Later
Hundreds upon hundreds of candles: they filled the marbled dining hall with the warmest light and most pleasing of perfume. The guests, a good many in addition to Hervey’s party, sat on cushions at a table laid with a gold cloth and jewelled dishes of pomegranates and jujubes. Hervey sat on the Ranee’s right, the place of honour, just as on the first occasion he’d sat in the place of honour next to her father the rajah. To his right was the sirdar, all affability; on the Ranee’s left, the brooding presence of the dewan, Ashok Acharya, first minister and keeper of the treasury. Musicians in the gallery played lively ragas, and a steady procession of khitmagars brought yet more delights for the table: oranges, peeled and dusted with ginger, finger-lengths of sugar cane, figs and mangoes. This was the Indian way, he’d told Georgiana beforehand. Whereas in England a feast could not begin with sweet things, sweetness being earned by progression through much sourness – as in life itself – in India it was different, for those at the banquet table had earned their title to indulgence in this incarnation through preparation in earlier ones. Or so Suneyla’s father had explained. (Only later did he learn that it was a doctrine in which the rajah did not believe.)
Georgiana sat between the rissaldar and St Alban. The rissaldar had good, at times excellent, English. He was perhaps five or six years St Alban’s senior, with – as Hervey observed, and rather to his surprise after the morning’s chase – a ready smile and pleasing manners. He was from Rajpootana, he told her, his father a zamindar who’d engaged a former writer from Fort William as his tutor.
Annie, too, seemed to be finding things agreeable. Every time Hervey looked to see how she and Georgiana were, he saw her talking easily – to her left with a jemadar of the bodyguard, and to her right with the wife of another, whose father was a man of business in Bombay but who’d lived for some time at the Cape, and who spoke English almost naturally.
He’d observed how the Ranee had received her, though, which vexed him – suddenly ‘regal’, as if minded she must display her superiority, show no deference simply because someone was of the gora log – the white people. Though display to whom, puzzled him. Georgiana, on the other hand, she’d received with delight.
Their own conversation was formal, but not stiff. She talked freely of the last time he was in Chintal, and spoke of her father as if her banishment were of no account. He wondered if there’d be occasion during his stay to ask of it, and what truly had lain behind it? He’d wish to understand for completeness, not just what bearing it might have on his mission.
‘You are welcome in Chintalpore, you know, as long as you have care to stay. But how exactly are you come here?’
And now he must practise deceit, the soldier’s art before battle is joined. But it was one thing to deceive an enemy in the field, and rather another to lie to his host. He could only dissemble.
‘Very precisely, I come by way of Guntoor, in the suppression of dacoitee – of thuggee.’
He observed her closely as he spoke. Her expression remained the same.
The dewan said something, which Hervey’s Hindoostanee could not quite catch.
Suneyla obliged. ‘The dewan asks how is the great Lord Bentinck at Fort William.’
‘I have not had the honour of his acquaintance, Your Highness, but I understand that he is well.’
Suneyla explained this to the dewan, though Hervey sensed he’d understood well enough. Yet just as he himself was sometimes reluctant to speak, fearing mistakes, he could hardly condemn the dewan for not wishing to practise his imperfect command of a foreign tongue before two expert speakers. It made, though, for tedious conversation.
The dewan asked if, in that case, he’d not lately been at Fort William.
Suneyla answered that he’d come from Guntoor, but the dewan appeared to want to be certain on the point.
Hervey smiled absently. ‘I’m afraid that I have not been to Fort William in many years.’ (Nine was a number that seemed to him reasonable to number as ‘many’.)
In any case, it seemed to throw the dewan off his line, whatever that line was, and he returned to brooding silence. He was a tall, angular man, bearded, like most of his caste, and not without the appearance of physical strength; yet still the word ‘reptilian’ came to mind. A little later Suneyla turned to him, and there were rapid exchanges, which Hervey couldn’t get even the gist of. She, however, looked uneasy rather than masterful. At length she turned away from the dewan and kept silent, her eyes distant. Hervey took the opportunity to look about the rest of the long table, content to wait for her to quit her contemplation.
