The Mountain of Light (18 page)

All that day, Emily had paced her tent, restless. She could not write her letters, could barely eat anything; she sat in the armchair, she stood, she flitted around. George had gone out, early in the morning, for a review of troops—both British and from the Punjab. Fanny, fearless, had accompanied him,
and watched all day long from atop a howdah, dipping her hand into a bag of sandwiches when she was hungry.

Emily fretted, shifting the papers around on her desk. Ranjit Singh must have known something of what had happened in Calcutta, and in his own way had engineered Avitabile's visit to her tent. It was a disconcerting feeling. At home, in England, Emily would not have cared, as she had not when the gossip surrounded Melbourne and her at Lady Cowper's, for this was part of the dance of courtship—if, she thought wryly, Melbourne's mumblings could be called that. Here, in India, there was no such notion at all. If a man wanted a wife, or was attracted to a woman (though how he would actually see her first was a wonder), he married her . . . and married as many others as he wanted. If a king wanted another king's wife, he killed the husband and took the wife. But this was not Calcutta—and while the rules of England could have been employed in their little piece of property at Government House, here, at the Sutlej, was a rawness and roughness that bespoke a foreign land.

Emily hesitated to call this a courtship, even though she was forty-one years old and felt at times like a giddy young girl in the throes of a first love. It was not, even, a love. For what had it been? A few letters, a walk in the park, a waltz in Marble Hall. Shawls and gowns sent to her in the fulfillment of a promise. That was all.

She wore another one of the gowns—this one in pink, embroidered with fully caparisoned elephants along the bottom—and a shawl when she greeted General Paolo Avitabile, her gaze steady upon his face. He had grown older, a few more lines along his forehead, a small stoop to his shoulders, some grays painted in his dark hair. For all that she had read his letters carefully, and many times, she knew nothing of this man. And yet, when he kissed her hand, she had a sudden and deep yearning to caress his face. She moved, flushing, her heart thumping with a rhythm of excitement it had
not known for years. In the light from the many silver candlesticks around the tent, tallow falling thickly down their sides, his eyes were a light gray.

The general followed Emily to a sideboard with curved legs and set the tray down. She took a deep breath. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and pearls sparkled against the black velvet covering on the tray. There were heavy necklaces of emeralds surrounded with tiny, faceted diamonds, matching earrings, bangles. Rubies the size of pomegranate seeds, and one, set in a bracelet, the size of a cherry. A tiny model of Leili, the horse, was fashioned out of a pure white ivory, its saddle and harness studded with diamonds. But in the center of the tray reposed the armlet that contained the Kohinoor.

Emily reached for it, and Avitabile's warm hand closed over hers. “My life depends on bringing these back to my king safely, Mademoiselle Emily.”

The shadows of the Akali soldiers shifted across the wall of the tent.

“What would they do? Kill me?” she asked, smiling.

Avitabile shook his head gravely. “No.” He picked up the armlet and held it out to her. “I would not let them, mademoiselle. They are a crude sort of people, no real understanding of any sophistication and throw that thing there”—he jerked his thumb backward—“without thinking. It's a disc, and travels at great speed, and when it reaches its object, it slices off his neck.” He made a motion under his chin. “And he's dead. One cannot breathe when one's nose is no longer attached to one's torso.”

Emily shuddered. She took the armlet from Avitabile. It was wider than she had thought, and heavy, with thick gold links, a diamond-studded clasp, and two silk tassels. Only a king, she thought, would think of putting diamonds on a clasp, which would not show when he wore the armlet around the upper part of his arm. But the real beauty of the piece lay in that central diamond. She ran her fingers over its surface,
and felt a cool power in the stone. Avitabile took it from her and, holding her hand, draped it around her wrist so that the light from the diamond glowed.

This touching seemed natural with him, even though the servants were ranged around the room. It was casual, not anything to make much of. They both looked down upon the Kohinoor, and Emily's hand began to tremble in his grasp. It was a moment so intimate, so sudden and unexpected. Inside, Emily began to struggle for words to speak. Finally they came.

“What is its history?” she asked, in a hushed voice.

