Under the Jeweled Sky

by Alison McQueen

  Out of the window, Sophie saw a black car slide silently alongside the Dakota, the small flag fixed to its bonnet hanging limply in the heavy stillness of the air as it drew to a halt. Sophie felt sick, her face set rigid as she willed herself not to tremble. In that moment, she wanted to stay on the plane and ask the pilot to turn around and go back, to take off and detach her from this land, fearing that the moment she descended the steps and set one foot on the ground, it would swallow her up and claim her. It was as though a part of her had taken root there long ago, a part of her that she had left behind that would be forever missing. She had cut it out of her heart, trying to sever it, but never quite succeeding. It would grow back like a rose every year, refusing to die, and she would hack at it again until it bled. She couldn’t go there. She must put it out of her mind and never think of it again, because whenever she did, in those moments when her thoughts refused to be censored, it would leave her ailing and hopeless and unable to breathe. She feared that everyone would know, that anyone with even half an ounce of sense would be able to tell the moment they looked at her. She had never planned to come back, not consciously anyway, but now that she was here, about to disembark, she wondered if she hadn’t known all along that her return was inevitable.

  There was nothing else that she could have done. It had been the right decision, and she had reconciled with her conscience long ago, before it crucified her. So long she had spent in that dark, grim place. It had taken years to emerge from the depths, one year before she could pass a whole day without crying, two before she could bear to hear the sound of music, three before she could hold her concentration sufficiently to read a book, and so it had gone on, her slow recovery, inching painfully along under her father’s watchful eye. Indeed, there had even been times when she had managed to kid herself that she had erased the specter of the past, that she had finally succeeded in getting on with the business of making a life for herself. But then the aircraft door had opened, bringing with it the rush of hot air, thick dust, and memories.

  As she stepped out of the plane, the temperature hit her like a blast furnace, bolstered by the heat rising from the baked concrete below, the sweltering engines of the aircraft. Her lungs lurched with the first breath, the noise of the airstrip drowning out her gasp. As she stepped onto the tarmac, she felt her soul pulled inexorably into the earth beneath her feet. India. My India. My love.

  • • •

  Sophie sat politely in the drawing room of her neighbor’s house, sipping from a second cup of tea, the creases in her dress forgotten.

  “So this is your first posting?”

  “Yes,” said Sophie.

  “Poor you. Nothing like being thrown in at the deep end, is there? Mind you, it could be a lot worse. My first was Damascus. God, what an awful place that was. The heat was like a bread oven and the house was practically falling down around our ears. It’s all right for the men, of course. They’re not the ones who have to conjure home comforts out of nothing and entertain endless lines of spitting Arabs. Couldn’t wait to get out of there. Nairobi was a disaster too, although the wives were a nice bunch, unlike this lot.” Tessa picked up her teacup. “Whatever you do, try not to get stuck with Rosamund Appleton. She’s terminally dull.”

  She took a sip and returned her cup to its dainty saucer. “Melanie Hinchbrook is quite good fun. Beast of a husband, mind you.” She smiled slyly. “Not that Melanie cares much. She’s perfectly capable of making her own entertainment, although the last time she got caught out, he threatened to shoot her and him too. Nothing worse than a jealous husband, don’t you think? He’s madly in love with her, of course, and who wouldn’t be? But it’s all terribly unhealthy if you ask me. He likes her to wear revealing dresses when they’re out just so that he can the watch other men ogling her. Strange that, isn’t it?” Sophie wasn’t quite sure what to say. “But what else would you expect after marrying someone who’s practically old enough to be your father? Perhaps he’s not able to…well, you know. Shall we have something a little more interesting?”

  She got up and went to the drinks tray on the cabinet in the corner of the pleasant drawing room and set out two glasses without waiting for an answer. “Gin and it?”

  Sophie stole a glance at her wristwatch. Not quite eleven-thirty.

  “She had a thing going on with Charles Smythson for a while, your husband’s predecessor. Everybody knew about it, except his wife of course. She was quite the raving beauty in her day.” Tessa brought the drinks to the table and handed one to Sophie. “Cruel that, isn’t it? How some men get more handsome with age while their wives turn into gargoyles?” Sophie took a sip and shuddered at its strength. “I don’t know how she could have let herself go like that. She wasn’t even forty and she knew very well that her husband was an incorrigible philanderer. You can usually tell who’s doing what with whom because they go to such lengths to avoid each other at all the parties. It’s Lucinda Bevan I feel sorry for. I swear her husband is the most attractive creature I have ever met in my life. I’m sure there’s something going on there.”

  Sophie had liked everything about Tessa Wilde instantly. Her chic beige polka-dot dress, her honey-blonde hair pinned into an elegant chignon, her perfect red lipstick, her disarming candor. It was not what she had expected at all, and certainly not on her first day. Lucien had been quite specific about the rigors of wifely etiquette and had warned her that she would in all likelihood have to get used to a charitable coven of stuffy do-gooders while he went about his business.

  “How did you and your husband meet?”

  “I worked at the Foreign Office for a while.”

  “Oh!” Tessa raised an eyebrow in surprise. “So you’re one of those dangerous independent types, are you?”

