Revolutionary Hearts (2 page)

A sense of unease gathered in her gut. She knew her brother had always wanted an inside perspective of how the British assessed the growing noncooperation movement. “But he did not ask me to be his maid. I have no training to assist in office work.”

Her brother rattled on. “
Aye
Bhagwan
, this has worked out better than I’d hoped.”

She scratched the back of her ankle with her other foot, shifting her weight. It didn’t make any sense. She nibbled her lower lip. “Why would he ask me, though?”

Raj shrugged. He leaned against the doorway of their grandmother’s house, one hand resting on the wooden frame. “Why does it matter? The gods have chosen you to help us win our freedom! Don’t you want that?”

She stepped inside the house, passing through the cramped kitchen. “Of course I do, I just…” She could have sworn the sparkling crackles of a flame had singed the air when she spoke to General Carton. She’d half-expected him to strike her for disobedience. The same punishment happened to countless other girls when they spoke out against a British master or made a mistake. Why had he looked amused when she spoke instead?

“This is your purpose in life, Nita. Never forget that. This is how we avenge the death of our mother, the abandonment of your father…”

She bristled at the sudden mention. The deceptive scum of a British soldier who’d abandoned her mother when he found out she was pregnant? She’d heard the story only too many times from their mother before her passing.

“I know, Raj.”

Her brother stayed in the doorway, surveying her. Ambition gleamed in his brown eyes. “Remember when you used to follow me to revolutionary meetings?”

She’d been but a child at the time. Her gaze shifted in the direction of the other small houses in the village, covered in dust and still exactly the same as fifteen years ago. “Whatever happened to those meetings?”

“The previous general who lived here suspected us. We meet in a neighboring village now.” He lifted his chin. “Would you like to join us at the next meeting? Not as an observer but as an active participant?”

The heady rush of Raj’s invitation washed over her. Her bare feet stood still in the swirling dirt as the scorching rays of the sun beat against the back of her neck. “Why?”

“You are a woman now. You will help us win this fight. You will help us defeat this foreign ruler and all the other men like him who seek to deny us independence.”

The general’s blue-green eyes hadn’t conveyed an angry man who would command troops on the palace grounds or one who barked orders to his Indian servants. His eyes seemed … kind. Parineeta shook her head. She couldn’t let herself be distracted. Kind or not, this man was capable of dangerous things.

She hadn’t found a job; she’d found a way to help free her country.

“Please sit down, Miss Singh.” Warren gestured to the chair on the other side of his desk.

Her movements were hesitant. The large, beautiful eyes scanned the room with expert precision and quick speed, as if she were documenting and memorizing every object in his study.

“Sit down. I insist.”

Parineeta finally settled into the wooden chair upon his second request. She lifted up the edges of her sari to set the cloth over the end of the seat. The skin between the end of her
choli
sleeve and her wrist soon disappeared as the drape of the cloth covered it. Her glossy, dark hair was covered once more as she gathered the veil back over her head.

A beat of silence. Warren drummed his fingers against the top of his desk. Interrogations were a part of his training, but usually the suspected anarchists questioned were already under custody. Never did he take a course in how to interrogate a female servant while in disguise.

“Well, Miss Singh, what is your impression of me?” He winced in regret at his choice of words the moment they left his mouth. While the accent sounded convincing, the words did not. Other British generals never seemed as bold as he was.

Her eyes flashed. With surprise or with amusement, he wished he knew. “What do you mean, sir?”

“The British. What do you think of the British?” Warren folded his arms and placed his elbows over the top of the table. There, that was better. Assert his authority, settle back into the disguise and gain her trust. Nearly a year in India and he had yet to hear reliable information about the extent of Raj’s anarchist influence. This fiery girl was his one chance at a glimpse into her brother’s activities.

“I believe they all think very highly of themselves.”

“And you do not, I assume?” The brass buttons from his regiment uniform pressed against the oak desk as he leaned forward.

