Veils of Silk (29 page)

It wasn't until later that night, when Laura was comfortably curled up against Ian and almost asleep, that she was struck by a frightening realization that shocked her back to wakefulness. Earlier she had been so absorbed in the events of the evening—first socializing, then anger, then laughter and dancing—that she had not fully recognized the dangers of her behavior.

Now she was horrified to realize that she, who had always cultivated calmness, had succumbed to rage and jealousy.

Though pushing Ian into the water had not endangered him, her action had been only a hair's breadth away from uncontrolled violence. What was happening to her? She had believed that abstaining from physical passion would save her from the lethal excesses of her nature. But twice now, when Ian gave her the shooting lesson and tonight when she became infuriated about his former fiancee, she had utterly lost control. Obviously the passions of the heart were as volatile and hazardous as those of the body.

She slid her arm around her sleeping husband, her face tightening. She could see only two possibilities: learn to control herself better, or leave Ian, for both of their sakes. And that was really no choice at all, because she could no longer imagine life without him.

2nd May. A landmark day! I saw the sun again, and blinked like a mole at the brightness. Ian and I were removed from the Well, then separated. I was taken to the office of the prison warden, where a chamberlain and two mullahs waited. They promised me royal favor, a position as military advisor, a residence of my own, and a young wife "as graceful as a doe. " In order to obtain these delights, all I need do is admit to spying for the tsar, convert to Islam, and swear fealty to Amir Nasrullah. Conversion would be the work of a moment: I need only say "There is no God but the one God, and Muhammed is his prophet, " and I will be free. Not to mention clean, warm, and well-fed.

I won't pretend that I didn't waver. Once I would have seized the offer with the hope of later escape, thinking that it didn't matter what religion I professed. But it does matter, if not to God, then to me. I'm dying; of course all men are, but in my case, I know the time is marked in weeks or months, not years.

And, by blessed St. Cyril, when the time comes I want to die knowing that I have not denied the faith I was raised in, the church my ancestors bled and died for. I want to go to an Orthodox heaven with gilded onion domes and incense and samovars, not a Muslim paradise filled with houris who regrow their virginity every night. I've never understood the charm of that—virgins take everything so seriously. Give me a woman who knows what she's doing, not that I could do anything with her in my present state, but I wouldn't mind having a pretty lady on my lap, where I could pat her knee and think of better days.

I wonder what heaven is like, if it exists? I like to think of it as a great city with different quarters for every faith, but all within visiting distance of each other. While I may not want to reside in the Islamic heaven, I'd certainly want to be able to call on my Muslin friends and smoke a pipe or two. I expect that the paradise of the Roman Church will be right next to that of the Eastern Church, so there can be jolly joint festivals on the great saints' days. The Lutherans will have their own quarter
—
a cold and virtuous place, I expect, but worth a visit if only to drink their beer
.

Of course, heaven is a long shot after what I've done in my life, and the worst deed of all is what might occur after my death. My clever, wicked plan may destroy thousands-no, tens of thousands
—
of innocent people. It only needs the right spark to set afire that will rage across India. And for what purpose but to replace the rule of one empire with that of another? I wish to God that I could undo what I have done, but that would be impossible even if I were not entombed in this cell. I can only pray that my damned scheme never reaches fruition
.

Aye, I deserve to burn in hell. At least I'll probably see more of my old friends there than I would in heaven.

Laura frowned at her transcription. There it was again, that reference to a fire that might destroy India. She really must speak to Ian and see if Pyotr had ever mentioned his "clever, wicked scheme." It was hard to imagine what he might have done that could cause the kind of disaster he referred to. She suspected that he exaggerated the importance of his work.

With a sigh, she flexed her fingers to ease a cramp. The more of her uncle's journal she read, the more she regretted not having known the old reprobate better. Would he have discussed the nature of paradise with her if they had met again when she was grown, or would he have kept such irreverent speculation to himself? Now she would never know. Just as she was unlikely ever to know what his "clever, wicked scheme" was.

