‘I am delighted to have made your acquaintance, and I thank you for the lovely gifts. I will treasure them always.’ Then she did the same to the younger wife, while Vashti quickly urged all the daughters to come forward one by one and share in the unique experience of being kissed by a memsahib.
‘This has been a most remarkable day,’ Victoria said, as they set out in the carriage, with Annabelle sitting on her lap and struggling to keep her eyelids open. ‘Thank you so much for introducing me to your friends, madame. Isn’t it disappointing that such a gulf exists between those ladies and the ladies of the cantonment?’
‘It’s called prejudice. I’ve felt it’ – she nodded towards Annabelle – ‘and she’s likely to know it too, despite Andrew’s determination to present her as a little English memsahib.’
Victoria frowned. ‘Do you think he’s making a mistake?’
The begum avoided an answer. ‘Let me show you another aspect of Indian life tomorrow. It’s time to visit the fort up there on the hill and pay a call on the maharaja.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
The begum, Victoria and Annabelle were all dressed in their best next day when they set out to visit the massive Hari Parbut Fort standing on its high hill a few miles from the city.
The iron gates of the fort swung open as the begum’s carriage approached and, when the guards threw a salute to the party as they passed through, Annabelle waved to them. Clearly she was no stranger to this place.
They entered a courtyard lined with cannon, and then through the next gateway that led into a garden where a domed pleasure-pavilion stood beside a water channel and peacocks strutted, dragging their long, iridescent tails across the grass.
When the carriage halted at the steps of the palace, a servant dressed in purple and gold, ran down to escort them to the entrance where one of the maharaja’s officials received the begum with due ceremony and acknowledged Victoria with a deep bow when she was presented.
Annabelle skipped off happily with an attendant who arrived to take her straight up to play with the children in the women’s quarters.
‘The maharaja has agreed to grant us an audience,’ the begum said quietly when she and Victoria were shown into a decorated chamber, where servants came with silver basins and ewers of rosewater to pour over their hands. For the next hour they sat alone in the room while sweetmeats were served, and musicians entertained them on a durkra, sitar and drums until they at last received a summons into the royal presence.
‘What do I do?’ Victoria whispered. ‘Curtsy?’
‘No, simply bow low. But not too low.’
They were led through an empty, echoing marble chamber towards the heavy, beaten silver doors of the durbar hall. As they were flung open, Andrew was striding away from His Highness Maharaja Ranbir Singh who was seated at the far end of the hall on a raised marble platform. From the tight-lipped expression on Andrew’s face, Victoria suspected that his meeting with the maharaja had not been a productive one.
He was astonished to see them, and slowed his pace, though there was no opportunity to do more than exchange a few muttered words as their paths crossed. ‘Annabelle is somewhere playing with the children,’ Victoria whispered.
‘I’ll come this evening,’ he said under his breath. His eyes told her that there was more he wanted to add, but already a courtier was approaching to escort the ladies to their audience and an attendant was hurrying to place two carved and gilded chairs for them at the foot of the steps leading up to the gadi.
Flanked by a courtier on either side, the overweight maharaja sat looking down on them from his cushions. He was splendidly dressed in yellow brocade and wearing an emerald green turban fronted by an aigrette with a ruby as big as a bird’s egg. Behind His Highness stood his fan-bearer waving a large peacock-feather fan on its thick ebony stick, though there was no heat in the day. The tableau was meant to impress. And it succeeded.
At the foot of the steps, the begum bowed and Victoria followed her lead. His Highness waved a signal for them to sit in his presence, before he launched into a personal eulogy which the begum initially tried to translate, then gave it up as a hopeless task.
That didn’t concern Victoria. There was much to observe around her on the painted and gilded walls and columns, the colours of the brocades and the gleam of jewels worn by the courtiers. She smuggled a yawn into her gloved hand and spent the time mentally listing all the new images to include in her next letter to Emily and Martin.
