Chapter 14
Anthony and Dylan had just returned from another trip to the Firefly, having observed the reassignment of Miller’s sailors and questioning any who had spent significant time with the captain.
Their efforts yielded nothing new, and Anthony massaged the back of his neck, which was knotted with stress.
They had retired to the library to make notes on the morning when a laugh outside the door drew their attention to the hallway as a handful of young soldiers passed the room.
Dylan huffed in irritation. “That sounds like Mailor, regrettably.”
Anthony’s ears perked up. “You do not care for Corporal Mailor?”
“My personal opinion of him is that he’s rather an idiot. My professional assessment is that he is a lackluster soldier. Does only the barest he can manage.”
“Have you reason to distrust him?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I’ve observed him on one or two occasions myself, and came to much the same assumptions you’ve voiced. Did he know Captain Miller?”
Dylan shrugged. “I am not aware of an association between them, but the thought of Mailor being anywhere near Pilkington’s study on the night in question seems unlikely. He would have been easily noticed. Was he not dressed as a shepherdess that night?”
“The dress and wig could be removed easily enough, I expect.”
Dylan nodded. “So we keep watch on him.”
More laughter echoed in the hallway, and Dylan went to the door. “What are they doing here this time of day, even if it is their free time? Nobody is about—even the children are out.” He paused, looking down the hallway. “They are loading up with baskets of . . . food and picnic supplies.”
“Did you say Rachael and Sophia were going to the ruins this morning with young master Charles and his ayah?” Anthony came to his feet.
“Indeed.” Dylan continued to look out into the hallway with narrowed eyes.
Anthony joined him at the door and eyed the activity thoughtfully. “If the gentlemen are delivering luncheon to the party at the ruins, we should accompany them. They may require help carrying all of it.”
Additional voices joined the throng, and Anthony walked to the front hall to see Mailor and his sheep friends joined by Mr. Denney and his wife.
Anthony angled nearer the pair while keeping his eyes on the young men shuffling the picnic baskets, gathering collapsible tables and chairs, and shouting orders for carriages to be brought around.
“You must rein them in, or I shall,” Mr. Denney snapped at his wife. “I’ve allowed you too much leeway with their discipline. I’ve told them repeatedly they must behave appropriately.”
“They are attending a picnic with the sister of an earl. I doubt they are behaving inappropriately,” came the quiet reply.
“Beatrice retrieved her paints, and you didn’t stop her!
And you know as well as I do that Charity runs like a hoyden if she is let loose in any space larger than the back gardens.
At the ruins, she is practically uncontrollable!
” Mr. Denney pushed his way into the thick of the throng.
“Did I hear someone mention delivering baskets to the ruins?”
“Why, yes, indeed, Clergyman Denney,” Corporal Mailor said. “You will join us, of course? I heard your daughters also joined in on the fun!”
Denney’s answering smile was strained. “Yes, that is correct.”
“Oh, that’s excellent! And I understand Mr. Darzi is headed to the ruins as well with several of his cousin’s court. A pity the prince himself cannot join in, but he has been so ill of late.”
“Mr. Darzi is there?” Mr. Denney’s features stilled. “I see. We will most certainly be joining you.”
Anthony exchanged a look with Dylan. “We are most definitely accompanying the picnic baskets to the ruins.”
“My goodness, I do believe that cloud right there looks like Chestnut!” Sophia pointed at the sky and leaned closer to Charlie.
They sat together on a blanket in the center of an ancient stone structure that was void of a ceiling and whose walls had crumbled to waist-height in some places.
There was one wall, however, that still maintained a good portion of its original structure and contained a wide stone archway framed with vines and large orange, yellow, and purple orchids that were so lush and thick they appeared to be imitation.
Sophia repeated, “Do you see the horse?”
Charlie had yet to utter a word, but he did at least communicate with Amala Ayah by nodding or shaking his head. Now, he looked up at the sky where Sophia indicated and gave her a small nod.
