by Gaelen Foley
From behind the safety of the screen, she let her gaze travel over the marquess slowly, enjoying the sleek, elegant architecture of his tall, manly form. After her tour of Meena’s chamber under construction, Georgie couldn’t help wondering what Lord Griffith was like when he took a woman to his bed.
She remembered the silken strength in his touch when he had held her hand, the smooth caress of his lips when he had kissed her knuckles…the safety she had felt with his big, warm body enfolding hers as he had ridden behind her on her horse.
As her leisurely perusal of him wandered all the way down to his spotless black shoes and back up his fawn-colored trousers, climbing the muscled length of his thighs, he turned oh-so-casually, with a piercing stare straight at the wooden screen—almost as though he could feel her inspecting him!
Georgie jolted backward in guilty surprise. Her sudden motion drew her friends’ notice.
“What’s wrong?” Lakshmi asked.
Her face radiated such fiery heat, she was sure her cheeks must be beet-red, as if she had just eaten a spicy green chili.
“Are you all right?” Meena inquired with a puzzled look.
“I’m—fine. It’s a—a little—hot in here. Maybe we should go,” she mumbled.
“Yes, come, let us go and have refreshments. Your journey has been long.” Meena linked arms with her, and Georgie did the same with Lakshmi, vowing to put the marquess out of her mind as best she could.
Continuing on their way, the girls passed the vast, sparkling banqueting hall. Here, an army of servants hurried about, busily polishing ornate candelabra and readying a sea of dining tables.
“There’s to be a feast tonight in honor of the English delegation,” Meena informed them; then she nudged Georgie’s shoulder fondly. “You should go, shona. It would give you a chance to visit with your brothers. Lakshmi and I won’t be invited, of course, but there’s no reason you can’t attend. You’re a foreigner and a guest. It’s not as if you’re keeping purdah.”
“Would either of you mind?” Georgie asked hopefully, refusing to acknowledge that sparring with Lord Griffith again held even greater appeal than catching up with her brothers.
“Not at all,” Meena said, and Lakshmi nodded in earnest agreement. “Though I will warn you, you may cause a bit of a stir—”
“She’s used to that,” Lakshmi chimed in.
“The only women the men are used to seeing in the banqueting hall are the dancing girls. But certainly you should visit with your brothers while you can,” Meena said. “We’re not sure how long their party will be staying—only until the negotiations are concluded, I should think, and who knows how soon that might be?”
“Yes, who knows…?” Georgie echoed, wondering how much Meena had been told about the substance of her husband’s current wranglings with the British on one hand and Baji Rao on the other. Probably very little.
Then she followed her friends into the main harem, a place of wonder.
From its sunken gardens to its lotus-shaped pools strewn with water lilies, from its whimsical pavilions to its arched colonnades, the royal harem was an airy space dedicated to leisure, luxury, and relaxation.
There were rooms devoted to art and music, painting and dance, and courtyards for horseback riding, archery, and a lively ball game similar to tennis. There was a serene ladies’ temple, small but beautiful, dedicated to Parvati, and elaborate nurseries filled with happy children. There was even a large durbar hall, where the maharani heard cases brought by the female residents of her kingdom.
There also were countless pets—little monkeys, tame deer, brightly colored parrots in cages. The birds had been taught by the ladies to perform all manner of silly tricks, but Georgie found it difficult to smile at their antics.
However beautiful it was, however peaceful and safe, this place was still a cage.
She said nothing of her thoughts, however, determined to remember that this was only her British view. It was clear that Meena was radiantly happy, and Lakshmi looked overwhelmed by the grace of this Elysian haven. No doubt it was paradise compared to the tiny prison of her marriage to strict old Balaram.
The girls were still watching some of the concubines making the parrots perform their tricks when, suddenly, across the green, a tall, slim woman of about forty emerged from the temple, a cluster of attendants and ladies-in-waiting following at her heels.
“Oh, no,” Meena whispered, paling. “It’s Queen Sujana.”
“Is it?” Georgie murmured with great interest, following her gaze.