After an hour had passed, the royal hands clapped to signal that the ladies’ audience had concluded and, after making their bows, they were escorted through the winding hallways of the palace to the eunuch guards who lounged at the foot of the staircase leading to the Pearl Tower, home of the maharaja’s two queens, the princesses, and his concubines.
‘When we enter the zenana, it’s most important for us to present ourselves immediately to First Her Highness before speaking with Second Her Highness, or any of the other daughters and women in there.’
The begum was no stranger to the ladies, but Victoria’s arrival raised a hum of interest when they walked into a long room where the delicately fretted windows threw patterned shadows across the white marble floor. A dozen maidservants and eunuchs were moving about, removing dishes and platters with the remains of a meal, while thirty or more ladies remained sitting on cushions with their greasy fingers held away from their clothes, waiting for rosewater to be brought and poured over each pair of soft hands.
When the women had dried their fingers, they began to drift across the hall to inspect the visitors. Victoria noted an amount of ill-humoured jostling amongst the maharaja’s ladies before she and the begum were summoned into a curtained alcove by First Her Highness who became increasingly agitated as she talked rapidly in a low voice. Again, Victoria was handicapped by not understanding the language, but when the begum was at last able to ease the conversation to an end, she slipped an arm through Victoria’s and drew her aside.
‘There’s much resentment in the air today because one of the daughters of First Her Highness had been chosen last month to marry a son of the great Raja of Jaipur. But they’ve just been informed that the prince now desires the youngest daughter of Second Her Highness instead. As you might imagine, that news has not been received here with universal delight!’
‘Oh dear!’
‘Yes, so now, while I spend a little time with Second Her Highness and listen to her crowing over the coup, why don’t you take a stroll in the garden? In their present mood, I doubt the ladies will put themselves out to entertain any visitor here today.’
Simply by watching how little clusters of women were forming and turning their backs on others, Victoria found it impossible to ignore the tension running high within these walls. It was there in the sullen looks exchanged, in the tone of petulance injected into spoken words, in the act of a cup being hurled across the chamber and a serving woman slapped hard on the cheek for not sweeping up the shards quickly enough.
And throughout it all, Annabelle played in the gardens and pavilions with the girls and smaller boys. No sons remained in the ladies’ domain past the age of six, and Victoria noticed how the girls were now beginning to align themselves with one or other of the currently warring parties. Several had begun to spit what sounded like insults towards each other across the courtyard.
Victoria cringed inwardly at the thought that Annabelle’s mother would have lived this life of pampered confinement in the zenana of the palace at Gwalinpore – a place where the future held nothing but the past. It was chilling to think that this would have been Annabelle’s fate, too, if she’d not been rescued and sent to be raised by an English father.
Victoria strolled to the far end of the garden and sat alone on a marble bench to watch Andrew’s child playing with the water in a fountain and wetting her dress as she chattered in Urdu to a little boy about her own age. Suddenly she noticed Victoria, and ran to tell her something.
‘Belle, pleas
e speak to me in English. I can’t understand what you’re saying otherwise.’
The little chin lifted and the child regarded her crossly. ‘Is my papa coming to see me tonight?’ The words might have been spoken in English but Annabelle delivered them in the sing-song tone used by her Indian ayah.
‘Thank you, Annabelle. Yes, I’m sure you’ll see your papa this evening.’
The child skipped back to her playmate, and appeared to be translating her good news back into Urdu for him.
Later, when they were all driving back to the lake in the carriage, Victoria recounted the episode to the begum.
‘Yes, it’s Andrew’s plan to raise her as an English-speaking child, but, as you see, she’s already beginning to walk a difficult tightrope between two cultures. I was brought up to speak French and Persian, and I’m afraid that our little parrot hears the servants talking to each other far more often than she hears her father’s language.’
Victoria took the tired little girl onto her lap. ‘Tell me, Belle, has your papa taught you to say some nursery rhymes? Do you know Humpty Dumpty, or Jack and Jill?’
