right by Shivina. Despite his blue blood, he possessed few noble attributes. Yet she must approach him and take advantage of the chance to help Shivina and Kit.
Sarah turned to her companion. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, Mrs. Craven. I must greet a friend.”
“But, my dear, you mustn’t wander off alone.”
“I’ll only be a moment.” Careful of her navy skirt, Sarah stepped down from the carriage.
Ignoring the woman’s prying gray eyes, Sarah slipped through the knot of spectators and lectured herself to behave with courtesy. When she reached Damien, he was bent behind the camera, his head shrouded beneath a black cloth.
“Mr. Coleridge? I should like a word with you.”
He emerged from the doth and straightened. His mouth pressed tight with annoyance, and his brows dashed in a scowl. His short sleeves revealed bare, tanned forearms, and unlike Reginald, he looked completely at ease with a lady seeing him in undress.
“You,” he said. “I might have guessed I’d run into you here.”
His cold hauteur made her feel like a swatted mosquito. “I’m happy to see you again, too.”
“Don’t hand me your sarcastic claptrap, Miss Faulkner. You never miss a chance to meddle, do you?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re a hypocrite. You spout sympathy for the poor downtrodden natives, then turn around and force them to fit into your own mold.”
Despite her good intentions, she felt her temper flare. “I beg your pardon?”
“The goddamned gowns,” he enunciated, as if she were hard of hearing. “The English gowns you talked my wife into wearing.”
His attack raised her hackles. “Shivina came to me about the gowns. She asked for my help, on the very day she gave birth to your son.”
He stared. “They were her idea?”
“Yes. You must have said something to make her feel inferior.” The urge to lash out gripped Sarah. “You probably don’t even realize how badly she wants to please you. Though why she would trouble herself over an ungrateful boor like you, I can hardly fathom.”
“She didn’t tell me,” he said without expression.
Fleetingly Sarah wondered what they did talk about, since he knew so little of his wife’s desires. “Then next time, give her the chance to speak.” Her anger collided with anxiety for Shivina. “And speaking of hypocrites, I should like to know if you intend to abandon her and Kit when you return to England.”
For an instant his dark eyes focused beyond her, as if he were seeing not the regiments of stony-faced men, but a past shrouded by secrets. “I don’t ever intend to return there.”
Her gaze flashed to his scarred hands, and her heart did a strange little twist. “Why not?”
“You’re too damned nosy, Miss Faulkner. Stay the hell out of my life. Meddlesome do-gooders aren’t my cup of tea.”
Turning away, he ducked beneath the cloth again. She stared at his broad back and strove to contain an upsurge of resentment. What an uncivil, odious man! No wonder he was the black sheep of his family.
“Mr. Coleridge.”
He surfaced again. Impatience creased his brow. “Now what?”
“I came here to warn you.” Glancing around to make sure no one could overhear, she murmured, “Patel, our abdur, heard a rumor that the sepoys plan to mutiny.”
“A revolt? I don’t doubt it.” Damien looked toward the group of officers on horseback, who sat watching the proceedings, their eyes stern and their posture rigid. “Damned fool, Hewitt. He should have quietly sent the men off to prison. No need to humiliate them in front of their comrades.”
“For once I agree with you, though I could have done without the profanity.”
“So you can trust my ethics on this one issue.”
“Yes.” Without thinking, she touched his forearm. His hard-honed skin warmed her fingers. “It’s to happen today.”
As if stung, he jerked back. “Didn’t your aunt teach you to keep your damned hands off men?”
Her cheeks heated. But she mustn’t let embarrassment distract her. “Didn’t you hear what I said? The sepoys intend to mutiny today.”
He shook his head. “Not against the might of the entire garrison. They’ll bide their time and catch the British off guard.”
His decisiveness made Sarah shiver. “Listen to me. Take Shivina and Kit away. They’re too near the native infantry lines. They might be hurt if any fighting breaks out.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Damn, maybe you do have
something between your ears besides air.”
“And I pray you have something in your chest besides ice.”
“Touché, Miss Faulkner. For once, I’ll heed your advice.” His mouth formed a sober half-smile. “As Lord Canning himself so succinctly phrased it, there’s a devil’s wind blowing. Time for me to move on.”
