A Breach Of Promise Part 3

She tried to imagine India in July. It was hotter than anything she had ever known.

"I don't know how many died of it," he said, still watching her closely. He needed to speak of the loss of his friends, the human beings he had seen in the utmost extremity of suffering, and yet a part of him was still aware of what such knowledge might do to her. And he needed to know they were not empty descriptions she could not follow. He needed her companions.h.i.+p in his grief.

"I imagine it was worse than the cold," she said thoughtfully. "I've seen men freeze, and animals too."

"The smell," he answered. "It was the smell. .. and the flies I hated most. I still can't bear the sound of flies. It makes me sick and I can't get my breath. I feel as if I am suffocating and my heart is going to burst."

"You weren't relieved?" She remembered reading it in the Ill.u.s.trated London News. Ill.u.s.trated London News. The account had been terrible, even after censors.h.i.+p for the general public. The account had been terrible, even after censors.h.i.+p for the general public.

"No." The word fell like a stone. "Every day we kept expecting help would come. We didn't know the whole country was under the sword. We fell one by one, taking as many of the enemy with us as we could. I've never seen greater courage. Every able-bodied person did what they could, men and women alike. Every man stood his watch. The women nursed the sick, carried food and water, tried to protect the children."

His hand rubbed the edge of the sheet, gripping it so hard the fabric must have hurt his skin. The movement was some kind of release of tension, even though his muscles were locked tight. She had seen it before in men recalling events of nightmare proportions. The room was silent in the spring evening.

"We were good shots," he resumed. "We kept them at bay. They didn't charge us and overrun. But there were so many of them, and their guns could reach us easily. They fired at everything that moved. Every day we thought help would come. It was so hot. No escape from it. You could smell the heat, feel it everywhere. The sweat dried the instant it broke. Skin hurt to touch. It cracked and blistered." He shrugged very slightly. "I don't know why I mentioned that. It hardly mattered. We died of heat stroke and dysentery ... those who didn't die of their wounds. What did it matter if groins or armpits were on fire?"

"The one thing too much to bear," she answered. "For me it was the rats ... rats everywhere, dropping off the walls."

He smiled, a sudden wide grin, beautiful in spite of his disfigured face. It was not any kind of amus.e.m.e.nt, simply the dazzling, wonderful relief of being not alone.

"But you survived," she said. She guessed that was part of the private torture inside him. She had known it before in men who had seen companions fall all around them, for no reason other than chance as to where they were standing. A yard this way or that and it would have been someone else. One moment they were alive, full of intelligence and feeling, the next just mangled blood and bone, torn flesh and pain ... or nothing at all, the fire and the soul gone. One could not get rid of the guilt of being the one who survived. Part of you wanted to be with them.

His smile vanished, but he did not avoid her eyes.

"On June twenty-fourth Mrs. Greenway came to the in-trenchment with a aote from Nena Sahib. I can still see her face. She was old, very old indeed. She seemed like an embodiment of Time to me ... or of Death. She had been a prisoner of the rebels and they sent her with terms of surrender." His voice was harsh, filled with emotion so great it almost choked him. "Nena Sahib promised that if we gave up all the money, stores and arms in the intrenchment he would not only allow all the survivors of the garrison to retreat unmolested but he would provide means of conveyance for the women and children as well."

She looked steadily at his eyes. The horror was still so deep inside him it seemed to fill his being. It was like a storm about to break.

"The treaty was agreed upon." His voice became strained almost to a whisper. "On June twenty-seventh we surrendered according to the terms and filed out of the garrison. The women and children were led aboard boats on the river . .. there were small thatched coverings on them ... protection from the sun. The man in charge was called Tanteea Topee. He was sitting on a platform watching it all. A bugle sounded at his command, and they ran out the guns which had been concealed up to that point. They fired on the boats. The thatch caught alight. Women and children were burned alive. Some jumped into the stream, but the sepoys rode their horses into the water and clubbed and sabered them to pieces. Some managed to struggle to the farther sh.o.r.e."

Hester closed her eyes and put her hands up to cover her face. She had not meant to, but she did it without thinking.

"Then Nena Sahib ordered all the remaining men shot," Gabriel went on as if he could not now stop himself. "The women and children who had made it as far as the sh.o.r.e he had taken to his residence. They were hacked to pieces too, and their bodies thrown down the well."

She looked up at him again. She must not run away from this. It was all past. They could hurt no more. But Gabriel needed not to be alone in his horror. He was the only one still alive she could help.

He went on talking.

"When General Havelock's men found it eventually, the floor of the room was two inches deep in human blood. They found the hacked-up limbs and bodies in the well. They pulled up the body of one of General Wheeler's daughters. They sent a lock of her hair home as a memento, to her family in England." His voice was low in the quiet room smelling of clean linen and candle wax. "The rest of the scalp they divided up among themselves and then each man counted the individual hairs in his portion and swore an oath by heaven, and by the G.o.d who created him, that he would kill one mutineer for every hair he had. I know, because one of those men was a friend of mine. He wept even as he told me of it. He used to scream in his sleep when he remembered that house and what they found in it."

