The next morning, I resolved to break through Charles Thornfield’s walls as if I were a battering ram; but gently, over the course of years, and in the meanwhile I might see his white head bent over a harness buckle he was adjusting for Sahjara, and hear him casually cursing. This plan greatly improved my spirits, and I set to filling Sahjara’s pate with horse-related facts, feeling quite myself again by the time we parted.
I ought to have noted something malevolent in the air, for the skies were heavy as lead. Still favouring my ankle, I went into the hall to sort through the mail and discovered an envelope postmarked from London, addressed to Miss Jane Stone.
The slender ivory packet crackled in my grip, but I made no move to open it; the missive could only be from my solicitors, and if they reported I had no claim on Highgate House, then nothing would change. Alternately, if I did own the property, I already lived here, and the thought of Highgate House without Mr. Thornfield was now as appealing as London sans Clarke.
“Have you a letter, Miss Stone?”
Mr. Singh approached, and his features beneath the wiry sweep of his beard were grave.
“Apparently so. No one ever writes to me, so I’m at a bit of a loss.”
“We missed you this morning at breakfast.”
“I was a trifle unwell.”
“Then I am glad to see you looking hale now. Miss Stone . . .” He hesitated, adjusting the cuff upon his wrist. “Did anything distressing happen last night?”
“I found the mortuary,” I owned. “I’ve no aversion.”
Provided I have ample warning every time Sam Quillfeather pays a call.
“Oh, marvellous—we feared distressing you, and if you don’t mind failing to mention it to Sahjara, we are unsure how she’ll take it. When she is older . . .”
“Of course.”
“And nothing else occurred? Mr. Thornfield is not himself today.”
“Is he all right?” I felt stricken—if he were morose, I was culpable. The next instant I felt glad—if he were affected, hope was not lost.
“Yes,” Mr. Singh replied, but the word was too lengthy for one syllable.
“He told me about the, um. The penance. The gloves.”
“Ah.” A frown formed beneath his nobly hooked nose. “Did he elaborate upon why he abstains?”
I shook my head.
“The Guru contains passages about abnegation—fasting, meditation, the renunciation of wealth, but in my opinion, Miss Stone . . .” He lowered his voice. “Such a profound sacrifice is not required by God. The pair of us made a mistake long ago which led us into terrible circumstances, but Charles—I beg your pardon, Mr. Thornfield—”
“It’s all right. I know you’re not the butler.”
“Do you?” he exclaimed.
“I imagine you’re a sight better as a commander,” I teased.
“Well.” He made a small bow, after which his eyes crinkled in distress once more. “Charles, then, feels so culpable that he denies himself touch as a form of self-mortification. I have not yet directly attempted to prevent him, thinking he needed time more than any other balm—but his heart is wide, and bleeds from many hidden wounds.”
“So often the way, with hearts.”
Brushing a hand over his beard, Mr. Singh passed me, inscrutable, heading towards the front door. I remembered Mrs. Garima Kaur’s early assertion to me that he was good, and was grateful, for I knew no one else in whom I could confide.
“I am for the village to settle our bill with the mortuary workmen. Miss Stone, know that I do not take discussion of Charles’s heart lightly, and forgive me if I’ve overburdened you.”
“You haven’t. He has mine, you know.”
Mr. Sardar Singh lingered even as his hand pulled the ornate brass handle of the door. I could not read his face well in any light, so obscured was it by his beard, but now he was quite masked by the cold glow beyond.
“Yes, I thought he might,” he admitted. “I will charge him to guard it, Miss Stone. On my honour.”
“The Sikh people seem to me very honourable indeed.”
Though wintry gusts pelted us, Mr. Singh paused again, and a look steely as his chakkar sharpened his features. Since my initial conversation with Garima Kaur over his character, he had never frightened me; now, however, a chill shot down my spine which had nothing to do with the freezing draught.
“There you are mistaken. Which is worse, Miss Stone, if you will pardon my crudeness—a rapist or a pimp?”
“I . . . I can hardly answer that.” Crescendos of arctic air whirled into the house. “I should abhor either one.”
“Consider the East India Company the rapists, Miss Stone, and the Sikh ruling class the pimps supplying them.” He pulled his collar up. “Forgive me . . . you’ve no desire for a history lesson. Keep yourself well. Charles and I will not return until tomorrow—he met Inspector Quillfeather at his home some miles distant to raise a glass to the mortuary’s completion, and we both plan to pass the night there. Thank you for being so free with yourself, as you have given me much to consider.”