Sophie sat on the edge of the bed and felt her head spin. Her father had proposed they stay on at the palace for another six months, after which they would travel down to Ooty for a holiday, to see how well they liked it, to test the waters, he said. The Rippertons had rented a summer house there for some years running, and Mrs. Ripperton couldn’t speak highly enough of the place, saying that she and Rip had always planned to retire there, if only he could be persuaded to give up work. She had shown them some photographs in an album over tea in her apartments one afternoon, and it did look beautiful, set in the cool blue hills of the south, the climate more in keeping with an English garden than a desert plain. Despite her father’s enthusiasm, her mother had not greeted his decision kindly.
• • •
Dr. Schofield had assured Sophie that her mother would be sure to fall in love with Ooty, given a little time. The brooch had helped a little. Veronica’s face had been a picture when she opened it, the tight smile she offered him a good deal more than he had had from her these last few months. His only regret was that he had not thought to bring anything for his daughter, who bore the news brightly enough, given her general unwellness. She had fallen prey to the sort of sickness that occasionally troubled one of them, caused invariably by a lapse in concentration with regard to the water supply. He had suffered a devilish bout of it himself not so long ago as a result of a careless wet shave. Dr. Schofield kept an eye on his daughter and made a mental note to have Dr. Reeves take a look at her if things didn’t improve. One could never be too careful, and it had crossed his mind that she might have picked up a parasite. Dr. Reeves had been here for years and might be better qualified to spot the signs.
“How was your day today, my dear?” Dr. Schofield smiled patiently at his wife over the supper table, the one time of day when his family sat together lately since Veronica had started taking breakfast in her room.
“As well as can be expected, given the upheaval you’ve decided to subject us all to,” she replied. “I wrote to Mother this morning, asking her to send out more clothing.”
“Why don’t you order some things from one of the big stores in Delhi? Fi Ripperton can tell you where to go. She’s always ordering something or other.”
“No, thank you,” Mrs. Schofield said. “I’d rather send home for them.”
“But this is home.” Dr. Schofield reached his hand across the table to cover hers. “At least for a little while. So why not do as the Romans do, hmm?”
Veronica’s hand shrank away. She picked up her cutlery and attended to her plate of plain grilled chicken with boiled potatoes. She couldn’t tolerate Indian food, the very thought of it making her stomach turn, and their cook had daily instructions to serve her meals plain, with salt and pepper provided in a cruet set from which she would help herself if she deemed it necessary. She abhorred the thought of his black hands touching her food and had to put it firmly out of her mind.
“I’m sure we can manage with what we have.” Dr. Schofield spoke to his daughter. “We’ll just have to work it out, won’t we, Sophie?”
Sophie stared down at her supper, a simple plate of dhal and rice given to her in the hope that she could be tempted into eating more than the few small mouthfuls she had managed recently.
“Sophie?” Dr. Schofield peered at her. She didn’t answer. “Sophie?” He stood from his chair. “Veronica!” he shouted to his wife. “Quickly!”
Sophie buckled in her seat, clutching at the table to steady herself as her face turned gray, pulling the cloth and everything laid upon it to the floor with an almighty crash.
• • •
Dr. Reeves emerged from Sophie’s bedroom, his face set with grim determination as he closed the door quietly and came away.
“She’s sleeping now,” he said to her waiting parents in the sitting room. “I’ve given her an anti-emetic to stop the sickness and a mild sedative to help her rest.”
“What’s the matter with her?” Mrs. Schofield demanded, wringing her handkerchief. “Will she be all right?”
“Yes,” Dr. Reeves assured her. “She’ll be fine. She just needs to rest. See to it that she stays in bed for a few days, and no rich food. Some beef tea and toast. Perhaps a light vegetable broth, a few slices of banana. Coconut water would be good.” He noted Mrs. Schofield’s eyebrow, raised in disapproval. “It’s very nourishing, no matter what it looks like. Just make sure she eats little and often and stays off her feet for a while. I’ll pop back and check in on her tomorrow.”
“This place is full of disease,” Mrs. Schofield said. “It’s a wonder we haven’t all gone down with the cholera, the state of the water.”
Dr. Reeves gathered up his bag and made ready to leave.
“Not staying for a peg?” Dr. Schofield said hopefully.
“No thanks, George.” He gave him a brief smile. “I’ll catch up with you in the morning. I think we’ve all had enough stimulation for one evening.” He patted his friend on the back. “Try to get some rest, the pair of you. And don’t worry about Sophie. She’ll be fine.”
• • •
The palace’s clinic was housed in a wide bungalow set in the grounds behind the game lodge, where an open surgery was held five mornings a week for the household. The small waiting room was full, as was the norm on a Monday, with the usual collection of commonplace ailments ranging from bumps and bruises to amoebic dysentery. Most patients were usually dispatched within a matter of minutes with the necessary medicines to aid their recovery, some clutching a note excusing them from duties, trying to disguise their delight. The Maharaja made a point of preserving the health and well-being of his household—a most generous gesture considering the high level of pilferage that went on. The palace’s supply rooms were said to resemble Fortnum & Mason, stacked from floor to ceiling with every conceivable delicacy. The wine cellar too was the envy of many a royal visitor, the vaults stocked with rare vintages and fine champagnes alongside crates of Johnny Walker whisky and Bombay Sapphire gin. The issue of temperature control was a constant headache and was attended to with great diligence, particularly in the dry season when the heat soared.
