Louise Allen - Forbidden Jewel of India

He supposed, if diplomacy failed, it was possible to remove an unwilling, intelligent and able-bodied princess from a heavily fortified palace in the middle of her uncle’s kingdom and get her back across hundreds of miles to Delhi with an angry raja’s troops at his heels, but he would prefer not to have to try. Or to start a small war in the process.

As it was, he felt good. He was clean, he was relaxed by the bath and the massage and the amusement of teasing the infuriating female he had to escort out of here.

Now, with her mother dead, and her father’s own wife gone, there was no one to hurt by George removing his daughter from the raja’s court and turning her into an English lady. And there were a number of very good political reasons for bringing her to Calcutta into the bargain.

Nick strode into the Diwan-i-Khas , the Hall of Private Audience. In his peripheral vision he was aware of marble pillars, the men in the robes and the ornate safa turbans of the elite on either side, of guards, their weapons drawn in ceremonial salute.

He kept his eyes on the slight figure in a gold embroidered chauga seated amidst piled cushions on the silver-embossed throne on the dais before him. As he reached two sword-lengths from the steps he made the first obeisance, aware of the flutter of silks, the drift of perfume, from behind the stone grillework of the gallery. The ladies of the court were there, watching and listening. Those in favour would have access to the raja, would give him their opinion of his guest. Was Miss Laurens there? He was certain that curiosity would have brought her.

‘Your Highness,’ he said in English. ‘Major Nicholas Herriard, at your service. I bring salutations from the Governor of the Calcutta Presidency with most grateful thanks for the honour of my reception.’

The white-clad munshi looked up from his writing desk at the raja’s feet and spoke in rapid Hindi. Raja Kirat Jaswan replied in the same language while Nick kept his face studiously blank.

‘His Highness, Lord of Kalatwah, Defender of the Sacred Places, Prince of the Emerald Lake, Favoured of the Lord Shiva …’ Nick stood frozen in place while the munshi reeled off the titles in English. ‘… commands you to approach.’

He stepped forwards and met the shrewd dark brown eyes that were regarding him from beneath the jewelled and plumed brocade of the turban. Overhead the ropes of the punkah fan creaked faintly.

The raja spoke. ‘It gives me pleasure to welcome the friend of my friend, Laurens,’ the secretary translated. ‘You left him in good health?’

‘I did, your Highness, although low in spirits from the death of his wife. And … another loss. He sends letters and gifts by my hand as does the Governor.’

The secretary translated. ‘I was sorry to hear of his wife and that his heart is still in grief, as mine is for the death of my sister last year. I know he will have shared my feelings. There is much to discuss.’ He waved a hand at the munshi . ‘We have no need of a translator, I think,’ the raja added in perfect English. ‘You will join me and we will relax, Major Herriard.’

It was a command, a great favour and exactly what Nick was hoping for. ‘My lord, you do me honour.’

The rani’s position in the women’s gallery around the audience hall was the very best position for observing and listening. Anusha had settled comfortably against the piled pillows next to Paravi as maids placed low tables covered in little dishes around them.

‘We should hear well,’ said the rani as they waited for the raja to arrive. The acoustics had been carefully designed in all the rooms: in some to baffle sound, in others to enable eavesdropping with ease. Here, in circumstances where the raja would consult with his favourite after a meeting, a conversation in a normal tone would reach easily to the pierced screens.

‘Savita tells me that your log of wood is as supple as a young sapling,’ Paravi added mischievously. ‘Such muscles …’

Anusha dropped the almonds she had just picked up. Rummaging in the cushions to retrieve them at least gave her the chance to compose her face and suppress her unruly imagination. ‘Truly? You amaze me.’

‘I wonder if he has read all the classical texts,’ Paravi continued. ‘He would be so strong, and most vigorous.’

Anusha took an incautious mouthful of nuts and coughed. Vigorous …

‘And he has very large … feet.’

There was no answer to that, especially as she was not sure what Paravi meant and suspected she was being teased. Anusha feigned interest in the arrival below of the male courtiers as they poured in to fill up the hall in a noisy, jostling, colourful mass. As the servants went from niche to niche, lighting the ghee lamps, the mirror fragments and gems in the walls and ceilings began to reflect back the light in scintillating patterns like constellations in the darker sky of shadows.

Faintly, there was the sound of the musicians tuning their instruments in the courtyard. It was beautiful and familiar and yet Anusha felt an ache of something she was beginning to recognise as loneliness.

How was it possible to feel lonely when she was never alone? To feel she was not part of this world when it had been her life for ten years, when she was surrounded by her mother’s family?

Her uncle walked through the crowd and took his place, gestured for the courtiers to be seated, then beckoned.

A tall figure in a sherwani of gold-and-green brocade over green pajama trousers walked through the seated men to the steps of the throne. For a moment Anusha could not place him until the pale gold of his hair, falling on his shoulders, caught the light. He bowed his head, his cupped right hand lifting to his heart in the graceful gesture of obeisance. As he straightened she saw the green fire of an emerald in his earlobe.

‘Look,’ she whispered to Paravi. ‘Just look at him!’ In the costume of the court the major should have looked more ordinary, but he did not. The brocade and the silks, the severe lines of the long coat and the glitter of gems, made the pale hair and the broad shoulders and the golden skin seem more exotic, more strange.

‘I am doing so!’

The raja motioned impatiently to the servants and they lifted the cushions from the foot of the dais and arranged them on the right side of the throne where the munshi ’s desk had stood. ‘You will join me,’ Kirat Jaswan said.

‘My lord. You do me honour.’ The Hindi was accurate, perfectly accented. The big Englishman sank down and crossed his legs beneath him with the ease of an Indian. The raja dropped his hand to his shoulder and leaned over to speak.

‘I cannot hear,’ Paravi complained. ‘But here is the food, they cannot both whisper and eat.’

Indeed, as a succession of small dishes were presented to the raja, and he offered them in turn to the angrezi , the two men straightened up and most of what they said could be heard. But, to Anusha’s frustration, it was all the most innocuous conversation.

She ate absently, her eyes on the fair hair beneath, the glimpses of the Englishman’s profile as he turned his head to answer her uncle. His voice held the easy rhythms of a man who had not only been taught Hindi well, but who used it, day in, day out. What had he said his name was? Herriard? A strange name—she tried it out silently.

Then the food was finally cleared away, the scented water and cloths presented for the washing of hands and the great silver hookah was brought, with an extra mouthpiece for the guest. Both men appeared to relax as the music began.

‘They are discussing something of importance now,’ Paravi said. ‘See how they use the mouthpieces to shield their lips so that no one can read them.’