by Arjun Gaind
Sikander was certain that he would find a safe refuge at the Imperial. He maintained a three-room apartment on the top floor, a pied-à-terre that was well staffed with a butler and an excellent private chef and a team of hand-picked bearers who made sure that the rooms were always aired and kept immaculately clean in case he decided to drop by. Best of all, a detachment of his personal guard were posted permanently on hand to watch over Helene, all of them highly trained and absolutely faithful, and Sikander knew that once he entrusted the girl’s protection into their care, even the Superintendent would not be able to gain access to her without his express permission.
He cast a quick glance at Jane. Once more, she seemed to be in the deepest of stupors. Her face was as ashen as a ghost’s, her breath so irregular that he was convinced he had lost her. Thankfully, when he touched her forehead, she let out the faintest of moans, reassuring him that it wasn’t too late. Sikander sped up, driving the rest of the way to the hotel like a maniac. A dozen times, he very nearly ran people over, avoiding them only by the narrowest of margins. Twice he even came close to turning the car turtle, a pair of terrifyingly narrow escapes that ended up leaving broad scrapes on both sides of the Rolls’ coachwork.
When he arrived at the Imperial, Madame Beauchamp was waiting in the foyer, having heard the car’s droning approach from a great distance. As the Rolls rattled to a stop and Sikander leaped from behind the wheel, she came forth to greet him, hedged on either side by an entourage of four immaculately uniformed bearers. As always, Sikander’s heart skipped a beat when he saw Helene. She was tall for a woman, taller than most Indian men, with an admirable posture that spoke volumes of her strong-willed character. The Maharaja’s eyes flickered appreciatively over her figure. Even though she was wearing a simple high-collared black dress, cut in the Chinese qipao style, it was enough to emphasize the soft undulation of feminine curves hidden beneath.
Although Helene was nearing the ripe age of forty-five, it was fortunate for her that she been gifted with that rarest of qualities, a charm that seemed to deepen as she aged. And while she was not what most men would call beautiful, not in the traditional sense as her younger sister had been, with a mouth that was much too large and a jaw that was almost mannish, Sikander had always felt there was something startlingly arresting about her. It was her eyes, glinting in the afternoon sun like Ceylonese sapphires, sharp and level and unflinchingly frank, holding his gaze with an unblinking candor, filled with a vulnerability and still somehow a strength, a symphony of opposites which he had always found intoxicating.
“Your Majesty,” Helene said, offering only the slightest of bows, a tremor of her hips so negligible that it was almost a calculated insult. Her mouth twisted into a mocking smile when she spied the girl lying limp in the passenger seat. “Your new friend seems very lovely,” she commented, taking Jane to be inebriated. Those dramatic eyes flashed with scorn, unable to hide her obvious annoyance at Sikander’s unannounced intrusion. “Although, I do fear she is rather underdressed, particularly for this weather, don’t you think?”
“For God’s sake, Helene,” Sikander snarled, “the poor thing’s been poisoned.”
Immediately, the Frenchwoman’s snide smile melted away, replaced by crestfallen regret as she realized that Jane was not drunk, but at death’s door.
With a cluck of her tongue, she called to one of her bearers, a lanky dhoti-clad South Indian.
“Jaldi karo,” she commanded urgently, “carry the girl up to the royal suite. And have someone go and fetch Dr. Roy immediately.”
Sikander did not wait for the bearer to obey the Frenchwoman’s instructions. Instead, he snatched the girl into his own arms. Brushing aside the servant even as he tried lamely to help, he carried Jane into the hotel himself, dashing through the lobby and up the grand staircase towards the shelter of his private rooms, uncaring of the curious stares that his hasty progress drew from the scattering of diners enjoying a late tea in the atrium.
Helene hurried after him, finally elbowing past when they arrived at the top floor to unlock the door of his suite and hold it open for him, her face tense with concern. Sikander carried the girl within, past the richly decorated parlor and into one of the twin bedrooms beyond, where he laid her gently on the sumptuously brocaded bed, treating her as delicately as if she were made from porcelain.
“I will take care of her,” Helene said to him sternly. “Go and get a drink, Sikander. You look a complete mess.”
The Maharaja paused, huffing from the strain of having carried the girl up five floors. Unsure of quite what he ought to do next, he was about to argue with Helene, insist that he needed to stay with Jane in case she woke up, that he had so many questions that needed answers, but before he could voice a single word of objection, the Frenchwoman took one of his arms and steered him out of the bedroom, slamming the door in his face and shooing him away as if he were a mangy cat, not the ruler of Rajpore.
For a long time, Sikander stood motionlessly in the drawing room, gathering his breath. He could not help but feel quite helpless, a condition he never enjoyed. To his regret, there was little more he could do for Jane except wait for Dr. Roy to arrive, and pray that she made a quick recovery.
A sidelong glance at his reflection in a gilt-wood mirror that hung on a nearby wall told him that Helene had been somewhat kindhearted when describing him as a mess. The truth was he looked less like the King of Rajpore and more like a day laborer. Not only was his face streaked with dirt, his pugree in utter disarray, and the front of his doublet stained by rings of sweat, but when he caught a whiff of himself, Sikander realized he smelled as malodorous as a racehorse.
