A Beggar at the Gate

by Thalassa Ali

  As if that weren't enough, Russell Clerk has been intriguing between the Rani and Sher Singh, a very foolish thing to do, and absolutely forbidden by the authorities. By meddling in their affairs, Clerk may have put us all in danger.

  Please leave the walled city as soon as you can. Bring Saboor if you like. If you fail to complete your divorce now, we may be able to arrange it later.

  I would come for you myself, but I have been quite unwell since yesterday.

  Frowning with worry, Mariana had laid that letter aside, and opened the second.

  Dear Miss Givens, the second had begun in an unfamiliar hand,

  I trust that the formalities of your separation will soon be completed.

  As we had agreed, while you are with the Shaikh's family, you are to discover all you can about the present situation at court. I am particularly interested in the exact date and time of Sher Singh's coming attack upon the city. I have my own informants, of course, but your confirmation of these facts will prove invaluable to me, and, naturally, to the Government.

  Your husband, who is expected to return to Qamar Haveli tomorrow evening, will know the full details of Sher Singh's plan.

  As the natives are not to be trusted at this perilous time, I suggest that you return to Shalimar as soon as you have obtained the necessary information. You may then convey what you have learned to me in person.

  I would advise you not to mention this letter, or anything I have said in it.

  I am certain, Miss Givens, that you will be scrupulous in carrying out your promise to me.

  I remain etc.

  Russell Clerk

  What had she done? What had she agreed to when she had nodded so gravely to the Vulture on her way out of the garden two days before?

  An hour after the evening meal, she lay under a heavy quilt, staring at the lamplit ceiling of a quiet room off the corridor's end, Saboor asleep beside her.

  Her arm tightened about his body. Only one, perhaps two days remained before she must leave for Shalimar. How had the time passed so swiftly?

  Nothing on earth would persuade her to spy on the Waliullah family, or help the Vulture with his dangerous intrigues. But when she did refuse him, how would he punish her?

  He is not a nice man, Lady Macnaghten had said. Mariana had not needed to be told that, but what was Clerk capable of? Would he tell cruel lies to Lady Macnaghten and spoil their budding friendship? Could he ruin the little time remaining in Uncle Adrian's career?

  Fear closed over her. She had no sense of what was happening outside Qamar Haveli. Should she tell the Waliullahs about the Vulture and his faintly menacing letter? But what should she tell them? Would they despise her for involving herself in his scheming, whatever it was? If she did not warn the family, would she put them in danger? And what was wrong with Uncle Adrian?

  She tried to imagine her next move, but it was late, and her eyes were closing. Still wearing her yellow clothes from the morning, too weary to think, she reached over and turned off the oil lamp.

  “I HAVE been waiting for you,” Safiya said the next morning, when Mariana and Saboor emerged, hand in hand, from their room. “Now, Saboor, you must find Khadija and ask her to get your breakfast.”

  Motioning for Mariana to follow, Safiya marched into her room and wrenched the curtain shut behind them.

  “I watched you and Saboor working with that melancholic young mother yesterday,” she commenced, with a satisfied nod. “You both did well. You are not a healer as he is, of course, but the girl needed you all the same. I prepared something for her to drink every morning, and sent them off after the fajr prayer. But that is not why I have called you here.”

  She took a small leather bag from a shelf. “One of the maids has had a dream, two dreams in fact. In the first, a woman is greatly blessed; in the second, some emergency arises, and she is thrown into grave danger that threatens her soul as well as her life. I believe you are the woman of the maid's dream.”

  What had they uncovered in that dream? Was it the Vulture's letter? Mariana glanced about her, wishing she were somewhere else.

  “As these are the girl's first visions since she came to this house,” Safiya went on, “I am uncertain of their seriousness. But I have nonetheless taken a precaution.”

  Reaching into the bag, she drew out a small silver box with a ring welded to its top, through which a thick black cord had been strung. “I awakened our silversmith in the night to prepare this. You must not take it off,” she warned as she lowered it over Mariana's head. “Inside it are verses from the Qur'an. Inshallah, it will keep you safe.”

