This Heart of Mine (51 page)

Velvet breathed a sigh of relief, not realizing that the caravan master fully expected that Pansy would be dead long before they reached Lahore. She might have been, too, had word not come that Akbar was at Fatehpur-Sikri and the caravan altered its route. In the meantime Velvet worked frantically nursing her servant, terrified lest she lose her friend and her last link with England. She knew very little of what to do, for the herbal medicine she had learned from her mother and Dame Cecily involved herbs and roots that she had no idea how to obtain here in this unfamiliar place. If only she could find some fennel leaves, which, brewed as a tea, would help to lower Pansy’s fever. Violet tea was another decoction that could help, but she suspected that violets were not native to this hot land. How could she find marrows, another fever remedy? She simply didn’t know, and her inability to help Pansy fully was both frightening and frustrating. The most Velvet could do was to bathe her servant’s hands and head, and to get water, mashed fruit, and juices into her, a task that became increasingly difficult as Pansy spent more and more time unconscious.

By the time the caravan reached Fatehpur-Sikri, Velvet was terrified both of Pansy’s fate and of the unknown fate that awaited her.

“And does your fate seem so awful now, my Scheherezade?” Akbar asked her as she stopped speaking.

“I do not know what my fate is to be yet, sire,” Velvet answered him.

He looked at her a long moment, and then said, “I think you do know.”

Again her cheeks filled with color, and she lowered her eyes. Velvet was no fool, and she knew quite well why the Portuguese governor had sent her to the Grand Mughal. She was not a virgin, yet still she was afraid. In her mind she yet remained Alex’s wife.

“And Pansy?” she said, finding her voice and attempting to change the subject. “Has your physician been able to determine what is wrong with her?”

“It took some time, I am told, to bathe her in her unconscious
state. The physician should be with her now. Would you like to go and see?” He rose easily from his seated position on the bed and held out his hand to her.

Shyly she put her hand in his and stood to go with him. He led her from her chamber, down the corridor to another smaller room. Within, Velvet saw a very pale Pansy lying on a bed, an elderly, bearded gentleman standing over her. The physician turned as they entered the room and, bowing, spoke to Akbar.

“My lord, I have been able to render a diagnosis. It is really quite simple. The woman is suffering from the effect of our heat to which she is obviously not accustomed, and from a swelling of her hands and feet, which have been brought on by her advanced state of pregnancy. She should deliver her child within a month to six weeks. She must remain in bed until that time. I have prescribed a diuretic, which should reduce the swelling. With rest, shelter from the sun, and cool baths her fever will shortly abate. Should the swelling not go down within the next few days I will induce her labor. Delivery of the child will cure her if nothing else will.”

“Thank you, Zafar Singh. This lady is the woman’s mistress, and she loves her servant dearly. She will be greatly relieved.”

“What is it?” Velvet asked anxiously, for the conversation had been held in Akbar’s native tongue. “Will Pansy live?”

“Most likely,” he said, and then, “Are you aware that your servant is expecting a child?”

“What?”
Velvet was astounded. Pansy enceinte? “It isn’t possible,” she said, but in the back of her mind she knew that if it were Dugald was the father.

“Will you ask the physician if he is certain, my lord?” she said.

“He is most certain. Your servant will deliver within a month or so.”

“When can I speak with her? She has been unconscious these last few days.” Velvet gazed worriedly down at Pansy’s drawn features.

“When will the girl be able to speak? She has been unconscious for several days,” Akbar demanded of the doctor.

“Her rest is a natural one now, my lord. She should awaken tomorrow.”

“You should be able to speak with your servant tomorrow,” Akbar relayed to Velvet. “Her sleep is now a natural one.” “Thank God!”

He was touched by her emotion. He found her concern for her servant charming. Taking her again by the hand, he led her back to her own quarters.

“She doesn’t look enceinte,” Velvet mused. “When we left
England my sister-in-law was with child, and not as near to term, yet she was big. I hope Pansy’s baby is all right.”

“Each woman carries her child in a different fashion. Some grow large early, others late, and some not at all. Some women carry high, some low. She seems a hardy girl.”

