The Sweet Far Thing

Page 157

I think of Kartik and turn that thought out of my mind before it can taint my mood. “None.”
Simon’s thumb moves ever so slightly against my dress. My back tingles where it touches. “That is welcome news,” he purrs.
The dance ends, and I excuse myself for the ladies’ dressing room so that I might allow the flush on my cheeks to cool. Ladies’ maids stand at the ready, but I’ve no need. Where my hair has gone limp, I put it to rights with a wave of my hand. I decide I don’t care for the gloves I’ve donned, so, away from prying eyes, I give myself a different pair. I smile at my handiwork.
“Good evening, Miss Doyle.” I turn to see Lucy Fairchild beside me.
“Miss Fairchild,” I say.
She smiles at me with great warmth. “It’s a splendid ball, isn’t it? How happy you must be for your friend Miss Worthington.”
“Yes,” I say, smiling back. “I am.”
“I watched you dance. You are very graceful,” she says, and I blush, thinking of Simon’s hand at my back, the way I leaned into him.
“Thank you,” I say. “Though my grace is very much in question, and I’m sure Si—Mr. Middleton much prefers dancing with you.”
We smile uncomfortably at one another in the mirror. She pinches her cheeks for color though there’s no need. She’s lovely.
“Well…,” I say, rising to go.
“Yes. Do enjoy the ball,” Lucy Fairchild says with sincerity.
“And you as well.”
A gong sounds and the guests are called to the ballroom. Lord Markham staggers to the center of the floor. He’s had a bit to drink, and the red of his nose shows it.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our esteemed guests,” Lord Markham says, slurring his words a bit, “my dear wife has arranged a most stirring entertainment for this evening. The Whirling Dervishes of Konya have come to us as refugees from the Ottoman Empire, which has of late been the site of an unspeakable massacre of the Armenian people by the Sultan’s army. Such atrocities cannot stand! We must—”
Throats are cleared. Women fan themselves. Lady Markham looks at her husband beseechingly, that he might talk no more of politics, and he nods, cowed.
“I present to you the Dervishes of Konya.”
Eight men in very tall hats take the floor. The gleaming of the crystal chandeliers makes the white of their long, priestly robes shine. The music is hypnotic. The dancers bow to one another and slowly they begin their revolutions. The music swells, the tempo rises, and the dancers’ long skirts float out like bells.
The music speeds along with a passion that stirs my blood. The dervishes turn in ecstasy, their palms raised toward heaven as if they could hold God briefly on their fingers but only if they do not stop turning.
The guests watch in awe, caught up in the frenzy of the Dervishes’ spinning. To my right, I see Mr. Fowlson dressed in servant garb, a tray in his hand. He’s not watching the dancers; he’s watching my brother. Seconds later, he exits the room. I’ll not let him go tonight. I intend to shadow his every move. He’ll let my brother be or feel my wrath.
He walks upstairs and knocks on the door to the gentlemen’s parlor. I dart behind an enormous potted fern to spy. A moment later, Lord Denby appears.
“Yes, Fowlson?”
“’E’s watchin’ the dance, sir,” Fowlson reports. “I’m keepin’ my eye on ’im, jus’ like you asked.”
Lord Denby pats Fowlson’s shoulder. “Good man.”
“I wondered, sir, if I might ’ave a word.”
Lord Denby loses his smile. “It’s not really the time or the place, old chap.”
“Yes, sir, forgive me, but it never seems to be, and I was wondrin’ when I migh’ advance in the Rakshana like we talked about. I ’ave some thoughts….”
Lord Denby sticks his cigar into his mouth. “All in good time.”
“Just as you say, sir,” Fowlson answers, his head down.
“We need more fine soldiers like you, Mr. Fowlson,” Lord Denby crows. “Now, do keep to your duties, won’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Fowlson says. He turns on his heel and strides back to the ballroom, where he might keep watch over my brother.
Lord Denby is of the Rakshana. The full weight of it hits my stomach like a fist. All this time. I’ve been in his home. I’ve kissed his son. Simon. Anger, hot and unforgiving, rises in me. He will answer for this, for my brother.
I don’t bother to knock. I open the door and step into the parlor, where only the men sit, smoking their pipes and cigars. The hard glint of their eyes makes it clear that I am a trespasser here. Swallowing hard, I march through the clusters of silently outraged men and straight up to Lord Denby. He puts on a false smile.