January, 1878 —
The telegram that changed a nation's future was only ten words long, for Lily had to pay for it out of her pocket-money. As a result, she had been forced to curb her longing to pour out her heart, and settle instead for a terse: Dear Aunt, Father died. May I come live with you?
The answering telegram arrived three days later, sending the provincial inhabitants of Amberfield Manor into a flurry of confusion and relief, for the vexing problem of what to do with newly-orphaned Lillian Shawcross was now solved.
Dearest Lily, of course you may. I have also telegraphed Cousin Charles Hightower, who will make all the arrangements for your journey to Bombay. Your uncle and I will be delighted to welcome you. Your loving Aunt Charlotte.
Lily read those words, warm and comforting, and burst into tears. For the first time since her father had died, it was safe for her to cry.
The next weeks had been a blur of activity. Mr. Charles Hightower was a person of considerable importance in the City; Lily was packed up and removed from Amberfield and deposited in Mr. Hightower's London townhouse under the care of his formidably-efficient spouse Louisa, who oversaw the purchase of a proper wardrobe for Lily. Unfortunately, as Lily would be in deep mourning for her father for six months, all her new garments were unrelieved black. Louisa Hightower not only engaged Mrs. Hector McGregor to chaperone Lily on the voyage, she saw Lily off at Portsmouth.
Tears burned Lily's eyes as she waved back. And then, as she turned away, Lily's odd wistfulness too vanished—for walking toward her along the gleaming wooden deck was a tall young woman whose highly-fashionable Princess dress was a dashing shade of eau de Nil. A saucy bonnet half-hid her dark hair; from the shadow cast by the brim, her pale eyes glinted silver. Although half-a-dozen years that had passed since they had last seen each other, Lily recognized her at once.
Princess Lilavati of Sherabagh. And even as Lily wondered if Lilavati remembered, Lilavati looked directly at her. For a moment Lilavati stared…and then smiled.
"Lily!" the princess called, and Lily, breaking every rule of proper decorum, ran to her best—her only—girlhood friend.
Until she had met Lilavati, Lily had always thought an Indian princess would look more foreign, more—exotic. Lilavati had always been beautiful, but in the pure classic mode; Lily thought now that the princess could serve as a model for Helen of Troy. Lilavati looked elegant, but not exotic. Or Indian. Beneath the fashionable Directoire bonnet she wore, Lilavati's hair was dark as night, but Lily's hair was darker still; raven's-wing black. Lilavati's skin was pale as new ivory, while Lily soon spent enough time on the Peshawur's deck to darken her fair skin to honey gold. Nor were Lilavati's eyes brown, but an odd pale grey. As for what Mrs. McGregor referred to as "heathen veils and jewels", the only veil the Princess wore was the demure cream lace falling from her bonnet-rim to shield her ivory skin from the hot demanding sun. Instead of emeralds and rubies as large as hen's eggs, she wore no jewels but a cameo at her throat and demure pearl drops in her ears. In sum, the Princess Lilavati appeared as proper and prim-mouthed and meek-eyed as any well-bred English miss.
We might be taken for sisters, save that I must wear crow black and she need not, Lily thought.
The princess smiled gently, and a trick of light turned her pale eyes to winter ice. "You will be as brown as a native if you insist on gazing into the sun like that."
"Oh, but the sun's so wonderful!" Lily protested, and Lilavati laughed.
"You won't say so in July in Delhi. And you must not ruin your complexion. It is a great pity that everything you wear must be black. Mourning does not suit you. And you are still disappointed that I do not dress myself in silks and diamonds and—and peacock feathers—aren't you?" Lilavati teased gently, as if she had read Lily's mind.
Lily flushed, but had to laugh as well. "I'm sorry—am I so very obvious?"
"Oh, only a little. But at least you are interested in what I suppose I must now call my country," Lilavati said quietly.
So Lily and Lilavati had renewed their old friendship, and Lily had realized Lilavati was not only lonely, but unhappy in a way that owed nothing to loneliness. The sparkling, laughing girl four years Lily's senior, who had so captivated her during her brief days at Rushleigh Academy, had little in common with the polished and worldly young woman before her. Something had happened in the intervening years to cast a shadow over Lilavati's life, and Lily vowed she would learn what troubled her friend and vanquish it.
"But you must be longing to see home again," Lily said, seizing the opening. "I know how eager I am to see India. My family there wrote lovely long letters telling all about—” Lily stopped in midsentence, thinking that Lilavati wouldn't wish to hear someone who knew the glories and grandeurs of India only by hearsay enthusing over them.
"I wish I could be as delighted as you, dear Lily — but I cannot regard India as home. I have been away too long ... and I dread what I return to." The princess's fingers clenched on the ship's rail until the pale yellow kid gloves covering her delicate hands thinned over the knuckles.
Lily put a hand on Lilavati's arm, torn between pleasure that Lilavati was willing to confide in her and distress at her friend's misery. "What do you return to?"
Lilavati forced herself to smile. "It is nothing to concern you, and there is nothing to be done about it. I must bear it as I can."
"Bear what? Please, if there is anything I can do to help you — " Lily said urgently. The rocking motion of the steamship, the constant low thrum of the engines, and the noise of the wind — as loud as snapping flags here on the open ocean — forced the two girls close together at the ship's railing.
"There is. Be my friend while we are on this ship together. I will miss friends, where I am going." Lilavati placed one gloved hand over Lily's, pale yellow kid over sensible black cotton.
"Of course I am your friend!" Lily said instantly. "And—And I'd like to be your friend in India too, if I may," she added boldly.
Lilavati turned away from her as if Lily's words had caused her physical pain. She dropped her delicate lace parasol to her shoulder, creating a momentary barrier between them. "You are too good, Lily, but I am afraid it will not be possible. Even if your people would let you fraternize with—"
"Oh, but Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Ambrose aren't like that! I want to know the real India, not just waltz around in circles at Government House!"
The Princess lifted her parasol as she smiled and shook her head. "I fear you will be gravely disappointed, Lily, which will be a great shame." Then she sighed. "But to continue our friendship will still be impossible, much as I would wish it. For one thing, you will be in Delhi, will you not?"
"Yes, but Uncle Ambrose's work takes him all over northern India, and Aunt Charlotte accompanies him. And so shall I," Lily announced grandly. Charlotte Hightower's India was an enchanted land filled with tigers, tents, and forgotten jungle temples half-hidden beneath shrouds of wildrose and flowering vine—with snow-covered peaks of mountains nick-named 'the tent poles of Heaven'—with grave elephants, chattering monkeys, exotic perfumes, and mysterious magic.
"Ah, how your eyes glow at the thought, Lily! How blue they are—like forget-me-nots. So English."
"Well," said Lily apologetically, "I am English."
"Yes, and I am not—or at least, I must not be any more." Lilavati closed her eyes for a moment, slowly shook her head. "I am to go home to Sherabagh, a land I barely remember, and which is so far from Delhi that it might as well be on the moon!"
