The Far Pavilions (43 page)

There was no point in following her, and Ash made no attempt to do so. He listened for a while, but hearing no sound of voices or any challenge from the direction of the camp, he went back into the tent and sat down again, feeling dazed and curiously breathless.

‘No,’ whispered Ash, arguing with himself in the silence. ‘No of course not. It's ridiculous. It couldn't possibly happen like that… not in just one minute, between one breath and the next. It
couldn't
…’

But he knew that it could. Because it had just happened to him.

16

In obedience to the younger bride's wishes, the tents had not been struck on the following morning and word had gone out that there would be no further move for at least three days – a respite that was welcomed by all, for apart from a rest from marching it provided an opportunity for clothes to be washed and food to be cooked in a more leisurely manner, and a thousand repairs and re-adjustments made to tents, trappings and saddlery.

The banks of the river were soon lined with
dhobis
busied with piles of washing, mahouts bathing their elephants, and hordes of children splashing and playing in the shallows. Grass-cutters scattered in search of fodder and hunting parties rode out after game; and Jhoti and Shushila wheedled their uncle into arranging a day's hawking that the girls could attend without the necessity of keeping strict purdah.

Kaka-ji had needed a lot of persuading, but he had eventually given way on condition that they kept well out of sight of the camp, and a party had been made up that included Ash and Mulraj, half-a-dozen falconers, three of the brides' women and a small escort of palace guards and servants. It also included Biju Ram (who would be in attendance upon Jhoti) and Kaka-ji Rao, who announced that he himself would be accompanying them solely in order to keep an avuncular eye upon his nieces – which had deceived no one, for the old gentleman had a passion for falconry and they were all aware that he would not have missed it for anything; and also that he would have preferred to go without either of his nieces.

‘It is not that they cannot ride well enough,’ he explained to Ash in a burst of confidence, ‘but they know little of falconry, which is a man's sport. A woman's wrist is not strong enough to support a hawk. Or at least, Shushila's is not, though with her half-sister it is different. But then Anjuli-Bai has no liking for the sport and Shushila tires too easily. I cannot think why they should wish to come with us.’

‘Kairi did not wish to,’ volunteered Jhoti, who had been listening to the conversation of his elders. ‘She wanted to stay behind. But Shu-Shu said that if Kairi wouldn't go she would not go either, and she began to cry and say that she was so tired of the noise and the smells of the camp, and of being shut up in a
ruth
or a tent, and that if she didn't get away from it and out into the open air for a while she would die.
You
know what she is like. So of course Kairi had to agree to come. Oh, here they are at last – Good. Now perhaps we can start.’

They rode away across the plain, holding their horses to a sedate trot in order not to out-distance the cart containing the waiting women, who could not ride, or the Rajkumari Shushila, who in spite of what Kaka-ji had said was an indifferent horsewoman and rode on a lead-rein held by an elderly retainer.

Both girls wore light head scarves that concealed their faces and left only their eyes uncovered, but once clear of the camp and in open country they allowed the flimsy material to blow free. But Ash noted with interest that except for Jhoti and Kaka-ji, none of the men-folk – not even Mulraj, who was related to the royal family – ever looked directly at them even when replying to a question: an exhibition of good manners that impressed him, though he did not emulate it. Having been told to consider himself one of the family, he saw no reason why he should not claim an honorary brother's privilege and look as long and as openly as he pleased, and he had done so. But at Anjuli rather than at her younger sister; though little Shushila, laughing and excited by the sport and the heady taste of freedom, was well worth looking at: a princess from a fairy-tale, all gold and rose and ebony, and sparkling with gaiety.

‘She will be ill tonight. You'll see,’ said Jhoti cheerfully. ‘She is always ill after she gets excited. Just like a see-saw, up in the air or down in the mud –
bump
! I think girls are silly, don't you? Fancy having to marry one.’

‘Hmm?’ said Ash, who was not listening.