  “Well.” Sophie took a thoughtful sip. “Yes. I suppose I am.”

  “The DWs won’t like that. They like their new members meek and eager to please.”

  “DWs?”

  “The diplomatic wives’ association. They like to think it keeps us out of trouble, running our own little trades union to squabble over the ins and outs of minor dramas like who’s going to organize the Christmas raffle. Rosamund Appleton is our chairman, and oh, doesn’t she let us know it. Her husband is head of mission. To say she has a thick skin would be something of an understatement. It’s not skin. It’s hide.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Two years. It’s turned out quite well actually. Once you work out the lay of the land, there’s very little to complain about. There’s quite a big expat community, as you can imagine. It’s quite surprising how many people stayed on, but why leave when you can live like this? I hardly have to lift a finger, except when the children come out for the holidays, and even then they’re quite happy ordering the staff around and lounging around the club all day.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Two. A boy and a girl.”

  “You must miss them.”

  “Not as much as I pretend to. One feels obligated to miss one’s children, I suppose, but I have to say that ten years of parenting was quite enough for me. I couldn’t wait to pack them off and put my feet up.” She gave out a small, tinkling laugh. “Oh, I don’t mean it really. You’ll understand what I’m talking about when your own children come along. You are planning to have a family, aren’t you?”

  “Well,” Sophie flustered, the question unexpected. “Yes, once we’re settled in.”

  It was the simplest answer, she decided. Of course they would have children. They might take a little time to arrive, that’s all. Not everybody fell straight away, and perhaps she wasn’t quite as young as was generally considered ideal childbearing age, but yes, they would be bound to come along eventually. After all, it had only been five months.

  “In that case, best to hurry up about it and get it over with.”

  “Yes, well…” Sophie hesitated a lit
tle. “I’m hopeful that it won’t be too long.”

  “Oh, listen to me! Now I’ve gone and made you feel uncomfortable.” Tessa tutted to herself. “Here I am rattling on when you’ve barely had time to unpack.”

  “It’s all right.” Sophie smiled. “There’s just so much to take in, and my feet have hardly touched the ground lately. The last week has been chaos, what with all the packing and redirecting of post and trying to tie up a hundred loose ends.”

  “And your husband expects it all to happen by magic, of course?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Welcome to the diplomatic wives’ club. The first thing you’ll need to do is to sort out your staff.”

  “Is the house not fully staffed already?”

  “In theory,” Tessa said. “But the fact of the matter is that all the good ones will have been poached the moment the Smythsons moved out. Rosamund took your cook. I’m not sure where your maid got to or your gardener, but the chap who’s been trimming the hedge lately is definitely new. I’ll have to ask Vicky if he knows anything about it.”

  “Vicky?”

  “Our bearer. He’s an absolute dear.” Tessa went to the wall and pressed a small electric button. A few moments later, a tall, slender Indian man of indiscernible age appeared and stood in the doorway, dressed in manila pajamas, awaiting instructions.

  “Memsahib?”

  “Vicky, this is the new memsahib next door, Mrs. Grainger. She wants to know about the staff.” Vicky moved his head slightly and offered Sophie a small respectful bow. “Can you tell us anything about what’s going on?”

  “Memsahib, there have been many changes in your servants. I recommend that you test them first,” he said. “You must not let them trick you or cheat you. If you need any replacements, I will be able to help you find suitable workers.”

  “Hmm,” Tessa said. “Thank you, Vicky. That is good advice.”

  “Is there anything else, memsahib?”

  “No. That’s all. Oh…” She picked up her empty glass and rattled the naked ice a little. “Would you be a dear?”

  “Certainly, memsahib.” He smiled and took both glasses away. It was a moment before Sophie realized that he was merely refreshing them, his measure even more generous than the one Tessa had poured.

  “Vicky’s right,” Tessa said. “For all you know, your cook might not even be able to boil an egg. The outgoing staff have a habit of selling their positions to the highest bidder, saying that nobody will notice the change because they all look the same to us. It causes all sorts of bother, especially if they turn out to be hopeless. You have no choice other than to get rid of them, otherwise the whole household falls apart. Reputations have been made and lost on the competence of one’s staff. Entertaining is a very big thing here. You might as well start off the way you mean to go on.” Vicky placed the drinks on the low table set between them and left the room. “Don’t let things slide, not for a moment, otherwise they’ll assume you’re a soft touch who doesn’t mind being taken advantage of. It’s all about discipline here. Once everyone knows where your standards are set, you shouldn’t have too many problems. You’ll be staying for lunch, won’t you?”

  • • •

  “Sophie! What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Sophie felt herself shaken roughly awake. “Just look at the time!”

  Her state of disorientation was overwhelming; for a moment, she was unsure of where she was before it all came flooding back. She had only meant to lie down for a moment, to close her eyes for a few minutes, but then she had felt queasy, the room seeming to sway around her. A little travel sickness, she had thought. It would soon pass. She just needed to rest a while.

  “Sophie!” Lucien pulled at her. She sat up on the bed, head pounding, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness, the room a haze of unfamiliar shadows.