Meat of all kinds – he thought it better not to know precisely – came on gold plate, and Cape wine in finely chased ewers. The ragas continued. There was plenty to distract from conversation, and to mask the absence of it. He began to wonder if his mention of thuggee had been ill-judged, putting Suneyla on her guard – the dewan too. But surely they’d known of it?
‘It is very fortunate, is it not, Colonel, that you should have been in Guntoor?’
After so long a silence the question seemed strange, puzzling. Her manner was colder, too.
‘Fortunate, ma’am? How so?’
She didn’t answer.
‘It was fortunate of course that I was in Guntoor when the news of the agent’s death reached Fort William, and that I knew these parts. But such is life, is it not? There is pleasing happenstance, occasionally.’
Suneyla said nothing again for the moment, and then, ‘Tell me of Georgiana’s mother, Colonel.’
He thought it a strange locution, but knew it a mistake to imagine – for all her fluency – that he sat next to an Englishwoman. Though perhaps she knew more than he supposed.
He told her all that had happened.
‘And so now you begin again, as it were?’
‘My wife is with child, yes.’
She quickened. ‘Ah, so you will not wish to be detained long from Fort St George?’
He smiled. ‘I am quite used to the exigencies of the service, ma’am, as indeed is Mrs Hervey.’
‘Indeed she must be, with a husband killed at Bhurtpore.’
It was said with hard edge. Hervey almost blenched.
Suneyla lapsed into silence once more. Dishes came and went. The ragas continued anon.
Then, suddenly, she spoke sharply to the dewan. He in turn gestured briskly to the sirdar.
The musicians fell silent and the khitmagars made themselves scarce. Hervey glanced to where Serjeant Acton stood, as the evening before, discreetly in a corner.
But soon he saw that he need have no worry. The little band began its music again, but this time much slower, and twelve sinewy, elaborately dressed ‘ladies of the nautch’ – young and of passing beauty – entered as if floating, bending this way and that like tall grass in a breeze. From neck to ankle they were aflash with mirrors, bracelets and rings, and in each bare navel an emerald shone.
Hervey smiled with the recollection of the first time he’d seen the nautch, here in this very place, and in the Ranee’s company. He sat back in honest delight.
‘From Maharashtra, as I recall, Highness.’
‘Indeed they are.’
He wondered: had she brought them specially? The rajah had arranged the nautch for the delight of the Nizam, though little good it did him. Had she even remembered that first time? But he could hardly ask; and besides, he could hardly expect a truthful answer.
What did it matter, though? It would avail Chintal naught, even if Suneyla had brought them here for his amusement. The die was cast. Nor was it worth his regrets. He might as well enjoy what was laid before him.
The nautch girls swayed and swirled, silently – no singing – their eyes everywhere and nowhere, the movement continuous like an eddying stream: graceful, leisurely in gesture, mistresses of time. On and on it went, a full quarter of an hour; perhaps even more.
Captivating, enchanting, just as that first time. The years fell away …
T
hen suddenly the spell was broken – the frantic raga, the climax: spinning and shaking, extravagant motions; and then swift prostration.
And then loud applause. Even the dewan.
The nautch girls rose and stood quite still, hands together, and then, as one, bowed low – namaskar. That still they didn’t smile, even at this ovation, only added to their allure. For they didn’t dance for approval; they danced because it was their karma, the sum of their being in this and their previous life, and which would decide their fate in the next. Or so it was said.
Yet their fate was subject to temporal power too. They looked to the Ranee for their congé.
They got it – but an expressionless nod of the head, curt even.
Hervey wondered what displeased her (for so it seemed). What could compel her to crush a dozen Maharashtran beauties so? Was this, indeed, the root of her uneven rule, her Lapse – the pleasure in casual cruelty?
He remained silent – warily silent – as the nautch girls glided from the floor.
