A Beggar at the Gate (20 page)

January 14, 1841

T
he servant girl held out a plain shawl. Mariana wrapped it hastily about her shoulders, then, aware that the two women were watching her, walked as confidently as she could across the verandah, past a pair of man's slippers at the door, and into the little room.

There were two string beds in the small space, and little else. Hassan sat on one of them, looking even more elegant than usual. Saboor, his hands and face dirty from some adventure, lay sprawled across his father's knees.

“Abba,” he cried, starting up. “An-nah has come!”

“Peace,” Hassan offered, as Mariana lowered herself uncertainly to the second bed, as drab as a peahen in her brown clothes, her letters crackling at her waist.

The beds were so close together that her knees were less than a foot from his. She reached across the space between them and patted Saboor's beaming face, then jerked her hand away, realizing how close she had come to touching Hassan's heavily embroidered sleeve.

“Are those your court clothes?” she asked, not knowing what else to say.

“They are.” He frowned; a gold earring glinted as he cocked his head. “Why are you covered in oil? What is wrong with your eyebrows? Did they not tell you I was coming?”

“They did, but it was too late.”

“Abba has come!” Saboor slid from his father's knee, his face alight. “He is taking me on his horse tomorrow,” he cried, dancing beside Mariana. “You must come and see!”

“I cannot stay long.” Hassan caught Saboor's grubby little hands from behind and raised them above his head. “Are you comfortable here?” he asked Mariana as he bounced his son up and down. “Do you need anything?”

“No, thank you. If you remember, I shall soon be returning to Shalimar. I very much like your family,” she added over Saboor's squeals of pleasure, preserving her bridges. “I hope to call on them again, after our separation. I would like to learn more about your father and your aunt Safiya Sultana. I would also like to visit Saboor.”

“Then? Why leave us at all?”

“Our marriage was a mistake,” she said primly. “What more is there to say?”

Unable to tell whether Saboor had understood their conversation, she looked away from the child's sudden scowl.

Hassan did not reply. Instead, he drew Saboor onto the bed beside him. His eyes on Mariana, he began to run tender fingers over his son's curls.

She must convince him to let her go before she smelled his sharp, woody perfume again, before she found herself staring at the graceful fingers that caught Saboor and held him as he tried to wriggle away….

Harry Fitzgerald, with his straight back and his Roman profile, was nothing like the man who sat before her. She tried once more to imagine herself at Fitzgerald's side, a fair-haired baby in her arms, but this time the picture would not form clearly in her mind.

But how could it, when Hassan sat only feet away, with his silks, his broken nose, and his princely jewels?

Why had she chosen this moment to look so awful? It weakened her position to be half-plucked and oily. She looked down, mortified, at her ill-kept hands.

“There's no need to turn away; I have already seen how you look.”

She glanced up sharply, then met Hassan's gaze. As she did, a wave of intensity seemed to come from him and cross the space between them. She breathed in deeply, remembering a moment just before he had left her and Saboor at Firozpur.

“I must leave soon,” he said softly. “I am needed at court.”

She looked away, knowing he still watched her, aware of the beautiful hands stroking his son's back. She must not allow herself to fall into the dark, inviting chasm that he was opening before her. If she gave in, she would have no future, no fair-haired babies, no friends

Hassan had mentioned his work. Here was the opportunity the Vulture had been waiting for. If he were here, he would be signaling her to ask the date and time of Sher Singh's assault.

He could signal all he wanted. She would never ask.

But wait. She herself needed that information. If she knew when the attack was to take place, she would know how long to remain in the city. Surely, if there were another two or three days of safety, she would have more time with Saboor….

“When is Sher Singh's attack to be?” she asked, as carelessly as she could, avoiding Hassan's gaze, surprised at the thickness of her voice.

He stiffened. “Why do you want to know this?”

“I do not know how long to stay here. If I could have even one more day, I—”

“You have no wish to leave Qamar Haveli.” His voice had a knife's edge. “You do not want a separation. You have been forced to ask this question by the British Political Agent. Admit it.”

“That is not true.” Mariana watched nervously as Saboor ran from the room. How much did Hassan know? Had he seen the letters? Schooling herself not to touch the papers at her waist, she cast about for a way to change the subject.

“I do not have to admit anything,” she told him flatly. “I am British.”

Had she really said those words aloud?

“You will not distract me with your rudeness.” His expression hardened. “The Political Agent has written to you. I have seen his letter. What does he want?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“You
will
tell me. It is he, and not you, who desires to know the date and time of Sher Singh's attack. He wants your aid in some treachery against us. Speak. What is his plan?”

“I do not know.” Unable to stop herself, she reached down and felt the letters at her waist. “My uncle has also written. He says Mr. Clerk has been intriguing between the Rani and Sher Singh without the knowledge of our government. Our political officers are forbidden to do such things. I would never give information to a man like that.”

“And what power has he over you that he can force you to spy in your own husband's house?”