Lily was not certain what to say. The conventional expressions of sympathy that her governesses had drummed into her did not seem adequate, yet Lilavati's distress must be eased somehow. "Surely Sherabagh must be very beautiful?" Lily offered hopefully.
The princess opened her eyes and shrugged, meeting Lily's gaze with a determined smile. "I do not recall; but I know my mother hated it, and so I do not think I shall be comforted by the landscape, however beautiful it may be. You see, Sherabagh is an independent state—there is not even a British Resident there—and to step across its border is to step back in time."
"How far back?" Lily asked doubtfully.
"Too far for me. I am a modern woman now, just as you are, and—" Lilavati turned away sharply and her shoulders shook silently.
"What is it? Oh, please do tell me—surely there is something that can be done!"
The princess straightened and turned back to Lily. Her lashes glinted diamond-bright with tears. "No, there is nothing that can be done, and I am a—yes, I am a cad to be parading my troubles before you. You hardly know me."
"Nonsense," Lily said firmly. "We were at school together. You're my friend. Please tell me, Lilavati. You know they say a trouble told is a trouble halved." She'd always been doubtful about the truthfulness of old sayings, but hadn't her own troubles vanished the moment she'd told Aunt Charlotte about them?
"Very well, Lily—I will tell you, and then we shall never speak of this matter again." Lilavati took a deep ragged breath. "I—I was betrothed before my father sent me away from Sherabagh. And now that my father is dead, I have been summoned back by my cousin to be his wife."
Lily wished to say it sounded very romantic, but Lilavati obviously did not think the story was anything of the sort. "My aunt was married when she was eighteen," she offered. "And she had known her groom-to-be since she was a child."
"Well, I was betrothed when I was seven, and if you envision a charming boy-and-girl romance, my dear Lily, I beg you will think again." Lilavati laughed bitterly. My cousin—my husband—dislikes me intensely, and will delight in my misery."
"But surely he will not hold you to a childhood promise?" Lily asked, horrified.
"In India a betrothal is as binding as a wedding ring." Lilavati turned her gaze out to the placid ocean. "And my cousin clings to the old ways and customs, and knows only one way to treat a woman—as chattel." With a sigh, Lilavati slanted a glance back to Lily. "If you know as much of India as you say, then you know how women are kept secluded, hidden away?"
"In purdah," Lily said.
"Yes, in purdah." Lilavati's lips curled in an expression of contempt. "The only reason I possess such freedom now is because the escort my 'husband' sent to fetch me back to him was delayed, and so I am able to travel to India in a civilized manner. Poor Marie-Clare; I could not bear to abandon all civilization, and so I have dragged my maid with me to the ends of the earth! But even if she wished to, I know she will not be allowed to accompany me to Sherabagh." Lilavati's eyes gleamed silver with unshed tears. "And worst of all, my cousin is so much older than I …but even Sherabagh cannot still condone suttee, can it?"
"Why, of course not! We banned suttee fifty years ago," Lily answered, sure of her ground now.
"Yes—within the lands of British rule. But Sherabagh does not lie within the lands of British rule. When the last Rajah—when my father died—Oh, Lily, my mother burned with him on his funeral pyre, and all the city watched. And so I fear..." her voice trailed off, the last word caught on a half-sob.
Horrified, Lily had just drawn breath to assure Lilavati she had only to apply to the nearest British Agent for aid—and even to offer her asylum with Aunt Charlotte—when Mrs. McGregor reappeared at the far end of the deck. Lily expelled her indrawn breath in a squeak of dismay. She turned to Lilavati to explain, but Lilavati had gracefully turned and was already walking away down the polished wooden deck as if the two of them had never been speaking at all.
When Mrs. McGregor had caught up to Lily, she announced she had a dreadful headache, and so Lily was forced to spend the rest of that glorious day in their small stuffy cabin, closely watched over by both Mrs. McGregor and her maid. Lily firmly reminded herself that through her own cleverness and perseverance she was traveling to India instead of spending the rest of her life as a poor relation in some stranger's house. A day spent in the stuffy darkness of a starboard-side economy cabin, reading aloud to her chaperone from a book of sermons, was really a small price to pay for freedom.
The next morning, Mrs. McGregor kept Lily occupied with needlework, and Lily sighed as she gazed down upon the handkerchief she was embroidering. Surely Mrs. McGregor didn't intend to keep her immured in their cabin for the rest of the voyage? But as Lily made no protest, dutifully and neatly stitching daisies onto a square of white cambric—one of a set of twelve, a present for Aunt Charlotte's birthday—Mrs. McGregor relented, and permitted her charge to walk upon the deck after luncheon.
"But mind, Lillian, you are not to promenade about the deck with that Indian princess," was Mrs. McGregor's only caveat. Lily had nodded, caught up her bonnet, and fled the cabin before Mrs. McGregor changed her mind.
Half-a-dozen brisk circuits of the Peshawur's deck burned off some of Lily's restless energy. "Eating the air" those in India called walking for their own pleasure; the salt tang upon her tongue made Lily understand that phrase for the first time. Heedless of the danger to her complexion, Lily raised her face, basking in the sun's bright warmth. She lifted her hands to the black silk ribbons tied beneath her chin, pulled the bow loose --
"My dear Lily, do you wish to be mistaken for an Indian girl?" Lilavati laughed as Lily hastily retied her bonnet's ribbons. "And now you are red as a rose," she added, as Lily flushed.
"I'm sorry," Lily said. "But—oh, Lilavati, I do hate this bonnet."
"As well you should—it's quite hideous. Ah, well, soon you will have far prettier garments!" Lilavati slipped her arm through Lily's. "Come walk with me, for I am so bored I shall scream if I do not get some amusement!"
About to ask how Lilavati could be bored on such a voyage, Lily suddenly remembered Mrs. McGregor's order. "I'm so sorry, but I can't. Mrs. McGregor said I mustn't promenade the deck with you."
For a moment Lilavati's eyes flashed anger, then she laughed. "Then of course you must obey. You shall not promenade the deck with me."
Lily tried to unlink her arm from Lilavati's, but Lilavati tightened her hold upon Lily. "You shall have tea in my cabin," Lilavati said. "Your so-strict chaperone has not yet forbidden that!"
"But she will," Lily said dolefully.
"Only if she finds out. Now come with me, Lily, before any tattletale old tabbies see us together!"
Unlike Lily's spartan cabin with its narrow bunks and miniscule storage area, Lilavati had obviously engaged not one, but two, of the few airy and spacious cabins aboard the Peshawur. In Aunt Charlotte's day, the clipper-ships transporting passengers to India along with freight and mail provided a cabin, nothing more; travelers to India had been obliged to provide everything from beds to china to provisions. But modern first-class cabins on the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company's ships contained two well-cushioned beds curtained in the fashion of the sleeping berths on a train, washbasins, and even a sofa.
