Lady Helen Finds Her Song Page 2

  “Thank you, no.” Helen shook her head. “I should like to remain here.”

  Fanny waved her fingers as she and the gentlemen took their leave.

  As Helen watched them walk across the deck, she felt both relieved they were gone and frustrated that she had been too shy to accompany them. She wished she didn’t turn into such a goose whenever the situation called for her to make conversation with gentlemen.

  She turned back, scanning the shoreline in anticipation of a glimpse of the city that would be her new home. Boats of various sizes became more numerous, filling the river, and Helen saw small dwellings with thatched roofs clustered together on the banks.

  As the ship continued up the river, more passengers filled the deck, lining the rails as they awaited the first sight of their destination. Helen attempted to recapture her earlier excitement but found she was unable to due to Fanny’s disapproval and her own growing nervousness.

  Finally, the delicate white spires of a building Helen assumed was a temple broke through the forest. Soon after, one large mansion with elegant lawns and gardens appeared on the banks, and then another came into view. When the ship rounded a bend, the green jungle gave way, and Calcutta, the capital of British India, emerged in all her glory.

  From what she could see, the city was much larger than she had expected. Through the greenery, she could make out the rooflines of modern European buildings interspersed between exotic Eastern-style towers with pointed roofs.

  Helen’s mouth went dry. Could this unknown place ever feel like home? What awaited her in India? She left the rail and searched the crowded deck for Jim and her mother, locating them near the entrance to the companionway below.

  From the expression on her mother’s face, Helen could see Lady Patricia did not harbor the same worries about their new life. She was the type of woman who approached every challenge with an even temperament. She was practical and organized. And Helen was grateful for her steadiness.

  “Good morning, Mamá.” Helen linked arms with her mother.

  “There you are, my dear.” Her mother looked around briskly. “And are you ready to leave this boat behind and begin our adventure?”

  Helen nodded and attempted to smile although she felt as far from ready as possible.

  Lady Patricia patted her arm.

  In a matter of moments, the anchor was dropped and the sailors set about unloading passengers and cargo. Instead of disembarking into a waiting dinghy or walking down a gangway to a pier, crew members helped Helen and her mother over the gunwale to climb down a rope ladder onto a shallow-bottomed boat that was nearer to a raft than a dinghy.

  Helen stood uncertainly on the wet boards until the bobbing of the vessel made her grab on to a small bench and sit next to her mother before she tipped overboard. Other passengers joined them, and after a moment the boat began to move away from the larger ship. She looked to the rear of the ferry and saw a man pushing a giant pole against the bottom of the river to propel them forward. He wore nothing more than a turban on his head and a strip of fabric around his hips. Helen’s face burned, and she whipped her head around. She had never seen a man so sparsely dressed, and she kept her eyes on the shore for the remainder of the distance.

  Arms pulled Helen out of the boat, and she stumbled ashore, finding herself surrounded by chaos. Passengers, crates, barrels, and luggage—all were discharged on the shore in an unorganized fashion. Clipped chattering syllables of words she couldn’t understand pounded at her from every side. Bright colors moved around her as women with glossy black braids pushed past in silken saris. Soldiers in red coats and helmets moved purposefully through the masses. Bullock carts creaked, dogs barked, birds squawked, and children dodged in and out of the disorder like scampering mice. Large cattle moved among the crowd, untended. Above it all was the heat and the smell of humanity combined with animal odors and pungent foreign spices. Helen found her mother’s arm and clung to it, worried about becoming separated as they were jostled by the crowd. Her head felt light, and a combination of panic and faintness washed over her.

  Lady Patricia led her through the crowded dock area and stopped beneath a canopy.

  Helen was grateful for the shade. They stood next to barrels and stacks of crates and piles of rope as she caught her breath.

  “Jim will see to the luggage and come for us.” Lady Patricia took a few steps away, scanning the crowd as she looked for the general. “I will walk a bit closer to the corner so he will be sure to find us.”

