Heart of Light (21 page)

As soon as Nigel left the carriage, Emily tried to follow
him. Oh, it might be disgraceful for a lady to leave the carriage and follow her husband into the dark night on her own. But then, honestly, wouldn't it be more disgraceful for the same well-bred, well-born lady to stay in a carriage filled with strangers, close to each other, and most of them men?

She started toward the door, where she was met by an Arab who gesticulated frantically at her while spewing forth a barrage of Arabic—amid which, now and then, a single English word emerged.

“Dragon,” the man said. And then a stream of Arabic, and then, “Dragon,” again.

“Nigel!” she called out. But as she said it, she spied Nigel, standing and obviously well, at the edge of the forest and a few carriages down. Even half in shadow, she recognized his very pale hair, his broad shoulders, the manner in which he stood and swung his stick. And recognizing him, she felt that she could not possibly be angry at him for long. Even if he didn't love her enough to disobey the queen for her sake, and refuse to bring Emily to Africa, she'd convince him to truly love her. And his kiss seemed to bespeak a great love, indeed—or at least great desire. Surely she could use that to tie his heart to hers.

“Nigel,” she called out, this time louder. “Mr. Oldhall.”

Nigel walked farther away without turning. It was clear that he had not heard her.

A group of other men stood around him, and they seemed to be in a great conversation, though the mind boggled at what language they used to communicate.

“Nigel,” Emily called again.

She tried to push past the Arab who guarded the door, but he only unleashed another barrage of alien language at her. Nigel flailed at the forest with his stick, oblivious to Emily's words. Had he forgotten she was in the carriage? And where was Peter Farewell?

She looked for him, but could not find him. “I must join my husband,” she told the Arab, speaking very slowly and distinctly, as though by doing so she could force the man to understand English. She felt a sting of guilt for behaving as she'd often seen her father behave, treating non-English speakers as though they suffered from some deficiency of either intelligence or hearing, but she did not know what else to do. “That is my husband, there.” She pointed a Nigel with a trembling finger. “I must join him.”

The Arab looked blank. Emily made to push past him and he gibbered at her, moving his hands rapidly near her face, without touching her. Emily backed up, shook her head, and using her parasol to hold the man at bay, she attempted to step down from the carriage.

She took one step down, onto the first of two rickety wooden steps that led down to the ground. She felt hands on her shoulders, from behind.

“Wait there,” said a voice with a strong working-class British accent. “Wait.”

Emily turned to see that the hands belonged to two soldiers who stood behind her, one on either side of her. She was struck at once by how young they looked, and the fact that they both seemed to be leering at her. And they were touching her.
Touching
her. She'd never before been touched by strangers, much less strange males.

Just then, each of the soldiers laid another hand on her, grasping her shoulders painfully and attempting to pull her back into the carriage by force.

Emily was so stunned at their violence that she sought in vain for voice. “Unhand me,” she said at last, her voice strangled with outrage. “Unhand me! How dare you?”

The younger of the men, who stood on her right, leered at her ever more atrociously. “Oh, a
lady
like you should not go out there alone.”

“No, it would be a waste,” the other one said, and chortled.

She turned and saw that the rest of the detachment, a mass of Red Coats, pressed behind her, a few more stretching hands toward her. They closed in on her as she'd once seen dogs close in on an injured fox.

“My
husband
is out there,” she said. “I simply want to join him. I will
not
be alone. This is very improper.”

But the soldiers only grinned wider. “Ah, you know he's not your husband,” said one of the blond ones, with a bandage across his head. “You know you're a fun-loving wench, do you not? Where are you from, now? India? I was in India. By Jove, your kind are a fiery breed.” As he spoke, he reached for her.

Emily attempted to pull away but she could not do it without pressing against another soldier.

The man traced her cheekbone with his thick, sweat-slick fingers. She shrieked and started laying about her with her parasol. Why did Nigel not hear her? Why did Nigel not turn? Why did Nigel not come? Why did he ignore her?

“Mr. Oldhall!” she yelled with all her might.

And now Nigel seemed to hear. He turned hesitantly and faced her. He was five carriages away, and she could not see his face.

But she saw him start to run toward her, some of the other men with him following.

Through the mess she saw a tall black man with almost classical features reach for her also. Strangely, from the look in his eyes, she felt he was reaching to rescue her. He pulled back at one of the soldiers, but the soldier only pushed forward, toward Emily again.

“Hey there, what are you doing?” Peter Farewell asked. He stood on the step below Emily and addressed the soldiers. Perfectly coiffed, his suit still looking impeccable, he brought his hands to his hips and managed to look at once both full of bonhomie and quite capable of fury. He hoisted himself up to stand beside Emily.

“What did you think you were doing?” Farewell asked, and his green eyes flashed with such menace that even Emily herself tried to step away from him. But he gripped her wrist and pulled her behind himself, interposing his body between her and the soldiers.

The black man had fallen back to the deeper shadows of the carriage, but Emily was sure he was still watching them with interest. She wondered if he could understand anything they said, and why he'd sought to rescue her—as she was sure he'd been trying to—while her own compatriots had tried to attack her.

Farewell glanced at Emily, his features grave. “Are you well, Mrs. Oldhall?”

Emily composed the disarray of her clothing by touch, as though her fingertips could erase the feeling of the soldiers' intrusion on her person.

“I am . . .” she said. “Or I will be.”

“Come on,” the blond, leering soldier said. “She ain't ever no Mrs. She is a fancy bit, dragged about by you two
gentlemen
for your comfort.”

Emily felt her cheeks flame.

“I say, you gentlemen should share and share alike,” another soldier said.

