Blood Autumn Read online

  "I was wondering . . . that is, I had wanted to — would you care to go to the Oswalds' dinner party this week, Miss Parrish?" His words rushed together in his nervousness. "I know that it's probably impossible, as I've given you such short notice, and you probably already have an escort, but if that isn't the case, I would be most happy if you would attend with me." His tone, as well as expression, was eager.

  "I would be most delighted, Lieutenant, to attend with you."

  "You would? Wonderful!" Hamilton smiled, elated. "Excellent. I'll make further arrangements tomorrow." She nodded, and he finished his wine, then stood. "I think I should go. It's growing late, Miss Parrish, and no doubt your father and you will be retiring soon."

  "No doubt," she said.

  Hamilton bent over her hand and in a courtly fashion brushed his lips across the top of it. It was customary for men and women to shake hands.

  "Would it be permissible for me to call upon you tomorrow morning?"

  Social calls in Delhi, as in the rest of English-dominated India, were most often conducted in the mornings, well before the enervating heat of the day had become unbearable, while the two best times to go riding were three a.m. and nine p.m.

  "I fear I do not rise early, sir, as is the custom with so many of my women acquaintances. And later in the afternoon I have household matters I must attend, and which I cannot neglect."

  "I understand perfectly," Hamilton said. "I have only the greatest of admiration for your ability in running your father's household so capably, Miss Parrish. It is an excellent quality." She murmured her thanks. "May I call upon you in the evening then?"

  "That would be fine, Lieutenant Hamilton, for I should be completely rested by then. I look forward to seeing you."

  Hamilton smiled again at her, shook hands with a reluctant Cecil Parrish and thanked him for inviting him to his house, then left.

  In the abrupt silence Parrish glanced across at his daughter, who had a slightly dreamy expression on her red lips. He pressed his lips together and spoke in a tight voice.

  "I don't like you encouraging him."

  "You don't like me encouraging anyone," she countered. "Besides, I'm not encouraging him." She trailed her fingertips along the arm of the chair and paused to rub a worn spot.

  "Like hell you're not!"

  August looked appropriately shocked. "Father! Your language!"

  He glowered. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face, matting the grey hair, and a dark stain spread downward on his starched collar. His lips were dry, the skin cracking and flaking.

  "He vows he's interested in me." Her voice was coy. "Can I help that?"

  "Yes, you bloody well can."

  "Come now, Father. Don't be so angry. After all, you j must realize that — "

  "No, I won't let it happen! I won't let some boy still wet behind the ears sweep you off your feet. I won't have it, do you hear, August!" His chest rose and fell rapidly with his hoarse breathing.

  "He's hardly a boy," she demurred. "He's a man, Father, and as I understand it, the only son of a wealthy family."

  "They're all boys," he muttered, wiping a hand across his darkening face. He glanced at his hand, then took out a lawn handkerchief and rubbed at the sweat dabbing his face. "Inexperienced, young, stupid. I've seen it too often, August. Too often. We haven't been in Delhi that long — don't spoil things for us."

  "I won't, believe me. This is different," she said softly. "That I promise you."

  "Hmmph."

  "It is different," she repeated, then cocked her head slightly to one side. "You won't ruin it this time, Father. I'm giving you fair warning. I have been tolerant in the past."

  Parrish said nothing.

  In one graceful motion she rose and walked toward him, her skirts swaying seductively. She bent down to give him

  an affectionate kiss upon the forehead. "There now, Father, don't you feel better?"

  "No, but I do know what will make me feel better," he said thickly. He glanced up at her and his harsh expression relaxed a little.

  With a faint smile curving her red lips she clasped his hand.

  *

  "Tommy's got a girl," said a grinning Malcolm Grant.

  The Queen's Sixth Dragoon Guards cantonment, or military station, was located in the town of Meerut, almost forty miles to the northeast of Delhi. Hamilton had arrived late the night before from Delhi, giving his friends ample opportunity to discuss his absence.

