Her Master's Touch (4 page)

She peered into eyes dark with challenge,
which compelled her to speak her mind. "Very well," she clipped. "I
think you British are here to dispense with anything you find
incomprehensible, anything that puts you in danger of getting too
close to India, allowing it to seep into your bones."

He let out an ironic laugh. "It's damned near
impossible to keep India from seeping into our bones," he said.
"It's hot as hell. And you can't deny, the lot of them worship more
gods than there are people, and every god has a sacred temple. It's
damned barbaric."

"Perhaps from your viewpoint," she said. "The
irony of it is, Indians think the British depraved. After all,
British women walk about unveiled, they mingle with men who are not
their relatives, and they dance in public like harlots. The Brahmin
lump the British with sweepers and other untouchables, finding it
necessary to go through a purification rite if an Englishman
touches them." She saw the unyielding look on the man's face and
knew her appraisal was right. He was as British as the rest. Which
meant: the land was there to bear riches, the people to be
exploited.
And the Kalki-Avatar to be returned to the
Kurave
r. She too could play that British game of justified
appropriation. But with the opal, she'd be returning it to its
rightful owners.

The hard line of Lord Ravencroft's jaw
softened, and to her surprise, he reached out and traced a path
from her wrist to the tip of her finger, then curved his hand
around hers. "Hell has no fury like a woman scorned," he said.
"Have I insulted you, gypsy girl?"

Eliza removed her hand from beneath his and
folded her arms. "You asked me to tell you what I thought of the
British so I did."

He gave her a curiously engaging smile.
"Well, between you, me, and the lamppost," he said, "I think you're
right, at least about the British being depraved. But we disguise
our depravity beneath a pretense of aristocratic demeanor that we
call being civilized."

Eliza focused on his mouth, intrigued by the
way one side tipped upward, yet not quite into a smile. He had an
appealing mouth, if a man's mouth could be considered appealing.
She'd never thought of a man's mouth that way, nor had she ever
kissed a man. But she thought that if she ever did, she’d like to
kiss a mouth like Lord Ravencroft's...

"Is there something wrong, Miss Shirazi?" he
asked.

Eliza looked into a pair of cobalt eyes as
perceptive as they were captivating. "No, my lord, I was just
contemplating your pretense of... aristocratic demeanor," she said,
struggling to retain her train of thought, wishing he wouldn't look
at her so intensely.

He smiled in amusement. "Are you sure you
weren't contemplating my depravity?"

Heat rushed up her face. For a blue-blood, he
was unusually insightful. Most British, she'd found, were not.
"Quite certain." She turned from him, but the thought of his lips
touching hers lingered, even as she vowed to guard against such
foolish notions.

They overtook a cart drawn by a pair of white
bullocks with splayed horns. It was then that Eliza got her first
glimpse of
Shanti Bhavan
, the high walls of the manor house
looming like a great gray fortress... But the house had been
pink…

Still, she had no idea why she thought it so.
Noting about the house was familiar.

Except for the fact that it should have been
pink...

The coach passed beneath an arched green
canopy of bridal creeper and entered a stone-paved courtyard.
Verandas running the full-length of each floor came alive with
white-turbaned servants, who scurried about in readiness for their
master's arrival.

As Eliza stared at a sun-baked courtyard
wavering with heat, the image of a squat brown pony, standing in a
courtyard swept clean by rain, filled her mind’s eye. As she peered
out the coach window to conjure up details of a scene in a far
distant memory, the words, "My pony," escaped her lips.

Lord Ravencroft looked at her curiously. “Is
my home familiar to you?" he asked.

She blinked several times and vowed to be
more vigilant if further memories surfaced. “No, my lord," she
said. But when she glanced around at him, she knew he wasn’t
convinced.

“I’ll keep that in mind, gypsy girl. I’ll
also alert Mrs. Throckmorton. She’s shrewd when it comes to
evaluating new staff." He climbed out of the coach and motioned to
one of his footmen. "Rana, take Miss Shirazi to Mrs. Throckmorton
for instructions," he said, then strode across the courtyard
towards the stables.

A sense of foreboding crept over Eliza, but
she couldn’t decide if it was because disturbing memories were
beginning to surface, or if her mission at
Shanti Bhavan
was
already predestined to fail. All she knew for sure was, the next
few days would be critical, and she did not look forward to her
upcoming assessment by Mrs. Throckmorton.

