The Sandalwood Princess (24 page)

“But suppose the ice breaks? It’s been warmer, hasn’t it? Suppose it breaks and swallows me up and—”

“It is a very shallow pond, miss. Furthermore, the temperature has soared nearly to the freezing point. Hardly a heat wave.”

She fussed and worried as usual, and as usual, Mr. Brentick ignored her. Still, Amanda reminded herself, she’d been frightened of sledding at first. Now he had to devote all his energies to persuading her home again, because she couldn’t get enough of it. Winter sports had played no part in her childhood—playing formed virtually no part—and she’d no inkling what she’d missed. She felt as though she’d never been truly alive before, never, certainly, so tinglingly, vibrantly alive as this man made her feel.

Yes, he made her feel like a child again, but not the child she’d been. Instead of that wistful, lonely little girl, he’d conjured up a noisy, giggling brat who always demanded more and
more.

All the same, when they reached the pond, Amanda wasn’t certain she wanted
any,
let alone more.

“Perhaps Mrs. Gales was right,’’ she said. “I really ought not keep you so much from your duties. Perhaps we should return.”

He was kneeling before her, fastening her skates. “Mrs. Gales objects to my idling, I take it,” he said without looking up.

“Good heavens, not at all. She says I expect far too much of you. I think she’s right. You should not have to entertain me, in addition to everything else.”

“Please quiet your conscience, miss. I’d far rather play than work. In any case, I haven’t nearly enough to do.” He sat beside her to fasten his own skates.

Amanda folded her gloved hands and watched him in silence. So quick and capable he was, always, his hands deft and efficient at every task. Never a wasted motion. He was bound to be an excellent skater. She wished she might simply watch him. He moved so beautifully, so lean and lithe he was, easy and assured, smooth and graceful as a cat. To look at him, to hear his voice... She suppressed a sigh. She’d commanded herself a thousand times to be content with what he gave.

He stood and held out his hand.

“Maybe I should just watch first,” she said. “Can’t you give me a demonstration?’’

He shook his head. “It’s too cold for you to sit still.”

“Please?”

He grinned, his beautiful blue eyes teasing. “Coward.”

“Well, yes, I am,” she admitted ruefully. “I really hate falling down.”

“You love failing down, Miss Cavencourt. You think it’s quite the most hilarious experience in all the world.”

She stared mistrustfully at her skates.

“Don’t just stand there, Mr. Brentick,” she heard him cry in a familiar feminine voice. “Help me up.”

Amanda’s head shot up.

“Oh, lud, how stupid,” he continued in the same voice. Then her tall, capable,
manly
butler broke into girlish giggles.

Her mouth fell open.

He stared blankly back.

“That was
me,”
she said wonderingly. “How the devil did you do it?”

He shrugged. “A skill I was apparently born with. I thought it might divert you from your unreasoning terror.”

“Can you imitate anybody you want to?”

“Virtually anybody. Women are difficult, but your voice is low enough.” He put out his hand. “No more procrastinating.”

She ignored the hand. “How clever you are,” she said. “Do someone else.”

“Miss Cavencourt, I haven’t come to perform tricks. We have a skating lesson ahead of us.”

“I’d rather a lesson in mimicry,” she coaxed.

“That will not get your blood circulating. Nor will you find it nearly so amusing as skating.”

He grasped her hands and hauled her upright. Her ankles wobbled ominously.

She looked down at her feet, then up at him.

“Just so,” he said soberly. “We are in for a most diverting afternoon.”

***

“You see?” said Amanda. “He’d rather be outdoors. He insists it doesn’t make more work for him. He says the house runs so smoothly he has too much time on his hands.”

Mrs. Gales set her knitting aside and folded her hands in her lap. They’d retired upstairs to Amanda’s sitting-room after dinner. The chilly January afternoon had turned into a bitter cold evening. Upstairs was warmer, cozier, and, Mrs. Gales may have silently added, farther from the omnipresent butler.

