The Devil is French: A Whipping Society Novel Page 3

  A creak and a click from within the room made her snap toward it.

  Silence pulsed as Jemdanee surveyed the bamboo-paneled room that only revealed furniture.

  Unnerved, she cradled the bouquet knowing the past and the present were about to be pushed back into the arms of Mr. Evan Oswald Ridley.

  Chapter 2

  The following morning

  The Government House, 8:19 a.m.

  Staggering out of Dr. Harper’s office past the banyan door that kept shutting on her rear, Jemdanee turned toward the cavernous marble corridor and wobbled against the skin-pinching weight of the medicinal chest she had to deliver into the greenhouse.

  She hastened down the corridor, her bare feet pattering past opulently-decorated domed halls and massive ornate rooms that were quiet and eerily empty.

  The constant silence and lack of people hinted at the waste Britain was known for.

  A hall clock in the distance gonged, announcing it was on the half hour of eight.

  Jemdanee froze. Bradley. She forgot!

  Groaning, she trudged back.

  Despite being already late, she slowed her dragging steps even more, the glass bottles, tins and clay jars in the mahogany medicinal chest chinking in mutual protest.

  The termination of her contract couldn’t come soon enough.

  Veering into the vast Council Room, she set the sizable chest onto a teak sideboard with a thudding clatter. The creaking of ropes that sent cool, circulated air from the punkahs attached to the ceiling swept the alluring scent of oak moss cologne wafting toward her.

  He only wore it when he tried to impress her.

  Which was often.

  Men were such whores. “I bid you and that overuse of cologne a very good morning,” she offered in her best boarding school English. “It appears the clocks in this building were ever so rude and lied to me again. Am I early?”

  Lieutenant Rufus Adam Bradley, who was already in full regalia of his oak-leaf embroidered collar and cuffs and shoulder cord and nine pins, finished going through piles of paperwork he was organizing at the campaign desk.

  She folded her hands before herself, awaiting yet another brotherly lecture.

  Overly proud, overly religious, and inflexible given his rank and level of power, Bradley always, always hovered and fussed and sermonized against her ‘wild Hindu ways’.

  It was the Christian way.

  “Almost forty minutes late. I’m astounded you appeared at all.” Tucking away a small key he’d been fingering on the necklace he wore beneath his collar, he glanced back at her but didn’t fully turn. “Where under the guard of Gabriel were you?”

  And so it began. “I was gathering items from Dr. Harper’s office. It took longer than expected.”

  He organized his desk, stacking ledgers. “Being late expresses a sign of disrespect.”

  “Being early expresses a sign of eagerness I never feel on any morning.” She eyed him and all too honestly confessed, “I overslept and have not recovered a minute since. Am I forgiven?”

  Turning toward her, softening green eyes captured hers. “Every time and always. How art thou, cherub?”

  This one thought he could still charm her. Pfaw.

  When she had first met the man three years earlier upon arriving back into Calcutta from London, she could sinfully attest that, yes, her knees had wobbled. Much like every woman’s knees did. There wasn’t a daughter or a wife of any officer whose corset strings didn’t twitch like a cat’s whiskers when Lieutenant Bradley and all six feet of him walked into the room.

  His sunlit hair streaked with gold was never out of place. His forest green eyes made promises to a woman well before they were made. His classically handsome face, which was only disrupted in its perfection by a crooked nose broken in field combat, demanded a woman look twice to ensure his magnificence wasn’t an illusion. He even had a dimple when he smiled and had been blessed with the astounding talent of being an artist who could paint and sketch scenes and portraits.

  If angels had armies and military tassels, he defined it.

  And then she got to know him.

  He became the older brother she never wanted.

  For Bradley lived by the way of the bible but unlike any normal man.

  She was fairly certain he even crossed himself before he pissed.

  His only flaws (according to him) were drinking apple brandy straight out of a decanter (but never too much!) and putting up his sand-ridden boots on the desk (which he didn’t clean anyway).

