by Thalassa Ali
Macnaghten smiled again. “But Sire, if we have so many enemies, then why do people flock to join in our horse races and our entertainments? Why do they smile and joke with us as if we were brothers? Why do they offer us gifts and friendship?”
“Yes,” Burnes joined in, “and why do they call me ‘Eskandar’ so happily? Why do they use my Christian name?”
Shah Shuja leaned back against his silken bolster. “That is no Christian name. Eskandar, or Alexander, is a very ancient name indeed. But let me tell you something else: it is not the habit of my people to reveal their feelings. They will smile at you until the very moment when you feel the bite of their knives.
“Mark my words, Macnaghten,” he added, “there will be reprisals against you for this cutting of payments to the Ghilzais.”
Macnaghten bowed. “As you say, Sire. And now, with your permission, I must return to my duties.”
The Shah shook his head. “Ah, Macnaghten,” he said wearily, “how little you understand my Afghanistan.”
THAT SAME afternoon, in the simpler atmosphere of Qamar Haveli, Safiya Sultana leaned back against a cotton-encased bolster and chewed meditatively on a slice of melon.
Her life boasted many pleasures. For the moment at least, everyone in the house was in good health. Hassan, now fully recovered and preparing to leave for Peshawar, rode daily with Saboor. Their excursions to the countryside, either sedately on horse and pony, or galloping full-tilt from village to village on Hassan's beautiful new mare, gave the child real joy. Safiya never tired of watching Saboor charge across the room, his clothes flying, and throw his arms about his father whenever Hassan appeared in the sitting room doorway.
They made a good pair, father and son, experienced courtier and child mystic.
Of course they were not far apart in understanding. Like all the men in the Waliullah household, Hassan had been a member of his father's brotherhood since he was eighteen. He had offered the same prayers and performed the same daily recitations as everyone else, and had gained much from both. Safiya had watched proudly as he became a man of honor, respected in the walled city, and trusted by Maharajah Ranjit Singh.
She had always believed that Hassan's gifts of charm and persuasiveness would serve him well in his life.
It was only his self-consciousness and his perfectionism that worried her.
Of course Hassan had never shown any interest in becoming a spiritual leader. He had none of his son's mysterious prescience, or his enthusiasm for sitting in the courtyard for hours at a time with Waliullah and his guests.
Those traits could belong only to the person who would be the next Shaikh of the Karakoyia brotherhood.
Dear little Saboor. May his bright energy last a hundred years.
Although he was only four, he already displayed a keen desire to learn. Every morning, in the large sitting room, he bounced in his place on the sheeted floor, ready with a hundred questions, when Safiya regaled her family ladies and their children with instructive stories. He spent his afternoons in the courtyard with his grandfather, learning to recite from the Qur'an, his round eyes growing wiser day by day.
Other members of the household were also in good condition. Safiya's young cousin had been delivered of a strong baby girl, whose cries now echoed from room to room in the upstairs ladies’ quarters. Waliullah's elderly gap-toothed sister-in-law, who had collapsed suddenly from the heat one summer afternoon, had since recovered, and was back to gossiping as much as ever.
The harvest of Kandahari pomegranates promised to be good, and the young guava trees had survived the summer rains.
Safiya had much to be thankful for.
A jumping, shouting game outside the sitting room had become too noisy. “Go downstairs this instant,” she snapped at Saboor and half a dozen of his grinning cousins.
When silence fell in the verandah, she thought the children had all gone away, but when Safiya glanced idly through the doorway, she saw that Saboor was still there, watching her silently, half-hidden by the door curtains.
She pointed to the tray of fruit in front of her. “Come, child,” she said, patting the floor beside her when he hesitated. “I will cut you a slice of melon.”
“What is wrong?” she asked, when he sat down and leaned silently against her. “You were playing so happily a moment ago.”
The child gazed into her face for a moment, then got to his knees, pushed a few loose strands of iron-gray hair aside, and cupped a hand over her ear.
