Part 11 (1/2)

Mariana studied him. His eyes, as green as hers, were unafraid. No longer clenched, his hands now rested on his knees. They were covered with dry lines, as if they had been well used. He had not been thinking of her at all.

”This has already happened, in the Kohdaman valley,” he added. ”I can see clearly that the Afghan fighting style is very different from ours. Their warriors appear, then retreat, then appear again, and each time they come back, there are more of them. there are more of them.

”We, of course, march out openly, in our red and blue uniforms. We fight in an orderly fas.h.i.+on, in columns and squares. They go into battle in ordinary clothes the same color as the dust and the rocks. Their movements are impossible to predict. They come unexpectedly, from nowhere, do what damage they can, then vanish like ghosts, or they snipe at us, invisibly, from behind rocks. They have no fear of our guns, whatever our people may say, and no chivalry. They descend upon our wounded like vultures. Sometimes they even cut off-I am sorry,” he said hastily, seeing the look on her face. ”This is no proper conversation for a lady.”

He dropped his eyes. ”I have no one to speak to about this. Whenever I have tried to discuss it, I am called a croaker. I am only telling you because we talked about military matters so often before-”

Her revulsion gone, she resisted an impulse to lay a hand on his arm. It had been months since an English person had spoken seriously to her.

Perhaps, for now, he would be her friend.

”I am certain that we can beat the Afghans,” he continued, interrupting her thoughts, ”but to do so, we must outwit them. I fear we have dangerously underestimated them.

”I am very worried, Miss Givens,” he added, ”very worried.”

”I am so sorry,” she whispered.

Turning to her, he stared for an instant at the front of her gown, as if he were gazing at the flesh beneath her bodice. ”I could not bear,” he said huskily, ”to know you were in any danger.”

”Thank you, Lieutenant,” was all she could manage.

A moment later, Harry Fitzgerald excused himself, and was gone.

Twenty feet away, Aunt Claire regarded her with a small, fas.h.i.+onable, and unmistakably triumphant smile.

”I AM so pleased,” cooed Lady Macnaghten as she rode beside Mariana on the way back. ”I thought you made a handsome pair, you and your lieutenant. What were you speaking of with such concentration?”

”I hardly remember,” Mariana replied vaguely.

”And you were looking quite nice, but a curl of your hair had come loose. The whole time you were speaking with Fitzgerald, it hung irritatingly down over your left ear.

”And now,” she continued, s.h.i.+fting uncomfortably in her sidesaddle, ”you must pursue your advantage. Be ready at all times for him to call on you. And for goodness sake, there is no need to show all all your teeth when you smile.” your teeth when you smile.”

October 19, 1841 In the five days since Harry Fitzgerald's return, he had called on Mariana three times. Three features had characterized each of those visits: Aunt Claire's simpering idiocy, Fitzgerald's patient good manners, and Mariana's growing irritation.

While her aunt's efforts to safeguard Mariana's good name had protected her from any upsetting declaration he might have made, her breathless reminiscences about her childhood in Suss.e.x were agony to listen to.

”My aunt, Claire Woodrow,” she burbled over sherry one afternoon, as Mariana fidgeted beside her, ”my father's elder sister after whom I was named, came to live in Weddington when I was small. Her husband had recently died died, you see”

Saved from the work of conversing, Fitzgerald had offered no more than a series of bland smiles. When he stood up to leave, Mariana followed him, her lemon silk skirts rustling, then turned and faced her aunt after the front door had closed behind him.

”I do believe,” her aunt sighed, ”he is the handsomest handsomest-”

”Handsome he may be,” Mariana said pointedly, ”but must we talk of ourselves all all the time he is here?” the time he is here?”

Aunt Claire drew back, her chins trembling. ”But what on earth should we talk of?”

”Him.” Mariana sighed. ”You wish me to marry Fitzgerald, but we know nothing about him.” Mariana sighed. ”You wish me to marry Fitzgerald, but we know nothing about him.”

Her own vetting, she knew, was a cold, unloving exercise that, in the end, would cause someone hurt. It pained her to hear the lilt in her aunt's voice, and the little humming noises she made as she busied herself about the bungalow.

While Aunt Claire sang to herself, Mariana waited for Ghulam Ali.

Where was he now? Was he on his way back from India, preparing to travel safely through the pa.s.ses after Jalalabad, now that General Sale had cleared the way? Was Ha.s.san's reply to her hidden in his clothes, or had Ha.s.san sent back no reply but only silence, the bitterest answer of all?

