The Mountain of Light (38 page)

Richard's voice booms at the other end of the table. He is seated in between the Bowles girl and Mrs. Login. Between the soup and the fish I realize that the girl deliberately created a diversion after Richard's gaffe. While Hartford is scolding Victoria with twistings of her nose and gestures she thinks no one can see, I watch Miss Bowles. The glow from the chandelier overhead sets fire to her golden head; her eyelashes are long and cast shadows upon her pink cheek, her mouth is a luscious pink. She's wearing a pale blue gown, trimmed with white fur, and cloth-covered buttons ride up the slender wrists of her gloves. Lucky Richard, to be seated next to such a beauty.

Lady Hartford rises when the meal is over and before the cloth is whisked off, to lead the rest of the women out of the dining room. We stay on, light our cigars, warm the brandy in our hands, and wreath the room in a pleasant smoke.

Dr. and Mrs. Login's little Timothy, who has been brought in to balance out the numbers at the table, has been intently breathing in the fog from my cigar. His father gives him a quick glance. Go. He jumps up, regretfully, and pounds down the corridor to his governess, his bed, his prayers.

The talk is droning, as is usual: politics in India, or the mighty India Office in London which rules all of our lives from its lofty heights in the Parliament buildings near Downing Street.

Richard is at my elbow, smiling. “I say, do you belong to any of the clubs?”

“What are they?” I ask.

“You don't know?” He scrubs his hands. “You're in for a real treat. I will nominate you and get my friends to second the nomination. A real Indian Maharajah will be an acquisition for most of them, increase
my
stock substantially, if I may be frank. The dues will be nothing to a rich man like you; I hear the India Office is going to settle fifty thousand pounds a year upon you?”

Again, that honesty. Dr. Login has said nothing yet about a . . .
salary
. What an ugly word. What about the riches from my Punjab Empire? My inheritance, what was left to me as my father's sole heir. I know, I
know
that the India Office is somehow in charge of giving me the money, but am I going to be at the mercy of accountants and civil servants? I, the Maharajah of the Punjab?

Lady Hartford was sonorous and boring all through dinner. Inconsequential. Richard has already, in a few minutes, made my skin prickle. And yet, I like him.

Watkins misinterprets my consternation. “You must not mind this talk of your income, Maharajah. Here in England we are apt to do little else.” His laugh rings out, causing Dr. Login to turn toward us, his own conversation briefly silenced. “We pick apart our neighbors' money, their property, their estates, how many people they employ, what they pay them, what they earn, what each promotion is worth. It is so common knowledge as to be nothing at all in terms of consequence. Even our affairs, those of the heart you understand”—and here he closes one large blue eye in a wink—“are not to be secret. But the clubs. Now”—he draws out a small notepad from his vest pocket and begins writing—“the Garrick? It's a theater club mostly, actors and such, but you need not worry about being in poor company. Do you like the theater, Maharajah?”

“Very much, what I've seen of it.”

“Ha-ha, the Indian
nautch
girls are not theater, Maharajah.”

When I was thirteen, at Lahore, Tommy Scott came to wake me one night, long after everyone was asleep. Tommy was the local schoolmaster's son, a year older than I, wise, and free. He did not have my restrictions, or the masses of attendants who followed me around. Dr. Login's room was across the courtyard, and Tommy and I tiptoed out on bare feet to the carriage he had waiting.

The night over the city's streets had an aroma all of its
own, smoky from the evening's fires, stinking of the gutters, of sweat, of heat. We stopped outside an old
haveli
. The front room had been converted into a music hall for the redcoats of the British army. All the soldiers I'd seen thus far were so correct, their tunics buttoned, their backs stiff, their gazes distant. Here, they roamed with their coats undone, shirts untucked, faces blotched with drink, hands roaming over and pinching the bottoms of the girls.

A man stooped and hissed into Tommy's ear, “Twenty minutes, white sahib, only twenty minutes. If your father comes to know, he will kill me.”

