The Wildest Heart (2 page)

He had been studying her slowly and almost caressingly, but Rowena's irritated voice brought him back to earth.

“Shiv! What on earth is the matter with you? Surely you aren't going to sulk because I won't marry you? You really ought to feel relieved that you've had a lucky escape, for I would never make any man a dutiful, obedient wife, I fear!”

“You have not been awakened yet. In some ways, you are still so young! Perhaps, someday, I'll be able to make you fall in love with me, and then you will never leave India. I will make you realize that you belong here, and you will belong to me.”

“I'll belong to no man, Shiv Jhanpur!” Rowena's voice merely took on an inflexible tone as her straight black brows drew together. “Never! And if you want to remain my friend, you had better remember that.”

“We'll see!” he said teasingly, and then in a persuasive voice, “But I want to be your friend, of course. Who else can I talk to around here? My father is of an older generation and talks of nothing but duty. The Englishmen I meet are all such bores, and so conscious of the superiority their white skins confer, even though they try to hide it. But your grandfather is different, of course, just as you are different.” He seized her hands for a moment and said passionately, “My family goes back as far as yours does—perhaps farther. Jhanpur is small, but its maharajahs come from a long line of kings and princes. Rowena, if you should change your mind, I feel sure that your grandfather, at least, will place no objections in our way. Please think about it.”

The young crown prince of Jhanpur was a handsome, arrogant young man in his impeccably cut riding clothes that had been tailored in Savile Row. The girl who now stood facing him, shaking her head stubbornly, was just as arrogant in her way, even though she might have been taken for a gypsy in her shabby, old-fashioned riding habit. A distant ancestor of hers had run off with a gypsy girl once and made her his countess. Rowena had heard the story countless times.

But she was not thinking at this moment of her appearance. She seldom did. She shook her head at Shiv because he annoyed her with his persistence, but without her knowing it, or him knowing it, he had nevertheless planted a tiny seed in her mind—the beginning of consciousness that she was a woman.

“We had better go now,” Rowena said quietly, and this time he made no objection, not wishing to frighten her off.

Later, he thought to himself, as he helped her to mount the big black stallion she had named Devil.
I spoke too soon, of course. Like all Englishwomen of her age and background she is still a shy, half-wild creature. Yes, in spite of all her book learning and her intellect, she is still virginal, and afraid of men. But the time will come when she is ready….

Rowena, feeling oddly relieved that Shiv had reverted to the role of her friend again, kicked her heels against Devil's sides as she urged the big stallion into a gallop.

“Both walls, and then the old fence!” she called to Shiv over her shoulder, the sound of her clear young voice almost drowned by the drumming of racing hoofbeats. “I'll race you as far as the palace and see myself home!”

London—1873

“Edgar! How
can
you act so unconcerned? Read this—here!” Lady Fanny Cardon's voice, normally slightly querulous, had risen to a wail. “It was bad enough to hear that Melchester is dead, and Guy, of all people, if he's still alive, is the new earl. But now, to cap it off that wretched child has—has disappeared!”

Lady Fanny, still in her pink silk negligee, sat before her mirrored dressing table holding a lacy square of cambric dramatically to her eyes as she held out several sheets of closely written pages to her husband.

“Well, then, if she's vanished, that ends all our troubles, doesn't it? Gad, Fan! Why fuss so? Didn't want a daughter foisted on you at this late stage, did you?”

“Edgar!” Lady Fanny's voice cracked with approaching hysteria, and her husband, shrugging, took the letter from her hand.

“Oh, very well! Just to oblige you, m'dear, but I don't see…”

“You will understand when you read it! Good heavens—the scandal with Guy was bad enough, but people have started to forget it. And then this! Guy always doted on Rowena—he wanted a child, not I, and it almost killed me, as you very well know. Why must
I
have her? And why couldn't she be like any other well-brought-up child? Running away—all by herself, in that wild, savage country. Just read what Mrs. Leacock has to say!”

“I will, if you'll just stop talking, my love.”

Sir Edgar, a heavy-featured, robust-looking man who affected the muttonchop whiskers so fashionable in England, stood with his back to the fireplace, his hard gray eyes contradicting the mildness of his voice as he raised them to his wife's distraught face.

Lady Fanny, who had begun to twist the tiny handkerchief between her fingers, caught his look and gave a small sob.

“Sometimes I think you're heartless! What on earth am I to do?”

Ignoring her outburst, Sir Edgar lowered his eyes once more to the letter he was reading, one hand going up every now and then to tug at his whiskers.

“So she's gone to find peace and the right frame of mind in an—what in blazes is this word? An
ashram?
Ah yes, here we are; this Mrs. Leacock had the goodness to explain. Some kind of Hindu retreat. I must say, Fan, the girl sounds just as eccentric as her grandfather was! Queer in the attic, if you ask me. What's an Englishwoman doing alone in a place like that?”