  Lucien marched to the door, calling, “Koi hai?” There was no answer. “Koi hai?” he shouted again. “Will somebody please explain to me why the house is in complete darkness? For heaven’s sake,” he muttered under his breath, switching on a table lamp. “Really, darling! Whatever were you thinking? We’re supposed to be at the reception in half an hour.” He continued around the room, turning on lights.

  “Oh Lord.” Sophie brought her hands to her face, rubbing her eyes. She felt wrung out, her mouth parched. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I must have fallen asleep.”

  “Well don’t just sit there! Shake a leg!” Lucien disappeared into his dressing room.

  Sophie pulled herself to her feet, steadying herself for a moment. “I need to call for some tea.”

  “Tea?” he shouted through the door. “We don’t have time for tea! Just throw a dress on and hurry up about it.”

  “Just give me a minute, would you?” She picked up her wristwatch from the bedside table. It took a moment for her eyes to register the time. “Oh Lord!”

  Sophie was on her feet in seconds. She went quickly to the dressing table, sat at the stool and reached for her hairbrush before catching her reflection in the mirror. She could scarcely remember a time when she had looked such a fright, and cursed herself for having made such a schoolgirl error, accepting gin at eleven in the morning followed by wine with lunch, their glasses being topped up constantly by Vicky until she had absolutely no idea how much she had drunk. Tessa was obviously a hardened lush. Sophie would have to watch herself from now on. Lucien had every right to be furious with her. They had been here for less than a day, and already she had fallen at the first hurdle. Sophie grasped her brush and set about her hair determinedly with one hand while reaching for a lipstick with the other.

  • • •

  Lucien glanced anxiously out of the window as the car rushed rudely along the wide boulevards of New Delhi, the grand buildings floodlit beyond high walls and railings, the new city quite at odds with the chaos of the ancient parts and more reminiscent of a modern capital like Washington, DC. The driver thumped impatiently on the horn, clearing a path through the rickshaw wallahs and the wandering cows, who took little notice, before taking the final turn on to Rajpath. Rashtrapati Bhavan, the grand construction once known as Viceroy House, rose majestically out of the distance to greet them, set impressively on the crest of the hill, its vast dome dominating the vista, painting the very picture of imperial greatness.

  They traveled in silence. Lucien hoped to God that this wasn’t a sign of things to come. All Sophie had had to do was to supervise the unpacking and organize the servants. It was hardly a taxing task, and she would have had plenty of opportunity to rest and be ready in time. She knew damn well how important this kind of thing was, that they should make the very best impression on first presentation to the most senior members. Oh well. There was nothing to be gained in making a big thing out of it. It would only sour the evening. He turned to look at her. She was still upset. He could tell by the line of her mouth, pinched slightly at the corner as she concentrated her gaze out of the window. He shouldn’t have shouted at her like that. It wasn’t her fault that she had been pounced on the moment the car dropped her off. In fact, he should have predicted that something like that might happen. But where the hell had the servants been? Heads would have to roll. Lucien reached for Sophie’s hand. He should have stayed with her rather than going straight to the embassy. Nobody would have minded, but he had been keen to make his presence felt as quickly as possible and to assert himself as a man who could travel all night and work all day without missing a beat.

  “Sorry I was cross,” he whispered. Sophie turned to him, her face creased with disappointment. “Forgive me?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s me who’s sorry. I can’t believe I was so stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid. It was a perfectly natural situation to get yourself into, and you did absolutely the right thing in accepting her hospitality.”

  “Now we’re horribly late and it’s all m
y fault.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Nobody will have missed us, and even if they have, I’m sure we’ll think of something to tell them. It’s hardly a major international incident, is it, Mrs. Grainger?”

  “No.” Sophie slid along the seat, pressing herself close to him. “But still, I should have known better. It was irresponsible of me.”

  “Nonsense.” He winked at her mischievously. “You go ahead and be as irresponsible as you jolly well like.”

  By the time they alighted and made their way up the enormous flight of steps, they were almost an hour late.

  “Grainger!” A stout man with a sparse covering of white hair and a ruddy complexion made his way through the crowd to greet them. “We were all wondering where on earth you’d got to! You’ve missed the welcome speeches, which is no hardship. Same old, same old.”

  “Do forgive us.” Lucien shook his hand warmly. “The driver took a wrong turn, and before we knew it, we were halfway to Timbuktu. Allow me to present my wife. Sophie?” He turned to her, all smiles. “Tony Hinchbrook, one of the seniors.”

  “How do you do,” Sophie extended her hand.

  “My dear Mrs. Grainger.” He placed a small suggestion of a kiss above her dress ring. “What an absolute vision you are.”

  “Thank you.” She gave him her most charming smile, although he was clearly drunk and disguising it rather badly.

  “I’d introduce you to my wife, but she seems to have disappeared into thin air.” He looked around halfheartedly. “She’s probably with the rest of the DWs, huddled in a corner somewhere, plotting away. There’s nothing quite like the scent of fresh blood to set tongues wagging.”

  “I hope we won’t be too bitter a disappointment,” Lucien said.

  “I doubt that very much, Grainger.” Hinchbrook tapped his nose. “Let’s just say your reputation precedes you.”