“Please, Bhaji,” he whispered wetly, his breath tickling her ear. “Please make Abba go to where An-nah is, and bring her home.”
She laid a plump arm about his shoulders. So that was it. The boy still missed the English girl. And why should he not? Mariam had become mother to him after his own poor little mother died. She had protected and loved him for two full years.
“I will do what I can, my darling,” she rumbled, knowing well how little influence she had over Hassan. “I will do what I can.”
A question struck her as the little boy clattered down the stairs to rejoin his game. Why was he missing Mariam now, after so many months? He had been upset, of course, after she left in January, but in the long time that followed, he had seemed happily reconciled to her absence.
What could have happened to make him long for her now?
October 15, 1841
We hear that General Sale was wounded in the Khurd-Kabul pass, this time in the leg,” Charles Mott volunteered from his seat beside the British officers’ cricket field. “Otherwise, the First Brigade has done wonderfully well.”
A second man, a captain of the 13th Foot, did not take his eyes from the game. “Of course,” he put in, “it was a pity about that night attack on Colonel Monteith's encampment, with so many of our men killed. Thirty-five, if I remember correctly.”
“Monteith should have punished the Afghan traitors in his camp who let the attackers past the sentries,” observed another officer, “but in any case, the pass is now cleared, and that is what matters.”
“We hear,” Charles Mott added, “that within a few days, the whole distance between Kabul and Jalalabad will be open to our own caravans, and of course to you, Sir William, as well, when you return to India.”
Sir William Macnaghten stopped talking to the wan-looking General Elphinstone, and offered his nephew by marriage a satisfied nod.
“Yes, indeed, Charles,” he said.
Conversations in the cantonment had centered for weeks upon Sir William's new posting as Governor of Bombay. Lady Macnaghten, who had only recently finished decorating the Residence in Kabul, was already deeply concerned about her future, far grander house.
“I cannot imagine how I shall survive it,” she had confided gaily to Mariana.
In front of Mariana, his arms windmilling, a curly-haired lieutenant galloped down the cricket pitch. Behind him, the two brown Bibi Mahro hills rose sharply against a hard, blue sky. An equally brown village climbed the slope of the nearer hill. What, Mariana wondered, did the occupants of that village make of the British and their game?
She smiled absently at someone's remark about the young bowler's peculiar style, but her mind was not upon the cricket. A glass of pomegranate juice in her hand, she sat still, imagining what she would say to Harry Fitzgerald when they met.
From the look of it, that meeting would take place any moment. Not only had he returned to Kabul the previous day, he was here, at the cricket game. She frowned, aware of his blond presence as he strolled to and fro among the spectators, greeting old friends and cheering on the bowler.
Now that General Sale and the Eastern Ghilzais were fighting on the road to Peshawar, it would be some time before Ghulam Ali could make his way back to Kabul.
She would not know Hassan's feelings until he returned.
Word of Fitzgerald's arrival had, of course, come from Lady Macnaghten. You are to be present tomorrow afternoon at the cricket field near the Darwaza Sirdar, she had instructed Mariana in the previou
s day's hand-delivered letter. Do not worry about your appearance. Vijaya will be coming to you before lunch.
Mariana had made a point of not mentioning Fitzgerald to her family, but silence had done her no good. For weeks, as his return to Kabul approached, Aunt Claire had repeatedly cautioned her to keep her eyes lowered and remain silent about her past.
“And you must,” she had added, raising a plump finger for emphasis, “be discreet in what you say. You have, my dear Mariana, the very dangerous habit of speaking your mind. That liberty, I remind you, is reserved for married ladies only.”
Lady Macnaghten had been no less involved. Undistracted by the effort of choosing silk for the Bombay Government House dining room, she had peered critically at Mariana's face and fingernails, and instructed her to burn her favorite gray afternoon gown.