Damien swung toward his camera. Troubled, Sarah walked slowly back to the carriage. She wondered if she’d ever see him again. Aware of a poignant emptiness inside her, she resolved to visit Shivina one last time. Poor woman! Doomed to a nomad’s life in a hot, airless caravan with Damien Coleridge for company. Praise God she had Kit to keep her happy. Yet for an instant, Sarah felt a sharp yearning to wander India, to see exotic sights and learn more about its fascinating people...
Dum-da-da-dum. Dum-da-da-dum.
The rhythmic sound of a drum drew her attention. She climbed back into the palka-ghari to see the eighty-five convicted men march into the center of the square. The shuffling of their feet accompanied the whisperings of the crowd. In full uniform they looked identical to the other soldiers, but for the dullness of defeat on their dark faces.
The drumroll ceased.
The onlookers hushed, with only an occasional cough or jangle of harness. A subaltern read out the sentence: imprisonment with hard labor for ten years.
A collective gasp swept the gathering. The drum resumed, a slow, somber tone like a death knell. Officers moved along the ranks, yanking the buttons from the prisoners’ uniform coats and removing their boots, flinging them into small piles on the dusty ground. Most of the men submitted to the stripping with resigned expressions, but a few wept openly as they gave up medals won in battles fought for their English masters. One older sowar fell down and beat the earth with his fists.
“Poor fellow,” said Amelia Craven, dabbing at her brow with a handkerchief. “Imagine, ten years! One almost feels sorry for them.”
Too devastated to criticize the woman’s belated sensitivity, Sarah murmured, “I’ve never seen a more wretched sight.”
Gloom blanketed the crowd. The wind tossed needles of dust, and the dark clouds hung like a pall. Even the air bore the taint of melancholy, as dreary as dried sweat.
Armorers went from man to man, fastening heavy iron fetters to the ankles of each prisoner. The clang-dang of hammers echoed inside Sarah, stirring a mix of despair and anger. She wanted to rail at the officers, at Carmichael-Smythe and Hewitt and her uncle, who sat on horseback and piously regarded the proceedings.
Damien was right. However one might argue the justice of the court-martial, the prisoners should have been spared this shame.
When the last manacle had been secured, the convicted men were marched off the field while their comrades stood at attention. Clanking irons blended with high-pitched cries and wails. Some walked away with shoulders slumped in disgrace; bitter tears wet the faces of others.
A few shouted curses in Hindi and with manacled hands hurled their boots at the officers, the distance causing the missiles to fall shy of their target. Many railed at the other native soldiers. “Remember us, brothers!” “Bhainchutes! Will you let the feringhis imprison us?” “Rise up, you cowards! Release us from bondage!”
An ominous muttering rippled from the native soldiers. The British stood in rigid silence. The dull daylight glinted off rifles held ready and sabers honed to deadly sharpness.
Sullen stares followed the parade of prisoners. Sepoy and sowar alike exchanged glances. Men shifted position. Dark eyes flashed. Fists clenched. Beneath a surface of military obedience, a cauldron of outrage simmered.
But no one broke rank.
Sarah laced her fingers to still their trembling. Even the usually cheerful Ram Lall glowered after the last convicts being herded toward the gaol. From beside her came the cadence of Amelia Craven’s voice, but the meaning of the words eluded Sarah.
As the driver clucked to the horse and began the jolting ride home, she tried to calm the uneasiness roiling inside her. Had she been a superstitious person, she might have called the feeling an omen.
An omen of disaster.
“This is a disaster!” Aunt Violet fretted on the church steps the next day. “Mercy me, I never expected them to come here, among good Christian people.”
Sarah turned to see what had thrown her aunt into a dither. Her gloved hands tightened on her prayer book. Alighting from a carriage beside the low stone fence of the churchyard were Damien and Shivina, who carried little Kit.
Sarah’s eyes widened in admiration. The Hindu woman wore one of the new gowns, a soft primrose-pink that complemented her exotic features. Her lustrous black hair was drawn back in English fashion and crowned by a modestly feathered bonnet.
Other people arriving for the Sunday morning service stopped and stared, officers in their summer uniforms of frock coat and white trousers, women in their best laces and silks. Upraised eyebrows and taut mouths conveyed disapproval. Even the children sensed the tension and gawked from behind their mothers’ skirts.
Shame stirred inside Sarah. The English preached Christian virtue, yet slammed the church door in the faces of the Indians. Though given to eccentricity, Damien Coleridge had an impeccable bloodline that had made him acceptable to society. Now that he’d wed a Hindu woman and acknowledged his half-caste child, he and his family were pariahs, no more welcome than the mangy pi dogs that prowled the alleys in search of scraps.