Annabelle sat up straight and her weariness faded as she began to recite ‘Little Miss Muffet’, ‘The old woman who lived in a shoe….’ and others that Victoria had almost forgotten.
She exchanged an amused glance with the begum as the child babbled on. ‘What did we say about little parrots?’ She hid the laughter in her voice as Annabelle repeated each rhyme in her father’s crisp, well-modulated accent.
‘I think Annabelle would have few problems with pronunciation if Andrew was able to spend more time with her.’ The begum raised an eyebrow. ‘And I’m sure that you will be of great help to her also, my dear.’
‘Of course, I’ll gladly do what I can while I’m here, madame.’ Nigel’s wedding was less than two weeks away now, and she was still undecided about where to go after that. Where was the direction – that purpose – she needed to find in her own life?
The begum’s voice cut across her ruminations. ‘I think that Annabelle has had sufficient excitement this week, don’t you? We’ll have a quiet picnic tomorrow in the Shalimar Gardens. She always enjoys our visits there.’
As soon as the begum’s party stepped ashore at the gardens next morning, Annabelle demanded to be given her pull-along elephant and instantly ran off with it along the central path beside the water channel leading up to the pleasure-pavilion.
‘I’ll go with her,’ Victoria called, as the ayah began unfolding canvas chairs and arranging rugs and cushions under the trees.
Once inside the pavilion, Annabelle stepped straight into her own make-believe world, taking the little wooden dolls from their howdah on the elephant’s back and sitting them on a marble bench. And chattering to them in Urdu. ‘Please tell me about your game.’ Victoria spoke slowly and distinctly, using her most persuasive tone.
Annabelle shook her head and stubbornly continued to chatter in Urdu, excluding Victoria while the long game developed into one that involved a great deal of running to and fro with the dolls playing hide-and-seek. Or that was how it seemed to Victoria.
But eventually Annabelle grew tired of it all, announced clearly that she was hungry, and made a bolt for the door.
Victoria picked up the toys and followed her back to where the begum was lounging in a canvas chair, reading a French novel. Bowls of chicken, sweetmeats and fruits had by now been delivered from the houseboat, and were laid out on a white linen cloth.
Victoria sat beside Annabelle on embroidered cushions while they ate, and sent an unspoken signal to the begum that her efforts to communicate in English with the child had so far met with no success today.
It wasn’t long before Annabelle began to lose the struggle to keep her eyelids open and, once she’d put her head on the cushion, she was soon asleep. Victoria reached across her to lift a wayward strand of hair from her cheek, then allowed her fingers to play with a long brown curl falling over one shoulder. Her mother must have been truly exquisite, she thought. No wonder Andrew had fallen so desperately in love with Ishana.
But her unspeakable ending on the pyre seemed something from a nightmare. Was it really possible for any woman to bring herself to do that without heavy persuasion? Would any of the ladies she’d seen yesterday in the zenana wish to throw themselves into the funeral pyre of the Maharaja of Kashmir when he died? If Annabelle hadn’t been rescued from a life in a zenana, might she one day—?
Victoria gave an involuntary shudder and looked up quickly to see the begum smiling at her enquiringly.
‘I find her a most delightful child, Victoria, don’t you? Yes, she’s strong-willed and needs a firm rein at times, but can’t you see how desperately she needs a mother? And don’t you agree that her father would make a fine husband?’
‘No, no, madame – please say nothing more! I have not the faintest notion of marrying Andrew. Besides, he’s not in love with me, any more than I am with him. We share a friendship that’s uncomplicated and undemanding, with absolutely no element of passion. And that’s the way I’d be happy for it to remain.’
The begum raised her brows. ‘Really? I must confess that a long time ago I had a rather passionate affair with Gordon Wyndham, until I came to understand the full measure of his disregard for anyone but himself.’ She smiled archly. ‘However, my dear, if I was thirty or forty years younger now, I could easily fall in love with a man like Andrew Wyndham. Life with him would be filled with surprises.’
