Episode 14: A Father Plans Revenge as a Summer Evening Turns Magical

Chapter 26

Once again the village of Rama Nagar, like so many other middling towns dotting the vast expanse of India, was ankle-deep in water, and the nearby river was set to overrun its banks. Villagers ran splashing through the streets with clothing stretched over their heads as the water poured down without interruption. A man well into the second half of his life, dressed in a damp gray tunic and trousers rolled up to the knee, stood erect on a corner surveying the scene. A lopsided black umbrella, the only one in town, distinguished him as he held it importantly over his head His face, known to everyone for its habitual cheer, was set into firm lines. These same lines had, in the course of recent months, worn themselves deep into the dark flesh of his face. A deep, vertical groove marked the space between his dark brows, now sprinkled with white, and furrows fell somberly from his nose to each corner of his mouth. His hair, too, was well mixed with white, hair that had kept its youthful black until this year.

            Dhanesh looked up the waterlogged street with a mixture of sadness and contempt. For how many years had he urged the city council to build raised walkways along the main streets? Or pushed for them to dig proper drainage canals to carry away the rain that overwhelmed the business district every single year? It did not matter any more. Only one thing mattered. His mind had emptied itself of all his old ambitions, and these had been replaced by one consuming goal.

            Two of his old colleagues on the council sloshed past and greeted him quickly, glancing up through the slanting rain, and walked on. So it always was these days. He would soon lose his seat on the council, but it did not matter. He would no longer even be consulted on special projects. He had become translucent, a man whom it was now in the nature of things to ignore. If not for his money, he would be altogether invisible.

            Dhanesh straightened and began his march up the middle of the street. His wife needed curry and he had needed to get out of the grim prison his home had become. Her endless complaining and blaming were beyond bearing some days. The boys were leaving as soon as the rains ended. He would be left alone to absorb all of Neela’s grief and rage. Sometimes he wondered if it would be better to put her out of her misery one night, deftly and mercifully, but he knew he never could. She had been so delightful when they first married, so perfectly beautiful, but the years and the fair-haired foreigner had taken everything.

            He was still stunned by the disappointment of yesterday’s report from the British officials. The accused had been located in the United States and interviewed. There was no trace of Dhanesh’s daughter and no grounds for further investigation. Nothing more to be accomplished in an official capacity, he was free to pursue by private means, with our sincere regrets, etcetera, etcetera. He had not even told Neela yet; let her continue to hope a while longer, at least until he decided on the next step. For he was not stopping here.

            He stepped aside to make way for a rickety cart loaded with pottery that three men, all talking at once, were pushing through the mud. A fourth man led the dripping and reluctant donkey, who seemed to have given up pulling. Dhanesh looked into the animal’s brown eyes as the noisy group passed, and he cringed with sympathy for the beast, burdened with a load he did not know how to move forward but could not free himself from. Involuntarily he put out a hand and ran it along the animal’s wet fur. He watched them struggle on for a few moments, then continued on his way.

            He would find the man, and his lost Rupa. After all he had done for that filthy Christian, to be repaid like this, stealing his daughter right out from under them, and on the eve of her wedding. He still shook remembering the morning when he found them both gone, the dawning realization of what had happened during the night, the impossibility of undoing it. And Manindra—Dhanesh had never seen such rage. He himself had done the right thing, had gone directly to the prince to inform him that the bride was missing (what horror had filled him at the prospect of saying the words, and how they had echoed in the marble receiving room.)

            Manindra struck out immediately on a hunt of his own, with a dozen of his best men. They were gone for a week but returned empty-handed. So what chance did Dhanesh have now with the scent long cold?

            It did not matter. The gods might be punishing him, but it was every man’s responsibility to carry a thing as far as he was able to carry it. He would hire his own detective. He knew a good one in Hyderabad who was a bloodhound at finding missing wives. Or maybe he would just go himself and get away from Neela, away from everything. Once these abominable rains slowed, once he thought up a plan.

Chapter 27

Dahlia could not have been happier. Her nephew had not only been vindicated, but had shown himself worthy of special commendation for his extraordinary efforts in keeping the wine cellar free of vermin. The Chateau Plessy had been found, all twelve bottles, by Fettles himself when he undertook a complete inventory of the remaining wine. He discovered the prized claret in a rack just around a brick pillar from the others. It turned out, upon investigation, that Dahlia’s nephew had moved it there while pursuing a bold pair of rats who had made their home in the cellar. He had succeeded in trapping both and executing them without mercy, but had forgotten to replace the Plessy.

