“You don’t have to, you know,” he had said in an undertone to Emily. “You shouldn’t, in fact; these natives don’t know what to do with a proffered hand. They’re not like the ones back home.”
But Emily knew what etiquette required of her. She would do this twice, once upon meeting the servants for the first time, a second time when they left Calcutta for England. Only, they had never had so many hands to shake.
The advantage of having a male attendant had come to Emily when the first of Avitabile’s letters arrived, for Jimrud was not unlike the eunuch in a Mughal emperor’s zenana—only the male servants could move out of, and between, the two camps.
She glanced up at him now, her heart beating a little faster. “Anything more, Jimrud?”
“This, Ladyship,” he said and drew from the folds of his cloth coat a perfect peach-colored rose with a long, pale stem. He set it upon her bed, where Chance sniffed at it and turned away.
“Thank you,” Emily said faintly and waited until he had bowed his way out before reaching for the flower. In the dull gray of the tent, the rose bloomed with the colors of a sunrise, the tips of its petals a darker shade, packed with perfume. Just the one rose, she thought, and no accompanying note. What did it mean? Had Avitabile received her note from the previous night? They all left their letters on a little table outside their tents, in the corridor, and it was Jimrud’s job to gather them, send them on their way, and bring in the mailbags.
When Wright, her English maid, and Rosina, her half-Indian, half-Portuguese maid, came in to help her dress, they pulled out one of the gowns Avitabile had sent for her, in shades of russet that cast a glow on her face, made her skin look less yellow, and clasped about her neck the rubies that George had bought for her in Calcutta. Irons, heated in the coal brazier that now warmed the tent, were twisted around her hair. When they had finished, Emily looked into the oval mirror and touched her reflection briefly. In the muted light, she looked . . . younger.
Today, they crossed over on a boat—their elephants were left standing on the southern bank. And again, the Maharajah of the Punjab waited for them on his horse, a steady, upright figure, his hand resting on the reins, the horse obedient to his command.
Behind him, on the large, flat maidan that stretched to the horizon, unfettered by trees or hillocks, was what looked like a solid white wall, topped with red capping, four miles long. Ranjit Singh cantered in front of this wall, alone and dressed in crimson. George nudged Emily as they neared, and she drew in a heavy breath. The “wall” was a line of foot soldiers, in white uniforms and red turbans, thirty thousand men in all.
“I don’t think we can take the Punjab Empire as we did Oude, George,” Fanny said.
Her brother smiled. The night’s rest had done him some good. He surprised both his sisters by saying, “Not with all this show of might. Runjeet does know how to impress.”
When they disembarked, they waited until the whole group—the political, private, and military secretaries of the Governor-General’s office and the ADCs—was gathered. Then, McNaghten went over to the Maharajah and received his permission to introduce Lord Auckland. Ranjit Singh brought his horse ahead a few steps, George went forward a few on his own, and they met somewhere in the middle, bowed to each other, and then proceeded to the mammoth red tent pitched behind the line of the Maharajah’s soldiers.
Coal braziers, smoking with frankincense and jasmine, created a thick, warm fug. Two silver chairs had been set in the center on a dais raised a few feet from the ground, and the floor around was thickly carpeted in Persian rugs in shades of red and green. The central pillar that held up the tent was encased in a thick sheet of gold encrusted with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds.
George, Emily, and Fanny went down the long length of Punjab soldiers to the platform. Emily’s eyes clouded in that jumble of color. Silks in every shade imaginable, daggers, swords, and turbans littered with jewels that seemed to rival the light from the oil-wick lanterns suspended from the dome of the tent. The British party was dreary in comparison, blots of blacks, grays, and white. The men gazed at them, especially at Emily and Fanny.
At the ball in Government House, Avitabile and she had been the only ones who had danced the waltz. The other ladies wouldn’t—they said that the natives stared at them, as though in twirling around a dance floor they had all lowered themselves to the level of nautch girls. And it was true enough. There had been no women from the Punjab embassy at the ball, and there were no women here in the tent today. Maharajah Ranjit Singh’s wives, and the wives of his men, were all safely tucked into their zenana tents, awaiting news of the encounter from their husbands and the servants they had sent over.
