Red, White and Blue (Book Two of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Eight: The Journey

Cambridgeshire, 1876:

In the dark, which was punctured now and then by bright spasms of pain, Ellini drifted in and out of consciousness. 

She thought the painful moments must have been the conscious ones, but her dreams were so full of horror, bitterness and longing that it was actually quite hard to be sure.

She dreamt about Jack, and Lucknow, and the bright, gaudy saris on the Kathak dancers. She dreamt about her journey from India to England – which, because she knew that every step was taking her closer and closer to imprisonment, had been the most achingly beautiful journey she'd ever taken.

The slow train from Delhi, where the doors were never closed, and where you could sit with your feet dangling out of the doorway, watching the tea-fields and green hills roll by. The steamer at Bombay, where she had stood on deck, with missionaries and tea-planters milling around her, watching the hills of India disappear as they pulled away from the coastline. And then a succession of oceans, passing from misty-grey, through vibrant blue and into grey again, as the Atlantic approached.

But, most of all, she dreamt of the more immediate past. And despite the fact that it had taken place underground, it had been very colourful.

The first thing they did – before they even tried your skill with a pick-axe – was break your spirit. After leaving Jack, she hadn't had much spirit left to break, but she had kept her head up throughout that beautiful journey, her eyes always fixed firmly on the next port or station which would bring her back to England. What had been keeping her chin up and her knees steady was the knowledge that, if she didn't make it to Cambridge within a month, Jack would be killed.

When she got there, the well-preserved old man met her – the one who had seemed so calm and sprightly while his associate had been burying its arm up to the elbow in Jack's chest. He was waiting in the inn-yard when the stage-coach came to a halt, and even extended a hand to help her down the carriage steps.

Ellini tried to be civil and not shrink away from his touch. After all, she was wearing gloves, so at least she wasn't skin-to-skin with the man. Besides, she suspected that he still had associates in Lucknow, watching Jack, waiting to bury their hands in his chest and squeeze if she put a foot wrong.

She shrank back a little – she was good at that – and watched from a distance while the old man went through his tedious, hypocritical pleasantries. How nice it was to see her again, and how well she was looking. How his associates were very much looking forward to having her to stay. How he hoped she wasn't thinking about running away now, because the wonders of the telegraph-system meant that, if she misbehaved here, Jack Cade, all those thousands of miles away in India, could be dead within the hour – and wasn't progress a marvellous thing?

Ellini gave him one-word answers and allowed him to lead her to a coffee house opposite the Fitzwilliam museum. She stared out at the rain-lashed streets and marvelled at how calm she was feeling. 

Her hands absent-mindedly curled around the dagger she had been carrying up her sleeve ever since the steamer had docked at Southampton. It was her one plan – the only gesture she was at liberty to make – and, even though it couldn't result in her freedom, it would still be therapeutic.

She tried to listen to the old man's words, although the dagger was getting quite impatient. Apparently, a lot of thought had been put into her disappearance. The old man assured her that she was a historical figure, and historical figures couldn't just vanish.

"You may not be aware of it, but there are – shall we say 'interested parties'? – who have already observed your arrival in Cambridge."

Ellini said nothing. She hadn't been aware of it, but then, eyes tended to follow her everywhere – she was used to it by now. It was impossible to tell which were just lascivious glances, and which were the signs of a more organized surveillance.