Abounding Might (The Extraordinaries Book 3) Page 5

  “If you wish to rest, I will send a punkah-wallah for your comfort,” Sir Rodney said. “Anything you need, you have only to ask.”

  They assured him they needed nothing, and Sir Rodney gave them both a fatherly pat on the hand and a smile and retreated. Fletcher, standing in the doorway, said, “Welcome to Madhyapatnam.”

  Daphne glanced past him, to make certain the Resident was not within hearing, and said in a low voice, “Sir Rodney is very kind, but this cannot be all there is of Madhyapatnam.”

  “No, but we will discuss further at dinner, or this evening. Never fear, you will see enough of the real India, as I believe you put it, to satisfy you.”

  “I certainly hope so, Captain.”

  Fletcher laughed and shut the door. Bess had already opened her trunk and was rummaging through it. “I intend to read and nap,” she said, “though admittedly not at the same time. Will you help me remove my gown? I don’t wish to wrinkle it.”

  Daphne helped loose her laces, then idly pulled on the cord that set the ceiling fan, the punkah, waving gently back and forth. “I don’t see how you can bear to nap when there are so many exciting things to see!”

  “They will still be here when it is not so hot, and be the more enjoyable for it.” Bess folded her gown neatly into her trunk and settled herself on her bed. “You are simply being impatient again.”

  Daphne flung herself onto her bed and flailed until she was free of the netting. “Then I will nap,” she said, “but I refuse to enjoy it.”

  The Residence’s dining room looked very different from that of Lindsey House. The thick walls were plastered and painted white, brightening it despite how the windows were still covered even once the sun’s rays were no longer so direct and hot. Rain pounded fiercely against them, filling the room with a quiet roar that forced diners to speak loudly to be heard over it. The table, however, was set with as much elegance as obtained in Daphne’s parents’ home Marvell Hall, and crystal chandeliers shed a sparkling radiance, and a terrible heat, over the many sumptuous dishes spread thereon. Daphne eyed a giant fish she could not identify and wondered where it had come from. The Hooghly, which ran nearby? Or some lake in distant England, Bounded here by one of Sir Rodney’s household?

  Daphne sat on Sir Rodney’s right side, Bess on his left, with the members of Fletcher’s party spread out beyond that. It was an unbalanced table, but Sir Rodney was in fact unmarried, and Daphne had not seen any other women in his household. The Residence, in fact, felt a very bastion of military masculinity, as if she and Bess were the only women who had visited it in years.

  “Was your journey uneventful, Captain Fletcher?” Daphne asked.

  Fletcher, seated beside Daphne, said, “I am afraid to tell you.”

  “Why is that? Did you have adventures?”

  “No, and I fear you will disapprove of me for not being bold enough to have been attacked by dacoits or tigers.”

  His expression was so solemn Daphne did not at first realize she was being teased. “Captain, it is hardly—oh, you are laughing, how dare you?” But she laughed with him.

  “In seriousness, it was an uneventful journey, and you need not regret not having traveled rough with us. Nothing worse happened to us than being rained on rather heavily and losing a horse to lameness. Tomorrow is when the real work begins.”

  “And what work is that? That is, I know you must find these missionaries. It is how you go about finding them that rouses my curiosity.”

  “We will go into the bazaar and see about speaking to those who have encountered them. I don’t expect them to still be in Madhyapatnam, but we should be able to find a direction for their travels.”

  “Do you speak Hindoo, then?”

  “I speak several local languages and read a few of them. I should have no trouble making myself understood.”

  “How is it you know so much of India, Captain?”

  Fletcher paused in his eating. “I came out to India when I was seventeen. Back then, knowing Hindoostani and Indian culture were not as stigmatized in Europeans as they are coming to be now, and I was encouraged in my studies. My commanding officers found it beneficial to have someone who could communicate with the natives. And I am fond of India and its people. Terrible climate and all.”

  “What Captain Fletcher is not saying,” said Captain Ainsworth from across the table, “is that as a Discerner, he has an advantage over the rest of us when it comes to dealing with the Hindoo.”