  It was incredibly unsettling to meet a barrel-chested paragon who propped the bible on the bulge of a bicep whilst sketching random scenes of Calcutta with charcoal sticks on every paper.

  Sometimes, she was fairly certain he wasn’t human.

  “It’s your last week at the Government House.” He attempted to hold her gaze.

  She kept her gaze trained at a window to avoid offering more than words. “Haan. It is.”

  He brightened. “The viceroy left me in charge given he departed on state business to Meerut. That gives me access to the terrace for supper this evening. Might you join me?”

  Him and those green eyes were trouble. “Nahin. You know better than to ask.”

  He pointed. “You do nothing but emotionally assault me.” Grabbing up an uncorked decanter of apple brandy from a pile of maps, he grudgingly swigged it and swigged again, letting out an appreciative breath between straight white teeth before setting the decanter aside with a chink. He crossed himself for it.

  She chewed the inside of her cheeks in an attempt not to judge.

  “When do you depart again?” He angled a piece of paper and picking up a charcoal stick, started sketching.

  “Friday evening at eight.”

  Moving the charcoal stick in sweeps, he squinted down at his sketch. “Don’t think you and I are done shaking this tree merely because you are leaving.”

  She rolled her eyes. “There was never a tree to shake, Bradley. Now might you please sign the paperwork the Field Marshal sent this morning? It needs to be delivered into the barracks for approval by Thursday.”

  He released the charcoal stick with the flick of fingers, letting it roll. “You will need a place to stay while you transition into a new way of life. Permit me to arrange a room for you over at St. John’s. I will cover any and all of costs for however long you are in Calcutta. There, at least, you will be well protected by the clergy at all hours. All I ask is that you to be available to meet with me in the chapel every Monday and Thursday during the hours of one and four.”

  As always, this tassel-wearing sermonizer did nothing but try to take over her life.

  She had bitten her tongue raw these past three years in an effort to keep the peace when she realized that her own guardian, Peter the troublemaker Watkins, had strategically placed her in Bradley’s care in the guise of ‘employment’. When, in fact, it had been an ‘agreement’ between two Christian gentlemen wanting to make a respectable bride out of an Indian.

  Bradley had met her several times over the years prior to her leaving to London and had asked Peter for an opportunity to utilize her phytology skills. Peter heard the choir sing in approval.

  Who needed a meddling mother when she had a meddling Peter?

  Fortunately, she had barred everyone from thinking it.

  Whilst life at the Government House had given her independence and expanded her knowledge in phytology, it had been no different than staying at a bloke convent. Much like everyone at the Government House, she’d been forced to abide by more commandments than what Moses had actually brought down from the hill.

  No smoking.

  No drinking.

  No cosmetics.

  No exposing of the arms or the throat or any cleavage despite the wretched heat.

  That, of course, was only a small list of over forty other rules that also involved a nine o’clock curfew. For three years – three! – she had endured a ‘Thou Shalt Not’ life.

  A
t one and twenty, she was done with it.

  A woman had to start living lest she start dying.

  Thank goodness for Ridley. “I thank you for the offer of St. John’s, Bradley, and I am quite certain their accommodations are ‘divine’, but a set of rooms have already been arranged for me at…Spence’s Hotel.” She almost hit her bindi and then him so he might feel it. “Did you know they have an emporium that sells cosmetics and a restaurant that serves sonti by the bottle all on the ground floor with a full hundred rooms above it? Did you also know each room has its own balcony overlooking Calcutta? Posh is posh.”

  He jerked toward her. “The rooms there cost an obnoxious sixty four a night and there is no chapel.”

  That would be the best part. “Such a pity, is it not?”

  He squinted. “How are you even paying for it? Does Peter know?”

  Ridley was paying for it. Waggle. “Peter and I no longer converse, Bradley. Not since he dragged me into this mess you and he both call my employment.”