Everybody knew that the staff had been helping themselves for years, creating a localized black market that ran through the ranks, exchanging one favor for another, pockets lined along the way. It was believed that there was so much of everything that nobody would ever notice if something went missing, and nothing was allowed to run out anyway, so replacement stocks would arrive well before the store master ever got wind of a shortfall. Yet a problem had arisen. Word had gotten about that the new Third Maharani had decided to involve herself where she had no business and that she had demanded an inventory of the palace’s supplies, intent on introducing a rationing system to stem the alarming outward flow of the Maharaja’s reduced coffers. Such a move was unheard of. Everybody knew that no woman could possibly get to grips with something as complex as the palace accounts, yet that was exactly what she had set out to do, and according to the reports, she could even speak French, a language most of the staff had never even heard of. It was no wonder the waiting room was so full, thought Dr. Schofield as he arrived ten minutes late. Half the palace must have been sick with worry that their tidy little arrangements were soon to be uncovered, with the inevitable punishment that would follow. A sacking at the very least. At worst, jail.
“Good morning, namaste, salaam!” Dr. Schofield said cheerily as he picked his way through the patients sitting on the floor, partially blocking the way to his chaotic consulting room. “Good morning, Miss Blanche,” he added, passing the secretary. “A cup of tea whenever you’re ready, please.”
“Dr. Schofield…” she started, but he had already walked past her little window and entered his room, where Dr. Reeves sat waiting for him.
“Robert!” Dr. Schofield closed the door. He placed his sun hat on the stand and reached for his white coat, slipping
off his jacket and replacing it with his daily uniform. “I was just about to come and find you to thank you for coming to our rescue last night. Veronica was almost hysterical.” He dropped himself into his chair. “I’ve asked Briony to bring in some tea. We’ll grab a few minutes before opening the floodgates, shall we?” Dr. Reeves shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Poor Sophie. White as a sheet she was. I popped my head around her door this morning. Fast asleep, but it looked like some of the color had returned to her cheeks at least. Thank God it’s nothing serious. I was beginning to wonder if she hadn’t gone and picked up some kind of nasty—”
“George,” Dr. Reeves interrupted him. Dr. Schofield looked up from his list of messages.
“What?”
“About Sophie.”
It was the way Dr. Reeves said it. The way he fixed his colleague with the same benign expression they all used when delivering bad news. George Schofield had seen that look before many times and been the bearer of it often himself. The paper became still in his hand. “What?” he repeated. “What’s the matter?”
Dr. Reeves drew a heavy breath and sat back a little, as though withered by the heat. “Before I tell you this, George, I want you to know that I am absolutely certain about it. God knows this is not the kind of news that I would deliver unless I was completely sure. I also want to say that if there is anything I can do, anything at all, you have only to say the word.”
Dr. Schofield felt his blood run cold, and in that moment, he was reminded of all the textbooks, all the papers, all the cramming he had done on tropical diseases and the litany of early deaths visited upon so many of those who came out to live in these far-flung places.
“All right, Robert,” he said quietly. “Just spit it out.”
Dr. Reeves removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose where they had pinched his skin. He let out a dismal sigh, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and began to clean the lenses. “I’m sorry, George.” He paused a while, placing the spectacles back on his nose. “There’s no easy way to tell you this.” Robert Reeves looked his friend straight in the eye. “Sophie’s pregnant.”
12
Dr. Schofield had no idea how long he sat there, staring blankly at Dr. Reeves while the enormity of his diagnosis sank in. The door opened, Miss Blanche steadying a small tray as she cleared a space on the desk. Neither of the men looked at her. She set the tray down quickly, uncomfortable in her apparent intrusion, and left the room. The tea remained untouched for a while, the thin curls of steam rising from the cups the only animation between them. At last, Dr. Reeves spoke.
“I know,” he said, nodding slightly. “It’s a shock, isn’t it?”
“Christ.” Dr. Schofield sat back in his chair, his arms resting limply against his sides. “Jesus Christ.”
Dr. Reeves put some sugar in one of the cups, stirred it and placed it in front of his colleague. “Here,” he said. “Drink this. We won a war on hot tea.”
“How long?”
Dr. Reeves picked up the other cup and took a sip. “Three months, maybe four. I can’t be entirely sure.”
“And she knows, does she?”
“Oh, come on, George. She must do. I expect she was probably hoping it would all just go away if she ignored it long enough.”
“Christ.” Dr. Schofield took up his cup, feeling overwhelmed, as though he’d been knocked sideways by a truck. Almost to himself he said, “What the hell am I going to tell Veronica?”
“I can’t help you there, my friend.” Dr. Reeves thought for a while. “But you won’t be able to hold it off for long. She’ll be starting to show soon.”
Dr. Schofield could see no sliver of light between the two evils: the thought of his daughter ripening a bastard child and the prospect of breaking the news to his wife.
