Jane Steele(59)

Mr. Augustus Sack bared his teeth and turned on his heel. For several tightly stretched seconds we waited; then the grind of carriage wheels reached our ears, and I snatched up my crutch and limped to the window, staring with Sahjara under my arm as the neat black coach exited the grounds of Highgate House.

Faintly, I asked, “Do many of your guests depart at knifepoint?”

“Oh, I should not say very many.” Mr. Singh sat, drawing a pot of porridge near and spooning himself a portion. “But when they do, inevitably I find my appetite improved.”

We were all quiet, a quiet as odd and yet as comfortable as any I had ever experienced, before I succumbed to helpless laughter. Mr. Thornfield likewise chuckled, and pressed his glove to Sahjara’s temple when she went to him, sliding the silver comb back into her hair.

When his eyes met mine, however, they were grave blue pools—I confess myself likewise sobered, and my ankle began to send invisible darts into my calf.

Mrs. Garima Kaur appeared, short of breath and eyes flashing. She fired off a rapid series of questions to Mr. Singh in their own language; his replies did not seem to please her, however, for she snarled and gestured at the outer door. Mr. Thornfield interjected in the same tongue, but she would have none of him, aiming another volley at Mr. Singh. When he had reassured her once more, she hissed in frustration and quit the dining room.

“Garima is understandably unsettled—Augustus Sack labours under the delusion we have something of value. A trunk of Sahjara’s went missing long ago, and the deuced cur can’t cease thinking on it,” Mr. Thornfield said to me quietly, causing my ears to prick. “Our friend John Clements’s death dredged all this up again—the ghastly affair is long past, but Sack is equal parts cunning and stupidity, a combination peculiar to a certain breed of East India Company executive, damn ’em. I apologise, Miss Stone. Had I not been cowering before the tip of your own blade last night, I should perhaps have worried over offending your notion of a civil breakfast.”

“I can’t even remember why I don’t like him.” Sahjara’s eyes were wide and wet. “It was all so long ago and far away. I don’t like him, though.”

“There’s the Young Marvel for you—sharp as a bayonet.” Mr. Thornfield framed her cheeks with clothed palms.

“Was I awful, though—ought I to like him?”

“You don’t like him, darling. You like him as much as you like black pudding. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I think so. Miss Stone’s accident, Mr. Sack coming to call—it’s too many troubles at once,” she lamented, drying her eyes with Mr. Thornfield’s kerchief.

“So often the way,” Mr. Singh said under his breath, “with troubles.”

“Sardar?” Mr. Thornfield said softly.

“Mr. Thornfield.”

“Might I speak a word in your ear—say, after supper, in the drawing room?”

“Nothing could please me more.” Mr. Singh ducked his frothy beard to us, cleared his small bowl of porridge, placed the remaining soiled china on a tray, and disappeared.

For several seconds, I stood at a complete loss as to how a human being should behave under these specific circumstances; thankfully, Mr. Thornfield spoke.

“Sahjara, I require your absence. Flee, fly, flit. I need to speak with Miss Stone about a few cautions relevant to the new mare you’re to begin riding on Monday.” Mr. Thornfield smiled, and it struck me that when he was not bored over his own jokes, his smiles were as warm as a fireside.

“Truly? Oh, thank you, thank you! That is, if you think me capable.”

“What is she playing at?” Mr. Thornfield pressed his fingertips to the bridge of his nose in mock chagrin. “Young Marvel, thank you for defending me against a badmash.* Now be gone, that I might inform Miss Stone of your new riding regimen.”

Sahjara curtsied, so happy her head might have split from her grin, and quit the room.

I went to the window, attempting to calm myself; but hardly had I arrived before I saw the master hesitantly approaching, a stiff-backed reflection in the prophetic windowpane.

“Miss Stone, are you quite well?”

His awkwardness put me at once at my ease. “Very well, sir. How are you?”

“Oh, don’t mimic my pretences to English manners, for God’s sake, it’s hardly sporting.” Flashing a grim smile, he continued, “You’ve questions, no doubt; and I am willing to trade the commodity, for though I did seek an unusual governess—”

“You hadn’t anticipated the scope of my abnormality.” I sought the cool of the glass and leant my head against it, as much to mask my fright as in genuine fatigue.

You’ve scarce had time to dash off a letter to your mother’s solicitor and you’re already being tossed back into the gutter.

“And therefore I propose you dine with me this evening.”

“Of course, I can hardly blame—” I broke off. “You propose what?”

“Dining. You’ve, ah, heard of the practice? It takes place in the evening hours more generally—at least, north of the Sutlej it does.”

“Mr. Thornfield,” I announced, “you owe me dinner at the very least over the vast number of weapons displayed just now.”

“Of course.” A peculiarly endearing crease appeared at the edge of his right eye, encroaching upon his temple. “I’ve had a blow, Miss Stone. Sack’s appearance was entirely unexpected. I should never have wished you to see—”