‘My mother,’ confided Jhoti, ‘had arranged a marriage for me, but when she died my brother Nandu broke it off, which was a good thing, for I did not wish to get married. He only did it to spite me – that I know well. He meant to do me an ill turn, and did me a good one by mistake, the silly owl. But I suppose I shall have to marry some day. One has to have a wife in order to get sons, does one not? Has yours given you any sons yet?’

Ash made another indeterminate noise and Mulraj, who was riding on the other side of him, answered on his behalf: ‘The Sahib has no wife, Prince. His people do not marry young. They wait until they are old and wise. Is that not so, Sahib?’

‘Umm?’ said Ash. ‘I'm sorry – I didn't hear what you said.’

Mulraj laughed and threw up a protesting hand. ‘You see, my Prince? – he has heard nothing. His thoughts are far away today. What is it, Sahib? Is there something that troubles you?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Ash hastily. ‘I was only thinking about something else.’

‘That is plain – you have already missed a chance at three birds because of it.
Ohé
! – there goes another. A fine, fat pigeon. No… you are too late. The prince is before you.’

Jhoti had in fact been the first to see the pigeon, and before Mulraj had finished speaking his hawk was in the air and he himself spurring excitedly in pursuit.

‘He has been well taught,’ approved Mulraj, watching the child race away; ‘and he rides like a Rajput. But I do not like the look of his saddle. It seems to me… Forgive me, Sahib.’

He set spurs to his horse and left at a gallop, abandoning Ash, who, left alone with his thoughts, was not ungrateful for a period of silence. He was not feeling at all sociable that morning; or particularly interested in the day's sport either, though he too had been well taught and the falcon on his wrist was a gift from Kaka-ji Rao. Normally he would have enjoyed nothing better than a day's hawking in such country, but today his mind was on other things.

The younger princess appeared to have shed a large part of her previous shyness, for she had talked gaily to him and obviously accepted him as a friend, but Anjuli had not spoken, and this time her silence was one of withdrawal and Ash discovered that he could not even make her look at him. He had tried to force her into conversation, only to find his questions answered with a slight gesture of the head or at best a faint polite smile, while her eyes continued to look past him as though he were not there. And she was not looking well. Her face was swollen and colourless and he suspected that she had not had enough sleep, which was not surprising considering that it was after three when she had left his tent. He did not think it would be possible for her to look ugly, for her beauty was bone deep, and the way her small square face was set on the column of her throat, the shortness of her upper lip and the width between her eyes, would always be there. But today, riding beside her little sister, she appeared almost plain, and he wondered why that should make no difference at all to the way she looked to him.

Months ago he had told Wally that he could never fall in love again because he was cured of love for ever – immunized to the disease like a man who has recovered from smallpox. And only a few hours ago, eight at most, he would have repeated that statement and been confident that it was true. He still could not understand why it should no longer be so, or how it had come about. His feelings for the child Juli, though protective, had certainly never been either fond or sentimental (small boys being seldom interested in, let alone deeply attached to little girls much younger than themselves) and given the choice he would undoubtedly have preferred a playmate of his own age and sex. Besides, he had known who she was when he carried her through the river and stood holding her for an unconscionably long time in the dusk; yet his only emotion then had been impatience…

Two nights later, staring at her in the durbar tent and discovering with amazement that she was beautiful, his pulses had not quickened or his emotions been stirred; and when she came to his tent he had been suspicious, irritated and vaguely sentimental by turn, and ended up feeling angry and embarrassed. So why on earth should a few minutes in which she had sobbed in his arms, and the sight of her wet, distorted face, change the world for him? It did not make sense – yet it had happened, all the same.

One minute he had been furious with her for coming and wishing angrily that she would stop crying and go away – quickly. And thirty seconds later, holding her, he had known without a shadow of doubt that he had found the answer to that nagging feeling of emptiness that had bedevilled him for so long. It had gone for ever, and he had been made whole again, because he had found the thing that was lacking – it was here in his arms: Juli… his own Juli. Not part of his past, but quite suddenly, and for always, a part of his heart.

