Lord, I have work to do. Let me...free myself. I must take Chandra...to freedom. She wrenched loose. And turned. She ran, not looking back when her uncle called out. In his voice she heard the piercing note of despair. He did not understand. But no one should be allowed to treat her less than what she was—a daughter of God, the light of His eyes.
She pushed through the wall of people to be swallowed up in the crowd rushing to the express. Crossing over the railway bridge she made it to the goods train, and turned to look over the platform where today’s Bombay Mail waited. The last whistle for that train blew. Hundreds of Indian passengers ran to board, or climb to the top.
Most of the men wore white dhotis to their ankles and long white tunics, but still across the distance she made out her uncle. He climbed on a cart to peer over the crowd and called to someone in the crowd. Another man joined him on the cart to help him look over the crowded station.
Then her uncle turned. He started as his gaze found her.
He gripped the other man’s arm and pointed across the rails to where she stood. Her train sat directly in front of him, and her purple sari would stand out vividly in the white sunlight.
Uncle’s gaze followed along the goods train. He would surmise correctly that her train would take her to Bombay.
The shrill cry of the whistle announced the Mail was leaving. Uncle Harish hastened to board, leaving the other man to remain, keeping watch upon her train.
EIGHT
Under the wrought iron and glass ceiling of Victoria Station, thousands of passengers—English, Indian, and Anglo-Indian—departed and arrived each day.
Mercifully, Maurice, after a disgruntled good-bye, left Laine as soon as he’d escorted her from his train. Poor old bean, he hadn’t even tried to insist on dinner and dancing for his troubles. But they’d made it to Bombay without the notice of anyone from Amritsar. Laine suspected he was right. Those outraged would soon forget about this one young, untouchable girl. Sadly, there were too many poor little souls from nearby villages to take her place.
Turning from the booth, Laine checked the tickets for Poona while Eshana waited with Chandra. She tucked her own ticket for the Madras Mail into her bag. No one would notice two Indian girls in this hive of humanity thrumming with passengers, vendors screeching, railroad staff barking orders, and blowing whistles. Eshana and Chandra would disappear into the tapestry of India, and no one would be the wiser.
Laine waded through the crowd to them. If only she could have convinced Eshana to stay put in Poona, but Eshana remained adamant that she would return to Amritsar as soon as she’d safely delivered Chandra to Ramabai’s mission. Nor could she convince Eshana to come to Madras with her. Laine let out a huff. Obstinate little blighter. To think that Geoff blamed her for getting Eshana into trouble.
She had only minutes to talk to Eshana as the two of them settled Chandra in the carriage. “You should stay at this mission. Pandita Ramabai sounds a good deal like your Miriam.”
“Ramabai is a wonderful woman. I would most dearly love to work in her compound and care for the widows and children, but I will not waver. Nothing shall stop me from returning to Miriam’s mission.”
Laine straightened. “Please stay away for a while, a few weeks. Better still a few months. At least until Christmas or Holi. Let the situation simmer down in Amritsar before you return.”
Eshana drew the end of her sari over her shoulder in a slow sweep. “A few weeks are all I can be promising.”
“A few months then. Four.”
“A few weeks.”
She stuck out her hand as the last whistle blew. “A few weeks. Shake on it then. Now I must leave you. Take care of Chandra, and do write and let me know how you’re doing. You have my address? Right, it’s good-bye. No time for long drawn-out adieus.”
Eshana only gave her a smile and leaned forward to embrace her.
She returned Eshana’s hug, wiping the tiresome wetness from her cheeks. “All right. Cheerio. I imagine we’ll catch up with each other soon anyway.”
From the platform she waved to the two young Indian women staring out the window of the second-class compartment. She would have bought them first-class tickets, but of course that would never be allowed. At least they were off safe and sound.
She gestured to the porter with her luggage cart to follow her. After a quiet cup of tea, she’d find her own train, the Madras Mail.
~*~
The pony-pulled jutka rattled along the countryside of the Madras Presidency. Rust-red dirt flew up at Laine. She’d be a fine sight when she arrived with her hair, clothing, and every pore of skin stained with dust. After all this time it was good to be home. And good to be off the train, what with four days on the goods train and the last two on the Madras Mail.
On one side of the rutted track a rice paddy stretched out, a verdant green that almost hurt her eyes in the sunlight. Dotting the paddy, women’s saris—saffron, crimson, vermillion, peacock blue—shimmered in the light like beads on a bangle. Seeing this beauty again, she admitted she shouldn’t have let the painful memories stop her from coming back. Her roots to this southern land were as numerous and deep as those of the banyan tree.
Dr. Rory Johnson’s clinic lay beyond the next village as the road took her deeper into mango and banana groves, and the jungle. The brightly painted jutka decorated with marigolds would get her there before dark, and her blood ran warmer with anticipation.
As twilight approached, a perimeter of white-painted stones led her to a series of huts. The jutka stopped outside a single-story white bungalow as the keens and screeches of thousands of birds came from the surrounding umbrella trees. A tall, thin man with a shock of silver hair came out the front door, stooping below the lintel so as not to bump his head.
He walked toward her. Close up, his square-ish face was quite handsome under that gray hair. “You’re here at least. From Ada’s telegram we thought you’d have been here days ago. I’m Rory Johnson.”
She jumped down from the jutka. “Couldn’t seem to manage the right connections, I’m afraid.” No sense telling him about her lengthy journey on the goods train.
His grinning face looked at her askance. “What, the British-India railway not running on time? Must write a letter to the commissioner. But you’re here now, looking hearty and hale.”
She stood looking around her at his compound. “Those outbuildings, they’re more than just clinic rooms?”
His smile took ten years off him. “That hut is for my laboratory. Those two for examining patients and performing surgery, though I prefer to send patients to the city hospitals.”
“You don’t restrict yourself to cholera research?”
“Oh my, no. I’m the only doctor for miles. Vellore has some wonderful hospitals, but often we can’t get a patient there quickly enough. Those three other huts I keep for patients who need to stay overnight. And I can tell you, my sister who’s been chief nurse and bottle washer is overjoyed you’re here. You’re an answer to our prayers.”
Her feet drew her