Emily concentrated on the figure of the Maharajah in front of her. He was a small man, tiny as a woman, not as imposing as he had been on the horse. A king, amid all the splendor of his courtiers, he was clad only in a crimson coat, white pajamas, and a white turban on his small head. His left foot dragged over the pile of the carpets; his left arm dangled useless by his side.
When he had reached one of the silver chairs, he indicated with a nod that George should take the other one. A few more were brought out, and one was set for Emily on the Maharajah’s left. Seated, he seemed to shrink into the velvet upholstery of the chair, and seemed to age anew. His left eye was a very light gray; he was said to be blind in that eye. The muscles of his face had loosened their hold after the stroke—pulling at his beard and setting his white mustache askew. But the right eye, the one that turned toward Emily, was intense, penetrating.
In the haze of the tent, the medley of colors, the flash of brilliant stones, the warm breathing of the hundreds of men, the sweat that gathered in the neckline of her gown, Emily felt faint for a moment and under the spell of this little man, injured and maimed, who ruled over the largest and most profitable mass of land in India. Fanny, on the Maharajah’s right, leaned over the back of her chair and behind Ranjit Singh, and whispered, “This man is a king, Em.”
He was. Unexpectedly so; even though Bill had returned from Adeenagar—his earlier visit to the Punjab court—with tales of the Maharajah’s magnificence, somehow, Emily hadn’t believed in them. Or hadn’t cared; it was Avitabile she had thought of. The audience had barely begun; they were all to travel to Lahore as Runjeet’s guests, and over the next two months, the true business of the asking would begin. But, Emily thought suddenly, Runjeet would not agree to help them invade Afghanistan. She glanced at George, who was running a finger around his collar, wiping his face of perspiration, and then his damp hands.
She looked around, but she hadn’t worn her glasses. If General Avitabile was present in that throng, she couldn’t identify him.
Ranjit Singh pulled off his left shoe and tucked his left foot over his right thigh, holding and massaging his toes as he did so. Emily’s gaze was suddenly caught by the twinkle of a fire on the Maharajah’s wasted left arm. Clasped around the cheap red stuff of his coat was a golden armlet with three stones, two lesser ones on either side and in the middle, a pigeon’s-egg-size stone, clear, flawless, valued at the price of a handful of kingdoms.
The Maharajah spoke first, in a low, slurred voice. Fakir Azizuddin leaned over the back of his chair and listened. Azizuddin then transferred the Persian into Hindustani and tested out the meaning in conference with Sher Singh, the Maharajah’s adopted son and the man who had headed the contingent to Calcutta. Sher Singh bent toward McNaghten and the British translator. Ten minutes later, Dr. Drummond, the Governor-General’s private surgeon, said in a loud voice, “The Maharajah wishes to know if you are admiring his Kohinoor diamond, Miss Eden.”
George sighed, and Emily started. The first words in this historic meeting had been addressed to her.
She said, faltering, “It’s beautiful, your Majesty.”
Dr. Drummond pounced on the words, and they went through a reverse pantomime until, another ten minutes later, Ranjit Singh slanted his head to listen to what Emily had said.
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br /> For the next three hours they conversed thus, from one mouth to another ear. They jumped into the sentences of diplomacy. Flowers had bloomed in the garden of friendship now that the representative of Queen Victoria had met with the Lion of the Punjab. May that garden never suffer the vicissitudes of a drought, and be forever watered by the golden stream of camaraderie. Hark, are those not the sweet voices of nightingales singing in the bowers of the affection between England and the Punjab? And when that was over, and Emily saw George comfortable in the meaningless extravagance of language that he practiced in the course of his duties with every native raja in India, Ranjit Singh turned his bright eye upon her brother and asked, “Where is your wife? Your lovely sisters are surely welcome, but where is your wife, Governor-General?”
“I’m not married, your Majesty,” Lord Auckland murmured, tripping over the words. “Never found the need to do so.”
Ranjit Singh waved his hand. “Never did, eh? Not even one?”
“In England, we can have only one, Maharajah, and what if she was not to my liking by the end of it? I could not get rid of her.”
Oh, George, Emily thought, what a response that was. But it seemed to delight the Maharajah, who nodded and said, “Perhaps our way is better then. We have many wives, so if one is not pleasant, there are others to take her place.” He laughed, a thin, rasping sound. “It keeps them all amenable.”