  The shiny little box was covered with carved arabesques. Mariana turned it in her hand, and saw that its sides had been carefully welded, so that it could not be opened.

  “You are a brave girl,” Safiya said gruffly. “Who knows what Allah Most Gracious has in store for you, but whatever it is, you will, Inshallah, survive it.”

  Her face was somber. “It is called a taweez,” she added. “Keep it inside your clothes. It is not for people to see. And now,” her face softened as she reached to reopen the curtain, “you should have yourself oiled and prepared for Hassan's return.”

  “But, Safiya Bhaji—” was all Mariana had time to say before Safiya moved rapidly away, leaving her to stand, openmouthed, in the doorway.

  What was Safiya up to? Surely Hassan or the Shaikh had told her about the divorce. Was she trying to interfere? As Mariana reached down and touched the papers in her waistband, she felt fear tighten about her.

  She must not let any of this disturb her. Hassan would come in the evening. It would make no difference to her whether or not she had been oiled and plucked. She would show him her immovability on the subject of their divorce, he would be forced to agree, and that would be that. Then, tomorrow morning, having spent too little time in the haveli, she would take her painful leave of darling Saboor and bid Safiya and her ladies good-bye. When she returned to Shalimar, she would refuse, flatly, to speak alone with the Vulture.

  “Memsahib,” whispered the bird-like servant at Mariana's shoulder, “if you will come with me…”

  An hour later, Mariana sat on the sitting-room floor, her eyes closing, while the little servant massaged oil into her scalp with gentle, scarred fingers.

  She imagined her family in Sussex, her mother cutting flowers in the vicarage garden, her father in his study, poring over his battle maps with their rows of neatly drawn artillery and dotted lines. If she married in Afghanistan, she might never see them again.

  Where was Fitzgerald now? Was he skating with his fellow officers on the frozen Kabul River? Was he training his men, having them fire practice shots at distant targets outside the city? Whatever else Mariana's blond lieutenant was doing, he might also be waiting for her. After all, there were very few Englishwomen in Kabul, and all were married. Tainted by her history or not, she was all he could have.

  “And now, Bibi, we must move there, so I can see to thread your eyebrows.” The servant girl nodded toward a string bed under one of the verandah windows.

  Trying not to wince with pain as the girl pulled hair from one of her eyebrows with a twisted string, Mariana imagined Lady Macnaghten's face when she reappeared, newly beautified, at Shalimar. Of course there would be the difficulty of maintaining her carefully cultivated looks after they began to wear off, but who knew, perhaps Lady Macnaghten might lend her one of the quiet women from time to time.

  The elderly maidservant who had brought the lunch trays puffed her way up the stairs. “Hassan Sahib has arrived,” she panted, gesturing for Mariana to get up. “He is coming upstairs any moment to meet with Mariam Bibi. He is only here for a short time.”

  Mariana sat up, dislodging the girl's hands. “Now? But I cannot see Hassan now!”

  Where was Safiya Sultana? Where was everyone else? Mariana looked about her for aid, but apart from the girl and the elderly maidservant, there was no one in the verandah but a very old lady who sat dozing against the w
all. No sounds of conversation came from the sitting room.

  “But my hair is covered in oil, and you have done only one of my eyebrows, and—”

  “It is too late to worry about such things,” wheezed the old servant. “You must change your clothes and conceal your hair. Go, Akhtar,” she ordered the girl. “Bring fresh clothes for Mariam Bibi to wear. And find her another shawl. She cannot wear that yellow jamawar. She may get oil on it.”

  She turned back to Mariana. “I will tie your hair into a knot at your neck. You can cover it with your veil.”

  Clutching her new clothes, Mariana hurried to her own room. She pulled a brown shirt over her head, careful not to disturb the oily bun at the back of her neck, and tied on new brown trousers. After wrapping her veil over her head and shoulders as she had seen the ladies do, she emerged from her room.