  His brows flickered. “Are you insinuating you and Mr. Ridley are sharing a room?”

  Uff. He knew and she knew and the world knew. “I am insinuating no one has any further say as to who I associate with or why. If you have any concerns, feel free to contact Peter but tell him I said ‘Kiss my toe’.”

  Bradley paused and gestured toward her throat. “One would think you were off to meet the devil. Where is the cross the bishop gave you?”

  She stared him down. “You seem to forget I am not of your religion.”

  He stared her down, in turn. “You wore it before. Why not now?”

  “I only wore it out of respect for the employment I kept here, but I leave this Friday and have no further use for it.” Crosses and Ridley seemed…satanic. No, simply no.

  Bradley turned and stacked several ledgers. “People might offer you more tolerance as a Hindu if you wear that cross.”

  What little he knew.

  A cross didn’t stop people from spitting.

  They simply nudged it out of the way.

  Since arriving into his service, she had learned to choose her battles. For although, yes, Bradley was overbearing, as many of these white officers were, he did have a tassel of humor, generosity and kindness. Unfortunately, his largest tassel was that his way of thinking was as righteous as it was odd.

  He often walked around Calcutta, sketching disjointed random scenes. If a Hindu woman was pouring uncooked rice into a clay pot with her frayed veil flapping in the hot wind, his charcoal stick would scratch out the woman’s bare feet peering from beneath her sari, detailing the dirt between her toes.

  Nothing more.

  It was as if his mind worshipped things it oughtn’t. She had never understood what Peter saw in him other than a shared strong belief in the Christian faith.

  Apparently, that was enough.

  Bradley folded several parchments, wedging them into folders. “I cannot permit you to share any form of lodging with a man you aren’t married to. Peter would slash my throat.”

  “Peter is not as wrathful as you think.”

  He hesitated and softened his voice. “I am asking you to reconsider my offer of matrimony.”

  This man needed to be shot.

  He’d been asking her for almost a year. A year! Like a whining child intent on going to the park and lingering by the window. She’d never met a man so overly polite about his pursuits.

  One would think he were asking for a lump of sugar he wanted to add to his tea. “I am not interested in marrying any man. Not even Ridley. As a Hindu, it would eradicate more than my freedom. It would eradicate my religion.”

  Tossing his paperwork onto the desk beside him in agitation, Bradley glanced at her. “If that is your stance, I will send my mother to accompany you at Spence’s for however long you are there.”

  She choked. “I would rather you send the Field Marshal. Sitting on a wicker chair listening to your mother talk about how useless her Hindu servants are whilst looking at me irks me into wanting to slap people. Namely her.”

  “This isn’t about her, but my duty to you.” He glared and pointed rigidly to himself. “Watkins named me your intended. Not Ridley. Me. How did I get left out of this?”

  A breath escaped her. “Peter may have raised me, but that does not translate to ownership that now passes on to you. I came here this morning, not to be burdened by matrimonial advances, but to witness the signing of a certain document that enables me to leave the compound this Friday. I expect you to abide by your duty and will stand here and watch.”

  She pinned her gaze to his campaign desk to demonstrate.

  Aligning papers with several thuds, he dipped the nip of the quill into the ink well and scratched his signature with an upward sweep. “There.” He tossed the quill, easing out a breath. “I hereby terminate your contract with the Government House.”

  She dared not fathom what Ridley had done to erase the terms.

  She blamed herself.

  After she’d stupidly signed a five-year contract, given it had offered her financial independence, she realized all too quickly she’d been duped into working for a man who Peter insisted she ought to ‘seriously consider’ after the ‘scandalous debacle’ back in London.

  It was a mess.

  Fortunately, Ridley had been in close contact with the Field Marshal all along and had rolled up his sleeves to remove the terms. That alone made her forgive Ridley everything for it spared her from disappearing into the night and getting arrested.