The maharani’s elegantly thin frame was wrapped in a dark sari of indigo silk shot through with silver and gold thread, like a starry night sky. She was a beautiful woman, with a jeweled bindi gleaming on her forehead. She had sleek, jet-black hair, distinctly pale skin, and brooding kohl-lined eyes. The moment she appeared, however, a pall dropped over the gaiety of the entire harem.
Everyone in view stopped what they were doing, leaving their games, dancing, and artistic pursuits to bow down low in her presence, almost as if they were cowering before her. The music halted. Even the children stopped playing as she crossed the gardens with swift, driven strides.
“Blast, she’s seen us,” Meena said under her breath as Queen Sujana paused in her arrow-like forward motion. Her dark-eyed stare homed in on them. “I’m afraid, my dears, that Her Majesty will expect a greeting in the old style.”
“Oh, bother,” Georgie muttered. But as certain diplomats had accused her of causing trouble, she was determined not to do so, especially for her friend. No, it was easier to go along with the custom of the mujira rather than offend Her Majesty with a simple British curtsy.
“But I’m not touching her feet,” Georgie added under her breath.
“Down we go,” Lakshmi urged them in a quiet tone.
Beside her friends, Georgie sank down onto her knees as the maharani approached, and for Meena’s sake, dutifully performed the traditional bow to royalty, which required one to bend until one’s forehead nearly touched the ground.
“Meena, who are these ladies?” Queen Sujana inquired as she stopped in front of them. Her crisp tone admitted a small degree of mollification by their homage.
“Your Majesty, these are my friends from Calcutta,” Meena said timidly.
“I was not consulted on this visit.”
“H-his Majesty gave me permission.”
“Have you no breeding whatsoever? It does not matter what Johar says. First you must ask me. That is our protocol here.”
“Y-yes, my queen.”
Georgie scowled into the grass, but didn’t dare look up just yet. She could feel the queen seething.
Poor Meena. Georgie pitied her. She would not want Queen Sujana for an enemy. At length, Lakshmi and she were ordered to rise. Georgie could not help but notice the maharani’s venomous glance at the beautiful young rival who had replaced her in her husband’s affections. Though Georgie could all but see Meena shaking in her sandals, the girl stood her ground and told the queen their names.
The maharani studied them with cool interest, unconcerned by Lakshmi, but looking not at all pleased to find an Englishwoman inside her harem. “Well, if my husband wills it, I can do naught but obey,” she said in a voice like a poisoned dagger.
Disregarding them without a backward glance, she glided on.
Meena exhaled slowly as the queen retreated out of earshot.
“Is she always like that?” Lakshmi asked with a wince.
“That was nothing,” Meena whispered, still quaking a little. “Usually, she’s ten times worse! She thinks she’s practically divinity, just because she’s the sister of Baji Rao!”
Georgie’s ears pricked up.
“They’re such an arrogant family,” Meena added.
“Where is she going now?” Georgie asked, watching the queen march toward a pair of heavy wooden doors beneath a pointy stone archway.
“Probably to her private audience box. No one’s allowed in there withou
t her, and only her eunuch guards and her highest-ranked lady-in-waiting are ever permitted to attend her when she goes in there. She accuses me of being spoiled, but Johar lets her receive visitors from the outside world as long as she stays behind the screen.”
“Like him?” Georgie asked in surprise, nodding toward the young man who had just opened the thick wooden door of the queen’s audience chamber, and poked his nose into the harem, though he came no further than the threshold.
“Oh, what is he doing here again?” Meena remarked in a sudden tone of annoyance.
“Who is that?”
“Her precious son, Prince Shahu. He’s the Yuvraj, the crown prince. And he is—what is your English word—coxcomb?”
“Oh, yes,” Georgie murmured. “I can see that.”
Flamboyantly dressed in patterned silk drapery, with curly-toed shoes and showy gold earrings in both ears, the turbaned prince appeared in his early twenties and was clearly very pleased with himself. Exuding cockiness, he sent Georgie a bold smile, but he was so ridiculously dressed that she had to look away, pressing her fingertips to her lips to stop herself from laughing.
