Tea and Spices (An Erotic Novel of Colonial India) (5 page)

 
Devora looked at Kalindi assessingly, as if she were trying to determine something that wasn’t readily apparent. “Where are you from?” she asked.

 
“A town called Cawnpore.”

 
“And what brings you here?”

 
“Work,
memsahib
.”

 
“Ah, I see. Lots of work available, I imagine.”

 
“Devora!” Gerald snapped out her name.

 
Her eyes went innocently to his. “I’m just asking questions, darling.”

 
“Kalindi, that will be all for now.” Gerald waved his hand in a dismissing motion. “You may leave.”

 
Kalindi nodded and walked off, the tune of her humming drifting on the slight breeze. Gerald gave Devora a hard look.

 
“Devora, I won’t have you interrogating the servants, do you understand?” he said. “I told you that you shouldn’t associate with them, and I mean it. Do you understand me?”

 
She looked as if she were about to respond with a retort, but then her mouth compressed into a thin line. She nodded.

 
“Yes, I understand.”

 
“Good. Now I don’t want to have this conversation again.” Gerald removed his cigarette case from his jacket pocket and took out a cigarette. He tapped it against the case and lit it, drawing in a deep rush of smoke. “Now, I have some good news.”

 
“What good news?”

 
“The maharaja has invited us to a dinner party this Saturday at his palace in Varitsar.”

 
Devora’s eyebrows lifted. “A dinner party at the palace?”

 
“Yes. Everyone from around the district will be there, I’m sure, including British dignitaries.”

 
A spark of excitement lit in Devora’s expression. “Really? We’re going to the palace?”

 
Gerald smiled. “Yes. I hope you brought some evening dresses to wear.”

 
“Oh, I certainly did. My goodness, how exciting this is. Mrs. Thompson was just telling me about the maharaja.”

 
“Really? What did she say?”

 
“Well, she mentioned the rumor about his sexual perversities,” Devora said.

 
“Devora! You shouldn’t be talking about things like that.”

 
She blinked, giving him an innocent look. “I didn’t start the conversation, Gerald. Mrs. Thompson was all too eager to volunteer the information, including the part about his wife committing suicide because she couldn’t stand his sexual inclinations.”

 
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, that is the most salacious thing I’ve ever heard,” Gerald said disparagingly. “People just love to spread rumors about him. He’s a perfect gentleman in my estimation.”

 
“Your estimation appears to be based on only two or so meetings,” Devora remarked.

“That’s still more than Mrs. Thompson has had, I dare say,” Gerald replied. “Now, don’t go about spreading those kinds of rumors about the maharaja. He’s a politically astute figure, and we can’t risk upsetting relations between him and the British. I would hate to have him discover that the Assistant Collector’s wife is one of the gossip-mongers. Am I making myself clear?”

 
Devora yawned, patting her hand daintily over her mouth. “Yes, darling. Forgive me, but I fear I’m still suffering a bit from the journey.”

 
“No doubt. I thought you were going to the ladies’ bridge party this afternoon.”

 
“Yes, that’s at three.” She rose, brushing the wrinkles from her skirt. “Perhaps I’ll take a little nap before then.”

 
“Good idea. And, Devora?”

 
She looked at him. “Yes?”

 
“Don’t cause trouble.”

 
Devora smiled and walked over to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Oh, darling, of course I won’t. You simply worry too much.”

“Heavens, I’ve got butterflies in my stomach.” Devora secured her final hairpin and examined herself critically in the mirror. She wore her best dress, a deep blue, silk gown with a beaded bodice. A strand of pearls decorated her neck. She turned to look at Gerald, who looked quite stunning in a tuxedo and bow-tie.

 
“You look lovely, darling. I’ve never seen you look so beautiful.” Gerald patted Devora on the bottom, then gave it a quick squeeze.

 
“What does one call a maharaja? Sir? Your Highness?”

 
“I’ve always called him ‘sir,’ so I believe that’s appropriate unless you hear someone call him something else.”

 
“Must we take a carriage there? The roads are so dusty.”

 
“No, I’ve managed to procure a car for the evening.” Gerald pulled out his watch and flicked it open. “Darling, we’d better leave or we’ll be late.”

 
“All right, I’m ready.” Devora powdered her nose one last time, picked up her pocketbook, and followed Gerald outside. To her surprise, their previous driver wasn’t waiting at the car for them. Instead, Rohan stood next to the open car door. He looked rather magnificent in a white jacket and black trousers, his expression as stoic as ever.

 
“What’s he doing here?” Devora whispered to Gerald as he helped her up into the car.

 
“He drives when we’re going somewhere particularly important,” Gerald replied. “It has to do with prestige among the servants, I believe.”

 
Devora settled into her seat, gazing out at the landscape, the ribbons of orange and gold that were just starting to paint the sky. The sun hovered like a huge, golden bubble above the distant hills.

They drove through the town of Calipore, a bustling mecca of noise and activity. White, sacred Brahmin cows wandered the streets placidly amidst the frenzy of the marketplace. Stalls lined the main street, each one filled with flowers, vegetables, silver jewelry, and bowls of colorful spices and dyes.

Devora couldn’t stop staring at the people, the Muslim women dressed entirely in black, the middle-class Indians wearing suits, the toothless beggars and poverty-struck children. The sights alone encompassed more uniqueness than she had imagined of India.

