Under the Jeweled Sky

by Alison McQueen

  “And is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

  “Who knows?” He smiled an impenetrable smile. “We shall just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

  A bearer arrived silently, offering flutes of champagne from a silver tray.

  “Oh.” Sophie looked at it, then to her husband. “Do you think I might have a plain tonic water instead?” Lucien acted as though he had not heard her. Taking two glasses from the tray, he handed one to her.

  “Is Appleton here yet?” he asked.

  “Somewhere,” Tony Hinchbrook replied. “Although he’s probably tied up with Gresham, one of our American colleagues. Everyone’s a bit twitchy about the Kerala situation, especially the Yanks.”

  At that moment a gong sounded, sending a deep, sonorous vibration through the reception hall.

  “Too late,” Tony said. “Dinner is served. I hope you know where you’re sitting.” He turned to Sophie, a twinkle in his eye. “People have been taken outside and shot for messing around with the seating plan.”

  • • •

  The banqueting hall opened up before them like a gilded cavern, the long table set with a hundred or more places, each laid with ruled precision, cutlery gleaming, glassware sparkling, vast candelabras shimmering dimly, setting the room aglow. Sophie held on to Lucien’s arm and tried to ignore the way everyone seemed to be staring at them, whispers passing from lips to lips, heads turning, some openly looking her up and down. She remembered to smile and hoped it might give her an air of confidence. It was probably just as well that they had been late. If this was the DW’s idea of making a newcomer feel welcome, heaven only knows what they would have done had they been able to give them a proper once-over at the reception. Probably asked her to open her mouth and checked her teeth.

  “Grainger!” Lucien scanned the room at the sound of his name. “Over here!”

  A tall, fair-haired man smiled broadly at them from the far end of the table, hand raised in recognition.

  “Ah,” said Lucien. “That’s Bevan. The man I was telling you about.”

  “Of course,” said Sophie, hoping to gloss over the fact that she had absolutely no idea who Lucien was talking of. She had been bombarded with so many names that they had all blurred into one huge tangle. She didn’t know who anybody was, or what they did, or who they were married to. She couldn’t even remember the name of the man they had been speaking to just before the dinner gong sounded. Knowing her luck, she would probably end up seated next to him and would have to somehow avoid addressing him directly all evening.

  “Bevan.” Lucien shook his hand. “My wife, Sophie.”

  “How do you do,” Sophie said, trying to embed the name.

  “James Bevan,” he said. “Jim.” Sophie nodded and shook his hand. “You must have had a long day.”

  “Yes,” Sophie replied. “It has been rather.”

  “Well don’t let all this nonsense overwhelm you. It’s just a bunch of friends having a spot of dinner, only much bigger and a lot less interesting.” He smiled at her and she couldn’t help but notice how extraordinarily attractive he was. The name dropped into place. The man Tessa Wilde had mentioned to her that morning. “Grainger, you’re over there.” He pointed to a particular seat. “Pole position, right next to the old man. He’s obviously planning to bend your ear tonight.”

  “Mrs. Grainger?” Sophie turned to find a heavyset woman loitering beside her. “Ros Appleton.” The woman extended a gloved hand. “David Appleton’s wife. I’ve been looking out for you all evening.”

  “How do you do,” Sophie said. “I’m afraid we got caught up in the traffic. Our driver took a wrong turn and—”

  “You’re along here with us.”

  “Oh,” said Sophie, sliding her arm reluctantly from Lucien’s.

  “You really don’t want to be stuck with the bigwigs when they start talking shop.”

  Sophie glanced at Lucien, hoping for a swift rescue, but he was already occupied elsewhere, shaking hands with another man while the impossibly handsome Jim Bevan spoke earnestly in his ear.

  “Come along!” She felt Rosamund Appleton’s hand on her elbow, and before she knew it, she was being guided firmly away. “I’ve seated us with the Hinchbrooks and put you opposite General Hurst. British Army. He’s visiting with his wife for a few days. Nice enough fellow, but rather frightful to look at, I’m afraid. Glass eye.”

