Devil's Wind

Devil's Wind

by Patricia Wentworth

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Overview

Devil's Wind by Patricia Wentworth

A thrilling tale of love, adventure, and survival during the Indian Mutiny of 1857 by the creator of the iconic Miss Silver

Helen Wilmot, a resourceful and loyal young woman, journeys to India to live with her widower father and Adela Lauriston, her ravishing yet headstrong cousin. When Helen's father dies, she moves in with Adela and her husband, the dashing Captain Richard Morton. Adela's flirtatious behavior and imperious attitude set tongues wagging in the expatriate community, but when the spirit of rebellion spreads like wildfire amongst the sepoys of the East India Company, the time for gossip is over.
 
Fleeing the massacre at Cawnpore, Helen, Adela, and Captain Morton discover that the sins of yesterday are never forgotten, and that true love can blossom in even the most tragic of circumstances.
 
This ebook has been professionally proofread to ensure accuracy and readability on all devices.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781480442665
Publisher: Open Road Media
Publication date: 11/24/2015
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 254
Sales rank: 126,829
File size: 2 MB

About the Author

Patricia Wentworth (1878–1961) was one of the masters of classic English mystery writing. Born in India as Dora Amy Elles, she began writing after the death of her first husband, publishing her first novel in 1910. In the 1920s, she introduced the character who would make her famous: Miss Maud Silver, the former governess whose stout figure, fondness for Tennyson, and passion for knitting served to disguise a keen intellect. Along with Agatha Christie's Miss Marple, Miss Silver is the definitive embodiment of the English style of cozy mysteries.
Patricia Wentworth (1878–1961) was one of the masters of classic English mystery writing. Born in India as Dora Amy Elles, she began writing after the death of her first husband, publishing her first novel in 1910. In the 1920s, she introduced the character who would make her famous: Miss Maud Silver, the former governess whose stout figure, fondness for Tennyson, and passion for knitting served to disguise a keen intellect. Along with Agatha Christie's Miss Marple, Miss Silver is the definitive embodiment of the English style of cozy mysteries.

Read an Excerpt

Devil's Wind


By Patricia Wentworth

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

Copyright © 2015 Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4804-4266-5


CHAPTER 1

HOW MRS. MIDDLETON DISAPPROVED


    Sometimes a marriage for love,
    Sometimes a marriage for gold,
    Sometimes a head too hot,
    Sometimes a heart too cold.
    Each one seeking his own
    Whether for money or pleasure,
    Leads to a marriage in haste,
    Leads to repentance at leisure.


In the year 1854 Mrs. Lauriston's London drawing-room was as ugly as contemporary taste could make it. This is saying much, but not too much.

The June sunshine slanted in, and rested with unsparing candour upon a cabbage-coloured carpet patterned with monstrous magenta blooms of uncertain family. Gloomy oil-paintings in gorgeous, fog-dimmed frames covered the greater part of the wall space.

Helen Wilmot had never been able to decide whether she thought the wall-paper uglier than the portraits, or the portraits more frightful than the wall-paper. She found a certain fascination in following the immense green curves and spirals that wound and twisted between the pictures. She had a fancy that there in secret, behind the unattractive presentments of great-uncle James and great-aunt Maria, that ebullient vegetable growth must burst into flower. She had beguiled many a dull half-hour by speculating as to the sort of bloom it would produce, and had decided ultimately on an orchidaceous nightmare of orange and maroon. The stamens, she thought, would be green — a very bright green — and they would bear monstrous pollen sacs of a pale, unwholesome pink.

In the middle of the room stood a large round table. It was made of handsome polished wood, very good and solid. Everything that stood on it had its own little mat. The photograph album with the gold initials on a ground of crimson plush lay upon a miniature carpet of emerald silk and wool. A daguerreotype in a folding frame stood by itself on a little orange-coloured island. It was a likeness of Mr. Lauriston, and his widow used to gaze tearfully at it when her sister Harriet was more masterful than usual, or her daughter Adela harder to manage.

Mrs. Lauriston was a pretty, faded little woman of uncertain health. All the strong colour in the room annihilated her own delicate tints. It accentuated the grey in the fair hair which she wore dressed à l'Impératrice, and drew attention to the fine, interlacing lines about her mouth and eyes. She wore a beige-coloured dress, and the sofa which she so seldom left was upholstered in dark maroon to match the curtains. Only Helen thought it ugly, but then Helen had spent nearly all her twenty years of life with her mother's people, and her grandmother, old Mrs. Delamere, had possessed many beautiful things, some brought from India, and some inherited from her French relations.

