Jane Steele(116)

I say almost unhampered.

Sardar Singh emitted a wordless sound of protest and leapt, using what I only then realised was a final recourse when lacking other shields, and blocked her blade with his metal cuff. The knife slid with a horrid scraping noise down the sheath and then soundlessly sliced off his right hand.

Garima Kaur emitted a despairing groan, dropped her weapon, and ran.

Mr. Singh roared in pain and fell to his knees; I whipped off my cloak, bundled it, and I buried the gushing stump within. The hand with its severed tendons and its white gleam of bone lay to my left, pointing in the direction whence its butcher had fled.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I— You saved my life.”

Mr. Singh’s lips were pressed so hard within his mouth that nothing save beard remained; he had not lost enough blood yet to faint, but the shock did battle with his consciousness nevertheless.

“Please, you’ll be all right. You have to be. Please.”

I think my uselessness roused him, for he ordered, “Help me to stand.”

Between the two of us, we managed, though I nearly toppled under his weight; the instant he was upright, he was striding for the main house with his good arm about my shoulders, I pressing the ball of my cloak against his stump.

“Can you make it?”

“I don’t know, but I needn’t,” he gasped. “Not if you fetch Charles to wherever I collapse.”

The journey, I am sure, took less than three minutes; if ever three minutes were drenched with horror enough for three lifetimes, it was those. We burst through the front door like marauders, interrupting Charles Thornfield as he came from his study into the hall, dropping several pieces of mail on the table.

“What in the name of the devil—” he began, and then paled. “Is this our Jane returned? Oh my God—Sardar, what has—”

“We’ll talk about it later, Charles,” Mr. Singh said, breath heaving. “If you could stop me bleeding to death in the meanwhile . . .”

Mr. Thornfield’s cry of dismay was the only signal I had that Mr. Singh was about to topple like a felled tree; I was dragged a bit by his bulk, but Mr. Thornfield caught him round the waist and together we made it into the parlour. Mr. Singh landed on the settee and lay back, all his limbs quivering.

“Jane, whatever are you doing here?” the love of my life demanded. “Who dared to lay a finger on—”

Mr. Thornfield tore off the makeshift bandage of my cloak and saw what had been done.

“No.” He closed his eyes and shook his head as if the sight could be erased. “For Christ’s sake, no. Sardar—”

“No!” I cried, lurching towards the window.

Mr. Singh managed to raise his torso, and the three of us watched as Mrs. Garima Kaur, saddled on Nalin, galloped past the bay window with Sahjara seated between her knees and exited the estate through the gate where my forgotten horse was still tethered with its trap.





THIRTY-TWO



“I could dare it for the sake of any friend who deserved my adherence; as you, I am sure do.”


What in hell is the meaning of all this?” Mr. Thornfield shouted as he tore off his coat and rolled his sleeves up, dropping to his knees. “Where is Garima off to with Sahjara?”

“Go,” Mr. Singh gasped, eyes on me. “Please bring her back. It is unfair to ask it, I know, but—”

I was already running; the last sight which met my eyes before I flew out the parlour door was that of Mr. Thornfield viciously cursing at the spectacle of an arm without a hand attached before tearing off his gloves.

There was no time to think about what that meant as my feet and lungs propelled me towards the stables, my ears burning in the cold. Homelike smells of leather and manure assaulted me as I charged into the refuge of my childhood, my exhalations hanging in the atmosphere like malevolent ghosts.

The Sikh grooms stared at me in astonishment. There might have been some trouble over procuring a mount; but as it happened, Sahjara’s new mare was still saddled, having just returned, so I swung myself up onto Harbax, tearing out of the stable as if Satan were at my heels. For the first five minutes of my pursuit, I despaired of catching up to them before we reached the village, for Nalin was the fastest steed in Mr. Thornfield’s stables, and young Harbax the most unpractised.

Gift of God. Sahjara named you that, and Mr. Singh supposed it important, though Mr. Thornfield joked about the meaning. Please, please prove to be a gift of God.

I caught sight of them—a silhouette, really, just an outline in the gathering crystalline fog. Recalling with a thrill of hope that Nalin was the least tractable of her species I had ever encountered, I urged the more docile Harbax onward, feeling the mare surge as she sensed my distress.

Garima Kaur heard her pursuer and craned her head to glance behind, her emaciated form looking dangerously fragile atop such a powerful beast. Nothing of Sahjara could be seen save her rhythmically swinging feet; but reader, I loved her then, for she was the victim of blighted hopes and blind circumstance, as so many are, as I am, and Garima Kaur did not have a knife any longer, and I would return Sahjara to the people who quietly, carefully cherished her if it cost me my own right hand—or worse.

Abruptly enough that I feared snapped necks would result, Garima Kaur reined Nalin, and the mare emitted a wild, wary sound; she turned the horse with difficulty, and then it was that I saw Sahjara’s lovely face—uncomprehending and panicked.