“When you leave, you may write your comments on the experience!” Sandringham said brightly.
This immediately made her nervous. “Actually, the person on the line above me didn’t comment.”
“That’s because Dr. Andrews is a regular caller. His surgery is a few miles away. He dines here at least once weekly,” he said, looking down at the page. “Perhaps we’ll see him tonight or tomorrow.”
So they were friends.
Turning her attention back to the room, she noticed that behind the table there stood a high-backed chair that looked fit for a judge. Along the side of the room were more high-backed chairs.
“This place is called the circuit house. Do you preside over a court?” she asked, wondering if she should have addressed him differently.
“Oh, no!” He gave a light chuckle. “I’ve no judicial degree. Judges from nearby courts travel in when needed.”
“But this is princely India, not British India. How could you hold trials here?”
“In cases of conflict. Theoretically, a citizen could say the maharaja had treated him unfairly and ask for a second opinion. Just as a judge must preside here if one of the maharanis chooses to argue against our decision on the maharaja’s schooling.”
Perveen knew the government expected her to broker an agreement between the royal women. If she didn’t accomplish it, she would have failed. Pushing down her feeling of anxiety, she tried to change the subject. “It’s a lovely building, but rather remote. How does Mrs. Sandringham like living so far from civilization?”
“Sorry?” His narrow eyebrows rose.
“I was asking about your wife.”
A slow flush spread over his cheeks. “I’m afraid I have no better half. Typically, bachelors are given remote posts like this one.”
Perveen went rigid. Had Sir David known all along Colin Sandringham was a bachelor? Her father would never have accepted the prospect of her staying overnight in a solitary male’s dwelling. Now her name was written in the guest book. There was a chance this evidence of her staying under a single man’s roof could spread all around Poona and Bombay. It could ruin her good name.
Mr. Sandringham spoke quickly, as if he’d realized she wasn’t pleased by the situation. “Besides Rama, there’s Hari, who helps him in the house, and Mohit, who works with horses in the stable. Hari sleeps on the veranda, and Rama and Mohit share a hut in the garden. There is additional space for servants traveling with guests, and that is where Charan and Pratik will bunk tonight. We have the protection of a guard dog, Desi, who will be loose from after suppertime into the morning hours. Nothing’s ever happened here—but if you feel nervous, ring the bell, and we’ll all come running.”
Except that he couldn’t run. And he seemed to think the danger to her was from the outside, not from him. Striving to sound neutral, she said, “This is a remarkable bungalow with an interesting arrangement of rooms, all stretched out along the veranda. Is it typical of British officer housing?”
“Yes. These mountain bungalows need to be built quickly, between rains, and all materials for building are hauled up by donkey. You may have noticed the house has a very steep pitched roof to allow rain to drain quickly.”
“Yes. That is sensible.” Perveen’s family had a construction company that had built offices and bungalows in Bombay for more than two hundred years, and she had an intuitive feeling for buildings. This looked like what her late grandfather would have called a pukka house—well built and free of defect—although it was relatively modest, with none of the ornate moldings and inlaid marble tile designs that were a feature of her own family’s home. Was Sandringham’s character also pukka? That was the question.
“You asked about the arrangement of the rooms,” Sandringham said, interrupting her thoughts. “The tall double doors at the veranda’s center lead to the drawing room and dining room, where we’ll eat tonight. Cooking’s done in a separate house out back. Now that you’ve arrived, I’d like to give Rama our order for supper. Firstly, do you eat chicken?”
“Certainly.” She had endured English cooking for three years, so she could imagine how dreadful supper would be.
“Good, because it’s all we have. Rama has a repertoire of just ten chicken dishes. I’ll let you choose which one.”
She nodded, thinking this was a surprising way to offer hospitality. But then again, he was a bachelor. Everything was bound to be topsy-turvy.
