Sword of Empire Page 3

  ‘Laura! Is that you?’

  Laura sighed. ‘Yes, Mama.’

  ‘Come in here. The most remarkable thing has happened.’

  Laura hesitated, then went into her mother’s bedroom. She could not imagine what could have happened that would be more remarkable than the other two events of today, unless news had come that Aunt Ella had also died, making them rich after all.

  And what would she think of Guy Bartlett then?

  Marjorie Dean was waving a piece of pasteboard at her. ‘We have been invited to the ball at Government House!’

  Laura frowned as she took the invitation. They had never been invited to Government House before; it was not an honour usually extended to mere writers.

  But there it was: His Excellency The Honourable Mountstuart Elphinstone had indeed invited Mr and Mrs Carmichael Dean and Miss Dean to a ball at Government House on Saturday 4 June 1825, in honour of His Highness Rajah Scindhia Sitraj of Sittapore.

  Laura’s excitement was only dimmed by the knowledge that everyone else had received their invitation some weeks before.

  She raised her head. ‘Is that the man who arrived last week with such a lot of noise and elephants?’

  ‘The very man.’

  ‘I wish we’d gone out to look.’

  Everyone else had, but they had still been in mourning. ‘Why? He’s just some fat little Hindu, I imagine.’

  ‘He seems to be a friend of the Governor. But why have we been invited now, at the last minute?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? Everyone thinks we have inherited a fortune from your uncle.’

  ‘Are we going to go?’

  ‘Well, of course we are.’

  ‘But...when they all find out...they’ll think...’

  ‘We’ll still have been to a ball at Government House,’ Marjorie declared. ‘And they will look like fools. We have made no representations. Are we to refuse an invitation on the grounds that we are not as rich as they imagine us to be? No, indeed! Now, we must decide what we are going to wear.’

  ‘Oh, heavens!’ Laura sat down, and sand scattered out of her skirt and on to the floor, but both women were too excited to notice. ‘What are we going to wear?’

  *

  Saturday, Laura thought, was the night before Sunday. Would that make any difference? Mr Bartlett had made no mention of attending the ball at Government House. Presumably if he was on duty he would be unable to do so. Besides, subalterns were seldom invited by the Governor. But he certainly could not object if she went. Mama had found some lovely silks in the bazaar, and she and Laura worked from dawn to dusk for the next few days. Papa even allowed them to employ one of the Indian women to help them. Now they were finished and Laura’s, in pale green taffeta, she thought exquisite; it showed up her fair colouring to perfection.

  Indeed, she thought she had never been so excited in her life. It was not merely the fact of going to a ball, it was that they were parading under false colours, even if, as Mama claimed, they were doing it innocently. How people would talk, afterwards! But afterwards she would be Mrs Guy Bartlett, and they could say what they liked!

  Papa also hired a landaulet for the occasion, and they arrived at Government House promptly at nine, in the midst of a large crowd of people, all of whom seemed to know each other. They also obviously knew who the Deans were, and greeted them courteously.

  ‘Money has a smell to it,’ Carmichael Dean said cynically.

  Then they were in the line, waiting to be presented to the Governor. As he was a bachelor, he usually asked the wife of a senior factor or army officer to act as his hostess, and tonight it was Mrs Partridge, wife of the Colonel of the Regiment. The sight of her, the thought that she would have a part to play in her husband’s decision as whether or not to allow Guy to marry, made Laura nervous as, following her father, she made a curtsey and all but overbalanced. She was raised by the Governor himself.

  ‘Miss Dean,’ he said kindly. ‘How very charming you look.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Excellency,’ she said.

  ‘Now, I would have you meet Rajah Scindhia Sitraj of Sittapore.’

  Mama and Papa had already shaken hands with the Rajah and Mrs Partridge and had gone on their way into the thronged ball room. Laura lowered herself into the necessary curtsey, hardly looking at the Rajah, only raising her eyes when she had her balance under control. Then she gave a little gasp.

