by Thalassa Ali
That scent had both terrified and exhilarated her.
Seeing the intensity on his face, she had drawn back at first, remembering with fear the look in Charles Mott's eyes and the painful grip of his fingers. But Hassan had been different. He had murmured poetry when he bent forward, his hands on her knees, his eyes on hers.
“Oh, Rose, what art thou in the presence of her lovely face?
Sweet as musk she is…
“Forgive me,” he had breathed into her ear when, at last, he had hurt her.
Later, speechless at what she had done, Mariana had fingered the oblong medallion Hassan wore on a gold chain, trying to read its tiny letters by the lamp's flame.
“That is Arabic, from the Qur'an,” he had said, stroking her cheek, his eyes glowing in the lamplight. “A jeweler made it for my grandfather, who gave it to me when I was born. The verses on it are from Sura Nur.”
Unexpected as they had seemed, the events of last night now felt inevitable.
She drew her shawl closer over her shoulders. She now had no choice but to stay at Qamar Haveli. She would help to secure the house against invasion, and then she would live out her life there, never needing to part with Saboor again, learning from Safiya Sultana by day, and from Hassan by night, just as Akhtar had told her in that irritatingly suggestive tone.
But first, although Hassan had forbidden her to do it, she must go to Shalimar and tell Aunt Claire and Uncle Adrian of her decision. She shivered, picturing her aunt's desperate tears, Lady Macnaghten's arch, horrified stare, the Vulture's dismissal, Charles Mott's sneer.
They would never forgive her, but she was different now, with her body tired and sore, and the imprint of Hassan's kisses on her mouth. Across the room, her beautiful yellow jamawar lay folded on her trunk. He had bought it for her himself
She no longer cared what they said at Shalimar.
Someone must have reported the stains on her sheets while Mariana was out of the bedchamber, for when she entered the sitting room an hour later, bathed and blushing, the younger women stared, the older ones cooed and smiled, while Safiya offered her a satisfied nod.
Mariana took her usual place beneath the window, but this time, instead of sitting stiff-backed on the floor, she rested an elbow on one of the bolsters. She sighed with pleasure when Saboor came to lie across her lap. Why should she not give in to it all? Why should she try to remain an Englishwoman in this atmosphere where women spent their days in perfect intimacy? Why pretend she did not eagerly await Hassan's return tonight?
SHE HAD thought there would be work to do in the house, and she had been correct. After threading a mountain of small turnips onto strings for drying and filling a row of earthen pickling jars alternately with salt and tiny yellow limes, she and the other women had watched Safiya resolve a dispute between a neighborhood woman and her very angry sister-in-law over a copper cooking pot.
Then it had been time for Safiya to teach her how to eat rice properly with the fingers.
After the dishes had been removed, as Mariana rested, sharing the room contentedly with a nursing mother and a group of little girls, a familiar voice floated in through the window above her head.
“But Yusuf,” the voice said, “I do not see how they can succeed.”
Anxious to hear Hassan's voice again, she got quickly to her feet and pressed herself against the shutters. Invisible through the filigreed wood, he must have been out of sight below her window, speaking to a heavyset man whom she could see, and whom she vaguely recognized.
“First,” Hassan continued, so close by that she could hear the intake of his breath, “they must get into the garden, which will, of course, be under armed guard. Second, each of them must get a clear shot, in spite of the confusion and the intervening trees.”
A garden? Clear shots? Mariana tried to unlock the shutters, but they creaked too loudly. The girls across the room looked up.
“But they are Afghans, my dear fellow.” The other man sounded impatient. “They will enter by stealth. Their marksmanship will pose no problem, even if they have to fire at night. All they will need is time to make themselves ready. What I want to know is where they are to be positioned.”
“Zulmai says they are to conceal themselves near the center pavilion. Their orders will be to shoot on sight.”
“All five?”
“Yes, all five.”
“I do not see any difficulty with the plan, Hassan. Unless the man is warned, he will never expect assassins. His attention, and everyone else's, will be diverted by the assault on the Citadel. If you ask me, the assassination will be accomplished in ten minutes.”