“We can offer you chicken kabob. Chicken cutlets. Roast chicken. Curried or stewed chicken!” Mr. Sandringham affected the accent and manner of a Cockney hawker. “Boiled chicken. Smothered chicken. Fried chicken. Chicken mince. Chicken biryani.”
Perveen’s anxiety was somewhat lessened by his silliness and at hearing Indian dishes were a possibility for dinner. “I’m curious about smothered chicken. It sounds rather mysterious.”
“Chicken splayed apart, dusted with spices, and pressed between hot rocks. I like it as well, but it takes an hour.”
She nodded, imagining the flavor. Food could take her mind off many tensions. “I don’t mind. I’ll use the time to freshen up.”
Rama had already lit the sconces and candles in her rooms, so Perveen spent the next hour unpacking and looking around. The long, stone-floored bathroom had an old-fashioned commode with a wooden seat and a bucket of water for flushing—this was better than she’d anticipated, although there was no sink with taps, just a washbasin on a teak stand with a round mirror behind it.
A deep zinc tub was filled with warm water. She realized that the water must have been heated on the fire she’d seen blazing in a pit in the garden, and some poor lackey must have quickly carried buckets through a short doorway to fill the tub. The lifestyle of the place, with its lack of electricity, running water, and indoor stoves, was reminiscent of a half century earlier. She would never have imagined a British officer in 1921 would live this way; but if he could manage, so would she.
Perveen picked up a fresh bar of soap that smelled like neem leaves. Scrubbing away the dirt and sweat from her long ride in the post wagon, she decided that Sandringham was strange for an Englishman. She had been expecting someone like Sir David, and from Sandringham’s accent, she guessed he came from the upper class. But he lived modestly and had a sense of humor about it. And at least he hadn’t requested Rama make a boiled chicken; he’d let her choose what she wanted.
After Perveen had bathed, put on a wrapper, and gone back to her bedroom, she opened up her Vuitton trunk and lifted out the saris, each folded into a perfect square by Gulnaz, who had lent them to Perveen. She looked at the layers of glowing pink, cream, and light green silk: very fancy saris Gulnaz had deemed appropriate for hobnobbing with maharanis. Perveen feared creasing them, so she picked one of her own saris, a blue watered silk shot through with golden threads. It was a subtly formal sari that was heavy enough to offer warmth against the cool evening air. Underneath, she wore a silk blouse with gold embroidery on the cuffs, which came to just above her wrists. She was glad of the long sleeves because she’d heard the whining of a few mosquitoes making practice laps before beginning the night’s work.
“You could catch dengue,” her mother had warned when they were talking about safety precautions for the trip. “Do not go about after dark. And watch your step in the gardens. Perveen, I’m not at all convinced it’s a good idea you take this job for the government.”
“Two days’ work that pays as much as twenty client hours,” Perveen had told her. “All travel expenses covered and a good chance for more work with royalty in the area. Pappa will be so pleased after I’m done.”
She’d counted on all of that—but not how strange and faraway this world would seem. Worrying about mosquito bites would be the least of her concerns.
4
Old Home Week
Perveen gaped as she entered the circuit house’s drawing room. Even though she’d seen
the pitched roof outdoors, she was amazed by the height of the drawing room’s ceiling—at least thirty feet. As if trying to live up to the exaggerated ceiling, the rosewood chairs and settees ranged along the wall had backs that rose ten feet. They looked more suitable for giants than ordinary people.
Well, that was how most British people thought of themselves in India.
Perveen continued her covert inspection, noting that instead of open bookcases, there were ten-foot-high, glass-paneled almirahs. She would have gone closer to look at the titles, but she realized that Colin Sandringham was entrenched in one of the room’s few soft, lower-backed chairs with a mass of letters spread out before him on a teak coffee table. In the same moment, she realized she shouldn’t have worried about dressing formally for dinner. He was wearing the same jodhpurs and boots. The only effort he had made was changing his shirt. She didn’t know whether to take offense that he didn’t consider dinner with her worth dressing for, or to feel reassured he wasn’t trying to seduce her.
