Once and Always Read online

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  Copyright ©2000 by Robin Maderich

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  Chapter One

  Calcutta, Bengal Province

  April, 1856

  Standing beside her luggage, Roxane Sheffield compared the crowded, colorful city of Calcutta against remembered sepia photographs in the books she had secured upon the subject of India. After so many weeks at sea, her legs delighted in the steadying feel of firm ground beneath her feet and she smiled, staring about at the multitude of sights which greeted her eager gaze. India, it seemed, was a world unto itself, characterized by remarkable color and contrasts and vivid displays of the local culture. Her former home in England appeared to her, in that moment of initial captivation, a place both dull and gray, and exceedingly far away.

  Patting down the unruly curls of her dark-brown hair, she reflected that she had done well to follow her own design. She had displayed wisdom in responding to her estranged father's request for her presence with agreement, even against the urging of both relations and friends. It was a decision which had proven worthy of the thought she had given it, if only due to the fact that the prospect of journeying to India had always intrigued her, despite what was, to her, an obvious deterrent.

  Standing in the midst of her fellow passengers, Roxane observed the emotional manner in which loved ones were greeted and reflected once again on the wisdom which would prevent this embarrassing display. She had insisted that her father not meet her in Calcutta, but await her arrival in Delhi. Arrangements had been made for her to stay with the Stantons—a family who were not, she decided, looking about for a hazily remembered face—very punctual. Then, following a brief adjournment to enjoy Calcutta society, she would travel with them to Delhi cantonments, where she would join Colonel Sheffield, her father, for the purpose of making amends. And amends, indeed, were needed after a fifteen-year period marked by the minimum benefit of his parental influence.

  The scene of that meeting would, with careful handling, be less emotional than uncomfortable. She had schooled herself long ago to a coolness and reserve where that man was concerned. After all, he had left and not even said good-bye; nor had he expressed sorrow or regret. Why, then, should she? Amends needed to be made, it was true, but there was nothing to say that endeavor needed to be one of emotional crisis. She prided herself on her level head and her confident management of nearly every situation that had come her way in life.

  Loosening the taffeta ribbon beneath her chin, Roxane adjusted the straw sunbonnet over her brow to further shield her eyes from the rising Indian sun. She was possessed of a pair of very fine eyes, clear green in color, evenly set to either side of a long, straight nose, which not only enhanced the qualities of a pleasing countenance, but served, in their usual expression, to mark the bearer as a young woman to be reckoned with. Those eyes were abruptly recalled from introspection by the sight of a veritable army of native servants in bright garb engaged in snatching up every piece of luggage in sight. Prudently, she lowered her slender form onto her somewhat battered trunk, while managing to convey, by the arrangement of her apple-green skirt, that the other packages at her feet were not to be disturbed.

  Turning to bid farewell to her shipboard acquaintances, with some of whom she had developed amiable relationships, Roxane found herself agreeing again and again to vague invitations of dinner that promised, if followed through, to keep her busy during the duration of her stay in Calcutta. As both departures and invitations dwindled, Roxane's gaze drifted back to the fascinating view. Though steeply shadowed in shades of purple and rust as the sun lifted clear of the horizon, the city was distinguished by activity that fascinated her.

  “Miss Sheffield, have you been abandoned?"

  “Excuse me?” said Roxane, pivoting swiftly around at the waist, angling her hand across her eyes. “Oh! Captain Wayland,” she addressed the ship's officer, “it's wonderful, is it not?"

  “That you've been abandoned, lass?” retorted the captain, grizzled brows peaked in amusement.

  She laughed, a throaty noise. Her eyes were bright. “I was referring to India, sir. Or, should I say, what I have seen of it thus far."

  Beside her, the sea captain shrugged his shoulders in noncommittal response. “Did you not mention, Miss Sheffield, that your people were coming for you?"

  “Not my people, Captain—acquaintances of my father. I am to stay with them until such time as I travel to Delhi."