“Look at him ogling you! Ugh, what a preening fool he is!” Meena scowled at the prince. “He’s too old to be in here anymore, but he still comes every day to see his mother. Ah, well, at least he doesn’t stay long. He’s not allowed to come any farther than the doorway of the queen’s audience chamber.”
“Why does he visit so often?”
“They’re very close, he and Queen Sujana. He was raised in the harem, of course, like all the other children, and now he just can’t seem to get it through his head that he’s supposed to be a man. He’d rather cling to his mother’s skirts like a spoiled little boy. To think that someday he’ll be the one to rule Janpur!” She shook her head in dismay.
Georgiana was still trying to make sense of Prince Shahu when Lakshmi spoke up in a strange and faraway tone. “Meena? Gigi?”
They turned to her.
“What is it, dear?” Meena asked her.
Lakshmi had crouched down gracefully beside the lotus pool. She had lifted one of the blooms from the water and was staring down into its delicate cup. “I have come to a decision.”
“Lakshmi?” Georgie furrowed her brow as worry flared in her heart. “What’s wrong?”
“Yes, what decision do you mean, shona?”
“I’ve been thinking about it ever since my husband’s death.” She looked up at them with great, somber eyes. “I’ve decided to go through with all the proper duties of a surviving widow.”
Georgie started to protest, but Meena laid a hand on her shoulder, halting her, as Lakshmi cupped the flower.
“I’d like your help,” she said softly.
“Of course we’ll help you,” Meena murmured, crossing to Lakshmi and slipping a motherly arm around her shoulders. “You needn’t worry, my sister. If you wish to keep purdah, you can stay here with me. I would so love to have you nearby. You can serve as my lady-in-waiting in my new zenana. That is an appropriate role for a widow. One day, you can help me take care of my children.”
Georgie stood there startled into a dismayed silence by Lakshmi’s announcement, not knowing what to say.
“Yes,” Lakshmi said softly. “I think that would be for the best. Thank you, Meena.” She kissed her cheek, then turned to Georgie with a look of regret. “You’ve been as kind to me as a sister, Gigi, but I don’t belong in your world.”
No more than you belong in ours, her unspoken words seemed to say.
Georgie felt a lump rise in her throat. She squeezed her hand. “Whatever you feel will be best for you,” she said. “I only want you to be happy.”
“I cannot be happy if I shirk my duty,” she replied with a sober gaze. “I refused the fire, and I must face the consequences of that choice.”
Georgie couldn’t—perhaps refused to—understand, but a firm look from Meena advised her to hold her tongue. This was a part of their world that she could not grasp, but if it made sense to them, then who was she to argue?
Lakshmi changed into a white sari, the color of death. This was the only color she would wear from now on—no more vibrant yellows, no more cobalt blues, and certainly no more reds, the color of Indian wedding gowns.
Then Meena and Georgie went with her into one of the private chambers in the harem, where she sat before a mirror, slowly rubbed off the red bindi that was the married woman’s badge of honor, and lastly, picked up the scissors.
Tears rose in Georgie’s eyes as Lakshmi held out a three-foot-long section of her gorgeous ebony hair and, with an unflinching glance into the mirror, cut it off, half an inch from her scalp. Georgie wanted to turn away but forced herself to watch, fighting tears as her friend succumbed to her society’s heartless code of womanly honor. Lakshmi had done exactly what her family asked of her, and this was what she got for it. At last, the girl could have been free, but instead she had chosen this quiet annihilation.
Meena looked on, her face a mask of compassionate resolve, as if she, in Lakshmi’s place, would have done the exact same thing.
Well, such stoic enduring was not in Georgie’s blood. With her scandalous aunt’s book fairly burning a hole in her pocket, she vowed that, by God, she’d go to that feast tonight and show all those men that there were some women whose light could not be ground out under their cruel, ruthless heels.
For her part, they’d have to kill her before she’d ever let them put her in a cage.
“You sent for me, my queen?”