“She is.” Velvet looked at him and smiled. “You are so very kind, sire. Tell me how it is you know so much about babies.”

“I should. I have fathered enough.” He smiled sadly. “Only six, however, have lived. I have three sons and three daughters.”

They stood awkwardly silent for a few moments. Then Akbar said, “You will want to rest now. I will come tomorrow and see you. Good night, my English Rose. Sleep well.”

Adali arose from the corner where he had been awaiting her. “Aiyee! You have pleased him, my princess! Yes! Yes, I could tell it! He is pleased with you!”

Velvet shook her head. “He is simply a kind man, Adali. Tomorrow I will ask him to return me to my own land.”

The eunuch said nothing further. He knew that Akbar would do no such thing. He had seen the look in his emperor’s eyes as they caressed his new mistress. It had been many years since the Grand Mughal had looked with passion upon a woman. Most of his liaisons were either out of political necessity or physical need. This, however, was a different matter.

Adali remembered the story of Akbar and one of his wives, the beauteous Almira. Almira had been thirteen when she had caught the eye of the Grand Mughal. Unfortunately she was the wife of the elderly Shaikh Abdul Wasi. Akbar, however, desired her greatly, and Almira was equally enamored of the emperor. Since neither could control their passions, Akbar forced the shaikh to divorce his wife so that he might have her. Almira was the mother of Akbar’s second son, Prince Murad.

It was the only time Adali knew of that his master had wed out of his own desire and not expediency. The eunuch himself had not been with the court then, being just a small boy in Cambay, but the tale was a famous one. After Adali had joined the Mughal’s court he had learned that Akbar was fond of all his wives; the mother of his heir, Prince Salim, Princess Jodh Bai, being highest in his esteem. Never, however, had Adali ever heard it said that the emperor was in love. Adali believed, though, that this was about to change. Akbar desired the foreign princess, his mistress, that much was plain, but there was more to it than that. The eunuch could tell by the emperor’s patience and gentleness to the woman that Akbar thought her special. She was very different, and the emperor knew it. Had he not instructed Adali to keep her from
the others lest they change her? Adali realized that by virtue of his French father he had just taken a giant step forward in the hierarchy of the household eunuchs. If his mistress could hold the Grand Mughal’s heart, his fortune was made. To that end he intended to work.

“You must rest now,” he said. “It has been a frightening time for you, but you are safe here.” He turned her about and pulled open the ribbons that held her little blouse closed.

“What are you doing?” Velvet cried.

“You must prepare for sleep,” he answered her. “Here we sleep without garments.”

“You cannot undress me,” exclaimed Velvet in a shocked tone.

“I am your servant,” he answered.

“You are a man,” she replied.

Adali laughed. “No I am not, princess. I am a eunuch. Oh, I resemble a man, and I was born a male, but when I was gelded I ceased to be a man.” He whisked her blouse off and reached to loosen her skirtband. “I have none of the feelings and desires of a normal man.” The skirt slipped to the floor, and Velvet automatically stepped from the silken circle as Adali bent to pick up the garment.

Realizing that she was naked, Velvet quickly climbed onto her bed and drew a silken coverlet over herself. “I am really quite capable of undressing myself,” she said in a small voice.

“You are a princess,” he answered, “and it is my duty to serve you. You will be used to me in a few days.” He chuckled. “And then you will think nothing of my presence.” Taking a hairbrush from his pantaloons, he sat down next to her and began to brush out her luxuriant hair quite expertly, gently but firmly removing the tangles. When he had finished, he replaced the brush within the voluminous folds of his pantaloons and walked to the door. Turning, he smiled and said, “I will sleep outside in the hallway. Should you need me you have but to call.”

“Where are you taking my clothes?” she asked. “They are all I have.”

“I must give them to the laundress to wash,” he said. “Do not worry. In the morning there will be a trunkful of beautiful garments for you, I promise. Good night.”