            This was happy news for Agnes because she could now serve the fine vintage that night over dinner with Lord Phillip. She consulted Dahlia early in the morning regarding a menu, and they decided on veal in a light caper sauce, with asparagus and roasted potatoes. Agnes put in a special request for a batch of Dahlia’s famous anise cookies to serve afterwards with coffee.

            Stella was thrilled to hear who the evening’s dinner guest would be and offered her aunt to let them dine alone. Agnes refused and insisted that Stella keep them company through dinner and coffee, too, if she was up to it. If Phillip felt like lingering still longer, they might take a turn in the garden alone.

            “Aunt Agnes, you almost make me think you’re frightened of his lordship,” Stella teased, wiping a sleeve across her forehead as they pruned back the early-blooming roses. Both women possessed an industrious nature that forbid them to sit idle, even on a warm July morning, so they had put on their lightest dresses, leaving their corsets on the closet hooks, and asked Ned where he might use some help in the garden. After producing two pairs of pruning shears, leather gloves, and a wire bin, and after careful instruction on just where to cut and at what angle, Ned left the ladies to their work among the blooms and thorns.

            Agnes explained that of course she was afraid of Lord Phillip, and what single woman would not be? She admitted to being taken in before by an irresistible scoundrel and did not want to ever let herself go through that again. Stella begged for details, but Agnes would share no more. She steered the conversation to lighter subjects, which occupied them happily until their exertions in the hot sun took their toll, and the ladies laid down their shears and strolled through the grass to the cool brook the estate was named for. There, behind a copse of old elms, they tied up their skirts, took off their stockings, and waded into the stream’s little rapids, stepping carefully along its stony bottom while splashing cold water on their pink faces. When they were thoroughly refreshed, they wandered slowly up the hill to the house, ate a small lunch on the terrace, and went upstairs for a well-deserved nap.

            As she began to doze, Agnes realized that she should not even have alluded to M. earlier in the garden. Just the mention kept him darting into her thoughts all afternoon. He looked back at her from mirrors and sat across from her at lunch. Even as she dressed for dinner, she felt his hands on her waist, his lips on her neck. Could anything be that good again, or would he haunt her forever?

            She slept for only an hour, and when she woke evening was still a long way off. She passed the afternoon restlessly between reading and embroidery, and finding she could concentrate on neither one, she resorted to reorganizing her jewelry and letting her mind wander to how each piece had come to be hers. Somehow the hours went by, and at last it was time to dress. As Marie fastened the last pearly button on the back of Agnes’s gown, she heard something through the open window and darted over to look down. Agnes’s room overlooked the front drive, giving a full view of any approaching or departing guests. It had been her mother’s room, and Agnes took it over a few months after her death since she, like her mother, had always loved its morning sun, the cool afternoons, and the ability to keep an eye on all comings and goings.

            “He’s here, Miss Agnes,” Marie said, holding herself to the side of the drape. She watched for a moment. “He is a fine-looking gentleman, isn’t he, ma’m?”

            “Is he?” Agnes kept her voice even. Turning from the mirror, she caught Marie’s  look that told her they both knew it very well. “How do I look?”

            “Prettier than a peach.” There was a knock at the door and Stella entered, stunning in a deep blue gown that set off her red hair and pale skin.

            “Stella, how lovely you are!” declared Agnes.

            “It was all I could do to get this dress closed. Can you tell?”

            “No, dear, you look perfect. We’ll have to take you into Chesterton and get you some more comfortable dresses soon. That baby will just keep growing, you know.”

            Marie recalled that her mother sewed herself dresses out of tablecloths near the end of her confinements because nothing else was bearable. “Got big as you please, too, and that’s what you need. Gives you a healthy baby if you don’t squeeze the poor little thing into corsets.”

            Stella nodded. “My neighbor Mrs. Fielding has already lost two babies. The last one was a good way along, too. Mrs. Fielding doesn’t ever want to look in a family way, though, so she keeps herself laced up into her regular clothes. I don’t know how she did it. I feel like I’ll barely be able to eat a forkful in this dress without bursting the seams.”

            “We can’t have that!” exclaimed Agnes, “and you certainly must eat. Marie, what do we have for Stella? Maybe that Spanish jacket of mine? We could unbutton the dress and put on the jacket, and no one will ever know.”

