Part Three

Jocasta's garden steamed in the rare, bright sun; her flowers, protected by muslin canopies stretched across arching bamboo frames, were nonetheless drenched and drooping from the morning's rain, and seemed to struggle to raise their faces to the welcome rays. Droplets of moisture glittered like diamonds on every leaf and petal and blade of grass, and between worn paving stones the saturated earth oozed at every step.

The long, last weeks of the Bengal summer had been an interminable, suspended time when the country held itself motionless, dry as old bones, when not a breath of air moved, and day by day the atmosphere grew more and more dense, heavy and pregnant with anticipation, while the pundits squatted in the bazaars, casting their predictions for the coming of the rain.

Come the rain had, and now, but for rare intervals such as this, it did nothing but rain. For days on end it rained, and not just rain----no soft, restorative summer rain as would grow the crops and green the hills of home----here was rain that fell not in drops, but in torrents, washes, lashings, cataracts. A deluge. Great swooping curtains of rain falling endlessly from a sky that seemed more water than air, so a man might fear that to breathe was to drown.

It was bloody weather for fighting, which was no doubt why the enemy had sought to take advantage, raiding into the dominions of the Company's ally, the Nizam of Hyderabad, at the height of the monsoon. The "enemy" were not but the stubborn remains of a vanquished army, little more than roving bands of thieves, and the business of dealing with them more appropriate to the command of captains and majors, but a restless Arthur Wellesley had left behind the tedium of administrative duties in Poona and Seringapatam to personally lead the operations in the North, while Eyre, similarly stultified and anxious to exercise his men, had volunteered himself and three of his own companies to take up the task in the South. He had spent five weeks cutting his way through sodden jungle and trying to find ways to cross swollen rivers that swamped the pack elephants to the shoulders, eating and sleeping in mud. He had almost lost a man to drowning and another, very nearly, to an attack of stinging insects. It had been glorious. A bit of a ridiculous exercise, but a successful one. He'd even managed to capture a pair of ancient bronze cannon that were about to find new employment as the perfect counterpoint to his sister's herb parterres. All told, he was feeling well satisfied.

He walked slowly alongside Jocasta, who pushed her new baby son along in a well-sprung carriage of woven rattan, while a few paces behind them walked the baby's ayah, a slight, silent woman, swaddled head to toe in white.

"Julian will be so disappointed to have missed you," Jocasta said again for what must have been the tenth time. "Can you truly not stay a few days more? As it is, you shall probably pass each other coming and going on the road to Calcutta."

"I should get back," Eyre replied. "Duty, dull, but necessary, awaits. But in any case, I shall see you both in a fortnight's time. You are coming for the Regimental Ball?"

"Oh, I should think so. If I can fit into any of my gowns! It's dreadful; I've gone all the wrong shape. And my bosoms are enormous!"

Eyre laughed and made a particular display of scrutinizing the distressing objects. "Well, I daresay your husband will stand you to a new gown or two, if only to show off those----if a brother may say it----quite spectacular bosoms." Putting his arm about her, he gave her really rather slim waist a squeeze. "You're as lovely as ever, Jo."

She tilted her head back and smiled. "You are very good to me. You know I am angling for compliments, of course?"

"Of course. Have I not been rising to the bait all of my life?"

"Not really, dear."

"Well, I mean to make a change from now on."

As they moved into the shade of a little covered pavilion, Jocasta stopped to exclaim over an enormous clay pot that was spilling over with a multicolored cascade of exotic blooms.

"The colors, Eyre! Aren't they extraordinary! I dare say you will not see a pink such as this in all of England!"

Eyre smiled, thinking that it would be some time before England was ready for such a pink, or indeed such a flower as this, that, like so much in this ancient, beautiful and beguiling country seemed possessed of a bold and near savage sensuality. India was an assault on all the senses; it was in the heat, the smell, the touch. It tasted of fiery spice; it jangled in the ears. It was the dazzling, bone-bleaching brilliance of the sun, the ceaselessness of the rain. There was an over-ripeness and a sweetness that would overwhelm the English soul---or seduce it irretrievably.