  Helen couldn’t believe her mother was capable of maintaining her composure in the midst of such confusion. She leaned against a barrel and let out a sigh. From the corner of her eye, she saw movement and started, jerking back at the sight of a small black face surrounded by a mane of white hair. Once her heart calmed, she saw it was a monkey sitting atop the barrel, holding its hand out toward her. Helen scooted away, her breath coming in short gasps.

  “Don’t be afraid. Badmash can’t resist greeting a pretty lady.”

  She looked away from the monkey’s dark eyes and saw the speaker step out of the shadows where he’d been leaning against the wall. Although Helen did not have enough experience with the army to determine the man’s status, she could tell from the golden stripes on his red sleeves that he was fairly high ranking. He took a few steps closer, and she noticed he walked stiffly, as if he were marching. The soldier’s jaw was square, his eyes gray, and his hair a dark auburn. For some reason, Helen felt immediately calmed by his presence. It must be because he is an English soldier, a familiar sight, a relief in all this turmoil.

  “The monkey has a name?” Helen asked.

  “Badmash. In Hindustani it means rascal.”

  At the sound of his name, the animal turned his head.

  “And is he your pet?”

  “He is more like a friend.” A smile pulled at the man’s mouth, and Helen could not help but smile back. “A friend who believes himself to be human.”

  Helen studied Badmash for a moment. He had a black stripe from the top of his head down his back, but aside from his face, hands, and feet, the rest of him was covered in thick dirty-white fur.

  The animal still held his hand toward her, waiting patiently.

  The officer stepped closer. “Do not be afraid; he’ll not hurt you.”

  She glanced at the soldier then slowly offered her hand to the monkey.

  He clasped her fingers in his small grip and bent his head to touch his mouth on her glove. His actions were the very epitome of a gentleman. And a flirt.

  Helen giggled and dipped in a curtsy. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Badmash.”

  “Oh, do not call him mister.” The soldier folded his arms and rolled his eyes to the heavens, shaking his head from side to side. “It will go straight to his head, and he will be impossible to live with.”

  “I shall remember that.” Helen’s smile grew. She looked at the soldier again and saw that he was watching her closely. “I am not certain it is smart to make conversation with a person who befriends wild animals. One might wonder if you are right in the head.”

  He burst into a laugh.

  The sound delighted Helen and made her feel like laughing herself.

  He wagged his finger in a teasing manner. “I assure you, the complete opposite is true. People with animals for friends are infinitely more sane than those without.”

  Helen opened her mouth to reply, but the sound of a man clearing his throat stopped her.

  The soldier snapped to attention, clicked his heels together, and saluted Jim, who had joined them, along with Helen’s mother.

  “General Stackhouse, I presume?” All traces of teasing were gone, and Helen found herself looking at a solemn-faced soldier.

  “Yes.”

  “Captain Michael Rhodes, sir. I served as adjutant—an intelligence adviser to General Spencer.”

  Jim nodded as he studied Captain Michael Rhodes. “At ease,” he muttered.

  The captain lowered his salute but st
ill stood at attention.

  “I’ve heard good things about you, Captain. And your reports show you’ve a sharp mind for strategy and understanding the local customs and native way of thinking. You speak Hindustani like a native, I hear. As well as Bengali and Punjabi.”

  “Yes, sir. I was born in Bombay. My father was a bookkeeper for the John Company.”

  “Educated in England?”

  “Yes, sir. Sandhurst.”

  Jim took a step back and looked down at Captain Rhodes’s boots. “Impressive that you remained . . . in your circumstances.”

  Helen glanced at her mother, but Lady Patricia lifted a shoulder in a barely perceptible shrug, indicating she did not know what circumstances Jim was talking about.

  “India is my home, sir, and the army my family.”

  Jim nodded. “If you are amiable to continuing in your present position, I’d welcome your expertise on my staff.”

  “It would be an honor, sir.”

  “Well, that’s settled, then.” Jim took a step back and spread his hand to the side. “Allow me to introduce my wife, Lady Patricia, and her daughter, Lady Helen.”

  “A pleasure.” Captain Rhodes took each woman’s hand in turn and performed a military-style bow.

  When he lifted his head, still holding Helen’s hand, the side of his mouth quirked in a small smile, and she saw a twinkle in his eye.

