Danger at Dahlkari (22 page)

“I—hadn't heard.”

“The commander doesn't want to go, of course, but he realizes that a refusal would be a gross insult to the rajah, could cause a serious strain on relations between palace and garrison. The commander fussed and fumed, but in the end he saw there was no way out.”

“He accepted the invitation?”

Michael nodded. “Most reluctantly, though. I imagine he'll tell you all about it later on.”

“I imagine he will.”

We were standing in front of the door now. Michael hesitated for just a moment, more uncomfortable than ever, and then his mouth grew tight and his blue eyes were suddenly resolute. Roughly, abruptly, he pulled me into his arms and kissed me vigorously. I was startled, but I made no attempt to push him away. One arm wrapped around my waist, the other curled around the back of my neck, he made a sudden swerve, bending me at the waist and swinging me around until I was almost leaning over backwards, his mouth over mine all the while. When he finally released me, I was breathless, too stunned to speak.

“Think about that, too,” he said brusquely.

And then, before I could reply, he opened the front door and stepped out onto the veranda and pulled the door shut behind him, leaving me alone in the hall. I was still dizzy, still out of breath, not knowing what to make of that sudden lunge or my own reactions to it, but I would definitely think about it.

As I had been so uncivil to Dollie in the morning, I could hardly refuse to go to the village with her that afternoon. Laden with food and clothes and medical supplies, she made periodic visits to the needy families of Dahlkari, a bright, chatty Lady Bountiful who distributed her parcels with jolly good will and a merry smile, totally unlike the rigid, tight-lipped missionaries and other organized do-gooders determined to do their “duty” and leaving a wake of resentment behind. Although none of the other women on post would accompany her on her charitable missions, all of them contributed parcels, frequently under duress. It was one of the rare times when Dollie used her position as the commanding officer's wife to bully the others into doing her will.

The open carriage jolted uncomfortably. As we left the post and started down toward the village, the corporal who served as our driver tugged on the reins to slow the horses. The parcels heaped up on the seat opposite us slipped and slid about, one of them tumbling to the floor. I bent down to put it back in place. Dollie sighed, the girlish black ringlets on either side of her plump face jiggling comically. She wore a blue and maroon striped dress, her black kid boots peeking out beneath the voluminous skirts. A befringed blue shawl was wrapped around her arms, and she held a large blue parasol over one shoulder. I settled back beside her, my lilac skirt rustling. The carriage bounced on down the slope under a sun-drenched pearl-gray sky, yellow heat waves shimmering.

“One does what one
can
,” Dollie remarked, eyeing the bouncing parcels on the seat opposite. “It frequently seems so hopeless—all this poverty and starvation on every side, disease, malnutrition. Of course the natives of Dahlkari have it much better because of the garrison. There's a great deal of trade—the men are always buying things to send home, and the bazaar is the largest in the district. Dahlkari's far more prosperous than the average Indian village.”

As we rode past the river I looked at the water buffalo wallowing in the thick brown mud. The women in worn, dusty saris moved by with their inevitable pitchers, and a group of naked children were splashing in the water, half hidden by reeds. We passed a crumbling white religious temple and a line of sunbaked hovels. The corporal on his high seat in front tugged on the reigns again, slowing the horses down as we reached the village proper.

“Many of the natives work as servants for the English,” Dollie continued, “and Doctor Hendricks and his assistants tend all the sick—the beds at the infirmary on post are generally filled with ailing natives. Nevertheless, I'm afraid it's just a drop in the bucket. They resent us, and I suppose that's only natural.”

The street we were moving down was narrow and congested, filled with beggars and filth and exotic shops. Stacks of woven baskets stood beside bamboo bird cages filled with dejected, brightly colored birds. Hawkers cried their wares. Children raced alongside the carriage, hands held out hopefully. Dollie reached into her maroon silk reticule, withdrew a handful of coins and tossed them to the children. They began to scream, scrambling in the street on hands and knees as the carriage moved on.

