The Mountain of Light (16 page)

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Je pense souvent à Calcutta,
Avitabile had said.
Vous aussi?

I think often of Calcutta. Do you also?

She did. When they had settled into life at Government House at Calcutta in some fashion, ambassadors began coming and going from the courts of the lesser maharajahs and leaders of inconsequential states—all of whom wanted something from the East India Company. And then came the contingent from Maharajah Ranjit Singh's court in the Punjab. He was no petty ruler, and
they
wanted something from him. Along with that contingent came a seven-foot-tall, gravely handsome Neapolitan named Paolo Avitabile.

Emily first met Avitabile at the grand ball thrown in honor of Ranjit Singh's deputation in the Marble Hall. Earlier that afternoon, George had given them a small luncheon, which Emily had missed, lying down in her room upstairs with a headache and chills. For the ball, she forced herself out of bed, had Wright assist her with her corset, pull her pink muslin gown over her head, allowed her English maid to fan out the roses trimmed on the edges of the dress. It was an old gown, two years out of fashion in Paris, the colors muted, but the best one she had.

Some seven hundred people attended the ball. The Maharajah's party was large by itself, eighty people, and they stood out in the very English crowd with their magnificent silk turbans, long beards, the diamonds, rubies, and emeralds studded on their coats, belts, and enameled daggers.

The enormous chandeliers in Marble Hall, hugging close to its ornate ceiling, were shimmering lit, footmen glided in red plush trousers and white gloves, the tables were pushed back against the walls, and when the band struck up its first quadrille, Paolo Avitabile bent his long length over Emily's hand and asked her for a dance.

The room suddenly faded around her, and all Emily could see was his gentle, lean face, those thickly arched eyebrows, the hint of a smile about his lips. His hand was clasped warmly about hers. “I don't dance, monsieur,” she stammered in French, the language he had used. He had spoken it impeccably, without even a hint of an accent. “Thank you, but I don't, really.”

Avitabile pulled out a chair, with a curt bow to Eliza Fane, who was seated nearby, her eyes gleaming with curiosity, turned his back, and settled next to Emily. “Then I shall not also, Mademoiselle Emily. If I cannot, with the most beautiful woman in this room, it's hardly worth the effort.”

Eliza Fane chortled and Emily flushed, deeply uncomfortable at the praise. Lord Melbourne, in his lucid moments, or even in his most romantic ones, had never used the word
beautiful
in referring to her. And Melbourne had been proposing marriage to Emily.

“You have been with the Maharajah for a while, monsieur?” she asked. The room was suddenly hot, the noise was unbearable, the colors of the women's clothing blurred in front of her eyes. Her head throbbed.

“Twenty years,” he replied, neatly flicking a glass of champagne from a passing footman's salver. “Would you like one also?” He bent a finger to beckon. The footman, Baigley, hesitated at the imperious summons, with a mutinous fold around his mouth. The parties for the native rajah were an inevitable part of the Governor-General's duties, but the servants did not take to them easily, or obediently. And Avitabile, though not a native, was in the pay of one. To Baigley,
brought out to India from the London slums to work at Government House, however, they were all the same.

Before Emily could react, Avitabile snapped his fingers. “Now.” She could not see his expression, Baigley could, and he skipped over with the champagne and presented it, trembling, to the general.

“I apologize,” Avitabile said smoothly, setting the flute upon the table. “There's only one way to deal with these brigands. Forgive me, but if he were in my house, I would have cut off his fingers by sundown.” He took a sip of his drink, swirled it around so that it caught a golden light from the candles, and looked at it reflectively. His amused gaze rested upon Emily. “Well, perhaps not all of his fingers, and no, not his thumb, he would be useless without it, but maybe just one little one.”

Behind him, there was the scraping of a chair as Eliza Fane rose.

“Who is she?” Avitabile asked.

Emily stared at him. Melbourne had seemed coarse to her, bumbling, unable to form a sentence of love, although grandiosely eloquent in Parliament—that last had got him elected Prime Minister. Avitabile, this fastidious man in his impeccably cut frock coat, the long length of his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles in front of her gown, was, for all his raw talk, fascinating.