Avitabile shrugged. “My king got it from Shah Shuja—you know, the man you are all attempting to put on the Afghan throne as king, replacing Dost Mohammad. Shuja was driven out of Afghanistan and came to the Maharajah for help, which he gave him, and then he had to give him the Kohinoor in return. But it belonged, once, to the Mughal kings.”

On their way to the Punjab from Calcutta, they had stopped in Delhi to see the last Mughal king, Bahadur Shah Zafar, in his palaces at the fort. Most of the rooms of the fort were open to visitors, British and foreign visitors only, since the King of Delhi was now under the “protection” of the East India Company. His empire had diminished to the environs of his fort at Delhi, and even that was invaded by picnic parties when they wanted. George had not come with them, he could not as Governor-General of India, for it would then have seemed to be an official visit and the Mughal king was not to be acknowledged as any sort of a sovereign at all—McNaghten had been very adamant about this. So Emily and Fanny had gone, visited the ruined marble halls and hallways, and seen the king on a distant terrace overlooking the Yamuna River, his balding head bared to the sun, the smoke from his
hukkah
spiraling upward, a lone attendant squatting at his feet.

“It has, though, been a long time since it belonged to the Mughals.”

Avitabile nodded, a gleam of appreciation in his glance. “True, you know your Indian history, mademoiselle. And, as long as my Maharajah is alive, it will remain an Indian diamond. After him”—he shrugged—“who knows.”

Ever since they had come to India, Emily had been almost surfeited with the range and breadth of jewelry and precious stones she had seen—pearls of an impossible luster; diamonds glittering like a new-hewn moon; rubies to rival sunrises; emeralds that evoked the cool hush of a rained-upon forest. And crude as the setting was for the Kohinoor, with its rudimentary gold work and the two lesser diamonds, one on either side, it still took her breath away.

“Is there really a curse upon it?” she asked.

Avitabile took the armlet from her and laid it back upon the tray. “There is a legend, certainly,” he agreed, “that the Kohinoor must never be worn upon a ruler's crown. The Mughal king Shah Jahan had it embedded into his Peacock Throne; my master has it in an armlet and wears it well away from his head. Other than that . . . I don't know, mademoiselle. But diamonds of a fabulous worth have a way of bringing misfortune upon all those who possess them.”

Emily turned away; the moment had passed. “Shall we eat, Monsieur Avitabile? St. Cloup has been immensely bothered about this meal; he intends to rival all the cooks in your kitchen at Peshawar.”

“That,” Avitabile said comfortably, “is something I doubt he can do, mademoiselle. I have the best. It's a simple truth. Someday, perhaps, you will eat at my home. That would truly be a pleasure.”

Major Bryne had hung a chandelier in this sitting room, to one side, and the little, round table was set directly underneath it, the light from the chandelier casting its flickering flame around but not on the table. The tablecloth was white
damask, the fabric lush in the muted light; a crystal vase stood in the middle filled with the white roses that Avitabile had sent in the morning. The china was from Government House, and came from an original set that served a hundred people. The plates were white with a pink and gold edging, the cutlery was pure silver, and the napkins were again damask. In the year and a half that George, Emily, and Fanny had progressed, in great state, through the Upper Provinces of India, this whole set had traveled with them, cushioned in hay, nestled in tin boxes made for this purpose, and toted on camel back.

“You brought this along with you?” Avitabile asked, drawing out Emily's chair and waiting for her to be seated.

“We are like the Mughal kings, Monsieur Avitabile,” Emily replied, laughing. “We were told that if we left one stick of furniture in Government House, the white ants would reduce them to a crumble before we returned, and if we left one candlestick, it would be burgled. So, we brought it all along.”

“And now your encampment is some twenty-five thousand people?”

“Yes, it's difficult to imagine.” Emily nodded toward the head bearer, lurking in the entry to the tent. He came in with a bottle of claret, wrapped in a white napkin, and deftly filled their glasses. She flung out her napkin and put it on her lap as she picked up her wineglass. “Thank you for showing me the Kohinoor,” she said.

He smiled. “It is my master you must thank. The Maharajah is a generous man.”

Their glasses touched lightly and they drank.