  Desertion and its list of punishments were written into every government employee’s contract.

  As a Hindu she should have known better. “I have a long day ahead of me.” She jabbed a finger toward the doorway of the Council Room. “Might I depart?”

  “No. No, no, no. We are far from done. You will stand there and do something you never do: listen.” Bradley angled toward her. “Other female employees under contract are now taking it into their heads that they can break every last rule the Governor General has set because of how lenient I have been toward you. That falls to me and I have to answer to the viceroy. Did you know Kalpita was out on the verandah openly smoking before a visiting guest? She never used to smoke at all.”

  Jemdanee cringed. “That one could take paintings off the wall and still not be dismissed. You do realize she and the Field Marshal are…” She popped a finger against her cheek.

  He muttered. “Unlike the Governor General who never notices the trouble he employs, I see it all. Only that bidi she was smoking wasn’t given to her by the Field Marshal, but you.” He pointed. “You, Jemdanee, have been procuring tobacco to her, to others and yourself all paid for by me given I provide you a three acre greenhouse that grows the leaves. The only reason I never report you is because if I don’t protect you from the wrath of the Governor General, no one will.”

  She bit back a smile. “I appreciate having an accomplice.”

  He sighed. “Understand that the bible insists on abstaining from such impurities.”

  It was her last week living in this weed-infested Garden of Eden.

  What did she care if she miffed everyone off by eating a bushel of apples?

  It was time she return to who she’d always been.

  A Hindu paying homage to Krishna who was exemplary in defeating demons whilst playing chicanery, flirting with gopikas, and stealing butter.

  Holding his gaze, she slid her fingers into the blouse beneath her sari and plucked out a bidi. She tucked it between her lips and said whilst wagging it with her mouth, “I have read your bible, Bradley, and nowhere does it say in any verse or even on the binding that I cannot smoke. Where does it say, Thou Shalt Not Imbibe in Tobacco? Show me that verse in that exact language and I will not only marry you but give you fourteen children.”

  He said nothing.

  “Point made.” She tugged the bidi from her lips and held it up, chanting to herself not to throw it at him. “This is part of being human, Bradley.
I enjoy having flaws for it reminds me that I will never take the place of the gods I seek to worship. For that is true blasphemy. We are here to be human, not to be gods. We are here to live, not to die. Let me live.”

  He picked up the bible, gripping it. “Given the way you seek to live, you will die. I do nothing but worry. I worry.”

  This one had too many pins weighing down the wrong side of his uniform.

  Breezing over to the sideboard where she knew he kept the flint, she thudded open a small box and struck a match, lighting her bidi with a few puffs. Turning toward him, she blew out smoke into the air and set a sari-clad hip against the sideboard. “I will find you a wife, Bradley. That will be my gift to you given you have always watched over me.” She meant it. “As such, you will not be rid of me quite yet.”

  Muttering, Bradley closed the distance between them and snatched away the bidi, tossing it into a nearby vase. “Why must you always go against everything I say or do?”

  “Because you never permit me to say or do much. There was a reason Eve darted out of Eden. It got boring.” Leaning past him in agitation, she turned over the vase, carefully tapping out her bidi which was thankfully still lit.

  “You and Eve could do with a bit of boring given the company you keep.” Wagging up the bible, Bradley yanked out a parchment tucked within its pages, its wax seal broken. He unfolded it, setting the bible aside, and snapped the parchment straight, reading in an overly strained voice, “My seed will become our communion as you revel in swallowing its thickness and finger your budding cunt to bliss.”

  Jemdanee cough-choked-coughed and winced, letting the bidi fall back into the vase, realizing he was reading one of Ridley’s letters. Glaring, she snatched the letter from his hands and folded it, still glaring. “Where did you get this?!”

  “That is for me to know and for you to explain.” He snatched the letter back from her hand and held it to her nose. “Obscenity hardly offends me given I serve the government, but how is this even romantic?”