Part 25 (1/2)
His left arm had been strapped to his chest with a filthy bandage. A pair of woolen shawls lay on his shoulders.
But most of all, it was his eyes, hollow and intense, that caught her attention.
”A Christmas visit.” He smiled and waved his good hand toward a cane chair near the fire. ”How good of you to come.
”We have moved all the guns for the fourth time,” he volunteered, as she handed him her gift and sat down. ”The Afghans had become too used to our artillery positions. We mean to surprise them tomorrow morning.”
Mariana nodded, not trusting her voice.
He looked like a man on the verge of madness or death.
An open book lay upside down on a small table next to her. As he dragged a second chair toward the little fire, she picked it up, and found it open to ”Hohenlinden” by Robert Campbell. She glanced at the last stanza.
Ah! Few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet; And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
Hungry, cold, and in pain, alone in his quarters, Fitzgerald had been trying to entertain himself, and this was what he had been reading.
Tears flooded her eyes.
What would happen to them all?
The long, black-clad funeral procession that she had seen at Butkhak so many months before rose again in her mind's eye-the vision that Muns.h.i.+ Sahib, the great interpreter of dreams, had never explained.
When she begged him to tell her its meaning, he had only quoted the Qur'an.
She closed the book, and tried to smile at Fitzgerald.
As if he read her thoughts, Fitzgerald cleared his throat and bent forward in his chair. ”Miss Givens,” he said hoa.r.s.ely, wincing a little as he tried to reach toward her, ”I know you cannot stay long, but since you are here, I have something to ask you.”
She knew what was coming. She waited for it, her hands clasped around the book in her lap.
”I wonder if you recall a promise you made to me before the battle of Bibi Mahro.”
His hollow gaze was candid, but it held something else she could hardly bear to see: hope.
”I believe,” he added, offering her a ghost of his old crooked, knowing smile, ”that the battle ended some weeks ago.”
He leaned forward and peered attentively into her face.
He knew she did not love him.
She dropped her eyes. What good would a refusal do either of them? Except for a bag of nuts and raisins, she had nothing to offer this good man.
She raised her chin and regarded her ragged lieutenant. ”Yes,” she replied. ”I will marry you.”
”Thank you.” Fitzgerald nodded seriously, as if she had done him a service, then held out his good hand for her to take.
She smiled grimly as she trudged back to her quarters, thinking of the two people who would most have enjoyed that moment.
Unfortunately neither Aunt Claire nor Lady Macnaghten was able to celebrate it.
December 26, 1841 The following morning, as Mariana huddled alone before the sitting room fire, wondering whether she should tell Aunt Claire of her engagement or keep it to herself, someone knocked on the door.
”Your Muns.h.i.+ Sahib has come,” called Dittoo's m.u.f.fled voice.
Mariana jumped to her feet.
A moment later, supported by a solicitous Nur Rahman, the old man stood in front of her, wrapped incongruously in a yellow satin rezai, his golden qaraquli hat pulled low on his forehead.
He seemed to have grown smaller since she had seen him last.
She pointed to the straight-backed chair she had been sitting on. ”Please sit down, Muns.h.i.+ Sahib.”
Why on earth, she wondered, as he shuffled over to the fire and lowered himself onto the chair, had he left his bed in this weather to come all the way from the city to visit her?
He looked like a wizened king, with his golden rezai, and the boy crouched at his feet, pressing his legs rhythmically with both hands. His shallow coughing filled the little room.
It was the first time he had sat down in Mariana's presence.
”I have come, Bibi,” he wheezed, ”to learn whether Haji Khan's durood has borne fruit. Have you seen, heard, or smelled anything unusual while you were reciting?”
She nodded, remembering her vision for the first time in days.
”And may I know what you have seen?”
Looking into his calm, rheumy eyes, she forgot her fears and misery. She even forgot her horrid breakfast of black tea and dried mulberries.
Leaving out no detail, she described the rolling desert landscape of her dream, the camel bells signaling the presence of other travelers, the fresh breeze and the heavy, fecund moon that had seemed to promise her every happiness.
She told him of the peace she felt even now, as she spoke of it.
”But what does it mean, Muns.h.i.+ Sahib?” she asked, leaning toward him, her kingly little interpreter of dreams. ”Does it contain the answer to the question I brought to Haji Khan three months ago?”
He regarded her for a moment, then signaled to Nur Rahman that he wanted to rise.
”It means, Bibi,” he said mildly, as he prepared to leave her, ”that you should not have made the promise that you made yesterday.”
His words fell on her like a blow. ”Why?” she breathed.
”You will see for yourself,” he replied.
Then, wrapped in his golden quilt, he made his dignified way to the door.
A HUNDRED miles away, Ha.s.san and Zulmai stopped to water their animals at the silver river that wound toward them between flat, stony banks.
Ghulam Ali bowed his m.u.f.fled head against the wind and turned to signal to the animal drivers that straggled behind them.