Lilavati had obviously not found such accommodations sufficient. She had created for herself a stylish apartment that very nearly fooled the eye into thinking they were not on a ship at all. One cabin had been arranged entirely as a sitting room, and its grandeur rivaled that of the Peshawur's Grand Saloon: all the P&O furniture had been removed, replaced with opulently-carved black walnut pieces. The deck had been overlaid with jewel-toned Oriental carpets, and the walls adorned with tapestry hangings. Anything that wasn't carved with garlands of leaves and baskets of fruit was gilded, and anything that wasn't gilded was set with enamelwork plaques.
On a table whose Italian marble surface was inlaid in an intricate mosaic pattern, a thoroughly English tea set sat on a silver tray. Surrounding the tea tray were a gold-paper box of bon-bons, a three-tiered gilt cake stand containing colorfully iced biscuits, and another serving plate containing a plum cake with gleaming white marzipan icing. Even though Lilavati had said her luggage had been misdirected, it seemed she had bought out both Harrods and Fortnum before she sailed.
"I have a shocking sweet tooth!" Lilavati said, laughing as she saw where Lily was gazing. "Come! Sit! Save me from my own wickedness!"
"Perhaps just a cup of tea..." Lily said slowly, for lavish teas had never been a feature of Amberfield Manor, and Mrs. McGregor disapproved of sweets for "growing girls". I am not a growing girl! Lily thought rebelliously. I am a young woman. Why, if I were an Indian princess, I would already have been married for YEARS. And Mrs. McGregor is merely my chaperone, not my governess.
"Perhaps tea and cake?" Lilavati directed Lily to sit upon a massive sofa upholstered in gleaming yellow silk brocade. She seated herself beside Lily and clapped her hands imperiously.
The woman who entered through the connecting doorway was as proper as anyone could possibly wish. Her dove-grey gown, fine linen apron, and tiny starched cap trimmed with black velvet ribbons, proclaimed her status as lady's maid.
"You may serve us now, Marie-Claire," Lilavati announced, and her maid moved to obey.
Marie-Claire looked barely older than Lilavati herself, yet Lily knew she was Lilavati's only traveling companion. Lily wondered what such utter freedom would be like: she could not imagine that Marie-Claire would ever refuse to permit Lilavati to do anything she chose.
"I am so glad we met once more," Lilavati said, sipping demurely from her cup. "You show me my homeland through new eyes. I wish I could love India as you so plainly do—but perhaps I can become reconciled to it."
Lily glanced away awkwardly. "I only know about India from books, and—and from letters. Perhaps I will dislike it very much after all."
Lilavati laughed throatily. "Oh, Lily, do not say such things to comfort me! Your future shines bright. All the English young men will be dazzled by you, and you will be married before the year is out, mark my words."
Lilavati's teasing praise only made Lily blush hotly. "You mustn't say such things, Lilavati. I couldn't dazzle anyone. You're the one who is dazzling."
"Ah, but remember, I am already a married woman," Lilavati answered softly. "A married Indian woman. There will be no grand balls and assemblies for me."
Lily looked up, startled and a bit ashamed that she'd said something so tactless. When she did, she found Lilavati studying her as intently as if she wanted to memorize Lily's face and hold it in her heart forever.
"I am so sorry," Lily said. "Yesterday—on deck—you'd been about to tell me about—about your—"
"About my husband?" Lilavati finished. Her soft voice was suddenly hard and harsh, and fire blazed in the depths of those ice-grey eyes. When she smiled, it was obviously an effort. "No. As I told you, there is no hope for me. We shall part as friends in Bombay, and you will remember me fondly as the little English schoolgirl I once was. But let us not think of that now. I have thought of a task to help us endure the tedium of this eternal voyage."
Tilting her head, Lilavati smiled at Lily. "Shall I teach you to speak Hindustani, my dear? I would not suggest it to most, but you are so truly interested in India—and perhaps it will be of some small use to you while you reside there."
"My aunt and uncle speak it, and have promised to teach me—but I would so like to surprise them!" Lily said eagerly. "And Hindustani will be of far more use to me than French!"
"In India, certainly it will be—but you must know a young lady needs to be able to chatter a few words of French. Very well, we shall begin. And you must work diligently, Lily, for we have only a fortnight."
"Oh, I will," Lily vowed. "I want to learn all I possibly can before I get to India—and there it will be much easier for me to learn the rest."
"I do hope so," said Lilavati earnestly.
For several minutes Lilavati coached Lily in simple words. Both "hello" and "goodbye" were namaste; "please" was kripaya; "thank you" was dhanyavad—or perhaps bahut bahut, if one were very thankful—"yes" was ji han, "no" was ji nahin. In theory it seemed simple, yet no matter how many times Lily repeated the words back to her, Lilavati would smile and say she must try again.
"But I am tiring you!" Lilavati said at last. "We shall have many opportunities to practice. I shall make sure of it."
"I hope you won't get tired of—of me," Lily said anxiously. "You must tell me if—" She stopped as Lilavati held up her hand reprovingly.
"Do not talk utter rot, my dearest friend." Princess Lilavati laid her hand over Lily's. "This reminds me of our schooldays together. 'The Inseparables,' they called us—do you remember? And so we shall be again—at least until the end of the voyage," she added, as Lily nodded excitedly. "Then you will go to your future, undoubtedly to a handsome young man who loves you. And I ... I shall go to my fate. Think kindly of me in future years, and remember your friend from your innocent schooldays."
"I'll never forget you!" Lily protested.
She'd meant the words as the start of a promise to do something—anything—to save Lilavati, but Lilavati seemed to mistake her meaning, saying swiftly, "Why, and so you shall not, for you will have tokens to keep me in your memory." Lilavati clapped her hands together; without her gloves the sound was sharp and almost shocking. A moment later, Marie-Claire appeared silently in the doorway that linked sitting room with bedroom, her hands clasped before her, her head bowed.
"Bring me the hatbox, Marie-Claire," Lilavati ordered.
Lily thought it a rather odd request, but then Marie-Clare was crossing the room with a bright pasteboard box in her hands, and Lilavati was gracefully holding out her hands to receive it. When she opened the hatbox, the room was suddenly filled with a wonderful perfume, heavy and sweet. Lilavati lifted out a shimmering length of cloth, arranging it across Lily's lap.
Lily reached out tentative fingers, stroking the soft fabric as she would a kitten. "Oh," she breathed. "Oh, it's so beautiful!" The silk shawl shimmered brightly, golden threads sparkling in an intricate pattern across silk dyed deepest emerald, sapphire, and ruby.
"You must take it as a reminder of me," Lilavati said. "And these, of course."
She dipped into the hatbox again, and laid a pair of earrings on Lily's palm. They were as light as rose petals; long filigreed teardrops of pure gold, adorned with uncountable tiny discs that shimmered and danced and sparkled at the smallest movement. Lily was so stunned and entranced that Lilavati waving the stopper of a tiny blue glass bottle beneath her nose took her completely by surprise. She inhaled reflexively, and smelled a more intense version of the scent of the shawl.