  She felt the same tug on her mouth and struggled to keep her smile from turning into an enormous and highly improper grin. She thought how pleasant it would be to have Captain Rhodes here in Calcutta. His cheerful smile and easy manner would make it much more comfortable to be in this place where everything was unfamiliar.

  “Ladies, if you will allow me to show you to the ghari.” When he saw Helen and her mother exchange a questioning glance, he added, “A ghari is a carriage.”

  Lady Patricia took her husband’s arm, and Captain Rhodes offered his arm to Helen.

  She took a step toward him but stopped when her gaze was drawn to a soldier riding through the crowd. From his position atop his prancing horse, he blocked the sun, causing a glow around his head, highlighting his dark curls. Though she could not see his face, his silhouette showed broad shoulders, a straight nose, and pronounced cheekbones. He reached the group and dismounted with a flourish, saluting Jim. “Lieutenant Arthur Bancroft, sir.”

  The men spoke, but Helen did not hear anything further, aside from the pounding of her heart. The world slowed down as Lieutenant Bancroft turned toward her, sweeping her hand into his. A slow smile exposed his straight teeth and a perfect dimple. When their eyes met, Helen’s skin felt both heated and cold as ice.

  “Lady Helen, it appears India has found its brightest diamond.” His voice was low, and the sound of it shot a jolt through her heart. Helen gasped for breath, knowing without a doubt she would never be the same.

  Chapter 2

  Michael left his horse to the care of his syce and followed the path to his bungalow. Step, thud. Step, thud. His limp was more pronounced when he was tired, and it had been a long day. After delivering the general’s family to their new home in Chowringhee, he’d accompanied General Stackhouse to purchase a horse and tour Fort William, his new command, then Michael introduced the general at the Raj Bhavan—the government house—to Lord Minto, the Governor-General of India. Michael had spent a few hours on paperwork and then taken his horse, Ei-Zarka, for a late-night ride along the strand beside the Hooghly. He’d hoped to keep his mind occupied and to tire his body to the point that his thoughts wouldn’t continually return to Lady Helen.

  And there were numerous reasons why they should not. First and foremost being that even a simpleton could see she was too young for him. She could not be older than twenty, which made her more than ten years his junior. She was also the daughter of his commanding officer—although he did not think such a thing would deter many men. It had not seemed to matter to Lieutenant Bancroft, that delicate-faced young buck who managed to charm every woman—young and old—with whom he came in contact. Lady Helen certainly had not seemed bothered by his attention.

  In his mind appeared the image of Lady Helen blushing at something the lieutenant had said. Michael’s heart felt as though its steady rhythm paused and heat spread from it. Merely the memory of the woman was enough to cause such a reaction. The heat continued to spread, making his chest feel light when he thought of the easy way he and Lady Helen had teased one another and her delightful laugh at Badmash’s actions. But what had captured him was her eyes. He had never seen such a vivid blue—the color of a rare jewel in a maharaja’s crown, he thought. Her mother’s eyes were nearly the same shade, but Lady Helen’s sparkle and youth made the effect of her gaze so striking that he’d felt a physical reaction when she looked at him—a burst of energy that had rendered him nearly breathless.

  Her dark brows arched playfully; her pink lips were small and ever so slightly pouted. She was petite and slender, and everything about her seemed delicate. But he also sensed a strength inside her.

  He pushed the thoughts away. His age was not the only reason to rein in his thoughts about Lady Helen. She was a vibrant young woman with endless possibilities ahead of her. And he, well, his options were terminated abruptly two years earlier with a Maratha’s explosive on the banks of the Narmada.

  At the doorway to his bungalow, Michael’s servant, Basu Ram, squatted down on his heels in the Oriental manner awaiting his master’s return. Basu Ram was from the Punjab and had served the Rhodes family since before Michael was born. He wore a blue turban, identifying himself as a Mohammedan.

  Basu Ram stood slowly, his elderly bones stiff, and placed his palms together, touching the sides of his thumbs to his forehead in a greeting. “Rhodes-Sahib, you are tired.”