And then all refinement was gone in an instant. An outrageous chorus – shrieks, shrill voices, cymbals, bells, kanjiras and tambourines in hideous cacophony – gaudy sarees, extravagant bangles, beads and baubles. ‘Girls’ as thin as laths, tall, and some of riper years. Their singing – if such it could be called – was incomprehensible, their husky voices rhythmically repeating words that Hervey sensed had little meaning. This was sackcloth to the nautch’s silk. They didn’t dance; they cavorted. Cavorted for a full five minutes, gestures increasingly coarse – lewd, even – until the Ranee, smiling indulgently, clapped her hands to shoo them away, at which they besieged the audience with little begging bowls, and made hissing noises if they thought the contributions mean, before scuttling out with squeals as loud as when they’d entered.
Hijdas: ‘neither one thing nor the other’ – neither male nor female; ‘he-she’s’, as they’d called them in Bengal. There were many bands of them in India, but none so far in Madras that he’d seen. They appeared from nowhere at birthdays, weddings, even funerals, and danced about and made a great deal of noise till given money to go away. To dismiss them without silver risked ill luck, especially near harvest. It could risk injury, too, for they were not without physical strength, nor the will to use it.
‘They delighted us when first you came here, Colonel, if you recall.’
‘I do, ma’am.’ And her saying so told him everything about her recollection of those days.
What, in turn, that told him of his mission here, he’d have to ponder.
But they were gone as suddenly as they’d come, and the tamasha resumed its more stately progress.
At length, after a final procession of delicacies for the table, and excellent coffee, the whole assembly retired to take the evening air on the terrace. Except Fairbrother, who with one of the officers of the bodyguard went to smoke a cheroot with the hijdas. Fireworks and more music entertained the rest until at last the Ranee gathered up her ladies to take formal leave of her guests.
As she made to withdraw, however, she turned to the rissaldar of the bodyguard, who had detached himself elegantly from Georgiana and Annie to be by her side. ‘You will bring me the principal of the dancers,’ she said, in measured Hindoostanee and for all to hear. ‘She has displeased me.’
Even the dewan looked uneasy.
Hervey, uncertain but believing he understood the import, mustered his own party to take leave of those who remained, saying little but what was strictly necessary. This was not a time to be witness to the Ranee’s reproval.
In the corridor beyond, out of earshot, the Ranee dismissed the dewan imperiously: ‘I will make example of those whores. I will do to their principal what the Begum Sumroo did to that conceited beauty of her household.’
The dewan, his look of unease now one of anxiety – for he’d no idea what had occasioned the anger of his ‘sovereign’, and must thereby cede a deal of control – touched his chest in submission. ‘Highness.’
XIX
The Fatal Gift of Beauty
Next day
They began to quicken pace, amble to extension, and one or two to jog-trot. The horses had recovered well, even Acton’s, who’d looked particularly sorry for himself the evening before. Minnie showed no sign at all of the exertion, as if the chase had been a mere canter on the heath at Hounslow.
Hervey had said little, just as last night when they retired. But he couldn’t turn things over in his mind for ever. Nor could he reasonably expect to understand the intricacies of court etiquette against which the poor nautch girl had evidently offended. He could only trust that the Ranee’s tongue did not leave her crushed for too long. He’d hoped to see their art again.
‘The dancing – very graceful, was it not?’ he said abruptly, glancing at Georgiana and Annie uncertainly out of the corner of his eye. There was just something about the nautch that was perhaps too … advanced for an Englishwoman’s sensibilities, though as respectable a thing here as the ballet or quadrilles in London.
Georgiana smiled. ‘Indeed, sir; there was much grace.’
‘I fear the Ranee found fault that eluded us, though.’
Fairbrother chortled. ‘But not with the he-she ladies, evidently! Deuced queer.’
Hervey sighed. He ought to have expected they’d come. (He’d glanced more than once at Georgiana during their cavorting to see if she comprehended.)
‘But you found their company instructive.’
