The Sandalwood Princess

“I should say lucky, rather,” said Amanda. “If he had produced an heir, her curse would have been a joke.”

“I daresay she’d have found some other means of torturing him,” Mrs. Gales answered dryly. “In any case, they are both quite wicked creatures, which makes it difficult to choose between them. Still, my sympathies naturally incline to my own sex, and it is your statue. I do not see why Lord Hedgrave should have it. The idea! To set a murderous Indian thief after a British subject—an innocent young lady, no less.”

“If the theft is Lord Hedgrave’s doing,” Amanda reminded her. “We don’t know that for certain, any more than we know Mr. Wringle’s got my statue. But I mean to find out. I’ll speak to Padji again, tomorrow.” Her colour rose slightly and her folded hands tightened in her lap. “I expect we shall have to be underhand, but I see no alternative. Mr. Wringle comes with a deal of influence. Randall Groves himself, no less, escorted him on board, and all the Marquess of Hedgrave’s power looms behind him.”

Mrs. Gales looked up from her needlework. “You are quite determined to have it back, my dear? Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Amanda met her gaze squarely. “I cannot explain, but the statue means a great deal to me.”

“You needn’t explain. As I said, I do not see why that arrogant man should have it, especially via such abhorrent methods. You ought to be able to simply demand what is rightfully yours from this Mr. Wringle.”

“He has only to deny it,” Amanda said, “and if I demand a search—”

“Yes, my dear, we both know how the world works. Unfortunately, I also know how Lord Hedgrave works.” Mrs. Gales paused, a shadow of concern crossing her countenance. “He can destroy you, Amanda. He can ruin Roderick. Even for a wooden statue.”

“I know,” Amanda answered quietly. “I intend to be careful.”

Chapter Five

The plump, dark-eyed maid appeared five times a day with the odd-smelling broth. Five times a day, Philip propped Jessup up, while Miss Jones patiently spooned the liquid into him. By the end of a week, Jessup seemed marginally better. By the end of the second week, he’d definitely improved. During this time, Miss Cavencourt also supplied plump pillows and fresh linens from her own stores.

Philip was none too happy to find himself under so great an obligation to her. Still, he reminded himself, she had saved Jessup’s life.

Accordingly, Philip sought her out that afternoon to thank her. He found her, as he’d expected, above, standing at the rail and gazing out at the sea. She spent most of the day at the rail, it seemed, sometimes with Mrs. Gales or Bella, but most often alone. Time and again he’d come up for a five-minute breath of air, and find Miss Cavencourt standing so. An hour later, he’d be back for another hasty gulp, and behold her there yet, apparently lost to all the world, her gaze fixed upon the water.

At his polite greeting now, she started, and, as though she had been someplace very far away; a long moment passed before her golden eyes brightened with recognition.

Halfway through the proper little speech he’d prepared, Philip became aware of a new scent mingling with the salt air. Patchouli. But light, only a hint. It must be in the shawl. Kashmir was often stored in patchouli, to ward off insects. Nothing ominous about that, he thought, as he continued somewhat distractedly to describe Jessup’s improved condition and express his gratitude.

“It’s very pleasant to be applauded,” she said when Philip finally ground to a halt, “but most of the credit goes to Padji. It’s his secret recipe, you know.”

“Indeed. We are most fortunate you brought him with you,” Philip replied stiffly.

“You seem devoted to Mr. Wringle,” she said, her gaze upon his left lapel. “Have you been long in his employ?”

Now it begins, he thought cynically. Still, expecting an examination sooner or later, he’d prepared his answers. As usual, he’d offer no more truth or falsehood than absolutely necessary.

“I have been acquainted with Mr. Wringle some time,” he said, “but came into his employ only very recently, thanks to Mr. Groves.” Mr. Groves the incompetent, Jessup a solicitor, and Philip the valet, when it was supposed to be the other way about! But that wasn’t all Randall’s fault, was it? With Philip unavailable at the time, Jessup had to play the master. They’d hardly chuck Monty Larchmere out on account of a mere servant, regardless how desperate the case.

