CHAPTER 12.
The conservatory was nothing but a sun parlor added to the side of the house in honor of Queen Victoria’s coronation and had the distinction of hosting the monarch during the Crimean War.
Of course, that was what the colonel liked to say.
I highly doubted Queen Victoria would have had time to smell the flowers when her troops were being slaughtered in Sevastopol. I liked to think Her Majesty’s quiet strength and the support of her empire were enough to brave the hellish consequences of war. “Have you met her, Colonel?”
“Who? The Queen? Of course I did.”
“What is she like?”
He wiggled in his chair and said something so vile and so unbecoming an officer of the realm that I pledged to scrub out my ears with salt and vinegar. “Let me tell you,” he went on, my cheeks blazing, “I certainly did not appreciate looking at it for over a quarter of an hour.”
“That’s… horrid of you to say, Colonel,” I coughed. “I’ve been told she is most gracious.”
“Gracious to those who haven’t spilled their blood for the old—”
“Please, Colonel,” I pleaded. “You promised to watch your language.”
“I did no such a thing,” he cackled, turning in his chair to face me. “I speak the truth. If you do not wish to hear, then kindly give your notice.”
“You do know I am scheduled for an operation on Friday?” I said, wishing I were already on my way. I held up my bandaged hand. My finger was wrapped so tight, I could barely feel it. “What will you do with yourself?”
“London?” He frowned. “When did I agree to this?”
Not this again. “Sir,” I reminded him as gently as I could. “I hurt my hand when washing the dishes, remember? The knife nearly went clean through.”
“Can’t you soldier on?” he pouted. “You’re the only one who knows how I like my pudding.”
“Mrs. Hutchins will put in extra time, Colonel.”
“I hate her cooking,” he grumbled, turning back to face the pond. He pointed. “Take me outside.”
I balked at his request. Out of all the rules I was to adhere to caring for Colonel Havelock, Mr. Anson told me that under no circumstances was I to let the man anywhere near the pond. It was deep. It hadn’t been drained in ages. And the last time the colonel ventured near the thing, he had nearly drowned.
“He wandered out by himself one night as we slept,” Mr. Anson informed me a few days after my arrival. “He was quite athletic in his youth. Liked to challenge his friends. We had just hired a girl, and she snuck out to meet her beau. She left his door unlocked and he—”
“How bad?” I asked fearfully, knowing what it was like to nearly drown. I didn’t know how to swim, traumatized by an incident when I was six years old. My father had taken us to Cape Cod to visit my grandparents. Joshua was supposed to watch me and let me wander off. Before I knew it, I was knee-deep in water as the tide swept me out to sea. If it hadn’t been for a quick-thinking lifeguard, I wouldn’t be here today listening to this.
“Bad enough for us to install a gate. See that?” He pointed to a padlocked iron gate. “That must never open.”
“I’ll watch him,” I promised.
“That’s what she said.”
“Well?” the colonel was saying, digging his nails into my arm. “Will I see the pond today or not?”
“Er… Mr. Anson said we’re not supposed to…”
“Never mind that guttersnipe!” he ground out impatiently. “I want to see the pond! They added fish last year.”
“Did they?” I felt the start of another headache. I got them frequently now. I think I needed new spectacles but hadn’t the money for a new pair. My vision was often blurred, and I could only read for minutes at a time. “Wouldn’t you like to see the garden instead?”
“No,” he grunted, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest. “The pond or nothing!”
“Um…”
“And you still haven’t found my jacket!” he hissed, snatching my injured hand and giving it a spiteful squeeze. “Does that hurt?”
“Yes!” I cried out, gasping in agony. “I couldn’t… find it!” The pain radiated up my arm and spread to my chest. “Please!”
“Not until you promise to take me to the pond! I want to wear my jacket as I sit and watch the fish. Is that so difficult to understand, you yammering twit?” He squeezed tighter.
I let out a pained cry. “M-my… hand!”
“Yes, I know. I’ll rip it off if I don’t get what I want. That’s what I told her that night.”
“Told… who?” His hand was like a vise, crushing my fragile bones. “Release… me!”
He grinned evilly, giving my hand another vicious squeeze. “Like that? I used to lift weights when I was a lad. I could lift them over my head. And I’ll do the same to you.”
I was on my knees, reduced to a sobbing wreck at the mercy of a hateful old man. “Let… go!”
The colonel eyed me with dispassionate interest and continued his assault. “You’re a willful girl,” he muttered, twisting my hand as if it amused him to do so. “You never do what I say.”
“Please…”
“Not until you promise,” he sang. “Promise!”
Pain under duress makes people do stupid things.
I was no exception.
“I… promise!” I wheezed, falling into a crumpled heap after he released me. I lay on the ground sobbing and scrambled to my feet, backing away from him. For a moment, he looked so innocent, staring down at me as if he cared. But I knew better. I wanted to curse at him, to tell him what I thought of him. But I didn’t.
Like I’ve always said.
I am a coward.
And a dishonest one.
* * *
It was becoming apparent I could no longer wait for Friday. Colonel Havelock’s behavior was growing steadily worse—with frequent outbursts of violence—mostly directed at me. I packed my belongings and snuck out of the house two days before I was to depart for London.
I ran away, to put it mildly.
The night I fled would always be memorable for its utter cowardice and rank desperation. I didn’t even pack a bag. I just left. After Mr. Anson helped me put Colonel Havelock to bed, I went up to the attic and said goodbye.
“I have to leave,” I said to her, knowing she understood. “He hurt me. And I think he hurt you.”
“… Yes,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry I could not help you.”
In that moment, I felt the brush of spiderwebs across my cheek and knew she was telling me to go. “I—”
“… Sari,” she said, urging me in the direction of a tattered trunk. I allowed her to lead me to it and watched in disbelief as the lid flew open. “… Take.”
“Take what? I—” My breath was sucked from my lungs as she forced me down on my knees. Under a layer of crumpled velvet lay a wedding sari. I knew it by the color and intricate embroidery. “I couldn’t,” I breathed, reaching down to finger the gold thread. “This was yours?”
“… Mine.”
“Anjuli…”
It was the first time I said her name and she let out a high-pitched wail of anguish. “… Keep.”
I shook my head stubbornly. “That’s stealing. And I’m no thief!”
She poked me in the shoulder. “… Safe.”
“You want me to take this to keep it safe? Safe from whom?”
The next word told me what I needed to do.
“Joseph…”
Maybe I was wrong. God knows I knew it was wrong and did it, anyway. I took Anjuli’s wedding sari with me. I wrapped it in an old sheet and stuffed it into my bag. With any luck, no one knew it was up here. And if anyone asked…
Well, why would anyone steal a sari?
Two days after I fled Briarwood Hall, I wisely cancelled the surgery and pawned everything I owned for a third-class ticket back to New York.
I didn’t know it then, but I’d brought Anjuli with me.