“Eliza Fane is the Commander in Chief  's daughter,” she said.

“Ah, Mr. Fane's child,” Avitabile said. He glanced at her deliberately. “Not so much of a child anymore though, I see.”

Emily watched as Eliza paled, white to her fingertips, and moved heavily away.

“She has been . . . cruel,” Emily said, more to herself than to him.

“I know women, mademoiselle,” Avitabile replied. “I have known many women.” He leaned forward to rest his
forearms on the table. “Was it cruelty, really? From someone whom you would not consort with in London?”

“No.” Emily shook her head. “It's true, what you say. We wouldn't have had any reason . . . Her father moves in different circles. But she's some nine years younger than me, Monsieur Avitabile.”

“You are honest, Mademoiselle Emily.” Avitabile spread out his hands. “I have known many women, but none as honest as you. None who have told me how old they are.”

“I haven't.”

“Ah, but nine years is a lot of time to admit as a difference. A year, maybe two, even better just a few months would lead to a lot of muddled speculation.” He put his hand out to her again. “Will you dance with me now at least?”

“Yes,” she said.

The quadrille had long ended, the orchestra was tuning up for a new song, and when it came, the floor cleared as the women fled to the ends of the room. It was a waltz, newly brought down from England. Her heart thumping in her chest, Emily allowed Avitabile to lead her through the dance.

She could not lift her eyes to his, and knew that everyone was watching them. Her head was bowed under the weight of a neck that was suddenly heavy, her right hand was laid down, holding a clutch of her gown, her left was clasped in Avitabile's right, and his other hand lay warm around her waist. And so they moved.

The next morning came a bouquet of roses and the very first letter from Avitabile. In it he asked,
Voudriez-vous me montrer votre ménagerie, chère mademoiselle Emily?
Will you show me your zoo?

Mr. Taft came in on the heels of Jimrud, Emily's
jemadar,
who bore both the red roses and the letter. He flitted past the open door to her bedroom in his short coat and trousers that never met his ankles, punctuating his movements with dry coughs.

She ignored him, and instead held out her arms and filled them with the scent and color of the flowers. It was the month of June, a steaming, stewing June in Calcutta, and roses were not to be found anywhere. And yet, these were limpid, just in full bloom, still patterned with dew, and exquisite. Jimrud then silently offered the letter. Emily slit it open with a silver letter opener and read the few words it contained. She felt a warmth rise to cover her face.

It was ridiculous to feel like this. All their lives, the Eden girls had been pursued, in one form or another, in the marriage market. If Emily and Fanny were the only two unmarried sisters in the outsize Eden clan, it was by choice. They had a place with George, some income of their own, and the reasons for marrying—if not for love, maybe then for security, for a home—didn't exist for them. The proposals, when they came, were also from men of some power and esteem. Eleanor, the oldest, now married for some forty years, had once enamored William Pitt, who had gone on to become Prime Minister of England. Nothing came of it. When the second man knelt in front of Eleanor, hand on his heart, she hadn't done badly either and was now the Countess of Buckinghamshire. And yet, why was she, Emily, moved by this Paolo Avitabile?

Mr. Taft made a gargling sound in his throat. “Miss Eden, I must ask for a look at the gift.”

“Protocol, Mr. Taft?” Emily asked with a sigh.

“Yes, you never know with these native kings, they strew so many diamonds around, and everything you get must go into the Toshakhana.” He had the grace to look embarrassed for once. “Company rules.” The Toshakhana was the East India Company's treasure house, a term it had borrowed from the native rajas and their
toshakhanas
. Because in India, the treasures were so vast, so unimaginably rich, merely calling it a treasure would almost be . . . a misnomer.

“Here.” Emily proffered the roses and watched as his
stubby fingers parted the petals of each flower and he peered in, suspicious even of the dew which might well be the diamonds he had talked about. He upturned the bouquet and shook it out; nothing fell from it other than a rush of water. He pricked his finger on the thorns, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and continued his examination. When he had finished, he held the roses out to her, and then drew back his arm. “But . . .” he said.

Emily laughed. “They're just roses, Mr. Taft. If you put them into the Toshakhana, they will eventually wither and die—no money can be made out of them.”