  "The arrows of Cupid have found the heart of our cherub," Grant continued. Hamilton's brother officers called him a cherub because of his fair hair and guileless eyes. He was also considered an innocent, for he'd been in India for scarcely two months. The regiment had been sent home from Crimea the year before and was about half its usual strength. Grant had been with the Dragoon Guards the longest of the four officers; his family had served in the regiment since the days of Queen Anne.

  "A girl, eh?" said Bert Flaxley, winking at Grant and Richard Rutherford. "Wouldn't be one of the native girls now, would it, Tommy?"

  "Good God, no! Haven't lost my mind from the beastly heat yet."

  "Besides, keeping a mistress takes money, and Tommy wants to keep what his father's left him!" Grant teased. "Don't blame him myself."

  "Maybe she just came over on the Fishing Fleet," Flaxley suggested.

  For some time large numbers of unattached English girls and women had flocked to India, seeking available men as husbands, and this use of India as a marriage mart was termed by the local British as the Fishing Fleet. By and large, the women were successful, too.

  "Those long-faced spinsters!" Rutherford said. "Tommy has better taste than that. Don't you, old man?"

  "That's right," Flaxley said. "Come on now, Tommy, who is it? You can tell us! We're your friends!"

  Hamilton grinned good-naturedly as he stretched out his legs so that his servant could remove the dusty boots. "Why should I tell you fellows?"

  "Why not?" Grant said.

  "Well, if you can keep a secret, I'll tell you."

  "We can, we can!" the three men exclaimed.

  "I doubt it, but I'll tell anyway." He took his time with his rum while his friends grew impatient. Finally he grinned. "I'm going to the Oswalds' dinner party, and I will be escorting Miss August Parrish."

  One of the men whistled appreciatively.

  "I've heard her father is as rich as Croesus," Rutherford said, a note of envy in his voice.

  "To hell with her father," Grant said, "she's a rare beauty, and an unplucked jewel, I've heard, too. My God, Tommy, how'd you do it? Her name hasn't been linked with anyone's; she and her father keep to themselves, and I don't think I've seen her above five times. Her father might as well keep her in purdah for all that we see of her."

  "You haven't seen much because they've only been here a few months," Hamilton explained. "I believe they came from the north, around Cashmere, I believe."

  "Incredible, Tommy, simply incredible." Flaxley's hazel eyes became sly. "As for motive . . ." He made a gesture which caused the others to laugh.

  Hamilton just grinned.

  The shadow glided across the dirt street. The night was black; no moon hung overhead, and there were no streetlights. Even the open windows of the crude houses were black. A foul odor arose from the gutters where garbage and sewage lay rotting in the heat.

  A pack of dogs, their ribs protruding, rummaged through the reeking piles, then bristled and growled as the shadow approached. Suddenly they turned, and with tails tucked between their scrawny legs, ran. A sound like faint laughter followed them, then drifted away in the torpid night air.

  The shadow listened.

  Down the street drifted an infant's hungry cries. Nearby a man and a woman shouted in Hindi, while across the street several children giggled. Far away a cat yowled. These were the sounds of the city settling for the night, while along the river jackals barked as they prowled for food.

  Another sound was added to this: footsteps.
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br />   Veiled in darkness, the shadow waited.

  The footsteps became bare feet slapping against the dirt.

  Closer and closer.

  Around the corner of a mud house a youth no more than twelve appeared. He was a handsome boy with large eyes and a ready smile. Strong-limbed, clean, healthy. He was running an errand for his ill mother, and he had promised her he would be home soon.

  Smiling, the shadow waited; then, when the boy was only a few feet away, the shadow slipped away from the wall.

  The boy stopped, thinking he'd seen something in the darkness. "Come here," the shadow whispered in the boy's own language. The boy took a step forward, then stopped. "Come to me." The voice was insistent.

  The child melted into the shadows, and cool, soft hands crept around his neck, while icy lips touched his.

  The boy laughed.

  "Have you seen the bloody Gazette?" Flaxley waved the Delhi newspaper in front of him.

  Today the April heat, worse than usual, had robbed the four officers of whatever strength they'd had left. In the morning they had paraded briefly, then been dismissed to rest. Even the tatties failed to keep the oppressiveness from the room. The punkah-wallah sat in one corner, and a slight breeze stirred the room's still air. A huge green fly buzzed around the ceiling.