“Then your loyalty is all the more admirable.” Her gaze swept upward, and he found himself gazing into golden light, where shadows flickered. “You’ve scarce left his bedside this fortnight.”

“Naturally, one would wish to be at hand if the master needed anything.”

“All the same, you will not wish to wear yourself out. You’ll be no use to him if you sicken as well, and your pallor tells me you haven’t enjoyed a decent night’s sleep—or a proper meal—the whole time.”

Until that moment, Philip had not felt the least unwell. Abruptly he became aware of his aching muscles, and with that awareness, weariness began to steal through him. It was as though he’d been an automaton these last two weeks. Now she’d said the words, the mechanism proceeded to disintegrate.

“It can’t be healthy for you to remain so long in that close space,” she went on, ignoring the denial he murmured. “At least when Bella is there, you might leave with clear conscience, and take a stroll in the fresh air.”

Fresh air. Damn her. But she couldn’t know about that. She only wanted him out of the way.

“I appreciate your concern, miss, but I’m afraid the nursing still wants two people.”

“Oh ... yes ... naturally. In any event, you are here now, aren’t you? How silly to tell you to do what you’re already doing. Sillier still to make you stand and endure a lecture, when I have just recommended exercise. Pray don’t let me keep you.” She turned back to the sea.

Philip hurried back to the cabin, certain one of Miss Cavencourt’s minions was nosing about. That he found no minion, nor a single article disturbed, did not appease him. He crawled into his uncomfortable hammock and tried to nap. Too late. She’d killed sleep, hadn’t she?

For Jessup’s sake, Philip had clamped down his own feelings, locked and sealed them away. He hated the cabin. Monty Larchmere was as hard up as everyone suspected, or he’d never have settled for this miserable hole. The place was narrow and dark, and the air was stale at best, but mostly foul. Philip would have slept above on deck, if he dared. He didn’t. He couldn’t leave the cabin unguarded at night, even locked. What was a lock to the sly Indian, curse him. Curse her as well—Pandora, with those deceitful golden eyes. She’d uttered the words and the demon he’d locked away had sprung out to smother him.

It was early afternoon, but light scarcely reached this place. It was dark, rank, suffocating. Too familiar.

That was all a lifetime ago, he told himself as he forced his eyes closed. Another life, a child’s, and he was a man. How many times in the last fifteen years had he hastened fearlessly towards certain death? He was no longer a weak, helpless little boy. He was not afraid... of anything.

All the same, he felt it steal over him in a slow, icy stream: Dread. Groundless, irrational, his adult mind insisted, even as it sank under the cold horror.

In minutes, Philip was out of the cabin, hurrying blindly through the passage. Then he was into the light at last, into the air, gulping it greedily until his mind rose out of the icy trap and his heart returned to its normal, steady beat. Damn her to hell.

Jessup’s recovery continued at the same faltering pace, and the ensuing week was slow torture. Of course one must eat and rest and exercise. Philip was not a fool. Yet his appetite dwindled, suffocated, as his reason was, by the endless watching in the hot, tiny cell. The sight of food sickened him, and he grew bone-achingly weary, so that climbing to the upper deck this day was like scaling a thousand-foot cliff.

Catching sight of him, Miss Cavencourt marched across the deck and commenced another lecture. Philip stared at her,

utterly unable to comprehend a syllable. Then something began to buzz very loudly in his ears, his muscles jerked crazily, and Miss Cavencourt and all the world were submerged in a heavy black blanket.

A child was screaming, sobbing, somewhere. A door, thick and heavy… and oppressive, stifling darkness. He couldn’t breathe. His little hands burned, raw with pounding on the immovable barrier. “Please, I won’t do it again, Papa. Please, Papa. I’m sorry.”

Something cool and wet touched him then, and a gentle hand brushed his forehead. Philip’s eyes opened to golden light shimmering amid the shadows. Autumn at Felkonwood, sate in the forest. The light fell warm, and the breeze blew sweet with ... patchouli?