Blood Autumn Page 6

  Wake up.

  Every time he woke up. Sitting bolt up, out of breath, damp from sweat, Lyttleton would wake abruptly and stare wildly about the room, not sure where he was, and then the memory of the dream would return, and he would fall back limply, his eyes closed. Several times he was embarrassed to discover emission. Agitated, he would rise to pace around his bedroom. He would think about what happened. None of it made sense.

  He couldn't offer an explanation for the dreams; he wasn't sure that he wanted to.

  The next day, at the club, Lyttleton hailed Montchalmers and Terris, who had just entered. They came to sit with him, and he studied them, thinking that in their own ways they appeared as haunted as he felt. His friends seemed nervous and snapped at each other several times. Lyttleton frowned and wondered if he should say anything. It was best, he felt, to share confidences. He told them he was having strange dreams at night.

  "Dreams?" Terris set his glass down sharply. "What kind?"

  Lyttleton glanced away, knowing he was blushing but not being able to prevent it. Damnit, he thought furiously, he was a grown man acting like a schoolboy. "Dreams of a highly . . . personal nature, Wyndy."

  "About the widow?"

  Montchalmers and Lyttleton stared at him.

  "Why, yes. How did you know?"

  "I've had them, too," Terris said shortly.

  "I, too," Montchalmers echoed, a little bewildered. He knocked down a glass of wine. "What does it mean?" He looked around at his friends.

  "Mean, Henry?" Lyttleton's tone was brusque. "I'm sure it doesn't mean anything at all." He didn't want to discuss the topic any longer and regretted bringing it up in the first place.

  "Somehow it must be related to our grief for our late friend," Terris suggested quietly. He was staring down into his glass as if he could divine something from those ruby depths.

  "That must be it," Montchalmers agreed eagerly, looking vastly relieved to have his erotic dreams explained away so easily.

  Lyttleton wasn't so sure, though, even though that seemed as good an excuse as any, and momentarily he felt relieved. Still, some shame lingered at the memory of the intense dreams, and as he glanced at his friends he wondered how intense their dreams were, then decided he didn't want to know.

  "Have you lost weight, Wyndy?" he asked. Terris looked gaunter than usual and hadn't spoken very much. Terris was usually more reticent than the other two men, but tonight he seemed even more withdrawn.

  "No; well, yes," said Terris, not looking up. "Some, I suppose. Why?"

  "Oh, no reason, old boy." Lyttleton knew he was still upset by the death of their friend, so he dismissed the worry that was forming inside him.

  Again that night Lyttleton experienced the strange dreams.

  Again he woke, sitting bolt up in bed. When he finally rose at half past ten that morning, he did not feel rested at all.

  Better, he told himself, to have sat up all evening than endure that sleeplessness. Tonight, though, at dinner with his friends he intended to do more drinking than usual and perhaps that would put him soundly to sleep. He hadn't given much thought to Terris' odd behavior, although once while he was dressing, he thought that the look in Terris' eyes reminded him of someone else's. But whose he didn't know. Shrugging, he dismissed the thought and went in to have a light breakfast.

  At the club that evening Lyttleton was distressed to discover that Terris looked even worse than he had the night before. His movements were jerky, and he continually dropped things. At times his eyes were unfocused, his voice strident when he answered questions.

  "Are you all right, Wyndy?" Lyttleton asked abruptly during the excellent meal of roast beef.

  "Of course I am," Terris snarled. He glared at Lyttleton.

  Lyttleton glanced across at Montchalmers and saw his own concern mirrored there. "I thought you were ill or — " He never had a chance to finish.

  "Mind your own business, won't you! I'm perfectly all right. I haven't been sleeping as much as usual, but otherwise I can't complain."

  Lyttleton nodded, aware that other club members were looking in their direction, and prudently dropped the matter.

  The remainder of the meal passed comfortably enough, although some constraint remained between the three men and Montchalmers chattered too much. Afterward they had their usual brandies, and Terris was the first to excuse himself, saying he had important business to attend to. He left then, and Montchalmers and Lyttleton spent the rest of the evening conjecturing about Terris, but finally, as they could come up with nothing, they let the matter rest.

