Dishonored

by Maria Barrett

  “It’s a lovely shot, isn’t it?” Mitchell leaned toward her and looked at the photograph of Jane and Phillip running through a shower of rose petals outside the Church of St. Michael in West Sommerton, West Sussex, as the duke and several members of the House of Lords looked on. “So natural, so happy…”

  Suzy swallowed back the nausea that rose in her throat. “Yes,” she managed to say, “it is.”

  Mitchell smiled again and touched the pearls at her neck. “Good girl,” he said, “I knew you’d agree with me.” And as he let his fingers drop away from her throat and turned toward the window, Suzanna thought for a moment his present would choke her. But that was exactly the way he had meant her to feel.

  13

  SHIVA RAI STOOD AT THE LONG, CARVED, TEAKWOOD DESK IN HIS study and waited for the operator to connect his line to Bombay. He was motionless, staring out at the profusion of green, the vivid purple of the jacaranda and the burning red and orange of the flame trees, ablaze in the early morning sun. He waited. He was close now, closer than he had ever dared believe he would be and the bitterness, the acrid taste of revenge was heavy on his tongue. So much time, too much had passed; it had taken a lifetime, too long. He sighed. If things had been different, if his son had lived, had not been cut down in his youth struggling for Independence, if… Shiva turned away from the garden. No more if, no more waiting. The gods had smiled on him and at last he had been given his chance. His lifetime’s chance.

  The line rang and Shiva picked the receiver up. He listened for a few moments and then said, “Good, I will be ready for them.” He smiled, the briefest and most chilling of smiles, and hung up. He rang for his secretary.

  “Shekhai, you can tell my grandson to come in now.”

  He remained standing at the desk, one hand resting on the edge, the other folded inside the opening of his kurta, between the third and fifth pearl buttons. He was a tall man, tall and heavy, his jet black hair smoothed back off his face and oiled with a hair oil he had specially prepared for him in Bombay; it smelled of jasmine and sandalwood. On the last finger of his left hand he wore a ring, gold, worked to resemble the head of a serpent and set with rubies and diamonds. It was a beautiful piece, intricately set with the finest stones from Agra, and it signified power, the power of the man.

  Ramesh Rai had been sitting outside his grandfather’s study in silence. The corridor was dark, the polished, cool, gray marble floor like glass, the walls of white silk as flat and smooth as the floor. He sat and stared at the collection of paintings, the same works he had sat and looked at as a boy, ten in all, small elaborate images, worked in silk and telling the stories of the men in his family, his own father’s life and heroic death, the history of his inheritance. He followed the fortunes of his family in the paintings, a family ruined once, only to go on to recover its fortunes, a brave, independent family, a family of honor, and as he sat there he felt like a child again, waiting to be called by Shiva, waiting for the few moments with his grandfather. He started as Shekhai came out and stood, fastening the buttons on his jacket, straightening his tie. He had lived his life in awe of his grandfather and now, at twenty-five, it was still no different.

  “Please, Shivaji is ready for you, Ramesh.” Shekhai bowed and indicated for Rami to go in. Rami bowed as well and, standing erect, he walked into his grandfather’s study.

  “Namaste, Ramesh.” Shiva stepped forward but did not remove the hand from his kurta or make any attempt to embrace his grandson. Rami pressed his hands together and bowed his head.

  “Grandfather.’’ He walked across the room and bent to touch Shiva’s feet, the customary sign of respect. Then he stood and smiled.

  “I have missed you and I have missed India, Dadaji.”

  Shiva nodded, patting his grandson on the back and placing an arm around his shoulder. “Please, let us sit.” They moved toward the low silk covered divan. “You look well, Rami, we are glad to have you home.” At last Shiva smiled. “It is a very good suit you are wearing.” Shiva fingered the cloth of Rami’s jacket and Rami smiled proudly. “But,” Shiva said, dropping his hand away, “it is not Indian. We must get you some Indian clothes, Ramesh. I will telephone the tailor.”

  Rami nodded, disappointed already at the way the meeting was going. He had wanted praise and affection, he had always wanted those things but he had never got them, not from Shiva. “So,” Shiva sat on the divan and crossed his ankles, pulling his legs up under him. “You have done well, Ramesh, your mother and sisters are very proud of you. You liked London? It is a lively city, yes?”