Squaring his aching shoulders, he limped over to the adjoining bedroom. Luckily, he kept an alternate wardrobe on hand at the hotel, for exactly such unforeseen eventualities. With a grimace, Sikander unwound his turban and shucked off his dank shervani, letting it fall to the floor. From one of the lacquered Chinese cabinets that lined the walls, he took a coat identical to that which he had discarded, except in crimson this time, with a delicate sprinkling of silver embroidery around the collar and large silver buttons enameled with the royal crest.
As he was shrugging it on, he heard a soft noise behind him. It was Helene, standing silently by the door, watching him with an intent look on her face.
“The girl, is she…?” he asked worriedly.
“Dr. Roy is with her now,” Helene replied. Slowly, she moved towards him, reaching out to do up the front of the doublet, her nimble fingers grazing delicately against his chest as she carefully guided each button into its matching eyelet one by one.
“You have been neglecting me,” she declared. Her eyes locked into his questioningly, her face remaining blank, but the Maharaja knew her temperament well enough to recognize the dangerous undertone of barely restrained exasperation in her voice.
“I have been busy lately, my dear. You may not realize it, but ruling a kingdom can be rather a lot more demanding that running a hotel.”
He decided to try out his most winning smile on her, but Helene remained obdurately immune. “Don’t you dare try your tricks on me, you vile man. I am sick and tired of your endless excuses.”
“Helene,” Sikander wheedled, “you know how I feel about you.”
“Is that so?” She glared at him. “Then why, may I ask, have you not come to see me in over a week? Is that why you asked me come here, so that you could treat me with such disdain?”
Sikander sighed, knowing it was pointless to argue with her when she was in a mood as unforgiving as her current state. “Would it help if I said I was sorry?”
“Bah,” Helene snarled, “tu me peles le jonc!”
Sikander smiled, enjoying the way she always seemed to lapse back into French when she was really worked up. Tentatively, he reached out to caress the nape of her neck just below her hairline, tracing the bluish outline of a soft vein which was b
arely visible through the translucence of her skin.
To his relief, Helene did not push him away.
“Let me make it up to you,” he purred. “How does two weeks in Paris sound, this summer?”
“Really?” she exclaimed, as if she did not believe him. “You mean it?”
The pensive hopefulness in her voice caused a shiver of guilt to wrack through Sikander. Poor thing, he thought, overcome by guilt. In his preoccupation with matters of state and the like, he always managed to forget how difficult each day was for Helene, to be away from France, from her people, to miss the sound of hearing her native tongue being spoken. She never complained, of course; it was not in Helene’s nature to grumble, but lately, he had sensed her homesickness deepening, particularly around Christmas-time, when she had seemed as morose as a widow.
“Of course!” he responded. “I give you my word. I shall have Charan Singh arrange the tickets forthwith.”
This promise finally seemed to placate Helene. She leaned into his shoulder, nestling into the crook of his neck with practiced ease. She was as tall as him, but rather than being uncomfortable, this allowed the two of them fit together as perfectly as two pieces in a puzzle. An inexplicable sadness swept over Sikander, a wave of melancholia so intense that he couldn’t help but shudder. Part of it was need, an anguish wracking through the pit of his stomach, an ache that was both enervating and thrilling at the same time. But another part was a sense of relief, a simple contentment.
Is this what love is? He thought wryly. It never ceased to surprise him, how strangely reassuring he found Helene’s presence. As surely as a dose of laudanum, she soothed him, quelling his innate ennui. The Maharaja had known many beautiful women in his life, more than a few of them intimately, but he had never been able to bring himself to love any of them. It confounded him, this incapacity for any binding passion other than his abiding fascination with the criminal. What was the cause of this inability, he had often wondered? Was it perhaps because he had been cruelly robbed of the only woman he had even cared for, his mother? Or could it be that being a man of logic, he was suspicious of love, too cynical to accept that which he could not quantify?
Still, he thought with a sigh, if I could find it in me to love, perhaps I would love Helene. It saddened him to no end that he could never give her what she rightly deserved after all the years she had suffered silently as his paramour and his confidante, namely the affirmation of marriage. While it wasn’t unheard of for a Maharaja to take a white woman for a wife, it was rare enough to be thought of as scandalous. No, there were far too many obstacles to permit him to make Helene his Maharani. Not only would such a union fly in the face of tradition, but he knew all too well that the English would never accept a Frenchwoman as the Queen of Rajpore.
And then there was Helene herself. She would never be happy, locked away behind the marble jallis of the zenana, relegated to living the invisible life of a purdahnashin. Sikander cared for her too much to ever do that to her, trapping her within a cage of duty and obligation, like an exotic bird doomed to slowly molt until all that remained was a tired wreck, once beautiful but now ruined.
