frowned. He’d never had anything but nil numbers in the “not present, not accounted for” column.
There was a slash-marked numeral one glaring back at him today. What on earth was happening? He had informed everyone as to Macconnach’s absence, with approved explanation signed and dated by Abington himself.
Flipping through the few pages of notations, he promised to knock whomever had made this error soundly on the skull. The paper he sought out finally drifted into view, and he read quickly in order to go and vent his spleen as soon as possible.
What he discovered was not what he had been expecting, however, and he found himself slumped back in his seat after a moment or two. Captain Arras was the one who was unaccounted for. This was most irregular.
Arras. That strutting peacock of a man. He was a decent enough soldier, but there was something not quite on about him. Abington had learned that his father had been a guerilla fighter for Napoleon, for which the elder Arras’ family had been stripped of lands and wealth.
Let the punishment suit the victor, and all that. Abington had tried to be sympathetic, but he’d sensed that there was something inherently untrustworthy about the man.
And now, the day after Macconnach and his daughter had departed, Arras was missing. It seemed anything but coincidental. He called Ranajit back into the room.
“Is your son knocking about?” He was grim, and Ranajit was immediately wary.
“You require his services?”
“I should think so. You may as well go with him.” Abington could not formulate why he felt so ill at ease about this development; he only knew that Arras was a lethally valuable man to have on a battlefield. “You’ll be tracking, Ranajit. This man.”
He handed over the piece of paper. Ranajit narrowed his eyes, in part because he understood the general’s seriousness, but also because he was beginning to have trouble seeing close up.
“You have told me before that this man was trained like a sneak thief?”
“In a manner of speaking, although at the time, I was referring to his speciousness as a cards opponent. I believe you may imagine that he was trained as a guerilla, as his father certainly was.”
“Ah, yes, your English-not-English word. If I remember how you explained it, he will be difficult to pursue?”
“Not just difficult. Dangerous as well. Don’t underestimate him. He may catch wind of you long before you find him out, unless you both exercise as much caution as he does.”
Ranajit grinned at this idea.
“Ah, General, you forget who captured that tiger hide for you! Surely you do not think I would be standing here if I failed to be as deadly as that creature!”
“Just so, Ranajit, but humor my worries nonetheless. I should not care to lose you, nor your son.”
“Might I ask what he has done? And what we are to do with him, once we have him?”
“Not sure what he might have done, other than to run off when he oughtn’t. I should think you’ll bring him right back here, to me, if that’s possible.”
“Very good, General Sahib. I shall make ready and leave as soon as possible. Are we to have ponies?”
“Of course. I very much doubt that Arras has left on foot, but you can find out easily enough from the stables what sort of mount he took.” He dismissed Ranajit, and began to pace about.
He called for Roberts, who glumly took up the butler’s duties, calling in turn for the housemaids. These quietly giggling girls cleared the breakfast room, while Abington took his pacing out into the open air of the gardens.
These were still overgrown and neglected from years of vacancy in the palace. The gardener was daily at war with vines and briars. First, with the patience one might expect from such a profession, later to be heard cursing. He had long since begun hacking away at plants with the long, bent kukri.
It was not a place of tranquility such as one might be accustomed to from an upbringing in the English countryside. Abington found it to be at least of place of seclusion, other than the sporadic sounds of outrage which erupted from time to time.
He could do nothing but wait at this point. The palace seemed to hang in suspense alongside him, and he found himself ruminating again over its fate. It had been abandoned for sixty or so years, but it was an otherwise perfectly usable, well-constructed piece of architecture.
Even more unfathomably, no-one in the vicinity seemed to know either what had caused it to become abandoned, nor able to recall the name of the raja.
The best Abington had been able to discern was that the raja had likely been involved somehow in the Mysore wars. Perhaps he had been killed with no issue. He strolled back into the study, staring at the door lintels which he’d had to have cut up a foot to accommodate not banging his head constantly.
Such a mystery was most consternating to a man such as Abington, who liked his world to have details, even if they were unusual. He barely noticed as the usual pile of correspondence and papers were brought in, and began sifting through them in a state of abstraction.
There were months-old newspapers from London, containing articles on the general decline of King William’s health, speculation on his policies and what might become of them when power passed to his niece. Letters from friends, missives from on high, invitations from local peers, and only one caught his eye, from his wife’s brother.
The very man. Without whom, Abington would not have Macconnach and an empty house at the moment. It was written in that man’s own hand.
He wondered what his brother-in-law might have to say, as Sir Robert was usually loath to put pen to paper. He slit the envelope through its seal, and began to read.
Well. This was an interesting development. The letter from Robert had taken far less time to reach Abington than any of the newspapers. The King’s health was far worse than he would even have known, had the papers been only a week or so old, however.
It was not generally known how close to death King William was, but Robert, being a senior minister in the government, had certain contacts. Succession was fixed, he said, full powers would pass to the Princess Royal, without regency.
Abington could not decide whether this was good news or not, trying to imagine his own daughter, at such a young age, with such an enormous responsibility. The princess would also be expected to marry, one might gather, perhaps against her will.
Robert anticipated a great deal of scrutiny directed at the RSI, for even without the regency in place, Lord Conroy had been stalking about all the ministry offices, demanding full accounts from all quarters.
Abington scowled. He’d met Conroy once or twice in London, and a bigger bully he could not imagine. It was widely hoped that the princess would send him from her household, thus removing his imagined influence.
Beyond that, it was difficult to envision how else the man might be curtailed. He seemed to be heretofore untouchable, in spite of every type of accusation thrown at him.
Abington did sincerely hope that the Institute would survive the change of regime, and that a new ruler, a queen no less, might continue to see its value. He laughed at himself over this thought, because no less than a year before, he hadn’t even the faintest idea that the RSI existed.
What a strange series of events had brought him to this place. All begun with a solemn exchange of words while he and Alfred lingered in front of the fire after the funeral. The funeral.
For Abington, there was life before, and life after. Before, it was about family, duty, and propriety. He had his wife to thank for so many years of calm seas, a life of anticipation, comforting predictability, and gentle humor.
After was after. Nothing else could be the same, and so Abington had decided that it should not try to be. He was not the same man, and his wife was left in the cold embrace of England’s soil. At this thought, he quickly blinked away tears, an unmanly yet unavoidable consequence of thinking too much.
After was meant to be a life of thought, of learning, of breaking with convention. Li
fe was too short and too dear to spend it perpetually bowing to the whims of society.
He glanced over at the collected works of Horace and Ovid, neatly tucked away in a bookshelf that had only recently been mounted. The Romans and their perceptions of women, for instance, were often referred to in his club back home.
These fellows all seemed to want demure and dutiful wives. Then they complained of them endlessly, in that they had no interests, no intellect, on and on.
No, not for him. Adelaide had been her own singularity, her own style of woman, from her hobbies to her sense of fashion. She’d been a fiercely devoted mother and wife, and had poured her energies into helping others.
Abington wrestled on a daily basis with how best to honor her memory, how to preserve her legacy. He did feel that, through Robert’s work, he might have a foundation, but there was much to live up to.
ॐ
They slept until the heat and light made it impossible to remain in that state. Isabel untangled herself from the blanket she’d been wound up in, unhappily noting how damp she continued to remain.
They breakfasted on jackfruit and cold rice, while the village men fussed over their chai preparations. There was copious argument over whose wife had the best chai masala mixture, when to add the milk, and how sweet it should be.
Arpan had to intervene finally, reminding them that there were still many miles ahead to ride. He tried to give the appearance of good humor as he