“Why, do you think, my dear, he devotes virtually all his time to you?” the widow asked quietly. “He works with you all the morning, then he spends all the afternoon, far from the house, alone with you. He seems to have a most peculiar notion of a butler’s responsibilities.”

Amanda flushed. “What are you driving at, Leticia?”

“Need you ask me, dear? Doesn’t your own heart tell you what troubles me, and all those who care for you?”

Amanda looked away, to the fire. “I see,” she said. “Padji has been talking to you now. That doesn’t surprise me. But I am astonished you’d credit what he suggests. You know he’s disliked Mr. Brentick from the start.”

“I have not discussed you with Padji. I observe with my own faculties, Amanda. You are falling in love with your butler,” was the blunt conclusion.

The world went black, but only for a moment. The tiny, sharp ache in Amanda’s breast vanished in a moment as well. Even when she lay in her bed, defenseless because the night offered no distraction, the ache eventually subsided. Her days were full and busy, and longing had simply come to be a part of them, a trickle of sadness amid the joy. The night loomed empty, though, empty and hopeless because he was not by to light and fill it for her, to make her come alive as he did by day.

Falling in love... if it were merely that, she’d stand a chance. But she must have fallen in love lifetimes ago. Now she simply lived with it by day, and died a little of it, by inches, every night.

She turned bleak eyes to her companion. “It’s all right, Leticia,” she said calmly. “I promise you’ve no reason to be uneasy. You’re quite safe with him. We’ve had all the privacy anyone could want, and he’s never tried to take advantage. He doesn’t want me, you see. But he is too kind to hurt me.”

Mrs. Gales’s look of shock quieted to compassion. “Amanda, my dear—”

Amanda put out her hand to stop further words. “Please, let it be. Just let me be as happy as I can for a bit longer. Let me live with it my own way, please.”

She rose and left the room.

The letter arrived
on the first of February.

Philip found it in a locked drawer of the estate office desk. The lock was an utterly futile precaution, and another testament to Miss Cavencourt’s credulity. He might have picked it in twenty seconds. Sometimes, just to keep in practice, he did, though a duplicate key reposed in his pocket.

This day he used the key, though he certainly wasn’t in any hurry. Mrs. Gales had prevailed upon Amanda to accompany her to the village, and Padji had gone as well, claiming business with the blacksmith.

Fearing no interruption, Philip leaned back in the huge, ugly chair to peruse the letter at his leisure. He’d no sooner scanned the greeting than he sat up sharply. He flipped the sheet over to check the signature, and uttered a low series of oaths.

The epistle came from the Rani Simhi and, as one might expect, constituted a fascinating mixture of truth, lies, and needless evasions.

She claimed she’d received a note from the Falcon, thanking her for the Laughing Princess.
He’d never written such a note, curse her.
The Falcon would never behave in such an adolescent way.

The rani also maintained that she’d sent her agents in pursuit, but the thief eluded them. It was believed he’d left India altogether. Then she offered several lines of apology for ‘unwittingly’—oh, very likely—placing her ‘beloved daughter’ in danger.

Philip turned the sheet over and frowned. Padji’s departure a shock, was it? He quickly scanned the next paragraph. She forgave Padji... she was comforted, knowing he’d guard Amanda with his life... utterly devoted... to be trusted implicitly... fated to be.

Then an interesting switch, from submission to Fate, forgiveness, and loving kindness to narrative a deal more in character.

“All the same, I know the Laughing Princess cannot be fated to remain in the hands of my betrayer. I have prayed to Anumati and begged help. She answered at last in a dream: the man who possesses her statue will become but half a man, incapable of taking pleasure with a woman. So she has promised me, beloved daughter of my heart, and Anumati has always fulfilled her promises. The curse will not be lifted until the Laughing Princess is restored to you or to a daughter of your blood. The princess is a woman’s gift and a man’s curse. Remember this, and be comforted.”