Jocasta was next distracted by a sound from the rattan carriage; of joy or displeasure, Eyre was singularly unable to discern, and he looked on with some detachment as the women bent over the child, moving aside the layers of sunshade and insect netting, and reaching in to make adjustments of one kind or another, accompanied by a litany of small noises and few words. In a moment, Jocasta turned to look at him, a soft, fond expression on her face.

"Oh, do look at St. John, Eyre," she said quietly, standing a little away and gesturing for him to come closer. "Do you not think he favors Julian in the extreme?"

Eyre, unable to resist teasing, gave a little snort. "I rather think he favors Mamma. See here, you could cleave oak with that jaw."

Jocasta laughed and gave his chest a light smack with the back of her hand. "How ungallant! What a thing to say!"

"Not at all. It will be a most handsome feature on a young man." He grinned, backing away from the next, inevitable blow.

"You are terrible," Jocasta said, bending once more to rearrange the protective netting. Watching her, seeing her lovely, happy face, her graceful movements, Eyre was touched.

"Julian Summerfield is a fortunate man," he said.

She stood up slowly, turning to look at him for a long moment, a series of little expressions flickering over her face, as if a number of things had come to mind, and she was unsure whether to say any of them. Finally, she said softly, "You will have a son one day, Eyre. In time, you will…there will be someone--"

"No." He gave her a small smile, shaking his head slightly, and reached for her hand. "I only mean he is a fortunate man, and he knows it. Because he knows it."

"Oh, my dear," she sighed, and taking the hand he offered, led him to a stone bench that nestled in a corner shaded by a trellis that was covered in a lush, climbing vine, the flowers of which resembled the mouths of trumpets, and smelled of thick honey.

"Merhbani, Naya," Jocasta said, and the ayah wheeled the baby to another corner where she sat quietly, rolling the carriage slowly back and forth.

"Harriet was my dearest friend," Jocasta said as they sat quietly side by side. "I knew her heart like my own. From the time we were children we were nearer than sisters. She was happy, Eyre. How can I tell you, for you must know. She did have everything she wanted, and dearest, she would not want you to be suffering still."

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles lightly. "I am willing to believe that you are right. And I suppose it has been myself I have been most sorry for. I shall always have regret, and deservedly so. I know that now, and for as long as I live, I shall miss her. But I am better, I think. Things are…better."

It was so quiet, and yet the air was full of sound; the rustling of the bare breeze stirring the leaves of the trellis, the hum of a bee drawing nectar from the trumpet flowers, the faint rattle of the carriage wheels moving back and forth over the uneven stones as ayah sang a breathy lullaby to her sleeping charge. And in the distance, where the misty haze made vague blue shapes of the rugged hills of Chattapore, a low rumble of thunder.

"Is it because you would have to give her up?" Jocasta asked.

"Pardon?" Eyre responded, genuinely confused.

"The reason you don't wish to marry again," Jocasta said calmly, plucking a fallen petal from her skirts. "Is it because you would have to give her up? Because you know, Eyre, as well as I, that India is not forever, and you certainly cannot take her with you when you go."

Eyre was mildly dumbstruck, but he answered the question, looking her in the eyes. "No. It is not because of her. It is because I should not be married."

"Nonsense."

"Nonetheless."

There was a moment of silence, then Eyre said, "I didn't know you knew."

She sighed, a bit impatiently. "Well, of course I know. It is the gossip of the cantonment. She visits, apparently?"

"Yes."

"Eyre!"

"What, Jocasta? I am hardly the first man to take a mistress. And if I were a nawab she might sit at the head of my table and no one would look askance," he said, irritated and unsettled.