Helen Wilmot looked at her aunt now, and thought for the hundredth time that she was like a water-colour drawing — an amateur water-colour drawing. There were the same pretty tints, all faint and indeterminate, the same weak lines, and absence of definition. She made up her mind that she would like to see Mrs. Lauriston in a room full of soft old faded things, with a little very pale gilding here and there. Helen was very fond of making pictures in her own mind. She would have liked to paint them, but she lacked the skill, and had sense to know that she lacked it.

If Mrs. Lauriston was like a water-colour, Helen herself resembled an etching. Her pallor had the same warm, living quality, and the shadows on her hair and dress, the same deep tone.

She sat by the window with her lap full of embroidery silks, that shone like jewels against the black of her full skirt. The sunlight just glanced across one sloping shoulder and threw her head into strong relief. She was all black and white in the strong light — white skin, white hands, white neck, white collar; black dress, black hair, and eyes that looked black too until she raised them, and you saw that they were a very deep, soft grey.

She raised them now because Mrs. Lauriston made a little restless movement.

"Helen, my dear."

"Yes, Aunt Lucy."

"Did I hear a carriage?"

Helen took a fold of her dress in one hand, so as to keep her silks from slipping, and leaned sideways towards the window. One corner of her mouth twitched a little, and she caught it between her teeth.

"Well, my dear?" said Mrs. Lauriston, fidgeting, and Helen turned a perfectly grave face towards her.

"Dear Aunt Lucy, I was counting; I had just got up to ten —"

"Ten?"

"Ten carriages. I think the very fat lady at No. 12 must be giving a party."

"My dear, what has that to do with us? Oh, my love, you don't say the window is open! How exceedingly careless of Mary! Pray shut it. The least breath — and really to-day when I feel so unequal, and Harriet coming. Not, of course," she explained, collecting herself, "that I am not very pleased to see your Aunt Harriet — very pleased indeed."

"Oh, of course," murmured Helen, and bent her head over a tangled skein.

Mrs. Lauriston put her handkerchief to her lips for a moment.

"Yes, of course," she said nervously, "but at the same time, love, your Aunt Harriet — she is sure to talk so much about Hetty, and Hetty's marriage, and you know so much conversation — and then I think she was rather offended at my not coming to the wedding, and I have not seen her since, so altogether —"

"Yes," said Helen without a smile, "conversation about Hetty is rather tiring."

"And that she should have made such a match!" exclaimed Mrs. Lauriston with sudden energy. "Sir Henry Lavington, and all that money, and Hetty always was plain."

"Plain and sensible. I don't know which is worse, but I suppose he wanted a sensible wife," remarked Helen.

"My love, you should not disparage sense. I am sure you have plenty. Now if Sir Henry had fallen in love with you! But Hetty — it is more than I can understand. Hetty never attracted me, my dear, but of course her mother could not be expected to understand that, nor should I wish it."

Helen laid a blue and a green skein together, and wished that the bluebells were not over, and that she was not in London.

"Shall I leave you and Aunt Harriet for a little when she conies, Aunt Lucy?" she asked.

"Oh, no, my dear, not at first — oh, no. If I thought I should like a little private talk with her later on, I could let you know. It would be quite easy. I could ask you to fetch me a handkerchief, or my smelling salts, and you need not come back for a time; but at first — oh, I really think it will be a relief to have you here, my dear. Harriet is all that is excellent, but you know my nerves are not very strong, and if she is offended — no, no, my love, I had much rather you stayed."

Mrs. Lauriston's soft voice fluttered as she spoke. She patted a refractory cushion into position, and settled herself against it.

"I hope Adela will come in before your aunt leaves," she said, and sighed a little. "I am afraid Harriet will think she should have been at home; but really, just now, my dear child, one is so anxious, it does not seem as if one should interfere, and Mrs. Willoughby was so very eager to have her."

"Oh, she is sure to be home early because of Hetty's party this evening," said Helen, cheerfully.

Mrs. Lauriston clasped her hands.