  “They are late,” stated the captain.

  “A delay that could not be helped, I am sure,” countered Roxane.

  “I shouldn't wait very long, were I you,” he said. “If it weren't for the fact that I have pressing business, I would stay with you, but...” His gruff voice trailed off, in an uncertainty of decision. Roxane held no doubt that he was longing for a cool glass of ale or some other equally delightful compensation for the weeks spent at sea. She quickly put an end to his dilemma.

  “Please, Captain, your offer is gallant, but there is no cause to alter your plans,” she said. “I am certain that if there has been a delay, it will not be a long one."

  “Let us hope not, Miss Sheffield. I recommend you move somewhere out of the sun. It will be quite unbearable before long, especially to one such as yourself, who has not previously experienced Indian heat."

  “Thank you, Captain, I will do that,” Roxane answered, thinking that surely the man exaggerated. Why, the morning air was quite temperate! And the breeze off the Hooghly, despite the varying odors it wafted around, was pleasant against the skin, ruffling the silk taffeta of her bonnet ribbons and rippling the scalloped edge of her blouse. Still smiling, Roxane watched the captain stroll away, his gait, of long habit, wide and rolling. Drawing a brief breath of satisfaction, she settled herself more comfortably, preparing to watch and wait.

  Two hours later, perspiration sticky beneath her garments, her stays intolerably confining, and her frilly, fashionable sunbonnet offering small protection against the pale, white glare, Roxane determined she could wait no longer.

  Rising from her luggage, she contemplated with longing retiring to a nearby hotel for a cool drink, while leaving a message for the absent Stantons. Yet, she was reluctant to leave her belongings unattended. After some thought on the matter, she proceeded to hail a ghari, one of the many horse-drawn vehicles lumbering through the streets. The native driver drew alongside, hauling on the reins.

  “Good morning,” said Roxane. The brown-skinned man nodded with extreme politeness, hands clasped together beneath his pointed chin in a solemn, servile gesture.

  “I wish,” she continued, in a careful pronunciation of English, to assure no misunderstanding, “to be conveyed to the home of Colonel and Mrs. Stanton."

  “Stanton,” the man echoed, most agreeably. Roxane found the turning of his vowels a pleasing variation. She nodded in encouragement, giving him the address.

  “Stanton, yes,” said the man, again. His wizened countenance began to take on a puzzled look. Reaching up, he scratched beneath the edge of his turban with a long, thin finger. His garments, made of muslin, flapped lightly in the warm breeze. Roxane felt the weight of dampness beneath her own heavy clothing.

  “Do you understand me?"

  The driver looked at her blankly.

  “Do you speak English? Angrezi?” she said, spea
king the word she had read, but, in her ignorance of the language, speaking it badly, she was certain. The driver frowned, dark brows meeting over a hawkish nose.

  About them, half-a-dozen native men had gathered, pushing and juggling position for a closer view. Rapid language filled the air. In his cart, the driver continued to watch her with courteous interest, head cocked to one side, black eyes intent. Roxane glanced over the crowd, deciding that the moment was entirely inopportune for all Europeans to have vanished. Turning back, she tried again, haltingly and with many hand gestures.

  “I want,” she said, the obvious representation being herself, “to ride"—a general indication of motion—"in your cart. Will you"—at which the driver's eyes widened, seeing her finger pointing in his direction—"take me"—at herself again—"where I want to go?"

  The Indian driver, studying every motion of her hands, abruptly found humor in her bungling attempts and began to grin. He said something that was beyond her comprehension, but which evoked laughter from the men standing near. Soon, in response to a few more rapid words, there were a dozen hands reaching out, grasping at her belongings, with the apparent intent of heaping boxes and trunk onto the waiting cart. Watching them, an image of being transported atop her possessions from street to street throughout the sweltering city, in endless search for her destination, struck Roxane with a sudden and sharp flash of humor. She stepped back, bidding them to stop, though in the turmoil she found it nearly impossible to make herself understood. Unable to control her rising amusement at her own ineptitude, she found her laughter joining theirs. In astonishment, the men paused, boxes in hand, and looked at her. Slowly, their grins widened.

