Читать книгу Captured by Moonlight - Christine Lindsay - Страница 9

Dun-colored plains opened up as the train trundled southwest toward Bombay. Since the war ended Laine had grown used to these khaki-colored sands. Northern India’s monsoons had ended in July, but the south’s second set of steaming rains usually started at the end of October. She’d probably run into the south’s pounding showers as soon as she arrived in the Madras Presidency with its lush jungles, white coasts, and emerald lagoons.

For now, warm air blew through the steel bars and mesh screens on the windows. A small electric fan whirled above their heads. Hardly first class, but it would do.

It had taken a few hours for Laine’s nerves to stop jangling. Yet all had gone peacefully when their train chuffed into the next station, and the stations after that. No police with a contingent of Hindus waited for them like bees disturbed from their hive. Maurice had just left to go to the restaurant and bring them back some food.

Eshana held a cup of water to Chandra’s lips. Thanks to the lucky stars—if there were any such thing—their patient’s sutures looked good, and she’d been sitting up the past hour, chatting with Eshana. Her eyes glistened, no longer with fear but excitement. The excitement of a child. Poor little thing had never been on a train before. She’d probably never seen much but that hovel on the street behind the temple.

Maurice returned with a tray of chapattis, a dish of curried rice, and one of plain rice for their patient, as well as a container of hot tea and boiled water. “It’s safe enough out there.” He thrust his chin toward Eshana. “Next time she can get the food.”

Laine sent him the scathing look she gave her nursing subordinates when their work wasn’t up to snuff. “Her name is Eshana, and she is not a servant. I’ll get our food at the next station if you’re so adverse.” She flicked a glance out the window. “Are you sure people aren’t looking for us?”

“Relax, Laine, old thing. I checked with the telegraph office, and there’s nothing to suggest anyone outside of Amritsar cares. After all, we’re talking about the abduction of one little Indian chit, not the wife of the bleedin’ viceroy.” He swept a hand through his hair, but a greasy strand drooped over his brow. “Where did you say you’re making this new start in your life, old thing? Bombay? Or farther south?”

Eshana’s gaze bored into Laine’s. Eshana didn’t need to send her that silent warning. Laine had no desire to have Maurice looking her up. Though she couldn’t afford to alienate him at this point. Bombay lay nine-hundred miles off, and the Madras Presidency another seven hundred from there. She summoned the sugary tone she’d used on him earlier, not liking the gleam in his eye. “I’m not sure where I’ll hammer in the tent pegs, Maurice, old bean.”

Though she must look anything but alluring, smudged and disheveled, he still advanced. “Come, Laine, don’t play the tease. My but you’re a stunner. Always were.”

“Matron,” Eshana’s voice carried the exact note of concern Laine needed to extricate herself. “Our patient’s sutures are not looking good.”

Laine pushed past Maurice to Chandra. The girl’s frightened eyes carried the knowledge of what went on between men and women behind closed doors. So disheartening to see in a child this age. A moment later Maurice left the carriage with a barely suppressed huff. The train left the station, and Laine could only assume he’d gone to another section of the goods train to plaster salve on his wounded pride.

Both Eshana and Chandra gave her a bemused look as the girl ate half a bowl of rice with Eshana’s help. When Chandra had taken in all she could, Laine helped the patient to lie down. The girl dropped off to sleep almost as soon as she closed her eyes.

Together she and Eshana sat at the table by the window and watched the plains slip by. For the first time since this day had begun they had blessed silence to collect their thoughts. Soon the day softened to its short green twilight, and darkness came like the snuffing out of a lamp.

Eshana stood to switch on the electric light. “We have not yet spoken of where we will each be going once this train reaches Bombay. Will you be coming with me to the Ramabai Mukti Mission?” Eshana’s tone held a wistfulness that Laine wasn’t used to from her.

“No, I think it best you go on alone to the mission with Chandra.”

“You are not coming with me?”

“I’m expected as soon as possible at this new position. Anyway, you won’t need me, Eshana. By the time we get to Bombay, Chandra will be able to walk. I’ll be buying your tickets to Poona of course. After that I hope you’ll follow me to the Madras district.”