At that point, an attendant brought in a baby wrapped in a silk shawl and laid him on the carpet at the Maharajah’s feet.
“My son,” Maharajah Ranjit Singh said, “my latest boy, Prince Dalip Singh. Is he not magnificent? I would say he has the look of his lovely mother, but I think he looks more like me. Such, Governor-General,” he said to George, “are the pleasures a woman grants to a man. You have never wished for this?”
George muttered a reply that no one could hear. Little glasses of the Maharajah’s special wine—brewed of wheat alcohol, raisins, meat juice, cardamom, musk, opium with a sprinkling of powdered pearls—were now brought in and offered all around. Bill had warned them about this potion, and a drop burned the inside of Emily’s mouth. When Ranjit Singh had turned to see Fanny drink half the glass, and choke upon it in a fit of coughing, Emily let her hand fall to her side and poured the wine down into the carpet. A hissing puff of steam rose from the pile. The Maharajah’s head whipped around to her.
“You’ve enjoyed it, I see? Finished already? Another one for Lord Auckland’s sister.” He raised his glass and poured the rest of his wine down his throat. “I like a woman who enjoys her wine.”
When Emily had had her glass filled and sat looking down at the clear liquid in misery, a voice said by her side, “Keep it in your hand, mademoiselle; you can set it down when you leave. The Maharajah dislikes seeing an empty glass.”
She could not raise her gaze to look at the speaker. Under cover of the noise in the tent, she said quietly, “Thank you, Monsieur Avitabile.”
The baby cried, and an attendant came to whisk him away. Other children were brought in to play in the space in front of the platform, and the Maharajah introduced each of them—this one was a niece, this a nephew, this was Sher Singh’s son, and so Ranjit’s grandson. The little girl they had met with Jindan had led the youngest children in by the hand, and she stood by, smiling at the Maharajah, luminous in that twinkling light. The children of the British encampment were safely ensconced in their tents and the arms of their native ayahs; here, the children of the Punjab ran free among the assembly, shoving their wooden horses and carts against the boots of the courtiers, giggling when tickled.
Fanny drank a second glass of the blistering wine, and then she laughed, and everyone seemed to join in. Emily felt her neck heavy on her shoulders. Avitabile was close by, but where?
At that moment, the Maharajah’s head swung around, and his one, dazzling eye gazed upon her speculatively. “I have seen you admiring the Kohinoor, sister of the Governor-General, perhaps my General Avitabile could bring it over to your tent and show it to you?”
Mr. McNaghten crushed his fingers together until his knuckles cracked. “Your Majesty,” he began, “Lord Auckland would be glad to host General Avitabile himself—”
“Tomorrow, then?” Maharajah Ranjit Singh said, breaking gently into McNaghten’s tirade.
She nodded, wordless.
• • •
Avitabile came in the evening with a tray of jewels from the Maharajah’s Toshakhana, accompanied by a posse of the Akalis. They ranged themselves outside the sitting room in the Governor-General’s set of tents, each carrying a flaring torch, which outlined their figures inside—the towers of their turbans, the sharp curves of their swords, the tight cinches of the cummerbunds around their waists, and the deadly circles of the quoits hanging from them.
All that day, Emily had paced her tent, restless. She could not write her letters, could barely eat anything; she sat in the armchair, she stood, she flitted around. George had gone out, early in the morning, for a review of troops—both British and from the Punjab. Fanny, fearless, had accompanied him, and watched all day long from atop a howdah, dipping her hand into a bag of sandwiches when she was hungry.
Emily fretted, shifting the papers around on her desk. Ranjit Singh must have known something of what had happened in Calcutta, and in his own way had engineered Avitabile’s visit to her tent. It was a disconcerting feeling. At home, in England, Emily would not have cared, as she had not when the gossip surrounded Melbourne and her at Lady Cowper’s, for this was part of the dance of courtship—if, she thought wryly, Melbourne’s mumblings could be called that. Here, in India, there was no such notion at all. If a man wanted a wife, or was attracted to a woman (though how he would actually see her first was a wonder), he married her . . . and married as many others as he wanted. If a king wanted another king’s wife, he killed the husband and took the wife. But this was not Calcutta—and while the rules of England could have been employed in their little piece of property at Government House, here, at the Sutlej, was a rawness and roughness that bespoke a foreign land.