There was a funny Parsi Gujarati phrase to describe such dishevelment: jeethra peethra. Hearing it in her mind, she laughed silently. Remembering her roots was one way to feel more certain in this strange environment.
Mr. Sandringham looked up at her. “Good!” he said in a relaxed voice, not seeming to notice her change in appearance. “Supper’s ready. Are you feeling well enough for it?”
“Yes. That hot bath was just what I needed for my tired bones.”
Sandringham rose and walked with his lopsided gait toward the table in the dining room. “You’ll see Rama set everything out for us: the smothered chicken, roasted potatoes, and a curry made with the local spinach. He’s at work on rotis and dal. I’ll open a bottle of claret, if you’d care for any.”
Perveen hesitated. Not only was she staying alone overnight with a man, if she accepted his offer, she could also be criticized for drinking alcohol with him. Looking at the bottle made her feel uneasy. Still—she drank a bit of wine on celebratory evenings with her family. And she wasn’t sure about the purity of the drinking water. “How’s the water at the circuit house?”
“Boiled but not particularly tasty. It’s very good at the palace, I hear.”
“I’ll take a large glass of water and a tiny taste of the wine. I can’t risk a headache when I travel tomorrow.”
“Yes—I’m going to tell you all about that,” he said, pouring her a few ounces of wine and filling his own glass halfway. “Shall we say cheers?”
“Yes. To a successful venture in Satapur,” Perveen said, raising her glass before taking a sip. The claret was a good one—it seemed to change in her mouth, leaving a soft floral taste at the end.
“Is it all right?” Mr. Sandringham was smiling, as if he already knew how good the wine was.
“It tastes like violets,” Perveen said after a second sip. She’d decided to put aside her anxiety and make small talk. This was the way the British behaved before business. “It’s quite a nice taste. I haven’t drunk Château Margaux since my time at Oxford.”
He looked startled. “Which college?”
“St. Hilda’s.”
“When did you come down?”
“Last year. I had a brief clerkship in London before returning to Bombay and joining my father’s practice.” Perveen was grateful he hadn’t asked what had brought her to study in England. He didn’t need to know about her bungled first attempt at studying law in Bombay and her failed marriage in Calcutta.
“We’re practically batch mates! I read geography at Brasenose and came down in 1919.” He grinned. “You’re looking at me doubtfully. Why is that?”
She didn’t want to offend him, so she spoke carefully. “I believe you’re a Brasenosian, but you seem older than me.”
“I’m twenty-eight. I was at Oxford before the war. Then I spent a few years in France.”
“With the army?”
He nodded. “Like a lot of my friends, I believed the war would be over by Christmas.”
“And of course, that did not happen.” She thought again about his slight limp. He had got off lightly, compared to so many veterans. “Why did you choose geography?”
“Before the war, I was interested in zoology. But while in France, I became keen on maps. An accurate map can mean the difference between life and death. So when I returned to my studies, I shifted my focus to geography. I realized the best way to get into mapping uncharted territory was to serve the government outside of Britain.”
“Does the ICS employ geographers to draw maps?” Perveen asked before tasting the evening’s main course. The chicken had been smothered with sliced onions, which had melted into soft sweetness that offset the savory, salty flavor of the bird.
“Yes. I’d be delighted to have that assignment, but junior officers generally must serve first as collectors.”
“Collectors are the people who count every rupee or grain of rice that Indians owe,” she said sarcastically.
“Not just that. The collector reports on the conditions and morale of the people and settles non-criminal disputes. The job requires a great deal of traveling.”
Rama came in carrying a bowl of dal and a brass platter laden with rotis. Instead of going around the table and formally serving both of them, he placed the bowls between them and left.
“He’s a very good cook,” Perveen said after she’d tasted everything on her plate.
“Yes. I was very lucky to get him, because he’s a Brahmin. Typically he would only serve vegetarian cuisine and work in a Hindu household.”