  Rajah Sitraj was a young man, certainly not over thirty. Although he was no taller than Laura he was well-muscled and trim. His clothes were of the best, a blue silk tunic over white breeches and black boots; his belt was red velvet. Round his neck hung a dazzling necklace of rubies, emeralds and diamonds, and in his blue silk turban, there was a huge ruby.

  His clean-shaven face was handsomely aquiline, his teeth gleamingly white. As he smiled at her, his black eyes seemed to catch fire.

  ‘It is my great privilege, Miss Dean,’ he said in perfect English.

  Laura could think of nothing to say in reply. She had never seen such an attractive man in her life. And Mama had thought he would be a fat little Hindu!

  She realised the Rajah was still holding her hand, but did not know how she could free herself; presumably one did not do that sort of thing with a rajah. Then to her consternation he raised her hand and kissed the back of her glove.

  ‘You must dance with me,’ he said, very softly.

  Laura didn’t know if Mountstuart Elphinstone had heard him or not, but everyone in the room would have seen the gesture. She managed a smile, and as he released her, gave a quick curtsey to Mrs Partridge, and hurried to find her mother, aware of the flutter of fans in her wake.

  ‘Well!’ Marjorie commented. ‘Of all the effrontery!’

  ‘I thought he was perfectly charming,’ Laura said, feeling the heat in her cheeks.

  ‘An Indian,’ her mother said disparagingly.

  ‘But a Rajah, my dear. And he must be wearing ten thousand pounds worth of jewellery,’ Carmichael Dean remarked. ‘My word, who’s this fellow?’

  They had been approached by another Indian, who wore uniform, a yellow tunic over blue breeches, and black boots; a sword hung at his side. He gave a stiff bow. ‘Miss Dean,’ he said, his English not quite as good as the Rajah’s. ‘His Highness has asked me to fill in your card for him. I am Colonel Mujhabi, His Highness’ aide-de-camp.’

  Laura gave him her card without a word, and he took out a pencil and began to write. She wasn’t really aware of what he was doing, until he returned the card. Then she saw that every dance had been taken by HH The Rajah of S. The Colonel merely smiled, and bowed, and withdrew.

  ‘But...’ Laura looked at her mother, and the regimental band struck up a waltz.

  ‘He’s coming over,’ Marjorie hissed.

  Laura felt as if her knees were going to give way. She turned to the Rajah as he came towards them, again aware that everyone in the room was staring at her.

  ‘Sir,’ Sitraj said with the utmost courtesy. ‘Would you permit me to dance with your daughter?’

  Carmichael Dean’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly. ‘Of course, Your Highness,’ Marjorie said, performing a quick volte-face with her most charming smile.

  Sitraj extended his hand, and Laura laid hers on top of it. She felt like a queen as he walked her to the centre of the room and began to waltz quite perfectly.

  ‘This is my first visit to Bombay,’ he explained. ‘I would have come sooner had I realised how much beauty there is in the Presidency.’

  ‘You are a flatterer, Your Highness,’ she protested.

  ‘I prefer to think that I am a connoisseur of beautiful things. May I ask how old you are?’

  She was taken aback. One did not ask such a thing in polite society. But he was an Indian rajah.

  ‘I am eighteen,’ she said.

  ‘Ah! But unmarried, of course.’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness.’

  ‘You must forgive my directness. I know little of drawing rooms.’


  ‘You speak English so perfectly,’ Laura ventured. ‘And you dance divinely.’

  ‘Why, thank you. I am very flattered. I was fortunate as a boy. Unlike most of my family, my father had a great admiration for the English. So he imported an English tutor for me.’

  ‘How interesting.’

  ‘It was for me, certainly. Mr Humphries taught me English, and he taught me how to eat as an Englishman, and how to dance. I would dance with my sisters by the hour.’ Sitraj smiled. ‘Without any music. Mr Humphries would whistle. But he insisted I learn. He said every gentleman must be able to dance well.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘Is Mr Humphries still in...’ she hesitated. Where was he Rajah of?

  ‘Sittapore? No. Sadly, he died a few years ago.’