  "What's that?" Grant was busy shuffling a deck of cards, for he and Rutherford were engaged in a friendly wager. Pausing, he took out a handkerchief and wiped it across his gleaming face and neck.

  Hamilton, who could barely manage to find enough strength to write a long letter to August, paused and looked up. "Saw it yesterday." He seemed far more affected by the heat than the others, for he had been in India less time. Grant had assured him that he would grow used to it. Sometime.

  "They've found a third native child dead, it says here.

  Something about the blood. Seems it might be a new disease, although they can't say for sure as some animal — probably the dogs — got to it."

  "Bloody wogs," Rutherford muttered. "Damned heathens. I'll be glad when the missionaries convert them all and this sort of thing will stop." He shook his head, a disgusted look on his face. "Murders now, and those rumors about the sepoys and their damned unrest. I told you before and I'll tell you now — you can't trust any of 'em. Go ahead, Grant, deal."

  Flaxley opened the newspaper to read more. "Children and young men have died. All in the same manner. Terrible, just terrible. It says the bodies were — "

  "Please, spare us the gruesome details," Grant said softly.

  "Might have something to do with their religion, Bert," Hamilton said. "Like suttee. Or the Thugs. That's what it sounds like to me."

  "I don't think so," said Grant. "No, this seems different."

  "How?" Hamilton asked as he returned to his letter. He wasn't really interested, for he was a man in love and love had no patience for unpleasantries such as death.

  "I don't know," Grant said, shrugging slightly. "Just different somehow."

  "It's the heat," Flaxley stated firmly. "It's turning everyone into beasts." Sweat trickled down his neck, and his hair lay limply across his forehead. He grimaced and reached for his drink.

  "The Indians are accustomed to these summers, though," Grant pointed out.

  "Doesn't mean it don't make them go mad," Flaxley asserted.

  "Goddamnit, Grant, deal the cards!" Rutherford said, scowling, and downed his rum.

  Grant obliged, but continued talking. "The sawbones think it might be a fever that's killing them off. God knows, the place has enough." Like the others, he'd endured his share of tropical diseases and fevers since coming to India. Before, in the Crimea, he had almost died of a battle wound.

  "Amazing," Flaxley said. He reached for his glass, found it empty. He clapped his hands. "Chand!"

  The summons was answered by a short Indian of middle years; he bowed low. "Yes, Lieutenant-sahib?"

  "More rum and arrack," Flaxley said.

  " Yes, Lieutenant-sahib.''

  "Chand." The man waited.

  "These deaths — what do you think caused them?" Flaxley carefully folded the newspaper.

  Fearfully the Indian servant glanced over his shoulder as if he expected something to be lurking there. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Demons, Lieutenant-sahib. There are demons loose. A shaitan."

  "Good God!" Rutherford exploded into raucous laughter. "I told you they were a superstitious bunch." He guffawed and winked at the others.

  Even Grant was smiling. "What sort of demons are they, Chand?"

  "Demons," the servant said, incapable of elaborating further. He gestured wildly. "It is best if the sahibs stay inside at night. The demons come from the north, it is said."

  "That's enough, Chand. Well, that explains it," Flaxley said, once the Indian had left the room, "there are demons about." He made a grotesque face.

  "And witches," said Rutherford.

  "And goblins," said Grant.

  "And I've had enough of this nonsense," Hamilton said, smiling as he finished his letter. "I've got to get ready now." He pushed away from the writing desk and stretched.

  "Where are you going tonight, Lieutenant?" Grant asked. He winked at the others, who tried hard not to grin.

  "As if you didn't know."

  "Ah yes, to visit the fair August. When do we meet your — should we term her your fiancee as yet?" Grant raised his eyebrows hopefully.

  Hamilton blushed. "No, not yet."

  Flaxley nudged Rutherford. "Hasn't popped the question yet."

  "I'm sure he's popped something else, though," Rutherford said slyly.