Victoria shook her head slowly. ‘No, I’ve been in love and I know exactly how it feels, madame. From the moment I met Peter Latham – my late husband – I was gripped by a sensation that set my heart racing every time I thought of him. I could hardly breathe, and every part of me ached for him. I couldn’t bear for us to be apart. And that’s why I know that what I feel for Andrew is not love, although I do feel a real fondness towards him.’
The begum raised her brows. ‘And nothing more than that?’
‘Of course, I enjoy his company, I respect his judgement, I’d trust him with my life, and I admire his devotion to his daughter. And yes, I find him quite an attractive man when he’s not scowling.’
For a moment the begum regarded her sceptically. ‘Are you being honest with yourself, my dear?’
Victoria blushed. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Don’t be too hasty in deciding to close the door on the prospect of marriage to Andrew. I know from experience that love arrives in many guises – sometimes quickly, sometimes not. You see, like Annabelle, I grew up between two cultures. My father was French – a diplomat who spent much of his career in this part of the world – and my mother was the daughter of a Persian nobleman.
‘Theirs was a true love match and I was their only child. We often travelled to visit relatives in Paris, and I still do, but this country became my homeland when I married Raziid Khan. Although I was just seventeen at the time and he was a man more than twice that age, my parents permitted the marriage even though he had two other wives at the time. However he’d fathered no children.’
Victoria wasn’t sure what to say, so didn’t try.
‘I hardly knew him at all when we were married – and I was terrified – but I discovered that he was wise and tender, and it wasn’t long before I came to love him deeply. I, too, desperately wanted to give him children, but it didn’t happen, and I wept when I – we three wives – were widowed ten years later.’ She looked directly into Victoria’s eyes.
‘The other ladies and I were fond of each other, though we chose not to continue living together when our husband had gone. But life does move on, old wounds heal, and I’m glad to say that I’ve been able to love again.’
It took Victoria a little time to digest the begum’s story. ‘Well, madame, I’m twenty-six now and, yes, I’d like to share my life with a man who truly loves me. But I have to tread warily because when Peter died he left me with something that inevitably changes the way people perceive me – if they hear about it
.’
The begum raised her brows questioningly.
‘Peter left me his share of a trading vessel named Fortitude, and I’m growing increasingly wealthy with every voyage it makes.’
‘And you consider this to be a difficulty?’
‘Yes, I certainly do, because once a whiff of wealth is sniffed in the air around a woman, every fawning, worthless fortune-hunter in the country is drawn to the honey-pot. I’ve seen that happen to young ladies in London. But what’s even worse, I know that a woman’s wealth can frighten away a good man who has little money himself.’
The begum looked at her keenly. ‘Surely you’re not suggesting that Andrew Wyndham—?
‘I’m suggesting nothing at all,’ she answered, more sharply than she’d intended. ‘I’m simply saying that if I do meet a gentleman and fond feelings start to develop between us, I need to be sure that it’s Victoria who stirs his heart, and not Peter Latham’s wealthy widow.’
Unexpectedly, thoughts of Peter slipped into her mind throughout the day. Her black ocean of grief had calmed, but she was still carrying the old sense of emptiness and lack of purpose in her life. The augury had told her to look into her heart to find her destiny. It is waiting all around you. Search for it with your heart.
Well, she was searching, and so far nothing had appeared, apart from visions of the nameless girl who’d died giving birth on the floor of a filthy tenement, and the orphaned Molly Collins whose future might have been similarly grim without the generosity of Martin and Emily and the good people at Cloudhill.
She prayed regularly that Molly would learn a useful trade, or train in some skill that would enable her to earn a decent wage and keep the wolf of poverty – or worse – from her door. Molly might even achieve her dream of becoming a milliner and one day have her own little shop, or perhaps Mrs Dobson would teach her to cook in the Cloudhill kitchen. Or maybe Mrs Frost would train her in the secrets of running a fine household. Would she make a good nursemaid?
Echoes of a Promise Page 17