"Helen, do you think —" she began, and then paused, panting a little.

"My dear, are you in Adela's confidence at all?" Helen looked up with a shade on her brow.

"No, I don't think I am," she said.

"And I certainly am not," said Adela's mother, "and oh, my love, I feel so anxious, so very anxious. Young Manners now — do you suppose — do you imagine that Adela means to accept him?"

"I am sure I hope not," said Miss Wilmot with decision.

"Oh, but, my dear, why should you say that? Such a good-looking young man, such splendid dark eyes — I always think dark eyes are so romantic — and so devoted. I really never saw anything like his devotion! And then Manners Park, and such a satisfactory provision."

"Yes," said Helen. She stopped to thread a needle. "Yes, if he is able to establish his claim."

"Oh, my dear, surely there is no doubt about that. It would be most unfair. Why, his father was a cousin of Mr. Lauriston's greatgrandmother, or was it his grandmother's stepmother was a Manners? He could never be passed over, and his mother a lady of such high rank, sister — or is it cousin? — to that wealthy Rajah of Bithoor, whose portrait Mr. Azimullah showed us, and who, he said, would be a sort of Emperor, only we have taken away his kingdom, or stopped the revenues, but fortunately he has plenty of money of his own besides. Oh, no, Francis Manners is certain to succeed with his claim, and his father's marriage so romantic too."

"Dear Aunt Lucy," said Helen, half laughing. Then she bit her lip. "He has to prove that there was a marriage," she said.

She took a few delicate stitches and did not look at her aunt.

"My love, you shock me," exclaimed Mrs. Lauriston. A faint colour made her look younger. "You shock me, indeed you do. Colonel Manners was married. To suppose otherwise — Helen, my dear! I think, love, that you should struggle with that unfortunate prejudice against persons with dark blood in their veins. It is that which puts such shocking ideas into your head. Mr. Azimullah now, so handsome, such charming manners, but I notice how you avoid him when he comes here. You get it from your father, I suppose. In fact I have observed that all Anglo-Indians are the same. I fear going to India and joining your father will not improve you. It is an unchristian prejudice, love, not that of course I would for a moment seek to imply that dear Edward was unchristian. I do hope, my dear, you would not imagine such a thing, or your excellent grandmother, and after she had brought you up so nicely, and to be such a good girl, and now that she is dead and all. No, no, my dear, all I meant was that prejudices of this nature should be struggled against; and oh, Helen, my dear, you won't try to imbue Adela with such notions? I am so anxious, so very anxious about her future. You know, love, there will be so little, oh, so little when I am gone, and Adela is so beautiful."

Mrs. Lauriston's voice trembled very much, and became almost inaudible.

Helen dropped all her silks on the floor, and ran to her. "Dear Aunt Lucy, what is it? Why do you trouble yourself? Adela is beautiful, and there are much nicer people to fall in love with her than poor Mr. Manners."

"No, no. There's only Captain Morton, and he is poor, and Adela is not fit to be poor, and go to India, — and I want to see her married before I die."

"You are going to live to be a great-grandmother like old aunt Maria," said Helen, kissing one of the trembling hands. "Only you'll make a much, much nicer one, and all the great-grandchildren will love you."

"My dear, you shouldn't. Oh, Helen, love —"

"What is it, dearest?"

"My health," whispered Mrs. Lauriston.

Helen gave her a little pat.

"You are just delicate, and delicate people always live the longest. Yes, it is quite true. Grandmamma always said so. And there's nothing really wrong with you, is there?"

"I don't know," said Mrs. Lauriston in a low, hurried tone. Her eyes looked past Helen as if she saw something that frightened her.

"Now, Aunt Lucy, dear," said Helen cheerfully, "don't upset yourself. Adela will make a splendid match, and live happy ever after, and you will spoil her children, and they will adore you, and — oh, that really is the carriage at last."

In a moment Mrs. Lauriston was all in a flutter. Death and marriage were uncertain, but Harriet was at the door. "Oh, my dear, my eyes. Do they look red? Give me my handkerchief, and then push it under the cushion in case I want to send you for one — and move that chair a little, no, not so close, yes, that will do. Oh, I wish Adela were in, but there, her aunt never was really fond of her, and — Helen, my vinaigrette — yes, it fell down, I think. Have you found it? Oh, thank you, my dear."

