Ryman, Rebecca (19 page)

"Welcome
to Kirtinagar, Miss O'Rourke!" With a folded-hand greeting he came forward
personally to help Olivia alight. "I am delighted that the unavoidably
short notice did not prevent you, at least, from accepting our humble
invitation."

Somewhat
nervous at the awesome formality of her reception, Olivia made her responses
with due regard to the strict coaching she had received from her uncle. The
Maharaja, however, presented a picture of complete informality both in manner
and in dress, for he wore the traditional garments of a white cotton dhoti,
loose silken shirt and a draped shawl. In his own environment, clad in everyday
clothes, he seemed very different from how Olivia recalled him in his formal
regalia. His head was uncovered and he wore no jewelry save for a diamond ring.
He looked younger without his turban, perhaps not yet forty, for his thick,
dark hair was as yet untouched by grey. The initial formalities exchanged
included the expression of deep regrets from Sir Joshua and Lady Bridget at
their inability to avail themselves of the Maharaja's kind invitation—and the
presentation of a mahogany chest containing gifts for Their Highnesses.

"Come,
Miss O'Rourke," the Maharaja said finally after the preliminaries were
over and done with. "I must now escort you to the Maharani. She awaits
impatiently to make your acquaintance. My wife looks forward to meeting
English-speaking ladies so that she can practise her own English
conversation—although, I hasten to add, that is not the only reason for her
impatience."

"But
surely there is no dearth of English-speaking ladies in Bengal?" Olivia
inquired as, with a retinue following at a discreet distance, they walked side by
side across a trim lawn bordered by flowerbeds. "The British civil service
has many officers in the districts."

"True,
but then," he smiled, "my wife does not choose to mix with English
women. And, of course, she never appears before the men."

The
system of purdah, Olivia was aware, existed widely in India and she was a
little embarrassed not to have remembered that. At all the
burra khanas
where
an occasional Indian gentleman had been present there had never been any Indian
women. She
wondered again what the Maharani would be like, steeped as she inevitably must
be in conservative living with little experience of the outside world. Lady
Bridget had warned her of the risks of boredom. "Native women, especially
the high born, can be dreadfully tiresome. All they do is sit and simper in
corners and jabber away in their own lingo." Still vastly annoyed at the
disruption of her engagement with Lady Birkhurst, she had been witheringly
pessimistic about the entire Kirtinagar weekend.

The
Maharani's palace—and the zenana, as the ladies' quarters were called—stood
away from the main building and were screened off from it by a forest belt of
tall, leafy trees. Alongside was a small lake dotted with pink and white lotus
blossoms as large as dinner plates. It was a very pretty scene indeed. The
Maharani's personal apartment was on the first floor. It was spacious, bright
and sunny, and at one end was a covered balcony where the Maharani waited.
Formal introductions were made, greetings were exchanged and a tray of cold
refreshments was passed around. Then, a little shyly, the Maharani said,
"You must be tired after your journey, Miss O'Rourke. Four hours on an
imperfect road must make you want to rest perhaps."

"No,
not rest," Olivia quickly assured her, unable to stop staring. "I am
much too excited for that. A bath and change would do me nicely for the
moment." The woman who confronted her looked no more than about thirty.
She was slim of build and not very tall, and had alert, intelligent eyes in a
face of dusky smoothness. The English she spoke was not as fluent as her
husband's but it was correct and clear and gave indication of much easy
familiarity with the language. When Olivia remarked on this, unable to conceal
her surprise completely, the Maharani blushed.

"I
was tutored by an English governess until I was fifteen," she said,
obviously pleased with the compliment, "but now I rarely have an
opportunity to speak your language."

After
a few more moments of small talk the Maharaja excused himself, pleading
unfinished work in his office. He regretted that he would not be able to join
them for luncheon but promised they would meet again at length in the evening.
In a way Olivia was relieved; it would be so much easier for her to get to know
the Maharani better if they were on their own, as it appeared they would be.
There was something very appealing about the young woman whose manner—apart
from the mandatory touch of formality—seemed suddenly almost girlish to Olivia,
which was surprising since, according to Sir Joshua, she
was the mother
of two children. The fact that, despite her aunt's dire predictions,
communication between them would not be a problem was especially gratifying.
Olivia started to relax; her apprehensions about the weekend promised to have
been groundless.

"I
confess that I am pleased you do not wish to rest, Miss O'Rourke," the
Maharani said when her husband had left. "Time is short and there is much
that we have to talk about." She made a signal and a maidservant
materialised. "Your apartment is immediately below mine. Your bath awaits
you. I hope you will find everything to your satisfaction." She paused and
looked away, minimally awkward. "I have arranged for your ayah and other
staff to be housed comfortably. I assure you, you will not require your
personal attendants. Two of my maidservants will be entirely at your disposal,
day and night."

It
was only later that Olivia was to realise the significance of this arrangement.
For the moment she accepted it at face value. Her aunt, determined to fulfil all
proprieties despite her displeasure, had insisted on sending Estelle's ayah
with her. In addition, Sir Joshua had arranged for two khidmutgars, a young
errand lad and two armed outriders since bandits, particularly the dreaded
thuggees, were not unknown in the area. And then of course there were the
coachmen and their assistants in the cavalcade of three carriages. Apparently,
it was customary in India for guests to take with them their own attendants.
Olivia had considered all the fuss quite unnecessary but she had bowed to the
rule without argument.

The
apartment assigned to Olivia was on ground level, opening onto an enclosed
patio filled with fragrant plants, and quite charming. Like the rest of the
palace complex this too had white marble walls, carved ceilings and arched
windows inset with filigreed marble screens. The red velvet drapes had gold
tassels; burnished brass vases held sprays of blossoms—some recognisable,
others strange. There were touches of thoughtfulness everywhere: a mosquito-net
on the canopied four-poster made less ugly with silken embroidery, a pair of
damask slippers by the bed, a selection of feminine house robes in a closet,
thick Turkish towels and a range of English toiletries in the bath-room. In a
crystal glass bowl by the bed was a heap of French bonbons.

