by Anne Weale
That evening, in the part of the palace now converted into a hotel, they attended a drinks party for a group of twenty-four Americans. The room where this took place had been furnished in the 1930s in the then fashionable art deco style. There were many silver-foamed photographs of Prince Kesri’s grandfather and his family and signed photographs of foreign royalties and famous people of the period.
These caused excited murmurs among the Americans who were obviously thrilled to be socialising with a prince, even if his hereditary title was no longer recognised officially. Kesri, she noticed, made a point of having a few words with everyone, including her.
‘Is your Internet connection working, Nicole?’
He himself, after showing her her quarters, had sat down with her notebook computer and keyed in the different settings that would allow her to use the Indian service provider that he, his staff and Alex used.
‘Yes, thank you. I picked up some email from friends half an hour ago. Thank you for your help with that.’
‘My pleasure,’ he told her warmly. ‘Had you come here fifly years ago, you would have waited months for a reply to a letter. A few years before I was born there was no proper road to Karangarh. I was five when the railway came. As long as we can hold out against a public airport, we shall remain comparatively unspoiled.’ Smiling, he moved away to talk to an elderly man.
On the other side of the room Alex was listening to an American matron extolling the wonders of Jodhpur, the place they had come from.
Outwardly attentive to her chatter, he was actually thinking about Nicole, wondering why he had committed himself to treating her as a friend. Earlier in the day it had been his intention, after dinner, to escort her back to her rooms via various romantic parts of the palace where he had intended to melt away her defences.
Now he had given his word that he wouldn’t do that. He must have been out of his mind.
That two of the Americans were accompanied by an attractive daughter who had already given him the eye did nothing to lessen his annoyance with himself. It was Nicole he wanted and was determined to have, knowing that once she let down her guard, they could have a wonderful time together.
Perhaps, if he could win her confidence by treating her like one of his sisters for a while, he could get her to confide the reason she couldn’t relax and enjoy her sexuality.
CHAPTER FOUR
WHEN everyone moved into the courtyard for dinner, the Americans were seated in groups of eight, four on each side of the table with an empty chair at the head of it. Alex and Nicole had a table to themselves.
‘Kesri will sit with each group for one course,’ Alex explained to her.
What he did not add was that the women who would be sitting next to the Maharaja were the pick of the bunch in terms of looks, Nicole noticed. While passing one of the tables she had noticed place cards, so this arrangement hadn’t happened by chance. Whoever had set out the cards must have guessed, or been told, who the Maharaja would wish to have beside him.
Alex was as good as his word. Not once during dinner did his conversation or manner go beyond the bounds of friendliness.
After dinner some dancers gave a short performance. When it ended, he said, ‘I expect you’d like an early night. Can you find your way back to your room? If you’re not sure, I’ll ask someone to take you.’
Thank you, but I don’t think I’ll get lost. Goodnight, Alex.’
‘Goodnight.’
She had the feeling that as soon as she had departed he would join the others and not give her another thought. Whereas she was torn between relief that he had stopped pursuing her and regret that she had put him off.
During her first week at the palace, both Kesri and Alex spent time showing Nicole round.
Alex took her into town, introduced her to some of the shopkeepers and acted as her interpreter. He also explained Karangarh’s major problem.
‘Like all the desert forts, it’s built of sandstone on a base of sand, clay and rock. In the old days, the only drainage was by open gulleys down the sides of the streets. There was very little waste water. Now the population is growing and using more water. It’s having the same effect as when a child tips a bucket of water over a sandcastle.’ He made a graphic gesture with the shapely hands that were one of his many attractions for her.
‘Can’t the drainage be improved?’ she asked.
‘Sure, but it takes time and money. Meanwhile there’s water seeping away where it shouldn’t, saturating the whole basic structure. In places the city wall has burst open. Some of the bastions are unstable. More than a hundred buildings are in various stages of collapse. For some of them it’s too late.’
‘That’s terrible!’ she exclaimed.
‘It would have helped if the restoration programme had been started by Kesri’s grandfather,’ Alex said dryly. ‘Some of the old maharajas were enlightened rulers, and some of them weren’t’
Another day he took her to see some of the mansions called havelis, some ruined beyond repair and some under restoration. The houses were built from thick blocks of honey-coloured sandstone with the decorative parts carved from limestone.
‘They didn’t use mortar,’ said Alex. ‘The panels were held in place by stone keys or cramps made of iron. So parts of the ruined houses can sometimes be salvaged and used in the restorations.’
Standing behind her, he put one hand on her left shoulder and stretched his other arm over her right shoulder the better to point out where this work had been done.
Had it been anyone else, she would hardly have noticed, her attention being focussed on the building. But because it was Alex, she did. The light touch of his fingers and thumb felt as if they were five separate contacts through which, at any moment, she would feel an electric charge. She was also intensely conscious of his tall powerful frame stationed close behind her slighter softer body; so close that if she leaned back, even an inch or two, her shoulder-blades would touch his chest.