Firoz stood motionless on the outside of the wooden screen that bisected Her Majesty’s audience chamber.
In the dim mysterious region behind the lattice of the teakwood screen, she paced back and forth like a caged tigress.
Sometimes he longed to let her out—he had the strength to free her if she wished—but he was a realist, and honestly, what would he do with a queen? Sujana belonged to Johar. He knew his place.
Today she was alone.
She usually came alone to their meetings. She had already sent her foolish son away with a few gold coins and a pat on his cheek.
Only Firoz knew the full extent of the control Sujana wielded over Shahu. They were more than just mother and son, they were puppet-master and puppet. Through the boy, one day, Sujana would rule Janpur.
Shahu was the key to all her plans.
“Soon I will have another message for you to take to my brother. He grows impatient,” she added in contempt, still pacing. The shadows from the screen’s carved whorls rippled over her sleek figure. She pivoted at one end and strode back again. Firoz watched her, mesmerized. “For now, I want you to find out more about this Georgiana woman if you can. I don’t like her being here, not one jot. It’s bad enough to have these Englishmen crawling through the palace, but even here, in the very harem? To think of what I have to bear! Oh, that rotten little harlot, Meena, bringing her here. I wish she was dead!”
Firoz looked at her inquiringly.
From behind the screen, Sujana paused and let out a low laugh, delicious and sinister. “My friend, for now, at least, I was speaking rhetorically,” she chided him in amusement. “All in good time.”
Firoz nearly smiled, but he hid his pleasure and bowed his head, then went out silently to do his queen’s bidding.
Bagpipes had never before been heard beneath the domed roofs of Janpur Palace, but as the throng of Maratha courtiers milled about waiting for the feast to begin, Major MacDonald had gathered a few of his Highlanders to treat their hosts to a martial display of their proud regiment’s Highland sword dance.
In full Highland regalia of kilts and tam-o’-shanters, the braw Scots warriors performed their vigorous jig over pairs of crossed swords arranged on the floor. While the pipes wailed and the Highland drums pounded, they showed off their strength and agility with a grueling series of light jumps back and forth around the blades, each man with one hand above his head, the other planted on his hip.
“I
t was originally intended to help the men limber up before battle,” Ian told the cluster of Maratha courtiers nearby, with Ravi dutifully translating. “Have you tried the whisky, gentlemen?” he added with an urbane wave of his glass in the direction of the table where a servant was pouring shots of the fine Scotch whisky they had brought in by the barrel. “It is a favorite libation amongst men of our land.”
Fortunately, they had also brought the maharajah’s court a gift of five hundred bottles of Champagne, for some of the Marathas sipped the dry, bitter whisky and nearly spat it out. Ravi had translated one man’s muttered reaction as “drinking liquid dirt” on account of the mellow undertones of peat smoke. Some of them looked as though they wondered if this “gift” was actually an insult, but thank God, the Champagne had found favor.
Scanning the banqueting hall on full alert behind his amiable demeanor, Ian took a sip of whisky, ignoring the homesick pang that it inspired—his ancestral pile in the North of England was a stone’s throw from the Scottish border. Hooking his thumb in the small slit-pocket of his white silk waistcoat, he surveyed the dazzling display of colorful Indian tunics and turbans and resplendent military uniforms throughout the hall, and, despite being dressed with an impeccable black-and-white formality worthy of Almack’s itself, he was beginning to feel a tad under-dressed.
There was no help for it. Gaudiness was not in his nature.
His watchful gaze traveled on over the crowd until it came to the Knight brothers. They had been an excellent choice for his diplomatic detail. Fine men. Their ability to win the respect and goodwill of the Maratha court had impressed him—then again, charm ran in the family. Even now, he could hear the brothers conversing with their hosts on some of the pleasures of cavalry life: The Marathas were also known as superior cavalrymen.
Gabriel was the quieter and more serious of the pair, and Ian sensed brooding depths in the man that he probably would not have time to try to decipher, but Derek had a larking, accessible manner, and soon he had the group of courtiers and royal bodyguards laughing at some off-color story.