The palace wasn’t nearly as large I had expected it to be, yet it was still spectacular, all white marble with domes and minarets and mosaics of blue and green and gold. There were lavish gardens with ponds and fountains, and the teak and mahogany trees shaded the rolled green lawns where striped tents and marquees had been set up. Beautifully gowned women strolled about twirling their parasols, talking with handsomely uniformed officers, and native servants in those lovely pink jackets presided over tables covered with spotless linen cloths, tables piled high with heavily ornate English silver containing exotic and colorful food. Other servants circulated with trays of champagne, and a native orchestra painfully rendered traditional English tunes in an octagon-shaped white wooden gazebo unmistakably English with its fussy gingerbread trim. Tame deer mingled among the guests, begging for bits of cake. It was all the most incredible combination of Victorian stuffiness and Oriental splendor.
The rajah stood on the front steps of the palace with a resplendently uniformed Michael beside him to help greet the guests. Two servants stood behind them holding aloft an enormous square-shaped canopy of gold brocade embroidered with pearls, tassels of pearls dangling from the edges. Dollie strived to look cool and dignified as we strolled toward the steps, but she couldn’t quite contain her excitement, lively brown eyes taking in all the splendor with considerable zest. Reggie screwed his monocle in his eye and held his shoulders ramrod stiff. The rajah’s face was inscrutable as he watched us approach, but Michael wore a warm smile, looking so handsome it almost took one’s breath away.
“Lieutenant Colonel and Mrs. McAllister, Your Highness,” Michael said, “and this is Miss Lauren Gray.”
Dollie made a little half curtsy, her purple skirts crackling, and I followed her example. Reggie gave a curt nod and extended his right hand with deliberate brusqueness. A faint smile played on the rajah’s lips as he shook the gloved hand, but his dark eyes remained expressionless. A rather tense moment followed, but Michael quickly leaped into the breach, displaying that smooth diplomacy Dollie had mentioned earlier.
“Was I not right, Your Highness? I’ve been telling him all about you, Lauren. I told him you would be the prettiest girl at the party. He said he would judge for himself.”
“Indeed so,” the rajah said. “My friend Lieutenant Stephens is correct. I am honored by your presence, Miss Gray.”
It was the first time he had spoken. His voice was deep and husky, yet there was a curious lilt that gave it a honeyed quality. Rajah Sahji Bandi was almost as tall as Michael, lean and muscular, his skin a dark mahogany. He wore soft white leather boots, and his formfitting trousers and tunic were of exquisitely brocaded white silk, as was his turban. A necklace hung across his chest like a cobweb of fine silver, ablaze with dozens of ruby pendants, some of them as large as grapes. There were matching silver and ruby bracelets fastened about his wrists. The jewelry merely emphasized his excessive virility, for here was a man who was unmistakably male. He had a seamed, harshly handsome face, deep lines on either side of a full, curling mouth, his nose a powerful beak. His glowing black eyes were disturbingly arrogant, yet he was a magnificent creature, crackling with magnetism.
“I am pleased to be here,” I said politely.
“And where is the other young English miss? The one with the hair like old gold?”
“Sally? She—she couldn’t attend, I’m afraid.”
“I hear about her. I hear about you both, am most eager to meet you. My friend Lieutenant Stephens is a lucky man indeed. You must enjoy yourself, Miss Gray. Later perhaps we can have a conversation.”
“I’d be delighted, Your Highness.”
“I’ll join you later, Lauren,” Michael told me. “We’re expecting a few more guests.”
“Isn’t he something?” Dollie whispered as we moved away. “Did you see those rubies? He was wearing emeralds last time—emeralds and pearls set in gold. You handled yourself so well, dear! So cool and composed. I’ll confess, he always makes me awfully nervous.”
“I don’t like the way he looked at her,” Reggie told his wife. “I do wish that dress of yours wasn’t cut quite so low, Lauren. I’m not a prudish man, not particularly, but—”
“Oh, hush!” Dollie told him. “It’s the fashion. My gown’s cut just as low—well, almost as low. Bosoms are quite the thing, Reggie. Lauren looks divine.”