  “Might I not be of assistance?"

  Delighted to hear an English voice, Roxane spun about. “Goodness, yes,” she said, still smiling, and then hesitated, the smile faltering as she took a small step away. The stiff material of her skirt crushed against her legs, forced there by the unyielding edge of the trunk. Before her, observing her with a mirthful twist to his lips, stood a British officer, clad in a regimental summer-dress uniform. He was some seven or eight years her senior, she estimated, tall—no less than six feet—and the coal-black shade of his hair beneath his headgear, coupled with the sunburnt bronzing of his skin, conspired to make him look as much a native of India as of that country to which his familiar accents designated him. There was no denying, however, that he had an English face, unusually strong along the jawline, and determined, but English, nonetheless. His eyes were gray-blue—the color of slate, she thought. No, not slate, which was too flat and inanimate, but something else...

  Suddenly, she brought her observations to a halt. Those very eyes which she had been so curiously observing were showing every inclination of studying her in much the same inquisitive manner. In addition, she could not help perceiving that he found, about her person, a quality which greatly amused him. She frowned, caring little to be the subject of a handsome man's careless—and amused—scrutiny.

  He asked, “Have you just gotten off the ship, then?"

  With a wave of her hand, Roxane indicated her possessions, which the men about her had begun, hesitantly, to lower to the ground.

  “I see,” said the gentleman. “And you are alone? Have you not someone to meet you?"

  “Apparently,” said Roxane, “I have been forgotten. Therefore, I am attempting to hire a conveyance to the home of my hosts."

  “How long have you been waiting?"

  “Two hours or more."

  “In the sun? Foolish girl. Has no one warned you against doing so?” he said.

  His smile was beginning to be irksome.

  “They have,” Roxane retorted, revealing more of her irritation in the sharpness of her tone than she would normally have permitted. “However, warnings are of no help to me at this point. The Stantons must have—"

  “Colonel Stanton?” interrupted the man.

  “Yes,” said Roxane, wiping the back of her hand across her brow. “Do you know him?"

  “Socially,” said the stranger. “We meet, on occasion. Come, let me help you. I'll have you there in no time.” Not troubling to wait on her assent, he turned to the driver, speaking fluently in that man's native tongue. Within moments, everything that Roxane had attempted to wrest back from overzealous hands was loaded aboard the cart. Clucking to his harried animal, the driver pulled away. The small crowd dispersed, but not before the officer had dropped a coin into each upturned palm.

  “I should have taken care of that,” murmured Roxane, vexed.

  “Nonsense,” said the man. “Though, had it been but a few hours later, my pockets would have been empty.” At Roxane's raised eyebrow, he laughed. “I am not without means, but a gentleman in this part of the world rarely carries cash about him. It is a foolish habit, but one which I, along with nearly the entire European population, has fallen into."

  Roxane peered out at the man from beneath her sunbonnet and made no reply.

  “Now,” continued the man, having already decided the matter by his actions, “If you will accept a gentleman's assistance, I will drive you myself. This way, if you please.” He nodded, indicating a hooded buggy nearby. A roan horse waited with impatience in the traces, stamping a slender, shod hoof on the packed surface of the road.

  Roxane stood, unmoving. “Do you always take command in this manner?"

  Having already taken a step in the indicated direction, the captain stopped and turned. “I beg your pardon?"

  “I said,” Roxane reiterated, “is it habit with you to take command in this manner?"

  For a moment, the officer stood with furrowed brow, as though contemplating her words. Then he laughed. “You must forgive me,” he said at last, “I suppose that this shortcoming prevails among those of my profession. But then, what would you have me do?"

  “I should think you would tame your inclinations, sir."

