With a cry of joy, she flung off her English clothes, unwilling to bear the clinging weight a moment more.
Wrapping the intricate folds was a matter of habit; in less time than it took to put on one of her European gowns and all its accouterments, she was comfortable at last, barefoot, with her hair down and tied back in a single tail, the silk swishing softly around her bare legs and creating its own little breeze as she moved.
And when she came downstairs, there was another surprise.
Hanging in the ceiling of the conservatory was a punkah-fan, a huge slab of muslin stretched on a hinged frame so that it looked very like a door, meant to be swung back and forth by a rope attached to its bottom edge. In this case, the frame of the fan was tied to the decorative ironwork supporting the glass ceiling, and the rope ran to a pulley on the wall, and was attached to a wicker rocking chair. She could rock and fan herself with very little effort.
And Gupta was waiting with—at last!—a glorious pitcher of iced lemonade and a bowl of fresh fruit and cheese, and a broad smile on his face.
“You—are—a magician!” she exclaimed, embracing him as he put down the pitcher and plate on a little table beside the chair.
“Not I,” he protested, a broad smile on his brown face. “How difficult is it to make a punkah-fan for one who has had such all his life? A little cloth, a bit of wood—nothing! I only wish I had known that this cold country could become so very warm three or four weeks ago, so that all would have been in place for you before this.”
“Gupta, thank you; your protests don’t fool me a bit. I have no idea how you got that thing up there.” She waved at the fan overhead.
“You may thank little Charan for that. He managed to take the first ropes over the iron. After that, it was nothing, we merely hauled the punkah up and tied it in place. When it is cooler, if you like, we can bring it down again.”
Charan tugged at her sari, chattering; she bent and he leaped into her arms to put his arms around her neck. Now she saw how the ropes that held the fan up were tied off to stanchions, one at either side of the conservatory. “You clever man!” she told the langur, who put his cheek against hers, and chuckled.
“The ice man has come, and I have obtained an extra block,” Gupta told her. “Since it will melt so fast in this heat. And it seemed to me that it would be better to have cold, fresh things to eat than some pie from a strange baker with I know-not-what in it.”
“Wise choice, and thank you.” She settled into her rocking chair and looked up with delight as the fan moved, creating a stirring in the air. “Oh, Gupta, thank you so much!”
Gupta bowed, smiling, and left her alone to enjoy the first cold drink of the day.
As the chair moved, so did the fan, creating a delicious breeze. After the first glass of lemonade, her appetite returned and she was able to enjoy Gupta’s selections.
Very clever of him not to have any meats, she thought. It wouldn’t be wise to trust to anything like meat or fish to stay unspoiled in this weather, even stored in an ice box.
When the meal was gone, she remained where she was, rocking slowly to keep the air moving, as dusk descended and darkness filled the conservatory.
But as her discomfort eased and she was able to relax, emotions that she had purposely bottled up came flooding up unexpectedly, and she began to shiver with suppressed rage that had been pent up for too long.
I am going to burn that dress, she thought, her head throbbing in time with her pulse, and her face flooding with heat. Or give it away. She scrubbed at her lips with a napkin, as the memory of Parkening’s mouth on hers made her feel nauseous. She shook with the desire to strike him all over again. Oh, that beast, I would like to break his hands so he can never touch me again! I want to black both his eyes! I want—oh, I want—if only I could clip his manhood for him!
That was the thing that made her want to run up to her room and never come out again. He would surely try to molest her again, and she was sickeningly sure he hadn’t any intention of stopping at a kiss.
The animals must have sensed her disturbed emotions and wisely left her alone to deal with them herself. Right at the moment, she didn’t want anything touching her; she couldn’t be sure that she wouldn’t strike at it.
She shook with conflicting emotions, wanting to kill him, wanting to run away, afraid of him, white-hot with anger at him. She heard the doorbell, but ignored it; if it was a patient, Gupta would come and get her. She hoped it wasn’t a patient, that it was just some tradesman that Gupta could deal with or send away. Right now she didn’t want to have to face a patient, not when she was so uncertain of her own control over herself. For at the moment, all of her emotions had given way before a terrible, black despair, and the certainty that she could never go back to the hospital again, nor out on the street, nor anywhere that Parkening might find her.
“Maya?” There had been no footsteps to warn her of Peter Scott’s approach, but he was normally soft-footed. His voice startled her; she rose swiftly and turned to face him, the light from the hall lamp falling on her face, and her wide and dilated eyes. His face was in shadow, but there was no mistaking the gasp he uttered. Nor the words he blurted out. “Maya, my God—you are beautiful—” His honest, clean reaction undid her. With a sob, she flung herself into his astonished arms.
“…and the bitch hit me,” Simon Parkening whined, for the tenth time. Shivani was heartily tired of his complaining. So far as she could make out, he had tried to seduce some hospital servant and been repulsed; why should she care? If he could not carry out a successful conquest on his own, how was she supposed to help him? He could use magic if he chose; he had the modicum of power needed to overcome a woman’s reluctance, and the knowledge of how to apply it. If he failed to use what he had, what was she supposed to do about it?
Punkah-fans operated by ropes going through holes in the wall to two of her servants in the next room kept the air stirring, but the fact that there was no breeze outside meant that the room was stiflingly hot, the air heavy with the incense she burned to keep away the stench of the street outside. It was no worse than the stink of Delhi, but it was not a familiar stink, and therefore she hated it. She did not want Parkening here; he had come of his own, straight, it seemed, from the hospital and he stank of disease and despair. Why he had come here and not to his club where he might have a better reception for his complaints among his fellow sahibs, she was not certain.
Unless it was that he could not rail freely about what had made him so angry anywhere else. Perhaps his conduct was not acceptable even to similar arrogant English males, and he knew it.
She was far more interested in what he could tell her about the hospital, but from the moment he had walked in the door, all he had done was to whine about his problems. It was too hot. He couldn’t leave London because his firm wouldn’t allow him to take a holiday. He was tired of his current mistress, but the woman he wanted was the property of another and he didn’t dare challenge the man for her. And the girl he had tried to seduce in the hospital that afternoon in his boredom and frustration had turned against him and struck him.
She yawned under the cover of her veil—and stopped with her mouth open, struck numb by his next words as his anger increased, as he uttered the first original thing he had said since he first began to whine.