Emily hesitated to call this a courtship, even though she was forty-one years old and felt at times like a giddy young girl in the throes of a first love. It was not, even, a love. For what had it been? A few letters, a walk in the park, a waltz in Marble Hall. Shawls and gowns sent to her in the fulfillment of a promise. That was all.
She wore another one of the gowns—this one in pink, embroidered with fully caparisoned elephants along the bottom—and a shawl when she greeted General Paolo Avitabile, her gaze steady upon his face. He had grown older, a few more lines along his forehead, a small stoop to his shoulders, some grays painted in his dark hair. For all that she had read his letters carefully, and many times, she knew nothing of this man. And yet, when he kissed her hand, she had a sudden and deep yearning to caress his face. She moved, flushing, her heart thumping with a rhythm of excitement it had not known for years. In the light from the many silver candlesticks around the tent, tallow falling thickly down their sides, his eyes were a light gray.
The general followed Emily to a sideboard with curved legs and set the tray down. She took a deep breath. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and pearls sparkled against the black velvet covering on the tray. There were heavy necklaces of emeralds surrounded with tiny, faceted diamonds, matching earrings, bangles. Rubies the size of pomegranate seeds, and one, set in a bracelet, the size of a cherry. A tiny model of Leili, the horse, was fashioned out of a pure white ivory, its saddle and harness studded with diamonds. But in the center of the tray reposed the armlet that contained the Kohinoor.
Emily reached for it, and Avitabile’s warm hand closed over hers. “My life depends on bringing these back to my king safely, Mademoiselle Emily.”
The shadows of the Akali soldiers shifted across the wall of the tent.
“What would they do? Kill me?” she asked, smiling.
Avitabile shook his head gravely. “No.” He picked up the armlet and held it
out to her. “I would not let them, mademoiselle. They are a crude sort of people, no real understanding of any sophistication and throw that thing there”—he jerked his thumb backward—“without thinking. It’s a disc, and travels at great speed, and when it reaches its object, it slices off his neck.” He made a motion under his chin. “And he’s dead. One cannot breathe when one’s nose is no longer attached to one’s torso.”
Emily shuddered. She took the armlet from Avitabile. It was wider than she had thought, and heavy, with thick gold links, a diamond-studded clasp, and two silk tassels. Only a king, she thought, would think of putting diamonds on a clasp, which would not show when he wore the armlet around the upper part of his arm. But the real beauty of the piece lay in that central diamond. She ran her fingers over its surface, and felt a cool power in the stone. Avitabile took it from her and, holding her hand, draped it around her wrist so that the light from the diamond glowed.
This touching seemed natural with him, even though the servants were ranged around the room. It was casual, not anything to make much of. They both looked down upon the Kohinoor, and Emily’s hand began to tremble in his grasp. It was a moment so intimate, so sudden and unexpected. Inside, Emily began to struggle for words to speak. Finally they came.
“What is its history?” she asked, in a hushed voice.
Avitabile shrugged. “My king got it from Shah Shuja—you know, the man you are all attempting to put on the Afghan throne as king, replacing Dost Mohammad. Shuja was driven out of Afghanistan and came to the Maharajah for help, which he gave him, and then he had to give him the Kohinoor in return. But it belonged, once, to the Mughal kings.”
On their way to the Punjab from Calcutta, they had stopped in Delhi to see the last Mughal king, Bahadur Shah Zafar, in his palaces at the fort. Most of the rooms of the fort were open to visitors, British and foreign visitors only, since the King of Delhi was now under the “protection” of the East India Company. His empire had diminished to the environs of his fort at Delhi, and even that was invaded by picnic parties when they wanted. George had not come with them, he could not as Governor-General of India, for it would then have seemed to be an official visit and the Mughal king was not to be acknowledged as any sort of a sovereign at all—McNaghten had been very adamant about this. So Emily and Fanny had gone, visited the ruined marble halls and hallways, and seen the king on a distant terrace overlooking the Yamuna River, his balding head bared to the sun, the smoke from his hukkah spiraling upward, a lone attendant squatting at his feet.
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