Olivia
could not help being enchanted. Her clothes had already been unpacked and
arranged neatly in a glass-fronted almirah. In a sunken bath enclosure of
veined marble awaited warm water scented with sandalwood and rose petals. Sir
Joshua
had explained to her that the hospitality that Indian princes extended to their
guests was generous. Her own welcome had been more than cordial and she was
undoubtedly awed by it. But at the same time she could not help being puzzled:
Was all this cordiality laid on for her personally, or because she was Sir
Joshua's representative?

Half
an hour later, bathed and refreshed and changed from a linen travelling suit
into a cool chartreuse muslin with white lace cuffs and collar, Olivia was escorted
back to the Maharani's sitting-room. Appointed in Western style with French
furniture, Belgian glass chandeliers and a rich plum-coloured Aubusson carpet,
there was again a touch of formality in the air. Further refreshment came with
lemonade in tall, frosted glasses that tinkled with the ice within.

"Since
this is your first journey outside Calcutta, I must apologise for the
deplorable state of the roads, Miss O'Rourke," the Maharani said.
"The rains have again created havoc, as they do each year."

"Oh,
we have far worse roads where I come from," Olivia assured her brightly.
"Indeed, I felt quite at home on yours."

She
went on to inquire about some sights she had seen en route, and as the Maharani
answered her questions, Olivia studied her with interest. The features on the
smooth, café au lait face were clear-cut, almost Mogul in their classic
sharpness of line. What gave the Maharani's face its striking quality, however,
was not mere superficial appeal, Olivia felt; it was the animation in her eyes.
From time to time they seemed to flicker with something deeper than
intelligence—watchfulness? With a shade of unease Olivia recognized that if her
observations of the Maharani were keen, the Maharani's assessment of her was no
less. She appeared to be studying her with a concentration that was almost
intense. Why?

Then
luncheon was announced.

"Not
knowing your tastes in food, Miss O'Rourke, I have ordered a wholly Indian
meal." They had risen and walked into an adjoining room. "Will that
suit you or would you prefer something more familiar to your palate? I assure
you I will not be offended if you do."

"An
Indian meal would suit me fine!" Olivia exclaimed. "I have so far
eaten only curries prepared in English homes." She thought involuntarily
of that unexpected breakfast with Jai Raventhorne and half smiled.

"In
that case," the Maharani nodded, "I am pleased. Shall we
commence to
eat?" At the nod a dozen maidservants hurried off and presently reappeared
carrying large circular trays bearing food in an astonishing variety.

They
ate in traditional style sitting cross-legged on plump cushions placed before
low stools on a sparkling granite floor. On the silver plates in which the food
was served was a series of individual bowls to segregate one course from the other
so as not to mingle flavours, as Olivia had seen in Raventhorne's house. This
time, however, with no hovering tensions, she could pay attention to the
Maharani's careful descriptions of each dish and marvel with awareness at the
ingenuity of Indian cuisine. Inevitably, there were comparisons as the Maharani
questioned her about the kind of fare Americans put on their tables at home.

"I
presume Americans have to hunt frequently for their meats," the Maharani
remarked when luncheon was over and they sat again in the balcony sipping rich,
sweet Turkish coffee, "so you are well used to handling fire-arms?"

"Well,
we have to be in my country," Olivia replied, surprised once more at her
hostess's observations about a region not many knew much about. "We use weapons
not only for hunting. Few Americans would risk venturing forth unarmed on long
journeys, and in new settlements such as mining towns, there is still a great
deal of lawlessness. Many homesteads are isolated— ours happens to be, too—and
cattle-rustlers are a perpetual menace."

"Rustlers?"

"Cattle
thieves. If you don't keep watch you're likely to lose your herd overnight. My
father insisted I learn how to use a gun when I was knee high to a tadpole.
Very young," she added quickly at the Maharani's look of incomprehension.

"Yes,
I see. My father too gave me lessons in marksmanship when I was very young. We
also have our share of lawlessness."

"He
did?" Olivia scanned the delicate, small-boned hands in amazement, unable
to imagine them grappling with anything as unwieldy as a rifle, or indeed ever
being required to. "But aren't hunting and shooting considered strictly
male preserves in India?"

"Not
in families that rule." There was more than a hint of unconscious pride in
the Maharani's regal response. "History records many cases of maharanis
and princesses abandoning their veils to ride into battle against invaders who
have killed their menfolk." She spoke casually, almost offhandedly,
indicating an inner strength Olivia would not have expected in one so utterly
feminine.
"But now tell me about your home, Miss O'Rourke. I understand that you
farm quite successfully."

"Well,
most everyone does own some land to work. On ours we raise horses. We also have
about a hundred head of cattle under our own brand, Durhams mostly, although we
have recently acquired longhorns too so as to breed a sturdier mixed
stock."

"But
with so much work to do," the Maharani exclaimed, "surely you employ
staff?"

Olivia
smiled. "Oh yes. We have a pretty good foreman and several cowhands. But
because my father has to travel a lot the responsibility of seeing to things is
mine."

"My
husband told me that your father is a writer. What does he usually write
about?"

"Whatever
touches him deeply," Olivia shrugged. "Inequities in our society such
as slavery, violation of citizens' rights, unhealthy conditions in
sweat-shops—anything he considers worth exposing. At the moment, for instance,
he is in the Pacific because of the wholesale slaughter of whales." In a
gesture of pride, she straightened her back. "My father believes in
justice for all. He's an absolute squareshooter."