  Michael nodded. “And hungry.” He sniffed the air, and his stomach rumbled at the smell of rice and stewed goat floating from the small kitchen building behind his bungalow. He stepped toward the door, but Basu Ram moved in front of him.

  He studied Michael’s face closely. His eyes squinted, and the thick white mustache with its curled ends twitched. “Something has happened to you this day, Sahib. You are a different man.”

  Michael looked away, not liking the scrutiny. He schooled his expression, wondering if his thoughts about Lady Helen showed on his face. “The new general arrived today from Belait. General Stackhouse.”

  Basu Ram’s eyes remained narrowed. “No, there is more.”

  “Kāfī. Enough.” Michael shook his head and turned to walk past. “I am hungry and tired. And you worry like a nursemaid.”

  Badrash stood on one of the wooden chairs at the table. When he saw Michael, he jabbered and screeched angrily until Basu Ram shooed him away. The monkey climbed onto the windowsill and continued his tirade.

  Michael felt the beginnings of a headache prickling at his temples. He rubbed his eyes. “I shall have to remember to notify my servants and animals of my schedule,” he grumbled.

  The door at the rear of the bungalow opened, and Naveen, the cook, entered with a tray of food. Naveen did not speak often. He was young and very strong. Michael thought that in another society, the young man would be a soldier, but Naveens’s caste did not give him that option. He was Shudra—born into a caste of servants and unable to change that for the rest of his entire life. Michael knew that Naveen hoped to be born again into a higher caste; perhaps in the next life he would be Kshatriya, a warrior.

  “It smells wonderful,” Michael said in Hindustani as he sank into his chair.

  Naveen bowed his head in thanks and poured cool mango lassi into Michael’s cup. Badmash returned to his chair, and Naveen set one plate in front of the captain and one in front of the monkey; the pair ate together in silence.

  Once Naveen and Basu Ram were assured that their Sahib did not require anything further for his supper or his comfort, they left him, and a few moments later, Michael heard the low murmur of voices and smelled the fruity tobacco smoke of the hookah dri
fting in through the windows.

  He smiled as he thought about his peculiar household. He stabbed the last piece of goat meat with his fork and bit down, glad that Naveen did not serve fish tonight, as was the usual fare.

  Basu Ram did not eat pork because he believed it to be unclean. Naveen refused to eat beef because the animal was considered holy, so their meals typically consisted of fish and vegetables. After his years in England, Michael had to admit that sometimes a man just needed a plate of meat and potatoes with gravy covering the lot.

  When Michael’s mother died, his father had sent him to England, the place Indians called Belait, when he was nine. He’d been frightened and lonely in the closed-windowed school with its narrow passageways and strange food. He had endured the cold and constant fog by throwing himself into his studies with the goal of finishing his schooling as quickly as possible, accepting his father’s funding of a commission, and training to be an officer at Sandhurst. Once he graduated, he applied immediately for an assignment in India and arrived fourteen years earlier, just in time to fight the Tipu of Mysore at the Siege of Seringapatam.

  Michael had climbed the ranks of the army through a combination of luck and skill as he led his men in one battle after another. He was well on his way to the highest military offices in the country when—

  He reined in his thoughts, refusing to allow them to travel that path again.

  The sound of laughter outside drew his gaze to the window, but he knew it was only his servants. Basu Ram had met him at the docks the day he returned from England, arguing with Naveen, a young Hindi servant assigned to Michael by the army. The men both pled their cases to Michael, and what could he do but retain both of them? Although they came from different parts of the country, were decades apart in age, spoke different languages, and practiced different religions, Michael had seen the two servants become friends. He thought the remainder of the world could learn a thing or two from the men’s examples.

  He glanced at the animal eating beside him—taking small bites of fruit in a manner than seemed almost human—and thought how strange life could be. If it weren’t for this little companion finding him at his lowest time and befriending him, Michael did not know if he would have survived the months after his injury. Though Basu Ram acted irritated with Badmash, the man would never send him away. He had been there through the dark times too. Michael thought he probably owed his life—if not his sanity—to the furry little nuisance. And it is why he ate his supper in his quiet bungalow with the monkey for company.