—37—
When I arrived at Nina’s country home on Friday afternoon, the sky held a purplish layer that captured my attention emphatically enough that I waved to Nina and ran toward the back garden.
A storm gathered over the hills to the west, pregnant with rain, and the light turned the grassy hillsides an almost electric green.
The undersides of leaves showed pale and restless in the rising wind.
But the mesmerizing thing was a line of copper threading between two banks of clouds, edged with rose and streaks of gold. I drew it as quickly as I could, trying to press the colors into my mind. My paints were in my bag, and I wished briefly I’d taken the time to pull out my watercolor tin.
“Use mine,” said a voice behind me, as if he’d read my mind. “Extraordinary, isn’t it?”
I saw a man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, dressed casually in a shirt and loose trousers.
He handed me a clutch of colored pencils with soft tips, and I sat down to spill them in my lap, using layers to capture the spirit of that light, if not the exact shades.
Yellow on top of brown, green layered over white and yellow, the ribbons of pink represented by light lines of red.
And over it all, the eggplant sky, muscular and brooding.
“Thanks,” I said, standing up. I gave him back the pencils and brushed off my bum. “I’m Elsie. We haven’t met.”
“Grayson.” He had the look of a film star, dark hair a little rakish, a thin mustache across his lip. “I’m a friend of Rocky’s.”
“An artist, obviously. What are those pencils? I love the marks they make.”
“I had them made in Germany last year.”
“But that isn’t a German accent, is it?”
“Quelle horreur! No, no, I’m Belgian.”
“Nice to meet you. I’d best greet Nina properly. I’m sure we’ll speak again.”
“Au revoir.”
I heard voices in various rooms as I ran up the stairs to the chamber I knew by now would be mine. A maid was busily unpacking my things, tucking them into drawers, the gown for Saturday night already hung. “Thanks, Matty. I’ve got it from here.”
“You sure, ma’am? I’m nearly done. There’s no rush.”
“Go ahead, then. I’ll go wash.”
Nina captured me in the hallway, taking my hand and leaning into my side. “Your maharaja will be here,” she said with an arched brow, pointing to the room next to mine.
Blood rushed to my cheeks. “Stop calling him that.”
“Maharaja or yours? I think both are true.”
The heat worked its way to my ears, and I pulled out of her grip. “No, neither is true, and his name is Tanveer, and you’re making it sound—ugh.” I cast about for the word. “Tawdry.”
She inclined her head. “My apologies. Tanveer it is.”
“I’m sorry, I just—he’s not—” I looked down the long hall to a window in the stairway. “It’s not like that. Some dalliance.”
“Oh, my dear, the apology is mine. I did not mean to belittle you, or him, or any of it.” She brushed hair from my face, cupped my cheek. “I only wonder how have you never told me about him before this, my dear Elsie? You are so clearly besotted.”
I didn’t really have an answer for her. There was only a sense that I wanted to keep it to myself, this shining thing we shared. In the world, it could be so easily damaged. “It is a private connection,” I said.
She smiled faintly. “Well, then, I won’t announce it, but you’ll both have to blaze a little less.” She brushed my shoulders. “Even now, the light is tumbling off you in little sparks.”
“Stop!” I laughed. “Let me go wash!”
As I was about to pass, she caught my hand, and said quite seriously, “Be careful, pet. Protect your heart a little, will you?”
For a single moment, I remembered standing on the deck of the ocean liner carrying us away from India, letter from Tanveer in my pocket. I brushed it away—I was no longer that raw girl. “All will be well.”
Supper was to be casual, served in the expansive kitchen rather than the large dining room, and I wandered down early, hoping for a glimpse of Tanveer. I’d watched through my window for new arrivals, but he had not arrived with the latest group from the train.
What if he didn’t come?
Thinking of Nina’s warning to beware of my heart, I occupied myself with sketches of the strange sky.
The copper portal on the horizon had been sealed with more layers of clouds, but they were turgid, holding themselves aloof.
I wondered how to play with that strip of extraordinary brightness from earlier, what it might signify in a painting, and sketched some ideas, but in truth, I was only waiting for Tanveer.
I went down early to distract myself with conversation, dressed in a simple skirt I wore daily, and a blouse that was one of my favorites, thin white muslin and lace that revealed and hid my shoulders and breasts in equal measure, though looking at myself in the mirror, I did wish for lush breasts like Helen or Gurdaya.
Foolishness. As I’d seen in life drawing, bodies came in any number of arrangements, big and small, soft or angular.