Eliza followed the footman into a spacious
kitchen with a lofty ceiling designed to alleviate the heat. But
the heat clung, intensifying the odor of garlic and cooking oil,
and turmeric and ginger and cloves, and the cow-dung that heated
the huge baked-clay oven. The room bustled with dusky-skinned,
sweat-dampened,
ayahs
clad in white saris. One ground spices
on a stone. Another plucked a chicken over a blood-laden basket.
Others scrubbed floors or scoured copper cooking pots and
round-bottomed
dekchis
.

The footman turned Eliza over to Mrs.
Throckmorton, who was testing the cleanliness of a shelf with the
tip of her finger. A tall, angular matron, Mrs. Throckmorton had
peppery-gray hair swept back in a tight bun, a pinched nose with
large oval nostrils, and a mouth that held an aspect of perennial
disdain. From a chatelaine about her narrow waist dangled the keys
to the various larders and linen cupboards, and perhaps the closets
containing the valuables. The opal would no doubt be locked behind
one of those doors. And Mrs. Throckmorton would no doubt sleep with
the keys close at hand, if not on her person. She turned to face
Eliza. "So you're to be a cook, I presume."

Eliza dipped a curtsy. "No ma'am. His
Lordship said I was to be a housemaid."

Mrs. Throckmorton eyed her with skepticism.
"I will clear it with his Lordship," she said, "and if you're lying
to me, girl, you'll be dismissed at once. Without references."

"Yes ma'am," Eliza replied, submissively.

Mrs. Throckmorton scanned the length of her.
"I was not expecting you, so you shall not be uniformed until
tomorrow. Meanwhile, that dress you are wearing will not do at all.
I trust you have something less shabby to change into."

Eliza glanced down at her dress, the only one
she owned that did not label her gypsy, and said, "I have a skirt
and blouse, but it is not appropriate—"

"It would certainly be better than the rag
you are wearing," Mrs. Throckmorton cut in. "You will change before
starting your duties today."

"But, you don't understand—"

"Do not be impertinent, girl. Do as you are
told. Then come to me, and I will provide you with an apron."

A wave of panic washed over Eliza. The
clothes were those she'd worn to catch Lord Ravencroft's eye.
Perhaps if she plucked the bangles from the skirt and dispensed
with the colorful ties on the blouse, the clothes would not label
her gypsy. And the apron would cover the rest. "Yes, ma'am. Shall I
change now?" she asked.

The woman pinned her with a hard-eyed look.
"Not until you learn your duties." She sucked in a breath, and said
while exhaling, "You will rise with the six-o'clock gong, tend your
personal needs and go directly to the parlor, where you will cover
the furniture with dust sheets, beat the curtains, sweep the floor,
strew moist tea-leaves on the carpets and sweep them up with the
carpet broom. Then you will go to the dining and drawing rooms and
do the same. The library and master study are locked when not in
use, so you will clean those rooms only under my supervision."

Eliza's mind snapped to attention. The
library and master study? Locked when not in use? Why? Because one
of the rooms guarded something valuable...?

"…and with the eight-thirty gong," Mrs.
Throckmorton continued, "you will go to the bed chambers where you
will dust, sweep and scrub floors. At noon you will take tiffin
with the servants, after which you will gather laundry, mend sheets
and mark linens. The six o'clock gong will announce porridge, after
which you will retire to your room. At nine-o'clock, lamps are
extinguished. You will enter through the servant's entrance, have
no male visitors, attend church on Sunday, and if you find yourself
in his lordship's presence, you will curtsy, lower your eyes, and
address him as 'My Lord.' Have I made myself clear?"

The woman's condescending attitude was
degrading, and before she could check herself, Eliza said, with an
air of erudition, "I shall endeavor to follow the rules and conduct
myself in the precise manner of which you have outlined."

Mrs. Throckmorton's eyes narrowed into
scornful slits. "Watch your tongue girl. Don't be talking with
high-flown ways, patterning yourself after your betters, or you'll
find yourself working in the laundry. Now, I shall show you to your
quarters."