"Roses and jasmine, amber and patchouli—your English poets speak of the perfumes of the East, and this is what they mean," Lilavati said
Lily sighed wistfully, but she knew what she must say. "You are far too kind, Lilavati. But I cannot accept such gifts from you. I wish I could, but—"
Lilavati lowered her head with a sad sigh. "Not accept a few trifles from one who loves you as a sister, dear Lily? But no, I shall not tease you, for I am sure you know best. Or shall I say, rather, that Mrs. McGregor knows best?" She plucked the glittering earrings from Lily's hand, dropped them into the jewel case, and closed it with a snap. "How terrible if that dragon of yours took offense at my offer of friendship. She would be certain to toss my little gifts over the ship's rail!"
Lily lifted the shawl and carefully refolded it, and held it out to Lilavati. "It is so beautiful." Lily tried to keep the longing from her voice, for Lilavati had only put Lily's own regrets into words. Not only were these gifts far too lavish for her to accept from anyone but a husband, Mrs. McGregor might very well do precisely what Lilavati had playfully suggested, and the thought of such exotic beauty at the bottom of the sea was unbearable. "But I don't need gifts to remember you. I am your friend. Always."
"Then—as a friend, you must accept a slice of cake at the very least," Lilavati said. "I will not allow you to refuse."
Marie-Claire hurried to remove the hatbox and its lavish contents. Lilavati bent gracefully toward the tea table, setting a slice of the rich, marzipan-topped plum cake onto Lily's plate.
"There!" she said, offering the plate to Lily. For a moment her lashes fluttered. "How I shall miss your good English cake." She took a deep breath, a delicate wash of color staining her ivory cheeks. "But we will not dwell upon our sorrows. Do let me give you another cup of tea."
Dear Lily—dear innocent, useful Lily! Lilavati smiled sweetly as she passed the teacup to her newest pawn. How vexing that Lily had spurned those lavish gifts, for Lilavati knew that if she'd accepted them, Lily's sense of obligation would have allowed Lilavati to do just as she liked with her.
Not that it will be difficult to do that regardless—she has not changed at all, the silly chit. At first Lilavati had merely renewed the old acquaintance because she knew how very much Lily's straitlaced chaperone disapproved of her. Then, to Lilavati's delight, she'd discovered that Lily was still the same adoring, sweetly-gullible, acolyte she'd been as a schoolgirl.
When Lily had arrived at the Rushleigh Academy for Young Ladies all those years ago, Lilavati had struck up the acquaintance with her out of sheer boredom, for the name "Shawcross" was a familiar one to her. It had entertained Lilavati to discover that Lily knew nothing at all of her aunt or about her aunt's scandalous elopement with an Indian prince. Lily had thought Lilavati's name beautiful and exotic; it amused Lilavati to know they were both named for the same woman: Lillian Shawcross—born Lillian Chalfont—Lily's mother and the sister of whom Lilavati's mother had spoken so often and so longingly.
Although Lily Shawcross didn't know it, she was Princess Lilavati's cousin, the perfect little English girl Lilavati's mother had so desperately wanted. Had labored heroically to create, until eventually Alice, lost to delusion, had come to believe her daughter Lilavati was that perfect English rose.
Lilavati did not share her mother's fantasy world. If Lilavati had ever believed her mother's promises that the English would instantly accept her as one of their own, that time had long since passed. At Rushleigh Academy, she'd been infuriated by the insinuations and whispers she'd been forced to endure, the serene conviction of English peasants that she—a princess!—was not even their equal.
In Lily's fierce and unquestioning devotion, Princess Lilavati had found balm for her bruised spirit, for devotion was very like worship, and it took much of the sting from the cruel words of her fellow students. 'The Inseparables' they had become; Lilavati charmed the innocent Lily so thoroughly and expertly that the younger girl dismissed the warnings of the other students and even the instructors as jealousy and envy. In Lily, Lilavati also found a ready source of information about her English relatives, for Lily, half homesick and half dazzled by her new friend, told Lilavati everything she wanted to know, utterly unaware that she was being ruthlessly interrogated. She confided in Lilavati with the eagerness of someone who had lived a sheltered, isolated life, and what began as Lilavati's desire to reassure herself that her life had been better than that of her cousin became a fascinating game.
A queen needed pawns.
It was not difficult at all for Lilavati to piece together the things Lily did not tell her because she did not know them herself: that Lily's father had made an ornament of his grief and loss when his wife died, cutting himself and his daughter off from the world. The result of such ignorance and isolation was that Lily had no cause at all to suspect that her dearest friend was related to her by more than affection. Lilavati had praised Lily and listened to her artless confessions, happily imagining the invitation Lily would soon extend for Lilavati to stay with her at Amberfield Manor.
But Lily had gone home for Christmas—alone—and never returned to the Rushleigh Academy for Young Ladies.
Lilavati had written to Lily, of course. But the single letter she received in reply was enough to tell her that none of her missives had been allowed to reach their intended recipient.
"Dearest Lili, if I had any idea that I would never see you again I never would have left your side. Papa told me I was not to come back to school, and I begged him to let me, and he would not. I shall be so unhappy without you—please tell me you forgive me, for I could not bear to think of your anger. You will always be in my heart. Your loving friend, Lily Shawcross."
The deep game she played all those years ago had borne sweeter fruit than she could ever have hoped, Lilavati now decided.
Dear Lily. My dear little cousin, whom I have found again just when I most need her help!
She would have needed nothing from anyone if her father had not been a backward and superstitious fool, and her mother mad. If Lilavati's father had not died as recently as she had led Lily to believe, in one matter she had been absolutely truthful: her mother had followed her father into death and burned with him on his funeral pyre.
Foolish, both of them. Foolish and weak, to deny me what is mine by right!
When she was five years old and knew of England only through her mother's tearful ramblings, Alice Chalfont's daughter had stamped her foot and said, "I want to be queen of Sherabagh!" and her father Nataraj, the Rajah, had laughed at her. Sherabagh would never accept a female ruler, especially when a suitable son of the ruling house was available. Lilavati had angrily demanded to know why, if Queen Victoria could rule an empire, Lilavati could not rule Sherabagh.
"My dear daughter, do not be so foolish," her father told her when she asked him that question. "Sherabagh is not Oudh or Jhansi or Bhopal. As for Victoria—well, England has its own customs, and we have ours."
What her father called an unalterable fact infuriated her. Her mother had told her how things were done in England—and that it was a mere accident of birth that had determined Lilavati would not succeed her father as his heir.
And so, when Lilavati had still demanded to be queen a year later, Rajah Nataraj made a fateful decision. He decided to betroth his daughter to the boy who would become the next Rajah of Sherabagh. His younger brother's son.
