Table Of Contente-reads
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Copyright ©2000 by Robin Maderich
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Chapter One
Calcutta, Bengal Province
April, 1856
Standing beside her luggage, Roxane Sheffield compared the crowded, colorful
city of Calcutta against remembered sepia photographs in the books she had
secured upon the subject of India. After so many weeks at sea, her legs delighted
in the steadying feel of firm ground beneath her feet and she smiled, staring
about at the multitude of sights which greeted her eager gaze. India, it seemed,
was a world unto itself, characterized by remarkable color and contrasts and
vivid displays of the local culture. Her former home in England appeared to her,
in that moment of initial captivation, a place both dull and gray, and exceedingly
far away.
Patting down the unruly curls of her dark-brown hair, she reflected that she had
done well to follow her own design. She had displayed wisdom in responding to
her estranged father's request for her presence with agreement, even against the
urging of both relations and friends. It was a decision which had proven worthy
of the thought she had given it, if only due to the fact that the prospect of
journeying to India had always intrigued her, despite what was, to her, an
obvious deterrent.
Standing in the midst of her fellow passengers, Roxane observed the emotional
manner in which loved ones were greeted and reflected once again on the
wisdom which would prevent this embarrassing display. She had insisted that
her father not meet her in Calcutta, but await her arrival in Delhi. Arrangements
had been made for her to stay with the Stantons—a family who were not, she
decided, looking about for a hazily remembered face—very punctual. Then,
following a brief adjournment to enjoy Calcutta society, she would travel with
them to Delhi cantonments, where she would join Colonel Sheffield, her father,
for the purpose of making amends. And amends, indeed, were needed after a
fifteen-year period marked by the minimum benefit of his parental influence.
The scene of that meeting would, with careful handling, be less emotional than
uncomfortable. She had schooled herself long ago to a coolness and reserve
where that man was concerned. After all, he had left and not even said good-bye;
nor had he expressed sorrow or regret. Why, then, should she? Amends needed
nor had he expressed sorrow or regret. Why, then, should she? Amends needed
to be made, it was true, but there was nothing to say that endeavor needed to be
one of emotional crisis. She prided herself on her level head and her confident
management of nearly every situation that had come her way in life.
Loosening the taffeta ribbon beneath her chin, Roxane adjusted the straw
sunbonnet over her brow to further shield her eyes from the rising Indian sun.
She was possessed of a pair of very fine eyes, clear green in color, evenly set to
either side of a long, straight nose, which not only enhanced the qualities of a
pleasing countenance, but served, in their usual expression, to mark the bearer as
a young woman to be reckoned with. Those eyes were abruptly recalled from
introspection by the sight of a veritable army of native servants in bright garb
engaged in snatching up every piece of luggage in sight. Prudently, she lowered
her slender form onto her somewhat battered trunk, while managing to convey,
by the arrangement of her apple-green skirt, that the other packages at her feet
were not to be disturbed.
Turning to bid farewell to her shipboard acquaintances, with some of whom she
had developed amiable relationships, Roxane found herself agreeing again and
again to vague invitations of dinner that promised, if followed through, to keep
her busy during the duration of her stay in Calcutta. As both departures and
invitations dwindled, Roxane's gaze drifted back to the fascinating view. Though
steeply shadowed in shades of purple and rust as the sun lifted clear of the
horizon, the city was distinguished by activity that fascinated her.
“Miss Sheffield, have you been abandoned?"
“Excuse me?” said Roxane, pivoting swiftly around at the waist, angling her
hand across her eyes. “Oh! Captain Wayland,” she addressed the ship's officer,
“it's wonderful, is it not?"
“That you've been abandoned, lass?” retorted the captain, grizzled brows peaked
in amusement.
She laughed, a throaty noise. Her eyes were bright. “I was referring to India, sir.
Or, should I say, what I have seen of it thus far."
Beside her, the sea captain shrugged his shoulders in noncommittal response.
“Did you not mention, Miss Sheffield, that your people were coming for you?"
“Not my people, Captain—acquaintances of my father. I am to stay with them
until such time as I travel to Delhi."
until such time as I travel to Delhi."
“They are late,” stated the captain.
“A delay that could not be helped, I am sure,” countered Roxane.
“I shouldn't wait very long, were I you,” he said. “If it weren't for the fact that I
have pressing business, I would stay with you, but...” His gruff voice trailed off,
in an uncertainty of decision. Roxane held no doubt that he was longing for a
cool glass of ale or some other equally delightful compensation for the weeks
spent at sea. She quickly put an end to his dilemma.
“Please, Captain, your offer is gallant, but there is no cause to alter your plans,”
she said. “I am certain that if there has been a delay, it will not be a long one."
“Let us hope not, Miss Sheffield. I recommend you move somewhere out of the
sun. It will be quite unbearable before long, especially to one such as yourself,
who has not previously experienced Indian heat."