  “Yes, yes it is.” Rami hesitated. He found, having spoken English for so long now, that he was having trouble with his Hindi. He flushed as Shiva frowned and said coldly, “Have you forgotten your native tongue, Ramesh?”

  “No! No of course not, Dadaji, it’s just that I…” He broke off as Shiva turned his attention to some papers on the table at his side. Shiva never listened to excuses. Rami folded his hands in his lap and waited for his grandfather to finish. It was hardly unimaginable that he should be a little out of practice speaking Hindustani, he thought, he had been in England for six years now, with only a short break each summer at home. Oxford, then Lancaster Gate, the job at Whitfield, Stacy, Chance; it was Shiva’s idea in the first place, to train him up for the business. Rami turned to look out of the window at the gardens. He had never understood his grandfather, never felt anything but frustration and remorse at not being able to please him, but he had hoped, in his long absence, that things might in some way have changed. He was wrong.

  “Ramesh, I wanted to speak to you this morning,” Shiva said, placing the last paper in the file, “because I have something that I want you to do.” He looked up at his grandson. “Your excellent English will be most beneficial.” The sarcasm in his voice was humorless and Rami turned away for as long as he dared to cover his exasperation. His spirits sank.

  “The maharajah has some guests arriving at the palace bungalow this afternoon, Ramesh, an English couple, Major and Mrs. Mills.” Rami turned back. “The maharajah decided earlier this year that he needed some professional advice on the security arrangements for his wedding. He contacted the Duke of Cumberland who sent out Major Mills, his personal equerry.”

  “That’s right! Viki said something about it the other day, he—” Rami stopped as Shiva raised an eyebrow. The royal family were always addressed by their titles not their first names; Shiva disapproved strongly of overfamiliarization.

  “The maharajah said that Major Mills is bringing back his new wife. Is that right?”

  “Yes, that is quite correct” Shiva smiled. “And that is where I would like your assistance, Ramesh.”

  “I’m sorry?” Rami watched Shiva’s face; it was cold and impassive. He had no idea of what was going on in his grandfather’s mind.

  “I would like you to offer your friendship and hospitality to Mrs. Mills for a few weeks, look after her, Ramesh. She will be at odds in a new country and will probably feel homesick. You can show her the city, entertain her, relieve her boredom to some degree.” Shiva faced his grandson. “Is there something the matter with this?”

  Rami was silent. He averted his gaze but kept his face respectfully toward his grandfather. There was a great deal the matter with this. He had been expecting to be given a real job, to be included in the business, not asked to be nursemaid to an Englishwoman. Rami could feel his grandfather’s impatience, the force of Shiva’s irritation made him reticent to say anything, but his disappointment fueled him. He had been independent for a long time now, it was difficult to suddenly take on the mantle of his grandfather’s wishes.

  “Is this not a thing that my sister could do, Dadaji?”

  Shiva uncrossed his legs and stood, walking away to the window to show his dissatisfaction. “I am sorry. Do you have a problem with this, Ramesh? It is not suitable for your sister to do, it is what I want you to do, therefore I have asked you.”

  “Yes I know, but I had thoug
ht…” Rami stopped. He was talking to Shiva’s back and suddenly felt deflated. He may have lived in England, be qualified in English law, but he was still an Indian son; it was a question of respect. “I will visit these people tomorrow,” Rami said quietly.

  Shiva turned and smiled for only the second time at his grandson. “Good, it is settled then.” He came back to the divan. “I think that is all for now, Ramesh,” he said. Rami stood; he had been dismissed.

  “Will you be in for dinner, Grandfather?”

  Shiva walked across to the desk and glanced down at his diary, open at the day’s page and marked with a slither of silk. “No, not tonight, Ramesh, I have an appointment. But tomorrow.” He looked up. “I will be here tomorrow night and you must invite the Mills for drinks at the club, as our guests.”

  “Yes, fine.” There was never any time for the family, always meetings, appointments, drinks with guests. Rami folded his palms before turning toward the door. “Namaste, Dadaji,” he bowed his head and walked across the room.