Lilavati's cousin Sherdil.
Lilavati was not delighted; Lilavati was furious. But even at six she had better sense than to say so. And two years later, Lilavati had left India. Distracted by the cruel trick of fate that left only one life between Sherabagh and any possible renewal of the Doctrine of Lapse, Nataraj had yielded to his wife's pleading, and Lilavati was sent Home, to England, enrolled in a proper girl's boarding school.
When she was seventeen, a letter had reached her from India, having been forwarded through half-a-dozen addresses to reach her. Her father and mother were both dead, and her cousin Sherdil now ruled Sherabagh. It was time for her to come home.
She'd spent two glorious years leading her cousin the Rajah a merry dance through the great cities of Europe. But at last she'd no longer been able to outrun the importunate letters—or to be more accurate, her cousin had descended to sending paid agents to secure her submission and cooperation. She'd escaped them one last time, but it was an empty victory: the only place she could go was back to India. To the man who usurped MY throne! I am the only child of Rajah Nataraj—I should be ruler of Sherabagh now. Not Sherdil!
From the moment she'd realized she must return to India, her thoughts had been fixed on one goal: to free herself from the childhood betrothal to her cousin. If she were not his bride, Lilavati reasoned, her cousin would take no further interest in her. She would be—again, forever—free to do as she pleased.
How to attain this halcyon future had puzzled her—until the day she'd strolled along the deck of the Peshawur, and seen Lily Shawcross standing at the rail….
"I should go," Lily said regretfully, with a glance toward the ormolu clock that sat atop a Rococo cabinet in the corner. "If Mrs. McGregor cannot find me..."
"Then she will hunt you down like a hound on a fresh scent!" Lilavati said wickedly, her smile inviting Lily to share the joke. "And lock you away, so I would be denied your company completely. That must never be. We are friends, are we not?" she added, rising gracefully to her feet and holding out her hands to Lily.
"Forever," Lily said, taking them.
I wonder what she's up to this time. Sylvester Underhill stood in the doorway of the Gentlemen's Smoking Room and gazed down the staircase into the Grand Saloon below. Pale and slender and impeccably tailored from the crown of his sleek flaxen head to the soles of his narrow expensively-shod feet, Sylvester Underhill appeared to be the living embodiment of the highborn Englishman—which was fortunate, as that appearance was the means by which he'd made a living since his departure, in disgrace, from the British Army in India. He watched as little Miss Shawcross exited Princess Lilavati's cabin, gazed around apprehensively, and scurried toward the steps that would take her to the Promenade Deck.
You'd do better at skulking, my dear, if you didn't look as if you expected to be struck by lightning at any moment, he thought amiably.
He knew she wouldn't take such advice even if he were moved to give it. Little Miss Shawcross might be barely out of the schoolroom, but the girl had the same innate high-nosed arrogance as that old dragon who was her minder. Sylvester knew the type: the Lords—and Ladies!—of Creation, laying down the law to anyone they thought of as their inferiors and toadying to their betters.
He'd watched the princess lay siege to Miss Shawcross for the past week without understanding why. Schoolgirls aren't her usual line of country. What the devil is she playing at?
He descended the stairs and wandered, seemingly at random, in the direction Miss Shawcross had gone. Sylvester Underhill wasn't a man who liked riddles. A man who lived by his wits couldn't afford mysteries that he hadn't created himself. A man who lived by his wits couldn't afford to become careless, either. He'd been careless once, and it was costing him dearly. A high price to pay for a bit of fun and games in St. Petersburg....
Six months ago, he'd arrived in Russia's most glamorous city as the White Nights began, those enchanted days during which the sun never truly set, and during which the rules that governed Russia's rigid court dissolved like sugar in rain. He'd had high hopes for his sojourn there, for Sylvester, outwardly the complete English gentleman, was a cad to the marrow of his bones and a gambler from birth. He'd intended to employ both appearance and reality to improve his fortunes in the city Peter the Great had built on water two hundred years before.
At first all had gone just as he'd intended. His brief and disastrous British Army career had given him the manners to charm the officers; the nobility were delighted by the opportunity to rub shoulders with a true English gentleman, and the ladies...
The ladies had been where the trouble started.
He hadn't intended to place himself at the mercy of Tretiye Otdeleniye, the Third Section of His Imperial Majesty's Own Chancellery—a very misleading name for what was in reality Tsar Alexander's secret police. He'd never wanted to become a tool of anyone's policy. But he'd chosen the wrong pigeon to pluck at the gaming tables. He'd been minding his own business, being a charming drinking companion, gracefully losing money to Prince Oblensky while awaiting the right moment for the prince to stop winning—and for Sylvester to begin. But apparently he hadn't been as quite as charming as he'd thought, because one evening there'd been a knock at the door of Sylvester's hotel room just as he'd been dressing for dinner, and the sleek young man who presented himself said that rumors had come to the Tsar's attention that Sir Sylvester was a gambler, an adventurer, and a debaucher of virgins.
That was how Sylvester had made the acquaintance of Nicholas Pavlovich Ignatieff.
The penalty for such crimes was a heavy one, Nicholas Pavlovich had told him, but the Tsar was a humane and merciful man who would be delighted to allow Sir Sylvester the opportunity to redeem himself by providing Tretiye Oteldeniye with a trifling bit of assistance. Since the alternative was to become a guest of the Tsar at that dismal little island retreat in the Neva, Petropavlovskaya Krepost—the Peter and Paul Prison—Sylvester had hastened to assure Nicholas Pavlovich of his eagerness to assist the servants of Tsar Alexander III in any way possible.
And I must admit that being a Grand Duke has its points.
"Grand Duke" was a title Sylvester was far too canny ever to claim for himself, for such a claim was far too easily disproven. But Sylvester was also too clever to argue with the Third Section. If it wished him to become an Imperial Grand Duke, then an Imperial Grand Duke Sylvester would become.
They wanted him to seduce an Indian princess. Simple enough.
If they'd told him why, he might have taken his chances with prison.
"There," said Nicholas Pavlovich. "The woman with black hair, in the grey dress."
Sylvester looked where Nicholas Pavlovich gestured; where the Russian saw a woman in a grey dress, Sylvester saw the gleaming radiance of the most brilliant beauty in a room full of beautiful women. Garbed in moon-silver silk tight as a second skin, she glittered like a diamond serpent. "The lady in silver?" Sylvester asked in disbelief.
"That is she," his warder told him, as Sylvester stared at the diamond-bright young woman.
"That's the Indian princess you want me to seduce?"
"Do not try my patience, English," Nicholas Pavlovich answered curtly.
Sylvester shrugged and turned back to study his quarry. She didn't look like a native woman. True, she had a mass of dark hair confined with jeweled hairpins, but her skin was the color of cream and her eyes—her eyes gleamed pale as a clear dawn sky. "You're sure, are you?" he asked.