 
After they made their way through the town, Rohan drove for another hour before they finally arrived at the palace, which rose above the landscape like a sudden hallucination.

Magnificent in its simplicity and splendor, the palace was situated on the west bank of a large lake, alongside of which numerous cars and carriages were parked. The palace was reddish in color with three towers topped by domes, and dozens of bracketed windows, ornate balconies and balustrades. Palm trees sprouted around the grounds like sentries guarding their station, and the gardens seemed to radiate out for miles.

 
Devora glanced at Gerald. “When was this palace built?” she asked.

 
“Sixteenth century, I think,” Gerald replied.

 
“Seventeenth,” Rohan corrected from the driver’s seat. “It was built of red sandstone by the maharaja Ramit Singh. It is a perfect example of Rajput architecture and consists of five stories and over two hundred rooms, with imported Italian marble and stained glass.”

 
“How wonderful,” Devora breathed, leaning forward in her seat to get a closer look at the sight before them.

 
“Apparently, Rohan is also a historian as well as a servant,” Gerald muttered.

 
“My apologies,
sahib
.”

 
Devora glanced at Rohan, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror. To her surprise, she could have sworn that a twinkle of amusement appeared within the fathomless depths of his black eyes, but then it was gone so quickly that she was certain she had imagined it. She doubted Rohan had a humorous bone in his body.

 
Rohan stopped the car at the entrance and got out to hold the door open for them.

 
“I will go and park the car, but I will be here when you are ready to return home,” he said.

 
“Thank you, Rohan.” Gerald took Devora’s arm as they walked towards the palace entrance.

 
Devora felt as if she had been transported back to the seventeenth century as they walked past guards dressed in white uniforms, sashes, and silken turbans. A multitude of voices emerged from the reception room to the left of the entrance.

Devora gave her wrap to a servant, her heart pounding hard as they entered a vast room of glittering silk, spicy scents, and lilting music. About forty guests meandered about the hall like slow-moving ships, British men and women in gowns and tuxedos contrasting with Indian
saris
and turbans.

At the far end of the room, several people flanked a man dressed in a beautifully embroidered
kurta
and black trousers. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties, and he carried himself with such a regal bearing that Devora knew instantly this was the maharaja.

 
“Oh, good, you’re here!” Mrs. Thompson, dressed in a long, sequined gown, floated over to them. “Have you met the maharaja yet?”

 
An image of Mrs. Thompson spread out indecently against the wall appeared in Devora’s mind like a moving picture. She smiled, hoping that her amusement would be mistaken for friendliness. “Not yet. We’ve just arrived. I expected there would be many more people.”

 
“The maharaja always plans sit-down dinners, so there is a limited seating arrangement,” Mrs. Thompson explained. “It makes it rather nice, I think.”

 
“We’ll go and introduce ourselves to him,” Gerald said. “Nice seeing you, Mrs. Thompson.”

 
Taking Devora’s arm again, Gerald led her over to the maharaja and his court officials. Devora gazed at the man curiously, intrigued by his bearing and history. He wasn’t an extraordinarily handsome man. Nor was he particularly slim, no doubt due to a constant array of wonderful foods. He did, however, have an air of command and control about him that made him rather fascinating.

 
“Sir, I don’t know if you remember me, but my name is Gerald Hawthorne,” Gerald said. “Assistant Collector. This is my wife, Devora. She arrived from England the week before last.”

 
“Of course, Mr. Hawthorne, I do remember you.” The maharaja shook Gerald’s hand heartily before turning to Devora. “And your charming wife, how lovely to meet you. Welcome to my home.”

 
“Thank you for inviting us. It’s beautiful.”

 
“You may look around, if you like. Dinner will be served shortly.” With that, the maharaja moved on to greet another guest.

 
“I’m going to speak to John Fields,” Gerald said. “You’ll be all right on your own?”

 
“Of course.”

 
Gerald headed off in the direction of a man dressed in a British military uniform. Devora glanced up and saw Louise heading towards her, her eyes bright with excitement.

 
“Oh, Devora, isn’t this fun?” she said. “Imagine, us at the palace of a maharaja.”

 
“What’s his name, do you know?” Devora asked.

 
“I’ve no idea. Can you imagine what this place must be worth?”

 
“He gave me permission to look around,” Devora said. “Will you come with me?”

“Will I! Let me tell my husband that I’ll meet him before we go in to dinner.” Louise scurried off, reminding Devora of a jittery rabbit.

 
Devora wandered around the reception room, which was lined with paintings of maharajas in history. She wondered what, exactly, the current maharaja’s role was, given the fact that most of the country was under British control. It seemed to her that he would be rather ineffectual, even if he was the ruler of a free state.

 
“All right, I’m ready.” Louise returned, clutching her pocketbook.

 
The two women headed off along a mezzanine that overlooked an inner courtyard. The courtyard was lovely, filled with flowering plants and decorated with a stone fountain.

 
“Is he married, do you know?” Louise asked.

 
“Not that I’m aware of.” Devora thought briefly of repeating the gossip she had heard about the maharaja’s wife, but decided against it. “I’m surprised he’s not, though. I imagine that all these rulers want sons and heirs.”

 
“Look at the workmanship of this!” Louise paused to touch an intricately carved marble screen separating a room from the mezzanine. “This is the wall between the rooms.”

 
“Probably because it’s always so hot here,” Devora said. “I wouldn’t think they need to block out the cold like we do in England. What kind of room is it?”