The man. Did they mean the Vulture? Mariana counted silently. There were five English people at the Shalimar Garden: Uncle Adrian and Aunt Claire, the Vulture, Charles Mott, and Lady Macnaghten, whose tent was at the center pavilion….
“And what of your wife?” the man named Yusuf asked Hassan. “After all, she may have been—”
“I am keeping her here.” Hassan dropped his voice. “She is to know nothing about this. Hai Allah, Yusuf,” he added bitterly, “I cannot tell you how I hate these British.”
Trembling, Mariana crept away from the window and started for her room.
The natives are not to be trusted at this perilous time, the Vulture's letter had said. She flung herself onto her bed, her thoughts racing. Was that why Hassan had come to her last night: to seduce her into trusting him, to persuade her to stay voluntarily at Qamar Haveli so she would not be at Shalimar when the assassins came?
How long would he keep her a prisoner after he had murdered Uncle Adrian and the others? Surely, after he tired of her, he would kill her as well. He would never risk her escaping and telling the British authorities what he had done. Surely the murder of senior British officials by a member of the Sikh court would spark terrible reprisals
Now she understood the Vulture's need for information. How could she have doubted the man, when he was only trying to save all their lives?
She raked back her hair. What had she revealed when she had spoken to Hassan of his intrigues?
She must warn the Vulture. She must write to him and persuade Ghulam Ali to deliver her letter to Shalimar. But no—Hassan had forbidden her to communicate with anyone there. Her request for paper and pen would certainly be denied.
Very well then, she would tear off a scrap of her nightgown, then cut herself and write the message in her own blood. Perhaps that would make up for the other message that was already written on the sheets, on her gown
She froze. Hassan stood in the room. He smiled. “You look nice in those clothes. Red suits you well.”
She should have returned his smile and pretended nothing was wrong, but she could not. Instead she shrank from him, her arms raised, as he approached her.
His smile vanished. “What is it?” he asked, moving closer. “Has someone hurt you?”
“You have hurt me,” she whispered savagely, anger and fright blotting out her self-control. “How could you have done that to me last night, when all along you were planning to kill the English people at Shalimar? How can you talk of my clothes while you are sending marksmen to kill my poor old aunt and my uncle who is ill?
“I was so wrong about you.” Her voice broke. “Why did I not see the danger in your father's insistence that I come to stay here, in your aunt Safiya's refusal to speak of the divorce, in the servant woman's sly suggestions? Why did I let myself believe that you loved—”
“Be quiet!”
A hand raised, he stood over her, his eyes flat and expressionless. He was much taller than she was, and she had no weapon….
“Trust,” he said in the level tone that he had used yesterday, “was the one gift I wanted from you. I looked for no dowry from your family, no jewels, no lands. I entrusted my son to you. You kept him for two years. In all that time, did I demand to know where he was or how you treated him? Did I imagine, for one moment, that you meant him harm?”
“But I was
worthy of your trust.” Distraught as she was, Mariana refused to drop her eyes from his. “I love Saboor, but you hate my people. You said so, just now, outside the window. Not only do you hate them, you are going to have them murdered. And what of me, your English wife? Am I to be your prisoner now, or will you kill me as well?”
“I am Punjabi,” he snapped. “I do what is best for the Punjab. You should have thought of that before you agreed to marry me.” He shook his head. “You have no idea what all this is about. You do not know what evil is being planned at Shalimar, and I will not tell you. I have had enough of you. You do not behave decently, you shout, you fight, you interfere, you have even been sent to spy on me. You may have your divorce,” he added coldly, waving a dismissive hand. “I will tell my aunt. Your iddat begins tomorrow.”
Without looking at her again, he turned, crossed the room, jerked the door curtain aside, and left her.
Divorce? Her heart racing, Mariana stared after Hassan. Had he really expected to keep her as his wife even after he had massacred her people? If so, then for all his calm elegance, he must be mad.