"Of course we are certain." As certain as Sylvester was, after a week in Nicholas Pavlovich's company, that the Tretiye Otdeleniye surgically removed all sense of humor from its agents the day they enlisted. "That is Princess Lilavati. Now do as we have told you. Once you have caught her interest, you will receive further orders. Do not attempt to betray us. The Third Section has eyes everywhere. We will always be watching."
It had proved almost too easy to insinuate himself into the princess's good graces. His appearance caught her eye, his elegant flattery pleased her, and his delicate hints that his true rank was of the highest—something, Sylvester knew, that would be confirmed by any inquiries she happened to make—captured what passed for her heart. He was under no illusion that Princess Lilavati had fallen in love with the man he pretended to be. If Sylvester Underhill had a talent, it was for ferreting out the truth, and the truth about Princess Lilavati was that she was cold and heartless as a Fabergé snake.
And so he'd bowed over her hand, and smiled, and considered the princess's jewels and the entrée to society a favorite of the Tsar could gain that a mere baronet could not.
A fortnight later, Nicholas Pavlovich had told him that the princess was to leave St. Petersburg to return to India, and Sylvester was to ensure that "Grand Duke Sergei" accompanied her. The Third Section at last revealed precisely why they'd ensnared him. The Tsar, as represented by the thrice-damned Third Section, wanted Sylvester to play the spy in some of the most hostile territory on earth: the mountains of Afghanistan.
Everyone knew Russia wanted to take Afghanistan, but only as l'entr'acte to an invasion and conquest of India. The country that controlled the passes through the Hindu Kush controlled the riches of India. Both Russia and England had spent considerable time and effort to discover new—and unknown—invasion routes.
Sylvester had always assumed that the Russian push to claim India was rooted in sane imperial ambition. Not in ancient, almost impossible to read diaries. When Nicholas Pavlovich laid the leather-bound volume with paper so old it tore at a touch down on his malachite desk, Sylvester realized that his original notion—that the Third Section was run by madmen—was apparently correct. He turned a page of the diary, pretending he was studying the faded ink words. Fortunately, he could read Russian; unfortunately, the ancient scrawls resembled hen scratches more than handwriting.
"Very impressive," he said at last, hoping Nicholas would give him a hint about why a diary whose first page was dated 1624 had any importance two-and-a-half centuries later.
"Yes, very impressive," Nicholas Pavlovich had agreed. "This is the diary of Prince Dimitri Dolgorukov. Prince Dimitri traveled to India in, as you see, the 1620s."
Sylvester turned another crumbling page. Halfway through the diary, the ink had remained darker; words sprang into focus. Moon-pale. Beloved. Forbidden. Death. Interested now, Sylvester ignored Nicholas, concentrating on reading Prince Dimitri's impassioned words. Clearly the mad Russian prince had fallen in love—Now who with? Ah, here it was --
Prince Dimitri had fallen in love with a Rajah's concubine. The besotted prince described her as a lady white as Russian snow…and there was the word Sherabagh, so apparently the prince had wound up there, God alone knew why --
"And Prince Dimitri eloped with her, escaping the Rajah's anger by traveling through a pass from Sherabagh into Afghanistan, north of Kabul," Nicholas Pavlovich said. "So you see, there is a route a man may travel through those mountains. Your task is to find it."
Sylvester promptly lost all interest in the long-dead prince's reckless love affair. "And just how am I to do that?" he asked. "Did this Dimitri chap draw a map of the place, by any chance?"
"There is a map." Nicholas Pavlovich laid his hand on the diary. "Prince Dimitri tells us the map's location."
Sylvester already knew he didn't want to hear where the blasted map was located. Clearly it wasn't in the diary, or the Third Section wouldn't need him at all. He waited, refusing to ask the obvious question, until Nicholas frowned, and said,
"The map is in Sherabagh, in the Tiger Palace."
"My dear chap, it was there in 1620-something. This is 1878. What on earth makes you think the map still exists?"
"If it does not exist, then you will map the pass for us. Princess Lilavati can get you into the Tiger Palace, and our contact in Sherabagh will assist you to travel the pass. It will be easier with the map, of course," Nicholas Pavlovich added.
The Tsar's spies are all mad. Stark raving, every single one of them. Sylvester smiled, and spoke calmly, as if he took this farrago of nonsense seriously. "But won't I be a bit conspicuous skulking around this Sherabagh place?"
Nicholas Pavlovich had actually laughed. "On the contrary, it's well known that the English are all keen adventurers. One meets the English in every corner of the world seeking everything from lost tribes to rare butterflies. Who less likely to be one of our agents than Sir Sylvester Underhill?"
So here he was, Sylvester Underhill, pretending to be Grand Duke Sergei Romanov, pretending to be Sir Sylvester Underhill, escorting a supposedly-virginal Indian princess home to find a map that might or might not exist. Oh, yes, and to return to Russia through those ghastly mountains that led to the Roof of the World. Just thinking about it was enough to give him a headache. But he still didn't see any way out of the ungodly tangle.
Trapped like a bloody fly in bloody amber.
Sylvester reached into his pocket and closed his fingers over the small treasure hidden there. A chessboard playing-piece; intricately carved ivory; white queen of a long-vanished Moghul court. It had, according to Ignatieff, been brought to Russia by Prince Dimitri's Indian lady-love. A token that would vouch for him to Russia's agent in Sherabagh. A token that would open a door for the Russian bear into India.
Or not. The old ivory warmed under Sylvester's caressing fingers. That dog only hunts if I'm fool enough to play Russia's game.
But did he dare refuse? It was true that India was easy to vanish in. But Russia was bear strong and bear stubborn.
"Do not attempt to betray us. The Third Section has eyes everywhere. We will always be watching."
If only Princess Lilavati had possessed a grain of sense, everything would be simple: she could marry him—or say she had—and they could extort a vast sum of hush-money from her family, then go their separate ways with no one the wiser. But he'd quickly discovered that Lilavati dreamed not of treasures and ease, but crowns and thrones. And now Lilavati had yet another scheme brewing in that pretty head of hers. That much he was sure of.
Well, I've survived so far; once in India I'll give Her Highness and the Tretiye Otdeleniye the slip.
Or perhaps he'd play a double game until they reached Sherabagh. Weren't India's princely states overflowing with treasure of all sorts? As for the map so earnestly sought by the Tsar's secret service... Any moldering map of the Northwest Frontier should do. I'll just scrawl a few lines on it and say they indicate the hidden pass. The Third Section won't know the truth until I'm safely out of its reach.
Sylvester released the ivory queen, leaving the token in his jacket pocket. He had hard decisions to make, but he didn't have to make them yet.
The ship wouldn't dock at Bombay for another fortnight, after all.
