Green Eyes by Karen Robards Page A

narrow, almost austere, designed for one, not two. The nursery was just along the hall. Anna took comfort from the knowledge that Chelsea was nearby. In this new setting, free of memories of the days and nights she had shared with her husband, Paul’s shade haunted her less. But with Paul’s lessening grip on her dreams, the housebreaker gained strength. He came to her almost nightly, kissing her as he had kissed her that night at Gordon Hall, his hand hard on her breast. And so, ashamed, she writhed and burned.
    With Raja Singha to see to the house, Anna’s only remaining worry was to find someone to oversee the growing of the tea. More from necessity than choice, Paul had always performed that function himself. His efforts had sometimes been less than successful, although Anna felt disloyal even admitting such a thing to herself. Still, Paul had been a gentleman, not a planter. When they’d arrived in Ceylon, she an eighteen-year-old bride and he scarcely older, he’d known next to nothing about the cultivation of tea plants. Over the years he’d read a great deal and learned a little, although from one cause or another Srinagar had never turned a steady profit. But now that, thanks to the emeralds, she could afford to do so, Anna was determined to hire the best overseer she could find. She meant to make a success of Srinagar this time.
    To that end, about a month after their arrival, Anna sent a note to Major Dumesne asking him to please call at Srinagar as soon as possible. The Major and his wife, Margaret, were not only the undisputed social leaders of the English colony in Ceylon. Their plantation, Ramaya, was also the most prosperous on the island.
    The Major came two days later. Raja Singha installed him in the front parlor, then came to find Anna. She was in the garden with Chelsea and Kirti, using pruning shears to vigorously attack the ubiquitous vines that had all but taken over her vegetable garden. Keeping good English vegetables alive and well in the heat and humidity of Ceylon required constant hard work. Between vines and rot, the battle was never ending.
    “Memsahib, Major Dumesne has called.”
    Anna looked around at that. Raja Singha, in the sarong and turban that, along with a long, collarless shirt, made up his customary dress, stood waiting for her impassively just beyond the garden gate. As usual he was expressionless, but something in his stance told her that he was perturbed.
    “Is anything the matter, Raja Singha?” she asked, feeling faintly worried. Raja Singha was not one to allow trifles to disturb him.
    He shook his head in the abrupt negative that was so characteristic of him. But he still stood waiting for her instead of taking himself off, so Anna divined that he wanted her to hurry. Pulling off her gardening gloves and hat, with a promise to Chelsea that she would be back as soon as she could to play hide-and-seek, she went inside. Raja Singha followed her.
    Anna stopped only to wash her hands at the washstand near the back door—a task with which Raja Singha was clearly impatient—then continued to the front parlor. Although it had been in dreadful shape just a month before, it now looked much as it had before Paul’s death. The walls had been scrubbed and whitewashed, the furniture and floor polished, and the upholstery beaten to within an inch of its life. In fact, the tall-ceilinged parlor looked quite nice, Anna thought, entering with Raja Singha hovering behind her. Like her bedchamber, it had white muslin hangings that could be adjusted to block the worst of the afternoon sun. A portrait of Paul’s mother hung in the place of honor, its soft blues and rose picking up the colors in the carpet and upholstery. A mahogany bookshelf filled with Paul’s beloved books took up most of the space along one wall, and small mahogany tables glowed with the rich patina produced by much elbow grease. Perched on a corner of the rose brocade sofa was Ruby, resplendent in one of the