She had never seen such finery in all her life. Not even in books and picture magazines. Not even in the museums and galleries her father had taken her to as a child. They moved as one, like a bird of paradise, aflame with color, their movements as graceful as a company of dancers, wrists laden with thick golden bangles, fingers and toes adorned with jeweled rings. Their saris shimmered in the softened light, drifting cloudlike around painted faces, and through the ancient fretwork panel crept invisible tendrils of exotic perfume, rich and heavy. On they glided, this glorious sight, along the corridor of treasures and the miles of cashmere rugs, past the sculptures and the paintings, the music of their voices fading with their disappearing figures. Sophie stared out through the panel, mesmerized, and felt as though she had just witnessed a spectacle that no eyes before hers had ever seen. Soon the corridor became quiet again. She turned to the youth, who was now little more than a dark shadow behind her.
“Aap ki merbani,” she said awkwardly, tripping over the impossible words she had tried so hard to embed.
“You are welcome,” he replied.
“You speak English?” After struggling along with the servants for the last fortnight with nothing but a hopelessly inadequate phrase book to help her, a tiny and rather useless volume entitled Hindustani Without A Master, giving instruction on phrases such as the boat is sinking and do you sell socks, Sophie didn’t even attempt to mask her surprised delight at finding somebody she could actually talk to. She stared at him, astonished.
“Wait for a little while,” he said to her, his face opening into a big smile. “Your eyes will soon get used to the darkness.”
Sophie did as he said, the dimness around them slowly revealing itself as a series of uniform shadows along a walkway that ran as far as her eyes could make out. “Come,” he said. “We go along here.” He led the way carefully along the narrow passageway, checking for her constantly behind him.
“Where does it lead to?”
“Anywhere you want to go. The palace is full of hidden passages and secret chambers.”
“Who uses them?”
“No one. Not any more. They used to be used by the servants, who were supposed to remain invisible, but that was in the old days, maybe hundreds of years ago. Most of them have been forgotten now.”
Sophie followed tentatively behind him, barely able to see her feet, one hand trailing along the wall to orient herself. His footsteps slowed and halted.
“Stop here for a moment,” he said. “I want to show you something.” There came the sound of a match striking, bursting a sudden flare of yellow light into the darkness, illuminating his face. “Look.” He held the flame near the wall, revealing ancient marks scratched into it. “These are hundreds of years old.”
“Who made them?”
“I don’t know.”
Sophie stared in wonder, reaching out a finger to trace over a faint line of script. “What does it say?”
“I don’t know. It is written in dialect.”
The match burned down and went out, plunging them into darkness again.
“This way,” he said, making off once more. Sophie followed gingerly, her eyes readjusting to the gloom, through which she could just about decipher the vague shape of him before her. They came to a junction, two doors set into the walls, demarcated by the slender white outline of light that seeped through the tiny gaps. “We go this way,” he said.
By the time they reached their destination, a door at the end of another long passageway, Sophie was thoroughly muddled. The youth turned to her in the shadows, sliding back the panel behind another fretwork hatch. He peered through, listening intently for a while.
“There’s no one here,” he said, and pushed the door open.
Together they emerged into a tranquil courtyard of black and white marble, where, in a flood of blinding sunshine, steps led down into a classic Italianate water garden, an oasis, lush with fragrant flowers, heavy blooms laden with perfumed petals, timid orchids clinging to the trunks of nimbu trees, peeping through. In the center of it all sat a lotus pond, the gentle sound of water trickling from pool to pool, surrounded by rising columns replicated from a leather-bound architectural volume in the Maharaja’s library, garnished with Rajput designs. A heavenly scent hung unwavering on the still air. Sophie’s mouth opened, speechless. She saw that he was looking at her. He seemed pleased.
“I’m Sophie,” she said, putting out her hand. He looked at it, but did not take it.
“My name is Jagaan Ramakrishnan.” He introduced himself with an unintelligible tangle of words and a small bow. “But you can call me Jag.”
“How do you do?” Sophie attempted a short curtsey, unsure of the correct mode of salutation for someone who refused to shake hands. “You live here in the palace?”
“Yes.” He hesitated. “Well, not quite in the palace as such. We live in one of the staff quarters, behind the pilkhana, the elephant house. My father is one of the Maharaja’s bearers.”
“Really? Have you ever met the Maharaja?”
“Oh yes. Many times.”
“What is he like?”
“Fat.” Jag ballooned his arms. “And very wealthy.”
“I can see that.” Sophie gazed around the water garden, the walls ornamented with pretty alcoves decorated with arabesques of different-colored stones. “I never quite believed that places like this really existed.”
“We have lots of palaces in India. This one is not so grand. There are many others that are far bigger.”
“Are we allowed to be in here?”