Hassan's face had grown so icy and still, he might have been a perfect stranger to her. “He has
not
forced me to spy,” she cried, the words tumbling from her. “Mr. Clerk is not a nice man,” she added desperately, “but it was he who persuaded my uncle to let me come here to stay. All I could think of was seeing Saboor again. I had no idea why the Political Agent wanted—” She felt her face crumple.

Hassan leaned forward, his hands on his knees, his face level with hers. “You are to remain in this house,” he ordered, heedless of her filling eyes. “You are to take no part in the Political Agent's schemes, whatever they are. You are to tell him nothing. You may not send any message to Shalimar, and you may not go there. I cannot guarantee your safety if you try to visit the English camp. Do you understand me?”

Sniffling, she drew herself up on her string bed. “You have no right to tell me what to do. If I wish to write to my own uncle, I will do so. If I wish to leave this house and go to Shalimar, I will do that, too.”

“You will not.” His voice held a heavy finality. “You will remain here until everything has been resolved.”

There was clearly no point in arguing with him now. Later on, she would have Ghulam Ali take a letter to her uncle, asking him to send a palanquin and bearers to fetch her. She gathered herself, thinking the interview was over, but to her surprise, Hassan made no move to stand. “What is that black cord you are wearing?” he asked coldly.

“It is for a
taweez.
Your aunt Safiya had it made for me.” Mariana fingered the silver box through her clothes. “One of the maids had a dream about a woman who seemed to be in danger. Your aunt believes I am the woman of the dream. I am sure it is nothing,” she added lamely, hoping he would look at her again as he had a little while before.

“If my aunt had a
taweez
made for you, it is very far from nothing. You are likely to face real danger. Hai!” Hassan ran a hand over his face. “I only pray that Allah will keep this family safe.”

“I will always protect Saboor,” Mariana said quickly, and then pressed her lips hastily together.

He did not look at her, or reply.

She shrank into her drab clothes, her unplucked eyebrow weighing down her lid like a hairy caterpillar. “Will Sher Singh besiege the city, or will he storm it?” she asked in a small voice.

“Neither one. I am sure he has already paid the Rani's troops to open the gates.” Hassan sighed. “Were you supposed to ask me that, also?”

“No.” She lifted her shoulders. “I am interested in military history.”

“You study military history.” He nodded, watching her. “I used to think you were like other English people, but you are not. You are not like anyone, are you?”

He got to his feet, unsmiling, his embroidered coat swinging at his ankles. “We will speak again when I return later this evening. Inshallah, I will be coming upstairs for dinner.”

As he stepped into his slippers outside the door, she realized she had stretched out a hand to him as he passed her.

Y
es, this is how the wife of Hassan Ali should look!” An elderly aunt slapped both her knees and smiled broadly as Mariana made her self-conscious way across the crowded floor that evening, her delicately worked gold bangles jingling as she moved her arms.

Safiya Sultana, too, gave a satisfied nod, and pointed to an empty place near her. “It is a pity that my brother has guests,” she rumbled. “He would have been pleased to see you looking so pretty.”

It had taken the whole afternoon for the little servant to finish her work, and even then, Akhtar had complained at the lack of time.

“To prepare a bride takes days and days,” she had mourned as she rubbed Safiya's special mixture of almond oil, rose water, chickpea flour, and spices onto Mariana's dry skin. “There is so much that I must do to make you beautiful.”

“I am
not
a bride,” Mariana had pointed out. “I am only letting you do this because you want to,” she added, more forcefully than she intended.

Now, as she sat her perfumed self down near Safiya, she was glad of Akhtar's work. Some of that meticulous plucking had been painful, but at least she would look less of a fright for tonight's meeting with Hassan. Her hair, oiled and hennaed, now fell down her back in a silky, auburn-tinted braid. Her hands and face had been smoothed, her eyes carefully outlined with antimony. Her skin, now smelling of rose water and saffron, felt sensuous and velvety under her finely embroidered silks.

She fingered the pretty necklace of rubies and pearls that Safiya had sent into her room while she was dressing. Presumably, after Hassan came, he would eat his dinner with all of them, and then he and Mariana would meet alone in some private corner, or perhaps in the small room where they had spoken earlier. After their previous conversation he would, naturally, agree the divorce was inevitable. She would thank him, and that would be that.

They had been married for twenty-four months. She had loved and protected his son all that time, but had never come to know Hassan. Now it was too late. She pictured him leaving her for the last time, his bare feet silent on the covered floor.

But she must stop imagining her losses and concentrate on her new, unmarried life. She would certainly be well prepared for her next meeting with Lady Macnaghten. That meeting, with all its implications for her future, would be very soon, tomorrow, perhaps. After all, once Hassan had agreed to end their marriage, his insistence that she remain in the city would no longer apply.

She would leave in the morning. She needed to know the state of her uncle's health, and she needed to confront the Vulture. He must be told in plain language that she refused to spy for him. From the tone of his letter, poor Uncle Adrian was clearly desperate at all Clerk's dangerous intriguing.