The girl’s eyelids were hooded as she spoke. “I do not believe any race is better than another or that one race is entitled to freedom while another is not.”

“We bring civilization, Miss Singh.”

“What civilization—the railroads? The business that takes money from us and sends it back to England?”

“We bring needed modernization to your society.”

“Your people act as lords over us, demanding our crops and taxes. Our society was just fine without your people before, and it will exist just fine when your people leave!” Parineeta looked up; the fierce lightning in her eyes could have struck him down cold. Then she glanced away, training her gaze back on the wooden floorboards. The outburst was replaced by a calm temperament. “Sorry, sir. I do not know what came over me.”

He suppressed the urge to laugh. She would never have fit in as a housemaid, not with that fire.

“Miss Singh.” Warren pulled his fountain pen closer to him. He began scrawling on a nearby piece of paper, writing out her name. “Parineeta, is it?”

The girl nodded.

“Good. I am documenting a … project of sorts.” Should he trust her with his mission? Oh, not the spying part, of course, but could he ask her straight out? Moving too quickly on the first day could arouse her suspicions … or it could be the first step toward a treasure trove of information for the bureau—damn, the FBI. Still, it was worth the risk.

“I need your help documenting what the Indians think of British colonization.”

“Pardon?”

Warren set down the pen and massaged his temples with his thumb and forefinger. “I need your help, I’m afraid. None of the other servants will talk to me about the conditions of the Indians here. I need to give the report back to my field marshal in the British Army so that they have a better understanding of the effects of long-term colonialism.” It was half-true. Replace “British” with “American” and he’d be able to swear the honesty of his words to a priest.

“I do not understand. Why would you want my opinion?” Panic settled in the girl’s expression. She tilted up her chin in a brave front, but he could detect the uncertainty.

“Because I am working on a research project.” Warren adjusted his high, starched collar, tugging at the end of it to increase the space between his neck and the cloth. He would never get used to the discomfort of British uniforms.

“Why would you need my opinion?”

He clasped his hands together over the paper. “For one, your English is flawless. I doubt any ideas will be lost in translation.” And damn it all, her English ability led to his best chance at having enough information to report to the bureau. If he wanted a job with the new FBI, it wouldn’t help to have never completed his mission with now-defunct NBCI. “You are my servant and, therefore, my employee. That is how you will serve me in this house. Is that all right?”

The girl’s eyes suddenly widened. “No!”

“No? I am trying to work with you, not…” He pushed his chair back when she stood up. Parineeta had one hand clasped over her mouth and the other hand pointed in the direction of his window. He followed the direction of her gaze to a man outside.

He gasped. Several of his soldiers were beating Raj.

“What in the devil…” He swung back around at the sound of a bang. The oak door still swung from where Parineeta had flung it open. Only the back of her sari was visible as she dashed down the hall, her footsteps clattering across the blue tile.

Parineeta’s bare feet slapped against the dirt, causing plumes of fine dust to rise up with each step she took. “
Roko
!
Stop, please stop!”

The British soldiers continued to strike Raj, using their fists to cause her brother to stagger backward into another group of waiting soldiers behind him. Red liquid streamed out of his smashed nose. The soldiers’ beige uniforms were stained crimson with his blood, covering their brass buttons with a lethal paint.

Her cries remained unheard. She launched herself at one of the soldiers and tried to pry his arms off her brother. In a moment, she found herself flung backward. The heavy blows continued. Kicks and cries became lost in the dangerous dust. “
Roko
!”

The last time her brother had returned home bashed and bruised, it was because he’d been struck by club-wielding police during an event that had begun as a nonviolent protest. One of his friends had died from head injuries. Parineeta had thanked the gods that her brother had remained all right, but he’d since turned away from nonviolent methods. Had he used his fists against these soldiers?

Before she could fling herself into the fray again, a long shadow swept over the ground, covering her own figure and the shapes of some of the soldiers. The man behind her was tall, broad-shouldered, and…

“That’s enough!”