Reggie stroked his neat mustache, scowling. “All the same, you watch yourself, girl. That fellow has a reputation. These heathens keep their women under lock and key, keep ’em covered up head to toe. Because our women follow the fashion and—uh—display their charms, these randy Indian males sometimes get the wrong impression.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said dryly.
We joined the other guests strolling about the lawns, moving past tables and striped tents. The huge trees cast soft shadows, and for once it was not overly warm. A native servant approached us with a heavy silver tray laden with glasses of champagne. Reggie took one for Dollie and me, declaring he wanted something a mite stronger himself. All around us voices rose, the officers’ sober comments mingling with the women’s flighty scraps of conversation. The native band chugged and churned out English melodies like Sunday afternoon amateurs giving a park concert, the music a cacophony of discordant noise in the background. Birds of brilliant plumage flitted about the trees, and water splashed in the magnificent white marble fountains inlaid with mosaics.
“I’ll just go find some port,” Reggie said gruffly. “There’s bound to be some around somewhere.”
“Mind you don’t have too much,” Dollie called after him. “He does so hate these affairs, always did. Oh dear, there’s Prunella Dobson wearing a gray gown. Silk, but still gray. I hope you don’t mind what Reggie said about your gown, dear. He didn’t mean anything by it. He’s just terribly stuffy about such things.”
“Is the neckline really so daring?”
“Well, dear, they do go to extremes in Paris, but if I were nineteen and had a figure like yours I’d wear it that low, too. Gone are the days, alas! Michael admired your dress, and that’s all that really matters.”
“Did he?”
“You didn’t notice? You know, dear, I fancy he’s going to ask you a very important question any day now. The lad’s quite smitten. It’s as plain as day.”
I made no reply, and we continued to stroll about the grounds, pausing now and then to chat with various people, then moving on. One of Dollie’s close friends rushed over to impart a fresh piece of gossip, and I left them at it, walking on by myself, strangely discontented, not knowing exactly why. A servant came over to take my empty champagne glass. I took a fresh glass from the tray, sipping the bubbling brew as I continued to stroll. Pausing beneath one of the tall, slender mahogany trees, I was surprised to find my glass already empty. I looked back at the palace. The white marble minarets and domes were silhouetted against the pale blue sky, the intricately detailed mosaics gleaming in the sun. Michael and the rajah still stood beneath the golden canopy, greeting late guests.
I gave a little start when something cool and moist touched my arm. It was one of the deer, a lovely spotted tan creature with soulful brown eyes. I stroked its head, smiling when it tried to nibble one of the tiny blue flowers sewn on my skirt.
“You mustn’t do that,” I scolded. “I haven’t anything for you to eat, I’m afraid. You’ll have to look elsewhere.”
As though understanding every word, the deer wandered away, joining the dozen or so others ambling among the guests. I leaned against the trunk of the tree, slightly dizzy from the champagne. I shouldn’t have drunk it so quickly, I thought. Couples strolled past, and I nodded when necessary and smiled politely. Dollie was still deep in conversation with the captain’s wife, and I was vaguely aware of Reggie standing with a group of men in front of one of the tents. There was laughter and animation, gaiety all around, full skirts rustling like colored petals, gold braid shining in the sun, and it all seemed to blur and grow hazy b
efore my eyes, receding as my mind wandered elsewhere.
I thought about the native who had rescued Sally and me, who had mysteriously appeared at the ruins a week ago, spying on us. Who was he? What had he been doing there? The man was obviously a bandit, a fugitive, and that was one of the reasons neither Sally nor I had told anyone that he had been the man Sergeant Norman had fired at. After what he had done for us, we both felt curiously protective toward him, and both of us had been most relieved when the group of soldiers Reggie had sent to Karbala came back to report they had discovered no signs of anyone about the ruins. The native had disappeared once more, but I had a persistent feeling that I would see him again, and soon.
The leaves of the mahogany tree rustled, and flecks of gold sunlight danced among the shade surrounding me. The natives in their pink jackets were beginning to serve food, removing the heavy silver covers from chafing dishes, arranging delicious smelling Indian delicacies on fine English bone china. Nightingale tongues? I shouldn’t have been surprised. I gazed at my empty champagne glass, wishing it were full again, knowing the sparkling wine would afford only a temporary escape from the confusion and indecision that had been bothering me all week long.