She was alone. Alone for the first time in many months. For some minutes she sat in the middle of the silken bed staring through the open arch that led to the terrace. Her eyes were not really focused on anything, but her mind was very active. She was hundreds of miles from a coast that separated her by thousands of miles of water from her own land. It was a sobering thought. Would her family—could her family—ever find her? And if they
did, what was really left for her in England? In the months following Alex’s death she had consoled herself with the thought of caring for her aging parents, but the truth was that neither Adam nor Skye would ever be old in a conventional sense, and they had each other. She had no one. Even Pansy had Dugald, and that was something that she had to think seriously about now.

The baby that Pansy carried was certainly Dugald’s, and he had just as much right to his child as she did. Pansy was eventually going to have to be returned to England with her child to be reunited with Dugald. It was only right. Velvet was relieved, however, to realize that it would be many months before Pansy could even consider going.

Velvet sighed deeply and stretched out, flinging the silken coverlet off her. There was the tiniest of breezes coming through the arch, but it was warm and scented with a hauntingly sweet fragrance that was not familiar to her. She wondered what it was and decided to ask Adali tomorrow. What is to happen to me? she thought. The Portuguese have attempted to curry favor with the Grand Mughal by sending me to grace his bed. He is a kind man, but is he a patient one? How can I submit to him? How can I be his concubine? I am so afraid. They were disturbing thoughts that swirled around in her brain, but despite the distress they caused, Velvet, exhausted both emotionally and physically by her travails of the last month, without realizing it fell into a deep sleep.

The moon rose and silvered the landscape of Fatehpur-Sikri, preening itself vainly in the city’s artificial lake and fountains. The reddish-and-white sandstone glistened as the moonlight touched the whimsical domes, turned columns, and the carved sandstone panels on the exterior of the palaces. All was still and quiet, but for the occasional cackle of a hyena out scavenging beyond the city’s walls.

In the emperor’s zenana the female guards, nodding sleepily at their posts, straightened momentarily as Akbar moved by them. He paused before Velvet’s doorway, and instantly Adali was on his feet quietly opening the portal to him. Silently Akbar moved into the chamber and, standing before the bed, gazed down at the sleeping girl. Slowly his eyes traveled the length of her, taking in the delicacy of her fine bone structure; her lovely, smooth, round breasts; lithe waistline; long, slim legs; and slender feet. In the moonlight her creamy skin was faultless. She had spread her hair over the pillow before falling asleep in order to be cooler, and, reaching out, he fingered a silky curl. Then he sighed. She was flawless, a perfect beauty, and he longed to possess her body. Yet there was more.

The women of his land were taught meekness from the cradle, and though some were strong of character, few would go against their breeding. Those who did generally did it for their sons or husbands who were either young or weak, or both. Indian women did not converse intelligently with men, considering such behavior forward and rude. In the privacy of the bedchamber a woman spoke of love, or of her children, or worried about her lord’s health.

This young woman, however, was vastly different. It was apparent from the moment she was dragged, shrieking, into his presence. An Indian woman would have submitted meekly, but not this English rose. She was highly educated, he could see, for her French was even better than that of the Jesuit who had taught him.

Akbar, though he could neither read nor write, was a highly educated man. In his youth he had escaped his tutors for hunting and riding, pursuits he far preferred, but because he was infinitely curious, he now had scholars of all subjects surrounding him, reading to him, discoursing with him, lecturing to him. There was very little of the world’s knowledge that he did not know, and he was forever seeking to learn more.

This girl who lay here in her innocent, troubled sleep could be something more to him than simply a beautiful body to enjoy, to slake his desires upon. She could be his companion and his friend as well. It was a novel idea, and he pondered it as he turned away from Velvet and exited her chamber to return to his own. It was a thought he would never share with anyone else, for his friends would be shocked and amused and the women of his household would be horrified.

The English woman was going to ask him, he knew, to return her to her own people. It was something he could not do for many reasons but mainly because he would not offend the Portuguese. He was going to have to work very hard to make Velvet happy so that she would want to stay with him, so that she would not pine for her own people. He found it an interesting challenge.

In the morning as Velvet sat wrapped in the silk coverlet on her bed eating something cool, tart, and smooth that Adali called yogurt, sipping a pungent hot drink he told her was tea, a knock came upon the door. Opening it, Adali gave a small cry of delight and stepped back to allow entry to a line of slaves who entered the room carrying all manner of things.