The Sandalwood Princess (2 page)

He felt her gaze upon him.

“I will go to him,” she said. “Have patience.”

She studied the small space which served as kitchen, living room, and dining room. A plate of pastries sat upon the table. She took one, broke it in half, stared at the fruit center, then sniffed it.

“Figs, you see,” she said, pointing to the dark paste. To add another sort of seed is not difficult, and the flour, I think, was tainted. He has terrible visions?”

“Yes,” Philip said tightly, “and pain. Yet I hesitated to give him anything.”

“Opium we can give him for the pain,” she said. “The other must run its course, I fear.”

Her examination confirmed the preliminary diagnosis. Accordingly, she measured out a dose of the laudanum Philip handed her. After what seemed an eternity, Jessup began to quiet somewhat. He still babbled, but more like a drunken man, and the spasms and strangled cries ceased. Perhaps he would sleep, Sharda told Philip. At any rate, the servant would not die, though he may wish it. His recovery would be very long and very painful.

“A fiendish mixture it is, to bring both madness and maddening pain,” Sharda said as they left the sickroom, “and no relief of death. But it was not meant to kill him.” She patted his arm in a sad, kindly way. “Only to cause great suffering, so that you would heed the warning.”

He had known, hadn’t he? He’d felt it as he’d entered the street, and seen it in the vanishing shadow.

While the old woman was examining Jessup, Philip had put on water to boil. Now he courteously offered tea, and made himself wait until she was ready to enlighten him.

She sipped and nodded her approval. Then she looked at him.

“A little while before, a man brought me a message,” she said. “I must tell the blue-eyed merchant he is known, as is his intention. And so, he will die if he does not depart Calcutta before another day passes.”

Not only known, but his mission known as well. Gad, the woman was incredible. “And this, I take it,” Philip said calmly, nodding towards the sickroom, “is what I might expect?”

“You know of whom we speak. Your death will come slowly, only after many times Jasu’s sufferings. Go away, as you are told, and
live.
”

Philip Astonley was not a reckless man. He never underestimated his adversaries. If the Rani Simhi said she’d kill him, she’d do it, and, naturally, in the ghastliest way her evil imagination could devise. He’d known she’d penetrate his disguise sooner or later. He had not, however, dreamt this would occur quite so soon. What had it been? Less than forty-eight hours. Still, he should have been prepared. It was his fault Jessup lay in the room beyond, mad with pain and hallucination.

He met Sharda’s anxious gaze. “I will heed the warning,” he said.

Minutes after, her grandson, Hari, set off with a message to Fort William. Two hours later, Hari returned with the Honourable Randall Groves. A trio of servants and a pair of palanquins followed them.

Every window and door in the street promptly filled with curious onlookers. This was perfectly satisfactory. The rani would speedily receive word the merchant was departing.

Philip was already packed when Groves entered, looking exceedingly put out. He grew even more put out when Philip led him into his own room and quietly explained what was expected of him.

“Confound it,” Randall snapped. “This is your specialty, ain’t it? How the devil do you expect me—”

“However you can,” Philip said. “Bribe, lie—I don’t care. The
Evelina
is scheduled to sail tomorrow, and Jessup and I have to be on board.” He thrust a packet of papers into Randall’s hands. “Don’t use them unless you have to. I’d rather not bring his lordship into this, and he’d rather I didn’t as well, for obvious reasons.”

“Philip, the ship’s loaded to the limit, and Blayton don’t even want the passengers he’s got. The Bullerhams, Cavencourt’s sister, Monty Larchmere, and all their servants. You expect me to throw a couple of ‘em overboard?”

“If you must I’d talk to Monty first. He’s a greedy devil. For a hefty bribe, he’ll probably agree to wait through the monsoon season for another ship.” While he spoke, Philip was winding a turban about his head.

Randall stared at the turban a moment. Then a horrified understanding widened his eyes. “Good grief,” he said.
“That’s
why you sent for me. You’re still meaning to do it, ain’t you? For God’s sake, Philip, the curst woman knows who you are!”