“Yeah, we're the defenders of the empire.”

“We deserve some home comforts,” another soldier said, and laughed.

While they spoke, Peter moved slowly so that he was now entirely between Emily and the soldiers.

Just then Nigel arrived at the door of the carriage, breathing hard. He pushed through the ring of Arabs and locals who pressed all around outside, without interfering. “Emily,” he said. His warm hand touched her shoulder. “Emily, for heaven's sake, are you well? What did these men do?”

“We just wanted a little company,” the soldier said.

“Did you pick her up in India, mister? How much did she cost you?”

“Why you—” Nigel said. Color flooded upward through his cheeks, and he clenched his hands tightly into fists.

“What are you going to do, Nigel?” Peter said. He spoke calmly and set his hand on Nigel's shoulder. “Call them out? They're not gentlemen.”

“They're savages,” Nigel said, his voice harsh with anger. “Our own men, soldiers of the empire. Savages!”

“Used to facing savagery and hostility, yes,” Peter said. He turned to the soldiers, speaking calmly and earnestly. “I still feel you fellows owe the lady an apology.” He lifted his hand, forestalling speech from a couple of men who'd opened their mouths. “You must believe she is a lady, and a young and respectable bride.”

“Respectable bride taking the Shake and Rattle?” one of the soldiers said. “Pull the other one. It's got bells on.”

“Not at all.” Peter smiled. He managed to radiate easygoing amusement, as though he were in a party of his own friends, and all were comfortable and just as it should be. “You see,” his voice descended to confidential tones. “My friend here is a poor but honest man, who went to school with me thanks to a scholarship. And he met and fell in love with a teacher's daughter. Of course, her parents would not give consent for her to marry a carpenter's son.”

He reached for his pack of cigarettes and lit one with his silver lighter. He looked strong and fully awake, rested like no one around him. The cough Emily had noticed before seemed to be gone.

She leaned back against Nigel and let Peter say what he wished. “So my friend, being truly in love, eloped with the lady, and they're here in Africa, avoiding the pursuit of her relatives. Which is why we are in the Shake and Rattle, because they'll never look for her here.”

There was a silence that extended for a few seconds, and then one of the soldiers said, “So, a carpenter, uh? My father is a carpenter.”

And another soldier said, “I bet she brought a great dowry.”

And another, “I wish I could catch me a lady with a dowry.”

But the mood had changed.

Nigel tried to speak once, to defend his wife and himself against the charge of having eloped. “But we did not—”

“Oh, own up,” Peter said. He took cigarettes from his pocket and passed them around. Then he passed his lighter around also. “We're among friends here.”

And indeed, these soldiers were now behaving like Peter Farewell's old friends. They talked together, and Emily, weak with relief and confusion, sagged against Nigel and let the words wash over her.

She woke from her reverie when she heard Peter say, “So, do you know any places around here where the lady might lodge? Because we're stranded. The natives won't go any farther; they claim they saw some beast or other.”

“Ah, sir,” the soldier with the bandage said. “The bloody natives are always getting excited. I tell you, the only good savage is a dead savage.”

The words shocked Emily, but Peter only nodded understandingly. “Anywhere around here a lady can stay in peace?”

The men looked at each other.

“There's a farm in this oasis,” one of them said. “The Great House. It's a farm, really, and the people are none too good a quality, but they keep a boardinghouse of sorts for Europeans. And they trade with caravans. A good sort.”

It seemed to Emily that her senses blurred and time sped by her sluggish mind. It seemed like no time at all before they were walking through the oasis—which the soldiers said was five miles long and two miles deep—toward the house at the opposite end. The soldiers formed an escort ahead and behind them. She walked with Nigel, holding on to his arm. He was very quiet and she thought she still sensed, in his silence, an anger he'd not express. She wondered if he was only angry at the soldiers, or if he thought that she'd done something to bring about their attack. She did not dare ask.

The soldiers behind them carried Emily's and Nigel's five trunks. Peter walked with the soldiers in front, who slashed at the forest with rifles and knives.

“The dragon,” Emily asked Nigel. “What was it about a dragon?”

“Tommyrot,” Nigel said. “Pure tommyrot. A dragon in Africa? Imagine.” He swung his walking stick out at either side of the path.

“I thought—” Emily said.

“Oh, it's true we saw a dragon. Over the south of Spain,” Nigel said. “And, having exposed himself, the beast was probably hunted down and killed by the Gold Coats by now.” He shrugged.

“Stupid imagination of stupid, backward natives.

These fellows probably read news about the sighting of the dragon from the carpetship. And, because of that, we'll be stranded in the middle of the oasis at the mercy of the . . . of them.”

He glared toward the Red Coats.

Emily did not dare mention the dragon again. She feared that Nigel might well blame her Indian imagination.

“Oh,” she said. “But, perhaps with our being lost, our pursuers will find it harder to find us.”

“Perhaps,” Nigel said. “But it's damn bothersome.”

Emily thought it best not to speak again. Instead, she watched Peter Farewell walking ahead of them. In the dark, she could see his broad shoulders and his swinging arm, his gesturing hand, in which a cigarette glistened. She heard his voice speaking in a continuous, reassuring patter. And she wondered at his stamina. For even she, who would call herself a good walker, felt tired, her legs aching, her stomach growling with hunger. The food supplies they'd brought were in the trunks and she didn't dare ask Nigel if they might stop and eat. But Farewell walked as if he'd had a good rest and a good meal.

She wondered if Peter would listen to her, should she ever decide to talk to him about the dragon.

Emily was sure, at any rate, that he would not tell her it was only her fevered imagination.