  ‘Oh. I’m terribly sorry.’

  ‘I mourned him deeply.’ He gazed into her eyes. ‘I would like to show you Sittapore. My city.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said faintly. ‘You have a city?’

  ‘Well, of course,’ he said lightly, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

  ‘I should love to see it,’ she said.

  ‘Then you shall.’

  The music stopped.

  ‘Your Highness.’ Mountstuart Elphinstone bent over them.

  ‘You’ll forgive me, I know. But there is someone I am most anxious for you to meet.’

  The Prince sighed. ‘Duty calls. But I shall claim you for the next dance. May I?’

  ‘Oh, I...you already have,’ Laura stammered breathlessly.

  *

  ‘Well,’ Marjorie said. ‘What on earth are we to do?’

  It was two in the morning, and they had just got home after the most exciting night of Laura’s life. Everyone at the reception had been anxious to speak with her, when she hadn’t been dancing with the Rajah, who had hovered about her most gratifyingly all evening.

  As they said good night, he had told her he would take her riding this morning, early, before church. He had told her, not asked her! And she had dumbly nodded.

  ‘At least we can be sure he’s not after Laura because of anything Harrison may have left us.’ Papa yawned as he spoke; he had had a great deal to drink.

  ‘Because he wears a few jewels?’ Marjorie snorted.

  ‘Because I had a word with Elphinstone’s secretary. Sitraj is one of the richest men in India, if not in the world. He has his own emerald mine.’

  ‘But he is after our Laura,’ Marjorie said. ‘A Hindu! He probably has a dozen wives already. And as for what they practise!!’

  ‘Really, my dear, you are being improper,’ Carmichael protested.

  ‘What do they practice?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Nothing you should know about, miss,’ her father said. ‘Off you go to bed.’

  Laura obeyed, although she knew she would not sleep. Of course she knew that the Hindus were a race apart. Not only were they of a different colour and a different religion, but they dressed differently, and they did things differently. Everyday things. Therefore...other things as well.

  The trouble was, she didn’t even know how Christian Englishmen and women did it; Mama had never been very forthcoming on the subject. It was as if, having conceived out of wedlock, she had resolutely turned her back on sexual matters. Certainly she had never conceived again.

  But when she thought of Mr Bartlett...he had done nothing she would not have expected an Englishman to do. And everything he had done, she had wanted. But she could not imagine Rajah Sitraj being so hesitant and apologetic, or wanting so little! The thought of him lying on the sand beside her made her feel quite giddy.

  And he was coming to take her for a ride tomorrow. No, today. Of course, Mama would have to come too. But even so...

  When she awoke the sun was streaming through her window. It was past eight o’clock. Mr Bartlett would have been waiting for two hours.

  Poor Mr Bartlett!

  Bombay 15 June 1825

  I am the most damned and despairing fellow on earth! I will never look at another woman if I live to be a hundred.

  Miss Laura Dean is, I believe, no better than she should be. Indeed, that is what is said of her.

  ‘The wretched girl actually lay in my arms, while I behaved most correctly. She then made an assignation, when all things would have been possible. I had already proposed marriage, and had every intention of conducting our courtship in an honourable fashion.

  So I attended this tryst, and she did not. Instead, I received a note to say that she overslept. A thousand apologies, etc, etc. Why, being a fool, I might have accepted this excuse, had I not already learned of her caprice of the previous night, when she spent almost the entire evening in the arms of a Prince of Scindhia — waltzing! I had always supposed that dreadful dance to be indecent; now I am certain of it.

  The Prince of Scindhia is a Hindu! Bombay is set by the ears. One night’s tete-a-tete would have caused gossip. But in the past week the Prince has squired the young lady everywhere, taking her hither and yon in his phaeton, smiling at her every word. I have seen them.

  I need hardly say that the fellow is disgustingly rich, and can be observed at a distance because of the sun reflecting from his jewels.