“Thank you, Captain, I will do that,” Roxane answered, thinking that surely the
man exaggerated. Why, the morning air was quite temperate! And the breeze off
the Hooghly, despite the varying odors it wafted around, was pleasant against the
skin, ruffling the silk taffeta of her bonnet ribbons and rippling the scalloped
edge of her blouse. Still smiling, Roxane watched the captain stroll away, his
gait, of long habit, wide and rolling. Drawing a brief breath of satisfaction, she
settled herself more comfortably, preparing to watch and wait.
Two hours later, perspiration sticky beneath her garments, her stays intolerably
confining, and her frilly, fashionable sunbonnet offering small protection against
the pale, white glare, Roxane determined she could wait no longer.
Rising from her luggage, she contemplated with longing retiring to a nearby
hotel for a cool drink, while leaving a message for the absent Stantons. Yet, she
was reluctant to leave her belongings unattended. After some thought on the
matter, she proceeded to hail a ghari, one of the many horse-drawn vehicles
lumbering through the streets. The native driver drew alongside, hauling on the
reins.
“Good morning,” said Roxane. The brown-skinned man nodded with extreme
politeness, hands clasped together beneath his pointed chin in a solemn, servile
gesture.
gesture.
“I wish,” she continued, in a careful pronunciation of English, to assure no
misunderstanding, “to be conveyed to the home of Colonel and Mrs. Stanton."
“Stanton,” the man echoed, most agreeably. Roxane found the turning of his
vowels a pleasing variation. She nodded in encouragement, giving him the
address.
“Stanton, yes,” said the man, again. His wizened countenance began to take on a
puzzled look. Reaching up, he scratched beneath the edge of his turban with a
long, thin finger. His garments, made of muslin, flapped lightly in the warm
breeze. Roxane felt the weight of dampness beneath her own heavy clothing.
“Do you understand me?"
The driver looked at her blankly.
“Do you speak English? Angrezi?” she said, speaking the word she had read,
but, in her ignorance of the language, speaking it badly, she was certain. The
driver frowned, dark brows meeting over a hawkish nose.
About them, half-a-dozen native men had gathered, pushing and juggling
position for a closer view. Rapid language filled the air. In his cart, the driver
continued to watch her with courteous interest, head cocked to one side, black
eyes intent. Roxane glanced over the crowd, deciding that the moment was
entirely inopportune for all Europeans to have vanished. Turning back, she tried
again, haltingly and with many hand gestures.
“I want,” she said, the obvious representation being herself, “to ride"—a general
indication of motion—"in your cart. Will you"—at which the driver's eyes
widened, seeing her finger pointing in his direction—"take me"—at herself again
—"where I want to go?"
The Indian driver, studying every motion of her hands, abruptly found humor in
her bungling attempts and began to grin. He said something that was beyond her
comprehension, but which evoked laughter from the men standing near. Soon, in
response to a few more rapid words, there were a dozen hands reaching out,
grasping at her belongings, with the apparent intent of heaping boxes and trunk
onto the waiting cart. Watching them, an image of being transported atop her
possessions from street to street throughout the sweltering city, in endless search
possessions from street to street throughout the sweltering city, in endless search
for her destination, struck Roxane with a sudden and sharp flash of humor. She
stepped back, bidding them to stop, though in the turmoil she found it nearly
impossible to make herself understood. Unable to control her rising amusement
at her own ineptitude, she found her laughter joining theirs. In astonishment, the
men paused, boxes in hand, and looked at her. Slowly, their grins widened.
“Might I not be of assistance?"
Delighted to hear an English voice, Roxane spun about. “Goodness, yes,” she
said, still smiling, and then hesitated, the smile faltering as she took a small step
away. The stiff material of her skirt crushed against her legs, forced there by the
unyielding edge of the trunk. Before her, observing her with a mirthful twist to
his lips, stood a British officer, clad in a regimental summer-dress uniform. He
was some seven or eight years her senior, she estimated, tall—no less than six
feet—and the coal-black shade of his hair beneath his headgear, coupled with the
sunburnt bronzing of his skin, conspired to make him look as much a native of
India as of that country to which his familiar accents designated him. There was
no denying, however, that he had an English face, unusually strong along the
jawline, and determined, but English, nonetheless. His eyes were gray-blue—the
color of slate, she thought. No, not slate, which was too flat and inanimate, but
something else...
Suddenly, she brought her observations to a halt. Those very eyes which she had
been so curiously observing were showing every inclination of studying her in
much the same inquisitive manner. In addition, she could not help perceiving
that he found, about her person, a quality which greatly amused him. She
frowned, caring little to be the subject of a handsome man's careless—and
amused—scrutiny.
He asked, “Have you just gotten off the ship, then?"
With a wave of her hand, Roxane indicated her possessions, which the men
about her had begun, hesitantly, to lower to the ground.
“I see,” said the gentleman. “And you are alone? Have you not someone to meet
you?"
“Apparently,” said Roxane, “I have been forgotten. Therefore, I am attempting
to hire a conveyance to the home of my hosts."
“How long have you been waiting?"
“Two hours or more."
“In the sun? Foolish girl. Has no one warned you against doing so?” he said.