"But you are not a nawab!" she got to her feet suddenly and began pacing back and forth in front of him. "You are British officer. You know what I am saying and don't pretend otherwise or try to tell me that I am prudish. As a matter of fact, I do not disapprove."

"You might easily convince me that you do."

"I don't," she said, stopping in front of him and crossing her arms. "I know the way things are, and I have seen the change in you these months. I am grateful to her. But in India, just as in England, I am afraid, certain things are done in a certain way, and you take a risk, Eyre, when you step outside the bounds."

"I am sorry if the gossip has upset you," he said a little angrily. "In India, as in England, it frankly amazes me that anyone should care."

"Oh, Eyre!" she came to him, crouching down before him, her hands resting on his knees. He could see the sincerity in her brown eyes. "I don't care about the gossips for my sake. Please do not think that. I am only concerned for you, for your future. I know you think it a small thing and no one's affair but your own, but it is also the way of things that a small thing can destroy you, should the wrong person choose to exploit it. Do not be angry with me for telling you."

He put out a hand to stroke the golden head, and cupping her small, determined chin, said, "I could not be angry with you, dear Jo. I do love you; do you know it?"

She took his hand between both of hers and pressed it to her lips. "Yes," she whispered with some determination. "I always have."

"Now," he said, unceremoniously hauling her back onto the bench beside him. "Let us look at Anthea's letters. Did you bring them?"

"Yes!" she laughed, fishing in the folds of her skirts for her reticule. "What have you been writing to that child? She sent me the most extraordinary drawing entitled, 'My Papa, King of the Elephants'!"


****


It was raining again, a steady downpour that tested the carriage maker's art, as well as the road builder's skill, but he had arrived in the city towards evening in a timely fashion, and still reasonably dry, considering. It was only now that the progress of the coach was significantly slowed, inching the way through narrow, flooding streets that were choked in spite of the season and the hour with vehicles, humanity, and a seemingly unusual number of sacred cattle that did not appear to have the sense to get in out of the rain.

Eyre closed his eyes, lulled by the slow rocking of the coach and the steady drumming of the rain on the roof. In his mind, he went over his conversation with Jocasta in the garden of her summer villa in the Chattapore hills. He was better, he had told her, and he supposed it was true, although he had not, until that moment, really known it himself. He had become so accustomed to not thinking of it, of pushing the thoughts away when they tried to come. But it was true that there had been times in the last few months when he would come suddenly to the realization that he had gone an entire day without thinking of Harriet. And too, there were times now when a thought would come, and he would dare to let it stay, to turn in his mind slowly, over and over, and it would bring him not grief, but peace, or even a smile, and a sense of being closer to her. He saw a small hand reaching across the table to scribble something on the page of his copybook when the tutor wasn't looking. Her arm in his, holding onto him as if or dear life, and he heard her squeal of laughter as they raced beneath the arch of crossed sabers on his wedding day. A farewell on the dock of the Chelmsford depot, Anthea in her arms. The long, white curve of her naked back as she lay beside him in bed.

He tried to see out the window, but already it was quite dark, and the sluicing rain would have made it impossible to see in any case. But he must be near home. He thought of what Jocasta had said. He did break the rules, he knew, but he thought her concerns were nonetheless a little overstated and womanish. Perhaps, though, out of respect for her feelings he should consider observing a little more discretion.

But damn it, he wanted her there.

She had pleaded with him to let her go with him to Hyderabad; even to walk among the bearers if she could not be with him, and as he never had been before, he was sorely tempted, for all that he knew he must tell her no. And leaving her was harder, too, than it had ever been before. He did not for one moment imagine that he would not return, but proceeding on that possibility gave their parting a fatal edge that almost overcame him. He loved her. It was the truth; there was no other word to describe what he felt, and so he must accept it. It was not a love which fulfilled all of him; their minds, their worlds, were much too different----and he knew now that had he been meant to share his life's time with anyone, he had been meant to share it with Harriet.

And India was not forever, just as Jocasta had said. In India, though, he had come to understand the man he was with a clarity he had never known before. Fighting was what he was born to do. When he was in the field, he lived, and when he was not was when the time stood still. He was good at winning. He knew how to make men trust and follow him, and he knew how to keep them alive. Such men he had now, hard and sharp and skilled---his men, a regiment he had raised himself and seen transformed from farmer's boys and mother's son's and parish drunkards and the sweepings of the city gaols into soldiers. A world away, England was at war with France, and, once again, with Spain. When the time was right, he was determined, he would take his men to that war.

He almost could not imagine having the heart or the will to sever himself from her, yet he knew when that time came, he would leave Irawadi. All the love and charity of his family could not accept such an alliance, nor, in all honesty, could his own conscience. Outside of his India station, it would be simply insupportable, and must signal his complete withdrawal from society, and from his career. Shamefully, he had fantasized briefly that he might take her away; install her in his home, perhaps, as Anthea's ayah.  But then, what in India was a perfectly decent and honorable association would in England look no better than a master visiting the slave quarter, and that he could not bear, even in secrecy. No, perhaps even especially so. Dishonor must inevitably poison love.

His love for Irawadi, then was a love framed in the space between before and after. It was a moment of tenderness, a sigh of contentment. A love for the time that stood still.

****

"Sahib," Singh bowed, a low namaste that conveyed his respect for his master, and his gratitude to Vishnu for Eyre's safe return. The man did not seem surprised to see him, although he had not sent word of his arrival, and indeed, after weeks of emptiness, the house appeared as if he had never been away, clean and well-aired, with braziers burning to chase away the damp, lamps lit, and fresh flowers decorating the tables.

"It is good to see you, Singh," Eyre said, as his servant helped him out of his coat that had been soaked in the brief flight from the coach to his front door. "You seem to have been expecting me."

"Yes, sahib," the man said, offering no further explanation.

"Is it possible we have anything to eat in the house?" Eyre asked over his shoulder as he walked through the arch that separated the hall from the main room of the lower floor of the house, and headed straight for a sideboard where a tray had been set out with glasses and a full decanter of smuggled Cognac. Remarkable. Wonderful.

"Yes, sahib," Singh replied, following his master. "Chicken, no beef," he said, only half apologetically. Singh knew his master's tastes, but he made no pretense of his aversion to some of them.

"That will do, thank you, Singh" Eyre said, taking his first, grateful sip of the brandy. It was wonderfully restorative. He was more tired than he had realized.

"This is bloody marvelous," he told Singh. "Best not tell me where you got it, hm?"

The man shook his head innocently. "Cheap Portugee brandy, sahib? I think if you don't like, Singh will use to polish silver."

"Do, and you're dismissed," Eyre said with a smile, and taking his glass and the decanter, he moved towards the doors that led, through a series of smaller chambers, to the stair at the back of the house. Singh, for some reason, was still following him.

"I need a bath, Singh, and I will dine in my room later."

"Yes, sahib…but…sahib!"

Eyre, hearing the frantic shuffling of footsteps alarmingly close behind him, stopped suddenly and turned, only to have Singh stop just short of bouncing off his chest.

"Yes?" Eyre inquired with a raised eyebrow.

The servant took a few steps back and made a quick, shallow bow. "I think, sahib, that someone may be here."

"Someone?"

"Yes, sahib, I think it is possible."

Eyre's heart leapt in his chest, but he imagined his face did not betray him. "I see. You cannot be certain, of course."

Singh merely shrugged. The expression on his face was remarkably similar to the one he displayed when he spoke of beef. Eyre could not suppress a smirk. God, the man was worse than Jocasta. But he knew that Singh was a man of great discernment, who took the utmost pride in doing his duty to the letter; his own honor depended upon it. He served a white sahib, and therefore he would observe only the correct, most English proprieties, and perversely, it seemed not to matter what the actual preferences of his master might be.

Eyre nodded. "Of course, you are a busy man, Singh. How can you be expected to know everything?"

"You must forgive me, sahib." Eyre thought he saw the corners of the man's mouth twitch as he reached to take the decanter and the glass from his master's hands, bowed one last time, and turned and walked away.


*****

She stood in the doorway that led to the balcony overlooking the square, her back to the night and the sheeting fall of rain that hissed in the air and clattered on the stones below. Her shoulders were bare, her body wrapped in a simple lungi that was knotted above her breasts, and fell only to the tops of her slim, brown calves. The strands of her unbound hair sparkled with a misting of rain.

He was across the room in an instant, catching her up in his arms.

"How did you know I had returned?" he asked in wonderment, spinning, turning, as her arms went around his neck, squeezing him tightly, and her mouth pressed into his ear.

She pulled herself back to look into his eyes as he held her still, suspended above the floor. Her own eyes glistened with moisture; her sweet, beautiful eyes, green and brown, as dark and muddy as the depths of the river.

"We always know everything first in the bibi khana," she said cocking her head and looking at him as if he were a complete imbecile. He still didn't know how it was possible, but he let the question lie. He let her slip through his arms, back down to the floor. Her fingers were golden brown, dark against the pure white lawn of his sleeve.

"I know I should not have come," she said, a little slyly as she curved her body into his, the warm, firm flat of her belly pressing against him, and he, warm with brandy and the heat of the braziers and the quick, vibrant life of the woman in his arms, felt his blood stir.

"I think you have upset Singh," he said, smiling down at her.

She shrugged. "How can I have upset him, when he does not know that I am here?" Her eyebrow arched in an ironic expression she had not had before she met him, and she smiled her beautiful white smile. She put up her hands to smooth the hair at his temples, stroking him tenderly.

"My sahib," she whispered as the hands slid down his neck and opened the top of his shirt, sliding inside to tease at the light covering of soft, golden chest hair. "You have come back to me."

"Ira," he whispered into her damp hair, his arms closing more tightly around her. Her body was so supple, so soft and warm and the smell of her was like flowers and rain and fire. Already he was forgetting the world, losing himself to her.

"I was so afraid," she kissed the bones at the base of his throat. She was pressed against him, every line, every curve of her body fitted perfectly with his own, and the heat of desire filled him, spreading through his loins like a spill of liquid flame. He burned, and he could not resist; he could not wait.

He scooped her into his arms, and for some mad reason he could not tell, bore her not back into the room where his bed waited, soft and warm and draped in a mist of white netting, but out onto the balcony, back and back until her bottom perched on the edge of the wide, stone wall and he held her as she arched away from him, throwing her head back and laughing as the rain fell, wetting her face and hair, running in rivulets down the length of her throat, down into the hollow between her breasts. And he laughed too, bending to dip his tongue into the well as his hands fumbled with the knot of her lungi, and when it came away, covering the little wet, brown breasts with his kisses.

She pulled at his clothing, yanking his sodden shirt over his head, unbuttoning his trousers and frantically pushing them down low on his hips. His hot, rampant cock slithered over her wet belly as he pulled her against him, her bottom resting on the tops of his thighs as he supported her against the low wall of smooth, slippery stone.

Below them the square was black and empty, with no sound but the roar and splatter of rain. They were in a private world, hidden from view by the dense, rushing, shimmering veil of water that fell, and fell, and fell.

The rain poured over him, warm as bathwater, running down his back, flattening his loosened hair. It stuck to Irawadi's cheeks as he kissed her, as their bodies slithered and slid and slipped, one upon the other. Everywhere was warm and wet; her mouth was warm and wet, her soft, agile tongue twining with his, their lips making wet, sucking sounds as they drank of each other and the rain.

