Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 17 Read online

  "Of course, Emily. The poor thing has suffered tremendously. Perhaps a drive might help her recover her spirits."

  "Oh, sister dear. Do not attempt to conceal the truth of your feelings from me. I know she grates your nerves. But really, she has no other friends and she has had such a hard time of it, what with Colonel Hughes having gone native after his wife died. It's a miracle she turned out as well as she did.” Emily's voice sparked with her natural vehemence, momentarily driving away her lethargy.

  "But she is so dreadfully serious and meek. I know there are those who say the same about us—but really, we cannot even begin to compare!"

  Emily nodded, her graying hair glinting in the light.

  "Which is why we must take every effort to influence Miss Hughes. It is our duty as sisters of the Governor General, and as British ladies. If she is to succeed in society, she simply cannot be such a wet lump. And we have very little time left to exert our powers, though certainly Eleanor will take her in hand once she arrives in England. It comforts me to know that, though Eleanor certainly has her hands full with the children. I cannot imagine what Basil Hughes was thinking to let his mistress—a native woman at that—have the care of his daughter."

  "I believe the woman was his wife's ayah. I suppose it is natural he turned to her for solace, alone as he was with a young daughter. You know how this country works against a person. I can't believe we haven't been driven stark raving mad ourselves."

  Emily snorted. “You cannot possibly believe that is any excuse. And look what has become of poor Miss Hughes. She can hardly manage herself at the dinner table, and as for dancing or intelligent conversation—why if that man were alive, I'd tear a strip off his back. He should have sent his daughter to England for a proper upbringing post haste after his wife died."

  Fanny smiled, pleased to see healthy color blooming in Emily's face. A good dispute was just the thing to put her back in spirits.

  Emily paused, comprehension dawning. “You, dear sister, are incorrigible. I will never believe a word you say again.” She sat back against her pillows, her eyes snapping. Fanny's smile widened.

  "Forgive me, dearest Emily; I will endeavor to behave better. I shall even take Miss Hughes on my outing."

  Now it was Emily's turn to triumph. “I expect you will have done wonders for her. Now you'd better be off to bed. The packet shall arrive the day after tomorrow, and there is a reception tomorrow evening for Ranjit Singh's deputation. You have just the day to work your miracle on Caroline Hughes."

  * * * *

  Fanny elected to use a horse cart rather than the usual camels. No doubt Miss Hughes was perfectly capable on camelback, raised in the manner she had been. But she had such a mousy, timid way to her that Fanny doubted whether the other woman could be counted on to manage herself if anything untoward should occur. Camels being such nervous darlings with uncertain tempers—Fanny thought it better not to put Miss Hughes’ temperament to the test.

  At precisely 5:30 A.M. the following morning, Fanny arrived in the main foyer of the Barrackpore residence, trailed by her two jamadars. Miss Hughes was already waiting, sitting so demurely in a corner that Fanny nearly overlooked her.

  The other woman's face appeared worn, her dull brown eyes shadowed underneath and her cheeks colorless. Her hair was a dull black and did nothing to set off her washed-out complexion. In England, Fanny knew, Miss Hughes would undoubtedly recover a rosy color, and her oval face and straight nose held the promise of beauty. But she had little hope that the other woman would ever discover a spirit that would make her dark eyes crackle. No, she was doomed to be a wallflower. A wet lump indeed.

  "Shall we go, my dear?” Fanny said crisply, gesturing for Miss Hughes to accompany her as she strode out into the courtyard. “It will be quite hot soon and we shall wish to be at our destination before the day becomes too unbearable. The reception doesn't begin until after nine, so we should return in relative comfort. I've had a basket of food and drink prepared and we shall fare very well indeed. Do you have your lap-desk? Oh, yes, by the door.” Fanny pointed it out to Ahimsa, the senior of her two jamadars. He retrieved the wooden box and placed it in the cart's boot with Fanny's desk and the basket of provisions.

  "Mr. MacNaghten insists that we have four outriders attend us,” she said to Miss Hughes, filling the silence as best she could. “But he has given us permission to leave behind our personal servants. With such fierce guardians, I can't imagine anyone would dare look twice at us."

  Indeed the Sepoy riders were quite ferocious, with great hooking swords held by gaudily embroidered red sashes, wearing high black boots and gold earrings. Their turbans shadowed their faces, making them appear vaguely demonic. Fanny smiled at the nearest one, repressing a shiver, and told the driver to begin.