Around her, the ladies prattled on about a coming family wedding. The bride-to-be, a pretty, plump-faced child, sat near Mariana, smiling in the evening lamplight. A sliver of wood protruded from one side of her nose, holding open the wound where her
n'hut
was to enter. From time to time she touched her nose and nodded to herself.

The sun had set hours before. The lamps flickered, throwing shadows against the wall, softening the features of the ladies, who shifted in their places, murmuring among themselves, their hands turning for emphasis, fingers extended. From time to time, each one looked over at Mariana and smiled approvingly.

None of them seemed to know….

Safiya had spoken little all evening. Now, after what seemed to be hours, she yawned. Mariana's finery weighed on her shoulders; her earlobes ached, pulled down by her long ruby earrings. She glanced through a window at the neighboring houses. Their windows had gone dark. What time was it? Surely last night's dinner had not been as late as this

“Akhtar,” called Safiya Sultana, “bring the food.” She raised her voice. “Hassan must have been delayed, wherever he is,” she announced to the room. “Do not worry, my child,” she added, reaching out to pat Mariana's knee. “He will, Inshallah, come to see you tomorrow morning. And then, tomorrow evening, Akhtar will put the
kajal
on your eyes again, and dress you in something else equally good. As I remember, we gave you five sets of wedding clothes.”

Her disappointment must have been transparent. Annoyed with herself, Mariana smoothed her gold-colored silks with an impatient hand. “But Bhaji,” she began, “I do not think—”

“Hush, child.” Safiya raised a warning finger. “There is no need to speak.”

Later, after everyone but Mariana had enjoyed a lavish dinner and the food had been taken away, Safiya again turned to her. “Now, Mariam,” she said quietly, “there is something we must discuss. I do not wish to frighten our family ladies, but we must decide what preparations will be needed to protect this house in case of violence in the city. I am confiding in you because, of all of us, you are Saboor's protector. It occurs to me that you might have some ideas on the subject.”

Flattered, Mariana sat straight, her energy returning as she imagined the haveli surrounded by a yelling mob, and herself in charge of its defense. “The kitchen entrance should be blocked off,” she offered quickly, remembering the open passageway connecting the kitchen to the family courtyard. “The main doors are thick enough to hold, but the back door from the kitchen courtyard might be battered down. And we should protect the upper windows. If anyone were to scale the outer walls, they could easily climb in from there.” She pointed to the shuttered windows overlooking the narrow street outside.

Safiya nodded seriously. “The old elephant doors might prove useful in closing off the passageway to the kitchen entrance.” She opened a carved silver box, lifted out a tray with wells filled with intriguing pastes and nuts, and removed a piece of thick-looking leaf.

“I had not even considered the windows,” she said as she scooped out a little white paste and spread it onto her leaf. “We will have to talk more about it in the morning.” She sighed. “I am going to bed after I have this
pan.”

Mariana looked about her at the quiet room, now emptying of its occupants. Hassan had not come, but still the evening had offered her some small pleasure. There had been restfulness in the company of these undemanding ladies, who smiled at her as they sat comfortably on the floor. She closed her eyes as Safiya chewed beside her, imagining the reception a bride from this family would receive from the ladies of Weddington village, with their stays and bonnets and stiff chairs. After her own experiences in Calcutta, she did not wish to imagine how they would treat the poor girl

She wrenched her thoughts to the present. Hassan would come in the morning. After she met him, she would ask for a palanquin to deliver her to Shalimar.

Before leaving, she would kiss Saboor, and pray that it was not for the last time

Perhaps, but only perhaps, she would be allowed to come back and visit him. First, Hassan must agree. Then she must gain Uncle Adrian and Aunt Claire's permission to return. The Vulture would, of course, withdraw his support once she refused to spy for him. Aunt Claire was bound to make a scene, and not without reason. One of the points of their long journey had, after all, been for Mariana to rescue her reputation, not to shred it further by paying unexplained visits to native families.

If she were forbidden to see Saboor again, she must somehow turn her attention away from Qamar Haveli and its occupants. Even with her heart breaking, she must think of her future in Afghanistan.

She must, above all, be charming to Lady Macnaghten, the Envoy's wife.

When Safiya lurched, groaning, to her feet, and started toward the corridor, Mariana gathered up her yards of embroidered silk and trailed disconsolately behind her.

Her visit to the walled city had been a failure, far too brief, and full of misunderstandings. She had not spoken even once with the mysterious Shaikh Waliullah. For all her desperate desire to learn from Safiya Sultana, she had not asked her a single question. Even tonight, with Safiya sitting right beside her, she had been so absorbed in waiting for Hassan that she had squandered a whole evening's opportunity to gain knowledge. Unable for some unfathomable reason to make a clean break from Hassan, she had bungled their parting, and left herself open to hopeless longing.

She had tried to disengage her heart from Saboor, but had found herself watching him every moment, wishing he would come to her and breathe into her ear, as he had done for half his life.

She sighed as she reached the end of the corridor and pushed her door curtain aside. For all that he had been present at two of her conversations with Hassan, Saboor had not seemed to understand that she was leaving him. Perhaps it was just as well. One parting, after all, would be enough for both of them.