Philip returned the letter to its place, closed the drawer, and turned the key in the lock.

By the time the rani had written, she must have obtained an accurate description of him. She’d have learned he and Jessup had boarded the
Evelina.
She would have deduced exactly what had happened—except, of course, for the second theft. Amanda’s first letter could not have reached the Indian woman before this one was written.

The Rani Simhi knew, yet didn’t describe him. Why not? Why keep her “beloved daughter” in the dark?

Philip drew a deep breath. Suppose she
had
described him? Where would he be now? Slowly asphyxiating somewhere, no doubt. From now on, he’d better have a look at the post before his employer did.

“This is not Calcutta,” Philip patiently repeated. “Collecting the post is a lower servant’s duty. You lose face with the outers when you so demean yourself.”

“So have I done from the beginning,” Padji answered. He poured steaming broth into a saucepan. “To lose face is nothing. I am an insect beneath the heel of my mistress.”

He stirred the rice briefly, sprinkled in some seasoning, then added vegetables, and covered the saucepan. He turned to face Philip. “If it is nothing to me, Brentick sahib, I beg you will not trouble your tender heart with the matter.”

Philip elected another tack. “It isn’t my heart that’s troubled, but our footman’s. If you won’t consider your pride, you might consider his. James has been with us more than four months. He’ll think we don’t trust him.”

“No other menservants did you hire but this ignorant boy. You trust him with nothing that concerns the mistress. Always it is Brentick sahib who arranges the fire. Brentick sahib who carries the tray. Brentick sahib who lights the candles. Always it is Brentick sahib who follows her about like a little dog.” Padji folded his arms across his chest and surveyed Philip from head to toe. “Or perhaps like a lovesick little boy.”

“Very amusing,” Philip said calmly, though the blood rushed to his face. “I see this is no time for a rational conversation. You are in one of your perverse humours.”

He turned to walk away.

“Poor Brentick sahib,” Padji said sadly. “What can be in these letters that troubles him so? Tender words from a lover, perhaps, a noble prince who is
worthy
of the mistress? Or perhaps her brother writes of a fine match he has arranged? What will become of you when she weds?”

The world grew dark, suddenly, and wild, as though knocked from its axis. Philip’s fingers fell away from the door handle as he caught his breath and his balance. The sick sensation passed in a moment, though, and he answered with forced lightness, “In that case, I should find a less arduous position.”

“Indeed, that is so. Brentick sahib labours so hard, and the night gives him no rest. All in this house see how he burns for the mistress, and all pity him.”

Philip turned abruptly. “Pity?”

“Even Padji’s heart aches,” the Indian said charitably. “I have heard you cry out her name in the night, begging her to come to you—”

“You filthy swine!”

“Pitiful, like a lovesick boy—”

In a flash, Philip leapt, with force enough to hurl any other adversary to the ground.

Padji never flinched. He pulled Philip’s hands from his throat as easily as if they’d been bonnet ribbons. Instantly, the giant had him in a stranglehold.

“I know you, Brentick sahib,” Padji whispered while Philip fought for breath. “Not a garden snake, but a cobra. Yet you must strike more quickly to strike me. We understand each other, I think?” His forearm pressed a degree more firmly against Philip’s throat.

“I would have killed you long since,” Padji went on in the same soft, sweet tones, “but the mistress would not permit it. She is a child in many ways and, foolish like a child, she trusts you. Do you give her any pain, little cobra, or you die slowly.”

He let go, and Philip crumpled to the floor.

Amanda gazed in blank astonishment at the brown giant as he carried the soup tureen into the dining room.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, disliking the innocent expression on his face. The more cherubic Padji looked, the greater the mischief he’d perpetrated. “Where is Mr. Brentick?”

He calmly ladled soup into her bowl. “Brentick sahib is indisposed.”

“Is he?” Mrs. Gales enquired. “How odd. He seemed fully in health this afternoon.”