“Mister Simon,” Baljit began, “do you think you might like kissing Miss—”
“No!” Simon exclaimed. “Enough questions, Baljit.”
Georgiana shot him a barbed look. “You’re the one who brought up kissing.”
“He’s a healthy young boy,” Simon retorted. “Trust me, he thinks about kissing without someone else bringing it up.”
“As opposed to grown men who—” Georgiana started.
“I think we should find your weaver, don’t you?” Simon cut her off.
They entered the marketplace, and Georgiana tried to smile politely whenever she caught people staring. A group of street urchins actually started following them, until Baljit shouted something and they scattered like leaves on the wind.
“I miss my niqab,” she said bitterly.
“What?” Simon pretended to sound shocked. “Don’t tell me you’ve tired of the adoration your beauty brings? I thought you said it never gets old.”
Georgiana sighed. Arguing with Simon was useless. Clearly he was in a black mood and unless she wanted to catch it herself it was best to let him be. She’d rather focus her efforts on her observations and her grandfather’s mission. Ignoring Simon, she turned to her cousin.
“What will you sketch today, Janie?”
“Oh,” Jane looked around. “I think I’d like to find a nice vantage point from one of the hills so I can sketch the market as a whole. I can do individual sellers and stands later, depending on who we interview, but I think Grandpapa should include a landscape as well.”
“A lovely thought,” Georgiana said. “A panorama of it plus special details will fit in nicely with the feel of the overall work. I’d think the weaver is a must, if our talks go well today. A holy man or a snake charmer would be wonderful. And Kavi for certain.”
“I was thinking the same, Gi.” Jane turned to Simon. “May I borrow Baljit to show me around? I think he could help me find the perfect spot. Plus he can tell me which of the vendors might be willing to sit for a sketch.”
Simon nodded and directed the two soldiers behind him. “Stay with Mrs. Fairmonte and the boy. We’ll rendezvous at the old spice seller’s stand at half-past midday. Any trouble, fire two shots.”
The men saluted and followed Jane and Baljit as they searched for a quiet spot. Georgiana watched the retreating redcoats then turned to Simon.
“You sent them both with Jane,” she said suspiciously.
“You asked that the soldiers not accompany us to your appointment. I agreed,” he waved as though the answer was obvious. “I can call them back if you like.”
“No,” she said. “I just thought...”
Georgiana stopped the argument about to come out of her mouth and relaxed a little. Simon had abided by her wishes; she didn’t need to antagonize him.
“Thank you,” she said, taking his arm and allowing him to lead her along the narrow streets.
Simon narrowed his eyes. “Are you being nice to me?”
“For now,” she said airily. “I can’t promise it will last.”
Having Simon by her side made navigating the marketplace easier. For one thing, he was large, so people tended not to harass her like they would if she were alone or with Baljit. Another advantage to having him along was that women were much more likely to smile. True, they were smiling at him, but women tended glare whenever she was around, so it was still a novel experience.
Georgiana lowered her defenses for the first time in, oh, ages and let Simon guide her. For a woman who’d spent the last six years carving out a living for herself and her family, the idea of letting someone else take the reins—even if it were only for a few hours—was glorious. She knew she was grinning like a fool but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. This was turning out to be a delightful morning.
Apparently Simon did not share her sentiment. “Exactly why are meeting this weaver?” he asked, his tone still surly.
She hugged his arm excitedly, trying not to let the sudden sense of giddiness overwhelm her. The fact that she felt him stiffen under her touch would not dampen her enthusiasm.
“Because he makes the most gorgeous saris,” she declared, as though today’s mission should be self-explanatory. “Grandfather is studying the native populations, as you know. That includes not only their language and beliefs, but also their habits and economy. To research all that we find here would take several lifetimes, so we choose to narrow our studies to those subjects either most relevant to the British lifestyle or those subjects so different from our own that one’s interest cannot fail to be piqued.”
“You chose textiles to start, as cotton is one of the major exports of the Company,” Simon deduced. “And asking questions at the Company’s warehouse in Calcutta would not satisfy your grandfather’s scholarship since the warehouse just prepares the goods for delivery, they have no part in creating them.”
“Precisely,” Georgiana agreed. “Though now that you mention it, we should include a bit on exportation, I imagine.”
Her thoughts were interrupted when she spotted the most gorgeous gold bracelet—delicate filigree that rivaled the finest lace in its intricacy. Unable to stop herself, she dragged Simon over to the vendor and cooed over the jewelry. The vendor told her the price, an amount that made her blanch, and she reluctantly tore herself away. She made a mental note of his location in the market, for future study.
Simon prodded, “I understand why you want to research those wares particular to a country, but I fail to see how that gives you any insight into the people and the culture.”
“Once we’ve studied a product or two in great detail, we find that the people we talk to are more open to sharing other aspects of their lives,” Georgiana told him. “Religious beliefs, social customs, etcetera. They eventually introduce us to other people who then help us further our scholarship. At least that was true of our time in Egypt and China. We’re hoping our methods work the same in India.”
Simon assessed her intently as she spoke. Georgiana knew better than to babble on about her interests; few men liked to converse with a blue-stocking, after all. It was just too exciting to hold back, though.