  Lyttleton did not see Terris again until two days later, and he was shocked at the change undergone by the man in that short time. His skin seemed stretched across the bones of his face, the gaunt hollows filled with shadows. His eyes were red, as though from lack of sleep, and the skin underneath black and puffy. His hands trembled with everything he did.

  Terris insisted he wasn't ill. His voice was shrill, rising louder and louder until Montchalmers was compelled to shush him, which only served to make him more frenzied.

  Suddenly Lyttleton knew where he had seen the look in Terris' eyes before. He had seen the same expression in the eyes of Tommy Hamilton, just days prior to his sudden death.

  "Don't you try to quiet me!" Terris shrieked.

  "For God's sake, Wyndy, lower your voice," Montchalmers said, leaning forward.

  "I won't! I won't let you silence me! I have things to say! Things, I say!"

  "Very well," Lyttleton said reasonably, trying to humor the stricken man, "what sort of things?"

  "Things," Terris muttered darkly. A lock of his hair, lank and dirty, swung back and forth over his forehead as he shook his head. He pushed it back, and for the first time Lyttleton noticed the man's fingernails were dirty and broken; some were ragged, as though he'd chewed on them. Lyttleton was repelled, and filled with pity, too. He wished he could help.

  "Good things, Wyndy?" Lyttleton asked. If he could draw him out by talking, they might discover what was troubling Terris.

  "Of course good things!" Terris toyed with his wineglass, set it down so violently it startled Montchalmers. Nervously he twisted a cufflink, and Lyttleton noticed the griminess of the cuffs, as though the shirt hadn't been properly laundered or as if he hadn't changed it in some time. Wrinkled as well, the shirt was stained in several places. Terris was slipping in every possible way, and Lyttleton didn't know what to do. Terris muttered under his breath, words neither man could understand.

  Montchalmers leaned over him, trying to reassure him, and Terris shrank back with a low moan. Montchalmers tried unsuccessfully to mask the hurt.

  "She's mine," Terris said.

  "What's that?" Lyttleton said, not believing Terris' words.

  "She's mine," he repeated, louder this time. "She's mine, do you hear me? I love her, I truly do, and she loves me!" he declared passionately, almost defiantly. He stared at Lyttleton and Montchalmers, his eyes almost glazed. "I'm her true love!"

  There was no doubt in Lyttleton's mind whom Terris meant.

  "They all want her. Dogs. Each and every one of 'em dogs. I've seen the way they come around her, sniffing and grunting. Terrible dogs. Terrible men." His eyes rolled, the whites showing. "Dogs, sons-of-bitches!" He smirked. "Dogs." Apparently the word amused him for he kept repeating it to himself.

  "Wyndy," Lyttleton said, his tone as calm as he could muster, "we understand what you're enduring, and you needn't be alone. We can help. For God's sake, let us. We're your friends."

  Terris' expression turned sly. "You can't understand what it's like. How could you? You're both dogs! Dogs! All of 'em! They come after her, you come after her, sniffing and grunting, sniffing and grunting. Coming day and night. After her. And it hurts to see them, to see all of them. I don't like it. I don't want any of them around. I want them all to go away, but they won't, the dogs. Sniffing and grunting. Jealousy," he muttered, not looking at either man, "it's eating me alive!" he whined. "Aliv
e with jealousy! To see them come around, sniffing and grunting around her, around my love, my love." Tears coursed down his face now as the two men stared, horrified. "I can't stand it any longer! I'm her love, and there's no one else. There'll never be anyone else!"

  Suddenly Terris leaped to his feet, knocking back his chair, and pulled something from his pocket. He clutched a pistol in his hands. Grinning foolishly, he aimed the pistol shakily at Montchalmers, then at Lyttleton. Both stood slowly, not wanting to startle him. Terris began to chuckle, a low, hideous sound like the laugh of a madman. Montchalmers glanced out of the tail of his eye at Lyttleton, who nodded almost imperceptibly. As one, they lunged forward. They grappled with Terris, trying to wrest the pistol away from him. Some of the braver club members had started toward them, and Lyttleton shouted at them to stay back.

