He murmurs to himself. “The East India Club? Of course. And so also the Oriental, and perhaps the Marlborough. And . . . the Carlton?” Here, he stops to look at me speculatively. “It’s a Tory club. Perhaps not quite so soon. Let’s see how you get along.”
“They seem like an awful lot,” I say hesitantly.
He shakes his head. “You can never belong to too many clubs. Have you met the Queen?”
I spread out my hands. “Soon.”
“I wonder . . .” There is a gleam in his eye as he shuts his notebook and stows it in the pocket of his vest. He reaches out to touch the rows of pearls I wear around my neck. “These look good upon you, Maharajah. Not quite the thing for men here, unless you’re a dandy, but it’ll do for you. Don’t change this, even when you go meet her Majesty. She is sure to take to you in all of your exotic beauty.”
At the other end of the table, Dr. Login makes a sign, and the men scrape back their chairs and rise. We join the ladies in the drawing room. Richard goes to sit by Miss Bowles. Lady Hartford corrals me, and pushes me down next to Victoria. The girl hiccups, she picks apart the gloves in her lap; I turn to Mrs. Login. Save me, please. Mama Login ignores me. I suppose I have to learn how to put up with the most dismal guest.
Everyone plays cards, the clock strikes eleven, coffee and biscuits are brought in. We shake hands, bow, say our goodbyes.
“Did you like her, Duleep?” Lady Login says as we go to our rooms.
“Yes,” I say, thinking of the Bowles girl.
“Good. I’ll tell you some more about her later. Good night, son.”
“Good night, Mama.” I kiss her cheek.
Mir Kheema is waiting up. He takes off my clothes, buffs the pearls and folds them away in a square of silk, helps me into my pajamas, turns down the lights.
“Are you all right here, Mir?” I ask as he is leaving, framed in the doorway by the dim light in the corridor. His tall figure stoops in indecision, and then his voice comes across the yards of carpets.
“Where you are, your Highness, so I am content to be. I could not let you cross the black waters to this land by yourself, without anyone else.”
“I’m hardly alone.”
He is silent for a long while, and then he bows and shuts the door.
• • •
June 23, 1854: Richard takes me to the Garrick Club today. The rooms are staffed by a succession of middle-aged men dressed in black, relieved only by startling white collars.
“When you see one of these crows, Maharajah,” he says as we ascend the purple-carpeted staircase to the club rooms above, “caw out aloud and they will come flying to meet your every need.” He’s as irreverent in daylight as he was by candlelight.
Portraits framed in gilt are pinned on every inch of wall space. Most are of men, some of women, all actors in the Drury Lane theaters, dressed in fantastic costumes of velvet, silk gloves, pearl buttons, acting out roles from plays. I see that I was mistaken when Richard mentioned the “theater”; it’s Shakespeare played out, not lively girls in little nothings converting themselves into girls in nothing!
They are all very respectable; at least the paintings on the main floor; but some of the other rooms have portraits of women in some diaphanous material that swirls over their bodies, cleverly hiding bits from view. Richard again in my ear, “This is art also, Maharajah.”
“It is?” I ask, and then, “All right, if you say so.” One woman has bright russet curls, and her gown hugs her skin, nestles between her legs. I cannot remember what her face looks like—I am not looking at her face. Dr. Login knows I am with Richard at the Garrick Club, but I think he does not know what hangs on their walls, or he would not have allowed me to come here.
Richard puts in my application for a membership.
Back at Mivart’s, Mrs. Login has news. Dr. Login has been given a knighthood by the Queen; they are now to be addressed as Lord and Lady Login. Mama shakes with joy. Papa shows it less, only in a small smile that breaks out when he thinks no one is looking at him.
We celebrate with the children at tea, with extra cakes and extra icing, and at dinner with just the three of us—one of those rare evenings since the first dinner party when we are alone.