“It doesn't do any good, I'm afraid, but I can never resist it. Can you feel the hostility? As I said, they resent us dreadfully, and why not? We live up there in comfort and seclusion, while down here they struggle to exist. Our men spend a lot of money in the village, but I fear they don't always conduct themselves like gentlemen. There are frequent brawls in the cafés when they've had too much to drink, and then there are those terrible houses—some of the girls are barely in their teens, their hands and feet painted vermilion, eyes lined with kohl. It does no good to put such places off limits, dear. Men are men, particularly
mili
tary men. If it weren't for the houses there'd be even more trouble.”

“I can imagine,” I replied, not at all shocked.

“There are certain things one learns to accept,” Dollie said regretfully, “and then there are others that must be stopped. Before we arrived in Dahlkari anyone caught stealing, be it merely a piece of fruit from one of the stalls, had their right hand chopped off. We put a stop to that, against considerable objections from the rajah, I might add. There are other, even more brutal practices we abolished, like suttee, for example—burning the widows on their husbands' funeral pyres. There was even more opposition when we put a stop to that, from the natives themselves. It's a religious practice, you see. In many cases the widows are eager to join their husbands in death.”

“And if they're not?”

“They're bound and gagged and hurled into the flames anyway. It gives one the shivers just to think about it!”

We passed a street lined with shabby cafés, strands of beads dangling over the doorways, bizarre music and the noise of clattering dishes pouring through the windows along with the flies. Beggars squatted against the walls, many of them missing arms and legs, some sightless, all wearing tattered rags begrimed with filth. This street was congested, too, a solid mass of moving humanity who grudgingly stepped aside to let the carriage pass. The din was incredible, the stench appalling. I was beginning to see why the other wives weren't eager to accompany Dollie on these missions.

“Only a week or so before you arrived Reggie had to send some men down here to stop a suttee,” she continued. “He heard about it just in time. The relatives of the deceased had already prepared the pyre down by the river, a huge stack of wood. The torches had already been lighted, and the widow was weeping and wailing and tearing her clothes. The poor woman would have gone up in flames if the men hadn't arrived when they did. As it was, she fought them viciously when the pyre was lighted, trying to break free and hurl herself into the fire. We can't allow anything that barbaric, even if it does have to do with their religion. Suttee has been officially abolished all over India, but I'm afraid it's still a common practice.”

Leaving the congested business district, we drove past grim gray and brown hovels with unprotected windows and doors. Whole families lived inside, frequently with their animals. Dollie explained that Blossom, the maid, kept her informed about those villagers who were particularly in need of provisions, and she tactfully suggested that I remain in the carriage when we made our stops, afraid I might find the squalor within difficult to take. We made stop after stop, Dollie bouncing in and out of the carriage with spirit undaunted. As we waited for her to come out, several native men skulked around, eyeing the parcels with unabashed greed, but the robust young corporal's menacing countenance held them at bay. When all the parcels were finally delivered, Dollie informed me that she wanted to stop by and visit with Blossom's family for a while.

“Why don't you visit the bazaar, dear? It's fascinating, I can assure you. The corporal can leave the carriage in front of Blossom's house. Now that the parcels are gone no one will bother it. You couldn't possibly go without an escort, but Burke will be glad to act in that capacity. You can come back for me when you've seen enough, then we'll return to the garrison.”

“I'd love to see it, but I wouldn't want to impose on the corporal.”

“It'll be a treat for him, too, escorting a pretty young girl about. Isn't that right, Burke?”

“Indeed it is, ma'am,” the corporal replied.

“Watch him, Lauren,” Dollie teased. “He's got quite a reputation as a ladies' man. Handsome brute like him, it's no
won
der.”

Burke grinned, and a few minutes later I found myself walking with him toward the bazaar that occupied several acres in the center of the village. In his early twenties, he was tall and sturdily built, a taciturn fellow with dark brown hair and a humped nose that had obviously been broken. His wide mouth was grim as he escorted me through the crowd, his dark gray eyes glaring a warning at anyone who dared get too close. Burke was exceedingly conscious of his responsibility, I thought, rather amused by his fierce demeanor.

The bazaar was indeed something to behold, hundreds of stalls forming a maze, the paths in between crowded with prosperous looking natives and a number of soldiers from the garrison enjoying their afternoon off. As Corporal Burke and I entered the maze, I marveled at booths heaped high with mangoes and coconuts and melons, some split open to reveal the juicy red pulp. Meat hung on racks with flies abuzz. Live chickens were strung up by their feet, squawking and struggling. There were stalls displaying exquisite silks of rainbow hue interwoven with gold and silver thread in delicate patterns, stalls with fancy leather work, with bowls and platters of chased brass, with rack after rack ashimmer with jewelry. The noise was deafening, the atmosphere charged with excitement, people arguing, haggling over prices, exclaiming over the beauty of various items. I was startled to see a skinny, dingy white cow ambling casually down one of the aisles, people stepping aside to make way for it. We were soon in the middle of the maze, a constantly changing kaleidoscope of sight and sound. The corporal kept close beside me, patient with my enthusiasm, shoving aside anyone who got in our way.

“Must you be so rough?” I asked him.

“You've gotta watch these rogues,” he said sternly. “They'd steal the clothes off your back if they could. You've gotta be firm with 'em, show 'em you won't tolerate any nonsense.”

Burke obviously wasn't about to tolerate any. A rugged specimen who carried himself like a pugilist, the humped nose giving a belligerent look to his face, he was merely watching out for me. I realized that, and I realized that what he had said about thievery was undoubtedly true, yet I wished he weren't quite so zealous about his responsibility. His rough manner could only make the natives resent us even more.

We turned a corner and started down another aisle lined with dozens of stalls, and it was then that I saw Gordon and Valerie Simpson. He wore the same white suit he had been wearing at the rajah's party, and she was wearing a deep garnet dress, her lustrous black hair tumbling loose. They were standing in front of a stall displaying jewelry. Mrs. Simpson was examining a silver bracelet while Gordon smoked a cheroot with a bored expression. I stopped abruptly. The corporal asked me what was wrong. I pretended to examine a pair of leather slippers on the stall in front of me, but I kept my eye on the couple at the end of the aisle. She held up the bracelet for his approval. Gordon gave a weary nod and took the money out of his pocket, paying while she fastened the bracelet around her wrist. She wrapped her arm possessively around his, and they moved on, her garnet skirt swaying provocatively. Corporal Burke was so intent on protecting me that he hadn't seen them. Not at all keen on encountering the couple face to face, I gave the corporal a nervous smile and suggested we turn around and walk in the opposite direction.

“Anything you wish, Miss Gray,” he said patiently.

It was outrageous, utterly outrageous. How dare they flaunt their liaison so openly. Dollie had told me a number of the wives had tried to captivate Gordon when he first arrived, that he had refused to give them the time of day. He was obviously giving Valerie Simpson considerably more than that. Men didn't buy silver bracelets for women without good cause. When had he taken up with her? He'd only been back for two days. They had probably had something between them before he left on his secret mission. The woman was little better than a trollop, I thought furiously. She had pursued Michael and made a fool of herself over him, and now she was clinging to Gordon's arm as though she owned him. She was precisely the kind of woman a man like that would take up with: darkly beautiful, moody, totally amoral. They were welcome to each other, I told myself. I couldn't care less what Robert Gordon did as long as he kept out of my way.

“Something wrong?” Burke inquired.

“Wrong? Of course not.”

“You look upset.”

“You must be imagining it, Corporal,” I said, much too sharply.

“Sorry,” he replied.

“I—I didn't mean to snap like that. Please forgive me.”

Burke shrugged his broad shoulders and curled his mouth as though to indicate his failure to comprehend the vagaries of women. We continued to move slowly through the noisy, colorful bazaar, and I tried my best to put Gordon and the Simpson woman out of my mind. Another fifteen minutes or so passed, and I paused in front of a stall displaying exquisite handwork. I spotted a small green silk bag embroidered with gold and yellow birds, red and tan flowers. It was lovely, and as it cost less than an English pound I decided to buy it for Sally as a peace offering. Sensing my interest, the obese proprietor in turban and robe began to babble and make excited gestures. When I indicated the bag, he shook his head and pretended it wasn't for sale, hoping no doubt to obtain a higher price. Corporal Burke heaved a sigh and told me I'd better let him handle it. I stepped aside, and he began to berate the proprietor in amazingly fluent native dialect.