Sary and the Maharajah's Emeralds
Page 21
“Not Tommy. I don’t want him in Heaven, I want him here! Safe! He is too real—too alive. Never would he just…leave.”
“My point.” He spoke gently. “This Thomas would have been found by now…or have been making enquiries, storming the castle, if you will.”
I fanned my hair side to side. My beautiful, raven-haired, hopelessly romantic, not-of-this-world Thomas, my beloved, he must be alive…and my baby, Jude. Though not a baby now—as the rajah said.
“I do not believe he perished in the fire but, to their lasting damnation, at the hands of men.”
I shook my head. As if that made a difference. I watched him stonily. “I will never believe that. You still have not told me everything. I feel it! And now, tell me! My boy?”
“India is vast. This city is vast. We have been turning Bharatpur, Rajasthan, and beyond upside down, and now, would you settle for your son?” Rami cocked his head.
Hope and distrust warred. I groped behind me and sat hard.
“You see, it appears he has been seeking you.”
I broke down in howling sobs.
Slowly, he folded me against him, and if tears ran down his face too, it is not recorded.
“Shh-shhh…” He bent his head, stroking my hair until I quieted, hiccupping and heaving, afraid to hope, afraid I had not heard right. “He is well—is he—?”
“We found him weeks ago. Not him, physically, but where he might be. He left the troupe near Nepal on a mountain pass. Scouts found him safe with a Tibetan monk. They weren’t certain at first. He was wearing the clothing of a monk and would not speak. He was smart.” I nodded fiercely. “Our soldiers can seem terrifying thugs. It appeared he tore away from the group and was making his way back. We had to keep him safe from my brother. He was still in danger. Then, of course, my brother died.
“Sary, my beloved little foreigner, your son was to be a—wedding present. Belated perhaps, but—?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Is He a Prince!
I returned to the seraglio to sort out the cyclone swirling within. I saw their faces—resentment overwritten by overweening interest as they flocked like pigeons to crumbs of toast, pecking at me with their unbearable need for novelty.
“Does not he like you? The rajah? You were not there long.” They preened. “You did not wed. He must not care for you after all. So sad.”
Padmavati stood, arms folded across her flat chest, looking on with her usual severe expression. Even Asha seemed puzzled.
“I have a son!” I blurted as they trailed me, peppering questions. I was restless, waiting to see what came next, missing the rajah—Rami—grieving for Tommy’s whereabouts; I couldn’t stand them another second.
“You have a son?”
“Is he handsome?” They twitted like brainless birds.
“Is he a prince?”
“Is he living?” This was the all-important question.
“Of course!”
“But where is he? I see no son!”
A woman just losing the first bloom of middle age, a thread of white silk stitching her raven hair, mimicked looking under a table, behind a chair, causing much mirth.
Another with a thin face and tall sinuous body, called Shyamala, snickered and turned on her heel. Shayamala was the one who used to trip other girls in ghalli dandi.
“Indeed! Of course, you have many sons! We see them everywhere!” She called back over her shoulder, waving an arm wide.
“Is he a truly royal?” Rashmi, a plump maiden, ventured shyly.
“No! Of course not! No,” I said more gently. ‘His father was—was common.”
I sensed blatant glee.
Another story!
I eyed them sourly.
Yes, another story I would never reveal…Ev’ret, bull-like Ev’ret, big as a barn door, thick as a plank. My brilliant son’s father. Childlike Ev’ret—unintentionally brutal, tragically witless—and Big Bear flooded back once more, where my journey really began, when I was a slave for my brother, a widow, an accidental gold miner, and a mother…
Cold, untamed hills, rough and undomesticated miners, hunters, panners, and doxies…the cat-claw women, who tried to kill me with their suspicions. I did tell the seraglio of lovely England, after Big Bear gave up its gold, and the perils of Africa hunting for diamonds after the con man stole my fortune, and of the bounty of uncut diamonds that underwrote Tommy’s magnificent troupe in an act of contrition that turned out so ruinously, and finally—how I came to be here…
Ohh, go away! I wanted to say. I am not an exhibit.
Yet if widows in this country, from frightened child-brides to grizzle-haired matriarchs, were either sent to ashrams to wither over the sins of their husbands or burned in suttee, how could these women believe anything I told them of the outside world?
I looked up at the touch of a hand, and there was Asha. “Sar-ree, what is his name?” she asked timidly.
“Jude,” I said through tears. “His name is Jude.”
Asha, my first and only ally, cast a chastened face.
“I’m regret, Sar-eee, for what they say. I believe you. But where is this son?”
And then…
Jude walked in.
Epilogue
Ever After…
It is said…
That years later, when an extraordinarily handsome yet reclusive silver-haired maharajah with the nose of a hawk and fierce wing-like brows toured the world, a striking woman with hair the color of corn silk accompanied him, but the most renowned part of her was her bewitching, enchanting green gaze…emerald eyes. The news of her was bandied about.
Their notorious love affair was legend, though the couple was also celebrated for their exclusivity, feted, sought after as they made world pilgrimages and were seen at the best events: racing at Deauville, Ascot, and Salisbury; sitting at the high stakes table at Monte Carlo; dining privately with the kings and queens of Europe; skiing at Zermatt or St. Moritz; even calling on New York and a squalid little place called Big Bear, in the mountains of far-off California.
The exquisite companion was famed too for her generosity in private charities, though she tried to keep her good works anonymous.
Just as exquisite, enchanting, and accomplished were their many children, ranging in age from six to fifteen, who accompanied them everywhere. They were marked for their arresting green eyes, made even more attractive shining from coppery, bronzed faces.
A hulking young man, nearly six feet, or seven it is rumored, named Jude—or perhaps it was Jud or Justin—guarded this delightful pack, along with his wife, a petite and shy thing half his size. They called her Ash or Alice or something like that. She was older than he. He had shoulders as wide as a barn.
Then, with the arrival of the Great War, attentions were drawn elsewhere, and the legend was scrambled in the tumult of conflict.
There were also rumors of a different sort.
There were sightings of a handsome theater entrepreneur, of matinee-idol good looks and hair of Irish black, who led a traveling troupe of celebrated thespians, accompanied by a captivating blonde actress. These sightings covered Nepal, Tasmania, Russia, and Timbuktu…and from New York to Paris. The traveling troupe was famous for their extravagant use of fake diamonds and emeralds each member finding some reason for wearing them. Never had there been so many tiaras in a production…and talk was they were real.
There may be some truth in that, for the members retired wealthy, some living abundantly in highest society or others more modestly. A tiny man named Malcolm, who owned a successful traveling carnival, became a silent partner with Barnum and Bailey’s acclaimed circus. But these were rumors…
A word from the author…
I am married and write novels and scripts in Pacific Palisades, California. In my wilder days, I was a fashion illustrator, dabbled in acting and earned my SAG card, went on to getting shot with rubber bullets as a “stunt” performer training troupes from Camp Pendleton at Stu Segall Prod
uctions in San Diego, have sculpted, and love tearing my house apart and putting it together…I finally settled down penning novels where all one needs is a fertile imagination, a blood-spattered laptop, and a doorstop thesaurus…
Visit me at:
https://www.pinterest.com/sharonindiana/
https://ship11233.wixsite.com/bookshoponthecorner
ship11233.wixsite.com/sarys-diamonds-twrp ship11233.wixsite.com/sarys-gold
http://ship11233.wix.com/the-monster-factory
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