The Peacock Throne

by Lisa Karon Richardson

  The day of the ball dawned clear and bright—a day made for frivolous pursuits. Still, Lydia was unable to go back to sleep. The weight of unfinished tasks made her restless.

  It was too early for most of the household, and she breakfasted alone. Now she was up, but could not accomplish any of the tasks that wakened her with their clamour. Mrs Adkins would not be ready for her assistance for at least an hour.

  She fingered her small notebook. At least she could make lists. The garden beckoned and she stepped outside to enjoy the last hint of freshness before heat took hold of the new day.

  Every flower and shrub in the quintessentially English garden catered to British sensibilities. Government House was not the place for the exotic flora of India, but rather the familiar larkspur and poppies of home. It was formally laid out, and even though Lydia’s taste leaned to the modern fashion for natural, rambling gardens, it was a pleasant place, especially with the dew still fresh on the ground.

  She strolled amongst the blossoms for a while. Finding a bench, she made all the lists she could think of. If she were honest, her restlessness stemmed less from the arrangements for the ball and more from anxiety about the throne. There had reportedly been no attempts on either the throne itself or the location where it was supposedly hidden. If the murderer meant to turn thief, then his opportunities to do so were fast slipping away. If an attempt was to be made it would be made soon. They had conceived a good plan—but it had drawbacks. If anything went wrong, there could be grave consequences.

  She plucked a stray leaf from her skirt. The peace of the garden pulled at her. Absently, Lydia caressed the leather cover of her cousin’s diary. It was the only thing she had of him, and she had taken to carrying it as a talisman, even though it had no further intelligence to offer that could be of practical assistance.

  At last she stood and shook out her skirts. There was much to be done today. Hopefully, someone would now be up to help.

  Ahead of her in the path, Dr Marshall stared at Government House. As if sensing her scrutiny he turned towards her.

  “Good morning, Dr Marshall.”

  “Miss Garrett.” He waited for her to catch him up. “It is a beautiful building, isn’t it?” He did not wait for her response. “So unlike most of the architecture in India—a real symbol of British authority. It would be terrible if anything were to befall it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You mustn’t be frightened.” He took her hand and patted it. “Many of the Indians aren’t pleased with the British dominance of their commerce and government, but they are not likely to become violent, unless some outside force acts upon their passions.”

  Lydia withdrew her hand from his grasp. “I appreciate your reassurance.”

  The doctor continued. “My pleasure, Miss Garrett. As you know, I have had business in India for many years. I have come to know something of the region. If we placate the rajas, they will keep the people in line.”

  “You have a great grasp of politics then?”

  “No great understanding is needed. These are simple people. We’ve already made many improvements, such as building Government House. We will continue to bring civilization to these people. If anything, they should be grateful for our intervention.”

  For some reason what he said, though it reflected the pompous self-satisfaction of many of the British she had met in India, did not ring true. Was the doctor making sport of her? She could not make him out, so changed the subject in the hope of distracting him.

  “Tell me more of your family and home in England.”

  “I told you of my father last evening. My mother was a Frenchwoman. During the revolution, her family’s French holdings were seized by the Committee of Public Safety. Of course, she had most of her jewellery, and her family had the foresight to ship over some of their prized possessions before hostilities broke out. Now that the revolutionaries are gone from France I have some hope that the rest of those properties will be restored.”

  They had returned to the house now, and Lydia stepped inside. “Pray, excuse me. I must run and assist Mrs Adkins. There is much yet to be done.”

  Government House was waking and the stirrings soon became a positive hum of activity. Mrs Adkins supervised the preparations for the ball as the flowers were put in place and other last-minute details seen to. She deputized Lydia, setting her to work overseeing the process in the entry hall and public rooms.

  Luncheon was a hurried affair. Lydia took time only for a glass of the pervasive iced lemon water by way of refreshment before hurrying back to her tasks. They worked through the normal afternoon rest and when Mrs Adkins insisted it was time to dress for the ball, Lydia was soaked with perspiration and cross from trying to do too many things at once.

