The Bandalore Read online

  Chapter 3

  A spill of sunshine and the rattling caw of a crow woke Silas. He jerked from sleep, blinking madly against the light. He was not in his bed, as he should be, but in his parlour, seated in one of the deep leather high-back chairs by the fireside. Angry muscles tensed in his neck. Though the chair had ample stuffing, and soft leather, spending the entire evening in its embrace was not to be recommended. He squinted at the clock on the mantle, a simple device of walnut and glass. It’s thin metal arms declared it was near on half past ten. The fire had burned out long ago, not even a coal or two in existence, but the room still held some warmth.

  Stretching his arms overhead, Silas caught sight of his discarded coat, vest and dreaded necktie, piled just in front of the couch, as though he’d intended to throw the items onto it but failed dismally. Little wonder. The decanter of whisky that sat on the side table at the back of the room was notably lacking much whisky at all. It had been near on full when he set out yesterday eve to attend the ball. In one evening, Silas has shifted from having barely consumed a drop of alcohol in weeks, to consuming his weight’s worth of the devil’s drink in one evening.

  After his intense conversation with the Lieutenant, and the highly unusual encounter with the shadow creature, Silas had fairly burst from the library to seek out Jane. But to his great consternation, he had been unable to locate her. After all her talk of being at his side, she was nowhere of the sort. Silas was bombarded by requests for a dance, most of which he managed to weasel his way out of, but he was unable to avoid much casual conversation with an untold number of people. They ranged from those who were enamoured with the Order’s reputation, to those who were clearly bemused and rather unflattering of his employer.

  ‘Show us your parlour tricks then, man.’

  ‘It is said that the Fox sisters have never had any special skills, that it is all an elaborate hoax. I hear tell that the one called Margaretta is far too fond of the drink. What say you, Mr Mercer? Is the Order of the Golden Dawn having an amusement with us all?’

  Silas had little to say. To begin with he knew next to nothing of the American Fox sisters, save for the brief mention Jane had made of them. And he was hardly going to launch into talk of his own unique situation. Here stands a dead man raised. How would he convince them of such a thing? Should he even attempt it? Jane had given no instruction on such things. Silas had never been so grateful for a request to dance, accepting Mrs Claudette’s invitation to join her in the polka with so much enthusiasm he fairly spat his reply.

  By the time the unpleasant footmen appeared once more at Silas’s side and informed him that Miss Handel had departed the festivities, leaving word she had left the coachman at Silas’s disposal, it was well after midnight. Silas was quite ill with all the social interaction. His cheeks had never been so long at a blush, his tongue never so notable in its ability to trip over itself as he tried to appear as something he was not. Namely, a conversationalist. He could not even locate the Lieutenant who’s familiarity would at least offer some respite, advised by an over-friendly young woman that he’d taken ill and left for the evening. The moment the footmen had finished relaying Jane’s message, Silas made short work of gathering his coat, and rushing to find Isaac. Silas struggled to keep from breaking into a run in front of other slowly departing guests.

  ‘Do you know where I might find Miss Handel?’ he’d asked of the somber coachman. ‘Has she returned to Holly Village?’

  ‘Her business is her own. I’m not her keeper,’ Isaac had replied gruffly, and set the bay into a brisk trot. He delivered Silas to the village some time later, with not another word passing between them. Too highly strung to sleep immediately, Silas had nursed the whisky into the early hours.

  And woken this morning to regret it. Rising now from his chair, Silas arched his back, aiming to return the flow of blood to his cramped body. He wriggled his fingers, recalling the odd tingling that had consumed them in the library. Had he truly noted a figure in those shadows? Or had the brandy played tricks upon his eyes? This morning with his head so clouded and mouth so bone dry, he was no longer certain. Silas moved to the window, peering through the meticulously clean glass. And just like the clothing and food he had not the faintest idea who took care of such a thing. Suffice to say, they did it well.