She got up shakily and pushed her feet into her new leather slippers. She must escape to Shalimar and warn her uncle and the Vulture, but how? No one in this house would lend her a horse, and even if they did, how could she ride safely, alone and uncovered, through the crowded streets of this city? A palanquin would be better, but where would she find one? Who would be her bearers?
Someone spoke quietly in the passageway outside. Mariana stiffened. Who was there? Was it Safiya Sultana, whose calm presence and compelling storytelling had masked her cruelty, or was it the sly Akhtar, whose paints and unguents had prepared Mariana for Hassan's poisonous, stroking hands?
She crept to the doorway and peeped around the curtain. The corridor outside was empty, save for Akhtar, who hurried toward her.
“Peace, Bibi,” she offered, smiling. “Safiya Sultana is calling you. She wants to show you—”
“A burqa.” Mariana gripped Akhtar's arm and dragged her into the bedchamber. “I need to cover myself,” she whispered fiercely, remembering a rainy morning two years earlier, and herself shrouded in yards of dusty white cotton. “I must leave this house immediately. My uncle is ill,” she added, searching for a plausible excuse. “I must go to him at once.”
Akhtar stared. “But you must not leave now,” she protested. “You must stay here with the ladies. Hassan Sahib will be coming again tonight. Everyone is so happy now that you and he have—”
“Bring it at once. ” Mariana dug her fingers into Akhtar's thin arm.
“I have no burqa,” Akhtar whispered tremulously, wincing at the pain. “I have only an old chador. It belongs to—”
“Bring it.”
Akhtar fled. The family ladies could not have been told the truth. Mariana imagined them all watching her now, shaking their heads at her fear and her fury, imagining she had gone mad. “What a pity,” they would cluck to each other. “Poor Hassan. He had been so patient, so good to her.”
Safiya Sultana and Hassan knew quite well that she was not insane. They also must have known all along how and when the English were to be butchered. After all, they had sought no information from Mariana. Instead, they had drawn her in slowly, firing her imagination with their stories, their kindness to strangers, their poetry and perfumes….
Why leave us at all? Hassan had asked her.
She turned back into the bedroom, remembering the poem Akhtar had recited to her yesterday: one that Safiya had written when she was eleven years old.
Like the muezzin who leans from his minaret
The nightingale gives voice from high in a cypress tree.
Perhaps the bird bewails his thwarted passion for the rose;
Perhaps he celebrates her beauty. In either case, like Safiya, the nightingale can be heard,
Although he is not seen.
Yesterday, that poem had seemed lovely and compelling. Today, with its reference to a hidden woman, it had a sinister tone. Mariana shivered. Safiya knew how to cure many illnesses with her potions and her amulets, if Akhtar was to be believed. But could she also destroy? If she chose to, could Safiya actually drive her mad?
The natives are not to be trusted at this perilous time. Why had she not seen that Safiya, good as she was to her own people, had no compassion for or understanding of outsiders? How had she missed the hardness beneath Safiya's exterior? Why had she trusted her?
Trust had been Hassan's word.
Enough. She must stop thinking of herself and go to Shalimar. She might never recover from last night's terrible mistake, but for now she had vital work to do.
She crossed the room and opened her small trunk. There, neatly arranged, were her hairbrushes, her best set of stays, and her second-best gown. She must leave them all behind, but even if she took them with her, they would do her no good. Her appearance would never matter again.
Akhtar burst into the room, a stained cotton sheet the color of earth balled up in her hand. Mariana snatched it from her and cast it over her head. It smelled evil.
“There is no time to talk,” she said, fanning away the smell, “but before I leave,” she added, remembering, “what does iddat mean?”
Akhtar's sharp little chin had begun to wobble. “It is a woman's waiting time after her divorce. After she has been with her husband, she must let three monthly periods go by before she is allowed to marry again. But Bibi, please,” she pleaded, “do not think of—”
“And where would she spend those months?”
“Here, Bibi.” Akhtar wiped her cheeks with her fingers. “You would spend them here, at Qamar Haveli.”