Besides, she mused, her topic of conversation was likely irrelevant. Simon was no different from every other male she had encountered in her travels—he judged her based solely on appearances. Why that thought stung so much was not a matter she cared to dwell on.
Chapter Five
Simon led her past where sellers hawked their wares and they soon found the narrow alley where the weaver’s workhouse was located. The pungent smell of curry and garlic and other mysterious spices lingered in her nostrils, and Georgiana inhaled sharply. This was the part she loved most about living abroad: the sights and sounds and smells of new discoveries. Her heart thumped excitedly as Simon knocked on the door.
A wiry, middle-aged man answered and greeted them. He smiled broadly, showing large yellow teeth. Nodding, he said, “Miss Georgiana?”
“Yes,” Simon said, inserting himself between the weaver and Georgiana. He bobbed his head to the older man. “Thank you for meeting with us, sir.”
Georgiana bristled slightly at Simon’s taking charge. While she was perfectly content to let him lead her around the market, she didn’t want him thinking he could manage her research. He couldn’t manage her.
So without a second thought she stepped out from behind him and made her own introductions in Hindi. The older man was clearly delighted at her attempt to communicate in his native tongue, and he ushered them into a small room as he chattered happily.
A woman who was probably no more than a decade older than Georgiana smiled as they entered. She was small but striking—her ebony hair was tied in a knot and her dark eyes glimmered with warmth and good humor. She wore an orange sari trimmed with a wide band of crimson, and a dozen questions about the garmen
t popped into Georgiana’s head. Rather than overwhelm her hostess with her enthusiasm, she bit back her curiosity and thanked the weaver’s wife for opening her home to them. The woman gestured to a rug on the floor, and Simon helped Georgiana down before settling himself next to her.
Georgiana thanked her hostess but politely declined when they were offered food and drink. She felt guilty doing so, but Simon had explained to her before their arrival that proper protocol was to refuse the first invitation of refreshments. It wasn’t rude, he’d assured her, it was custom. He’d also warned her to keep a little bit of food on her plate when she was finished or they would keep offering until she burst at the seams.
Sure enough, after a bit more conversation the offer was made again. This time they accepted, and a tray full of finger foods was set before them. Georgiana took a piece of bread, grateful Simon had given her a bit of insight to guest etiquette. The last thing she wanted was to offend.
Georgiana drank in her surroundings. The room was modest but meticulously kept. The walls were a gorgeous golden brown—very similar to the color of raw honey—and while there was little furniture, the black lacquered pieces that were present appeared to be frequently oiled and well-cared for. In spite of the neutral backdrop, the room seemed alive with color and texture. The dark purple carpet was adorned with a rainbow of floral patterns—greens and blues and oranges that took her breath away. There were cushions and curtains in every color imaginable, and Georgiana allowed herself a moment to gape at all. It was magnificent.
Sipping a delicious, spicy black tea, Georgiana explained in her fledgling Hindi that she was interested in learning about their work for her grandfather’s study. It had been her experience that while most people were initially uncomfortable at the thought of opening their lives to a British scholar, they warmed to the idea quickly if she let her excitement for their culture and craft show. To that end, she chatted enthusiastically about her travels in India thus far—peppering her innocuous conversation with well—planned questions. She allowed her hosts to correct her Hindi, and she tried her best with the pronunciations, occasionally earning chuckles from the couple.
It wasn’t long before her genuine interest had the couple readily sharing information beyond her scripted queries. With each new topic she broached, they became more open and detailed. Georgiana had done this enough times to know when she had a foot in the door. Based on their animated gesturing and relaxed posture, she was very close. By the time they’d finished their refreshments, the weaver and his wife seemed pleased by her requests and agreed to let her visit over the next weeks to observe the weaving process.
The older woman pointed to Simon and smiled. “Husband?” she asked in English.
Georgiana scoffed. “He’s—”
A warm hand clamped down on hers. “Husband,” he agreed, looking at the weaver’s wife. The hand over hers tightened, as though he could feel her unspoken protest. “Husband,” he repeated firmly in Georgiana’s ear.
Georgiana smiled at the couple and nodded. “Husband,” she agreed, ignoring the slow burn that had started when he first touched her. She pulled away hastily, trying to tamp down the fluttering that tickled her stomach. Thankfully, she needed to focus her attention on keeping up her end of the conversation, so she had reason not to look at him. Simon, for his part, seemed somehow to have moved closer to her. His leg brushed against her knee, and her entire body tensed. She shifted restlessly.
The weaver and his wife rose and motioned for them to follow. They were led outside into a small covered ambulatory that was sheltered on three sides. A heavy wooden loom had been installed in a shallow pit dug into the dirt floor. The man seated himself on the wall of the pit, his legs dangling into the recessed space. He told them that the loom was a permanent fixture of the workroom, and that it would not be removed until it needed to be replaced.
Huge wooden spindles of cotton thread in gold and green and turquoise surrounded the loom. The couple worked together to stretch the yarn across the loom, creating the warp. The weaver’s wife explained that this must be pulled taut in order for the fabric to be strong. Then they painstakingly began to pull thread across the warp, binding the threads at the end, first on the right side and then on the left. She explained as they labored that every alternate set of warp yarn was lifted in order to weave in the weft.