The disturbing thing was how much she wanted to lean back, to be enfolded by strong arms. Doubly disturbing was that he might sense her reaction.
It was a relief when they moved on to look at another building.
Although busy, the Maharaja made time to show her some of his family treasures. They included a solid silver dining table with a shimmering pattern of waves on its surface and a drinking cup carved from a single emerald. He also discussed the work he had hired her to do.
‘We have first-class craftsmen of many kinds, but we lack designers who can invent new ways to use the traditional skills,’ he told her.
As her body adjusted to being in a different time zone, Nicole was able to stay up later at night, sometimes writing long emails to Dan and her girlfriends, sometimes working on ideas in her new studio.
At the end of that week Alex announced he was leaving. Until he mentioned that he would be back in a few days, she thought he might be gone for weeks, even months, and was surprised how much she minded the prospect of not having him around.
He did not tell her where he was going, or why, and instinct restrained her from asking. It wasn’t her business and she sensed that he was a man who would resent being questioned. If he wanted her to know he would tell her. Otherwise it was politic to hold her tongue.
One day during his absence she couldn’t help reminding the Maharaja of what he had said about a reason why Alex was sometimes ‘formidable’ with young and attractive women.
‘I wondered how long it would be before curiosity overcame you,’ he said, with a mischievous look. Then his expression changed to gravity. ‘At what is usually the most carefree time of a man’s life, Alex went through an experience so terrible that it changed his whole personality. Up to that time he was the happiest person I’ve ever known. How much has he told you about his family background?’
‘Nothing,’ said Nicole. ‘He’s never mentioned it and I haven’t asked.’
‘His father is a Scottish landowner. He’s an only son. One day
, when his father dies, he’ll have to return to Scotland and run the estate. Until that happens he’s a free agent. Travelling and working in other parts of the world is a tradition in his family. His grandfather married a Hungarian countess he met while working in America. His great-grandfather also travelled and married a foreigner. But Alex’s mother is Scottish...as was his wife.’
Nicole hoped he couldn’t tell how shocked and dismayed she felt. ‘His wife?’ she echoed questioningly.
‘They were both very young. He was twenty-one. Nuala was only nineteen. They’d known each other from childhood. Their families tried to persuade them to wait, but Alex was adamant. They were going to travel together and he felt, as his wife, she would receive more respect in countries with stricter codes than those in the west. He was right about that. In many countries, girls who travel alone, or with men they are not related to, are regarded by the local people as little better than—’ His gesture left her to fill in the word he had omitted.
‘What happened to her?’ Nicole didn’t want to know but was impelled to ask.
‘They were in another part of India. As most backpackers do, sooner or later, Alex went down with a bug and had to stay in their room in a low-budget hotel. One morning Nuala went out to buy some things they needed. She was caught in one of the street riots that can erupt without warning when there’s political unrest. She was hit by a hurled brick. It killed her. Alex couldn’t forgive himself for taking her to that place.’
‘How terrible.’ She felt her eyes filling with tears at the thought of what he must have suffered. It would be like losing Dan, an unimaginable anguish, a wound that would never heal.
‘You’re very tender-hearted,’ Kesri said, seeing her reaction.
Trying to control her emotions, she said huskily, ‘Anyone’s heart would bleed for them.’
‘It was a tragic ending to their short time together. But who knows, if she had lived, if they would still be together? Like others, I didn’t think Nuala was right for Alex. She was stronger on charm than intelligence. He has a first-class brain. He picks up languages as easily as other people memorise tunes. Even at Eton he was said to have a better understanding of the nuances of Slavic grammar than his tutor.’
‘I don’t think people necessarily need matching brain power to be happy together,’ said Nicole.
‘Perhaps not in every case. But I’ve often seen Alex bored by women who chatter about trivialities in the same way Nuala did. She might have matured. She might not. The real tragedy is not that she died young but that it has spoiled his life. He can’t forgive himself. As a self punishment, he has renounced marriage and fatherhood. Even his duty to his line doesn’t alter his determination never to marry again.’
‘But that’s crazy,’ said Nicole. ‘What good will it do?’
‘None at all, but that’s the way he sees things and no one will change his mind. Many women have tried. He’ll indulge their desires, up to a point...but not to the extent of giving his heart to them. That part of his heart is dead. Now all he feels is affection for his friends and compassion for those in need.’
Perhaps he’s like me, she thought. Perhaps he has never met another person he could love. She didn’t share these thoughts with Kesri.
‘It’s a long time ago. I don’t think it weighs on his mind as much as it used to,’ the Maharaja went on. ‘But it’s always there in his subconscious. I wouldn’t have told you about it except that when he is here you’ll be seeing a good deal of each other. I should be sorry to see you hurt, Nicole. And that, I’m afraid, would be the inevitable outcome if you allowed yourself to become too fond of him.’
‘There’s no risk of that,’ she said firmly.
For a moment she was tempted to tell him about Dan, but decided to put it off until she had been here longer.