            The item was located, and Stella was released from her torment. The jacket of dense black lace, a little long on her, perfectly hid the open back of the dress and was pronounced a success. Agnes took Stella’s arm, and the ladies descended to greet their guest.

            Stella managed to eat her fill at dinner, with second helpings of everything. In front of guests she would normally not indulge in such gluttony, but her appetite raged these days, and her two companions urged her to not hold back at the risk of depriving her child. Throughout the lively meal, Stella delighted in watching her aunt pretend nonchalance across the table from Lord Phillip. He presented himself relaxed and impeccably dressed except for his vest being misbuttoned by one, which gave him an oddly unbalanced look that failed to detract from his charm.

            After cookies and coffee on the terrace, Stella announced that she was a plat and retired to her room. But before leaving, while Phillip was interviewing Fettles about the evening’s wine, she whispered in Agnes’s ear, “Are you still frightened?”

            Agnes whispered back, “I have progressed to terrified.”

            She squeezed her aunt’s hand. “Please don’t disappoint me—” Her pale eyes were wide and urgent. “You must take him into the garden and tell me everything tomorrow. This night was made for you two.” And she slipped away.

            Stella was right. By now the night fully enveloped them, and stars twinkled in the blackness above. The breeze had died with the setting sun, but the soft, humid air felt delicious. It was a night bursting with potential, a night when you felt anything could happen.

            I hope he doesn’t run off now that Stella’s gone, thought Agnes. Phillip returned and sat lightly on the edge of his chair. His face glowed in the light from the table lamp.

            “Are you tired too?” he asked.

            “No, not particularly.”

            “My father accuses me of tending to overstay my welcome. If that’s so, I rely on you to point me toward the door.”

            “Very well,” Agnes laughed, unable to imagine ever wanting him to leave. “This might be rather scandalous, but what do you think of a nighttime tour of my garden?”

            “I love a garden at night,” said Phillip, looking toward the darkened path and the black silhouettes of sculpted shrubs. “The smells really come out after dark.” Phillip rose and put out his arm. Agnes called to Fettles not to worry, they would be in the garden, and together they stepped off the terrace and away from the light. They passed beneath a series of trellises draped in honeysuckle, whose creamy blooms could still be seen in the gloom. Their fragrance was intoxicating. Agnes stopped and plucked one. She snapped off the tiny end and carefully drew out the stamen for the tiny drop of nectar clinging to it. She held it up to show Phillip.

            “I used to pick apart dozens of these as a child to taste the one sweet drop inside each one. Did you?”

            “Oh, yes,” he replied. “I tried to make a goblet of it one day for my mother. I was knee-deep in ransacked blooms by the time I gave up. Naturally, I licked up the tiny bit of nectar I had and went off to play, knowing that Mother would understand.”

            “What was your mother like?”

            Phillip thought for a moment. “She was a wonderful storyteller and a genius with languages. But most of all she was a daring woman. You would have liked her. Not daring in a showy, obtrusive way, flinging her adventures in your face the way some women do. She was daring in a considered, intelligent way. And she let all of us children be who we were. She and my father got into more than one argument over that.”

            “About you maybe?”

            “About me and my sisters, both older. My father wanted to protect us from idiotic mistakes, like most parents do, and my mother wanted us to find out what truly suited us. I have taken the longest time to find that out. Still looking, still chafing my father’s poor nerves.”

            “You have two sisters?”

            “Yes, as different as earth and water, but wonderful girls. Both married and living in the City.”

            “You alone have escaped matrimony.”

            “Not so much escaped as failed to locate. I’m beginning to think my compass is a few degrees off. I never seem to quite arrive where I meant to.”

            A frog, hidden beneath the asters, croaked out a simple but impenetrable message as they passed. Two mice darted across the path, then peeked from under the leaves as though to reassure themselves of what they had just seen—two humans at night, trespassing on their playground.

            By now Agnes and Phillip had reached the hedge that separated the garden from Agnes’s private bench. As of one accord, their feet took them around it and stopped. Beneath them stretched the dark landscape, its farms fast asleep. Stars spread across the sky like tiny sequins spilled from a seamstress’s lap. Beside them the marble bench and its two guardians glowed softly in the dark.

            Phillip turned to Agnes, and she looked up at him. “Now I want to hear your story,” he murmured.

To be continued . . .