"How did you escape?" she asked him.

"I was. .h.i.t on the head and nearly drowned," he replied. "But I was washed up by the river further downstream. I lay senseless for so long I suppose they thought I was dead and not worth bothering with. When I came to myself they had taken the plunder and the prisoners who were still alive and gone. Then followed the worst two weeks of my life.... I don't know how I lived, but I made my way towards Futtehpore and met up with General Havelock's men. I was nearly dead and of no use for the fight, but they took care of me. I recovered." He smiled as if it still surprised him. "I wasn't even badly hurt, just burned and half starved and on the point of exhaustion." He glanced at his empty sleeve. "I didn't lose that until a few months ago. It was a stupid street brawl I tried to stop. But you don't need to hear about that."

What he meant was that he did not want to relive it.

"No, of course not," she agreed, standing up slowly, finding her legs shaking and her balance not very good. She put out a hand to steady herself.

"Thank you for listening to me," he said gravely. "I ... I hope I haven't disturbed you too much ... but there is no one else. They don't wish to know. They think it would be much better for me if I were to forget. . . but how can I? It would be such a betrayal... even if it were possible!" He wanted rea.s.surance he was right. "What kind of man would I be if I could just go on as if they had never lived ... and died like that?"

"One never forgets," she agreed, thinking of some of her own memories, men, and women too, who had been fragile and brave and who had died terribly. "But you can't expect other people to share what they don't understand." She straightened the bedclothes unnecessarily. "It is a part of your life, and it always will be ... but it isn't all of it."

He looked at her ruefully, acknowledgment in his eyes, but he did not answer.

She glanced at his bedside table to make sure he had water and a clean gla.s.s.

"Is there anything else you would like?"

"No," he said flatly. "No, thank you. Are-are you going to sit with Perdita?"

She knew what he really meant. She was aware of his deep sense of inadequacy to be the husband, companion and protector that he had promised his wife he would be. Instead he was in need of her strength and help, not only physically but emotionally.

"Yes," she said with a smile of a.s.surance. "As soon as I can see you are settled I shall go and find her."

He relaxed. At least for tonight he need not worry. "Thank you. Good night, Hester." Without being aware of it he had used her Christian name.

"Good night, Gabriel," she answered from the doorway, then went out and closed the door quietly.

It was after eleven o'clock, but since she had promised, she made her way downstairs to see if Perdita was still up. Most probably she was not, but she must look.

However, as soon as she opened the withdrawing room door Perdita sat up from the sofa where she had been curled half asleep. Her hair was tousled and she blinked even in the dim light of the one wall lamp still lit.

"How is he?" she asked anxiously. "Is he all right?"

Hester closed the door and walked over to the chair near Perdita and sat down. She looked at the younger woman's frightened eyes and her soft cheek, marked now where she had Iain against the crease in the cus.h.i.+ons. She was about twenty-two, but in some ways no more than a child. She had been married at eighteen after a year's betrothal to a man who was in every way her ideal. She had seen him through the eyes of a girl who expected everything of marriage. It was not only what was required of her, it was her own dream, and Gabriel Sheldon was the perfect husband: handsome, brave, charming, well-bred and with a promising career. And for all that it had been a socially suitable marriage, they had also been in love.

Now her whole world was in ruins, for no reason she could comprehend, and she was overwhelmed by it.

"He is settled for the night," Hester answered. "I think he will sleep well." She had no idea whether he would or not, but there was no purpose in saying that to Perdita.

Perdita frowned. "Are you sure? You were in there a long time...."

"Oh ... I suppose I was. We were just talking. There was nothing wrong, I promise you."

Perdita looked unhappy, twisting her hands together in her lap.

"I never know what to say to him," she murmured. "I can't keep asking how he is feeling. He only says he's all right. And I know he isn't, but there's nothing I can do." She glanced up suddenly. She had very blue eyes, but in this somber light they seemed almost black. "What do you find to say, Miss Latterly?"

Hester hesitated. She should not answer with the truth. He had not said so, but what Gabriel had told her was implicitly a confidence. It was something neither of them could share with anyone else. As close as she had been to William Monk at times;-all the causes they had fought for together, the tragedies they had seen-she would not share her experiences of the battlefield or the siege or the hospital at Scutari with him. But Gabriel understood.

She must find an answer which did not make Perdita feel even more helpless and excluded.

"It is easier for me," she began, watching Perdita's face. "We are not emotionally concerned with each other. There cannot be the same ... the same sort of hurt. We were discussing places we had been to, what it was like, the things that are different, and those that are the same."