  • • •

  Beneath the low drone of conversation from a hundred voices, Lucien took a moment to breathe in his surroundings: the fabulously ornate interior, the finery of the satin-gowned women and decorated men. This was what he had wanted all along, the reason he had joined the service. It could be a charmed existence for those talented enough to scale the heights, and now there was nothing to stop him from progressing just the way he had always intended. He smiled contentedly to himself and returned his undivided attention to David Appleton.

  “You’ll notice a few tight smiles hiding ruffled feathers,” Appleton said. “The general election didn’t go quite to plan, but that’s the Congress party for you. The Kerala situation has been a real boot in the backside. Nobody saw it coming. Perhaps if the Indians weren’t so keen to get embroiled in silly personal squabbles, they might make better politicians.”

  “What about Nehru?” Lucien asked. He had read everything he could get his hands on, of course, the piles of dispatches and classified documents, but it was always better to get a personal opinion directly from the horse’s mouth.

  “Nehru? Well, what would you expect? Tired, overworked, depressed. Who wouldn’t be? He’s a good man, no doubt about that, very charming too, but he’s getting on now and I doubt he has the energy to assert himself as vigorously as he used to. Losing Kerala to the communists has been quite a blow, and it hasn’t gone down at all well with the Americans.” Appleton puffed on his cigar. “But that’s what happens when officials start feathering their own nests. The Indians, I mean, of course. They’re all at it here. Corruption is rife, and not all voters are completely stupid, regardless of widely held attitudes to the contrary. At least Nehru had the good sense to publicly denounce the Congress party’s faults, but what good is that without offering a viable alternative? The ordinary citizen of India doesn’t care tuppence about politics. What he wants is food in his belly and a reliable water supply.”

  “And how does all this affect us?”

  “It doesn’t,” David Appleton said with a relaxed smile. “It’s none of our bloody business anymore, I’m very happy to say. There’s no clear-cut long-term policy on anything, as far as most of us can make out. It would be downright laughable were it not such a delicate situation. Independence was different. Everybody wanted the same thing, but that was ten years ago. Now they’re left with just one major political party who can’t even agree on what to have for lunch.” He rolled the ash from his cigar thoughtfully. “Some of them are determined to see India built into a modern state with all the scientific and social benefits that come along with it, while the rest of them want it to remain a simple-minded nation of self-sufficient villages. And if central government can’t sing the same tune, what hope for the rest of the country?”

  “What about the socialists?”

  “Oh, nobody’s worried about them.” He sucked on his cigar. “They’re a pretty feeble bunch. Nehru stole their political clothes long ago with his socialistic ideas for Indian society, so they haven’t much to argue for, and not one of them has any flair for the practical side of politics. No, it’s the communists who have everyone sitting up and taking notice. They’re well organized and efficient, and they have plenty of money for campaigning, and we all know where that’s coming from.”

  “Russia?”

  “Undoubtedly. And China. They’re only too happy to fund the expansion of the communist agenda, although none of that’s been officially verified, of course. That’s what
happens when you start shaking hands with the likes of Khrushchev and Bulganin. There are those among the Congress leaders who realize now that this was a very serious mistake. You would have thought that somebody might have had the good sense to think that one through, eh?”

  “So what now?”

  “Nothing.” Appleton shrugged. “The Congress leaders in Kerala can’t even pull together a cohesive opposition. The communists are well and truly in, and I wouldn’t like to hazard a guess as to how long it will take to get them out. You’ll find a lot of that out here. Far too much hot air and not enough firm action. That’s what this country needs. Strong, decisive leadership.”

  “And that’s not Nehru?”

  “As a national statesman? I can’t fault him. The man’s a genius. He has won the hearts of the people, no doubt about that at all, but as a leader?” Appleton gave a small puff. “He’s weak as a kitten.” Lucien nodded quietly. “But who can blame him? There is only so much one man can do. There are four hundred million people in this country, and most of them are ignorant peasants. Think about that if you will. Four hundred million. Governing them is nigh on impossible while there is so much dissent in the ranks.”