Michael was in love with me. He had been about to declare himself that afternoon at Karbala, his “confession” a prelude. “What I’m trying to say is—” he had begun, and then Sergeant Norman had shouted and fired his pistol and Michael had never been able to finish his statement. He had not brought it up again. During the past week he had been polite, agreeable, charming, but he had been preoccupied, too, spending more time than ever here at the palace helping the rajah arrange the party. Twice he had been unable to accompany me on my morning ride, and he had spent far less time at the house in the evenings. I understood, and I was relieved, for I didn’t want him to ask me that important question, not just yet. He was in love with me, but I wanted to be certain about my feelings toward him before I was required to answer the question that seemed inevitable.
I was fond of him. I thought I might be in love with him. I couldn’t be sure. I knew so little about love, but from those books I had secretly devoured I understood it was supposed to be a shattering, exhilarating sensation, a highly charged emotion that left one shaken, unable to eat, unable to sleep. The heroines had all been ready to throw aside everything—wealth, position, respectability—to elope with their rakish gypsy lovers, their brooding, mercurial highwaymen. They would have gone through fire to be with their men, and there had been nothing mild, nothing pleasant about the emotions they experienced. When you fell in love you were supposed to know immediately. It was supposed to be as though a bolt of lightning had struck you. There was never any doubt, any indecision. That was the way it was in the books. Was it that way in real life?
Perhaps if I had let him kiss me as he had planned to do in the clearing by the stream, I would have experienced some of those wildly passionate emotions. Perhaps it was all my fault. I was bookish. I was scholarly. I was cool and dignified. Perhaps I was incapable of feeling such heady emotions. Somehow I doubted that. Somehow I suspected that deep down inside, beneath the cool exterior, I had a nature as passionate and responsive as any of those volatile heroines.
A native servant approached with a tray of champagne. I shook my head and gave him my empty glass. Grim and silent, he walked toward a cluster of guests. I didn’t see Michael anywhere about. I wondered where he could be. He was everything a women could ever hope for, I was certain of that. I enjoyed being with him. He made me feel wonderfully alive. When we were apart, I missed him, and I felt a fresh burst of joy each time I saw him anew. I must love him. It was pure folly to expect a bolt of lightning. If that suspected passionate nature had not been awakened, it was because I hadn’t given him the opportunity. I sighed, wishing I were older, wishing it all weren’t so complex and confusing.
“You don’t enjoy the party?”
The husky, honeyed voice startled me. Lost in thought, I hadn’t heard the rajah approach, and now he stood before me in all his splendor, rubies blazing like drops of blood against the white silk. The dark eyes, expressionless before, were filled with polite concern. I was embarrassed, at a loss for words. The rajah smiled, and when his full mouth curved up at the corners like that his face didn’t seem nearly so malevolent. He made a gesture with a beringed hand, indicating his other guests.
“They all eat the food and talk and listen to the English music my men play in their honor. But you do not. I watch. I walk among my guests and speak to them and wish them enjoyment, and you stand here under this tree all the time, looking sad. I notice.”
“I—I was thinking, Your Highness.”
“I say to myself, I shall have a conversation with the young Englishwoman my friend Lieutenant Stephens is so fortunate to have met. She looks sad, I say. Perhaps she is feeling neglected because the handsome lieutenant must greet the guests and then must go inside the palace to confer with my chamberlain on a matter of business.”
“I—wondered where he was,” I said haltingly.
“I confess, the matter of business is not an important one. It could wait until another day, but, I tell myself, with the handsome lieutenant on hand, the young Englishwoman will not wish to have a conversation with me. So I send him into the palace to keep him away for a while. It is devious, no?”
The rajah smiled again. Hard, arrogant, undoubtedly ruthless, he nevertheless exuded a great charm, a warmth of personality I couldn’t help but respond to. He wished to be friendly, and I knew full well that he was ordinarily aloof with all the English. I smiled back, embarrassment melting away.