As yet he had no idea what, if anything, he intended to do about this. Prudence told him that he must put her out of his mind and do his best to avoid seeing or speaking to her ever again, because to do so could only end in disaster for them both: a point he had seen clearly enough last night and that was still as clear, if not clearer, in the harsh light of morning. The Rajkumari Anjuli was the daughter of a ruling prince, the half-sister of another, and soon to become the wife of a third. Nothing could alter that, so his wisest course – the only course – was to forget last night and be thankful that something he had said or done had succeeded in offending her so deeply that she obviously did not intend to have anything further to do with him.

But then prudence had never been Ash's long suit; nor, for that matter, had caution. All he could think of at the moment was that he must and would talk to her, though that was going to be difficult enough to do even with her co-operation, and almost impossible without it. But he would manage it somehow. He must. There were still weeks of journeying ahead of them, and though up to the present he had done his best to hurry the camp forward and keep it on the move, this was something that could be altered.

From now on he would let the pace slow down, and stay longer at each stopping place – a day or two at least, which alone would add several weeks to the journey. And in order to ensure that Juli should not avoid him he would take special care to make friends with Shushila, Jhoti and Kaka-ji, who would invite him to the durbar tent, where Juli would have to join them. For judging from her little sister's dependence upon her, she would find it hard to refuse – and harder still to find a valid reason for doing so, as somehow he did not think she would be prepared to explain the true circumstances to her sister, or anyone else.

‘
Hai mai
!’ sighed Ash, and he did not know that he had spoken aloud until Kaka-ji, who had drawn rein beside him, said: ‘What is it that troubles you?’

‘Nothing of any importance, Rao-Sahib,’ said Ash, flushing.

‘No? Kaka-ji's tone was gently teasing. ‘Now I would have said, from the signs, that you were in love and had left your heart behind in Rawalpindi. For thus do young men look and speak and sigh when they think of the beloved.’

‘You are too acute, Rao-Sahib,’ said Ash lightly.

‘Ah, but then I too have been young; though to look at me now, you might not believe that.’

Ash laughed and said: ‘Did you ever marry, Rao-Sahib? ’

‘Assuredly – and when I was far younger than you. But she died of the cholera five years later, having given me two daughters; and now I have seven grandchildren – all girls, alas; though doubtless they will in time give me many great-grandsons. I must hope so.’

‘You should have married again,’ said Ash severely.

‘So my friends said; and my family also. But at the time I was in no haste to add yet another woman to a household that seemed over-full of them. Then, later – much later – I fell in love…’

The last words had been spoken in such a lugubrious tone that Ash laughed again and said: ‘To hear you speak, anyone would think that was the greatest of misfortunes.’

‘To me, it was indeed so,’ sighed Kaka-ji, ‘for as she was not of my caste I knew that I should not think of her, and that my priests and my family would oppose it. But while I hesitated her father gave her in marriage to another man, who cared less for such matters than I; and afterwards… Afterwards I found that no other woman could take her place in my heart, or blot out her face from my mind. Therefore I could not bring myself to marry again, which was perhaps as well, for women can cause a great deal of trouble and noise, and when one is old, as I am, one requires peace and quiet.’

‘And leisure to go hawking,’ grinned Ash.

‘True, true. Though with age one's skill at such pursuits grows less. Let me see now how you shape, Sahib…’

They talked no more of love, and Ash turned his attention to hawking, and during the next hour or so won golden opinions from Kaka-ji for his handling of the merlin-falcon. The mid-day meal was served in a large grove of trees near the edge of a
jheel
, and when it was over the brides and their women retired to take an afternoon siesta in a makeshift tent, while the men disposed themselves comfortably in the shade and prepared to sleep away the hottest part of the day.