Tommy gave him two rupees. I'd never handled money before; he did this with such ease. “Keep an eye on us, will you, Krishan Singh? The crowd looks rowdy around here, and I have the Maharajah with me. We must take good care to deliver him safely back into the arms of his nursemaids.”

The men roared as the
nautch
girls came onstage. They wailed out terrible songs, took off some of their clothing. Tommy smoked a cigarette, coughing at each drag. Krishan Singh put his beefy hand on the chest of a drunken soldier who had wandered too close, and pushed him back into the crowd.

And then, the English act came on. I'd seen only respectable Englishwomen until then, collars strangling their throats, gowns sweeping the floor, hair covered in hats. These women wore nothing. Thin cotton shifts, lace panties that showed when they kicked their feet into the air. Tommy wiped drool from his mouth. I stared hard at the white thighs. Just as one of the women was raising her shift to reveal the curve of her breast, Krishan Singh said, “Out. Now. You too, your Majesty.”

“Nothing like the
nautch
girls,” Richard says. “But, maybe better than them.” His grin is wicked. Another Tommy Scott. I hope. I hope!

He goes on writing, and I look over his shoulder. His handwriting is abominable, squiggles and scribbles. He raises
an eyebrow when I point it out. “Come, Maharajah, only clerks write legibly; they're taught to, and it's their job. If you write too well—when you can hire someone else to do this for you—you'll be nothing more than a
munshi
.”

Richard has done all of his tours of duty in Europe, heavily cushioned as the son of an earl against any real fighting or scrimmage, and yet his language is composed of Indian words. Two things I learn from my newfound friend: that the Indian Empire is never far from the shores of England, and that I am, with this knowledge on how to write badly, a step closer to becoming blue-blooded English.

He murmurs to himself. “The East India Club? Of course. And so also the Oriental, and perhaps the Marlborough. And . . . the Carlton?” Here, he stops to look at me speculatively. “It's a Tory club. Perhaps not quite so soon. Let's see how you get along.”

“They seem like an awful lot,” I say hesitantly.

He shakes his head. “You can never belong to too many clubs. Have you met the Queen?”

I spread out my hands. “Soon.”

“I wonder . . .” There is a gleam in his eye as he shuts his notebook and stows it in the pocket of his vest. He reaches out to touch the rows of pearls I wear around my neck. “These look good upon you, Maharajah. Not quite the thing for men here, unless you're a dandy, but it'll do for you. Don't change this, even when you go meet her Majesty. She is sure to take to you in all of your exotic beauty.”

At the other end of the table, Dr. Login makes a sign, and the men scrape back their chairs and rise. We join the ladies in the drawing room. Richard goes to sit by Miss Bowles. Lady Hartford corrals me, and pushes me down next to Victoria. The girl hiccups, she picks apart the gloves in her lap; I turn to Mrs. Login. Save me, please. Mama Login ignores me. I suppose I have to learn how to put up with the most dismal guest.

Everyone plays cards, the clock strikes eleven, coffee and biscuits are brought in. We shake hands, bow, say our goodbyes.

“Did you like her, Duleep?” Lady Login says as we go to our rooms.

“Yes,” I say, thinking of the Bowles girl.

“Good. I'll tell you some more about her later. Good night, son.”

“Good night, Mama.” I kiss her cheek.

Mir Kheema is waiting up. He takes off my clothes, buffs the pearls and folds them away in a square of silk, helps me into my pajamas, turns down the lights.

“Are you all right here, Mir?” I ask as he is leaving, framed in the doorway by the dim light in the corridor. His tall figure stoops in indecision, and then his voice comes across the yards of carpets.

“Where you are, your Highness, so I am content to be. I could not let you cross the black waters to this land by yourself, without anyone else.”

“I'm hardly alone.”

He is silent for a long while, and then he bows and shuts the door.

•  •  •

June 23, 1854:
Richard takes me to the Garrick Club today. The rooms are staffed by a succession of middle-aged men dressed in black, relieved only by startling white collars.

“When you see one of these crows, Maharajah,” he says as we ascend the purple-carpeted staircase to the club rooms above, “caw out aloud and they will come flying to meet your every need.” He's as irreverent in daylight as he was by candlelight.