  “Oh? How is that?”

  “Discernment is a common talent here in India,” Fletcher said. “The Hindoo respect Discerners regardless of their race—or, I should say, respect a Discerner who bothers to respect their customs in turn. You may have noticed—no, you wouldn’t have met many high-caste Indians, would you, Lady Daphne?”

  “No, I have not—but pray, go on!”

  “High-caste Indians, even those who are not Discerners, will not willingly touch a European. They consider us…” Fletcher tapped his fork on the edge of his plate in thought. “They dislike that Europeans’ demeanors are so often at odds with their emotions. They consider it bad behavior. And many Hindoos of whatever caste feel completely justified in lying to Europeans, for that same reason.”

  “Makes it damned—pardon me, ladies—devilish hard to keep servants,” Sir Rodney said. “Either they say they’ll do something and then won’t, or they’ll steal the silver buttons off your coat and replace ‘em with dross, or they’ll cheat you on the household expenses, charge for a dozen eggs when they’ve only bought two. I’ve tried paying them better to get ‘em to stop, but it makes no difference.”

  “They are not all so dishonest,” Fletcher said. Daphne thought his tone was a trifle cool as he addressed the Resident. “But their behavior to one another is very different from their behavior to us.”

  “I have heard they revere Scorchers,” Bess said, “but I find that difficult to believe.”

  “Because Scorchers are wildly unpredictable?” Fletcher said. “Hindoo Scorchers are very different from Europeans. They are taken from their families when they manifest talent, male and female both, and admitted to a priesthood devoted to Agni, who is god of fire. The Hindoo cremate their dead, you see, and Scorchers sanctified to the task perform that ritual before consigning the remains to the Ganges. Hindoo Scorchers are meditative and peaceful, and much honored as holy men and women.”

  “That is so interesting, Captain,” Daphne said. “So there is nothing inherent about Scorchers that demands they behave so erratically as ours do?”

  Fletcher shrugged. “Apparently not. Unless there is something inherently different about the Hindoo—which I suppose is possible.”

  “Of course they’re different,” Sir Rodney said. “We don’t even look the same, do we? Pity those missionaries weren’t more circumspect. I’d like to see more of these heathens converted to worship the true God, give up some of these godless customs. Like marrying more than one wife. It’s unnatural. And burning widows alive—”

  “That happens rarely,” Fletcher said. “It is condemned by many Hindoos.”

  “Well, one is one too many, I say.”

  This seemed the sort of conversation that might become heated, so Daphne rose, prompting everyone else to follow suit. “Sir Rodney, where might we retire?”

  “There is a sitting room across the hall, Lady Daphne. The servants will bring tea shortly.”

  The sitting room was comfortably appointed, with couches upholstered in blue narrow stripes and a number of potted trees that brought the green freshness of the garden indoors. The furniture had definitely come from England, and at great expense, because most of it was too heavy for a Bounder to carry. Daphne experimentally lifted one of the chairs. Not too heavy, but an awkward burden.

  “If you are contemplating stealing Sir Rodney’s chair, I will not stop you,” Bess said, “because it would provide me with great amusement to see what you will do with it.”

  “No, I was just—it was n
othing.” Daphne closed the sitting room door as two servants passed into the dining room opposite. “I wish I could speak their language. Perhaps I should learn. I am passably fluent in French, but possibly Hindoostani is more difficult, especially with its foreign alphabet.”

  “I envy Captain Fletcher his facility with languages. I speak only Persian, and a formal Persian at that.”

  “Why do you speak any Persian at all?”

  “To facilitate my communicating with the Mughals. Persian is the administrative language of India.”

  “I did not know you Spoke with the Mughals! How romantic!”

  “They are not as powerful as they once were, but they did have a remarkable empire.” Bess took off her spectacles and added, “India has a dramatic history, every bit as colorful as our own.”

  “I should say even more so!”

  “War is war wherever you go. You have experienced more of it than I—you should know the truth of that.”