  “Ramesh?”

  Rami glanced back.

  “Your father would have been proud of you,” Shiva said.

  “Thank you.” Once more he bowed and then silently he left the room. My father would have been proud, Rami thought, but never you, and, removing his tie along with his jacket, he went in search of his mother and the easy, idle chatter of his sisters.

  Phillip had hold of Jane’s arm as he steered her aggressively through the crowd. He was hot, confused and very irritated. He gripped her elbow, his fingers pinching her bare skin, and she clutched her handbag tightly to her chest as he’d told her to do, looking from right to left, mesmerized by the noise, the animation and color of India. She wasn’t watching where she was going.

  “Mind your step, Jane!” Phillip tripped badly behind her and swore at a small group of men squatting on the ground, still pinching her elbow. “Bloody place! Jesus!” Again, he stumbled and yanked on Jane’s arm as he did so. “Christ! These bloody people! It’s a bloody madhouse! Where the hell is that man from the palace? The maharajah…”

  “Major Mills! Major Mills!”

  Phillip stopped and put his hand up to his eyes. He was sweating profusely and the underarm of his shirt was saturated. He had begun to smell. “Did you hear that Jane? Where…?”

  “Please! Major Mills! Over here!”

  It was the final leg of their journey and they were changing platforms for the last train that day to Baijur. Phillip darted his eyes over the station, heaving with bodies, bicycles, baggage, live chickens and hens in baskets, produce, great sacks of grain and boxes of vegetables and saw, much to his amazement, an elderly Indian gentleman dressed in a baggy cream linen suit standing three feet above all of this on a pile of boxes stacked up on top of each other and about to topple. He waved his arms about frantically and as soon as Phillip spotted him, he threw his own arms up in the air and shouted, “We’re over here!” He shut his eyes and waited for the crash but nothing came. “This way, Janey!” he said with relief, and wiped his face with his handkerchief. “Not before time.” He took her arm again. “You’ll have to get used to this.” He steered her once more through the throng of people as she smiled back at the mass of Indian faces grinning at her. “This is India,” he finished crossly although she couldn’t really see what all his fuss was about. “Nothing ever goes right.”

  “Oh my God! Major Mills Sahib! Oh thank God for that! And Mrs. Mills! Oh what relief! I have been looking for the last hour and was thinking that I had lost you both!” The small Indian reached them, smiling and wringing his hands, and had said all this before he actually stopped. He took off a battered old panama with the Ghurka colors on the band. “This is a great pleasure, Mrs. Mills, Major Sahib. Dr. Bodi Yadav, at your great service.” Then he folded his palms together and bowed his head.

  Jane smiled, her widest and most spontaneous smile, and held out her hand. “How lovely to meet you, Dr. Yadav.”

  “Oh, madam, a pleasure to meet you as well!”

  Phillip looked on, keeping his own hand by his side; he never shook with the natives if he could help it.

  “I have a porter, Major Sahib, over here. Please, this way. Your baggage? It is with the station master?”

  “No, it’s with a porter on the platform that we came in on. I was trying to locate someone before we moved it. You can go back for it when we get to the train.”

  Jane winced. She saw Dr. Yadav flare his nostrils but he kept his face indifferent. She had never seen Phillip behave like this. It must be the heat, she thought, removing his hand from her elbow, and the travel, he was tired, exhausted probably.

  They followed the Indian across the station, up a flight of steps and on to a rickety ironwork bridge that swung as they crossed it. They walked over to the other platform, Jane noticing that few Indians did the same, most preferring to take the easy route across the rails and up onto the train. They walked the length of the locomotive to the end, to the last carriage where already a small crowd had formed expecting to see someone important.

  “We have taken the whole carriage,” Doctor Yadav said, as the door was opened for them, “so that you will not be bothered.”

