Falstaff because given the choice, he would eat oats and sugar until his belly exploded and he was strewn all over Christendom.”
I laughed, as did Sahjara, and Mr. Thornfield shot me another of his queer appraising glances, the ones which sent liquid warmth pooling through my torso.
“There were times when the comfort of communing with horses was all I had,” I admitted.
“I think the same was true of me, before. I can’t remember. Oh, Charles, say you’ll give Nalin to Miss Stone—she’s better on her than anyone!” Sahjara entreated.
Mr. Thornfield tugged at her cloak’s collar until it lay flat. “Young Marvel, ordinarily I should have to box your ears for squandering my assets and forgetting Miss Stone is not in a position to keep her own horses.” He glanced at me. “But supposing that I can retain the honour of feeding and sheltering duties, Jane should consider Nalin entirely her own.”
Can I be blamed for strewing my secrets like seeds when they blossomed into such kindly responses? A fortnight had been expended on the practise before I began to run dry of tasteful confessions, and then, reader, I invented them like the lying devil I am.
“I should like to read the Guru Granth Sahib,” I declared. “It would explain so much about your character.” Mr. Thornfield sat writing a letter in his study as I watched him, pretending to be reading Balzac.
“There is neither an adequate explanation for my character, nor a copy of the Guru in the English language.” He dipped his pen without raising his head. “Apply to Sardar, he can recite damned impressive heaps of the stuff.”
“I shall. I can’t give any credence to the Bible because so many villains quote it.”
This was not true; I simply wished for something freshly shocking to tell him. Though the Bible dictated my mother and I would be listening to each other’s skin crackling for eternity, and my former headmaster had been cruelty incarnate even as he called upon God’s Name, I thought many of its teachings beautiful.
Mr. Thornfield’s eyes narrowed in amusement. “Never read the thing, though Sardar has lobbed plentiful passages at me—my parents are more for cheap novels when they can get ’em. Whale blubber and seal pelts and nor’easters. Damsels, you understand.” He coughed charmingly. “Heaving bosoms.”
“There are plentiful bloody bits, and even some sensuous parts, I suppose,” I said idly, passing fingers along my hairline. “Song of Solomon is about a pair of lovers. ‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth!’ It’s quite salacious material.”
“I’ve heard better. Now kindly shut your head whilst I finish congratulating my father on his latest swindle.”
Helpless to stop myself, I tried again the next day, discovering him reorganising books in the library and (predictably enough) offering my assistance.
“Are there any Punjabi books in the house?” I wondered, sorting through several volumes of Medieval spiritual poetry I suspected belonged to Mr. Singh and not Mr. Thornfield.
“Oh, certainly.” He craned his thick neck upwards, wearing a frown as he lifted a stack of unbound folios. “But they kept turning up missing, don’t y’know, great gaping holes in the collection, and when Sardar found ’em circulating at a jaunty clip in the servants’ wing, we installed proper shelves where they were wanted.”
“That was good of you.”
“Of course it wasn’t. I can march over there whenever rereading Chandi di Var* tickles me, can’t I? I have legs, and so does Sardar.”
Finished, I began sorting through the Renaissance plays. “Your servants are very interesting. They must know you both well, I take it, since they worked for Mr. Singh before? Mrs. Garima Kaur, for example, seems most devoted to him, even for a confidential secretary.”
Mr. Thornfield glanced up from where he was kneeling, eyes lit with the wistful shade of earnest. “You know how she came by that extra bit of facial ornament, then?”
“The scar? How should I?”
“She saved his life once.”
“No!” I exclaimed, kneeling to mirror him. “Oh, do tell me how.”
“Nasty business,” he owned, frowning. “Sardar was twenty-three, I believe. He was overseeing the delivery of—what was it, indigo or ivory? damned if I can recall, ivory it must have been—across town by the Bright Gate, and he was set upon by thieves. Not your friendly book-borrowing type either, the picking-their-teeth-with-tulwars kind, and Garima was accompanying him to keep records. Sardar is a tiger, but it was five on one, and incapacitating suits his delicate sensibilities better than slaughter. Anyhow, Garima threw herself into the fray and did him