  “Dissent from whom?”

  “You’ll pick it up as you go along.” David Appleton chewed on his cigar for a while and regarded this new member, wondering if he really was as good as everyone said. Things were about to get complicated, particularly with the tour scheduled for the new year. He could have done with Smythson sticking around for another six months, with all his experience, but perhaps this one would work out well enough. “You’ll like Nehru. And there are some good men around him too, but it’s early days still. We just watch from the sidelines and lend friendly support without getting our hands dirty.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “Kashmir remains a bone of contention.” David Appleton adjusted his seat, finding a point of greater comfort in the gilded chair. “The usual noises are being made, but there’s no way we would agree to make any sort of military commitment if things continue to escalate, which they probably will, judging by the looks of things. They’ll just have to sort it out for themselves, like everything else. After all, you can’t ask a sovereign state to leave the party, then call them back to clear up the mess, can you? But do mind what you say if you find yourself cornered, Grainger. It’s all rather precarious and needs delicate handling.”

  “I see.”

  “Apart from that, I think you’ll enjoy it here. There’s a lot of grand-scale socializing, and nobody seems to care much about doing any real work. The Indians are quite capable of messing things up on their own without any assistance from us.”

  • • •

  Sophie watched Rosamund Appleton’s mouth moving and wished it would stop. It was unbearable, but bear it she must, together with the overwhelming urge to yawn. She felt the muscles in the back of her throat contracting, her nostrils beginning to flare. Take a deep breath, she thought sternly, and for heaven’s sake try to keep up with what the woman is saying.

  “…home for the incurables. In some ways it seems rather pointless, doesn’t it? What good are a hundred beds when there are a thousand invalids? But one doesn’t like to say anything. They’re so terribly fond of their institutions. You’ll find there’s plenty to get involved in. The difficulty is trying to fit it all in!” She paused to take a sip of water. Perhaps she had finished, Sophie thought. Perhaps this purgatory had finally come to an end. “You’ll need to get your bearings first. See all the usual things. I could take you off for the full tour, if you like. Our driver’s done it about a thousand times and I could practically tell you everything about everything, I’ve seen it all so often. You must see the Qutb Minar, the famous thirteenth-century tower. One of the Maharaja of Kapurthala’s wives threw herself off the top of it and committed suicide! It’s a wonderful city by Indian standards, the new part anyway. The whole thing was designed by Edwin Lutyens, although I doubt the British would have bothered had they known they’d be giving it all away a few years later. And don’t take any notice of the beggars. They’re everywhere, and if you give one so much as a penny, you’ll be swamped by a thousand more. You must learn to turn a blind eye to it. And there’s no point in attempting to help people who aren’t prepared to help themselves, don’t you think?”

  Sophie stared at her, her eyes so tired that she could feel them watering, stinging sorely at the corners. It was a few moments before she noticed that the woman’s mouth had stopped. Rosamund Appleton looked at her curiously, and Sophie realized with horror that she was clearly waiting for an answer. What had she said? Her mind had wandered so far away that she might as well have been asleep. She dug her fingernails into her palms, blinking her eyes to attention.

  “That’s very interesting,” she said. It was all she could think of, except that she had to find a way to make the woman talk to somebody else. “I wonder what the General thinks?” she said quickly, turning to him. The glass eye stared back at her coldly, the other half-closed. “General Hurst?” Her voice carried rather further than she had intended, halting the conversation amid her immediate neighbors, who turned to look at her.

  “What?” the General said, as though he’d been interrupted from something important.

  “Nothing,” Sophie tried to apologize. “I was just—”

  “You’ll have to speak up,” he boomed at her. “Deaf in this ear.” He raised his finger slightly to his left. “Burst an eardrum in the South Pacific.”

  “Oh,” she said. Then, a little louder, “Must be awful.”