  She trudged up the stairs to her room, intending to wash and change quickly.

  “Miss Garrett.”

  Brow furrowed, Lydia turned. “Yes, Mr Harting?”

  “May I have a moment please?”

  Lydia mustered a grudging smile. “I fear—”

  “It will not take long, I promise.”

  He ushered her inside a small sitting room which was probably in general use by lower-level functionaries who were entertaining other low-level functionaries. Even here there was a moderate showing of British grandeur with a number of knick-knacks on display and fine, brocaded furniture. Inside, a young Indian woman stood with head respectfully bowed and fingers linked primly in front of her.

  “I thought you might require a ball gown for the evening.” Harting extended a scrap of paper to her. Lydia recognized it immediately and accepted it with trembling fingers. It was one of Sophie’s drawings.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “I requested it from Emmanuel. I thought this would be a means of honouring the girl Sophie. When I told him my plan he was quite willing.” He seemed intent on assuring her that he had not come by the drawing through illicit means.

  With a flourish, the Indian woman produced a gown from where it had been secreted. Lydia caught her breath. One hand flew to her mouth in wonder.

  The delicate silk was pure white, shot through with silver thread making it shimmer as it caught the light. Drawing near, she realized the silver threads created a subtle paisley pattern very common in India, but usually executed in garish colours. The sleeves were fitted, ending at the elbow. Every edge was trimmed with intricate crystal beadwork. A short train completed the gown, trailing behind in a graceful arc.

  “I asked Mrs Deepta to make it for you.”

  “It’s lovely.” Lydia extended tentative fingers to brush the airy fabric. She wanted to say something more, to somehow express how much the gesture meant, but she could not find the words.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to hurry now.”

  Lydia raised her eyes from the gown and met Harting’s. The tenderness she saw reflected there froze her in place.

  As if in a dream she watched as Harting raised a hand. With infinite gentleness he brushed a thumb across her lips. Enthralled, she raised a trembling hand to cover his. A warm tingle started in her fingertips. It spread through her palm, her wrist, and up her arm, until it settled in her belly.

  Her breathing grew shallow even as her pulse pounded loudly in her ears. Unbidden her lips parted slightly. Harting lowered his mouth towards her.

  Crash!

  The spell shattered. Lydia whirled round.

  The little seamstress stood in the midst of smashed porcelain. Fear quivered in every line of her being. Lydia had not seen what happened, but the poor woman had likely just brushed against one of the endless array of pots and urns and jars that decorated the interminable galleries of Government House.

  “So sorry. So sorry,” the woman whispered. She stooped to pick up the pieces.

  “It does not matter.” Lydia bent and raised the woman to her feet. “Don’t fret now. I’ll call for a maid to clean up this mess.”

  The seamstress nodded and blinked back tears. />
  “Thank you for the dress. It is the loveliest gown I have ever seen.”

  The woman bowed.

  Harting placed a hand under her elbow, gently steering her away. “I’ll handle this. You should be preparing to dazzle the citizens of Calcutta.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, of course, go. Go and make yourself presentable.” His small smile and the warmth in his eyes brought the heat back to her cheeks.

  “I carry this for you, Missee Sahib.” The seamstress retrieved the gown and carried it lovingly from the room.

  In a daze, Lydia followed.

  A lukewarm bath welcomed her to her room. Lydia slipped into the water and sighed. Even tepid, the water felt refreshing. She raised a hand to her face. Were her cheeks still red? She hugged her legs to her chest and rested her forehead against her knees.

  What had she been thinking? Such behaviour justified the assumption that she was an adventuress. Her cheeks flamed again as she remembered the feel of his thumb on her mouth. How could she ever face Harting again? She couldn’t even say precisely how she felt about him. Until that afternoon she had striven not to view him in any sort of romantic light. And what of Lord Danbury? She groaned.