They were entering the outskirts of a village, its cooking fires twinkling like fireflies, and the tang of wood smoke in the air. It took a moment to realize Eshana had not answered.

“What is it?” She turned to look into the young Indian woman’s face. “You need somewhere to go till things simmer down, and this cholera research sounds interesting—”

“I cannot be going to the Madras Presidency.” Panic poked through Eshana’s voice.

“Oh come now. You can’t return to Amritsar. Really, Eshana, do be sensible.”

“I am sorry. I cannot be joining you there. As soon as Chandra is established at the Ramabai Mukti Mission, I will be returning to Amritsar.”

Laine rubbed between her brows. She knew Eshana to have a will of iron, but never to be foolishly obstinate. But it wasn’t just stubbornness. Eshana had never been evasive before.

Eshana opened her bedroll to make up her bunk. “We should be getting our rest now.”

She had been effectively told to mind her own business. But over the next three days on this train she had to convince Eshana to be reasonable. In the bathroom Laine changed into her nightgown and brushed her teeth. She unrolled her bedding in the top bunk, and after switching off the light, climbed in. But sleep felt eons away.

Just when she thought Eshana had drifted off, her Indian-accented English floated upward over the rattle of the train, like the smoke of incense, delicate yet tenacious. “I admit I am most determined to go back to Amritsar, but that is not the only reason I cannot join you in the city of Madras. Or anywhere in that entire district.” Eshana took a cleansing breath. “I have never told you that Madras was also my birthplace.”

Laine bolted up and stared into the dark. “All this time you’ve known I came from there, you’ve never said a word. Does Abby know?”

“Not even Abby. I kept my secret because I do not wish to remember the time I was cast from my home for being a widow.”

“I’m well aware of how a great many widows are mistreated in Hinduism. But do you know for sure your family wouldn’t want to see you? Gandhi is speaking out about that, as well as about other wrongs. Times are changing. Goodness, one of these days the Indian people may very well tell us Brits to get out.”

Eshana’s voice grew faint. “Perhaps things are changing in India. Until recently I had hoped to return one day to my childhood home, the Jasmine Palace. I desire with all my heart to see my family, most especially my mother. That was until...until this morning. No, I will be returning to Amritsar where I belong. That is God’s will.”

An unladylike snort escaped Laine. “Eshana, you’re as obstinate as a thicket of bamboo.”

“And you, my friend, remind me of prickly mimosa. Though it is fragrant, it curls inward upon itself when it is touched. I will confess to being persevering...or determined—”

“Persevering, my eye. The word you’re looking for is stubborn.”

Eshana’s bedding muffled her giggle. “It is time for sleep, my mimosa friend.”

The clatter of the train was the only sound after that, as well as Chandra’s soft snore. Laine flumped over on her back and laid her arm across her eyes. Mimosa, that curls up on itself when touched. Ridiculous. So what if she didn’t want her heart mangled like it had been? True, she didn’t go out with men much. Though she pretended to want a man, each time they made serious advances, she did curl up inside. They soon left her alone, assuming she didn’t care.

Two years ago she’d tried with Reese. She often wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t died. Would she have made it to the altar, or sent him on his way too?

She raised up on an elbow, gave her pillow a swift but sound thrashing to soften it, and lay down. It was all Adam’s fault. He’d ruined all other men for her. Blast him!

~*~

Only one more stop and they would reach Bombay on the coast of the Arabian Sea. Feeling braver than they had felt in days, the three women stepped down from the train. Eshana agreed that Laine should take Chandra for a stroll while she purchased their food. It must be as Maurice assured them. No one paid heed to the kidnapping of one girl of the untouchable class.

Eshana waved to Laine and Chandra down the platform that swam with passengers from all over India. Shorter dark-skinned Tamil people from the south milled around with those from the north with complexions like milky tea. Bengalis, Rajputs, Afghans, and tall Sikhs with black flashing eyes, turbans, and beards, reminded her of Jai. Father in Heaven, it is my prayer that you return me home that I may assist him again.