  Angrily Hamilton wheeled on him. "Take back those words, Rutherford! Miss Parrish is a fine, genteel young lady, and I won't have you implying she's some sort of common — ''

  "Easy now," Grant said, resting a hand on his friend's arm. "I don't think Dick was serious."

  "Apologize, Rutherford."

  Rutherford scowled. "Oh, very well. I'm sorry, Hamilton, for I'm sure she's a fine lady."

  Hamilton started for the door. "Tommy," Grant called. "When will we get to meet Miss Parrish?"

  "Soon; very soon, I think," he said.

  "We'll be looking forward to it. Have a good time."

  "Thanks, Malcolm." Hamilton flashed an easy smile at him and left.

  The three men glanced at one another. Flaxley spoke first. "I've never seen him like that before."

  "I know," Grant said, while Rutherford nodded.

  "It's as if he were . . ."

  "Possessed," Grant supplied.

  "Yes." Flaxley stared thoughtfully through the open door and watched as Hamilton's tall form receded across the compound. "Yes, it is."

  "Maybe it's the demons from the north," Grant said, and they all laughed.

  He hadn't meant to react violently, for he knew Rutherford had just been gibing him. Or had he? Rutherford always rode him hard. No, he assured himself, it was just in jest.

  Hamilton reached the far side of the compound and entered his quarters, glad to be out of the hot sun. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, feeling the grime on his fingertips, and wiped his hand on his pants leg. He would get shaved, dress, then start the long ride to Delhi. He poured himself a glass of arrack, downed it quickly, but it was warm and tasted bitter.

  He dropped onto the bed and closed his eyes. Delhi. And August.

  His August. He saw her so clearly, so intensely. The smell of her perfume seemed to waft through the air, and the musky scent brought back many memories.

  He wanted her so badly it hurt. At night he ached for her, wanted to hold her tightly in his arms, longed to kiss and stroke her. He wanted her under him, wanted to be one with her. Yet he would remain the gentleman and would wait until he'd proposed marriage to her and they were lawfully wedded. After all, he loved her with all his heart, and he would not dishonor her. She was a lady, a woman of refinement. He couldn't touch her in the way he had the native girls.

  As difficult as it was, he would wait
. Wait for the night when he came to her bed, when they would embrace, kiss, and he would taste the sweetness of her full lips. He would slip off her negligee, revealing her lovely body. She would blush becomingly as he stroked her breasts, the nipples hardening under his careful fingers, and she would lie back, moaning that she wanted him. His hand would rub the silkiness of her skin, and at the juncture of her legs she would be wet and inviting. He would kiss the soft hair there, flicking the pink bud of her passion with his tongue, and then he would roll on top of her and thrust inside her virginal tightness and —

  The world exploded behind his closed eyes as his body bucked. Bewildered, Hamilton sat up and stared around the room, then down at his pants. A great wet smear spread across them. Mingled with it was blood.

  Alarmed, he stripped off his sticky clothes and searched, but could find no wound. He examined his pants again. The blood was gone.

  Hamilton shivered, suddenly chilled in the terrible heat of the afternoon.

  *

  On the first of May, Tommy Hamilton was invited to dine with the Parrishes. He regarded this as an important step in his courtship of August, for he'd never dined there before and he hoped he'd have a better chance of impressing her father. Too, he had important news to give them.

  For Tommy wanted desperately to marry August, and in deciding that, he had set about to campaign for her by bringing her bouquets of the most exotic blossoms, boxes of delicacies imported from France and Italy, and once a volume of poetry bound in fine Morocco leather. And he spent his time with heft whenever possible. He was very much in love, so much that he thought of nothing but her day and night. Even what little sleep he found during the nights of stifling heat was disturbed by intense dreams, dreams of them together, dreams that left him exhausted and drenched with sweat.

  Once at the Parrish house Hamilton formally greeted Cecil Parrish, who was curt as usual. Hamilton knew the man didn't like him, and he was determined not to let it deter him. August soon joined them, and Hamilton smiled at her, his eyes never leaving her face. Shortly after that they went into dinner. She toyed with her food, excusing herself by saying she'd been ill that day from the extreme heat. Hamilton nodded with sympathy, for the day had been particularly bad.