  Terris knocked his two friends away as though they were children. Montchalmers fell to the floor, while Lyttleton staggered backward, nearly slipping and falling. Momentarily his breath was sucked out, and when he breathed deeply, he felt as though a knife were slicing through his lungs.

  Before Lyttleton could recover, Terris pushed Montchalmers, who was just getting to his feet, down again, and then he rushed from the room. Lyttleton helped Montchalmers up, and they pursued their friend. At the end of the hall they saw a door slam shut. They found it locked and pounded on the wood with their palms.

  "Wyndy, for God's sake, let us in!" Montchalmers called. "Please!"

  "Come on, old man," Lyttleton cajoled. "Let us in. We'll all talk about it, have some wine — "

  From behind the door came a muffled giggle which sent chills down their spines.

  "Wyndy!"

  "We understand how you feel. We can — "

  There was a sharp retort. The two men looked at each other.

  It was the sound of a pistol being fired.

  Delhi, India: 1857

  The sun had sunk below the mountains almost an hour before, and still the heat remained, for the India summer that lasted from March until October was only a month old.

  Baked into the white walls of the house, the heat, so intense and overwhelming in midday that it could literally suck the breath out of a man, sighed as it was slowly released, and the leaves of the mango trees shook in the hot breeze that blew from the west. Across the windows and doorways were tatties, four-inch thick screens of sweet smelling kuskus grass kept wet constantly to reduce the temperature of the air passing through them. Sometimes they helped.

  The one-story stuccoed house was large and rambling, with the verandah around all four sides. Behind stood an enclosed, and long-neglected, garden of oleanders, jasmine, roses, and hibiscus. Palms and cypress grew in the dusty front yard.

  The house was the residence of a sahib, an Englishman who'd disembarked in India thirty years earlier to seek his fortune, who'd stayed while his comrades had returned to an England of pleasant memories, and who had amassed more wealth than he'd ever dreamed possible while he was growing up in Yorkshire.

  Located in the English suburb of Delhi, the house was filled with the finest of everything: delicate etchings and accomplished paintings; silver and gold bowls and service; china brought many years ago around the Cape from England; tables and boxes, small and large, intricately inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl; mahogany and cherrywood furniture; brass and silver, gold and gold-plate; and this luxurious residential empire was tended by an army of native servants.

  The servants had now retired to their whitewashed baked-mud huts behind the house to await the return of the owner, and so the house was empty, or nearly so, for cockroaches as large as mice scuttled across the floor of the study, while insects as large as a man's hand buzzed through the rooms. Mosquitoes and gnats sought bare flesh upon which to feed, and a lizard darted up a wall by a framed watercolor. On a Louis XIV lacquered writing desk mold marred the thin sheaves of paper. Opposite, on the shelves stretching the length and height of one wall, the book pages curled and rotted and harbored parasites that ate away at the leaves.

  The overly warm air was pungent with the odor of rotting mangoes and too-ripe bananas, the perfume of oleanders and hibiscus, the sourness of wet animal dung, and the mustiness of mildew.

  Outside, a horse neighed shrilly, breaking the silence, as a carriage rumbled to a stop. A man's deep voice shouted angry orders in Hindustani, and two servants, both dressed alike in dhoti, hastened into the house to light the lamps.

  Another squatted by the punkah in the study and began working it so that a slight breeze fanned the deadened air of the room.

  The front door crashed open, knocking loose the lizard which had just reached the ceiling, and a large man, still in his middle years, strode into the room. He was accompanied by a woman some decades his junior.

  He slapped his gloves down on a table, ruffling the pages of an open book. He whirled around and tapped his foot.

  "Why'd you have to invite him back here?" he demanded harshly. His eyebrows, shot with grey, beetled together into a fierce expression which did not in the least daunt his younger companion.

  "Father, the servants." She glanced at the punkah-wallah.

  "Servants be damned. They're just niggers," he said, glaring at her.

  "They still have ears, Father."

  He ignored her. "You haven't answered my question, August. Why tonight, of all nights?" He took a step toward her, his arms half-raised at his side. "Tonight was to be — "

  Stepping agilely away from him, she tugged off her gloves and let them fall to the floor. A servant would retrieve them within minutes.