  Lydia lingered longer than she had intended. The maid’s noisy arrival in the outer room brought her back to reality with a start, and she jumped from the bath, sloshing a prodigious amount of water over the side with her. She flung her dressing gown over the mess to sop up the water and hurried to the other room.

  The maid set to with brush, pins and comb, poking and pulling until Lydia’s hair was arranged to her satisfaction. She carefully placed a pair of silver-beaded combs among the piled curls so they would show to best advantage. Having helped Lydia don the rest of the ensemble, she stepped back to admire her handiwork, darting forward to tuck a curl in here or pluck away a bit of fuzz there.

  Finally, she allowed Lydia to look in the glass. The gown fitted her to perfection. The way it shimmered and caught the light made her think of melting ice. The impression of coolness made her seem a being apart, untouched by the wilting heat. She looked as elegant and refined as Sophie could have wished.

  “Will I turn into a pumpkin if I’m not back in my room by midnight?”

  Seeing the confused look on Annette’s face, she realized she had spoken aloud. She offered her thanks and a generous tip for the girl’s hard work.

  Straightening her shoulders and taking a deep fortifying breath, Lydia stepped from her room.

  CHAPTER 37

  The ballroom buzzed with activity. Mrs Adkins stepped away from the people she was speaking to when she saw Lydia.

  “My dear, you are exquisite. That dress is indescribable, and I thought you needed the help of my paltry seamstress. Whoever made it?” The older woman took her hands and held them away from her body.

  “A Mrs Deepta. She made it from a sketch by a friend of mine.”

  “I adore it. I have seen some examples of the new fashions, but this is more gracious than anything I imagined.” Mrs Adkins tapped Lydia with her fan, and offered a knowing smile. “You are going to be busy in the morning. Every unattached gentleman and officer will be calling on you. And all the ladies will be pursuing you for your seamstress.”

  Lydia blushed at the compliments and returned the sentiment. Mrs Adkins was in good looks. Excitement pinked her cheeks and her midnight blue gown had a dramatic flair that suited her.

  The eight hundred guests were unusually prompt. Curiosity about the treasure, and the mysterious trio who had brought it to India, was too high for anyone to chance missing a thing. Instead of a trickle of arriving dignitaries, there was a flood—a gushing eddying mass of humanity intent on entertainment.

  The noise in the ballroom grew exponentially as the guests poured in. This was going to be a long evening.

  A flourish of music from the orchestra betokened the first dance. Lord Wellesley, with Lydia as his partner, opened the ball with the mincing, intricate steps of the minuet. The moment the minuet ended a new tune struck up, and a handsome young lieutenant from Essex promptly claimed her. After the fourth dance, she was thirsty and relieved that she had blocked off the dance on her card. An eager captain immediately offered to fetch a glass of negus. Gratefully, she accepted his offer and stepped out to the terrace to await his return.

  The press of humanity had made the ballroom exceedingly close. In contrast, the terrace seemed nearly cool. Many of the guests were taking the air, and she conversed with the young officer in complete propriety.

  Danbury appeared at her side. She had forgotten that he had claimed a slot on her card. “I believe the next dance is mine.” He offered a gentlemanly bow.

  “Lead on, Lord Danbury.” Relief broadened her smile. While the attention she received might be flattering, the interrogations about the treasure were importunate, and she had grown weary of fending them off. It would be a pleasure to lower her guard.

  Excitement hung in the air like a physical presence. But perhaps that was simply a cloud of clashing perfumes. Anthony had always disliked balls, fêtes, soirees and all the other formal interactions of society. They were guaranteed to make a man feel like a great oaf.

  This once, though, he would make an exception to his antipathy. He would do anything to catch his father’s murderer—even dance past midnight.

  At least he had this respite. Miss Garrett could make even dancing pleasant. Her delicate fingers resting in his own broad grip made his pulse drum to battle-stations tempo.