Taft looked hopefully at the folded letter in Emily's hands. She shook her head. “I won't show it to you; it's private. Now”—she held out her hand—“can I have my roses back?”

He returned them, reluctantly, and when he had left, Emily sat down to read the letter again, and again.

Later that week, the Governor-General and his sisters took their official yacht, the
Sonamukhi,
fifteen miles up the river Hooghly to Barrackpore, along with some members of Maharajah Ranjit Singh's party. Lord Wellesley, who had built Government House at Calcutta, had constructed a building of the same name in Barrackpore, the summer residence of the Governor-General. This was nowhere as grand as the Calcutta residence, but it boasted, in its park, a complete menagerie.

The Barrackpore zoo had a pelican, Java pigeons, a rhinoceros, cranes, tigers, elephants, and bears. Here, for two days, Emily and Avitabile paraded the grounds, their servants never too far behind. They sat by the cage of the tiger and spoke in low voices; they walked among the pathways at night and listened to the wild, haunting cries of the birds in the aviary.

When the party left for the Punjab, Avitabile bowed and
kissed Emily's hand. It was the first time he had attempted to make any sort of contact with her. He said, “I will order the cashmere shawls for you, mademoiselle, and have them sent to Government House.”

“Thank you,” she said. “But I'm afraid Mr. Taft will not allow us to keep them.”

“I must have a talk with your Mr. Taft.”

“No,” she said, smiling, a hand on his arm. “He does his duty, that's all. We would be glad of the shawls, General Avitabile.”

“Until Lahore then,” he said.

Emily nodded, suddenly overcome with sadness. It would be a while before they arrived at Maharajah Runjeet Singh's court, and there was no guarantee that Avitabile would be there—he was Governor of Peshawar, and if his duties kept him in that province, there he would stay.

Over the next year and a half, Avitabile had written to Emily, something about Peshawar, something about the shawls. She had responded lightly, telling him of their travels, of the native rajas they had met, of the schools for British orphans that she had gone to, of the Hindu College, where the natives were being taught medicine.

When each letter came, George said something new to her about General Avitabile. That he was a mercenary, a soldier, a warrior, that he hadn't had a formal education. That when he had first gone to Peshawar as governor, he had had stakes erected all around the city's walls, and every morning, before breakfast, ninety men were hung from those stakes. They were all miscreants, true, and by the end of a couple of weeks, the only men who walked the streets of Peshawar were the honest, the upright, the decent.

“It's a good thing then, George?” Emily asked, puzzled.

“If you think it is, Em. We have a justice system in England, trials, appeals, that sort of thing, meant to weed out
the bad from society. This kind of summary judgment is . . . appalling.”

“I see,” Emily said. But it didn't change her mind about Avitabile.

She waited, with an undefined yearning, to come to meet the Maharajah. She wondered if Avitabile would be there. On the first morning, the roses came again. He was there. That was all she could think about. That she would meet him soon. Again. And, soon.

Emily pulled off the bedclothes, thrust her feet into slippers, and padded to her desk. She dipped her pen into the inkpot, drained it on the lip of the pot, and held it over the paper. She hesitated so long that a blob of ink formed at the tip of the nib and hung trembling there. She touched the nib to the blotting paper and then began to write.

Emily didn't often heed—perhaps had never heeded—what Fanny had to say. For once, she did. If Paolo Avitabile would not make a move in coming to see her, she would invite him.

A dinner, Monsieur Avitabile? I would like to thank you in person for the shawls and the gowns; they were much more than I expected.
Then, greatly daring.
And . . . we could pick up our friendship from where we left off at Calcutta.

She blew out her lantern and burrowed under the sheets, resting her feet on Chance's warm body, rounded and snuggled at the bottom of the bed. When she was almost asleep, the sickly horse outside coughed again. She listened to the sound growing feebler and feebler until it stopped, and all she could hear was the rasping of the animal's breath, sieved through worn-out lungs. The
punkah
creaked, the night wore on, and before dawn, the mist had taken on a coldness that caused the guards to wrap mufflers around their throats and shove their hands into their pockets.