Lily felt no qualms about misleading her guardian. If Mrs. McGregor had any sense at all, Lily thought stormily, she'd encourage Lily's friendship with Lilavati—or at least not discourage it. In the first place, Mrs. McGregor was only the temporary guardian of Lily's manners and morals. In the second place, what advantage could an Indian princess gain from the friendship? She could hardly be after Lily's money, since Lily didn't have any, and Lily could hardly sponsor her into Anglo-Indian society. In fact, it would probably be the other way around.
At least it would if she didn't have to go back to Sherabagh. I shall ask Aunt Charlotte if Lilavati may stay with us in Bombay—just for a few days' rest after the voyage. I'm sure Aunt Charlotte will say yes. And then perhaps we can travel north with her to Sherabagh. I'm sure Uncle Ambrose can persuade that terrible old Rajah she's betrothed to that he should change his mind and not marry her after all...
"Miss Shawcross? Forgive me, I did not see you here."
Lily turned. "Mr. Underhill," she said, after a moment's thought.
She had five-score fellow passengers aboard the Peshawur, but aside from her dinner-table companions—who did not include Mr. Underhill—Lily knew few of them. Her dining companions included two couples returning to India after depositing their offspring in English schools, a tall and floridly handsome—but rather elderly—gentleman, a middle-aged lady returning to her husband's side after a long visit Home, a traveling botanist who was a wealth of information about tropical plants, and a young subaltern going out to join his brother's regiment on the Northwest Frontier.
"I have seen you with Li-- with Princess Lilavati," Lily said, holding out her hand. "I am certain that any friend of the Princess's must be a friend of mine."
Mr. Underhill took her hand, but instead of shaking it as she expected, or even bending over it to kiss it as the foreigners did, he tucked it through his arm.
"Charmed, my dear," he said, patting her hand.
Without quite knowing how it had happened, Lily found herself promenading along the deck with him. He asked her about her plans once the Peshawur docked in Bombay, and Lily found herself explaining that she was going to live with her aunt and uncle, and that she hoped to have Lilavati as a guest.
"I'm sure they'll be delighted to welcome the princess into their home," Mr. Underhill said. "Unless...?"
"Oh no!" Lily assured him fervently, and somehow that led to her explaining that she and Princess Lilavati had met when they were children. "Only Papa said I must not go back to Rushleigh Academy for the spring because he decided he did not wish me to be so far away, and even though I wrote to Li-- To Princess Lilavati, she never wrote back, and I thought she had forgotten me until I discovered we were traveling to India together," she finished in a rush.
"I expect she was not let to have your letters," Mr. Underhill said gravely. "Very strict, these English schools. But how fortunate you remembered each other after all this time."
"Oh, I could never have forgotten her!" Lily said earnestly. "And I do hope-- I look forward, Mr. Underhill, to keeping up the connection once we arrive."
"Do you?" Mr. Underhill asked quizzically. "I dare say we shall all have to wait and see."
"Oh," Lily said. But the fact that Mr. Underhill had said "we" and not "you" decided her. "Will you be traveling with her into the north? I would-- I hope-- It would be terrible if she were all alone, you see!" she finished breathlessly. The way Mr. Underhill spoke made Lily think that he and Princess Lilavati might not just be shipboard acquaintances.
"Indeed it would be," Mr. Underhill replied. "And I assure you, dear Miss Shawcross, I would be very unhappy if I were forced to abandon Princess Lilavati. But sufficient unto the day, as my old nurse used to say. Let us think about happier things. As this is hardly my first voyage, allow me to share some of the wonders of King Neptune's kingdom with you. If you will look over the side just here, and luck is with us, you shall see something very special."
Their slow procession had brought them to the stern of the ship. At Mr. Underhill's urging, Lily looked over the side, hoping to see dolphins, or perhaps a school of the silvery flying fish that seemed so improbable. But when she stared down into the translucent water, a chill of instinctive horror iced her skin.
Directly below her a long shape the dark grey color of bad dreams slid through glass-clear water, pacing the ship. A shadow from the dawn of time, the shark drove smoothly through the water half-a-dozen feet below the placid surface. For one giddy moment sea and sky reeled around her, but then the deck of the Peshawur was solid beneath her feet once more.
"Miss Shawcross?" Sylvester Underhill's voice jarred her back to herself. "Magnificent, isn't it? Twenty feet if it's an inch; daresay it could snap a man in half with one bite. They follow the man o' wars, you know, to feed on the dead."
Lily pulled her hand from Mr. Underhill's grasp and backed away from the railing. "Perhaps it is magnificent," she said in a shaken voice, "but I do not care for sharks, Mr. Underhill. Good day."
She turned and walked quickly along the deck, breathing carefully, for the rich tea she had just eaten in Lilavati's cabin, combined with the shock of seeing the shark, had made her feel ill, and she did not want to disgrace herself. The sun glared off the water and streaks of light flashed across her vision, half blinding her; she stumbled against the railing.
"Here, now—I say, Miss Shawcross, are you all right?" A firm hand steadied Lily; she blinked sun-spangles from her eyes and smiled at Lieutenant Hanford. Geoffrey Evelyn Hanford was the subaltern going to India to join his brother's regiment, and his dinner table conversation was filled with amusing anecdotes about life in India culled from his brother's letters.
"Oh, yes—I saw a shark, and it—it upset me, that's all," Lily said breathlessly.
"I should think so," Lieutenant Hanford said. "Nasty brutes, sharks. In the water, was it?"
No, it was taking an afternoon constitutional here on the deck! Lily thought with a flash of temper. But she could hardly say something like that to Lieutenant Hanford, so she merely nodded.
"Here," he went on blithely, "you still look a bit rattled—take my arm and we'll do the deck properly. Sea air's good for you."
"How fortunate." Lily smiled and set her hand upon his sleeve. After the odd encounter with Mr. Underhill, there was something very reassuring about Lieutenant Hanford's broad cheerful face and regimental uniform. Mr. Underhill had almost seemed to take pleasure in frightening her, though Lily told herself firmly that of course he'd had no such intention.
She and Lieutenant Hanford walked briskly along the deck until Lieutenant Hanford seemed to decide that Lily had been adequately revivified. "There you are—looking much better. See here, Miss Shawcross—I know I shouldn't be so forward—but we are fellow passengers and dining companions, and that's nearly the equivalent of a formal introduction, so I do hope you might see your way to calling me Geoffrey."
Lily began to smile, then remembered what Mrs. McGregor would say, and tried to achieve the requisite expression of demure yet encouraging virtue. All she got for her trouble was a worried question from Geoffrey as to whether he should send for her maid.
Lily laughed and shook her head. "No, I'm quite well, Lieutenant-- Geoffrey. And I hope you will call me 'Lily'—I've always wanted a brother," she added innocently.
For a moment Geoffrey Hanford's face went quite blank, and Lily worried that she'd been too bold. At last he too laughed and said, "That's dished me. No hope, eh?"