She leaned over and whispered, “I must confess, I’m curious. Why are you my husband?”
“Generally British men and women do not travel together unless they are married,” he murmured into her ear as she watched the strands fly over the loom. “I believe it’s safer for you if you have a husband whenever you are outside the cantonment.”
“It is my understanding,” Georgiana said softly, trying to ignore the lovely warmth creeping up her neck, “that the Hindu are a rather open and tolerant people when it comes to matters of men and women. I don’t believe we’d raise many eyebrows if we were to frequent the market together without such an absurd charade.”
Simon didn’t answer immediately, making Georgiana wonder if he’d not heard her or if he was just ignoring her. Finally, when the weaver stopped to show them the beginnings of a border—a design done in a gold so deep and rich and pure that it made Georgiana practically drool—Simon turned to look at her.
“While it’s true that the Hindu people are most accepting and gracious, they are not the only factions in the market,” he murmured. “Many others, the Moslems, the Sikhs,” he said, “wouldn’t approve of us wandering together without a chaperone, if at all.
“Furthermore,” he said, cutting off her ensuing argument, “the vendors know this. You’re a British national, which gives you some protection against the criminal element. But as a young unmarried woman, you’d likely not be granted access to venues such as this, as you’d be looked upon with at least suspicion, if not outright fear of retaliation from company troops. As an old married woman, however, those doors may be opened to you. Especially when your adoring husband is at your side.”
Georgiana chewed on this, worrying her lip as she did. Simon was right, though she hated to admit it. But the thought of him accompanying her on her scholarly field trips set her teeth on edge. Her Hindi was not yet fluent, so she needed to give her full attention whenever the weaver or his wife spoke to her. It was just so bloody hard to concentrate with Simon present.
Even when she ignored him and crossed the room to peer into the vats and ask the woman questions about the dyes, she could feel Simon. She knew without looking that he’d moved to stand behind her, even though she hadn’t heard footsteps. The weaver’s wife moved ahead to the giant loom, and Georgiana made to follow when Simon’s breath on her neck made her nearly jump out of her skin. “Better to suffer a bogus husband than be denied these enlightening opportunities, don’t you agree?” he whispered into her ear, his voice velvety persuasion. He took her arm and led her to the looms. “I promise I’ll be an agreeable spouse, Georgie.”
Georgiana turned her head slightly, just enough to catch his eye. “Don’t call me Georgie,” she warned. “Dare I ask what you hope for in return for being my devoted husband?”
“You cut me, my dear,” Simon said, feigning a wounded pout. “Does a man need a reason to spend time with a beautiful woman?”
Georgiana squeezed his arm and looked up at him incredulously. She saw his pupils dilate, and she smiled. “How pretty of you,” she said softly. “But an old friend once told me that men were interested in women for one reason, and one reason only. And it wasn’t marriage. I imagine that extends to pretend marriage as well.”
Simon’s jaw tightened, and Georgiana quickly added, “I agreed that I would not pretend to seduce you to get my way. I expect that you’ll not flatter me to get yours, Mr. Ashford.”
For a moment Georgiana thought he might yell at her right there in the middle of the dye vats and looms and weavers. Instead, Simon
surprised her by chuckling with real appreciation. It sent her pulse skittering.
“You’re truly a frightening woman, Princess,” he said.
“I suppose I am,” she murmured, watching the weaver spin the thread into cloth. “Now that we both agree to shed our artifice, what’s in this for you?”
Simon considered her for a long moment. “Just as I said earlier. Your brother charged me with your safety, and I take my obligations seriously.”
Georgiana felt a bitterness rising in the pit of her stomach. Once again, she was Simon Ashford’s obligation. Worse was the fact that it still bothered her. Unable to ignore the sting of it, she sniffed. “How responsible of you.”
Simon cleared his throat. “In truth,” he muttered, “I don’t want you interfering with Nath’s efforts here. If that means dogging your steps around this entire continent, then I will.”
“Such loyalty,” Georgiana said under her breath. “I should never hope to make you my lapdog, Mr. Ashford, as you worried last night. You so slavishly attend my brother already.”
“Ah, the little cat has claws,” Simon said. “It would be wise, Miss Phillips, for you to remember that I can forbid you to come to market at all. In fact, I can ensure that you never step foot out of the cantonment.”
“And you’d be wise, Mr. Ashford,” Georgiana shot back through her teeth, “to remember that if someone were to confine me, I would be forced to create my own entertainment. Your entire cantonment is made up of men who have not seen that ‘one thing’ they desire from a woman in months, if not years. I wonder how long it would be before they started taking up arms against each other.”
Simon scowled. “You impertinent little baggage,” he hissed. “I wonder none of your former lovers has taken you over their knee and tanned your sorry hide. It might do you some good!”
“How dare you?” Georgiana scowled back. “You have the audacity to criticize me for using seduction to get my way even though we both know you wouldn’t hesitate to do the same? Of all the hypocritical, self-important—”
An Inconvenient Kiss Page 9