  Daphne struggled to master the feelings raging in her heart at Bess’s casual words. “I suppose,” she managed. “Did you never wish to serve in the Peninsula?”

  “No, never. When John’s regiment was called up, I was grateful that we would be separated for a time.”

  “Grateful, how? I do not understand how it is you and your young lord are not already married.”

  Bess sighed. “We grew up together, John and I, and I am very fond of him. I believe he cares for me as well. But I cannot help feeling that perhaps there should be stronger feelings in marriage than fondness. Possibly this makes me a romantic.”

  The door opened, admitting the gentlemen. They were laughing over some joke Daphne had not heard. It irritated her, being on the outside of someone else’s humor, so she said, “How nice that you can amuse yourselves! Miss Hanley and I have not been talking of anything nearly so funny.”

  “We will have to amuse you, then, Lady Daphne,” Lieutenant Wright said, sinking down on the sofa next to her. His smile was, as usual, charming and calculated precisely to appeal to a young woman, or so Daphne believed. She smiled at him in return and wished heartily that Fletcher had sat next to her instead.

  “Oh, don’t say that, Wright, you know how bad I am at being amusing,” said Ensign Phillips.

  “Your appearance alone is amusing,” Wright said archly, with one eye on Daphne to see how she appreciated his wit. Phillips flushed, which looked odd against his red hair. Daphne ignored Wright and rose to cross the room toward Phillips.

  “I enjoy pleasant conversation more than being amused,” she said, and Phillips flushed again, this time with his eyes downcast. He could not be more than twenty-two, she guessed, not much older than she, but she felt so much older she wanted to pat his hand in reassurance.

  “I—that is, I am not very good at conversation either,” Phillips mumbled.

  Two servants, dark-skinned men dressed in European clothing, brought in tea on a tray. Daphne waited for them to settle it on a nearby table before saying, “How much English do they know?”

  “Enough that we should not speak badly of them to their faces,” Fletcher said.

  “I would not do so, even if they could not understand a word!” Daphne examined the servants closely as they left the room. They wore Sir Rodney’s livery and looked extremely uncomfortable in it. Curious, that Sir Rodney would not permit them to dress in their native costume.

  “I know you would not, but I imagine there are many Europeans who lack that sense of discretion.” Bess poured tea and offered a cup to Daphne.

  “Perhaps we ought to discuss tomorrow’s activities,” Fletcher said. “I intend to rise early and visit the bazaar to see what I can learn. Lady Daphne, Miss Hanley, you are welcome to join me.”

  “Of course we’ll come along. Shouldn’t go into the city alone,” Captain Ainsworth said.

  “Indeed, Lucian, but the bazaar is not dangerous, or I would not offer to escort the ladies. At all events, once we have discovered some hint as to our quarry’s location, we will return here and make further plans.”

  “But surely the ladies will remain here if you have to go haring off after these missionaries!” Sir Rodney protested. “You cannot expect them—”

  “But that is why I am here, Sir Rodney,” Daphne said, “to assist in bringing them home to Calcutta. I must be immediately available to do so, and that means traveling with Captain Fletcher.” She hoped he would not think of the obvious response, which was that she could Bound to Fletcher’s presence at any time so long as he had the portable Bounding chamber.

  “It’s completely out of the question. Your comfort is of paramount importance—what kind of host would I be if I permitted you to leave this place for a post-house or a sodden tent in the mud?”

  “Your concern warms my heart, Sir Rodney, but really, we don’t mind, do we, Miss Hanley?”

  “I have Spoken to Government House,” Bess said, “and they are in agreement that we should stay with Captain Fletcher. But we are so grateful that this Residence is open to us should we at any time need its shelter.”

  Sir Rodney, his mouth open to voice another protest, shut it abruptly. Daphne hoped Bess had not just lied to him about what Government House wanted.

  “With luck, the search will not take us so far afield,” Fletcher said, “and we will return here in short order. Until then—” he saluted Daphne with his glass—“good luck to us all!”