“Who else knows about this?”
“Nobody.”
“And I can be assured of your strictest confidence?”
“Now, George. You know me better than that.”
“You haven’t told Kay?”
“No.” Dr. Reeves shook his head. “And I won’t do either. This is between you and me and these four walls.”
“Jesus.” Dr. Schofield put his cup down, took a deep breath, and got up. “Do you think you can handle that lot in the waiting room on your own?”
“Of course.” Dr. Reeves stood too.
“I’d better go and tackle this now.”
“And George?” Dr. Reeves stopped him as he headed toward the door, his hand resting on the handle, blocking his exit for a moment.
“What?”
“Go easy on her, huh?” He opened the door for him, resting a hand on his shoulder as he passed. “She’s scared out of her wits. I think she’s probably suffered enough already.”
Dr. Schofield nodded briefly, his insides hollowing out. Oh, how he wished that that were true, yet he knew that his daughter’s suffering had barely begun. His wife. It was all he could think of. His wife’s reaction to the news that would blow them all to kingdom come. His heart clenched in his chest, the thought of it filling him with dread, and even as he walked through the compound, his pace brisk, his gut tightened at the sense of foreboding. All he knew was that he must get back quickly and do whatever he could to contain the damage.
• • •
Sophie heard her father’s fast footsteps approaching, and in that moment, she knew that he knew. She stood paralyzed by fear, waiting for him to come crashing into her bedroom, expecting him to be furious beyond anything she could imagine. The footsteps slowed and stopped. Sophie held her breath as the door opened.
Her father’s face was almost white. He barely glanced at her, his hand still resting on the handle as he spoke.
“Sophie. I want you to stay here, please, and lock this door.”
“Dad…”
“Just do as I say.”
He turned and walked away without waiting for an answer. Sophie did as she was told, then sat on the bed, her heart pounding, squeezing the key in her hands, watching the door. Hearing voices from outside, she got up and crossed to the window, from where she saw their maid, the bearer, and the cook, the three of them looking perplexed as they took to the pathway, the maid glancing back over her shoulder uncertainly. Her father would have sent them away. He didn’t want anyone hearing what was about to take place. Sophie went back to her bed, lay upon it, and started to cry, pulling a pair of pillows into her chest and hugging them hard, rocking herself gently, waiting, waiting.
The distant howl of her mother’s screams turned Sophie’s insides to liquid.
• • •
Veronica Schofield paced back and forth unsteadily, worrying at the glass she clutched in her hands, her face stricken, ugly from the hysterical tears that had thundered for a full hour behind the locked door that George had physically pulled her away from. A trio of angry red welts ran down his left cheek where her nails had caught him and dug in before he had managed to restrain her. It was as well that he had come prepared, and he had given her the shot that she had refused, not caring whether it hurt her as she lashed out blow after blow while he pinned her tightly to the wall and sank the needle into her flesh. The drug had hit home soon enough, blunting her movements as she circled the room, stopping now and then to glare at him with a look of sheer hatred.
“I’ll understand if you want us to return home immediately,” he said.
“Home?” she screamed at him. “We can’t go home!” She collapsed into a chair. “Dear God in heaven! What have I done to deserve this? This is all your fault. You made us come out here. You never cared about what would happen to us. We have both been thoroughly miserable, can’t you see that?” She wrenched herself from her seat and began pacing the room again. “Oh dear God! Dear God! What are we going to do?” She pressed her sodden handkerchief to her mouth. “It must have been that boy! That one
she was sneaking about with. How could you have let this happen? Why didn’t you do your duty as a father and see to it that she didn’t fall into the clutches of one of these damned savages? He must have forced her!” She gripped the arm of a seat for support. “And that, that…”
“Please, Veronica.” Dr. Schofield ran his hand across his hair. “I’m trying to think, for God’s sake.”
“Think? Think? And what good will your thinking do us now? We’re ruined! Are you satisfied?” She turned her back on him, gripping the chair, her breathing labored. “That boy.” She spat the word like dirt. “He must be found.” She spun around. “He’ll hang for this.”
“Veronica!”
She broke off, thinking hard, her face darkening. “You knew about this, didn’t you? You knew all along what she was getting up to.” Her mouth fell into a sneer. “Your precious daughter, debasing herself like those prostitutes in the harem.”
Dr. Schofield’s fist came down on the table with such force that it sent a vase of flowers crashing to the floor. “Will you shut up and sit down!” he bellowed at her. “Be quiet, woman! For heaven’s sake! Do you want the whole palace to hear?”
Sophie stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall, her feet cold on the marble floor. She pressed her forehead into the paneling, listening to the deadened shouts coming from inside the drawing room. For a while, she had thought it had stopped. An hour she had waited, locked in her room. It was her they should be shouting at, not each other, so she had gathered what courage she could and ventured out, knowing that she would have to show herself and take whatever punishment was coming to her.
“I hate this place!” Veronica threw her drink at her husband, the glass sailing through the air, smashing against the paneled door, shards flying. At that moment, the door opened, Sophie standing there in her nightgown, tears streaming down reddened cheeks.
Under the Jeweled Sky Page 12