  Uncertain what to do next, she looked about her. Both servants pointed in unison to a small room near the stairway. Through its open doorway she could see a man's knee, and a hand resting on it.

  January 14, 1841

  The servant girl held out a plain shawl. Mariana wrapped it hastily about her shoulders, then, aware that the two women were watching her, walked as confidently as she could across the verandah, past a pair of man's slippers at the door, and into the little room.

  There were two string beds in the small space, and little else. Hassan sat on one of them, looking even more elegant than usual. Saboor, his hands and face dirty from some adventure, lay sprawled across his father's knees.

  “Abba,” he cried, starting up. “An-nah has come!”

  “Peace,” Hassan offered, as Mariana lowered herself uncertainly to the second bed, as drab as a peahen in her brown clothes, her letters crackling at her waist.

  The beds were so close together that her knees were less than a foot from his. She reached across the space between them and patted Saboor's beaming face, then jerked her hand away, realizing how close she had come to touching Hassan's heavily embroidered sleeve.

  “Are those your court clothes?” she asked, not knowing what else to say.

  “They are.” He frowned; a gold earring glinted as he cocked his head. “Why are you covered in oil? What is wrong with your eyebrows? Did they not tell you I was coming?”

  “They did, but it was too late.”

  “Abba has come!” Saboor slid from his father's knee, his face alight. “He is taking me on his horse tomorrow,” he cried, dancing beside Mariana. “You must come and see!”

  “I cannot stay long.” Hassan caught Saboor's grubby little hands from behind and raised them above his head. “Are you comfortable here?” he asked Mariana as he bounced his son up and down. “Do you need anything?”

  “No, thank you. If you remember, I shall soon be returning to Shalimar. I very much like your family,” she added over Saboor's squeals of pleasure, preserving her bridges. “I hope to call on them again, after our separation. I would like to learn more about your father and your aunt Safiya Sultana. I would also like to visit Saboor.”

  “Then? Why leave us at all?”

  “Our marriage was a mistake,” she said primly. “What more is there to say?”

  Unable to tell whether Saboor had understood their conversation, she looked away from the child's sudden scowl.

  Hassan did not reply. Instead, he drew Saboor onto the bed beside him. His eyes on Mariana, he began to run tender fingers over his son's curls.

  She must convince him to let her go before she smelled his sharp, woody perfume again, before she found herself staring at the graceful fingers that caught Saboor and held him as he tried to wriggle away….

  Harry Fitzgerald, with his straight back and his Roman profile, was nothing like the man who sat before her. She tried once more to imagine herself at Fitzgerald's side, a fair-haired baby in her arms, but this time the picture would not form clearly in her mind.

  But how could it, when Hassan sat only feet away, with his silks, his broken nose, and his princely jewels?

  Why had she chosen this moment to look so awful? It weakened her position to be half-plucked and oily. She looked down, mortified, at her ill-kept hands.

  “There's no need to turn away; I have already seen how you look.”

  She glanced up sharply, then met Hassan's gaze. As she did, a wave of intensity seemed to come from him and cross the space between them. She breathed in deeply, remembering a moment just before he had left her and Saboor at Firozpur.

  “I must leave soon,” he said softly. “I am needed at court.”

  She looked away, knowing he still watched her, aware of the beautiful hands stroking his son's back. She must not allow herself to fall into the dark, inviting chasm that he was opening before her. If she gave in, she would have no future, no fair-haired babies, no friends

  Hassan had mentioned his work. Here was the opportunity the Vulture had been waiting for. If he were here, he would be signaling her to ask the date and time of Sher Singh's assault.

  He could signal all he wanted. She would never ask.

  But wait. She herself needed that information. If she knew when the attack was to take place, she would know how long to remain in the city. Surely, if there were another two or three days of safety, she would have more time with Saboor….

  “When is Sher Singh's attack to be?” she asked, as carelessly as she could, avoiding Hassan's gaze, surprised at the thickness of her voice.

  He stiffened. “Why do you want to know this?”