“No,” he said, laughing quietly. The water garden was not a place that one could enjoy often, being a favorite spot of the Second Maharani. Any area that she wished to visit would be evacuated well in advance and attended only by her ladies-in-waiting so that she should not be observed by anyone unauthorized or unworthy of her presence. “But I thought you might like to see it. It’s very pretty, isn’t it?” He detected a glimmer of concern in Sophie’s expression and felt a pang of worry. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“No!” Sophie said. “Of course not.” She thought for a moment, unsure of what she should do, given these unexpected circumstances. “I hate to think what might have happened if you hadn’t come along and rescued me like that. It’s just that I…” She broke off. Her mother had been quite clear that she was to stay away from the Indians and she was not to speak to the servants unless she was asking for something. It was too ridiculous for words, yet Sophie did not disobey her mother lightly. She looked at Jag. “My father is the new doctor. Dr. Schofield. I was trying to find my way to the ADC’s room, and the next thing I knew I was lost again. We’ve been here for a fortnight, but still I keep taking wrong turns or going round in circles.”
“It’s not so complicated,” Jag said. “All you have to remember is that it is like a big square, with lots of other squares inside it and around it.”
“Right.” Sophie nodded as though she understood, because she didn’t wish to appear stupid.
“It has been added to quite a lot over the years, with extensions being built and alterations being made by the various maharajas, but it all links up. You just have to keep your direction in mind and you will not get lost.”
“Thank you. I will try to remember that.”
“So, you are doing something important in the ADC’s room?”
“Oh no, no, not really. Mr. Ripperton’s wife, Mrs. Ripperton, she said I could pop in there whenever I wanted to, and I didn’t really have anything else to do today, and I was…” She trailed off again, not wanting to say that she was feeling bored and lonely, or that her mother was not speaking to her, and that she didn’t know what to do with herself. “I was hoping that there might be some other young people here that I might make friends with, but it seems that I’m the only one. My mother thinks I should be volunteering at the Baptist mi
ssion every day.” She frowned a little and chewed the corner of her lip. “It’s been a little bit difficult, getting used to somewhere new, especially when there’s no one to talk to.”
“You can talk to me if you want to,” Jag said with a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t mind. I like speaking English.”
Sophie looked at him again. He had the most extraordinary eyes she had ever seen, deep green, like jewels. It was the first time she had ever really looked into an Indian face, seeing the sculpt of high cheekbones, the richness of the color of his skin, the whiteness of his teeth, the jet black of his shining hair. Tall and slender, with an easy, fluid grace to his movements and a gentle manner, this was not what she had expected at all, not after everything her mother had said about savagery and ignorance.
She wondered if she should say anything, if she should mention what her mother had told her, but it seemed so wrong. Anyway, why shouldn’t she talk to him? He was nice, and he had saved her skin, and so what if he was Indian? They were in India, after all, so who else was she supposed to make friends with? Her mother would be furious, but that would be nothing new. Everything Sophie did was wrong anyway, and she had grown tired of the constant criticism of her endless misdeeds in her mother’s eyes. Before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out.
“My mother said that I’m not supposed to make friends with the servants.”
Sophie hoped that her term, to make friends, would sound less offensive than the outright declaration that she wasn’t allowed to even speak to them unless she had to. Jag stepped back from her and looked at the ground. Sophie sensed immediately that her words had been hurtful, and she wished that she could snatch them back, saying quickly, “But she’s been in a bad mood ever since we got here and we’ve never been to India before, or rather, my father has, but we haven’t. She didn’t even want to come, but my father said we had to.”
“It’s all right,” Jag said quietly. “I do not want you to get into any trouble.”
“Don’t be silly.” Sophie decided to brush her concerns aside. “Just this morning I was wondering how I was going to manage being stuck here for six whole months when there was nothing to do and no one to talk to, and now look. Here I am, in this lovely garden, standing here and talking to you. I have even seen one of the maharanis today!”
“You must do as your parents tell you,” Jag said.
“Do you always do as your mother says, even if she is wrong?”
“I do not have a mother. She died when I was born.”
“Oh!” A blush came violently to her cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“Please, do not apologize. You didn’t know, and I am not sad about it. I never knew her, so I never missed her.”
A pause hung over them, Sophie suddenly feeling as uncomfortable as he looked. “I’m sorry,” she said. “About what I said about not making friends with the Indians.”
“Servants,” Jag said. She looked at him. “You said servants, not Indians.”
“Oh.” She squirmed under her embarrassment. “Sorry. Now I’ve offended you even more.”
“It’s OK,” he said. “My father wouldn’t want me to make friends with you either.”
“Why?” Sophie said, feeling suddenly indignant. “Because I’m English?”
“Yes. And because you’re a girl. It is indecent.”
“Indecent?”
“Of course! Everybody knows how you English girls all have hundreds of boyfriends and go out dancing and drinking and seeing the pictures in the dark without a chaperone. An Indian girl would not even be permitted to speak to a boy, let alone to make friends with them.”
“Well that’s just ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous or not, it is the way of our traditions.”
“And do you agree with it?”
“It doesn’t matter if I agree with it. It is the way it is.”