  In truth, the village was actually barely worthy of the name. It was a compact affair, purpose built, Jane informed him, by a wealthy Baroness some years before, but now presumably in the hands of the Lady Satine. She herself did not dwell here but rather in the grand Holly Lodge perched on nearby Highgate’s West Hill. Her residence stood sentinel, with a bird’s eye view over the village. A thought Silas was not entirely comfortable with when he took his daily stroll. It was said that Lady Satine was rarely in residence but that did not alleviate his sense of being watched, the notion that he did not take the air alone.

  The Village’s twelve buildings were each elaborately different in style, but all were unusual in design. His own, one of only two detached houses, had contrasting patterns within the brickwork, four ornate chimneys on the peaked slate roof, and carved teak wood hanging from the eaves. Jane’s residence, the most fanciful of the twelve, sat across the green from Silas’s cottage. He could not quite see the front door as the building’s imposing turret jutted out so that it hid the entrance in its shadow, but in the early hours of this morning, in his inebriated state, Silas had stood at this very window for some time, his gaze fixed on the dark pebbled pathway Jane would have to travel to reach her home. There was no light emanating from within her house, and though it was possible she had retired to bed Silas had kept watch for sign of her. He had waited until his eyelids would open no longer remain open and his feet began to ache before finally moving to the chair.

  Though there were gas lamps outside each dwelling, there were precious few elsewhere so there was every chance she had arrived and he’d failed to notice her in the richness of the dark that held sway over the pathway. The lavishness of the village would suggest the Lady Satine was a woman of some means, but apparently she saw no reason to illuminate the walkways for her tenants. Silas pressed his forehead to the glass, its coolness welcome against the alcohol-fuelled warmth of his skin. He supposed there was little need for extravagance when there were so few residents. Which led him to yet another curiosity. Who were the houses meant for? Was this some kind of halfway house for the newly risen? He exhaled, fogging the glass with his warm breath. His list of questions grew ever longer, and the answers so few. The thump of Silas’s head at once knocked all reasonable thought clear from his mind. Jane would answer at least one question for him today. He would seek her out this instant, and demand to know why she had abandoned him last evening. With a determined stride, he set off towards the front door. Quite possibly he should change, or at least redress himself in his vest for propriety, but he was too irritated to truly mind that he wore only his trousers and an undershirt. And with no one else in the village to see him, what did it matter? If Jane disapproved then fine, so be it. Silas disapproved most heartily of being abandoned at his first venture into society.

  He flung open the door and almost placed a boot into the large wicker basket that sat on the mat. His breakfast, served once more by the Village’s phantom, not even the crunch of a pebble to betray their presence. He was hit by the the scent of fresh bread and kippers, and his stomach growled with mortifying alacrity. A moment later though it roiled as Silas considered the act of eating. Hungry as he may be the brandy and whisky were not sitting well together. Silas lifted the basket and thrust it with little care into the hall, uncaring whether anyone noted the gesture. He left the door ajar and strode across the green. As usual, his eye was drawn to the meticulous cut and uniformity of colour. Quite why such detail appealed to him, Silas couldn’t say, but stepping out into the grounds of Holly Village always brought with it a restfulness that he could not deny.

  The morning was surprisingly mild, and the sun upon his face was
pleasant, although far too bright for tired eyes. As soon as he was done with his conversation with Jane, he would make his way back to the warmth of his bed and sleep off the heady weight of his evening.

  Silas lifted the solid lead ring that hung beneath a rather ugly leaden goblin face on Jane’s front door,and pounded it against the blackwood. He was startled to find the door unlatched. Easing open at his pressure. Silas cast a glance over his shoulder. Perhaps he should seek out help? With a hiss of annoyance, Silas remonstrated himself. Help from who? Besides, he was hardly a feeble man, the sight of him alone may well frighten off any intruder, and Jane was clearly a capable woman. Silas pushed the door open, wincing at the betraying whine of hinges. The weight of the wood was substantial, and he had to lean into it to ensure it opened wide enough for him to enter. If he’d not seen evidence of Jane’s preternatural strength last night, he might have wondered how she managed.