Helene, ever sensitive, sensed the depths of his turmoil. Recognizing the torment in Sikander’s expression, she arched one impeccably groomed eyebrow inquiringly. Her mouth broke into a gentle little smile and she leaned forward slightly, kissing him briefly on one cheek, letting out a sigh of complaint as his beard rasped against her delicate skin. She pulled away, leaving his nostrils filled with her intoxicating smell, that sweet perfume of Yardley’s soap and Guerlain’s Shalimar.
“Who is she?” Helene’s eyes sparkled with barely contained curiosity. “Is she someone terribly important? She must be, because I have never seen you so concerned about a mere woman’s welfare before, Your Majesty.”
“She is nobody,” Sikander replied, “the Resident’s housekeeper, and as such, the only witness to his murder. That, my dear, is why she is important.” He raised one hand and pretended to take a mock oath. “That and no other reason, I swear by my forefathers.”
Helene’s face stiffened, as if he had just slapped her. “The Resident,” she said breathlessly, “do you mean Major Russell? He is dead…?”
“Yes,” Sikander remarked, “his body was found earlier this morning. Hadn’t you heard?”
Helene’s reaction to this bit of news took him utterly by surprise.
“Good riddance,” She spat, so heatedly that Sikander was taken aback. The unexpected acid in her voice shocked him. It wasn’t like Helene to be so vehement. Ordinarily, she was kind-hearted to a fault.
“Heavens, Helene. It isn’t like you to be so unkind.”
The Frenchwoman puckered her brow. “He was a dreadful, unpleasant man. A real connard, un pouffiasse! Imbécile!”
Sikander stifled a laugh as this florid string of curses tumbled from her carmine lips. From her regal bearing and her refined composure, it was easy to forget that Helene’s childhood had been spent on the streets of Paris, which had given her a vocabulary that was as colorful as a sailor’s.
“I wasn’t aware you knew the man quite so well,” he said playfully. “Should I be jealous?”
Helene flared her nostrils, and a subtle, sphinx-like expression played across her face.
“He asked me to go to bed with him, you know.”
“What?”The Maharaja sat bolt upright, stunned by this revelation.
“It’s true. He was always making advances, the frightful man.”
She looked at Sikander, her face ripe with expectation, waiting for him to react with some measure of asperity at finding out that she had been propositioned by another man, but he surprised her by letting out a strident laugh.
“Well, the man was certainly ambitious. And you can’t fault him for having excellent taste.”
Helene had hoped for indignation, even outrage, but to be confronted with such a callow dismissal infuriated her. Scowling murderously, she launched into another tirade of invective in French, most of which Sikander couldn’t understand, but the few words he did recognize were of such coarseness that they would have made even the most seasoned of streetwalkers blanch. Trying to placate her, Sikander reached out to embrace her. Helene struggled to resist, snubbing this attempt at intimacy strenuously, but Sikander overpowered her easily. Clapping one palm over her mouth, he pulled her close to him, until at last, the torrent of profanity pouring from her lips dried up and with a wary groan, she let him rest his head on the soft pillow of her bosom, gently stroking his beard.
“Why didn’t you come to me and tell me he was harassing you?
“I don’t need you to fight every battle for me, Sikander. Besides, this isn’t the first time a man has made a pass at me. I took care of it myself, just like I always do.”
“And how exactly did you get rid of him?”
“It was simple enough. I warned him that I was spoken for, and that I had no desire to dally with another man, not for all the money in the world.”
“I am sure the Major was not pleased with such a curt rebuffal.”
“Not at all. He said that I was a fool to refuse him, that my lover did not deserve me.”
“He was right. I don’t deserve you. You are much too good for the likes of me.”
“It isn’t funny, Sikander. Your Major may have seemed like a dolt but he had a frightening side.” She pursed her lips. “He was much too forward, for one thing—always sniffing around, like a dog in heat. And such a pushy man, a bully, a real brute. There were times when he looked at me like he wanted to hurt me.”
Helene trembled imperceptibly, a shiver that was transmitted to him, making him sit up worriedly as he realized just how distraught she was, and just how terrified she had been of the man. The Maharaja found himself dismayed by the depth of her reaction. It took a lot to scare Helene, after all that she had seen and endured in her youth.
But the Major, he had managed to break down her defenses and scare her to her very core. Sikander could sense that much, even though she was very adept at concealing her feelings, even from him.
“When I told him I wasn’t interested, he actually had the temerity to threaten me.” Helene quivered with barely repressed indignity. “He said that I should watch out because he always got what he wanted.” Her voice thickened. “The nerve of the salaud! Do you know what he called me? A whore. A royal whore.”
The Maharaja’s face hardened. Damn the man! He was lucky he was dead, because if he had still been alive, Sikander would have tracked him down and punched him squarely in the nose, never mind the political consequences. The impudence of the bastard, he thought bitterly. Even though Helene and he took great pains to keep their involvement discreet, it was almost certain that as the ranking representative of the English in Rajpore the Major had to have been aware that she was Sikander’s mistress. But still, to have the audacity to threaten her, to call her a whore—it reaffirmed what Sikander had learned of the Major, that he had been a brashly presumptuous, extraordinarily egotistical man.