They are so happy. So much delight; it must mean more than they let on, this honor. I didn’t know how much until now. We talk of Lahore, of how we met, how we came to know each other. I remember nights when I woke after a terrible dream and fled across the courtyard toward the glow of the single lamp in the room beyond. This was before Mama Login came. And Dr. Login would be there, flung into an easy chair, his hair rumpled, his pajamas and kurta glimmering a welcome white in the murk. He put out a hand to me, his voice gentle. “A nightmare, Maharajah? Come, sit by my side; let me read to you from Lalla Rookh.” When I went back to my room, he would stand at the door to his and watch me, raise his hand in good night.
If the Queen can recognize the goodness of people like the Logins, and reward them, she must be good herself.
Lord Login says that I will have the privilege of paying my respects to the Queen on July 1. Our request has been approved and she is eager, willing, wanting to meet me.
• • •
June 30, 1854: A parcel arrives from Richard today, a copy of Captain Osborne’s The Court and Camp of Runjeet Sing, wrapped in plain brown paper. Osborne was the nephew of Lord Auckland, the Governor-General of India who embarked on the First Anglo-Afghan War, deposed Dost Mohammad, put Shah Shuja on the throne . . . and ended up with thousands of British civilians dead in the effort. Osborne was in one of the early embassies to my father’s court, to ask for his help in the Afghan war. This book is written about his experiences in May of 1838, a few months before I was born. I sit by the light from the easterly windows, turning the little book over in my hands. Most surprising of all is the nature of the gift; or coming as it does from Richard, the nature of the giver. He doesn’t seem the type to read anything.
“What do you think, Bhajan?” I ask.
Bhajan Lal is seated on the carpeted floor thumbing through a copy of Thornton’s Old Testament. “I think you should read it, your Highness. Although”—he glances toward the door—“not in front of Lord and Lady Login.”
They were nothing but kind to me in Lahore. But here in England, some . . . thread is broken. How shall I put it? It is as though Lord and Lady Login have done their duty in taking care of me in India, and done it again in bringing me here, but now, at home, they have other preoccupations. I’m mostly with Bhajan now; I see Richard at times. After being away for so many years, the Logins are besieged with queries, problems, and issues related to their landholdings in Perthshire, and numerous visits from family members. Most are curious to see me—the black Indian prince—and I am tired of being put on display.
Perhaps Bhajan is right; they will not approve of my reading about the history of the Punjab. Why, I don’t know; I just feel he is right.
But where else will I learn it from, all that I have long forgotten? I remember talking with Henry Lawrence about my father, even my mother, whom he, Henry, imprisoned at the fortress at Sheikhpura. There’s no one around me now who remembers the past, or is willing to talk about it.
Bhajan Lal was educated at the American Mission School, and there converted to Christianity. He and I read the Bible together, both before and after my own conversion. I learned my English very fast after Lord Dalhousie became Governor-General of India, because he insisted that everyone around me should speak only that language, not Persian, not Urdu, not Hindustani. Dalhousie imposed a fine on anyone who spoke in a native tongue.
“I used to have great fun trying to persuade all of you to speak to me in Hindustani,” I say.
A quick smile flashes on Bhajan’s brown face. He sits where the tepid rays of the sun fall into the room, a rolled-up ball of shawls and a gleaming white turban. Bhajan has wanted to come to England for as long as I have, but he is uneasy here. The almost constant gray gloom, even as we approa
ch July, has drained life out of him. He is fascinated by the movement and bustle outside, but afraid to stay on the streets too long, lest one of the carriages flashing by runs over him, or his foot.
“You did, your Highness,” he says. “By pretending to be deaf when one of us called out to you, which forced us to speak louder, and then to switch to an Indian language.”
I grin, remembering. The money I collected from the “fines,” I sent to one of my charities.
“Should I read this book, Bhajan?”
He scuttles on his haunches to move into the light as the sun climbs in the sky, reverently dragging the Old Testament along with him. “You should. There must be other biographies, court documents, but they’re in Persian, perhaps Hindustani. You cannot read those; you’ve forgotten the languages, but this one you can.”
The frontispiece is a sketch of an Akali soldier from my father’s army, with his towering turban, his fierce expression, his circle of a quoit.