The door opened as she took the little cut glass bottle. The maid announced Mrs. Middleton, and Harriet Middleton came into the room with a great rustling of violet silk.

She wore a shawl of China crepe and an immensely full skirt trimmed with seven rows of broad black velvet ribbon. On her head was a bonnet with an inner frill of blonde, showing the abundant black hair which always looked as if it had been freshly lacquered. She had a handsome, wooden face, with very smooth, dark eyebrows, and firm red cheeks. Her voice was as strong and deep as a man's.

One of the red cheeks just brushed her sister's pale one, and she settled herself into the chair which Helen proffered.

"Well, Lucy, you look poorly enough," she remarked, "but what else you can expect when you lie on a sofa all day, I don't know. How d'ye do, Helen. Come here, and let me have a look at you. How long is it since I saw you last?"

Helen appeared to be giving the matter her earnest attention. "About two years, I think, Aunt Harriet," she said.

Mrs. Middleton looked disapprovingly at her niece. The light caught her prominent brown eyes and gave them a shiny look. They reminded Helen of small bull's-eyes.

"You are as pale as a piece of plaster too, and less like Edward than ever. And where on earth you and Adela got that untidy frizzly hair from, I am sure I don't know. None of our family ever had such a thing. My girls have both got hair like mine, I am thankful to say, nice, smooth hair that can be kept tidy, and plenty of it. But a great deal can be done with pomatum. Wilkin's is the best. I will send you a pot to try. I gave one to Adela when she came down for Hetty's wedding. Has she used it?"

Helen looked interested, and Mrs. Lauriston observed feebly:

"Adela wears her hair in ringlets."


"And very untidy she looked. That was why I gave her the pomatum, Lucy; but, of course, if you encourage her — By the way, where is Adela?"

"Adela has — has gone out. She had an engagement, Harriet — she was so sorry —"

"An engagement — without you?"

"My health," faltered Mrs. Lauriston. "I am unable to take Adela out myself, and Mrs. Willoughby has been most kind."

Mrs. Middleton snorted.

"I always took my girls about myself. I felt it a duty. But if you are really unable to go out with Adela, I must say, Lucy, that I should have thought Hetty, her own cousin, a more suitable chaperon than Mrs. Willoughby."

"Hetty is so young," began Mrs. Lauriston, flushing.

"Hetty is a married woman, and exceptionally discreet for her years. She would at least have prevented Adela from getting herself talked about," said Mrs. Middleton with emphasis.

"Harriet!"

Mrs. Middleton unfastened her shawl and threw it back. She had come on purpose to talk to Lucy about her daughter, but she had meant to lead up to the point more gradually.

"Your room is stifling," she observed. "Helen, won't that window open?"

"I think it will," said Helen, but she did not get up.

"Harriet, what do you mean?" cried Mrs. Lauriston.

"It is an extremely hot afternoon, and you have everything closed," began Mrs. Middleton, but for once her sister interrupted her.

"Harriet, what did you mean about Adela?"

"My dear Lucy, how you agitate yourself. What did I say?"

"You said — you implied that Adela was being talked about."

"Well, Lucy, and what can you expect when you let her go about with a flighty young woman like Mrs. Willoughby, and pick up with illegitimate, half-caste young men?"

"Harriet!"

"My dear Lucy, what is the use of taking that tone? Every one is talking about it. I wish I had come to town two months ago."

Mrs. Lauriston caught at her dignity with tremulous hands.

"Mr. Manners is an excellent young man, his father was a cousin of Mr. Lauriston's," she said. "He is devoted to Adela, and when he has established his claim to the Manners estates —"

"Really, Lucy! is it possible that you have encouraged him?"

"And why not, Harriet?"

"Lucy, are you crazy? Why not? Why not?"

"He is Colonel Manners's son."

"And his mother?"

"I don't understand you, Harriet. His mother was a native lady of rank, or so I understood."

"And the proofs of the marriage?"

"Mr. Manners certainly has ample proof."

"Mr. Manners certainly has no proof at all," said Mrs. Middleton, and saw her sister whiten.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Devil's Wind by Patricia Wentworth. Copyright © 2015 Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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The Devil's Wind (1912) 3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 2 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
And the indian mutiny rather a change from her usual a little dated as managed to leave out the erotic details that would be in today.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago