Stranger in My Arms(88)

“You looked through his belongings,” Lara said rather than asked, moving to sit on a small couch with scrolled ends. Her legs were suddenly unable to render any meaningful support.

He remained standing on the other side of the room. “Yes.”

“And you found the miniature of me.”

“Yes. And the letters you’d sent to him.”

“My letters?” Lara tried to remember what she had written to Hunter about. Mostly she had described her daily activities, her interactions with people in the village, and news of family and former friends.

Nothing of love or longing, nothing about her inner life. “I can’t think why Hunter would have saved them. They were so very ordinary.”

“They were lovely,” he said softly. “I found them in a drawer-he kept them there along with his journals.”

“Hunter never kept journals,” she said coldly.

“He did,” came the calm reply. “From the way they were numbered and dated, I knew there had to be more here. I found them soon after I arrived, and destroyed them after taking what information I needed.”

Lara shook her head, bewildered by this revelation about her husband.

“what did Hunter write in these journals?”

“He filled them with what he imagined were important secrets, political intrigues, social scandals…

rubbish, most of it.”

“Did he mention me?” she asked hesitantly. “what did he…” She fell silent as she saw from his face that Hunter had not written fondly of her.

“It was obvious the marriage was not a good one.”

“He was bored by me,” Lara said.

Hearing the defeated note in her voice, he looked at her with sudden intensity. “Hunter wanted Lady Carlysle. He married you because you were young enough to give him children.”

And she had turned out to be barren. “Poor Hunter,” she whispered.

“Poor stupid – bastard,” he agreed. “He was too thickheaded to see what he could have had. I read your letters, and I knew what kind of woman you were. I understood exactly what he had thrown away. He’d easily discarded the life I had wanteda life I believed I deserved.”

His eyes half closed. “I took the miniature and kept it with me. I thought every moment of what you might be doing… if you were taking a bath… brushing your hair… visiting your friends in the village…

sitting alone reading … laughing… crying You became an obsession.”

“Did you ever meet my husband?” Lara asked.

He was silent for a long moment. “No.” “That’s a lie,” she said softly. “Tell me what really happened.”

He stared at Lara, so beautiful and obdurate, her fragility transformed into a stern, delicate strength that vanquished him. He could withhold nothing from her now. It seemed that his soul had cracked open, and every last secret was spilling out. He wasn’t aware of moving, but he found himself in a corner of the room, leaning his forehead against the cool damask wall covering.

“It was March, festival …. . Holi and Dhuleti, they call it. The festival of colors. Bonfires are lit everywhere, and the whole city goes mad with celebration. Everyone knew Hawksworth was giving the largest party in Calcutta…” He continued to speak absently, almost forgetting Lara was there.

He had wandered the streets in front of Hawksworth’s palace amid the riotous crowd, while people laughed and screamed and threw colored powder and paint from the rooftops. Young women used pistons of bamboo sticks to spray perfumed water and silver or red paint at passersby, while young men smeared makeup on their faces and impishly donned sans to dance in the streets.

A horde of people wandered through Hawksworth’s huge manor, an opulent home of classical design that proudly overlooked the green bank of the Hugh River. It was covered with ivory chunam stucco polished as slick as marble, while its front was adorned by a line of slender colonnades.

The sea of English faces seemed identical to him, all of them splotched with colorful paint, their eyes glazed from strong drink, their cheeks sticky from gorging on delicacies of sugar and dried fruits. Heart pounding, he entered the manor and moved among the revelers. He had worn a hooded robe of dark red cotton, similar to the other flamboyant garments the guests had donned. The luxury of the house was breathtaking, the rooms fitted with chandeliers and filled with Titian paintings and Venetian glass.

As he walked from room to room, tipsy women threw themselves at him, infected by the orgiastic mood of the crowd. He pushed them aside dismissively. None of them even seemed to notice the rejection, merely giggling and going in search of new prey.

The only sober faces in the crowd were those of the Indian servants, bringing forth platters of food and drink that were instantly devoured.

He asked one of the servants where Hawksworth was, and was met with a shrug and a blank stare. Searching stealthily through the manor, he came to what appeared to be the library. The door was half open, affording a view of a tall mahogany bookcase topped with a collection of marble busts, and a set of library steps fitted with a carved handrail.

Hearing muted voices, he approached the doorway. There was a soft laugh, a gasp, a low groan…

the unmistakable sounds of a couple having sex. His brow worked with a frown, and he faded back from the door to become part of the shadows.