Her shoulders drooped at the sound of the voice. Without warning, her heart started hammering against her ribcage. Why was he here?

The soldiers dropped Raj. Her brother fell to the ground with another cry and doubled over in pain. She rushed forward, grabbing his limp form and rocking him against her chest. Blood trickled out of both nostrils. His upper lip had already begun to swell, and she could make out the beginning of a nasty bruise on his cheek. Yet he was still conscious. No sign of a head wound, either. A sigh of relief escaped her lips.

“Who said you could beat this man? This man works for me, just as you do.” General Carton barked out the scolding at his soldiers. “Now tell me why you took it upon yourselves to harm him!” His expression grew dark as he shouted his command at the men.

Parineeta had never seen men in uniform look so frightened. Their formerly brazen stances and behavior were replaced by slumped shoulders and downcast looks. He seemed to make them shake inside their polished boots.

One of the men stepped forward. “The … the darkie asked for it, sir. He called us his jailers.”

“It does not matter what he calls you.” The general scowled. The bright sun rested behind him, framing his outline in a burst of white light as he stood there. “Extra practice for all of you at sunrise. No one harms my workers; is that clear?”

The men nodded. A collective gulp could be heard.

“I said, is that clear?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” the men all chanted in unison. They saluted and then marched away from the general, postures squared and heads hung low.

Parineeta felt her brother’s weak body flagging in her arms as his weight sank against her. “Raj!” She tried to shake him, but there was no response. His head lolled back against the top of her forearm.

“Go get him treated.”

As she peered up at him, his fists remained clenched at his sides, but his expression seemed calm once again. All traces of the fearsome general had vanished. The man possessed two completely different sides. “Why did you help him?”

He frowned, as if the answer was obvious. “I couldn’t stand around and watch a defenseless man nearly die.”

“Most British officers would.”

Their eyes locked, a steel blue-green gaze fixed onto hers. Against her will, her heart skipped a beat. “I can assure you I’m not like most officers.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You have nothing to thank me for.” The general started to walk away but then stopped suddenly and looked over his shoulder. The man ran one hand through his black, wavy hair and raised his other hand to point at her. “Tomorrow. My study. Meet at the same time.”

“Yes, sir.” She didn’t understand him. Any other British master would not have cared about the welfare of one servant. She’d even heard of other generals encouraging their soldiers to beat their servants. How could he be so different? Then again, she’d never met another general who asked his servants about their opinions on the world.

To think she and Raj had assumed she would be a maid! She’d never separated one white man from another before; she’d viewed them all as treacherous. Raj had told her so many stories of how all generals were the same cold-hearted men who believed Indians to be inferior … would her brother believe her if she told him the man they worked for was different?

She took a deep breath and held her brother closer to her chest. One act of kindness didn’t change who the general was or the institution his soldiers enforced. She was still a freedom fighter; he was still the enemy.

• • •

Colonel Curzon? No, too obvious. The grudge-holding Curzon had hated his guts ever since Warren called off Curzon’s attack on the Indian village. That was nearly a year ago. If Curzon suspected he was a spy, he would have acted by now.

Colonel Leighworth? No, too spineless. Leighworth wouldn’t hurt a fly. His troops barely respected him; there was no way he could gather enough courage to investigate covert activities of his superior officers.

Who else could have suspected his identity?

A sharp rap at the door interrupted his thoughts. The floorboards creaked beneath a veiled figure standing in the doorway.

“Ah, Miss Singh!” Warren picked up his fountain pen and shifted the paper on his desk closer to him. “Please sit down. Close the door behind you.”

As soon as the door clicked shut, the girl removed her veil from around her head. The soft fabric gathered at the base of her shoulders. “What is it you wish to speak to me about?”

He shifted his weight in his seat. Time to try a new angle this time before she suspected it was an interrogation. “How is Raj?”

“Recovering.” She looked down into her lap. “We cannot thank you enough for stepping in yesterday.”