It was an artful avoidance of her question that she did not miss. With a nod, she said, “Perhaps in the morning,” and then heard Claudia laughing, coming down the stairs, and rose and excused herself.
Claire spent three weeks in Essex, at first in the quiet of her comfortable chamber, and then outside in the late garden, watching the marigolds and rhododendrons cast brilliance over Tony’s hedges, strolling through the asters and the chrysanthemums just coming to bud, in that peaceful space between summer and autumn. After a brief healing, she ventured out to visit her sisters, to play with Chloe’s babies and exclaim over Cleo’s new nursery in her cottage in Finchingfield, and to accompany Clytie with her toddler in tow to the village dressmaker.
Every morning she sat with Rajat on Tony Merrill’s terrace, that childhood dream-world of hers, that was now no more than brick and stone and some pleasant flower pots, and she listened to Rajat tell her of his knowledge.
He taught her the art of seeing; not of looking, or of gazing, or of desiring, but of contemplating, of putting life once again into balance, into that delicate consortium of strength and weakness, of light and dark, of earth and heaven, of opposite forces functioning freely and naturally against each other. In the midst of it, Claire discovered herself.
Her revelation had to do with her sister, Claudia, who had always depended upon Claire’s strength and brilliance, and who now no longer needed or even desired anything from her youngest sister. For Claudia had found her own completion; she was part of Tony, and he of her, so much, in fact, that even separated they were inseparable, even speaking there was so much unsaid, nor needing to be said. Even when they were with Claire, they were apart from her, in that calm, quiet world of their own. It was not that she intruded; it would have been impossible to do so, in fact. It was that she was no longer needed. And Claire had always been needed.
Claire, the sister who had sacrificed herself on the altar of an undesirable marriage in order to save Chloe and Claudia from it; Claire, the daughter who had gone straight to the ends of the earth to nurse her father, and had protected and defended her older sisters from a dozen Moroccans and all the rest of the world. Claire, that impulsive, affectionate youngest sister, was no longer needed.
“Rajat,” she said one morning, sitting beside him on the terrace steps, after they had talked quietly of Rousseau, whom Rajat had been reading, “will you tell me— ” She smiled faintly at a single late rose peeping up above the garden wall in the distance— “Will you tell me how Drew defeated Balaghat?”
It was the first time she had spoken his name, and she had used Rajat’s name for him, not hers, as if she had ceased somehow to think of him as Varian any longer, because in this instance, she wanted to hear of that man who had been born Drew in India. The brown face regarded hers silently for a long while, and then he nodded and, lacing his fingers together, told her the story.
He was a legend in the hills above Madras. He was perhaps a hundred years old. He had been a king, a conqueror, a ravager, since his youth. He took children playing in the dusty lanes on the edges of villages in the banana groves. He required sacrifices, twelve a year, so legend held, of humans, and for each man that was killed in trying to kill him, he required an additional sacrifice in penance. He was a tiger at the peak of his ascendancy; he could have lived another century in the minds of the villagers in the region, and perhaps have become immortal. He was a man-hunter; he was hunted by man. There were skillful warriors who went to kill Balaghat, and no one ever returned. In Madras, in Koler, as far north as the Krishna river and as far south as the Kaveri, he was feared. In Bangalore they sang songs of his prowess, and they recited the legend of the man who would come to kill him.
The legend was ancient: the savior would be part god, part man; he would be a king wearing a gold crown, and he would be known as a wise man because of his cane. He was old, thus he would limp; he was young, and thus strong. He would kill Balaghat, and there would be a great feast, and he would become famous through his valor.
And then, Rajat told her, Drew arrived in Madras.
For a long moment after he spoke, she stared out at the single rose distant in the morning light, in that opalescent light of Essex that casts magic over everything, and then she drew in a deep breath and turned to Rajat. “And did they know when they saw him that he was fulfillment of the prophecy?”