Perveen guessed that Rama had made a hard decision based on economics to become a chef dealing with chickens. But it was fortunate for Mr. Sandringham. “Brahmin cooks are known for very good hygiene. I had a case once where a family believed they’d hired a Brahmin cook, but they found out the cook was of a lower caste. The family wanted to take him to trial.”
Sandringham leaned forward, looking interested. “Who prevailed?”
“I brokered an out-of-court settlement. The cook was not sued and agreed to work elsewhere.” She raised her hands. “The cook wasn’t overjoyed, but at least he still had a job and didn’t owe them money he didn’t have.”
“You must see a lot of unfairness in your work.” Sandringham’s sharp jaw set in a disapproving line. “What do you think of the caste system? How does it affect your own family?”
“In my Zoroastrian faith, we don’t have such a built-in hierarchy, although only priestly families can do the necessary rites in our fire temples, and certain community members handle the dead.” As Perveen took a bite of the savory chicken, she remembered how her mother-in-law had once said she wasn’t pure enough to spin sacred thread at a ladies’ gathering. She’d felt insulted, but this was nothing to tell Colin Sandringham. “As a lawyer who serves clients of all faiths, I must accept what is present in Hindu law. Yet I did pity the cook for losing salary.”
Mr. Sandringham raised an eyebrow. “Was he a good cook?”
“Yes, but he certainly wouldn’t prepare meat. What excellent chicken!” Perveen said, taking another forkful. “But I digress. Tell me, how long were you a collector?”
“About a year. I became political agent for Satapur the first of January.”
This was a significant promotion after one short year as collector. And Sir David had made it seem as if Mr. Sandringham wasn’t doing well in this position. She wanted to understand what the truth was. “So you are now the very important liaison to the Satapur palace. Does your geography background come into it?”
Mr. Sandringham smiled ruefully. “Not at all. But I can draw my maps during the monsoon months, when there isn’t much else to do.”
“Is the rainy season really six months?” Perveen asked, still wondering how he’d nabbed the job.
He rolled his eyes. “This year it was one hundred eighty days. The season is officially
over, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we have a few more showers.”
“I’d go mad being confined in one place for so long.”
“One adjusts. The real problem is that mail ceases, sometimes for months. The two maharanis’ letters to me were dated from May, but I didn’t get either one until September. Can you imagine such a delay for a distance of twelve miles?”
“So Charan and Pratik couldn’t come through with their cart?”
He shook his head. “No. I’m certain that the prince’s mother, the maharani Mirabai, is very frustrated that I didn’t pursue admission for her son at Ludgrove. The Kolhapur Agency read me the riot act. It’s too late now, which means he’ll miss entering this year.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Perveen said. “The prince’s mother wished you to make an application for her son to school in England—yet she wouldn’t allow you to come see her at the palace to talk about it?”
“That’s the case,” he said shortly. “Whether keeping me out was her idea or her mother-in-law’s, I don’t know.”
Her interest rising, Perveen leaned forward. “It could also be orders from a male relative or a palace administrator. Have you ever been allowed into the palace?”
He pressed his lips together. “No, but the estranged relationship predates me. Just before I moved here, Maharani Mirabai’s older son, Pratap Rao, suffered an untimely death. According to the last political agent, Owen McLaughlin, the ladies cut off all contact with him after that tragedy, although he’d regularly been allowed inside when the Maharaja Mahendra Rao was alive. I traveled there by palanquin to make a social call—first upon my arrival, and secondly after these letters—but was not admitted.”
“Oh dear!” Perveen hadn’t realized that more than one maharaja had died. The situation was proving complex. “How old was the young Maharaja Pratap Rao, and how did he perish?”
“Prince Pratap Rao was thirteen years old at the time of his death in 1920. He was on a hunting trip with his uncle and others from the palace. He went missing and was found dead the next day.”
The Satapur Moonstone Page 3