  In which Daphne sees the real India and is shouted at

  he curtains of the palanquin moved with the breeze and the movement of the bearers, turning the outside world into a ghost world, its inhabitants mere shadows wandering past. The illusion was dispelled by how raucously they spoke and laughed, without concern for Daphne’s presence. Perhaps, behind her curtains, she was as ghostly to them as they were to her.

  The faint breeze brought with it myriad competing smells. To the usual odors of rain-sodden vegetation and the distant but still faintly noxious Hooghly River were added the smoky scents of cooking meat, the aroma of vegetables roasted or boiled, and a million spices, most of whose names Daphne did not know. She drew in a deep breath and smelled as well the scents those spices disguised, the smell of waste both animal and human and the sour odor of many bodies all crammed together in one place. As the day grew hotter, the smells would grow stronger, until an evening rain washed them all away and gave the nose five minutes’ respite from the assault.

  Someone laughed right next to her ear, and she shied away before remembering the person could not see her. She had wanted to ride to the bazaar, but Sir Rodney had insisted on the palanquin, which was comfortable but often made Daphne feel slightly queasy. So she reclined on the cushions and considered twitching the curtains aside so she could see the passing color and life of India. She was no high-caste Hindoo woman, required to hide her face from strangers, but neither did she want to draw stares. Time enough for that at the bazaar.

  She had a feeling Captain Fletcher was indulging her in permitting her to come along. He had no need of her services there, she could not speak the language, she was visibly different with her blonde hair and fair skin. Possibly she should feel insulted at his patronizing her. But her longing to see India, the real India, made her disinclined to protest. So she determined to be grateful to him rather than insulted.

  The palanquin came to a halt, and jolted her slightly as the bearers set it down. She pushed the curtains aside and alighted without waiting for assistance. Behind her, Bess was doing the same. The men of their party were gathered somewhat ahead of them, dismounting and handing off their horses to native servants. Daphne straightened her bonnet, which Bess had convinced her was essential protection against the Indian sun, and took another deep breath. Finally, the adventure she had longed for!

  Fletcher left the others and walked toward her. He had declined the palanquin Sir Rodney offered him, explaining that he saw more from horseback than from a litter, even with the curtains drawn back. “From here, we proceed on foot,” he told Daph
ne. “Stay close to me, and if you become lost—”

  “I cannot become lost, Captain, I am never more than a Bound away from somewhere familiar.”

  “True. Very well. Miss Hanley—”

  “I do not anticipate becoming lost either, Captain. But I will remain close by.” Her hand on Daphne’s arm was the only indication Bess could not see her surroundings clearly. With her free hand, Bess tugged on the brim of her bonnet to shield her eyes more fully.

  Fletcher chuckled. “Perhaps I should warn myself about the dangers of becoming lost in the bazaar, as the two of you seem capable of watching out for yourselves.”

  “We will not be foolhardy,” Daphne said, “and it is not as if I speak the language. I don’t wish to be separated.”

  “Then come with me, and let us see what we may discover about our errant missionaries.” He nodded at the others, who were, like him, dressed in civilian clothes rather than their distinctive red coats. The other three men, taking separate directions, disappeared into the crowd, and Fletcher gestured to Daphne to follow him.

  The road, still muddy from the previous night’s rain, was thronged even at that early hour with men and women all intent on their journeys. Almost immediately Daphne felt inclined to take hold of Fletcher’s hand, or even his coattails, to avoid being drawn aside and swallowed up in the crowd. She did cling to Bess’s hand, and the two of them followed Fletcher into the throng and out the other side into the bazaar.

  Daphne’s imagination had produced, when Fletcher had first mentioned the bazaar, an Arabian Nights collection of colorful tents, with sellers hawking their wares at top voice. She had pictured elaborate displays of copper pots, tables covered in exotic jewelry, or bright silks draped across tall stands. None of it was as she had imagined. There were tents, true, but most of them were made of the same drab canvas the Bounding chamber was, or dull grey and brown cottons. None of them would keep off the rain and they would be scant protection against the sun. The overall effect was of a sea churned to pasty grey by storm or waves.