She reached the queue for the Hindu refreshment room when a man blocked her way. Uncle Harish. Her mind darted. Did he do business in cities beside Madras and Amritsar? Bombay? Because he must have left Amritsar on the Bombay Mail the day after they had left on the goods train. Her heart swayed one way and then the other. She did not stoop to touch his feet in respect. With all her soul she prayed Uncle would take no offense, but with the way he glowered at her this was not to be.

“What is this you are doing?” He nodded for her to leave the queue. He was her father’s elder brother, and she obeyed. Once they were away from those desiring Hindu food his taut words matched the quivering of his jaw. “Pavum! What shameful thing is this? As a widow you should keep yourself out of the way.”

“I am sorry, Uncle, I do not wish to offend anyone. But I no longer think of myself as something shameful.”

He stepped back from her. “You should be living in an ashram for widows or in a temple. To add to your sins, you flaunt yourself with clothing not fit for a woman whose husband is dead.” He winced as if her sari the color of eggplant caused him pain.

The longing to tell someone in her family of her joyful life would burst from her lungs if she held it in. All these years of her banishment since Papa and Uncle had left her at the ashram rushed upon her, an avalanche of Himalayan snows. Still, her gaze fell. “The Living God does not want me to live like dead carrion simply because the boy who was my husband died.”

“You would cast shame on your relatives in such a way?” Tears blurred his eyes. “Think of your mother and father. Think of the parents of your husband. I beg you to stop defiling our caste in this way. Think of the bad luck you will bring to our households, our businesses.”

His words crushed like spices ground by a stone pestle. Shaking her head, she backed away, but Uncle seized her by the elbow. “I must impress upon you to stop your sinful ways.”

She squirmed, looking over her shoulder for a glimpse of Laine, while her uncle’s grip remained a fetter of iron around her arm. Laine did not see her, her attention on helping Chandra to their train. Uncle followed her gaze and stopped on Laine and the young girl.

“Who are those females, and one of them an Englishwoman?” His gaze widened. “It could not be—the news and descriptions have been spread about Amritsar—an Indian woman of your age...and an English memsahib. You would not be so evil, surely?” His eyes grew black with comprehension. “It was you who stole the temple girl.”

Eshana risked another glance at Laine and Chandra. Her uncle did not see them climb aboard the goods train. They were safe. She raised her gaze to her uncle, her insides quaking.

He began to drag her away. “You have given me no choice, Eshana. It is only right that you be given to the police who are searching for you in Amritsar.”

“No, Uncle,” she cried.

Tears shone like oil on his cheeks. “I cannot be letting you cause such disruption to our people. Though, I cannot leave you, the child of my brother, to the police. You will come with me to Madras. One of our relatives will have a place in their house to keep you from shaming us.”

She tasted the salt of her own sorrow as she pulled at his fingers, hating to show him disrespect. But it could not be. She would not insult the free gift of God by going with her uncle and taking upon herself the dead existence of a Hindu widow.

Father God, help me! Gasping, she pulled, but to no avail.

A whistle blew. British passengers moved to the express train to board first class.

Lord, I have work to do. Let me...free myself. I must take Chandra...to freedom. She wrenched loose. And turned. She ran, not looking back when her uncle called out. In his voice she heard the piercing note of despair. He did not understand. But no one should be allowed to treat her less than what she was—a daughter of God, the light of His eyes.

She pushed through the wall of people to be swallowed up in the crowd rushing to the express. Crossing over the railway bridge she made it to the goods train, and turned to look over the platform where today’s Bombay Mail waited. The last whistle for that train blew. Hundreds of Indian passengers ran to board, or climb to the top.

Most of the men wore white dhotis to their ankles and long white tunics, but still across the distance she made out her uncle. He climbed on a cart to peer over the crowd and called to someone in the crowd. Another man joined him on the cart to help him look over the crowded station.

Then her uncle turned. He started as his gaze found her.

He gripped the other man’s arm and pointed across the rails to where she stood. Her train sat directly in front of him, and her purple sari would stand out vividly in the white sunlight.

Uncle’s gaze followed along the goods train. He would surmise correctly that her train would take her to Bombay.

The shrill cry of the whistle announced the Mail was leaving. Uncle Harish hastened to board, leaving the other man to remain, keeping watch upon her train.