"Oh..."

Had Perdita disbelieved her? It was impossible to tell from her downcast expression and the hesitation in her voice. Her loneliness was so sharp it was almost like a cry.

"I told him a few of my experiences in the Crimea," Hester went on, impelled to add to what she had said.

"The Crimea?" Perdita did not immediately understand. Then realization flooded her face. "You were in the Crimea?"

Hester perceived instantly that she had made a mistake. Perdita had heard and read enough to know that that conflict, with its horror and its losses, had had so much in common with the Mutiny in India that Hester and Gabriel must share feelings and memories she could never know. It was clear in her eyes that she was uncertain how she felt about it. Part of her was relieved, grateful that there was someone he could turn to; another part, easily as great, felt frightened and excluded because it was not her.

"Yes." It would be absurd to deny it. "That is where I learned my nursing abilities. I imagine that is why your brother-in-law chose me to come here."

"So you could talk to Gabriel?"

"Rather more so I would have some knowledge of what his needs would be," Hester answered.

Perdita stared at the embers of the fire. "He doesn't think I can learn to do that. He doesn't think I will be any use or comfort at all."

What was there to say that was even remotely honest and yet not so hurtful it was destructive?

"Sometimes there isn't anything you can do," Hester began, thinking what more to say, feeling for words. "At times he may wish to speak of the Mutiny and of what happened at Cawn-pore, other times he will want to forget it. No one can know when each will be."

"You mean it is easier for you?" Perdita said.

"In some ways, yes, of course it is. Not just because I have seen a battlefield..."

"Can you tell me what it is like?" Perdita asked, eagerness and dread mixed in her voice. "So I can understand Gabriel? He won't tell me anything about it. I was at home when he was in India, and my father wouldn't even allow me to read about it in the newspapers. He said it was not suitable ... for me or for my mother." She bit her lip. "He said we didn't have to know things like that, and anyway it was only a journalist's idea of the truth and might be inaccurate and overdramatic.

Now it's too late because the newspapers are all thrown away ages ago."

"You can always go to the library and find the back copies, if you want to," Hester pointed out. "But I am not sure it that would be a good thing. Do you wish to know about it... as much as can be understood by reading?"

The fire crackled and threw up a shower of sparks.

Perdita sat very still. "I don't know. Sometimes I think so, then there are times when I wish it never had to be thought of again and I'm glad I know nothing." She took a long breath and shook her head a little. "I just wish it would go away and everything could be as it used to ... before the Mutiny. None of that mattered then." She sniffed. "I could have gone out to Delhi, or Bombay, or wherever was the nearest place to where Gabriel was. I could have been with him, and none of these things would have happened!"

"He wouldn't have seen things like the ma.s.sacre at Cawn-pore," Hester agreed. "But he would still have lost his friends, and he might still have received his own injuries. That can happen anywhere."

"Not in England!" Perdita said, looking up quickly.

"Yes, it could. People can be dragged by horses, or burned by fires, or any number of other things. There isn't anywhere where life is completely safe. And even if there were, it doesn't matter now. The only way is forward through reality, through what we have."

"You make it sound so easy!" There was resentment in Perdita's voice, and fear, and self-pity.

"No, it isn't," Hester contradicted her. "It's very difficult indeed. It's just that there isn't any alternative worth having. And perhaps Gabriel doesn't want you to know about the Mutiny."

"You mean he thinks I'm not strong enough to bear it!" Perdita challenged. "But you are! He can talk to you about it for hours."

Hester took a deep breath. "I am here temporarily. In a while I shall leave again. It doesn't matter to him what I know or what I think. I shall be gone after a while. And he doesn't care so much about my feelings ... beyond what courtesy dictates. I am a stranger, not part of his life."

Perdita's face softened a little, a flare of hope in her eyes.

"But if he doesn't want me to know, if I can't share it with him, how can I ever be of any use?" The sharp edge in her voice was fading but still discernible.

Hester thought very carefully. "Wait a little while," she suggested. "Feelings don't always remain the same. He has only been home a few days. You cannot make tomorrow's decision until tomorrow comes. I know that is hard. One wants to see the way ahead... but it is not possible."

Perdita sat silently for several minutes and Hester waited without interrupting.

Eventually, Perdita stood up and straightened her dress. She seemed unaware that her hair was coming out of its pins, long, fair brown hair with a wave in it.

"I suppose I had better go to bed. I'm terribly tired, but I can't seem to sleep these nights."

"Would you like me to make you a draft?" Hester offered, rising to her feet as well. "Or a lavender pillow? Do you have one? They can help."

"I expect so. I think there's one in my handkerchief drawer or in the linen." She went to the door without looking at Hester. "I can ask Martha. Good night, Miss Latterly."

"Good night, Mrs. Sheldon."