She was warm and wet, slick, open, and ready as he pushed into her, sliding home like a greased bolt, and he groaned with the deep satisfaction of it. She gasped and threw back her head as he thrust himself deep inside, her body arching out over the wall, suspended in the whispering, watery air.

"Irawadi!" he snatched her to him, laughing a little breathlessly, thinking, even in his impassioned state that this was just a little perilous. She giggled and wrapped her wet little arms around his neck, burying her face in the tangle of his hair.

"I love you," he murmured, holding her safely in his arms, settling himself comfortably between her legs. His control regained, he began to move slowly in and out of her. God, she felt so good, smooth as silk and close as a glove, fitting him perfectly, taking him all the way inside, stroking him sweetly, all the rigid, seeking length of him. He wished to fill her with his love, enough to last forever, and to take from her body the love, the sweetness that would sustain him in all the long years that would surpass their time together. She clung to him, her breath moist and heated against his shoulder, making the most beautiful, most maddeningly erotic sounds in her throat as he surged into her again and again. He felt an almost aching sadness in his chest even as his passion overwhelmed him and he set his teeth against the inevitable cresting of the tide, the unstoppable flooding of joy. He could feel her bearing down on him, could hear her soft intake of breath and long, low moan of release, and he let her take him along. He gave her his seed as a shuddering shiver snaked down the length of his spine, chased by a river of rain.


****


Irawadi knew she had never seen anyone so beautiful, and when he had come for her, she knew that her prayers and offerings had been rewarded. She knew she was good, and blameless, and that Heaven had brought her this perfect, golden man to care for and to love. Tall and strong and noble, his hair was the color of a field of ripened grain, and it was soft and it curled around her fingers to her delight and fascination. All of him was golden, his arms, his chest, even the thick mat of hair between his legs was dark gold, dense and tightly curled, like coils of fine, golden wire.

He had given her so much; he had made promises that she would be cared for forever. She had her own little house in the bibi khana, money and jewelry and rich, beautiful clothes. Indeed, when he was gone, she could do as she pleased. She would take another lover only if she wished it. She could, if she wanted, return to the village from which she had been carried as a little girl by the Portuguese trader who claimed that he was her father.

She did not want him to go, but she knew she would bear it; she could bear to see him ride away, knowing that he lived, that she would feel him still in her heart and know that he had loved her. But when he had gone away to battle, she had been so afraid, for she knew what honor meant to her sahib, and the price he was ready to pay if his duty required it of him. She would not tell him, for it would only distress him, but if his body had been brought back to Calcutta she would have thrown herself into the flames of his funeral pyre in the duty of suttee. Only then could she honor his love and end her grief.


*****

 
Eyre lay on his back on his soft, white bed, stroking Irawadi's damp hair and listening to the steady thrumming of the rain. Her cheek was pillowed on his belly and she was caressing him lightly with her fingers, tickling the insides of his thighs, playing in the hair, studiously avoiding his nudging, half-erect penis.

The rain had not let up for even a moment all evening. Turning his head he watched it fall in a shifting, silvery curtain just beyond the balcony.

"When will it stop?" he asked.

"When it is finished," she replied, and she turned her head to look at him, watching his reaction as her teasing fingers closed on him at last.

He closed his eyes and drew a long breath. "I cannot fault your reasoning," he said.

"Well, it is simple." She turned her attention back to his cock, watching with satisfaction as the sleek skin slid slowly back, revealing the smooth, shiny helmet of deep pink flesh. He shifted his hips, feeling the delicious surge of blood in him, and for a moment he thought to urge her to take him in her mouth, but somehow the memory of how it had felt to be inside her before tempted him even more.

He reached for her, and she slid up the length of his body with a comfortable sigh, turning easily in his arms as he rolled her beneath him.

The time that stood still did not stand still, of course. It moved slowly, inexorably towards its end and all things, all grief, all love, would move with it as well, would float downstream like so much flotsam, along, away. Her hands flowed over his back like water. Irawadi, like the river, would carry him down.

The End

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