“I did not think how you might see it, my dearest heart. Now—may we begin again?”
He beheld me with his sleepy hooded eyes. “I had very different plans for tonight.”
I did not pull away.
“Rami,” I warned. “I will prowl at will, see whom I wish whenever I wish, and leave this royal prison whenever I feel the need.” I allowed myself to be bent back, convinced by Rami’s languorous and thorough kisses that turned both our knees to jelly, that he agreed.
Later, from our vast plush bed—a bed as large as a small island, where one could set up housekeeping—we came to an accord.
Neither of us could have foretold how our joyous wedding celebration would end, moreover with such disaster, though I had more premonition than had he…
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Wedding of Fire
Sumptuously gowned in silks—as a dulhan, recalling my early days in the seraglio. Every inch weighted with gold, hennaed, bejeweled, veiled, diademed, and bangled to within an inch of my life. The rajah bestowed an emerald the size of a quail’s egg, now hanging level with my eyebrows.
I surveyed my loaded-down reflection in the copper mirror.
I do look rather magnificent!
Like a princess? sneered my imp. I wasn’t sure I hated that notion at all.
“You are to be a rani! And soon maharani!” Asha’s eyes were round with awe. The news spread like a green-eyed plague throughout the seraglio. “Shall we not be friends, then?”
“I am no better than you, no matter what I am called.” I wondered when the sumptuous dress, the gems, and being addressed as “princess” or “maharani” would become second nature, leave alone first nature…
Yet, to my shame, these fancies crept in the back door. No more fear. The world at my feet. Exotic splendors. Travelling in opulent style. Feted and admired—forever, with the most striking man in the universe by my side.
My bewildered image frowned back as I gazed at myself in all my wedding finery. What was wrong with this image? Why did my foot not fit in that particular glass slipper?
Quit being a goose! Of course you deserve it.
Admiring myself for the last time—yes, this is the last!—I saluted my image and left to meet my prince, my love, my Rami.
No more looking back.
****
I paced regally, as befitted a queen—or at least so I supposed—up to my Rami waiting on a balustrade, overlooking Bharatpur that moonstruck night. A man of exotic eastern flavor whom all my senses found most pleasing.
“On Holi, people make huge Holika bonfires and sing and dance!” Asha had spread her slender arms wide, exclaiming, while I prepared.
True. All Bharatpur exploded with high spirits. Everywhere shining faces, flashing teeth, swirling mobs, while brilliant powders tinted the air with rainbow clouds of mist, music played from all quarters, and celebrants chanted.
The pearly moon shimmered off Rami’s ivory satin tunic and tight breeches, complimenting his burnished walnut skin and molten black eyes. As a salute to his youth, he let his long black gypsy hair hang free as he stalked wordlessly to meet me, hands out, his mysterious hooded eyes expressionless and his mouth set in stone.
Detecting the barely controlled emotions beneath, my last doubts evaporated like the brilliant clouds of mist tinting Bharatpur’s night sky.
Now I faced my most handsome, passionate companion-to-be, pleasuring my mind, my body, and my very soul and offering, after these few promises and prayers, an undreamed-of life.
And me, soon to be treasured, wealthy beyond words, feted by crowned heads and worshiped by Indian society. At least Rajasthan’s. My imp snickered.
I glanced over, hearing a subtle cough from the waiting priests.
Troubled, I glanced over my shoulder at the mob below. What could go wrong? The arrival of uninvited wedding guests, hinting at the horrors to come?
What could go wrong?
****
The Vedic yajna, the ritual, began. Soon to be Her Royal Highness the Maharani Sarabande—or whatever name was dropped on my head—I heard the buzz of the ritual only through a baffle of laughter, music, and chaotic thoughts darting about me like large night moths.
Most prophetic—yet how could I know?—the primary witness of a Hindu wedding was the fire deity, Agni. Yes, the fire god Agni was much in attendance that night, a jealous god watching over all, in all his blazing, vindictive, destructive glory.
