Mr. Thornfield ran a finger over his chin. “If your writing was half as good as what you just said, Miss Stone, then I should very much like to read it.”
“Oh, they’re long gone,” I demurred, though my eyes must have shone at the praise. “They harmed no one and interested me—what sort of occupation could be better?”
“Well, there you have it. Medicine was honest work, and I had always wanted to see the place where my parents met, so I fled the Punjab at precisely the wrong time, in order to pursue a career which I’ve never practised outside of a war.”
“Surely you saved lives when you returned?”
He made no reply, his face so fixed that I imagined that I had turned him to stone.
“A few, perhaps,” he said at length.
I knew better than to press this point. “What did you think of London?”
Relieved I had shifted topics, Mr. Thornfield answered readily. “It’s filthy, and wet, and hides a brutal soul behind majestic walls. Its people are alternately snobbish or base, and if I didn’t come from a culture of warriors, I’d say it was the most savage city I’d ever seen. I thought it glorious, of course, from the instant it sullied my boots.”
“I loved it as well.”
“Yes, and if there are bits of yourself which you should prefer to toss in the gutter . . .”
“You can shed your skin.”
“And no one the wiser.”
“Still. It was by far the most crowded place I’ve ever been lonesome,” I added, staring into my glass.
“That ought not to have been the case, Miss Stone,” he said quietly. “I know very little about you, but I know you would be absolute rubbish at solitude. Your relish for companionship is clear as print.”
Tripping steps sounded, and Sahjara entered the room with her face alight, wearing a dressing gown over her nightdress. Rushing to Mr. Thornfield, she tugged at his sleeve. “Charles, I’ve had the most wonderful idea, and Sardar says he’ll only do it if you promise to join him, and of course I will as well though I’m not so good as either of you, but I’ll make up for it on horseback I’d wager, and Miss Stone will be so pleased after having been cooped up indoors for so long.”
“What is she jabbering about?” Mr. Thornfield asked irritably, swallowing a measure of Scotch. “She speaks English, I know she speaks English, she learnt the tongue in the Punjab from my parents and perfected its nuances here when she was five.”
“Charles, don’t be dreadful, we’re going to put on a demonstration!”
“A demonstration of what, you ill-mannered imp?”
“Of everything!” She turned to me, her smooth cheeks flushed with enthusiasm. “Riding, in my case, and perhaps archery. The chakkar, the tulwar, the aara—”
“Has she lost her mind?” Mr. Thornfield exclaimed. “You want to stage a mock fight Khalsa-style in the middle of the British countryside?”
“Yes!” She clapped her hands together decisively. “Yes, the way Sardar says you used to practise outside Lahore’s gates, only we’ll do it on the grounds, and Miss Stone will love it.”
“Miss Stone will be entirely put off by our foreign antics and will quit the house in high dudgeon.”
I burst out laughing at the transparent falsity of this excuse.
“Have I not given you steeds?” Mr. Thornfield demanded, rubbing his temple. “Have I not given you fine frocks and an English mansion? Have I not given you a governess—”
“Please, Charles.” Her smile meant she expected to get her way. “Sardar said yes.”
“Sardar spoils you so obscenely it’s all I can do not to throw myself in the nearest river.”
“Please?” I interjected, grinning. “It would be so educational.”
Mr. Thornfield’s glower was fast losing strength; finally he gave a martyred sigh, finished his whiskey with a snap of the wrist, and said, “I’m no match for the pair of you martinets.”
“Hurrah!” Sahjara exulted, taking his gloved hand and delivering a peck to it. “Tomorrow?”
“Oh, certainly, supposing you prefer me headless. I’ve not practised with the aara in years.”
She swung the hand she still held. “Next week.”
“You’ll be the death of me yet. Fine.”
“It really is a marvellous idea,” I said, smiling at her.
“It’s a ridiculous idea.” Pushing himself to his feet, Mr. Thornfield brushed a wisp of hair off Sahjara’s brow. “Go back to bed, darling, and thence to sleep, so that you’ll be unable to hatch any fresh schemes to gall me.”
“Insufferable gaffer,” she said affectionately.
“Impertinent brat.”
Sahjara disappeared with a toss of her head. Mr. Thornfield returned our empty glasses to the sideboard, looking contemplative. I had begun to better cherish his silences, for he possessed many shades of stillness and sharing them with me meant he was at ease in my presence; this was a blue quiet, as deep as his eyes.
“I wish that whatever you are thinking, you did not have to dwell upon it,” I told him.