“Never,” Mariana snapped before starting for the door.
Outside, two women sweepers moved crabwise across the floor, patiently gathering little heaps of dust, their soft grass brooms flicking along the wall and into corners. Mariana drew the chador over her nose and mouth, lowered her head, and hurried past them and down the back stairway. Once safely through the kitchen and across the servants’ courtyard, she would open the back gate and gain the narrow street that ran alongside the house. She would be anonymous there….
She had almost reached the kitchen when a deep, familiar voice issued from inside. “We are not so poor, Khadija,” the voice decreed, “that we must give our guests watery aloo gosht.”
Her heart thundering, Mariana flattened herself against the wall, praying that Safiya had not finished ordering, that she would not emerge from the kitchen on her way upstairs.
“And I want you to add more chilies and salt to the lentils,” the voice continued, growing closer. “They were too bland yesterday.”
With no time for fear, Mariana sprinted back upstairs, the chador flying. Looking neither right nor left, she scurried past the room where she had spoken to Hassan, then hurtled down the spiral staircase and into the Shaikh's empty courtyard.
“Who are you?” One of the guards peered suspiciously at her a moment later, after she had made her breathless way past the busy stables. “Why do you want us to open the gate?”
“My name is Akhtar,” she lied. “I serve Safiya Bhaji and the other ladies. Please let me out. My uncle is ill.”
Her head bent, her face covered, Mariana tried to conceal her pale hands. She bent her knees to lengthen her chador, aware that the bright designs on her feet were barely concealed by her dainty leather slippers. Terrified that Akhtar had already told Safiya, that people had already begun to look for her, she forced herself not to look backward over her shoulder. “Please,” she begged.
“You say you are Akhtar, who works upstairs with old Firoz Bibi? The one whose husband burned her with—”
The first guard put up a hand for silence. “The next time you want to leave,” he said gruffly, as he tugged the bolt open on the great double doors, “go out through the kitchen.”
A quarter mile before she reached Shalimar, Mariana leaned against a dusty tree and pulled off one of her shoes. She had no
t dared to look at her feet during her three-mile walk in those inadequate slippers, but now she wanted to see the damage.
It was worse than she had imagined. Blood from her blisters had seeped into the slipper's thin leather sole. Grimacing, she forced it back onto her foot and continued her painful progress toward the English camp.
Her journey had been difficult, if uneventful. Once free of the haveli, she had started off as rapidly as she could along a narrow lane between tall, ramshackle brick houses and boarded shops. She had passed the Delhi Gate Bazaar with its shouting merchants and heaps of grains and spices, then joined the mass of people with bundles on their heads who hurried out through the heavy, pointed archway of the gate itself and into the heaving crowd of men and animals emerging from the great open caravanserai outside.
Afraid of being trampled, coughing at the clouds of dust, Mariana had tried to hug the worn brick wall opposite the great caravanserai gate, but had found it, with its squatting men, to be no safe place for her. Instead, clutching her chador with one hand, she had struggled along, buffeted by speeding donkey carts and pushed aside by groups of hurrying, barefoot men, until she had emerged at last, onto the road to Shalimar.
No one had tried to stop her on the way, although she had certainly been noticed. A merchant here, an old woman, a group of children there, had watched her pass, taking in the good cotton clothes that peeped from behind her chador, studying her hands, her feet. Word of the route she had taken would, she was sure, reach the Waliullahs within hours of her escape, perhaps sooner.
A mile from the city, the road had been less crowded, but still there had been donkeys, files of silent camels, creaking bullock carts as tall as ships, and gangs of turbaned horsemen, all, curiously enough, heading away from the city instead of toward it, but in all that crowd, there had been no lone woman. The only women visible on the road had been stuffed into the backs of carts with groups of children, or walking single file with huge bundles of straw on their heads, safe in each other's company. Hot under her chador, her feet blistering, aware of the stares of her fellow travelers, Mariana had longed to ask for a place in one of the carts, but with nothing to offer the driver and no man to protect her, she had kept to herself.