  “That’s very kind of you, dear, but you need not concern yourself unduly. Deafness has its benefits.” The good eye roamed to an oblivious Rosamund Appleton, who had now started on the General’s wife seated lucklessly to her left.

  • • •

  “I thought the evening would never end,” Sophie said, slipping out of her dress, weary through to her bones. “Tessa Wilde was right about that Appleton woman. I’ve never heard anyone talk so much.”

  “Here.” Lucien offered up his cuffs. “Take these out for me, would you, darling?” Sophie turned to him and released the gold links from his shirtsleeves.

  “She’s asked me to call on her in the morning around eleven. I don’t think I can bear the thought of it.”

  “Comes with the territory, my dear, I’m afraid. I deal with the tacticians, you deal with the women and children. Just smile and think of England.”

  Sophie pulled off her earrings. “I have an awful feeling she’s planning on presenting me to the DWA, and we’re not even properly unpacked.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “So long as she doesn’t try to press half a pint of gin on me before lunchtime.” She turned her back for him.

  “Which reminds me,” Lucien said, unzipping her dress. “It was rather bad form for you to ask for tonic water at the reception this evening, darling. I don’t think anyone noticed, thank goodness. To refuse a drink is tantamount to issuing the host a personal slight. It smacks of taking the moral high ground.”

  “Oh!” Sophie said. “I didn’t even think.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” He kissed the nape of her neck. “But nothing stirs suspicions in the service quite like a teetotaler. I don’t want everyone thinking I’ve married a prude.” He smiled at her and went to the bathroom, closing the door.

  16

  Sophie felt like an exhibit in a goldfish bowl, all eyes upon her as she answered question after question. “It was all a bit of a whirlwind,” she said. “It came as a complete surprise when he asked me. I even said to him, are you quite sure?” The other women laughed.

  “It’s not like an ordinary marriage, of course,” said Melanie Hinchbrook. “We ought to be paid a king’s ransom for the work that is expected of us.”

  “I’ve adored all our Indian postings,” said Lucinda
Bevan. “Calcutta was tremendous fun. There was no end of parties.”

  “Oh, the parties.” Tessa effected a huge, bored sigh. “That’s something you’ll have to get used to.”

  “Listening to the same old dreary conversations from the same old dreary people.”

  “Watch out for Lance Corporal Fellowes. We call him the octopus.”

  “And you’re exactly his type.”

  “How long did you work at the Foreign Office?”

  “Two years,” Sophie said.

  “Oh, to be in London,” said Melanie Hinchbrook. “Right now I’d give anything for a decent department store.”

  “Any woman thinking of marrying into the service should be permitted to take her husband on a trial basis for the first year, and if it doesn’t work out, she should be allowed to tear up the marriage certificate and have it annulled!”

  “Delhi is a piece of cake in comparison to some postings. China is generally regarded as the shortest of straws, and I’d stay well clear of some of the African positions if you can. I couldn’t wait to get out of Nairobi.”

  “If your predecessor is anything to go by, you’ll be very happy here.”

  “June Smythson was quite beside herself when Charles was called back to Whitehall. I think she was hoping they’d stay on, even though he’d clearly had quite enough of the place. Anyone would have thought that she had taken leave of her senses, the way she behaved!”

  “It doesn’t do to stay on indefinitely,” said Tessa. “People have a habit of going native when all vestiges of home are erased. Poor June was in pieces when they left. How are you finding the house?”

  “It’s perfect,” Sophie said.

  “No problems with the staff?” Melanie slid a sideways glance toward Ros Appleton.

  “Well.” Sophie hesitated a moment. The bearer would definitely have to go, particularly after that business yesterday when Lucien had come home to find the house in darkness and her fast asleep. She had even wondered if he hadn’t gone and done it on purpose, just to make her look bad. It was clear that he didn’t like her, and she didn’t like him either. There was something about his brooding manner that made her feel very uncomfortable. “A few wrinkles to be ironed out, perhaps. I’m not at all sure about our bearer, Santash.”