Innocent of all this, I found my world forever changed as, beyond the priest, massive joyous crowds lit yet another enormous bonfire. Dazzling, earsplitting sound and fury kindled the sky amidst thunderous blasts from fireworks. Colors danced across faces, turning Rami’s ivory satin to rainbow hues.
At the same time, the mob lit a massive bundle of Catherine wheels and roman candles. Then…
A stack of shooting-star fireworks tipped onto an igniter. Cartons of firecrackers detonated, in chain reaction, followed by more shooting stars, Catherine wheels, and strings of crackers. The indigo sky exploded into orange, turning incandescent white-hot fury, with the force and blast of a volcano, as if the god Agni bestowed his most generous angry gift upon Rami and myself.
The beating white-hot heart blossomed into a poisonous, hellish, sulfurous yellow, vanquishing the velvety sky, the distant crowd, and all of my senses.
My ears vibrated with shock waves, and simultaneously my memory returned with the full force of Agni’s vengeance.
Chapter Thirty
Agni’s Vengeance
My howl was that of a wounded animal. Memories burned deep caught fire, as if smoldering coals ignited, setting my heart and head ablaze.
I remembered.
Staring into the hellish sky, I remembered all.
I cried out, “Jude!” with all the anguish of pent-up bewilderment and pain.
I looked wildly about, turning and turning again, winding my wedding finery about me like a shroud. “Tommy! Tommy! Where are you?” The last I could recall was as he approached an enormous bonfire… No, that wasn’t right. My mind still refused to open that last door, but my hand was on the knob and I was pulling hard.
Walls of flame met each spin. Panic-stricken celebrants screaming, colliding, as rockets and pyrotechnics continued exploding and ashes from burning stalls and buildings rained down on our heads.
I lifted my arm to shield my face, shrieking as my veil caught fire…fire… As it had before.
Rami yanked off my veil, lifted me in my wedding finery, and carried me off as I beat at him, struggling to be let down.
“Let me go! I need to find them!”
“I know, Sary, beloved…”
Chapter Thirty-One
Suttee
The suttee…where widows burned to untimely death.
The suttee, where widows young or old flung themselves on or bound themselves to husbands in hoary tradition—or because of coercion or perverted love…
That was my last terrifying moment before my memories walled off, but now the walls came tumbling down…
That unleashed fury at our wedding matched perfectly the horrors of the suttee.
That other great fire, blackening my mind, heart, and soul, scorching my memory clean…until now.
I saw…
Jude’s dear, puckish face.
And Tommy’s Irish good looks and charming grin.
Immobile as stone, ashes smearing my face, I could smell my singed hair, just as before.
Still in wedding finery, the gruesome scenes played in my head.
“There was a fire that other time,” I whispered.
“Yes.” Rami agreed sadly.
But the fire was the answer…I must hang on to that.
****
“Good port from our British protectors. Better than tea.” Rami handed me a beaker with enough to knock out a horse, but gall would have been no less bitter.
“Do I need to be restored?” I whispered huskily, my gaze traveling his face like an expl
orer over unknown territory. “My name is Sarabande. Sarabande Swinford! I was born in Indiana. I’m a farmer’s wife,” I blurted with a sense of wonder, then beat my forehead in irritation. “That isn’t right! He—he died. I traveled with—with my brother to a gold mining camp. It was in California.” I faltered. “Big Bear, it was. It was in the mountains—but that was long ago, and…”
Rami watched me. “You wish to know more, mera pyara?” he asked me, sadly and oh, so carefully.
“Yes,” I whispered between dry lips.
“There was a man, Sarabande. The bravest I have ever seen. I do not have his acquaintance. Yet this man rushed in, as you say, ‘Where angels fear to tread.’ ”
“Thomas. You speak of…my Tommy.” His name died in a whisper as ebony night enfolded me, and stars blinked out as if a ghost appeared. A man I knew and loved. Slender, fine-boned, strikingly handsome as only the Black Irish can be. My…almost husband, for I had never consented to marriage, me, forever playing the tease, the contrary, the independent.
“Yes, Thomas. I noted the name on your banner.” Rami smiled almost wistfully.
I saw it all. Tommy. Beloved Tommy. Brave little Jude.