“Exactly. As I so carefully explained, she means to kill me if I’m not gone by tomorrow, so I’d better work fast, hadn’t I?”

Philip slipped his knife into its sheath and fastened it to the sash he wore under his long muslin
kurta.
With the loose shirt he wore muslin trousers. For the evening’s endeavour, these would be less encumbering than the
dhoti’s
complicated draping. His toilette complete, Philip returned his attention to the now grim Randall.

“Don’t mope, Randy,” he said. “I don’t plan to get killed. The lady wants me gone, and I will oblige her. But I’m damned if I m leaving without it. I’ve never failed yet, and a man must consider his reputation.”

“You’re mad,” said Randall.

The blue eyes flashed. “Have a glance in the other room, my lad,” Philip said in a low voice. “Have a look at what the witch’s done to Jessup. I can’t pay her back as I’d like, because the curst female’s too precious to our superiors. But I’ll repay her as I
can,
that I swear.”

***

The Rani Simhi resided in a vast mansion on the banks of the Hooghly at Garden Reach. Though the English had built these Pauadian palaces exclusively for themselves, the Indian princess was an exceptional case. The Governor-General, Lord Moira, had personally overseen the previous resident’s eviction, in order to provide the enigmatic Indian woman a domicile befitting both her status and her usefulness to His Majesty’s government.

This night, she celebrated her fifty-fifth birthday. The palace was packed with guests both British and Indian. She appeared briefly, to receive the company’s good wishes, then, according to her custom, retired to her private rooms. Though in so many ways unlike other native women, she chose to imitate them in leaving the responsibilities of hosting to her sons.

Since the party was held in her honour, she might have lingered if she chose. This night, however, she had one visitor whose company she wished to enjoy privately. So she explained to Amanda Cavencourt when the latter voiced regret about keeping the princess from her guests.

“You leave tomorrow for England,” said the rani. “We may never meet again. Besides, they are all idiots, and tiresome.” She made a slight gesture with her hand, and a large, jewel-encrusted hookah was brought forward.

“Your brother, for instance,” she went on, as she examined the mouthpiece. “Generally not a stupid man, but he has married foolishly an ignorant woman. If she were not so ignorant, she would love you. Instead, she hates you, and drives you away. I detest her.”

“Two women cannot rule one house,” Amanda said calmly. “My presence is a constant irritant. Or perhaps embarrassment is more like it. My ways aren’t hers and never will be, so there’s always friction. You understand,” she added.

The rani studied the silken-clad woman who sat cross-legged opposite her. “I understand she would fly into a rage, could she see you now. I am told she considers the sari indecent.”

Amanda grinned as she took up her mouthpiece. “She’d certainly drop into five fits if she saw me smoking this.” She gave a defiant shrug, and drew on the hookah with practised ease.

She knew her erratic attention to deportment merely aggravated her sister-in-law’s dislike. In time, Eustacia might have nagged her wayward relation into more acceptable behaviour. Unfortunately, no lessons, no reminders, however regular, could change Amanda’s appearance.

Her light complexion resembled too closely the mellow ivory lightness of the natives of the northern Ganges. Glossy dark brown hair, rippling in duck waves, framed the oval of her face. Thick black lashes fringed large eyes of a peculiarly light, changeable brown. The bones of her countenance strongly defined, the nose straight and well-modeled, the mouth wide and overfull, Amanda’s face was far too exotic for European beauty. More mortifying to Lady Cavencourt, both Europeans and natives regularly mistook Amanda for an Indian.

“I comprehend well enough,” the older woman answered, “but I object. We will speak no more of her. She is tiresome. I have a story for you, much more interesting than your foolish new sister.”

Nothing could be so pleasurable as this,
Amanda thought. How she would miss the sultry Calcutta evenings spent with the fascinating princess... the languorous clouds of smoke and incense that filled the room with shifting spirit-shadows ... the rani’s clear voice, smooth as a running river, coiling through the twists and turns of ancient legends. Amanda forced back the tears filling her eyes.