Rajat raised his eyebrows faintly in contemplation of a stone in the walk before him. “No; but it is only given to wise men to know such things. I took this book from his loads on the dock.” Without ado he withdrew a well-worn copy of Voltaire’s Candide from inside his loose shirt. “I was to be executed for this theft, which is the way of justice in Madras. Drew bought me instead, and I became his servant, and I knew then that he had a great destiny. I learned from him what my ancestors did not teach me, for the way of the ancients has no room for— ” Rajat looked at her abruptly, and said a word in Portuguese, and repeated it instantly in French, and she gave him his English word— “for chance. I learned from him that everything is not divined; that some things are taken against the will of the ancients, and it was in this way that we discovered his fortune. It was also in this way that he defeated Balaghat, and it is the reason why there was no one of my country who could have done so. Drew killed Balaghat against the will of nature, and this is not permitted in my country.”
“What do you mean, against the will of nature?” Claire asked.
“There were many forces against him, but he refused to acknowledge their power over him,” Rajat explained.
“Forces?”
“He was not strong; he had a weak foot, and he limped, and he was not the man whom he later became,” he said in explanation. “But he is very skillful, and he learned before he came to India that power can be overcome by weakness with skill and a superior mind. Thus he fought Balaghat.”
“Tell me all of it,” she said quietly.
“He crept up on Balaghat while the tiger was eating; he waited until the tiger had killed and was full from his supper, before he attacked. This requires knowledge,” he said simply. “And he took the advantage from Balaghat by engaging him like— like— ” another Portuguese word.
“Like a lover?” Claire asked, her face suddenly pale.
He nodded once. “Like a lover, he clung to the tiger and would not allow Balaghat to lunge at him, or use his feet and leap onto him. This requires bravery,” Rajat said simply.
“Like a wrestler,” she corrected, gently, with a faintly painful smile.
He asked her the meaning of the word in Portuguese and she told him, and then he nodded. “A wrestler,” he repeated. “And when he had held the tiger’s mouth closed and inconsequent and had rolled with him in the dust until Balaghat was angry and choking on his supper, then he took him . . . into the river,” he said.
“Cats,” Claire nodded, “do not care at all for water.”
“Yes, and this was before the rains,” he added. “In India, before the rains, the river is like a sewer. There are poisons there, and no one will go near it.”
“This requires what?”
Rajat smiled. “This requires a strong stomach,” he said, with an infrequent laugh. “And Balaghat did not care for it at all. He leapt out of the water and shook himself, and felt misused, and in the meantime, Drew had come up behind him and had put a knife into his neck,” he said.
“And so he died?”
Rajat considered her silently for a moment. “A legend,” he said simply, “such as Balaghat does not die from a knife. A legend dies from . . . defeat.”
“What happened?”
“They fought for an hour, perhaps more. There was blood and the taste of death in Balaghat’s mouth, and perhaps it made him stronger. But Drew was quicker than the tiger; Drew had planned, and the tiger had allowed himself to be surprised. Although the tiger did not intend to be defeated.”
“The scar he bears? How did he come by it?”
“You have seen it?”
She blushed faintly, and then her skin was colorless again as she stared at the rose over the garden wall. “Yes.”
“Drew dropped his knife,” said Rajat, and added matter-of-factly, “He should have died.”
“Why did he not?”
Another infrequent smile lightened Rajat’s face. “It was the quality that I have told you that no Indian has: to act against the will of nature. He took up his knife from between Balaghat’s powerful front paws and his open fangs, and Drew defied nature. And succeeded! Balaghat has left him reminder that the forces of nature are not often challenged,” he said, and gazed silently out, seeing again a dusty Indian village, and a man, scarred, bleeding, magnificent, and victorious. “He killed him, then; but Balaghat was already defeated at the moment when Drew took his knife again in his hand. It was then that Balaghat died.”
“And the fire?”
His liquid black gaze regarded her; he wondered how she knew what to ask. “The villagers ate his flesh, and burned his bones, and cleaned Balaghat’s skin for Drew,” he said.