  It was a tiresome journey. The two ladies’ conversation proceeded in painful fits and starts, generally petering out as Miss Hughes mumbled diffidently into her chest.

  She'll never make anything of herself if she keeps this up, Fanny thought, not very sympathetically. It is a British woman's obligation in India to provide companionship to one another, to help keep the boredom at bay. At the very least, she could attempt to keep the little boats I set to sea afloat!

  At last they came to the ruins. The place was quite old and long deserted. Tumbled buildings were set in six concentric circles, nestled in a cove of the hills. A hot spring fed masses of purple and yellow flowering vines swathing the dirty marble, which had once been pink. At the center of the ruins was a domed building shouldering above the rest. Trees and bushes had tangled with the vines, nearly shrouding it from view. Only the curving top gleamed in the sun.

  The site was much lovelier than Fanny had imagined and she smiled at Miss Hughes her delight. The other woman smiled back, a genuine smile of appreciation and camaraderie, and Fanny felt warmer toward her.

  Fanny signaled the driver to stop and stepped down, extending a hand to aid her companion. Miss Hugh's hands were fine as a bird's body and they seemed to have hardly any strength. The two women collected their desks and Fanny motioned for one of the Sepoys to follow after with the basket. He turned red and shook his head, saying something in Hindustani. Fanny frowned, not understanding. Not for the first time she wished she had a head for languages. But it wouldn't have mattered. Not in India. The heat and the thick air sapped a person's energy, her motivation and focus. In England she might have learned Hindustani, but here—Fanny sometimes found it difficult to remember her own name.

  "Do you understand him at all?” she asked Miss Hughes.

  Miss Hughes shook her head, the straw bonnet she'd tied on making her look like a turtle hiding in its shell. “It's a very different dialect than I'm used to, and ... and I was never so good at Hindustani.” She said it apologetically, looking away.

  Fanny snorted. As if not knowing the language was anything to apologize for. Perhaps that native woman had inflicted less damage than she'd thought. There might be something to salvage after all. Eleanor might just be the one to accomplish such a feat, if she could juggle such a colossal task with the demands of her husband and the half-dozen of Fanny's beloved nephews and nieces.

  The Sepoy spoke again, shaking his head vehemently and stabbing his finger at the ruins. He seemed very passionate.

  "Well, it appears that he doesn't want to go inside. That poses no difficulty for me. How about you?” Mr. MacNaghten would be incensed, but a spot of privacy was just the thing she wanted.

  "Help me with the basket. We'll leave it in the shade by the pool here and come back for it when we're hungry. Do you wish to rest a bit? Or would you rather have a ramble and find a spot to sketch?” she asked Miss Hughes.

  The other woman was wilting like an English daisy in the heat and Fanny firmed her shoulders, expecting that they would be resting. But Miss Hughes surprised her.

  "I'd like to walk about a bit. It's really quite lovely here and the birdsong is so beautiful with the chuckling of the water."
/>   Fanny flashed a delighted smile and took the other woman's arm affectionately.

  "Let's begin at once."

  They wandered slowly through the outer buildings, proceeding in a long spiral. They spoke little, exclaiming over flowers and opal-winged insects, brilliantly plumed birds, and the lovely buildings that had been. Round and round they went, through each of the circles, one after the other.

  The outer buildings appeared to have been storage rooms. They lacked windows or evidence of furniture or cooking places. The next circle showed more signs of habitation, each edifice having two windows and a fireplace, sconces along the walls for lights, and the remnants of looms, paintbrushes, and other materials. The buildings had probably been workshops, Fanny decided. She imagined that some were schoolrooms where sloe-eyed apprentices had learned crafts, their fingers nimble and deft. The next three circles were domiciles, growing progressively larger and more opulent as they neared the central building. The innermost of the three had inlaid silver and lapis walls in wonderful designs, and varnished canvas floors which remained curiously untouched by the ravages of the damp and the heat. Wide slabs of stone jutting from the walls indicated where the people had slept.

  Fanny counted six buildings in the last circle. These were larger than all the rest, and yet were dwarfed by the domed center structure. She gazed up at it. Sweat dampened the undersides of her arms and trickled down her back, soaking the fabric along her ribs. Her face was flushed and her legs felt thick and ungainly beneath her long skirts. The long walk had left her mouth dry and her tongue swollen. She breathed deeply of the heavily scented air, trying to clear her suddenly foggy senses.