Outside the tent they heard the slow, hacking cough of the ill horse. Once, twice, a third and tired time. The
khitmatgar
put two bowls of soup in front of them—shrimp balls in a clear, cinnamon-flavored broth. There was nothing but a little salt and pepper for the flavoring, but the shrimp was perfectly
cooked, the broth flavored just right, and the soup sang on their tongues.

“Tell me about Peshawar,” Emily said, putting down her soup spoon. Here, for the first time, she had an opportunity to really talk with General Avitabile, to watch his face as they did so, to consider him . . . for what? A husband? “But before that, are you married?”

He waved his spoon in the air. “Many times, mademoiselle. They are all native women, you understand. The Maharajah made us all sign a contract with him when we joined his service—we had to learn an Indian language, which was not a problem for me, for I spoke Persian before. And we had to marry a Punjabi woman.” He rubbed his chin, his gaze intent upon her face. “I married several.”

“Ah.” At least, he was honest. But an ache caught Emily between her ribs, and she rubbed her side, over the corset. What did it matter, really? This was life in India. A man could not be expected to be . . . celibate. And all of George's ADCs had these native wives, women who were not to take the place of a real Englishwoman.

“Tell me about Peshawar,” she said again, faintly, as the fish was brought in—lake trout in an almond jacket. All morning long, St. Cloup, the French cook they had brought along with them from England, had clattered around the camp, complaining that his oven would not heat properly. Coals had come from the northern side of the Sutlej to pile on top of the oven, and a man had been employed in keeping them smoking at just the right temperature, so that St. Cloup could finish this dish in time. When the bearer lifted the cover, the thin slivers of almonds were precisely browned all over; the mousse had seeped into the flaky skin of the trout; the mushroom sauce was burnished with a hint of sherry; and the whole lay upon a bed of pureed watercress, palely green.

“Peshawar was . . . is a city of hooligans,” Avitabile said, lifting a slice of trout and setting it on Emily's plate.
He served himself and then pointed at his plate with a fork. “Not bad; not what I would have expected. I wonder if it tastes as good as it looks.” He slipped a piece into his mouth and chewed. “They ran riot over the people, killing as they wished, a law unto themselves. I changed all that for the Maharajah.”

The light from the chandelier cast Avitabile's face in a shadow, and all Emily could see was the burning fire in his eyes. “Your St. Cloup is indeed a marvel, Mademoiselle Emily.” When he had finished the fish on his plate, he continued, “There's no lawlessness in Peshawar now, not anymore. I widened the streets, and men and women walk abroad in the middle of the night without fear.” A smile, wicked and enticing to Emily. “There's no one left to fear.”

“Will you go back to Italy, monsieur?”

“Someday, yes. My Maharajah will not live forever . . . After him, there's really no one left to rule. Perhaps you British will take over the Punjab Empire then.”

“Perhaps,” Emily said.

They ate the chicken Alabaster, doused in a cream sauce, in silence, and all the while Emily watched his hands move fluidly over the table. His cutlery did not clink on his plate, and he ate and drank with a quietness she had never seen in a man. St. Cloup gave them a mango fool for dessert, simple and elegant, with a smear of cream on top.

“I see why your chef does this little dessert,” Avitabile said, “to tell me that he can get ripe mangoes in December.”

“He has been nursing these in hay since the summer, picked green, ripened over the last six months.”

When the food was cleared away and a glass of port lay before Avitabile, he sat back and folded his hands in his lap. “This has been a very pleasant interlude, Mademoiselle Emily.”

“Yes,” Emily said slowly. “Yes.” It had been just that, an interlude. Nothing more.

“I return to Peshawar tomorrow, mademoiselle,” he said, rising as he spoke. He pushed his chair back in to the table and came around the other side to hold Emily's as she rose. “You see, only I can maintain order there. I might find a few more men to hang before breakfast. Such is my life.”

“I see that,” she said, putting out her hand to him. He kissed it again, and she felt the warmth of his breath upon her skin. He raised a hand in farewell at the door to the tent, and when he had gone out, she doused the candles, leaving only the jeweled light from the chandelier near the ceiling.