  The scent of woodsmoke hit him first, a chimney not drawing well and needing attendance. If his mood wasn’t so foul he might have taken care of it himself, but Silas intended a short, brisk visit. Mingling with the heaviness of the smoke was the lighter, airy scent of winter jasmine. Jane’s signature. She’d been mildly surprised that he could pinpoint the exact variety, as had Silas himself, leading him to wonder if gardens had been at all a part of his lost life.

  ‘Jane?’ The foyer was a tiled space and sparsely furnished, his voice echoed down its length. A stair case sat at the end of the hallway, leading the way to the upper floors, and made of a wood so dark it appeared black. The foyer was dim, with only a meagre amount of light making it through the narrow panels of yellow stained glass set in the front door. Three unlit candles sat in puddles of wax that anchored them upon a silver tray on the hall table. Jane was frugal with her candles, more than once they’d conversed with the light of only one paltry flame in her parlour. There was little chance they would be flaming now, with midday approaching. A sound reached him, drifting down the stairs, but too sudden to decipher.

  ‘Jane, are you there?’ He pressed a finger to his temple. His headache was making itself well known. Perhaps rest was in order before a confrontation. Silas turned to leave, when the sound reached him again. Clearer this time. A woman’s cry, somewhat muffled, as though she were being smothered. Taking the stairs two at a time Silas raced towards the sound. He reached the landing and hesitated. He’d never been privy to Jane’s upper levels, far more expansive than his own. There were at least four separate rooms available to choose from.

  There. The sound came again. More desperate this time. And clearer as to its origins. Silas hurried along the hallway, towards the door he marked as the source. It was ajar, and he strode into the room before thinking better of it.

  ‘Jane, are you alright?’

  He saw too quickly what caused the sounds. Not distress at all. Not the kind that required rescue at least. Jane was in her four-poster bed, astride the prostrate body of a man, her loosened brown hair spilling down her bare back, her voluptuous bottom on full display. His arrival did not disturb her and her hips swayed side to side as she ground down against the man beneath her.

  ‘Oh, my word.’ Silas spun on his heels, his already delicate stomach threatening to dislodge its contents entirely.

  ‘Gods man, what do you think you’re doing?’ The man roared, his face hidden by Jane’s body. And just as well. Silas suspected he’d see murder in the insulted gentleman’s gaze. Silas rushed from the room, mortified beyond all belief.

  ‘Good morning, Silas.’ Jane called after him, laughter in her voice. ‘There, there Freddie, no need to work yourself up any further. Don’t you remember Silas from last night?’

  He did not hear the man’s reply, dashing headlong for the stairs. Taking them down at a faster pace than he’d moved up. Silas’s heel slipped upon the third to last step, and he crashed onto the wood, thumping down the remainder on his backside.

  ‘Silas, leaving so soon?’

  It hardly seemed possible that she had moved from her delicate position so fast, but Jane was making her way down the stairs behind him, a purple satin embellished robe thrown around her naked body. Bare-foot she once again seemed to float towards him, reaching the bottom step just as he found his feet.

  ‘I am profoundly sorry, Miss Handel.’ His tail bone ached, and his throat burned with bile.

  ‘Miss Handel? I thought you hit your arse not your head when you fell, Silas.’ The waft of jasmine toyed with his nostrils as she took a step closer. ‘No need for the formality. What you saw was a perfectly natural act. Or do you not recall?’ She cocked her head to one side, her tousled hair covering one eye. ‘Would you care to join us?’