Perdita went out and Hester heard her walk across the hall and then silence. She went out herself a few moments afterwards, and upstairs to her room. She washed quickly in cold water and went to bed. She was too tired to lie awake.

In the morning she accomplished her usual duties for Gabriel, changing the linen and seeing that his bandages were fresh and the wound clean. The doctor had called the day before and there was no need to trouble him today.

She was in the stillroom sorting through the various herbs and oils kept in stock in the house when Perdita's lady's maid came in. Martha Jackson was a thin, dark woman who had probably been handsome enough in her youth, but now, in her middle forties, she was a little gaunt. The lines of hards.h.i.+p were etched deeply into her face but there was no bitterness in them, and no self-pity. Hester had liked her from the moment they met. She had gathered from the odd remark let slip that Martha had originally been Perdita's governess but that circ.u.mstances had dictated that she remain in a secure position, and become her maid, rather than leave and seek another post as governess somewhere else, which could only be temporary again, as children's schoolroom years always pa.s.s. Once she had been a senior, almost independent employee. Now she was a servant, albeit a necessary and trusted one.

"Good morning, Miss Latterly," she said with forced cheerfulness. "How are you today? I hope you are settling in well. If there is anything I can do, please let me know."

Hester smiled at her. "Good morning, Miss Jackson. Yes, I am very comfortable, thank you."

Martha busied herself with making a paste for reviving the l.u.s.ter of tortoisesh.e.l.l which had lost its s.h.i.+ne and depth. She was carefully putting drops of olive oil into a teaspoon of jeweler's rouge.

"Are you needing anything in particular, Miss Latterly?" she asked after a moment or two. "Perhaps there is something missing that you could use?" She started to apply the paste to the comb, rubbing the soft cloth around in small circular movements.

"More lavender," Hester answered. "I think Mrs. Sheldon is not finding it easy to sleep at the moment."

Martha was rubbing with the cloth automatically. She turned to face Hester.

"She's so frightened," she said quietly. "Is there anything you can say to comfort her? I've racked my brains, but I know so little about his condition; if I tell her something that isn't true, she'll never trust me again. She has no one else to turn to. Mr. Sheldon is no use-" She stopped abruptly. She had betrayed a family confidence, even if it was one Hester could have worked out for herself, and probably had. It was not what others knew that mattered, it was the breach of trust.

Hester saw the compa.s.sion in Martha's face. It was more than duty or the pity anyone might have felt; it was the kind of love which cannot escape once obligation has been fulfilled, or walk away when conscience is satisfied. Martha had known and cared for Perdita since Perdita was a child. Perhaps she was the only one who had, closely, daily, seeing the weaknesses as well as the strengths, the temptations and disappointments, the failures; the only one who knew what effort or what price lay behind the outward joys.

"I don't know," Hester confessed. "But I am trying to think."

"She loved him so much," Martha went on. "You should have seen him before he went away. He was so full of life, so happy. He believed in everything ... al least he seemed as if he did." She pushed a strand of hair off her brow. "You can't ever get back that innocence, can you." It was a statement not a question, and it appeared as if she was thinking of other things as well, tragedies that had nothing to do with this.

Hester knew exactly what she meant. She had seen the raw soldiers arrive from the troops.h.i.+ps, and then seen their faces again after one of the battles where men were slaughtered by the hundreds, cut down uselessly, human beings sheared off like corn before the harvest. You could not ever get that hope, that unknowing, back.

"No," she agreed. "She asked me last night if she should read about the Mutiny, about Cawnpore and Lucknow. I didn't know what to say."

Martha stared at her, her eyes dark, her cheeks hollow, as if she had borne all Perdita's suffering; but there was still a kind of softness in her in spite of the angles and the sharp cheekbones.

"She mustn't!" she said urgently. "She couldn't bear it. You don't understand, Miss Latterly, she's never experienced anything ... violent... in her life." She lifted her hands helplessly, waving the cloth. "She's never seen anyone... dead. In families like the Lofftens they don't ever mention death. People don't die, they 'pa.s.s over,' or sometimes they 'take the great journey.' But it is always peaceful, as if they have fallen asleep. She will have to learn this ... very slowly."

Hester reached for the jar of dried lavender flowers. "I don't think there is time to be very slow," she replied, realizing how little she knew of Perdita Sheldon or of the tenor of her marriage, the strength of her love for her husband. Hester could hardly ask Martha if Perdita was really only in love with the idea of love, of a handsome husband and a dream of happiness which simply moved, untrammeled by pain or reality, into an endless future. Asking Martha would be almost like making such an inquiry of her own mother.

And yet if she did not she might be losing the only chance anyone had to help Perdita-and Gabriel. He was maimed; he was disfigured. He had seen horror he would never forget and had lost too many of the flower of his friends not to be reminded-with every hot day, every military tune, every buzzing of flies-of what he had seen.