  As they came together she leaned close. “How do you think things are proceeding? Has anything happened?”

  “Nothing as yet. Everything is in place. The throne has a couple of guards outside the door. It would look suspicious if it did not. The rest are hiding.”

  The Peacock Throne had been moved that afternoon into the marble hall—so named not just for the soft grey marble underfoot, but also for the greater-than-life-sized statues of Roman emperors that were inset in niches along the wall. Flanking these, in the style of a Roman atrium, tall columns were covered in chunam, a sort of plaster made of burnt shells that was carved and then burnished so that it glowed like old ivory. Wellesley had given them all a lecture on those columns. He was inordinately proud of them. In addition to its merit of size and location, this hall had two wide verandas which ran along the east and west sides of the room. The strategic placement of a large tapestry over a small side entry effectively hid the passage from view, making a sort of hidden room in which soldiers were mustered in readiness.

  The dance separated Anthony from Lydia then brought them together again.

  “When do you expect action?”

  “Harting thinks something could happen at any minute. I expect them to wait until after the ball. It would be foolhardy to try to remove the throne with so many people about, but we must be prepared for all eventualities.”

  Lydia nodded acknowledgment, then changed the subject. “Evening dress suits you remarkably well. You look quite distinguished.”

  “Why, thank you. I believe I mentioned before how fetching you look.” Anthony heard himself utter the lukewarm praise, but the words held no relation to his actual sentiments. Miss Garrett looked like a moonbeam, straight and luminous. No other woman in the room could hold a candle to her. The pure white column of her gown shone like a beacon in a sea of florid silks and satins.

  Pleasant appreciation lit the face of every gentleman who caught sight of her. Even the ladies turned their heads to watch her progress, sending quick, darting glances her way.

  “And you dance very well.” Miss Garrett was trying valiantly to keep the conversational ball in play. Anthony shook himself.

  “Were you afraid I might not?” he asked in mock indignation.

  “Not at all. You seem to be able to turn your hand to anything you set out to do, but it is a pleasant change not to have my toes trod upon. My last partner was not nearly so proficient.”

  “All in the line of dut
y, Miss Garrett. We must all make sacrifices for the greater good.”

  “Then perhaps you will allow me to tread upon your poor toes for a quarter of an hour.”

  “If I must suffer, at least you have only those pretty slippers rather than a pair of great clumsy Hessians.”

  She swatted his arm. “I suppose I shall have to find some other way to make sure you are doing your fair share of sacrificing.”

  “Pray, ma’am, no threats if you please. You have sacrificed so nobly that there should be no call for the rest of us to suffer. Although…” He caught sight of Harting leading a resplendent Mrs Adkins, and jerked his chin in their direction. “It looks like he ought to be doing more sacrificing, I’m sure.”

  Harting certainly looked as if he were enjoying himself. Lydia bit her lip. A flash of annoyance sizzled through her, but then faded as quickly as if it had been one of the fireworks at Vauxhall. Despite what had almost transpired she had no claim upon him. Nor could she ever.

  Their dance ended and Lydia took her leave of Lord Danbury, pleading the need to assist Mrs Adkins with her responsibilities. A survey of the flushed, excited faces surrounding her was all it took to convince her that the ball was a roaring success, even before the supper tables had been laid out.

  Anticipation about the treasure had the guests in high spirits. They danced and chatted with gusto. Even those who could not—or would not—dance, having sought refuge in the card room, were in an unusually good humour.

  Lord Wellesley’s taste and refinement were praised on all sides, and when supper had been laid, the food proved a further source of delight. It was by far the most successful ball of the season and the guests were enjoying themselves immensely.

  Lydia was thrilled for Mrs Adkins’ sake with how well the ball fared. Every detail was perfect. While the guests were drawn to the supper table like a tidal wave, Lydia took the opportunity to slip back out to the terrace. She breathed deeply of the scented night air and sighed, deciding to stroll out into the garden.