“You know very well what Mrs. Leacock told us in her last letter! Rowena has been allowed to grow up as wild as a—a gypsy! Completely undisciplined. She's had no formal schooling, and she refused to make friends with children her own age. Mrs. Leacock says it was a scandal! And there was that Indian prince she used to see constantly, until the bishop put a stop to it. Edgar!”

He had begun to smile. “Only thinking that perhaps the chit takes after you, after all, Fan! Still pretty, if you'd stop your frowning and your crying. Indian prince, eh? Maybe that's the solution. Get her married off.”

“What can you be thinking of? She cannot marry an Indian, a—a native! Oh, Edgar, I don't think I can stand another scandal! And besides, Rowena's still a child!”

“Child? The gal's eighteen, isn't she? That's hardly a child.
You
were married long before then.” Sir Edgar's voice became bluff. “Now look, Fan, no use going into a dither. This Leacock woman, who seems to know everything, says the chit has not much money of her own; and they're scouring the countryside for her. Says they'll pack her back here as soon as they find her. She's under age, isn't she? Have to do as she's told, like it or not, and you're her guardian, unless Guy turns up. And we both know why he daren't, don't we?” He gave his wife a significant look.

“But…”

“Now look here, Fan, like it or not, we're going to have to take her in,
if
she arrives, if only to stop the gossip. Can't turn her out, can we, since you're her mother? It's plain to see she needs discipline. We'll send her off to a finishing school, and then get her married. Provide a dowry myself, if I have to.”

“But we don't know what she's like!” Lady Fanny's voice quivered with emotion. “He's turned her against me. I
know
he has. He was such a horrid, hard old man. I was always terrified of him!”

“He's gone. And the girl will come to heel, once she's learned
I'm
not going to stand any nonsense. You'll see.”

Presently Sir Edgar went off to his club, and Lady Fanny recovered herself sufficiently to order the carriage so that she might go shopping.

She left the letter, in her usual careless fashion, lying on top of a welter of spilled powder and half-empty perfume bottles on top of her dressing table.

“Will you look at this, Mrs. Jenks?” Adams, who was Lady Fanny's personal maid and had attended her for ten years, was the only servant who considered herself an equal of the rather austere housekeeper, who had been in Sir Edgar's service for even longer—before he married, as she was fond of reminding the other members of the staff belowstairs.

“Another letter from India—and about the same thing, I'll be bound. That daughter of hers. My lady was crying, when I came up to dress her hair. And it's no wonder she's upset! Fancy having a child you never wanted turning up after all these years—and grown up into a regular hoyden, from all accounts. If you ask
me
,”
and Adams dropped her voice conspiratorially, “the girl's no good. Just like her father. It's in the blood, I heard her say to Sir Edgar when that last letter arrived.
All
the Dangerfields were a little bit mad, she said, and this daughter, this Miss Rowena…”

“It's
Lady
Rowena now, and you'd better not go forgetting it, hoyden or not,” Mrs. Jenks said sourly, as she picked up the letter.

She was fortunate in being able to read, Adams thought enviously as she watched the housekeeper's sharp black eyes scan the crumpled sheets of paper.

“Well, do tell!” she said at last, and Mrs. Jenks's mouth pursed itself tightly.

“She's run away. By herself.”

“She has?”

“But they've sent soldiers to fetch her back, and this lady who wrote the letter says they'll put her on a ship bound for England as soon as they find her.”

“No!” Adams breathed. “Poor Lady Fanny. What will she do with her, a daughter like that? So wild!”

“Sir Edgar will tame her.
He
won't stand any nonsense, I can tell you that.”

“What else does it say? Surely that can't be all, such a long letter like that?”

Unwillingly, Mrs. Jenks produced a pair of spectacles from her pocket and put them on. The truth was that she was just as curious as Adams was. The last letter from India, breaking the news of the old earl's death and his granddaughter's waywardness had sent Lady Fanny into hysterics for days.
This
one seemed just as startling.

Run away indeed! Mrs. Jenks thought to herself. A likely story. A girl so used to gallivanting all by herself around the Indian countryside, and consorting with natives. Mrs. Leacock was a bishop's wife, and very likely was only trying to spare Lady Fanny the worst of the story, although she had seemed to go into some detail regarding the girl's behavior at the beginning. English-born or not, it was clear that Lady Rowena had been brought up just like a foreigner, or worse, if one read between the lines.

“Well, do go on, Mrs. Jenks!” Adams leaned over the housekeeper's shoulder, breathing heavily. “It surely can't be that bad—can it?” Her voice sounded hopeful, and Mrs. Jenks gave her a cold look.

“It says she's a hard, arrogant girl who won't listen to what anyone has to say. Mrs. Leacock says she was rude to anyone who tried to advise her, even when they all went around to the house to comfort her. Told them to—” here Mrs. Jenkins paused to lick her lips, “told them to go to the devil, is what she did! And in a house of mourning, too. Told them they were all a bunch of narrow-minded hypocrites, that her grandfather had never liked them, and she didn't either. Shocked them all by producing a letter that said he wanted to be cremated, just like one of them heathen Hindus!” When Mrs. Jenks was agitated her grammar tended to slip.