  Opinion is considerably divided in the Presidency. On the one hand there are those who feel Elphinstone should put a stop to it, as the sight of a young English lady being monopolised by a dark-skinned gentleman, however wealthy, is bad for morale, and for our relations with our Indian subjects. On the other, there are those who feel that Miss Dean deserves whatever is coming to her; there are veiled allusions to disgusting Hindu practices!

  She seems oblivious of it all, and merely smiles and looks contented, like a beautiful cat who has come across an unsuspected saucer of milk.

  In despair, I have taken to the bottle and worse, and in a fit of drunkenness I sought the company of my dusky charmer.

  This was quite an experience, although not one I would recommend to any but the most agile.

  David Evans and I sallied forth; Evans apparently knew just where to go. In a dank and dark establishment we were treated to an exhibition of dancing which was obscene, but interestingly stimulating.

  The girls are called nautch dancers, the word nautch being a corruption of the Hindu word nach, or dance. But of course they are much more than mere professional dancers. They wear nothing except gold bangles, and their bodies are coated in coconut oil. Thus unadorned they perform the most sensuous movements, revealing all, and from time to time they invite the caresses of the spectators. It is very difficult to resist this sort of thing, even when sober. And we were far from sober.

  The dancing completed, the customers are invited to take their pick and retire to the private rooms with the wench of their choice. I was given first choice, and did very well. I will not shock the reader with the details, but I emerged with a monumental headache, a lighter wallet, an even lighter feeling in my loins, and a memory I shall carry to my dying day. I feel utterly miserable as I imagine Miss Dean subjecting herself to such obscenities to please her Hindu lover. Surely her natural delicacy would forbid it!

  Amazingly, I continue in good health.

  I am now actively training Rufus to bite all Hindus, with the exception of Ramjohn. This point of view is generally applauded by my brother officers.

  There is not a great deal more to report. The Thug attacks continue on Company land, but not so close to Bombay as the murder of poor Harrison Dean. We send out column after column, but they always return empty-handed. The unfortunate fact is that the local people are either terrified of these bandits or in league with them, and all a Thug has to do is discard his weapons and his strangling noose and sit down among his dark-skinned compatriots, and he is indistinguishable from any law-abiding worthy, if such there be.

  To defeat them we will have to adopt far more stringent methods than are at present employed. This is not apparently to the taste of our Governor, but the rumour is that Elphinstone is to retir
e, to be replaced by a soldier rather than an administrator, something which will be greatly appreciated by the military here.

  2 The Rani

  ‘Thank you again for a lovely drive, Highness,’ Laura said, as the phaeton drew up before the bungalow. To either side, curtains rustled as the ladies of Bombay surreptitiously inspected the pair, but Laura no longer cared about that.

  ‘Thank you, again, for accompanying me,’ Sitraj said.

  ‘Will you take a cup of tea?’

  ‘That will be very nice.’

  This was a formality they went through at the end of every drive. At first she had been reluctant to invite so grand a person as the Rajah into so humble a home, but he had been as natural there as in one of his own palaces. She admired that in him greatly.

  But today, as one of the Rajah’s attendants came to help her down — Sitraj drove himself, but four of his people always followed on horseback at a respectful distance — he rested his hand on her arm.

  ‘Before we go in, there is something I must say to you.’ She turned, immediately breathless.

  ‘I am returning to Sittapore next week,’ he said. ‘Duty calls.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said.

  Of course she had known this moment had to come, but had refused to think about it. For a week she had been the most important woman in Bombay. Now she must return to being the most unimportant...and the most disliked as well, she supposed. However much the other white women might criticise her, there was no doubt that they were all jealous of her. As for the men...even Guy Bartlett turned away from her when there was a risk of a meeting. She had sent him a note of the most abject apology — something she had made him promise never to do — and it had made no difference. He had apparently joined the majority in condemning her relationship with the Rajah.

  On the other hand, even if he had accepted her apology, would she not still have wished to have had this magical, unforgettable week?

  Marriage, after all, was no longer a practical possibility, for soon enough the truth about her father’s inheritance, or lack of it, would be known.