  But the odors overwhelmed her with their cloying voluptuousness. Their flavors exploded in her mouth: sweet and spicy, savory and sour, acid and ice. Her head spun. It was as though someone had poured thick honey over her. The feeling runneled slowly over her shoulders and down over chest. She felt a quivering tingle begin in her breasts, an alien warmth that she had never before experienced. Then the feeling continued its descent. It slid tenderly over her ribs, smoothing intimately over her stomach and buttocks and further: down to the crux of her femininity.

  Fanny gasped and then heaved a choked sigh as honey-hot fingers caressed her, spreading between her thighs, pushing and gliding, viscous and liquid. The pleasure was indescribable. Terrifying and heavenly. Her swollen breasts swayed with every sobbing breath. Her knees buckled as she lost all sense of herself, all dominion of her limbs. She landed on the flower-swathed ground, her legs bent beneath her. Still those fingers pursued her, tracing the contours of her femininity, shaping, stroking, weaving, urging.

  There came a moment of such spasming pain, of such clawing ecstasy, that Fanny lost all sense of herself. A wave of blackness washed over her and she floated away into velvet darkness.

  She had no idea how long she was insensible. She came to herself on her back, her legs bent to one side and aching with cramps. She moaned and pushed herself up, her hands shaking, the crushed flowers she lay on radiating a sickening miasma of perfume.

  Fanny forced herself to her feet. She clutched at a crumbling wall for support. Of what had come before—she thrust the memory of it away, refusing to consider it. She refused think of the way she continued to throb down there, how her nipples tightened in response to her shifting underclothes, as if too sensitive now for the touch of silk. Her face burned, even as an unaccountable longing to unbutton her dress and peel away the offending clothing and expose herself to the hot, moist air, surged up and wrapped her around. She clasped her hands together tightly.

  "No, no, no,” she whispered. “I cannot! We must leave here at once. Before—” She broke off, unwilling to think what she might do next. But she felt something looming before her, a danger, a dark door beckoning, welcoming her inside, tempting her to—fear clamped down on her like teeth.

  Fanny glanced around. “Miss Hughes?” She made an effort to speak firmly.

  "Miss Hughes. Caroline?"

  The only answer was the distant yip of jackals, the rustle of leaves and the twitter of birds. Fanny clasped her arms around her stomach and gazed about her in indecisive silence. What had happened to Miss Hughes? Had she gone for help when Fanny had fainted? Or had something stolen her away?

  There was a sound from inside the central building. Fanny's shoulders jerked and she stared up at the edifice, dread balling in her stomach. Something deep down, something instinctual and feral, wanted her to flee. Her legs twitched with the imperative and she fought it. She could not leave Miss Hughes. Nor would she give in to fanciful missishness. She was thirty-nine years old, for goodness sake.

  She straightened, drew a deep breath, and strode up the overgrown path of the central building and into its dark recesses.

  "Miss Hughes! Caroline! Are you there?"

  Fanny paused in the gaping archway. The span rose high above her head like a hungry mouth. Inside, the air was murky and warm. Within the confines of the space she heard more sounds, running water and something else. Movement—perhaps footsteps? She glanced over her shoulder, but could see nothing of the Sepoy escorts or the horse cart. Her stomach twisted. Then she faced back around, took a brisk, bracing breath, and stepped inside.

  She found herself in an open chamber that seemed to encompass most of the dome. Above her head, the vaulted stone roof glowed ruddy as the midday sun illuminated the exposed topmost curves of the dome.

  Fanny paused, blinking, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. None of the detritus that had accumulated in the other buildings encroached here. The floors, paved in polished pink marble, looked as if they had been swept clean only moments before, and the walls were clear of moss and mildew. At the center of the room was a pool with concentric steps leading down into its depths. The bottom of the pool went from pink to crimson at the center, where a fountain bubbled from a statue. Fanny could not make out its shape. Arched recesses lined the walls like dark, staring eyes, and there were a number of long, wide benches set in widely spaced ring halfway between the walls and the fountain.

  Fanny made her way forward through the ring of benches, her mouth dry. She wanted a drink badly. Her footsteps made little sound on the smooth floor as she approached and knelt down. She scooped a handful of the water into her cupped hands and then cried out, shaking her hands. The water was hot.