“I caution you, your Highness,” Bhajan says, his words faltering, “to not believe everything you read in there. It was written . . . to be read, and must lack the honesty of something more private, like correspondence.”
“Even the praise of my father?”
“Especially that, your Highness. There’s no better way to tame a lion than to feed him tainted meat.”
• • •
Paris, 1893: Sophia makes an omelet for lunch, dots its golden surface with the cheese she bought in the morning. They sit by the window again, shutters pulled close; the day is cool. The dull light glitters off the hukkah vase; the hyacinth is a splatter of bright purple and creamy lilac.
She looks around, points her fork in the air. “Why do you live here, Papa? Why not a hotel? You can surely afford it.”
He smiles, coughs as a piece of bread sticks in his throat. “Not anymore, my child. They watch me, you know. I thought that in this garret I could hide from the British government.”
“Really?” Her well-shaped eyebrows rise into her hairline. She’s beautiful, this daughter of his. Her mother was comely enough, but this girl has the nose of the Lion of the Punjab, his gray eyes, a tint to her skin that makes a red blush rosy. He has eight children, from two wives, and none have ever before shown any interest in the past, in their grandfather, or in India. They’re all English, their accents, their manners, their clothing. But this one, to whom he gave her grandmother’s name—she’s Bamba Sophia Jindan—has come to visit him in Paris. She spends the whole day with him, every day that she is here, is not irritated by his slowness, his coughing, his forays down the lanes of history in search of shining moments he cannot hope to re-create. Anymore.
There’s a brilliance about Sophia, something he hasn’t noticed before. A man, he thinks, who has captured her heart. So, she glows. She shimmers. She laughs from her heart. Even here, in this dismal studio, which he has decorated with relics—a sword, a hukkah, a shawl and a veil, the pearls his father wore in a distant land. If he had the Kohinoor, it too would be here on the rue de la Trémoille in Paris.
“Who?”
“Aimée.”
“The charwoman? Oh, Papa, she couldn’t possibly be a spy.”
He expects to be disbelieved. Pushing open the shutters, he indicates the man with the violin on the street corner. “Him. He’s there every day.”
“It’s how he makes his living, Papa.”
“Yes,” he agrees, “it is how he makes his living.” And they’re talking of different things.
She clears the table, and he helps her, limping to the sink in the corner of the room, pouring water from a mug onto the plates and the forks to rinse them. Aimée will come again, tomorrow, to clean the dishes.
“Did you like the Queen, Papa? I mean, when you first met her?” For she knows that it has been many years since her father has met the Queen, talked to her. His letters are unanswered, or at most there’s a polite, distant note from one of the secretaries saying that her Majesty is too busy right now.
“You’ll see.”
• • •
July 1, 1854: Surely, this is the most glorious of days! I wake to the rumble of the cleaners’ carts on the street, the sweet sound of water sluiced on the cobblestones, leaving them glittering in the early sunlight. In the outer rooms, Mir Kheema lays out my clothes and polishes my jewels. And then he comes in with a tray, which holds a pot of hot chocolate, a cup, and a dish of digestive biscuits.
“What am I wearing?”
“Your pearls, your Highness,” he says, approaching the bed and bowing. Then, kneeling upon the carpets, he lays his head lightly on my bedcovers. “The diamond and emerald aigrette for your turban. The diamond bracelets and four rings, also in emerald. I have chosen”—he raises his eyes to mine—“all green in your stones to go better with the embroidery in your black velvet coat and your trousers. It would befit you, as a king meeting . . . another, to wear the silk pajamas under your kurta instead of your English trousers?” This last is said wistfully.
I run my hand over my night wear. “Only to sleep, Mir. I have given off that part of the native dress, as you well know.”
“Certainly, your Highness.” He is reflective now. “At another time, you would not have appeared in public without that glorious stone upon your arm, but now . . .” He touches his forehead in salaam, and backs out of the room.