Looking at her aunt, Sarah said in a low voice, “You must speak to them. Shivina was a guest in our home.”
“That unhappy circumstance couldn’t be avoided.” Aunt Violet’s plump mouth sagged in distress. “But now...heavens, I should have to greet her as an equal.”
What makes you think you’re so much better than she is? Sarah stifled the question and said, “Would that be so very dreadful? She’s a fine woman, and much kinder than most.”
Reginald stepped forward, his hands clasped behind him, sunlight gilding his tidy fair hair. “Your benevolence is to be commended, Sarah. Yet you must see the awkwardness of the situation.”
She ached to make him understand. He could be so vexing. “But surely Our Lord would wish us to show compassion at His house of all places. We should invite them to sit with us.”
“Oh, dear, here they come,” whispered Aunt Violet. Twisting her handkerchief, she appealed to her husband, who stood behind her. “Please, Colonel, can’t you make our niece see reason?”
“Sarah, the doctor is right,” Uncle John said, shooting her a severe look from beneath bristly brows. “Fraternizing with the natives encourages insubordination—precisely what brought on yesterday’s punishment parade.”
“I understand your feelings,” Sarah said in an undertone. “Yet we must be civil—”
“As you like. But there’ll be none of this sharing of pews. So long as you live in my household, you will obey me.”
His imperative vehemence silenced her. Then Damien and Shivina approached the white-washed Anglican church. In his formal black suit and stiff white shirt, he exuded power and refinement. His features harsh with aristocratic arrogance, he rested an arm around his wife’s waist.
People stepped back to let them pass. Ladies whispered behind their fans. Cradling the baby, Shivina darted fearful glances from beneath her lashes. As if she expected to be stoned by an angry mob, Sarah thought in abashment.
The couple reached the wooden steps. Damien gave a nod of greeting to Uncle John and Reginald, then bowed to the women. “Gentlemen, ladies. How good to see all of you again.” An ironic pitch deepened his voice.
The men murmured stiff hellos.
Aunt Violet’s sallow cheeks went pink. Her mouth opened and closed like a trout’s. “Indeed,” she squeaked.
A moment of awkward silence ensued. Shivina kept her gaze downcast. The cynical tightness to Damien’s mouth told Sarah he’d expected their cold reception.
Embarrassed, she stepped forward. “I’m glad you could come today. I trust you and the
baby have been well, my lady?”
The title wrested a faint gasp from Aunt Violet. Sarah kept her eyes trained on Shivina, who shyly looked up. “Yes, Miss Sarah. Kit will someday be as strong as his father.”
Her loving gaze dropped to the infant in her arms. He opened his velvet-dark eyes, sighed, and then settled back into slumber. A bolt of pure envy sizzled through Sarah. How she longed to hold her own child, to experience the joy of watching him grow and learn. Smiling at Reginald, she said, “Isn’t Kit the most darling little boy?”
He cast a quick frown at the baby. “Quite so.”
His indifferent response sapped the pleasure from her. Softly she said, “I think he’s wonderful.”
Damien gave her a cryptic stare. “Thank you. My wife and I share your sentiment.” Turning, he let his gaze sweep the sunlit gathering. “As we’re departing tomorrow morning, my wife wishes our son to be baptized today. Unless someone here objects to prolonging the service.”
A charged silence blanketed the yard. People exchanged guarded glances. Silk and taffeta rustled faintly. A crow cawed from its perch on the roof.
From inside the church came the thumping melody of the pump organ. The signal broke the tension, and the congregation began to surge toward the opened doors.
People kept a polite distance from Damien and Shivina, as if they were lepers. Sunlight gleamed on the tiny gold ring in her nose and the ivory fronds of her feathered bonnet. No woman here could match her sloe-eyed beauty, Sarah thought, nor could they surpass Shivina’s gentle bravery in tolerating so many hostile looks.
“Time to take our places,” muttered Uncle John, putting a hand at his wife’s plump waist.
Sarah hesitated, wondering if she dared disobey. Reginald caught her arm. “Shall we go in?” he said.
The words were more a rebuke than a question, and his firm hand held her in place. The faint scowl on his handsome face conveyed a warning: Don’t disgrace your aunt and uncle. Her courage wavered in the face of duty. Reluctant to cause a scene, she let him escort her to the door.