If only she had sent Ghulam Ali sooner, he would have returned safely and she would already know....

Until she knew the truth of Ha.s.san's feelings, she would remain as she was, trapped between hopefulness and resignation.

THAT EVENING, as she tightened her stays in preparation for another of Lady Macnaghten's dinner parties, Mariana steeled herself to learn more about Harry Fitzgerald.

She knew that he was the younger of two brothers, both serving in India, who had lost their father when they were very small, and that a kindly uncle had later purchased commissions for them in the Indian army. When Aunt Claire had actually asked him a question about himself, Mariana had also learned that his mother had been ill for some years. When he spoke of her, his expression had softened, revealing, Mariana hoped, a capacity for tender feelings.

She had known since they first met that he was a thinking officer, as ardent a student of military strategy as she had been, and loyal to the men in his battery. He had suffered without complaint when false gossip had damaged his reputation. These were good signs, but they told Mariana nothing of how he would treat her if they were married. Would the Bengal Horse Artillery mean more to him than she or her children? Would he forget her existence once she was his?

It was not uncommon for Indian army officers to be posted to remote corners of the country. In some cases, their wives had been the only European women in small stations. Left alone with no one to talk to while their husbands campaigned for months on end, some of them had lost their minds. Who knew how many might have been saved if their husbands had thought to send them to friends or relatives.

She would not ask for Fitzgerald's love, because she could not offer her own, but she must know he would not be as cruel as that.

One woman who had endured that experience had been the dauntless Lady Sale, who seemed none the worse for it. The woman must be made of iron.

Mariana sighed as she dropped her best rose-colored evening gown over her head, then struggled with its tiny covered b.u.t.tons. Whatever Fitzgerald was, if she understood him in advance, she would be better able to bear her fate.

The party, an extravagant affair featuring roast boar from a recent hunt, was a compromise, for it followed several attempts by Lady Macnaghten to organize a dance. Her latest effort had been abandoned at the last moment due to disturbances in the Kohdaman valley which had kept Sir William and the army too occupied to partic.i.p.ate.

Everyone would be in attendance this evening save for Lady Sale, who never went out when her husband was away, and General Elphinstone, who had been confined to his bed since the cricket match.

”Why, good evening, Miss Givens.” Charles Mott bowed before her, his hair fas.h.i.+onably mussed into the appearance of a dish mop, his coat so wasp-waisted that it was a wonder he could breathe.

As she replied to his greeting, a man who had been standing with his back to her spun about and frowned in her direction. Lady Macnaghten caught his look as she rustled past.

”I am sure, Sir Alexander,” she fluted, gesturing with her fan, ”that you remember Miss Mariana Givens.”

Burnes bowed. Mariana inclined her head, hoping he would be gone when she looked up, but he was not. Instead, he stood in front of her, his Clan Campbell tartan as resplendent as Charles Mott's dandified clothes. His round face held no shame, only keen interest. ”I take it,” he said smoothly, ”that Miss Givens has learned to speak a little Persian.”

”I would not know about that.” Her interest waning, Lady Macnaghten swept off to greet another guest.

Burnes leaned closer and dropped his voice. ”I also take it that Miss Givens enjoys an occasional jaunt into the wicked city of Kabul. I find that most interesting. Of course I was shocked when I first heard-”

Before he could finish, or Mariana could think how to punish him, Aunt Claire appeared and clutched her above the elbow. ”He is here,” she stage-whispered, pointing with urgent indiscretion toward the drawing room doorway. is here,” she stage-whispered, pointing with urgent indiscretion toward the drawing room doorway.

Five minutes later, a hand on Fitzgerald's arm, Mariana stood waiting to go in to dinner.

This was no time to think about Burnes. Dining at Fitzgerald's side would offer her the investigative opportunity she sought, although she had already noted how little attention he paid to her best gown, her carefully arranged curls, or even the hint of rosy cochineal powder Vijaya had applied to her cheeks. Instead, he glanced at her pleated bodice with such unnerving hunger that she had taken a hurried step backward.

Servants crowded the edges of the dining room. A liveried serving-man in a starched turban pulled out her chair. She sat down before Lady Macnaghten's gleaming silver and drew in her skirts, grateful that she was not sitting next to Alexander Burnes.