  It was a question too far. Silas slapped a hand to his mouth, his stomach spasming. The front door was indomitably far away, he was set to regurgitate his evening upon her tiles. Jane dodged around his flimsy one-armed barrier, pushing onto her toes and placing a hand to the back of his head. Her grip was not altogether gentle, and he found himself with no alternative but to bow his head. The scent of jasmine increased, engulfing him, filling his nostrils and making its way into his throat and deep into his lungs. Reflectively he drew in a deep breath, and found the air crisp and clean and wonderfully fresh. At once his gut settled, his muscles relaxed. The headache seemed no longer intent on splitting his skull apart. Silas exhaled, a slow and steady breath. Jane released him, but he continued to stare down at the floor, not yet ready to lift his head. Jane wiggled her bare toes, her feet were in line with the rest of her, petite, and immaculately groomed with nails cut and trimmed into perfect crescents. But there was something odd about them that Silas couldn’t put a finger upon.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have goaded you, it was clear you were decidedly unwell. Do you feel better now?’ Jane asked.

  ‘I do. Thank you.’ He frowned. ‘How did you—’

  ‘You can thank Mr Ahari for the banishing of the headache, pressure points. He taught me something of the ways of the Orient. But nothing quite clears the mind like fresh air, the very freshest, and for that I take full credit. It’s rather my speciality.’

  Though he was unreservedly better, there was something out of place about their encounter that nagged at Silas. He raised his head. Jane’s robe had slipped and her breasts were barely covered, curves of flesh the same rich golden hue as the rest of her body. A body of which Silas had seen far too much for one day.

  He lowered his eyes. ‘Jane, you…you might want to…cover…’

  ‘Well, I learn more of you each day, dear Silas. And I must admit, I did not mark you for a prude.’

  ‘Jane?’ Her deserted bedfellow called. ‘If he is not to join us, then be done with him. I have a gift for you I believe you shall quite enjoy.’

  ‘I am quite certain of that, my lord. I’ll be up momentarily.’ Jane laughed softly. ‘You are quite pale, Silas. Come, sit with me in the parlour. I sense you have something you wish to speak to me about. Isaac told me you were quite agitated when you left the ball. Did you not enjoy yourself?’

  Glancing up the stair case, Silas shook his head. ‘We can speak another time.’

  ‘Why ever for? Do you worry for the earl? He’ll quite enjoy the respite, I can assure you.’

  ‘The Earl of Scarbrough?’ Silas sputtered. ‘The one with a—’ He caught himself.

  ‘With a wife?’ Jane’s brown eyes seemed to shimmer. ‘Yes, the very one. But don’t worry for her. The Lady Scarbrough’s maid tends very well to all her mistress’s needs. Here, let me sooth your sensibilities.’ She held a hand beneath her lips, palm up, and whispered words below a whisper before curling her lips and blowing softly.

  ‘There,’ she declared. ‘He sleeps, and will do so until we have had our discussion.’

  ‘Jane I really don’t—’

  ‘Listen.’ Jane cupped a hand to her ear. A rumbling snore drifted down from above. ‘There we are, fast asleep. He won’t bother us until I wish him too. Come, come. Pretend he
is not here at all.’

  She turned on her bare heels, and entered the parlour which lay just to their right. The sun’s rays had found their way into the room, spilling through the patterned glass and drenching the interior. And it was then, as Jane stepped into the brightness that Silas realised what had given him consternation earlier. She was utterly devoid of a shadow.

  Chapter 4

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ Jane asked. ‘Are you feeling ill again?’

  Silas gave a brief shake of his head, and joined her in the parlour. In keeping with the starkness of the decor in Jane’s home, this room too was furnished only with the basics: a couch that looked to be long beyond its best years with tears in the patchwork fabric suggesting a cat or two had taken an extreme dislike to it, and a low wooden table that an apprentice might make in their formative years. The mantle held two stubby off-white candles at each end, the melted wax puddling around them. There was an assortment of sticks and dying wildflowers between them on the mantle. He studied Jane again. There was no doubt about it, her form cast no shadow despite the items around her doing such a thing.