  “I do not know how long to stay here. If I could have even one more day, I—”

  “You have no wish to leave Qamar Haveli.” His voice had a knife's edge. “You do not want a separation. You have been forced to ask this question by the British Political Agent. Admit it.”

  “That is not true.” Mariana watched nervously as Saboor ran from the room. How much did Hassan know? Had he seen the letters? Schooling herself not to touch the papers at her waist, she cast about for a way to change the subject.

  “I do not have to admit anything,” she told him flatly. “I am British.”

  Had she really said those words aloud?

  “You will not distract me with your rudeness.” His expression hardened. “The Political Agent has written to you. I have seen his letter. What does he want?”

  “I cannot tell you.”

  “You will tell me. It is he, and not you, who desires to know the date and time of Sher Singh's attack. He wants your aid in some treachery against us. Speak. What is his plan?”

  “I do not know.” Unable to stop herself, she reached down and felt the letters at her waist. “My uncle has also written. He says Mr. Clerk has been intriguing between the Rani and Sher Singh without the knowledge of our government. Our political officers are forbidden to do such things. I would never give information to a man like that.”

  “And what power has he over you that he can force you to spy in your own husband's house?”

  Hassan's face had grown so icy and still, he might have been a perfect stranger to her. “He has not forced me to spy,” she cried, the words tumbling from her. “Mr. Clerk is not a nice man,” she added desperately, “but it was he who persuaded my uncle to let me come here to stay. All I could think of was seeing Saboor again. I had no idea why the Political Agent wanted—” She felt her face crumple.

  Hassan leaned forward, his hands on his knees, his face level with hers. “You are to remain in this house,” he ordered, heedless of her filling eyes. “You are to take no part in the Political Agent's schemes, whatever they are. You are to tell him nothing. You may not send any message to Shalimar, and you may not go there. I cannot guarantee your safety if you try to visit the English camp. Do you understand me?”

  Sniffling, she drew herself up on her string bed. “You have no right to tell me what to do. If I wish to write to my own uncle, I will do so. If I wish to leave this house and go to Shalimar, I will do that, too.”

  “You will not.” His voice held a heavy finality. “You
will remain here until everything has been resolved.”

  There was clearly no point in arguing with him now. Later on, she would have Ghulam Ali take a letter to her uncle, asking him to send a palanquin and bearers to fetch her. She gathered herself, thinking the interview was over, but to her surprise, Hassan made no move to stand. “What is that black cord you are wearing?” he asked coldly.

  “It is for a taweez. Your aunt Safiya had it made for me.” Mariana fingered the silver box through her clothes. “One of the maids had a dream about a woman who seemed to be in danger. Your aunt believes I am the woman of the dream. I am sure it is nothing,” she added lamely, hoping he would look at her again as he had a little while before.

  “If my aunt had a taweez made for you, it is very far from nothing. You are likely to face real danger. Hai!” Hassan ran a hand over his face. “I only pray that Allah will keep this family safe.”

  “I will always protect Saboor,” Mariana said quickly, and then pressed her lips hastily together.

  He did not look at her, or reply.

  She shrank into her drab clothes, her unplucked eyebrow weighing down her lid like a hairy caterpillar. “Will Sher Singh besiege the city, or will he storm it?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Neither one. I am sure he has already paid the Rani's troops to open the gates.” Hassan sighed. “Were you supposed to ask me that, also?”

  “No.” She lifted her shoulders. “I am interested in military history.”

  “You study military history.” He nodded, watching her. “I used to think you were like other English people, but you are not. You are not like anyone, are you?”

  He got to his feet, unsmiling, his embroidered coat swinging at his ankles. “We will speak again when I return later this evening. Inshallah, I will be coming upstairs for dinner.”

  As he stepped into his slippers outside the door, she realized she had stretched out a hand to him as he passed her.

  Yes, this is how the wife of Hassan Ali should look!” An elderly aunt slapped both her knees and smiled broadly as Mariana made her self-conscious way across the crowded floor that evening, her delicately worked gold bangles jingling as she moved her arms.