Fairbrother had joined the hijdas in the courtyard as they counted their coin. He’d hoped to find the nautch girls, but they’d been shep-herded to a safe fold somewhere, the officer told him (and he’d been almost glad, for he’d found the hijdas prodigious tattlers).
‘They knew exactly who we were.’
Hervey nodded. ‘It was the same when first I was here. The rajah said they lived by such intelligence, always knowing when and where there’d be opportunity to intrude.’
‘And I think they know why we’re come. One of them asked “How much will you pay for Chintal?”’
‘They’re notoriously saucy,’ said Hervey, with another sigh. In truth, he’d already concluded it was best to assume that everyone knew of why they were come.
He glanced again at Georgiana. He’d exposed her to a great deal these past months. India could overwhelm the senses if not taken in moderation, but she looked entirely composed. And Annie was such a level-headed girl – woman. Really, it was quite extraordinary how fortune could suddenly favour someone as she; though of course, without there being talent to take advantage, fortune wasted its time.
There was purpose, however, in their riding innocently en famille this morning. He wanted to speak without fear of the ‘ears of Dionysius’. What intelligence was to be had of Chintalpore itself and its little army, Worsley was perfectly capable of gathering. The greater question was of will and intention. What was moving in the mind of the Ranee – and of her dewan?
It was a political’s question, not so much a soldier’s, but there was no political to ask it. Perhaps, though, ultimately the question didn’t matter. Was it not his job merely to determine how best to execute the task given him? Yet that was as maybe; the execution ought to a degree to be determined by what it was the politicals actually wanted – and that in turn ought to depend on what they understood of the situation. So far, he’d not been assured that in respect of Chintal, Fort William’s political intelligence was any better than their military.
‘They made no pretence at liking the dewan,’ added Fairbrother.
‘And of the Ranee?’
‘Nothing. But imitation being the sincerest of flattery, I conclude that they have a high regard for her.’
Hervey smiled. ‘You hadn’t opportunity to speak much with the Ranee herself.’
Fairbrother shook his head. ‘I did, though, observe her a good deal. Unfathomable, I’d say.’
Hervey turned to Georgiana, though what he could expect of a child of an English parsonage he was u
ncertain to say the least. ‘You found the Ranee agreeable, I think?’
‘I liked her very much, yes, Papa.’
‘It would be difficult not to, I suppose, for she paid you great attention.’
‘Oh, but I knew she would, for I’d thought she must be intrigued to know how events had been with you since last you were here. You did, after all, help save her father.’
He smiled. She couldn’t know all that had happened – and hoped fervently she never would; but there was truth in what she said. ‘And so you were intent on seeing behind the mask, so to speak?’
‘No, Papa, I wasn’t intent, merely ready. The Ranee’s eyes are large and I think they must therefore reveal more of her soul. And, in truth, I felt there was much warmth.’
It would have been difficult, of course, not to warm to one of Georgiana’s age and ingenuous charm, but even so … ‘I’m gratified to hear that. Did she ask anything of moment?’
Georgiana thought for a stride or two. ‘She asked for how long we’d been travelling, which I suppose is not of much moment, but she did then ask how long we stayed at Guntoor and Sthambadree.’
‘You spoke in English the while?’
‘Yes.’
‘No Hindoostanee?’
‘No, nor when I spoke with the rissaldar. I thought it best.’
He smiled again. ‘I think you were quite right.’
She smiled too.
‘What did you observe of this, Annie?’
‘Oh, Colonel, I’m not sure I could observe anything rightly.’
He knew that with Annie there was no false modesty, and also that her judgement was sound, unlikely therefore to be coloured by her dusty reception. ‘What, then, did you observe, rightly or wrongly?’
She smiled, for so had he. ‘Well, I observed a woman of the greatest beauty; and that, so I have read, can be a fatal gift. And I did observe her warm eyes as she spoke to Miss Hervey …’
‘I sense that you’re withholding a “but”, Annie.’
‘Only, Colonel, because evidently our observations are of some moment to you, and I don’t wish to judge wrongly.’
The Tigress of Mysore Page 21