  Disappointed, she stood and walked around the edges of the pool. She squinted at the statue from which the water ran, pausing when at last she began to make it out, her mouth falling open.

  "Wonderful, isn't it?"

  Fanny spun around, clutching her skirts in white-knuckled fists.

  "Why didn't you answer when I called? Are you all right? What on earth—?"

  The last trailed away as she drew closer to Miss Hughes, who reclined on one of the circling benches, her form shrouded in rosy shadows. Miss Hughes sprawled with feline ease, naked, her long hair pulled loose from its coif. She lifted her head onto her elbow, eyeing Fanny from beneath heavy-lidded eyes, one hand trailing down between her legs. She laughed, a throaty, sated sound.

  Fanny stared, aghast.

  Miss Hughes drew a deep breath of the heavily scented air and sat up, stretching and yawning, her rosy-tipped breasts pointed and full, her lips red and glistening.

  "Come, join me,” she invited. She stepped next to Fanny who flinched away. Miss Hughes touched her forefinger to Fanny's dry lower lip and rubbed it back and forth. Fanny drew her chin back.

  "This place is for you, you know. For all women. Breathe deeply, open yourself to the joy of it.” Swift as a snake, she bent forward and pressed shining lips against Fanny's mouth, her tongue darting inside, tasting. Before Fanny could do more than stiffen, Miss Hughes stepped away, smiling as she ran her hands down over her breasts and ribs. “Feel it, Fanny. It is wonderful."

  With that she walked to the pool, stepping into the water. Fanny watched, her mouth gaping. The water rose around Miss Hughes’ slim buttocks as she went deeper into
the center of the pool. It swallowed her hips and reached up to lick at the undersides of her breasts. The locks of her hair spread out around her like black snakes twisting in the pool's current. Miss Hughes circled the statue at the center of the pool, disappearing behind it. It was three-sided, each side consisting of a woman with four arms and oversized genitalia from which gurgled water. Fanny covered her mouth with a trembling hand.

  Miss Hughes spoke again, still hidden, her disembodied voice echoing from the dome.

  "It has been many years since a woman has come here. They thought it sinful. Sent Asuras in the bodies of men to sanctify it, and took my Bhaktas away and made them slaves. Such avidya—ignorance. I do not hate them. The wheel turns. And turns again. I am always, forever, and never-ending, whatever the face I wear."

  Fanny trembled and swallowed. Her throat was too dry to speak, and the soft, deft touch of Miss Hughes’ kiss still lingered on her tongue. Again she felt that warm honey feeling, gliding, pressing, smoothing, swelling. Again she collapsed to her knees as the dreadful pleasure seized her and drained her strength. She moaned as the spasms shook her. Sweat drenched her; she had no strength to move.

  Long moments passed. Water dripped onto her forehead and she flinched, gazing up fearfully. Miss Hughes stood over her, her skin flushed red from the heat of the pool, her long black hair clinging wetly to her skin.

  "My gift is potent. Through the ages, many have sought my font for the power I grant them.” She knelt, her knees splayed so that Fanny could see the other woman's most secret, intimate cleft. Fanny blushed painfully and forced her head away.

  "Ah, as this one, you are kanya. You fear my gift because it is strange.” Miss Hughes laid hot, damp fingers on Fanny's brow and forced her face back around. Fanny jerked back, but could not pull away from the determined touch. Miss Hughes shifted her hands so that she held Fanny's face wedged between her palms, bending low so that that their breath tangled together.

  "You will come to know me, to serve me. The first of many who will renew my temple with their joy and passion. My Bhaktas do not service men—you will remain kanya and you will celebrate my touch alone. You shall help me fill the temple again, and in each face you will see my face, and in each hand you will feel my hand, and in each kiss you will feel my kiss. Together, my Bhaktas celebrate the life I give, the joy I bring. There will be a symphony of delight that will shake the walls. This,” she pressed her palm against Fanny, “this is only a hint of what will be.” She lifted her hand. The palm was red. A ruby mist coalesced above it, and then formed into the image of two female figures twined together in a passionate embrace. As Fanny watched in nauseated fascination, a corona blossomed around them. Tinged every color of the rainbow, it rippled and danced, crackling and hot.