His smile was beginning to be irksome.
“They have,” Roxane retorted, revealing more of her irritation in the sharpness
of her tone than she would normally have permitted. “However, warnings are of
no help to me at this point. The Stantons must have—"
“Colonel Stanton?” interrupted the man.
“Yes,” said Roxane, wiping the back of her hand across her brow. “Do you
know him?"
“Socially,” said the stranger. “We meet, on occasion. Come, let me help you. I'll
have you there in no time.” Not troubling to wait on her assent, he turned to the
driver, speaking fluently in that man's native tongue. Within moments,
everything that Roxane had attempted to wrest back from overzealous hands was
loaded aboard the cart. Clucking to his harried animal, the driver pulled away.
The small crowd dispersed, but not before the officer had dropped a coin into
each upturned palm.
“I should have taken care of that,” murmured Roxane, vexed.
“Nonsense,” said the man. “Though, had it been but a few hours later, my
pockets would have been empty.” At Roxane's raised eyebrow, he laughed. “I
am not without means, but a gentleman in this part of the world rarely carries
cash about him. It is a foolish habit, but one which I, along with nearly the entire
European population, has fallen into."
Roxane peered out at the man from beneath her sunbonnet and made no reply.
“Now,” continued the man, having already decided the matter by his actions, “If
you will accept a gentleman's assistance, I will drive you myself. This way, if
you please.” He nodded, indicating a hooded buggy nearby. A roan horse waited
with impatience in the traces, stamping a slender, shod hoof on the packed
surface of the road.
Roxane stood, unmoving. “Do you always take command in this manner?"
Having already taken a step in the indicated direction, the captain stopped and
turned. “I beg your pardon?"
“I said,” Roxane reiterated, “is it habit with you to take command in this
manner?"
For a moment, the officer stood with furrowed brow, as though contemplating
her words. Then he laughed. “You must forgive me,” he said at last, “I suppose
that this shortcoming prevails among those of my profession. But then, what
would you have me do?"
“I should think you would tame your inclinations, sir."
“And I should think you would be inclined to show a little gratitude, for my
assistance,” the fellow reminded her. “I offered my aid, and you accepted, did
you not? At any rate, dear girl, your things are gone, and you must undertake to
follow them."
Roxane turned her head, green eyes flying wide, and stared after the cart. The
vehicle was nearly lost from view, moving through the crowded street on
rumbling wheels, spewing dust in its wake like a brown cloud. “I suppose that I
must,” she said.
“You could always walk, if you chose,” said the officer, “though I would be
remiss if I were to allow it. There are very few secrets in the European
community, and my neglect would quickly leak out. I might very well lose my
reputation as a gentleman."
He was smiling, wrapping the flat delivery of his words with the warmth of
irrepressible humor. Roxane suppressed an answering curve of her lips.
“Do you have a reputation to lose?” she taunted.
“I believe so,” he answered, with mock offense. Roxane spun on her heel.
“Very well,” she said. “I will come."
Grasping her skirt in both hands, Roxane strode toward the standing vehicle. She
preceded the officer by several seconds, as he had paused again to speak with
preceded the officer by several seconds, as he had paused again to speak with
someone, a native with whom he was apparently acquainted, in the street.
Curving her fingers about the lacquered side of the buggy, Roxane watched the
officer as he bade the other man a hasty farewell. She saw him smile, glancing at
her and away again, as he made one final comment. Roxane inhaled deeply,
impatience mounting. Without waiting for his assistance, she climbed inside the
vehicle, smoothing her skirt over the gabardine seat. A moment later, the officer
swung himself up, angling his tall frame into the seat beside her, the pale color
of his uniform looking cool and comfortable against the dark, ribbed woolen
covering of the seat. He whistled to the roan with a snap of the reins in the air
over the horse's back. The carriage lurched into motion, wheeling swiftly about
in a wide half circle. Gasping, Roxane was forced to clutch at her bonnet and the
seat's edge in swift succession to keep from toppling. Although the man's
expression was one of gravity, she had the distinct impression that he had
managed his horse and his vehicle to a purpose and was inwardly laughing.
“Miss—it is Miss, is it not?” he asked, glancing at her hand.
“Yes,” she said. “Miss Roxane Sheffield. And you, sir?"
“Captain Collier Harrison,” he introduced himself, extending a hand to her
across his lap. She took his fingers in a brisk, firm shake, and just as quickly
released them. “That is an unusual name,” he said.
“Not Sheffield?” she retorted.
“No,” he said, “Roxane."
She made a small face, gazing out over the road. “It is of Persian origin, I am
told. My father chose it for me. I will have to ask him what it means when I see
him. Knowing my father, he had a reason. Perhaps it was some private joke."
“Is your father the joking sort?” asked the captain.
“Once,” said Roxane, “I think he was. I have not seen him in—well, since I was
a very small girl,” she finished, firmly.
“He will be happy to see you, no doubt."
Roxane's smile was fleeting, and without pleasure. “Perhaps,” she said.
“Oh, certainly he will,” said the captain.