The rani smoked silently for a moment. Then she raised a finger. All the servants scurried from the room, save the large Padji, who stood still as a statue by the door. When the rest were gone, she began:

“Tonight, I tell you of the goddess Anumati, she from whom the childless women of my native kingdom besought sons and daughters. When she answered their prayers, the women would bring her gifts, as rich as their means permitted. But whether rich or poor, the new mother must always bring as well a carved figure.”

From the cushion beside her, the rani picked up a small wooden statue. Amanda had seen it before. Normally it stood upon a shelf, along with other statues and talismans in the rani’s vast collection. It was about ten inches tall, a beautifully carved sandalwood figure of a smiling woman whose belly was swollen with child.

“Many lifetimes ago,” the rani continued, “such figures filled Anumati’s temple, and precious stones adorned her magnificent statue. In her forehead was set a large ruby, and in her right hand an immense pearl in the shape of a tear. These were the gifts of a prince and princess of ancient times. The ruby, from the prince, symbolized the blood of new life: the son Anumati had given the previously childless couple. The pearl, his wife’s gift, represented the tears of happiness she’d shed at her son’s birth. This stone, more rare than even the ruby, was called the Tear of Joy.”

By the doorway, Padji shifted slightly, and threw his mistress a glance. Her eyes upon the statue, the rani went on.

“Many lifetimes later, marauders came and ransacked the rich temple. The chief of them must have the greatest jewels, of course. With difficulty, he removed the ruby. The pearl, however, was more deeply set. To get at it, he must break the hand from the statue. He beat upon it with an altar stone and at last the arm began to crack. At that same moment came a great rumbling. The temple walls shuddered and the ground beneath trembled. His terrified companions fled, some dropping their loot in their haste. He remained, still struggling for the pearl. Just as he broke the hand away, the temple roof collapsed.”

“Anumati was very angry,” Amanda murmured. “I don’t blame her.”

“Her revenge was greater than that. Mere hours after the temple’s collapse, several of the marauders returned. The new leader, as greedy as his predecessor, determined to have the two great stones. They dug through the rubble— a tremendous task—and at last, by the next day, found the chief’s crushed body. The ruby lay in his hand. The pearl was gone.”

She looked at Amanda. “What do you make of that?”

The logical explanation is that the pearl was crushed to powder,” Amanda said thoughtfully. “Yet Anumati’s worshippers would probably conclude she took away her treasure because, instead of Life and Love, death and destruction filled her temple.”

The princess nodded. “It was said Anumati had abandoned the defiled place and taken all joy with her. The temple grounds were considered accursed. My people followed the advice of their priests, and did not attempt to restore either the temple or their ravaged town. Instead, they built new houses a safe distance away.”

Gently she stroked the figure’s forehead. After a moment she said, “Now I come to my own lifetime.”

From the doorway came a long, drawn-out sigh. The princess affected not to hear it

“I was many years a younger woman than you when a Punjab prince conquered my father’s kingdom,” she said. “When this conqueror investigated his new domain, he made two discoveries. One was myself. To strengthen his political position, he took me as his wife. He also discovered the temple ruins. His greed being far greater than his fear of curses, he ordered the temple excavated. Thus he unearthed
all the treasure the robbers had left behind in their terror. Also, he found the skull of the chieftain, and within it”—she paused briefly—”the Tear of Joy.”

Amanda stifled a gasp. “In the skull?” she asked incredulously. “How did it get there?”

The rani shrugged. “Who knows? There it lay, undamaged after nearly a century. My husband gave it to me, before all the town. He was a pig, but politic. Before them, he gave it to me. In private, he took it back—for safekeeping, he said. He permitted me to keep a few baubles, and this figure, the only one which had not been destroyed in the temple’s collapse. I was not pleased,” she added with a faint smile.

There came a loud sniff from the doorway.

“What ails you, Padji?” the princess asked.