The colorful jolly parade of Rolls Royce motor cars, performers…and me atop that elephant…
“Tommy was an actor—he owned a traveling theater company. That is how we met. He toured Big Bear…and…”
“Continue. You must.”
“Sut—tee!” I managed, twisting my face in disgust and horror. My hair flew about my head, stinging my eyes as I tried to shake the image loose. Even the word suttee scorched my throat.
Hot. Hellish. Vile.
Sut—teeeeeeeee! Like a snake’s evil hiss.
“It was barbaric! Suttee belongs in the dark ages with the bloody Inquisition! Burning a woman alive—burying her…with her dead husband! Or drowning her!”
“The custom is indeed horrible…”
“Horrible! Indeed!” I had nailed up the past, but those walls burned down in the chaos of the Holi festival.
“When Tommy and I first heard of that—that practice, we thought it was a hideous myth to intrigue credulous tourists—the practice of burying a widow along with her husband…alive, or drowning the unfortunate creature, whose only sin was that of being an awkward widow.”
It had almost made the thought of suttee seem a blessing, quick and searing…
Until we beheld one…
“I saw one of your God-blasted suttees!” I slanted eyes at Rami so scathingly he winced, as if my words physically cut.
“Please!” I held up my hand. “Let me finish, or I never shall.”
The glare, the heat, the ghastly nightmare images—all horrifically true…
“There were massive flames then, too, raging two stories high from a tower of faggots so scorching hot it blistered my face from a half a block away.”
I looked at Rami, unseeing. “It was a glorious day in India, not sweltering, for one used to the cold.” I smiled, wistful. “Our entourage was elegant. The troupe traveled in Rolls Royces—in style.”
“Indeed. Go on.” I knew him. He wished to lead me away from the horrors. I was willing—for the time. Happier reminiscence rushed in that I would not deny. “Yes. Twenty Rolls Royces—trucks, vans, buses, cabriolets, and passenger coupes in the brightest colors, especially kitted in every rainbow shade.” I could not help crowing. “Brass gleamed so it hurt the eyes.”
I saw a series of pictures parading before me.
“We spanned southern India and then decided to travel north to here. I was on the lead elephant. I remember its ankle bells jangling as it thumped along. And the flies! Lord!” I smiled again. “Trucks of props, and costumes, the cooks’ car, and a dressing van, one for me and Tommy. My son, Jude, had his own caravan—though he was only six.”
I swallowed hard and looked away. I did not want to ask. Not yet. I was picking my way.
“Dormitory vans for crew and cast, plus quarters for Malcolm.” I smiled fondly at the memory. “Malcolm was only three and a half feet tall, but a lion.” My mouth stretched wide at the happy recollection. “Plus, his red-haired wife and three daughters, with one on the way. Rose, Lilly, and Tulip.”
I went silent again. What had happened to them all?
Rami sat quietly.
As if he already knew.
I left it for now. How could I ask that for which the answer might plunge me into despair?
“Abandoning heavy velvets in favor of Indian dress, we performed The Taming of the Shrew and A Midsummer Night’s Dream in saris and sandals instead.” I chuckled at the memory that could have been forever lost.
“I attended The Taming of the Shrew in Stratford-upon-Avon,” Rami could not help boasting.
“Indeed?” I said politely, wincing at a fragment of another recollection. Where had we performed before, in the cold…the wet, the rain? Oh, yes. England! Mismatched pieces grudgingly fit into place, some forced and others I feared never found.
England. Misty greens, chill fogs, cozy fires and teas…Also, a humiliating bout with a con artist who stole the fortune I had gouged out in cold dank gold mines in far-off Big Bear. Tommy, back there in that hostile mining camp, armed with nothing but a scared expression and a bandolier of ammo but rushing to my aid.
“Where did you go, Sarabande?” The rajah broke in softly. “Take me with you.”
I shook my head and forged on.
“We gave a command performance for the maharajah that night. A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
Rami nodded assent.
“Terribly thrilled and puffed up to be invited to the palace!” My face showed I was anything but.