“You simply cannot wear that dreary color again,” she had insisted; “I have some lovely lemon silk that will be perfect for you. And the tiniest bit of cochineal powder will do wonders for your cheeks.
“You must use all means available to enhance your appearance,” she continued, ignoring Mariana's shocked stare at the suggestion that she paint her face. “Cochineal is a wonderful native invention. I am told on great authority that in the morning, after all those tiny red insects have been set free, the muslin bag is inspected very carefully. If even one of the little creatures has died in the night, the whole of it is thrown away.
“You always look pretty when you take the trouble,” she concluded. “The same cannot be said of everyone. Do make use of your good looks before it is too late. No one will ever know,” she added with a wicked little smile.
The crack of a bat was followed by shouting. Mariana turned, looking for Fitzgerald, and saw him leaning against a tree in his buckskin breeches and blue jacket, his smooth head bent as he listened to something his companion was saying. Would he hold his head at the same angle when she told him she could neither accept nor refuse his proposal, and that he must wait for an indeterminate length of time for her reply?
Would he actually ask her to marry him?
He started in her direction. As he approached, still talking to his friend, she turned hastily to the cricket, begging him silently not to sit down in the unfortunately empty chair beside her.
“May I join you, Miss Givens?”
He was bowing above her. His friend had disappeared. “Of course you may, Lieutenant,” she replied helplessly.
The folding chair groaned as he sat down. “It is a pleasure to see people enjoying themselves,” he offered, smiling a little stiffly. “Kandahar may have wonderful melons, but otherwise, it is a great, stony wasteland.”
She kept her eyes on the game, uncomfortably aware of his bulk and the creaking of his chair.
People were looking at them. Beneath her parasol, Aunt Claire made a fluttering gesture, signaling either encouragement or warning. Lady Macnaghten frowned and patted her hair significantly.
“Have you enjoyed the Kabul summer?” he asked.
“In a way, yes.” Mariana offered him a cautious smile. “The weather has been glorious and the fruit lovely. After two years in India, I had quite forgotten what cherries taste like.”
“I must say I am very happy to be—” His voice trailed off.
He was staring into space, his square, freckled hands tight on the arms of his chair.
The last thing she wanted was a clumsy, fearful suitor. Suddenly repelled by the musty scent of his blue woolen jacket, she searched about her for reinforcements, but found the rest of the party, even her aunt, otherwise occupied. Even Charles Mott was deep in conversation with Fitzgerald's friend.
She took in a calming breath. “I hear there was fighting on the road to Kabul,” she ventured.
“There was.” He turned to her, his face intense. “Miss Givens,” he said abruptly, “what have you been told about our battle in the Zurmat valley?”
She blinked in surprise. “I have heard,” she replied, “that someone called Colonel Herring had been killed near Kandahar, that a force had been sent to avenge his death, and that the attackers seemed very brave at first, but melted away after a few artillery shots.”
“They did melt away. And when they went into the hills, we blew up their forts. But for all our apparent victory, we did not kill any of them, nor have they surrendered to us.”
She frowned. “Everyone here believes the Afghans are cowards who cannot withstand our artillery fire.”
“I do not think that is the case.” He leaned closer to her and dropped his voice. “They have no heavy guns of their own, which means they are unused to being fired upon. They withdraw when they first encounter our artillery, but I believe they do so only to discuss their next move.”
Mariana studied him. His eyes, as green as hers, were unafraid. No longer clenched, his hands now rested on his knees. They were covered with dry lines, as if they had been well used. He had not been thinking of her at all.
“This has already happened, in the Kohdaman valley,” he added. “I can see clearly that the Afghan fighting style is very different from ours. Their warriors appear, then retreat, then appear again, and each time they come back, there are more of them.