“I wonder if he gallops as quickly as Chestnut does. Do you think he might?”
A tiny smile flickered on the child’s face, and he shook his head.
“Of course, you must be correct. Clouds do not move with nearly as much speed as do horses. Even toy horses, I daresay.” She smiled at the boy, and her heart thumped.
He was adorable and so little and sad. She completely understood Amala Ayah’s tendency to pull him close.
The boy was six, but, Amala had quietly explained, when he reached age eight, he would be sent to England to attend school.
The thought of sending this frightened young child across the ocean to a home he’d never known made Sophia feel slightly ill.
To make matters worse, if he were not speaking by then, he would be branded slow, or an idiot. It boded no good.
Little Ruth crawled across the blanket from her English nanny, who was chatting with an ayah her own age, and scooted to Sophia.
She plopped her hands on Sophia’s leg. Sophia picked up the baby and asked what she thought about clouds outrunning toy horses.
A glance at Charlie’s face told her he thought, clearly, that a baby wouldn’t know one way or another.
The temple ruins were extensive, and covered an area larger than even the Residency.
In fact, Sophia imagined the ancient place had once been its own compound.
The whole of it had been comprised of several buildings, only one of which was still largely intact with a roof and all exterior walls—the one Charity had mentioned.
It was enormous, and Amala Ayah and the Denney sisters cautioned the group to avoid entering, as it was dark inside and home to all manner of snakes, insects, and other things that Sophia was certain she wanted to avoid meeting closely.
She could see the building—picturesque and deliciously spooky—from where the party had gathered to wait for lunch.
It was visible through the trees and the other, smaller buildings that were reduced to a portion of their original glory.
There was something hauntingly romantic about the old site, and Sophia adored it.
Elaborate stonework jutted toward the sky and was framed against a brilliant blue backdrop.
The jungle had done its best to overtake the area but had been beaten back, to some success, by local British families who had lived in Bombay for two generations and held the old place in affection.
The vegetation was tenacious, however, and clung to crumbling walls and arched doorways, decorating the whole of it with glorious abandon.
True to Charity’s word, the orchids were indeed an explosion of color.
They gathered at the bases of crumbling walls and entangled themselves in lush green vines that climbed up arches and stretched alongside broken stones, lending the battered architecture a renewed sense of life.
In a multitude of colors, the majestic flowers scattered themselves throughout each individual building and along paths that had been trampled and established by hundreds of feet throughout hundreds of years.
Sophia saw easily why Charity would choose yellow and orange orchids as a bouquet for her mother; they were bright and joyful, the very embodiment of Charity’s disposition.
The area in which most of the group now sat was referred to as “the courtyard,” and contained a carpet of grass and flowers that seemed innocuous.
The adults, however, were on constant watch for insects that might climb onto blankets and leave a lethal bite.
The Residency staff would be sending chairs and makeshift tables with the picnic, and Sophia wondered if she sought to distract Charlie or herself from the prospect of spiders and snakes in the meantime.
Rachael sat on an adjacent blanket with her little twin friends and occasionally smacked the ground with a grimace.
Word had spread when they departed the mansion and the interim had produced another dozen ladies from the area who now gathered with the Denney girls or wandered around the site or in the courtyard.
They were a lovely collection of women, colorful in dress, but always very British.
The weather was warm—not dreadfully so—but quite humid.
Sophia looked at Amala Ayah’s sari with a fair amount of wistful envy.
It was beautiful, the fabric was delightfully designed and bright, and at most the ensemble amounted to two layers of cloth in some areas, and that was only because the fabric wrapped around itself.
More children and nannies had also joined the group—Lady Pilkington had sent notice around to some of the other families the day before—and Amala Ayah pointed out several of Charlie’s friends.
He elected to stay close to her side while the rest played in the relative confines of the courtyard, and the ayah’s brow creased in clear concern.
“I believe I hear carts, Charlie,” Amala Ayah said, speaking in English to the child for Sophia’s understanding. She patted the boy’s back. “The food is arriving!”