“And he threw his cane on top of the fire?”
“Yes,” Rajat nodded, watching her face.
“Rajat,” Claire began in a moment.
“Yes, Doña,” he replied.
“I must go back to London soon,” she said.
“Yes,” he nodded.
“I have a Balaghat of my own to fight, you see,” she said quietly.
“It requires brilliance,” said Rajat, “which is your nature.”
“Shall you go with me?”
“To Drew?”
“Yes,” she nodded.
He bowed his turbaned head. “You must remember that even though the grass is tangible and the wind is not, the grass bends when the wind blows over it; this is the way of nature,” he said.
“I shall fight with knowledge, and skill, and a strong stomach,” she said, with a touch of humor in her lovely face.
“Against nature?” he inquired.
“If needs be,” she said, turning her wide blue gaze on him. “I shall fight the gods to the death for him.”
“Then there is always,” he said, nodding, “chance.”
“And we shall go home tomorrow?”
He smiled at her. “Very welcome orders,” he said, and bowed politely, and left her alone in the garden.
chapter thirteen
Against the Will of Nature
Claire Drew arrived at Banning House late in the afternoon and slipped quietly upstairs without ringing the bell or calling Stiles, for the door had been off the latch; it was raining, that sort of cool drizzle that greets October in London, and the soft rhythm allowed her to disguise her arrival.
She had told Consuela to come up the servant’s stairs, so that Varian would not see her. Elena was still with Claudia in Essex, and Rajat, dear Rajat, was to bring up her trunk after she came down for dinner. She had planned; she would surprise Drew while he was full from his supper. She smiled at the thought as she came silently down the hallway to her chambers and opened the door.
The rooms were just as she had left them, except the carpet where the laudanum had spilled had been removed, and there was an exotic Eastern one in its place, some fanciful bird of plumage perched over its silken paradise.
She looked around as she closed the door silently. Her eyes fell immediately on the door to his chambers, the one she had once feared that was now to be the sign of her victory. Without lighting a lamp, she took off her hat and quietly and quickly removed her traveling dress. She could hear him moving in his chambers on the other side of the adjoining dressing room; as she silently made her own preparations, she heard a drawer open and close and the door of the clothespress creak. Then she sat at her dressing table until Consuela slipped inside the doorway, a little out of breath; the old woman, smiling at her in the looking glass, came over and brushed out her hair and pinned it up.
The supper bell rang; he had gone down already, and she rather thought there were guests, which could not have been better. She put on the diamonds and sapphires over a gown he had never seen, one of sky-blue Indian silk she had had made up in Essex to her own orders, that clung to her in pleats and folds of graceful elegance. Then she finished her paint; a delicate brush of powder, a tiny dab of color on her lashes, all the secrets that she had learned from the graceful and elegant ladies of Portugal. She smiled once more in the mirror at Consuela, and took up her gloves and allowed her maid to open the door.
As she came down the grand stairs of Banning House, she heard the murmur of male voices in the library, and she did not think that anyone would hear the rustle of silk on the stairs. Except suddenly the conversation ceased when she had barely set her foot on the first step, and then there was a glistening of gold from his head below the stairs, as Varian Drew turned up his face in shock, in astonishment, in a thinly veiled hostility which she had expected, toward the exquisite lady in blue silk coming slowly, proprietorially, down his staircase.
“Good evening, darling,” she said, just as he had always greeted her at breakfast, once, a long time ago, before he had learned to hate her.
That brilliant, startlingly blue gaze rose to her over his wine glass and his impeccable linen and superfine, the white of his cravat stark against his brown skin and his glittering gold hair. With a tiny bow, he raised his glass to her in a moment of accession. “Good evening, Claire,” he said, and turned away, and went back into his library.
She stood at the door of the library and viewed the guests: there were three men inside, Varian Drew at the sideboard. Beside the small fire in the grate, leaning comfortably against the dark leather of the chair she always chose was Foreign Secretary George Canning, and standing in conversation with him was General John Moore of the Expeditionary Force in Portugal. She smiled brilliantly and came inside, and gave Balaghat a challengingly stare, and then went straight to her husband’s side.