Eliza followed the woman up three flights of
stairs and down a hallway to a stifling, inferno of a room tucked
beneath a hot tile roof. The headboards of two narrow beds butted
up to one wall, and at the foot of each stood a scuffed, wooden
chest. On the opposite wall, with barely enough room to pass, were
two small tables, each bearing a pitcher and a wash basin. In the
corner stood the thunderbox—a stark wooden commode with arms and a
lid that closed over an enameled chamber pot. Eliza stepped to the
window and peered out. Below stretched the veranda roof. If she
were cautious, she could crawl out the window at night and sit on
the roof and wait for the moon and coolness...

"Girl! Do you think you have been employed to
dawdle the day away?"

Eliza sighed. "No, Mrs. Throckmorton."

"One more thing." She leveled stern eyes on
Eliza. "There will be no prowling about the house after the
lanterns are extinguished. And, I pray you will not disgrace us as
Alice did, sneaking out and engaging in a tryst. And see where it
got her. Unwed and with child. Why his lordship employed the
wretched girl remains a mystery. And why he enlisted your services
is also a mystery. It's obvious, you are willful and
untrained."

"I beg to differ with you, Mrs.
Throckmorton," Eliza said. "I was a ladies maid for—" she paused on
the verge of announcing her fictitious Lord Hall, then shut her
mouth.

"You cannot remember the name. I thought so.
And a liar you be also. Well, you'll not be lying to me." Mrs.
Throckmorton slapped Eliza 's cheek. "You are flippant and impudent
and I will not tolerate such insolence."

Eliza balled her fist to keep from striking
back. If there were not so much at stake, she would. The tedious,
despicable old termagant certainly gave her reason.

"Change your clothes," Mrs. Throckmorton
snapped, "and meet me in the sitting room where I shall acquaint
you with your duties before his lordship's… lady arrives."

Eliza looked at the woman with a start. "I
thought there was no Lady Ravencroft."

Mrs. Throckmorton's nostrils flared. "There
is no Lady Ravencroft. Now, you shall not discuss his lordship or
his lordship's lady. Gossip among the servants is not tolerated."
Turning abruptly, she marched off, the jangling of keys accompanied
by her brisk steps echoing down the hallway.

Eliza stared after her. So, there was a lady
in Lord Ravencroft's life. But then there would be. The man was
breathtakingly handsome, she begrudgingly acknowledged, even if he
was a pompous jackass. Naturally he'd be pursued by women.

What was the future Lady Ravencroft like?
Poised? Genteel? Exquisite? Which was of no concern to her...
Unless, of course, the lady was the intended recipient of the opal
and it were to leave the premises on her person. That would
complicate matters greatly. So, perhaps a lovers' spat was in
order, one that would send the lady off in a huff for a week or so,
enough time to locate the opal and abscond with it.

***

Cedrid Hadleigh raised the opal, and the gem
burst into fiery flashes. "What are you talking about? Napoleon and
Josephine?
Burning of Troy
?" he said to Damon, his eyes
focused on the gem. "I thought it belonged to the gypsies."

"It did," Damon replied, "but before that, it
belonged to Empress Josephine. It disappeared after her death, and
that's when it fell into the hands of gypsies."

Cedric eyed the stone with renewed interest.
"How much is it worth?"

"Enough to clear my name, pay my way to
England, and restore Westwendham." Damon took the opal from
Cedric's hands and slipped it into a velvet pouch, then placed the
pouch in a strongbox and shoved it under his desk. "You were asking
about a loan?"

Cedric stared at the strongbox for an
inordinate amount of time, then shifted his gaze to Damon.
"Three-thousand rupees would tide me over until the crop comes
in."

"Three-thousand
! Good God. You want a
bloody fortune! I'll loan you five-hundred."

"But... I've got a staff of forty-four."

"Then dismiss that Delhian
mehra
of
yours!"

"Get rid of Hasan?" Cedric said, forlorn.
"But a chap's got to eat."

"
Not like a maharajah!
Get yourself a
British cook." Damon eyed Cedric with vexation. Bloody hell! The
man should feel lucky to have a square meal. The problem was,
Cedric had never known hunger, never stared at a pastry cook's
window while dreaming of eating plum cakes or raspberry tarts.
Never stood by an eating house, inhaling the sultry air wafting
from the wall gratings while imagining sinking his teeth into an
eel pie or a round of beef or a pen'orth of pudding dripping in fat
and plump raisins...