God's Crusade

Part Twelve

Atlantic Crossings

November 2040

India Trevor-Osborne knelt beside her beloved mother, praying in front of her late father's memorial, inside the truly magnificent Meadvale Cathedral, the New Cathedral as it was still always called, trying hard to concentrate. It was a daily ritual, a part of her relentless routine in the bosom of her family. She did not object to any of it, because she knew no other way of life, but she could not feel anything in her prayers other than a reflected sadness. She had never known her father. He had been killed when she was a baby and she found it so hard to miss someone she had never known, let alone grieve for his loss in God's love. Her mother maintained the habit, and it always rather annoyed her stepfather, or seemed too, so in that sense it was an amusing interlude, but India had no investment in the process. It was not easy to kneel in a traditional gown and cloak, and the guardian had to help her a little. Her corset pinched at her perfect waist and the weight of the whole ensemble almost made her topple over. She always wore velvet during the day as did anyone of any class, certainly a bishop's stepdaughter in Meadvale. Nothing else was possible. It was like an unwritten rule, written on a tablet of stone. Her whole life was ruled by unwritten rules.

She turned her head just a little to the side, her mantle and veils covering the cautious movement, although she hoped the guardian was not watching her too closely, for once. The Cathedral always had visitors, and there were several women in her line of sight, such as it was, and she envied some of them their lighter, rather more colourful gowns. She longed to wear some of the hot new fashions, but her boring old stepfather was so traditional, and she knew he would never allow it, even if she ever dared to suggest it, so she could only dream about such delights. She was of the First Congregation, a resident of Meadvale, and she knew she was a class apart from those who followed fashions and cut harmless little corners with the doctrine. Even in Meadvale, at the very epicentre of the modern renaissance, her routine was considered rigorous and almost extreme.

Her stepfather disliked having his Cathedral open to the public, but it was supposed to be the jewel in the Church's crown, so the elder's council insisted, and it did attract hordes of tourists. India nearly always approved of things that irritated her stepfather. Not because he was horrible to her, but because she liked to see him thwarted, as he thwarted her. Her friends all got much more freedom than her and she resented it, even though she understood that he was a bishop, and had to set an example. Meadvale was a dreadfully conservative town, but her friends were hardly from very liberal backgrounds, and it always frustrated her. She was sixteen, and she would be married soon enough, so she deserved a little fun sometimes, but her stepfather seemed to think that the idea of fun was almost blasphemous. Sighing into her muzzle, she glanced at her mother beside her, amazed at how still she was, how she held herself so perfectly and never seemed to lose her balance. Doing anything encased in a tightly laced corset, diaper, endless thick and suffocating undergarments, a heavy velvet gown and the billowing cloak was an art, and her mother never faltered, complained or even seemed to actually notice. India knew she would have to master those skills, but one glance at Lady Brogan Osborne and she always felt hopelessly inadequate.

Brogan sensed her daughter looking at her. India had none of her pointless doubts, or her bitterness, but she was still capricious at times, despite her strictly sheltered education and the attempts of various guardians to beat it out of her. India reminded Brogan of her father, Harry Trevor; not just something in her pretty face but also in her temper, her determination and her intelligence. Even Sebastian found it hard not to laugh at her sometimes, and that was a minor miracle. Her husband was a cold man, showing little emotion to any of the children, not even his own three. But India could provoke him, and Brogan could see that it intrigued him, as if he was amused by someone being able to touch him like that, emotionally, getting under his guard as it were. He had even agreed that India would not be expected to do her National Service. Both her adopted daughters had been sacrificed for his reputation, as he did not want to be accused of showing special favour to his family, but fifteen years later on he found it perfectly acceptable to pull a few strings.