Lord Dalhousie annexed the Punjab, and he gave the Kohinoor to the Queen. He did not ask me for permission. As with so much else in my father’s Toshakhana, the Kohinoor, which Mir Kheema dares not call by its name, found its way to England four years ago. I remember so little about the last Treaty of Lahore that Sikh chieftains signed on my behalf with the British. I signed it also, but without understanding most of its clauses. I was only ten years old at the time. But it was agreed to in my name—as the reigning king of the Punjab—and I will stand by its terms. But I wonder if Lord Dalhousie knows, or guesses, what it means to me. The possessor of the diamond is the supreme ruler of all South Asia—in that fistful of stone is strength, power, glory, all the brilliance and opulence of royalty. It isn’t just a piece of rock.
I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth, bathe and breakfast. It is futile to think of what is not mine any longer—especially today, when I go to meet my sovereign. For she is my Queen also—the Punjab Empire has been fragmented, shattered, some of its pieces sold off, and what remains is now under the crown of Queen Victoria.
Lord and Lady Login accompany me to Buckingham Palace around noon, and there we are met by a few of the Company’s directors and Sir Charles Trevelyan from the Treasury.
The Grand Staircase is encased in reds, golds, and whites. Portraits of past monarchs look down upon us, though they never lived here, I am told by an equerry as we ascend; the Queen is the first to take up residence.
The equerry cannot walk in front of me, so he makes small movements by my side—first here, a right there, a left after another right. If I am abandoned in this place, I will not find my way out. And then, finally, we are at the Throne Room. The doors are flung open and my presence announced. “The Maharajah of the Punjab, Maharajah Duleep Singh Bahadur!”
I mumble, “My name is Maharajah Dalip Singh Bahadur.”
The equerry’s backward look is one of a startled squirrel, eyes huge in his angular face. I have heard my name mispronounced so many times before, but I don’t want the Queen to not know how or what to call me.
A huddle of men and women at the far end break apart to watch my progress across the lush red carpets. In the center of that group, not sitting upon the throne but standing, waiting, is a slight woman, her hair combed sensibly back into a bun, her neck festooned in diamonds, her arms bare, her gown of some glittering silver material.
She comes forward; the others bow and curtsy. The Queen puts out her hand, and I run the last few steps up to take her hand in mine.
“Maharajah, this is such a pleasure. Welcome to England. I hope, I so dearly hope that your stay here will be
a pleasant one.”
I bow. I kiss her hand. Prince Albert comes forward to shake my hand and add his compliments. He is handsome, with trimmed sideburns; his vest, his jacket, his pants all impeccably neat. That last word describes the two of them perfectly. The Queen is economical in all of her movements; even her smile is small, but one of such pure pleasure when she looks at me that I glow with happiness.
“Tell me about yourself,” she says. “Was your journey a good one?”
“Very much so, your Majesty.”
“You must feel yourself at home in England.” She turns to the Company’s officials who stand behind. “We must make the Maharajah welcome; he must not regret his decision to leave India.”
I gulp. “I could hardly feel that, your Majesty.”
“Come.” And with a light touch on my arm, she pulls me to a side of the room where there are two chairs close together. “Talk to me. I am elated you are here after hearing so much about you.” She gazes at me for a long time. “You are such a striking boy. I hope you will not mind my saying so; I feel as though I could be your mother, in age, of course, and I would very much like you to be a part of my family.”
I cannot speak. To be accorded such an honor from her, the woman for whose well-being we have prayed every Sunday at church both in India and here, who has always seemed so distant, so magnificent. I had expected some minor notice, something done gracefully and then forgotten, but this much . . . I glance around at Lady Login. She quakes with delight. Lord Login’s mouth twitches at the ends.
“You are very gracious, your Majesty.”
“I had heard of your embracing the Christian faith”—and now an anxious furrow on her brow—“it was done with your full consent, I hope? You have wanted this, believed in God, knew Him to be your savior?”
“I and no one else, your Majesty.”
She leans back. “I was worried, I will admit, when I heard of it, coming as it did so soon after the annexation of the Punjab. You were very young then, and I was adamant that things be done right by you. Lord and Lady Login have been good guardians? You are happy? If you are not, you must tell me.”
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