  “And I should think you would be inclined to show a little gratitude, for my assistance,” the fellow reminded her. “I offered my aid, and you accepted, did you not? At any rate, dear girl, your things are gone, and you must undertake to follow them."

  Roxane turned her head, green eyes flying wide, and stared after the cart. The vehicle was nearly lost from view, moving through the crowded street on rumbling wheels, spewing dust in its wake like a brown cloud. “I suppose that I must,” she said.

  “You could always walk, if you chose,” said the officer, “though I would be remiss if I were to allow it. There are very few secrets in the European community, and my neglect would quickly leak out. I might very well lose my reputation as a gentleman."

  He was smiling, wrapping the flat delivery of his words with the warmth of irrepressible humor. Roxane suppressed an answering curve of her lips.

  “Do you have a reputation to lose?” she taunted.

  “I believe so,” he answered, with mock offense. Roxane spun on her heel.

  “Very well,” she said. “I will come."

  Grasping her skirt in both hands, Roxane strode toward the standing vehicle. She preceded the officer by several seconds, as he had paused again to speak with someone, a native with whom he was apparently acquainted, in the street. Curving her fingers about the lacquered side of the buggy, Roxane watched the officer as he bade the other man a hasty farewell. She saw him smile, glancing at her and away again, as he made one final comment. Roxane inhaled deeply, impatience mounting. Without waiting for his assistance, she climbed inside the vehicle, smoothing her skirt over the gabardine seat. A moment later, the officer swung himself up, angling his tall frame into the seat beside her, the pale color of his uniform looking cool and comfortable against the dark, ribbed woolen covering of the seat. He whistled to the roan with a snap of the reins in the air over the horse's back. The carriage lurched into motion, wheeling swiftly about in a wide half circle. Gasping, Roxane was forced to clutch at her bonnet and the seat's edge in swift succession to keep from toppling. Although the man's expression was one of gravit
y, she had the distinct impression that he had managed his horse and his vehicle to a purpose and was inwardly laughing.

  “Miss—it is Miss, is it not?” he asked, glancing at her hand.

  “Yes,” she said. “Miss Roxane Sheffield. And you, sir?"

  “Captain Collier Harrison,” he introduced himself, extending a hand to her across his lap. She took his fingers in a brisk, firm shake, and just as quickly released them. “That is an unusual name,” he said.

  “Not Sheffield?” she retorted.

  “No,” he said, “Roxane."

  She made a small face, gazing out over the road. “It is of Persian origin, I am told. My father chose it for me. I will have to ask him what it means when I see him. Knowing my father, he had a reason. Perhaps it was some private joke."

  “Is your father the joking sort?” asked the captain.

  “Once,” said Roxane, “I think he was. I have not seen him in—well, since I was a very small girl,” she finished, firmly.

  “He will be happy to see you, no doubt."

  Roxane's smile was fleeting, and without pleasure. “Perhaps,” she said.

  “Oh, certainly he will,” said the captain.

  “We shall see."

  The invitation had come from him, thought Roxane; therefore, the effort for happiness must also be his. Max Sheffield had much to make up for ... if she cared to concern herself over the past, she added, hastily. Beside her, Captain Harrison sat in silence, no doubt bewildered by her reply. Well, she had no desire to enlighten a stranger about her personal standing with the man who had been—who still was—her father.

  “I presume you have never been to India before?"

  “Never,” conceded Roxane. She winced as the buggy picked up speed in the crowded street, regardless of obstruction. Peering sidelong at the Englishman, she noted the easy way in which he held the reins, his shoulders slumped slightly forward, his elbows on his knees, and yet his eyes, like dark smoke in color, were alert to the road before them. He was very good, she decided, at giving the impression, with his relaxed posture, of nonchalance, perhaps even recklessness, but his eyes gave away his careful consideration of every move he made. Exhaling slowly through her nose, she looked away, snatching at her hat as it loosened from her tangled, dark-brown hair. Deliberately, she pressed the bonnet, with its double length of pastel silk, into her lap.