“Lord have mercy!” Adams said in a shocked voice. “Well, the bishop wouldn't have it, of course. How could he allow such a thing after all?”

“And then?”

“She didn't turn up for the funeral. Ran away, taking only her big black horse with her, and left a rude, nasty note. They thought she might have run off with that native prince, or whatever he calls himself, but
he
didn't know where she'd gone either.”

“She might have been murdered by those savages over there, and heaven knows what else! My poor lady!”

“Well, it's not as if Lady Fanny really
knew
her, is it?” Unknowingly, Mrs. Jenks paraphrased Sir Edgar's parting words to his wife. “We'll just have to wait and see what happens, I suppose.”

In a subdued voice, Adams murmured, “Call me heartless, if you like, but I can't help thinking it'll be a blessing if she doesn't turn up.”

Mrs. Jenks put the letter back carefully, exactly as she had found it.

“I've been thinking the same thing myself, and I'll not deny it,” she admitted. “We've got enough to keep us all busy without having to worry about some young foreign-brought-up female with wild ways disrupting the whole household!”

Only Mary, the youngest parlormaid, ventured to speak up on behalf of the young woman whose imminent arrival formed the topic of discussion belowstairs that night.

“I don't understand their ways,” she sniffed to Alice, who shared her bed in their poky little attic room. “Fancy a mother not wanting her own daughter to live with her, and letting them say all those wicked things about her too.”

“You'll never understand the gentry, so don't even try,” Alice said wisely.

“Well, I hope she
does
come, after all,” Mary persisted. “Be like a breath of fresh air, I'll be bound!”

“Yes, or a gale!” said Alice. “I've heard tell them foreigners treat
their
servants worse than slaves—and didn't you hear what Mrs. Jenks was telling cook, about this Lady Rowena being a hard little creature with no heart? Better count your blessings, my girl. Now turn over, do, and stop tossing so. Remember we have to be up by five to light the fires!”

The subject of Lady Fanny's errant daughter was soon dropped as a topic of conversation when there were no more letters from India and no more hysterics on the part of Lady Fanny herself. Cardon House settled back into its usual routine, and Sir Edgar was heard to mention a holiday in Paris in the near future.

And then, one late spring morning, the clanging summons of the front doorbell hurried Briggs the butler into his dark jacket, grumbling as he waved aside the new footman who was busy polishing the large brass urn that stood in the hallway.

“Never you mind. I'll get it, since I'm dressed already. And you had best disappear into the kitchen, my lad, and put on your jacket, in case it's someone important.”

The bell clanged again imperatively, causing Briggs's features to settle into lines of doleful severity.

“Now, who could that be so early in the morning? The racket will wake
them
if it's kept up!”

Still grumbling, Briggs hurried down the long, imposing hallway to the front door. Whoever it was was mighty impatient!

“I knew right away it could be nothing but bad news—or trouble!” he reported later in the servants' hall.

But words could hardly describe Briggs's emotions as he opened the door and saw the apparition who stood there, small, booted foot tapping impatiently on the step. His usually impeccable poise deserted him; his mouth dropped open.

“I hope this is Cardon House?”

The accents were unmistakably those of a lady, clear and self-possessed; but the appearance of the young person who had spoken certainly did not fit such a description.

She wore a shabby black velvet riding habit, the skirt shockingly ripped on one side, exposing a slim, booted ankle. A hat that reminded the stunned butler of a man's bowler hat was perched on her head, and from beneath it strands of black hair straggled untidily. There was even what looked like a smudge on the young person's cheek—Briggs could think of no other way to describe her.

Realizing that he was being eyed questioningly from under frowning dark brows, Briggs drew himself up and pronounced in his most forbidding accents:

“I beg your pardon?”

“I asked you if this was Cardon House. Good heavens, why does everyone I have so far met in England make me repeat the questions I ask?”

The young woman pulled the bowler hat impatiently off her head as she spoke, and her hair, which had been untidily stuffed beneath it came tumbling over her shoulders.

“This is Sir Edgar Cardon's residence when he is in London, miss, but I do not think…”

“Good.” She cut him off impatiently. “Then the directions I received were correct, after all. If you will see that my horse is taken around to the stables and fed, I think I can manage to carry my portmanteau inside myself.”

The clear voice held an imperious ring that made Briggs's eyes bulge.

“Your—horse?” he repeated faintly.

“Certainly. Did you imagine I walked here? I took a carriage as far as I could, and then, because I found I was running out of money, I rented a horse to bring me the rest of the way. I promised he would be returned tomorrow. Sir Edgar does keep a stable, I hope?”

The horse, a sorry-looking nag, stood with its reins carelessly looped over the polished railings.

“Sir Edgar…” Awful suspicions were beginning to flit through Briggs's mind. Surely this shabby-looking young person could not be one of his master's flirts? What was he expected to do about her?