  "I thought it would be an excellent way to pass the evening. After all. Lieutenant Hamilton is very handsome. And young." The man paled noticeably. "Besides, I find him extremely intriguing," she added as she carefully arranged her skirts and sat in one of the cane-back chairs scattered about the room.

  "So, he intrigues you. There's bound to be more to it than his handsome face, I'll wager." The man regarded her for some moments, while she ignored him and leafed through a book. "Are you thinking of going to England, my sweet?" he asked finally.

  "It has occurred to me."

  "Ha! I thought so! He's not very important, August. He's merely a lowly lieutenant, not at all influential. And besides, he's just been stationed here in India. He won't leave for some time."

  "I'm well aware of that. Now, come sit, Father. Don't stand and bluster about, for it'll make you exceedingly hot and weary."

  Sighing, he eased himself into a nearby chair proportioned to his size, and before he could say another word, a servant entered silently and bowed low over the teakwood tray he held. The man took a crystal glass, as did the woman.

  When the servant had left, the man resumed the conversation. "You know I've never interfered before with these diversions" — here he placed his hand upon her arm — "and you know I wouldn't mind, August, except that tonight was promised to — "

  "Father," she said, a bored expression in her voice as she shrugged his hand away, "I really don't care to discuss it any longer. It is settled. Our guest will be arriving shortly."

  "You never consult me, August," he muttered somewhat petulantly as he glared into his glass of wine. She ignored him; his expression deepened into a glower, and still she did not look at him. Finally he gave up and began drinking his chilled wine.

  They did not speak again, and in the silence Parrish and his daughter could hear the howling of jackals as they roamed the banks of the Jumna River flowing past the city. Not long after, they heard the sounds of a horseman arriving. A man dismounted, said something to a servant, and within seconds their guest was ushered into the study by yet another servant.

  Lieutenant Thomas Edmund Hamilton of the Queen's Sixth Dragoon Guards towered half a head over six feet, had shoulders broadened by summers of swimming at his uncle's estate, and the narrow hips and the muscular legs and arms of a natural athlete. His hair was guinea-gold, his blue eyes guileless, as well as being framed by long curling las
hes that were the envy of most Englishwomen in Delhi, and his strong chin bore a slight cleft. He wore the undress summer uniform of a frock coat and white pants. Smiling, he bowed low.

  "Good evening, Mr. Parrish. Miss Parrish." Hamilton's voice was resonant, the voice of a young man confident of himself and his abilities.

  Cecil Parrish nodded brusquely. "Hamilton. Good to see you again. Care for some wine, Lieutenant? It's been chilled."

  "Why, yes, thank you."

  The lieutenant sat and gazed unabashedly and admiringly at August Parrish.

  Parrish handed Hamilton a glass, then glared at the young officer from behind his wineglass. Hamilton never noticed.

  "I'm so glad you were able to come this evening," August murmured, her lashes lowered becomingly over her large dark eyes.

  "I'm glad, too," Hamilton responded eagerly, his eyes never leaving her face. "I have seen you before, Miss Parrish. That is, before tonight at the concert. From afar, though." He grinned at her.

  She lifted a dark brow. "An admirer from afar? Is that correct, Lieutenant Hamilton?"

  "Oh yes," he breathed.

  Parrish made a disgusted sound and drained his glass. He poured more wine.

  "It's true, Miss Parrish," Hamilton said, undaunted. "I've admired you for so long — weeks, in fact, ever since I saw you at the Turners' party last month — and I've wanted to meet you from that very moment, but until I saw you tonight, I didn't know how to go about it, and then, when we fell to talking" — he grinned at Parrish, who didn't return the expression — "and when you invited me back, well, you really are most kind, Miss Parrish."

  "Not at all," she said, her voice low.

  He grinned again; she answered with a smile, and he took a quick gulp of his wine. A bead of sweat trickled unnoticed down the side of his face.

  Hamilton cleared his throat, looked at her, then at her father, then back at the young woman. He evidently wanted to speak, but he was too shy. August smiled encouragingly at him.