"Truly, Lieu-- Geoffrey, your attentions-- "
"--are more than you ever hoped for," he finished amiably. "Oh, you needn't look so surprised! I've got three older sisters who insisted on practicing that penny-dreadful drivel on me. I tell you, it's quite a relief to escape to the Army! But I don't walk with pretty girls so I can talk about my sisters. I'd rather explain what a dashing good chap I am before we get to India—there's one girl to a hundred of us helpless men, and she can do what she likes with us. Let me sign your dance cards now and I'm your slave for life."
"But I haven't any dance cards—and besides, I'm still in mourning for my father," Lily added in a hasty afterthought. The disparity between the numbers of English men and English women in India had been a subject Aunt Charlotte had touched on often in her letters to her brother, though her observations might have been couched in more tactful terms if she'd known Galen Shawcross read them out word-for-word to his young daughter. Lily chose to think it fortunate, for even before her hasty telegram to her aunt, she'd already been quite familiar with the idea that young women of no prospects in England became young women with bright futures in India.
"Perhaps you'll set aside your natural grief in the fullness of time," Geoffrey said hopefully, his tone of voice making it clear that he was quoting more of "that penny-dreadful drivel". Somehow the combination of sincere concern for her welfare and mockery of the stuffy rules that governed men and women's behavior with each other made Lily like him a great deal.
"I still haven't any dance cards," Lily said impishly. "Perhaps I shan't be invited to any balls."
"With Lady Charlotte Hightower showing you how to go on? Don't try to pull the wool over my eyes! My brother says she's the devil of a good sort—not memsahib-ish at all. So that's all right. There now," he finished triumphantly, "managed to make you forget all about that shark, didn't I? Nothing at all to worry about, anyway—it's down there, and we're up here. "
Lily smiled, and agreed, and wondered why the thought did nothing at all to drive out the image of a great predator shadowing the ship with endless patience, waiting for its prey.
Lily did not escape the scolding she'd tried so hard to avoid. When she returned to her cabin at last, Mrs. McGregor launched into a long lecture about how her actions here on shipboard would not be things she left behind her when the Peshawur docked, but would follow her to Bombay—and into society. As her companion lectured her, Lily applied herself diligently to brushing out her long black hair. It wasn't an easy task, as salt water and sea air had turned her once-silken tresses to something the consistency of straw. Mrs. McGregor had already assured her that a few washings with rainwater once they disembarked in India would set things to rights again. In the meantime, Lily supposed she must suffer.
"Indian women," she commented, wrestling with a particularly recalcitrant tangle, "comb sandalwood oil through their hair. Perhaps I should try that, Mrs. McGregor?"
"You are jesting, Lillian," Mrs. McGregor announced, as if 'jest' and 'mortal sin' were synonymous. "What native women choose to do has nothing to do with us. I know you are thinking of your little school friend, so please do remember, Lillian, that the people on board will talk," Mrs. McGregor said, with a heavy sigh.
Lily lifted her chin. "I don't care if they do," she said stubbornly. "You dislike her highness simply because she is Indian; that is most unfair," she added boldly.
To her surprise, Mrs. McGregor shook her head. "No, dear child. I dislike her because—because she is—" Mrs. McGregor paused, as if at a loss for the exact word to express her feelings. "Because she is trouble. It is something about the eyes, my dear. One can always tell. Why, poor Alice—well, I won't name names, but poor Alice was precisely the same, and she—well, never mind that now; it was a very long time ago and one shouldn't speak ill—But do trust my judgment, Lillian; I am considerably your senior, you know, and my experience is far broader than yours. And do remember that there are other passengers beside your princess on board. You cannot afford to make enemies who will follow you through life. Once the voyage is over, cut your connection with that princess entirely. No good will come of it."
Lily smiled dutifully. "I promise I'll be careful—and I shall have my aunt to advise me once we reach India, you know, so you mustn't worry. But the princess isn't trouble, truly. She's only lonely and unhappy, so it's my Christian duty to be charitable to her, isn't it? Just for the voyage?" What she did after they arrived wouldn't be Mrs. McGregor's responsibility, after all.
"Charity," said Mrs. McGregor tartly, "begins at home. That's in the Bible, you know—"
No, it isn't, Lily thought sulkily.
"--and as you go through life, you'll find it's true," Mrs. McGregor finished. "Dear me, just look at the time—do finish dressing, Lillian dear, or we'll be late to dinner, and that wouldn't do at all."
If it was Lily's duty to be charming to everyone aboard the Peshawur, then for once duty was relatively painless, for Lily found most of her assigned dinner-table companions perfectly congenial. Lily was pleased enough to practice her manners on Geoffrey Hanford, a man whom even Mrs. McGregor could find no fault with. And Geoffrey shared her eagerness to reach India, something that would have endeared him to her if nothing else did.
"My brother says it's the best place in the world for a soldier," Lieutenant Hanford told Lily eagerly over dinner. "And the hunting—! By Jove, I can hardly wait to bag a tiger. And there may be a war so I can cover myself with martial glory. Mrs. Teale, would you be so very kind as to pass me the mustard?"
The P&O line employed French chefs on all its ships, and the Dining Saloon was as opulently appointed as any grand hotel. Lily had found the shipboard food uncomfortably rich but quite palatable; Geoffrey disliked it so much that Sir Quentin had even said that no meal could be considered complete until young Hanford had stunned the contents of his plate into submission with mustard, or chutney, or both.
"A war? With whom?" Lily set down her fork.
"Oh, Afghanistan, I daresay. Think they can tell us what to do—we'll teach them better than that." Geoffrey's patriotic zeal contrasted oddly with his businesslike application of mustard to a plate of pork cutlets in white wine sauce.
"They're more apt to teach you, youngster."
Lily looked across the table at Sir Quentin Malverne. Sir Quentin was a bona fide hero, and Lily regarded him with passionate admiration. He'd covered himself in glory during the disastrous war with the Afghans in 1842, as well as during the first Sikh war a few years later. And he had won the coveted Victoria Cross for his courageous actions during the Indian Mutiny.
"Do you think so, sir?" Geoffrey addressed him respectfully: everyone knew Sir Quentin's military reputation.
"I know so, you young puppy. Taught us smartly enough in '42, didn't they? You take my advice—Lieutenant, is it?—and stay well away from Afghanistan. And the Afghans too, come to that. Cut your throat soon as look at you, most of them—and their women are worse."
"But Sir Quentin, surely you can't mean we should just swallow Sher Ali's insults?" Geoffrey protested.
"Why not? Ain't he swallowed enough of ours? No, you take my word for it, my lad—war ain't all it's cracked up to be by the dashed poets. And that goes twice for war with those bloody-minded Afghans."
"Really, Sir Quentin," said one of the other men, "there are ladies present."
"So there are, and not an Afghan Amazon among 'em." Sir Quentin lifted his wineglass. "The ladies, God bless 'em."
And then Sir Quentin Malverne winked at Lily; she blushed happily, and thought that Sir Quentin must have been most handsome when he was young.