“We, of course, march out openly, in our red and blue uniforms. We fight in an orderly fashion, in columns and squares. They go into battle in ordinary clothes the same color as the dust and the rocks. Their movements are impossible to predict. They come unexpectedly, from nowhere, do what damage they can, then vanish like ghosts, or they snipe at us, invisibly, from behind rocks. They have no fear of our guns, whatever our people may say, and no chivalry. They descend upon our wounded like vultures. Sometimes they even cut off—I am sorry,” he said hastily, seeing the look on her face. “This is no proper conversation for a lady.”
He dropped his eyes. “I have no one to speak to about this. Whenever I have tried to discuss it, I am called a croaker. I am only telling you because we talked about military matters so often before—”
Her revulsion gone, she resisted an impulse to lay a hand on his arm. It had been months since an English person had spoken seriously to her.
Perhaps, for now, he would be her friend.
“I am certain that we can beat the Afghans,” he continued, interrupting her thoughts, “but to do so, we must outwit them. I fear we have dangerously underestimated them.
“I am very worried, Miss Givens,” he added, “very worried.”
“I am so sorry,” she whispered.
Turning to her, he stared for an instant at the front of her gown, as if he were gazing at the flesh beneath her bodice. “I could not bear,” he said huskily, “to know you were in any danger.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” was all she could manage.
A moment later, Harry Fitzgerald excused himself, and was gone.
Twenty feet away, Aunt Claire regarded her with a small, fashionable, and unmistakably triumphant smile.
“I AM so pleased,” cooed Lady Macnaghten as she rode beside Mariana on the way back. “I thought you made a handsome pair, you and your lieutenant. What were you speaking of with such concentration?”
“I hardly remember,” Mariana replied vaguely.
“And you were looking quite nice, but a curl of your hair had come loose. The whole time you were speaking with Fitzgerald, it hung irritatingly down over your left ear.
“And now,” she continued, shifting uncomfortably in her sidesaddle, “you must pursue your advantage. Be ready at all times for him to call on you. And for goodness sake, there is no need to show all your teeth when you smile.”
October 19, 1841
In the five days since Harry Fitzgerald's return, he had called on Mariana three times. Three features had characterized each of those visits: Aunt Claire's simpering idiocy, Fitzgerald's patient good manners, and Mariana's growing irritation.
While her aunt's efforts to safeguard Mariana's good name had protected her from any upsetting declaration he might have made, her breathl
ess reminiscences about her childhood in Sussex were agony to listen to.
“My aunt, Claire Woodrow,” she burbled over sherry one afternoon, as Mariana fidgeted beside her, “my father's elder sister after whom I was named, came to live in Weddington when I was small. Her husband had recently died, you see”
Saved from the work of conversing, Fitzgerald had offered no more than a series of bland smiles. When he stood up to leave, Mariana followed him, her lemon silk skirts rustling, then turned and faced her aunt after the front door had closed behind him.
“I do believe,” her aunt sighed, “he is the handsomest—”
“Handsome he may be,” Mariana said pointedly, “but must we talk of ourselves all the time he is here?”
Aunt Claire drew back, her chins trembling. “But what on earth should we talk of?”
“Him.” Mariana sighed. “You wish me to marry Fitzgerald, but we know nothing about him.”
Her own vetting, she knew, was a cold, unloving exercise that, in the end, would cause someone hurt. It pained her to hear the lilt in her aunt's voice, and the little humming noises she made as she busied herself about the bungalow.
While Aunt Claire sang to herself, Mariana waited for Ghulam Ali.
Where was he now? Was he on his way back from India, preparing to travel safely through the passes after Jalalabad, now that General Sale had cleared the way? Was Hassan's reply to her hidden in his clothes, or had Hassan sent back no reply but only silence, the bitterest answer of all?
If only she had sent Ghulam Ali sooner, he would have returned safely and she would already know….
Until she knew the truth of Hassan's feelings, she would remain as she was, trapped between hopefulness and resignation.
THAT EVENING, as she tightened her stays in preparation for another of Lady Macnaghten's dinner parties, Mariana steeled herself to learn more about Harry Fitzgerald.