  Phillip nodded and made way for Jane to climb on board, but she hung back for a few moments. “You go on, Phillip,” she said, glancing up at the pristine first-class carriage, “I’ll follow in a few moments.” Phillip raised an eyebrow and Jane saw a distinct flash of irritation cross his face but she ignored it. She wanted to look back at the train already laden with people and what looked like the entire contents of their lives, she wanted a couple of minutes to enjoy the wonderful chaos of the station, the noise, the colors, the smells. She noticed Dr. Yadav on her right and said, “It seems like the whole of India is traveling from this station.”

  He smiled. “Wherever you go in this country it feels like that. You always have the whole of India with you.” Then he laughed, a short, round chuckle, and Jane knew that she liked him. “Most Europeans are hating it,” he said. “What do you think, Mrs. Mills?”

  “Me?” Jane turned away from the noise, from the people crowding into carriages, squeezing in baskets with chickens squawking and passing up shouting, wriggling children. “I think it’s wonderful,” she answered, “But for God’s sake don’t ask me why.” They both smiled.

  “Shall we?” He motioned for her to climb into the carriage.

  “The luggage?”

  “It is taken care of.”

  “But?” Jane hadn’t even seen him look away for a moment, how on earth had he organized the luggage? She turned to him, puzzled, but he simply smiled and tipped his hat.

  “After you, Mrs. Mills, please.”

  Jane climbed up the three steps and went on into the carriage where Phillip had already seated himself and was reading a three-day-old copy of The Times. “Ah, Jane!” He glanced at her over the top of the paper. “All right?”

  “Yes, thank you, Phillip.” She sat down, placing her bag on the floor and looked behind her at Dr. Yadav. “What time does the train pull out?”

  The doctor felt in his top pocket and pulled on his gold watch chain, lifting a large round watch from his waistcoat “Ten minutes ago,” he said, perfectly seriously.

  Jane laughed. She leaned her head forward to the window, straining to see out then said, “Does this open?”

  “Yes, please, allow me, Mrs. Mills.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Jane moved back while Dr. Yadav yanked the window down, letting in a rush of warm air and the noise and smell of the station. Phillip tutted and lowered The Times. “Janey, really!”

  “Sorry, Phillip.” Jane went to lift the window again but couldn’t. “Oh dear, it appears to be stuck.”

  “Typical! Dr. Yadav? Would you be so kind as to help my wife.”

  Jane flushed but Dr. Yadav ignored Phillip’s tone and stepped forward a second time. “Please move to the side, Mrs. Mills.” He placed both hands on the window lever ready to tug. “Goodness
me! It is a very stubborn thing, oh dear…” He lost his balance momentarily as the train jerked into life, then all of a sudden fell backward into Jane. “Oh goodness! Mrs. Mills, please, oh my God! Are you all right, dear lady?”

  Jane managed to right them both, holding the profoundly apologetic Dr. Yadav from the back in a sort of bear hug. She started to laugh. “Yes I’m fine. Hey, the train’s moving, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, here, please to have a look!” The doctor moved away and Jane hurried forward, sticking her head out of the window. She stared behind her at the rest of the train, packed with bodies hanging on to the doors, sitting on the roof, leaning out of windows and all waving, smiling and shouting as the train left the station. “My God! It’s…” Jane darted her head back in again, her face already dotted with grit. “Phillip! Come and look at this! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

  But Phillip really was too tired. He lifted his paper and ignored his wife’s behavior. Jane sighed and went back to the sight, waving herself at the people behind her. She hung out of the window for several kilometers down the track, waving both arms and smiling and finally came back into the carriage some way away from the station. Her face was streaked and smeared with dirt and grime.

  “Oh Lord, Janey!” Phillip let out an exasperated sigh, then attempted to cover his irritation with a smile. “Here!” He handed her his handkerchief and she took it, spitting on it and then wiping her face. She saw Dr. Yadav suppress a smile.

  “Dr. Yadav, is there a bathroom that I could use?”

  “Yes, certainly. Please, Mrs. Mills, please to be calling me Bodi, that is my first name.”

  “Thank you, Bodi!” Jane flicked a look at Phillip and saw that he’d gone back to his paper. For the first time since she had met him, Jane experienced the slightest feeling of exasperation at Phillip. She decided to put it behind her. “And you must call me Jane,” she replied to Bodi and saw the irritated rustle of The Times to note Phillip’s disapproval.