“I say! Lady Banning!” said George Canning, glancing up in surprise in the warm light of the lamps that reflected off the dark patina of the cherry paneling and the polished leather of the books lining the walls.
“Good god!” said Moore; “once again, you’ve given me a fright! What with Varian just telling us you wouldn’t be here for the ceremonies tomorrow!”
“Good evening, Lord Canning, General Moore,” she said coolly, and gave her husband a tiny smile. “Of course I meant to be here,” she said suddenly, watching her husband’s face, and recalling Rajat’s teaching— if the two companions are respectfully received, that help will prove effectual.
“Well, I did think it would have been considered a trifle odd— ” began Moore, and hrmphed noisily, as Canning’s elbow connected with his ribs.
“You’re looking lovely this evening, my dear Lady Banning; I say, Drew, I don’t suppose you’d care to give us the history of those diamonds your wife’s wearing, would you?” inquired Canning pleasantly, sipping his Madeira.
“Actually, not a great deal to tell,” Drew said quietly. “The one in the center matches— There is a ring that matches the one in the center; those two were the finest that I had out of the mine.”
“Lovely set,” nodded Moore, glancing at Lord Canning.
“No dragons or evil spirits to accompany the stones?” asked Canning, with a light chuckle.
“They were all defeated in India,” said Lady Banning, returning his smile. “There on the floor is the greatest one of all, Lord Canning. He is Balaghat; there is a legend about his ascendancy and defeat that my husband has helped to create. Shall you pour me a glass of wine, darling?” she asked, allowing her eyes to rest on her husband for a moment, and accepting the glass that he held out to her without speaking, and then going over the stand beside Balaghat’s head. “He is frightful looking, isn’t he?”
“Demmed devil!” nodded Moore, looking at the evil eyes glaring over the long, honed fangs, and then uncomfortably turning away.
“Did you kill this monster, Varian?” inquired Ge
orge Canning.
“Against the laws of nature,” said his wife.
“I,” came Varian Drew’s light voice, faintly mocking, “fought many battles in India, George. Only Balaghat has been kind enough to leave me proof of victory behind.”
“Nothing like nine French ships smoking on the horizon, but I suppose the creature is impressive,” said Moore.
“I daresay the King would like this even better,” laughed Canning. “Suppose you drag this carpet along with you tomorrow, and give the Farmer a cheerful fright?”
Lady Banning’s gaze was fixed on her husband’s face. “Shall we take Balaghat along, Varian?” she asked, thinking advance as the water which soaks the ceremonial cloth drop by drop. “Not a formal affair, I imagine?”
“At Windsor?” exclaimed Moore and chuckled. “Good god, Lady Banning, I agree with you completely, but it wouldn’t do to let the King know. Just dress up and go along; I’d wear those diamonds, if I were you,” he added, nodding, and sipped his Madeira with pleasure. “Excellent vintage, Banning; have you captured a case of this stuff off Vimeiro?”
She was staring at him, suddenly unable to master that pleasant and calm smile which she had been so determined to keep.
“Oh, no; I’ve paid the duty,” said her husband lightly, his blue eyes as brilliant as the sapphires around her neck in that brief meeting of her glance as he watched her from the sideboard. “Like another glass, George? John?”
“Sir John tomorrow,” nodded George Canning. “Well, Lady Banning; how is it these days, being a countess now?”
Somehow she found her smile again; there will be a gradual advance of men to offices in the state— “So long as I am married to Varian, I do not care whether he is a farmer or a king,” she said, casting a brilliant smile at Lord Canning.
“Rather touching,” nodded John Moore. “Followed him to Portugal, you know. Wish I’d had sugar for your tea, my dear.”
“I understand from Sir Robert Calder that you nursed a shipload of wounded all the way home, Lady Banning,” said George Canning.
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