Big breasts, small breasts, large penises, small ones—which you could tell even with the draping in class—fat thighs, skinny ones.
Some humans were bony, like Nina. Some were softly lush, like Gurdaya.
All beautiful.
A handful of people were gathered in the salon.
The French doors were open to the garden, with drinks and snacks lined up on the sideboard.
I poured myself an elderberry cordial and headed toward Rocky and his friend Grayson, only realizing from the intensity of their body language that they were lovers, maybe having a quarrel.
I hesitated, looking about for another familiar face, and spotted Peter standing alone looking at a ship in a bottle.
Veering his direction, I said, “Hello. Do you remember me? We met last summer.”
“Of course.” His cheeks were rosy, his hair a tumble of corn silk. He was a tall man, angular, and I guessed he would play tennis fiercely. “I’m glad to see you.”
“Are you a bohemian, Peter?”
“Oh, good lord no. Nina was short a man, and I agreed to join.”
I glanced over my shoulder to the painters having their low argument, to a pair of girls I did not know, coiffed and slouchy at once, playing at being bohemians, and Diana, the Anglo-Indian I’d met here once before.
She wore a glowing peach frock that set off her warm complexion.
Seeing me, she wiggled her fingers at me over the shoulder of the frazzled-looking girl in front of her. “Who is with Lady Diana?” I asked.
“That would be Henny, who is on the far side of eccentric, I believe. She’s a spiritualist.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know what that is.”
“A medium? A tarot reader?”
“Ah, a fortune teller. I met one in India once, at a birthday party for the maharaja of Talwarpur.”
A smile played beneath his tender mustache. “Did she give you a good fortune?”
“No, actually. She gave me a terrible one. It scared me so much I ran to my mother.”
“Oh, no! Surely that should be against the rules.”
“I heartily agree.” Outside, a flash of lightning burned across the entire sky. We all looked through the doors at the brightness, but even expecting it, we all flinched when the thunder followed.
A laugh rang out as two things happened simultaneously—the rain began to fall in a waterfall torrent, and two people came in the room. Rocky said, “Quite the entrance, Your Highness.”
I spun around to see Tanveer. At last. When everyone looked at him, he spread his hands and said, “I heard it has been a dry summer.”
Everyone laughed and surged forward to meet him, speak to him. Next to him was Nina, who looked at me across the room, titling her head ever so faintly.
Beside me, Peter said, “Was it that maharaja’s birthday?”
“No. It was his father.”
“How are you acquainted?”
“We were children together.”
“Ah.” He took a sip of his drink. “I’ve always wondered why these Hindus wear turbans. It must be awfully hot, especially in India, I would think.”
“That is a Sikh dastaar, actually.” I watched Tanveer greet each person with focused attention, hands behind his back, as he gave a short bow to the ladies, a nod to the men.
He looked magnificent in a dark western suit, cut to fit his broad shoulders, his long legs.
“There are a great many styles of turbans, and many of them help protect the wearer from heat, rather than making it hotter. Bedouins, for example, use them to protect themselves from sand in the desert. But for Sikhs, it’s a symbol of their faith. ”
“Ah, of course. Interesting.” He watched the loose gathering around Tanveer. “I’m not quite clear about Sikhism. Is it related to Islam?”
I shook my head. “They’re quite distinct, and different still from Hindu practice. Are you religious. Peter?”
“Not at all. My Aunt Genevieve manages the religion for the family.”
I laughed.
He added, “At least it’s all Church of England here—oh, but you don’t like things to be too homogenous, do you?”
I glanced at him, wondering if there was a cut buried in there, but his eyes were guileless. I remembered that he wanted to study architecture. “Have you traveled in the east to study the architecture there?”
“I have not. I would like to. One of my dearest wishes is to visit the Pyramids.”
“Oh, my. Yes. That would be quite a sight.”
At last Tanveer extracted himself and moved deliberately toward me. “Good evening, jaanu,” he said, giving me the same small bow he’d given the ladies. His eyes glittered with humor as he added in Hindustani, “Your beauty shines like a moonlit pool.”
I pressed my hands together in greeting. Also in Hindustani, I said, “And yours shines like a monkey.”
I was rewarded with his big laugh, so full of life that I saw two people look around and see what caused it.
“Tanveer, this is Lord Peter Arbuthnot, Nina’s cousin.
Peter, this is the Prince of Talwarpur.” I looked back to Tanveer.
“Forgive my ignorance, but I do not know the correct address for you. Is it ‘Your Royal Highness’?”