Alex had been paying his last visit to an old man who had helped him to make important contacts at the start of his researches. Now Ajit was close to the end of his life and although he was cheerful about it, confident he would soon be starting another phase of his soul’s long journey, Alex knew Ajit’s death would leave an irreparable gap in his own life.
Driving his Jeep back to Karangarh, he found himself thinking about Nicole and wondering if she would stay or if, after the novelty had worn off, she would begin to miss what she had called ‘middle-class suburbia’.
He remembered the expression on her face when she had emerged from the airport building at Delhi: the look of alarm and uncertainty until she had seen him. She had revived protective instincts he had re-trained to suit the era he lived in.
His parents tended to live in a time warp, especially his mother. When he was small, she had taught him that his sisters, and all girls, must be treated with care and, if need be, defended. But much had changed since her youth. Women today didn’t need or want the kind of protection their mothers and grandmothers had expected. Nicole would have survived the hassle at the airport if he hadn’t been there to extricate her. There was no need to treat her like one of the delicate sandstone cups carved by Jalgarpur’s stone-carvers.
Tired by the long bumpy drive, and covered with dust from the desert tracks, as soon as he got back he went to his quarters for a refreshing shower. He would find out how Nicole had been getting on during his absence when they met at dinner.
Nicole had just opened her laptop to write an email to send later to Dan when there was a distinctive triple knock on the door. Only one person knocked like that. Quickly closing the notebook, she flew across the room to admit him.
‘Oh...you’re back,’ she said, affecting surprise, concealing the pleasure she felt at the sight of his tall figure framed by the doorway.
‘Hello, Nicole. May I come in?’
He greeted her pleasantly but not as if coming to see her had been a priority. For all she knew he might have come back at lunchtime. She had been busy working and had lunched in her studio on fruit and some curd from the ice box.
‘Please do. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. How have you been getting on?’
‘I’m in designers’ heaven. The colours...the patterns... the shapes. Come and look at some photos I’ve just had developed.’
She led him through to the studio where, on a side table, she had spread photographs of the many different patterns of the latticework screens that, originally, had allowed the women of the palace to look out without being seen by outsiders.
‘And those aren’t all the patterns, just the ones I could get on a thirty-six exposure roll of film.’
Alex cast an eye over the prints. ‘Perhaps some time when we’ve both got a few days to spare you might like to fly over to Jodhpur and see the palaces inside Mehrangarh Fort. The latticework there is legendary. There are over two hundred patterns. An architectural historian said the whole building looked as if it were hung with lace.’
‘I’d love to go...but, if you’ve seen it before, wouldn’t going again bore you?’
‘No one could be bored at Mehrangarh. It’s a fantastic place.’
This seems fantastic to me. Every day since you left either Kesri or his curator has taken me to see something amazing. Yesterday I was shown the collection of the rarest and most precious miniature paintings.’
‘The palace is stuffed with treasures. Fortunately the dryness of the desert climate is less damaging than the dampness in some parts of India. Even so, things need looking after and Kesri has made sure they are. In his early twenties he was a bit of a playboy, but since he was twenty-five he’s concentrated most of his energies on preserving and improving his heritage.’
Remembering what had happened to Alex in his early twenties, she felt a stab of pity. In a different way, her own dreams and hopes had been shattered. But she had had Dan to pull her through. Alex had had nothing to help him recover.
Her studio windows had glass and canvas awnings in place of latticework. Now the angle of the light reminded her that it would soon be the hour of the day when the golden ston
e of the fortress and the buildings it encompassed were given an apricot glow by the fiery desert sunset.
‘Would you like a drink?’ she suggested.
‘Do you have any lager? If not, any long drink will do. Driving around this terrain works up a powerful thirst.’
‘I have some lager. I don’t often drink it myself, but it seemed a good idea to have some for visitors.’ She went to the fridge and took out a bottle for him and a can of tonic for herself.
‘Let me do that for you,’ he said, before she could decap the bottle. ‘Are you having some gin with your tonic?’
‘Yes, please.’ There was gin and an unopened litre of whisky with the glasses on the drinks tray.
He dealt with the drinks and carried them through to the sitting room.
‘Is that your father?’ he asked, noticing the photograph she had placed on one of the tables.
‘Yes, that’s Dad in the garden before he developed health problems and had to take early retirement.’
There should have been a picture of Dan beside her father’s photograph but, for the time being, she kept it in a locked drawer in the bedroom. She didn’t want anyone to see it until she had explained her situation to Kesri. Somehow she had the feeling he would be understanding. How Alex would react she couldn’t tell. She hoped it wouldn’t make him think less of her. There were still some people, though not usually those under forty, who took a censorious view of single mothers who hadn’t been widowed or divorced.
She had also found that some men assumed that if you had had a child outside wedlock you must have a particularly free and easy attitude to sex. Which, at least in her case, was the reverse of the truth. Being left to cope single-handed with the consequences of her first experience of making love hadn’t made her eager for more. It left her deeply reluctant to attempt it again. For four years after Dan’s birth, she had been as chaste as a nun, only embarking on another relationship because her child needed a father.