She and Ian had decided to stay over the day after the ball in order to recover from the occasion, and to take care of remaining business. After breakfast—when Ian had not only eaten a sizable meal but asked for seconds—the two of them had gone separate ways. Laura had paid farewell calls on the most senior wives, including Blanche Baskin, who teased her about midnight swims with her handsome husband. Then she returned to the bungalow, packed her belongings, and was free for the rest of the day. She was glad to have the time for her uncle's journal.

3rd May. Ian still hasn't been returned to the Well. If they made the same offer to him as to me, did he take it? I don't know, can't even guess, though we have come to know each other so well. He may have done as I once would have, thinking himself obliged to take any chance that might lead to freedom. But he's a stubborn lad, and may instead have told the tempters to do something rude and anatomically impossible. So he may be free, or he may, God forbid, have been executed. I pray that it is the former, and that he will find his way home.

5th May. Selfish of me, but I miss Ian's company terribly. The cold seems colder, the darkness blacker, the loneliness well-nigh unbearable. I try to sleep as much as possible.

H6th May. Ian is back, raving and horribly beaten. They lowered him down like a slab of meat. There's a viciousness to the injuries that turns even a stomach as hardened as mine. If he survives he may be blind, and there might be other permanent damage. I have done what I can to help, but it is so pathetically little that I weep from frustration. I am an old man with little time left—why could they not have wreaked their havoc on me?

Pen clamped between bloodless fingers, Laura stared sightlessly into space, the anguish of the Black Well more real than the brilliant Indian sun. So this was when Ian had lost his eye, and probably suffered the injury that had changed his life.

Afraid of what she might see but unable to stop herself, she looked at the next brief entry.

20th May. Ian has survived the crisis, at least physically, but barely speaks and will say nothing about what they did to him, or why. Damned fool Englishman must have defied them and is paying the price for it.

I now fear more for his spirit than I did for his body.

Hands shaking, Laura closed the Bible. It would be a pity to blur her uncle's words with her tears.

It had been sheer chance that Ian had found Georgina visiting at her parents' home the day he first returned to Cambay. He had never been to the bungalow that Georgina and her husband occupied, but David had given him instructions, along with a curious glance, and the place proved easy to find.

Within two minutes of giving his name to the Indian butler, Ian was summoned to the greenery-filled veranda on the side of the house. Georgina had been pinching dead blossoms from a hanging geranium plant, but as Ian entered she turned to face him, her face pale. She wore a pink morning gown and was very lovely, but there was a brittle vulnerability about her that Ian had never seen during their courtship.

Not bothering with greetings, Georgina said stiffly, "What brings you here today, Lord Falkirk?"

"I wanted to talk to you before I left." Ian regarded Georgina searchingly. He remembered very clearly the laughter and passionate kisses they had shared, yet now he felt no real kinship with her. Had their relationship been so entirely based on physical attraction that without desire there was nothing left? With Laura, he had felt emotional closeness almost from the beginning, even though there was no physical desire.

Georgina's memories must have been more disquieting, for she colored under his gaze, picked up a pair of gardening shears, and began to clip some trailing vines with unnecessary violence. "I met Lady Falkirk last night. She was very gracious."

"Yes, she is." Even if she had pushed him into the lake after her encounter
with Georgina, Ian added silently. Deciding to go directly to the purpose of his visit, he said, "I owe you an apology for how I behaved when I returned from Bokhara."

She lowered the shears and looked at him, her face stark. "They said you were dead, Ian. How could I know otherwise?"

"You couldn't," he said gently. "Even then I knew that, but I was so devastated at finding you married that I couldn't be reasonable. It wasn't until I calmed down that I saw that the false report of my death must have been the working of a benevolent fate, because it ended our engagement."

She looked down at her hands, turning the shears over and over. In a small voice, she said, "Are you saying that you never cared for me and are glad that we didn't marry?"

Wanting to free her from the past and spare her pride without encouraging futile regrets, he said carefully, "What was between us was very real, Georgy. If I hadn't foolishly volunteered to go to Bokhara, we would have married and dealt very well together. When I was in prison I thought of you constantly—you stood for everything that made life worth living. But the man who left, whom you promised to marry, is not the same as the one who returned. Now we are almost strangers to each other, and as I am now, I would not make you a decent husband. You deserve better than that."