Once she was alone, she rubbed her arm and scratched vigorously at the spot the man had touched. She had learned to ignore the leers men gave her in London, the occasional grope on the streets. She’d been taught it was only men being men, that they couldn’t help their urges. That she was only something nice for them to look at, to feel, as if that were her only purpose in this world.
She ripped off her bodice and looked for one with longer sleeves. Changed, she sat on the edge of her bed and yearned for another cigarette. Or tea. Better yet, sherry. But she was afraid to ask anything of the sepoy outside. She didn’t want her door unguarded for even a second.
If only she could be doing something useful, anything to take her mind off these churning thoughts. But Crosby wouldn’t dare let her out by herself.
She decided, suddenly, that she didn’t need Akash’s help after all. Or that of any of the soldiers. She would figure this problem out on her own.
Daphne squandered the day pacing her room and writing a long letter to her mother that she didn’t plan to send. It would take nearly a month to deliver, and her mother would have difficulty reading it in any case. Still, it helped to steady her hand and her mind. She jotted down her thoughts, laying them before her as if they were pieces of a puzzle she had yet to solve.
Night fell and her restlessness returned. She wanted to visit Narayan again. She wanted to understand what was going on with the towers.
To blazes with it.
Daphne carefully opened the door to find that Partha had returned to his post.
“I’m going to take a turn around the billet,” she lied. “No need to follow.”
But as she walked down the hall, he did follow. She sped up her pace, and he lengthened his stride.
“Miss Richards, where are you going?” he finally asked. “I must tell the lieutenant—”
“Just for a walk, as I told you.”
“I will still have to inform—”
She yelled in frustration, then took off running. Partha’s boots pounded behind her. Startled soldiers turned their heads, and one of them laughed. Daphne rounded a corner sharply, barreling down the stairway toward the exit.
“Miss Richards!”
The night embraced her. She inhaled a lungful of cooler air and kept up her pace, running, running, directionless but lured by the pull of the clock tower.
“Miss Richards!” Partha grabbed her elbow and swung her around. She struggled, but he was far stronger. “Stop, please. Lieutenant Crosby will have my head if I do not keep you in the billet.”
“I need to go to the tower,” she growled.
“Why? Is it in danger? Do you know something?”
“No, I …” How could she explain it? How could she tell this man that in a place where she felt unwelcome, unappreciated, unprotected, she had only one comfort: the clock tower, and the complexity of its time? It was written on her bones. They ached.
“If there is no pressing need, I must bring you back,” Partha said.
“Please,” she whispered, half-ashamed when her eyes filled with tears. “Please, may I see it? Make sure it’s all right?”
He wavered. There was something complicated in his expression, in the way his fingers twitched. He looked over his shoulder at the billet’s glowing windows.
“Only if you cover up,” he said at last. “Wait here.”
She stayed in an alcove until he returned with a long muslin scarf, the sort that Sikh women wore. He helped her wrap it around her head, covering her fair hair.
They walked to the tower in silence. Daphne’s legs were thankful for the exercise, her heart beating a slow, insistent rhythm. She wasn’t sure why Partha had agreed to her request, unless he had reason to escape the billet himself. She’d noticed that he seemed distant, even lost at times.
“How long have you been in the army?” she asked him.
He lifted his gaze from the ground. “Five years.”
“How did you come to join?”
Partha looked around, as if he didn’t want anyone overhearing. There were only a few people on the streets in this quarter, including a couple men relieving themselves against a brick wall.
“My father was in the army,” he finally said.
“Oh.” She wasn’t sure how to politely ask more.
He sensed the question, though, and answered anyway. “He took part in what the British call the Mutiny.” He made a face at the term. “Unfortunately, he was caught and executed. The group of rebels he was part of were strapped to the front of cannons that were then fired.”
A dark feeling stole across her chest, making her shudder.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “I shouldn’t speak of such a thing.”
“No, it’s all right. I’m sorry for your loss. It’s … terrible, what happened.” The words were inadequate, but he nodded. “I’m sure Her Majesty becoming Queen-Empress doesn’t help.”
His face fell into that complicated look again, but he didn’t respond.
“Are you going to the celebration in Delhi? Will you be helping guard the tower there?”
“No, Major Dryden does not want to spare many of his men. You and Mr. Hart are not to go under any circumstances. It might be dangerous.”
She was about to ask more about the tower guard when they rounded a corner and saw a few British soldiers standing under a statue. As they got closer, she realized it was a depiction of the Queen. Her arm was held before her, a large jewel cradled on her stone palm.
The statue must be new, no doubt to celebrate the upcoming coronation. It seemed oddly out of place. Almost garish. Without realizing it, Daphne made a face.
The street was lit with torches, so Daphne could plainly see the faces of Lucknow citizens glaring up at the statue and the soldiers standing beneath it. The street felt like the string of a violin, taut and ready to sound. Partha sensed it, too, and put his hand protectively near Daphne’s elbow. The soldiers laughed at something, ignoring the incensed crowd.
Then one man stepped forward and threw a head of rotting cabbage at the statue. “Down with the Queen!” he yelled. “Down with the British!”
One of the soldiers grabbed his rifle. “What was that, now? I can barely hear you under that swill you call words.”
The Indian man was small and stick-thin. He clenched his hands as the British soldier, large and broad-shouldered, stalked toward him.
“I asked you to repeat yourself,” the soldier demanded.
The Indian spat Hindi at him, then literally spat—right at the soldier’s feet. Before Daphne could blink, the soldier had knocked the man to the ground and pushed a boot to his neck. He aimed his rifle at the man’s face.
“Say it again,” the soldier snarled. “I dare you.”
Some of the Indians put their heads down, walking faster. Others had stopped to watch. Now they roused as one, muttering and yelling and finding other things to throw: a shoe, a rock, a piece of garbage. The other two soldiers drew their guns, trading worried looks. They were clearly outnumbered.
The soldier pinning down the Indian man fired a warning shot in the air. The whole street fell deadly silent.
“Run to your homes, or whatever piss-stained alley you use for your beds,” he ordered, “unless you want a hot bullet for your supper.”