“Yes. My brother took great notice of you. And of your son,” he finished heavily. “The maharajah was besotted. Scarce a man did not send roses from his heart. My dear brother stalked you about the stage as if he wanted to suck the marrow from your bones.”
I shuddered.
“I overheard orders for your abduction, long before he saw your son in that last act. But the boy! All he could see from then on were the lusty sons you would bear—besides the other benefits he would enjoy.” An unaccustomed sepia flush was evident under his polished nut-brown skin. “Yes, how do you say it? I put both feet in the stew up to my chin.”
I bit back a grin at his malapropism, no matter my unease.
“I wanted no part, Sary. I was disgusted. That a prince of our noble state would need lower himself to an abduction. I heard guards would rush the stage to arrest you on made-up charges. Sedition. Religious heresy, the troupe jailed for rabblerousing, or Lord Shiva knows what! Not beyond him to have all but you and your lad put to the sword, to the last man and child. Even your son was not safe. My brother already viewed your splendid boy as an unneeded rival, if he could beget an heir on you. That was my brother’s sick, poisonous mind in a sea shell.”
“Nutshell,” I murmured automatically.
“All eyes were on you. You captured every male in the house. When you made your bows, you announced, oh, so proudly, ‘My son Jude played the part of Puck extremely well, don’t you think? It is his first adult role, though my son is only six!’ Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“And that was your undoing, mere dil ka pyaar.”
Don’t call me “love of my heart”! I cannot bear it.
“I saw my brother’s eyes open wide. Greedy for your son. The health, vigor, and lusty strength of your lad compared to his own poor boy. Your remarkable son looked at least ten years of age, with the beginning of mannish muscles. All my brother saw was the impressive man he would become, that his own son would never be.”
Again my past invaded me. Jude, the result of an attack by E’vret, a sweet, childlike giant, years ago in those same rough mountains of Big Bear, that depraved California gold-mining outpost.
By some alchemy, the attack resulted in Jude, perfect, bright, and beautiful, defying all odds. Jude. My faultless, darling son. My green eyes
and intellect—my attacker’s muscles, height, curly hair, and sweet underlying disposition, no matter Ev’ret’s criminal lapse to please his sick boss, who ordered the attack.
“I killed him,” I said simply.
“Killed?” Rami raised a black wing of brow.
“Yes.” I looked Rami full on. “Jude’s…father was the bodyguard of a mad man…he was”—I hesitated—“not simple, just trusting, child-like.”
I shut my eyes. “I killed them both before they could murder me.” Aware Rami gazed at me with new eyes, I did not care. So I was not the woman, faint of heart, he supposed.
“So. He wanted my boy.” I looked at Rami coldly. “What has he done with him?” I jumped up, prepared to tear the palace apart.
“No, my love. We—I do not have him. Please.”
My eyes must have turned the stormy green of the sea when squalls threaten the horizon. A storm was definitely brewing. I sorted words, like picking glass from the bottom of my foot.
“We blundered, that day of the suttee, after that last performance, into a narrow passage.”
And straight into a blazing orange hell.
“The way was blocked. We had to back out. Not easy with so many of us—the crowds and stalls. And of course the”—I choked—“confusion at the other end. We thought it was unrest against British rule or some such riot, and we were perilously close to what I thought a bonfire, an uprising.” My eyes darkened. “Only it was not. Unable to back up, we were shoved right to the ragged end of the mob. It was still dangerously high, yet men were feeding the blaze. When the flames lowered, other men—and women, too—tossed coconut shells onto the fire that roared in a whirlwind of smoke, as black as evil…
“My elephant became restive. Then I saw the girl on the pyre—so young, so lovely, in a plain white flapping sari whipped by gusts from the fire as she tried to scramble higher up the faggots, as if the logs were stair steps. Then smoke curling around the side hid her. When it thinned, I saw her crawling sideways where the wood hadn’t caught yet.”
“Shhh, shhh, priya.”
I was not about to be soothed. “I saw fire and smoke enveloping spectators, who leaped back amid hoots and laughter. Cinders burned pinpricks in my arms.”
Sary and the Maharajah's Emeralds Page 19