“I am flattered you would go to such lengths, Your Highness.”
“I ask myself, what would amuse the beautiful Miss Gray during the absence of her lieutenant. She does not chatter with the other women and she does not eat the food or enjoy the music. How can I amuse her? I ask myself if she would perhaps like to see the palace rooms.”
“That would be a marvelous treat,” I said, genuinely pleased.
“My palace is not as grand as some, but there is much fine furniture, many fine chambers. It shall please me to show them to you. I will add that not many of the English have been so honored, merely to show you how much I am impressed with Lieutenant Stephens’ lovely young friend.”
“I am indeed honored, Your Highness.”
The rajah nodded, very formal now, and crooked his arm. I placed my hand on the brocaded sleeve, and we slowly made our progress toward the palace steps. It caused something of a sensation. People stared quite openly. Conversations halted in midstream. The music seemed louder than ever, a faltering om-pah-pah accompanying our steps. I knew it was extremely unusual for the rajah to show such open favoritism, and I must admit it gave me a thrill to be walking up the steps with my hand on his arm, moving into the cool, sumptuous interior.
The hall was exquisite, the floor blue and white marble tile arranged in floral patterns, the walls ivory and gold, archways leading off into adjoining chambers. The rajah led me into one of the large, open rooms, and I marveled at the lattice work, the screens of beaten gold. We strolled into another room even more impressive, the white walls traced with gold in intricate patterns, and we passed into yet another, then another, and I saw delicate silver and gold filigree work and inlaid ivory, blue tiles and amazingly beautiful carpets, draperies of the finest, purest silk like spun air tinted with color.
It was amazing, each room a marvel, each containing jewel-encrusted artifacts, sumptuous chests, furniture of gold and silver and ivory, and there were mosaic murals of semiprecious stones, but the rajah passed by these without comment. Amidst all this staggering splendor there was, incongruously enough, an abundance of dark, heavy, heavily carved English furniture, all of it hideous, all of it second-rate, the sort of pieces one might find in a gloomy suburban mansion. The rajah was inordinately pleased with it, pointing with pride at the ponderous sideboards, the abominable wardrobes, the stiff-backed chairs with their red
plush cushions and tarnished gold fringe.
“I am up to date, you see,” he remarked. “I do not live in the past like a number of my fellow princes. I attended the college at Oxford, you know. I am proud to speak English and appreciate the English things.”
“I can see that you do,” I remarked.
“When I am at Oxford, many look down on me because my skin is dark, but still I admire the English. Does my dark skin bother you, Miss Gray?”
I found the question rather disturbing. “Of course not.”
“At Oxford, I had a friend. She had golden hair. She serves the ale in one of the pubs, and she is most friendly. I take her from the pub and give her many fine gifts. She does not mind that my skin is dark. When I leave England she is very sad.”
I examined a small silver box encrusted with emeralds that sat on one of the ebony tables, slightly uncomfortable. The rajah apparently saw nothing wrong in telling me about his white mistress. I felt sure he hadn’t meant to embarrass me.
“You admire the box?” he inquired.
“It’s quite lovely.”
“It is yours,” he said.
I looked up at him, startled. He was watching me very closely, those dark eyes inscrutable. There was an animal quality about him, and I sensed the savagery lurking behind that polite, formal façade. I remembered what Reggie had said, and I grew more uncomfortable. Surely I had misinterpreted his gesture. He had mentioned the barmaid and his gifts to her, and then he had offered me the emerald box, and … and there was no connection. Surely not.
“I—I couldn’t accept it, Your Highness.”
“No?”
“It wouldn’t be—proper. The box is very valuable.”
“I see. You are, then, very proper?”
I nodded and attempted a polite smile. The rajah stared at me for a moment, his face a mahogany mask, impossible to read, and I wished I had not been so eager to come with him on the tour. I wished, too, that I was wearing something a little less fashionable and more modest. Could he possibly think that because I was wearing a low-cut gown, because I had told him his dark skin did not bother me.… No, no, I was imagining things. I must be. There were vast differences in our cultures, true, but the rajah surely couldn’t think that meant I would welcome anything improper.
Danger at Dahlkari Page 14