“Hmph.” Sophie perched herself on the edge of a balustrade, thinking. “You know, what you said is not true. My mother would go mad if I had ever had a boyfriend, so don’t you go thinking that all English girls are like that. We are mostly very prim and proper.” She found herself straightening her back, sitting more upright as though with a book on her head. “She can be a bit difficult about things.” Sophie reached a hand to one of the plants, touching the leaves. “My father said we needed a change. That’s why we came out here. We were all miserable back in England, what with the shortages and bombed-out streets. This was supposed to be a fresh start, but I think my mother had decided not to like it before we had even left London.”
“Your father is right,” Jag said. “Change is definitely a good thing. Take my country, for example. India has been waiting for change for generations, and now it is finally coming. The date of independence will be declared very soon, and India shall have her freedom once more. My father is very excited about it. There will be many celebrations, and many changes.”
“So I’ve heard,” Sophie said. “But aren’t you worried about all that?”
“Worried? Why should I be?”
“They say there is going to be lots of trouble and that the politicians are still arguing about who will be in charge.”
“There won’t be any trouble. Believe me. And what do politicians know? They are just puffing hot air and trying to make themselves look important in the newspapers because they all want to be the first president of the new independent India. Why should there be any trouble when we are finally getting what we wanted and everyone wants the same thing?” Jag stopped, holding out a silencing hand, listening intently. “Quickly,” he said. “I think someone is coming.”
Sophie stood up and followed him to the doorway, the hinged slab of white marble sinking invisibly back into the wall as he closed it behind them.
“What now?” she whispered, waiting for her eyes to adjust.
“Do you want to see some more of the palace?”
“Yes, please.” She nodded, her heart beating a little faster.
“We’ll go this way,” he said. “It becomes steep and narrow a little way ahead, so be careful.”
“Wait! I can’t see a thing!” Sophie reached out into the darkness, found the looseness of his cotton sleeve, and hung on tightly.
• • •
The First Maharani slept badly that night, unable to escape the uncomfortable feeling that somebody had been watching her.
2
“Do you know what she tried to have me do yesterday?” George Schofield gouged his spoon into the rice. “Leeches! Leeches, of all things! Can you believe that?” Mrs. Schofield didn’t reply, so Dr. Schofield continued casually to his daughter instead.
He had given them his usual blow-by-blow account of his trials over supper last night, but he chose to reiterate himself to his wife, as if to impress upon her the enormity of the daily burdens placed upon him. It was part of his role as husband and father, to put himself out in order to rise to his responsibilities, thus deserving his wife’s respect, if not her affection. If she had had her way, they would all sit and eat in morbid silence once grace was over, sipping plain water, concentrating mutely on their plates. It was one of the changes he had insisted upon after the move, saying that Sophie was far too old for that sort of disciplinarian nonsense, as indeed was he. It wasn’t normal to suffer a complete lack of social intercourse while breaking bread together, and he’d said there was no need for Veronica to continually behave as though it were the Last Supper every time they sat down to eat.
“Likes the sight of her own blood. The more dramatic the better. I told her I wouldn’t do it. Not in a million years. We’re not in the dark ages, for heaven’s sake. If that’s the kind of treatment she wants, she can go and try her luck with Dr. Patel.”
“I don’t know why you bother with any of them,” his wife said. “Damned savages.” She turned to her daughter. “And as for yo
u, Mrs. Ripperton spent half the morning searching high and low for you. She was under the impression that you were supposed to be going to the mission this afternoon.”
“I was in the library,” said Sophie quickly. And so she had been, at least for a few minutes, long enough to snatch a book in evidence of time well invested, rather than the hours she had spent creeping around the palace with Jag again. He had taken her all over, showing her his favorite places: the marble piazza enclosing the orange garden, the formal staterooms, the flower house, the Maharaja’s private study, the ice house dug deep into the earth. Sophie learned that not one stone of the palace had been placed without consulting the highest of authorities, the palace’s very site and position dictated by astrological considerations. She and Jag had arranged to meet again tomorrow morning. The Maharaja was in residence, and Jag had promised to show her something very special if she could get up at the crack of dawn and sneak out early enough.
“Well still, you should be ashamed of yourself,” her mother said. “It really was most rude of you. Next time you make an arrangement, you must stick to it. You’ll have to apologize to her tomorrow and make your excuses. How many times must I tell you to make the most of your time here rather than mooning around in a sulk?”
Veronica Schofield took up her glass in agitation and drank a little water. George had had no right to drag them all out here, him and his fine ideas. She had always known that she would dislike India. It was a filthy place. Thankfully they would not be here for long, six months, and she had supposed that the experience might be of some value to Sophie in years to come, that someone might be interested to know that she had experienced India before the place was ruined. It had sounded quite grand when he presented the prospect to her, and indeed it was, in a pagan sort of way. They had been allocated apartments on arrival, a sumptuous suite of rooms with their own kitchen and a full complement of staff. Entirely against the grain of her staunch beliefs, Mrs. Schofield had become used to the luxury with alarming ease, although she would never admit to it, of course. It was the people she couldn’t abide. Not a single God-fearing Christian among them.
Under the Jeweled Sky Page 3