Portraits framed in gilt are pinned on every inch of wall space. Most are of men, some of women, all actors in the
Drury Lane theaters, dressed in fantastic costumes of velvet, silk gloves, pearl buttons, acting out roles from plays. I see that I was mistaken when Richard mentioned the “theater”; it's Shakespeare played out, not lively girls in little nothings converting themselves into girls in nothing!

They are all
very
respectable; at least the paintings on the main floor; but some of the other rooms have portraits of women in some diaphanous material that swirls over their bodies, cleverly hiding bits from view. Richard again in my ear, “This is art also, Maharajah.”

“It is?” I ask, and then, “All right, if you say so.” One woman has bright russet curls, and her gown hugs her skin, nestles between her legs. I cannot remember what her face looks like—I am not looking at her face. Dr. Login knows I am with Richard at the Garrick Club, but I think he does not know what hangs on their walls, or he would not have allowed me to come here.

Richard puts in my application for a membership.

Back at Mivart's, Mrs. Login has news. Dr. Login has been given a knighthood by the Queen; they are now to be addressed as Lord and Lady Login. Mama shakes with joy. Papa shows it less, only in a small smile that breaks out when he thinks no one is looking at him.

We celebrate with the children at tea, with extra cakes and extra icing, and at dinner with just the three of us—one of those rare evenings since the first dinner party when we are alone.

They are so happy. So much delight; it must mean more than they let on, this honor. I didn't know how much until now. We talk of Lahore, of how we met, how we came to know each other. I remember nights when I woke after a terrible dream and fled across the courtyard toward the glow of the single lamp in the room beyond. This was before Mama Login came. And Dr. Login would be there, flung into an easy chair, his hair rumpled, his pajamas and
kurta
glimmering
a welcome white in the murk. He put out a hand to me, his voice gentle. “A nightmare, Maharajah? Come, sit by my side; let me read to you from
Lalla Rookh
.” When I went back to my room, he would stand at the door to his and watch me, raise his hand in good night.

If the Queen can recognize the goodness of people like the Logins, and reward them, she must be good herself.

Lord Login says that I will have the privilege of paying my respects to the Queen on July 1. Our request has been approved and she is eager, willing, wanting to meet me.

•  •  •

June 30, 1854:
A parcel arrives from Richard today, a copy of Captain Osborne's
The Court and Camp of Runjeet Sing,
wrapped in plain brown paper. Osborne was the nephew of Lord Auckland, the Governor-General of India who embarked on the First Anglo-Afghan War, deposed Dost Mohammad, put Shah Shuja on the throne . . . and ended up with thousands of British civilians dead in the effort. Osborne was in one of the early embassies to my father's court, to ask for his help in the Afghan war. This book is written about his experiences in May of 1838, a few months before I was born. I sit by the light from the easterly windows, turning the little book over in my hands. Most surprising of all is the nature of the gift; or coming as it does from Richard, the nature of the giver. He doesn't seem the type to read anything.

“What do you think, Bhajan?” I ask.

Bhajan Lal is seated on the carpeted floor thumbing through a copy of Thornton's Old Testament. “I think you should read it, your Highness. Although”—he glances toward the door—“not in front of Lord and Lady Login.”

They were nothing but kind to me in Lahore. But here in England, some . . . thread is broken. How shall I put it? It is as though Lord and Lady Login have done their duty in
taking care of me in India, and done it again in bringing me here, but now, at home, they have other preoccupations. I'm mostly with Bhajan now; I see Richard at times. After being away for so many years, the Logins are besieged with queries, problems, and issues related to their landholdings in Perthshire, and numerous visits from family members. Most are curious to see me—the black Indian prince—and I am tired of being put on display.

Perhaps Bhajan is right; they will not approve of my reading about the history of the Punjab. Why, I don't know; I just feel he is right.

But where else will I learn it from, all that I have long forgotten? I remember talking with Henry Lawrence about my father, even my mother, whom he, Henry, imprisoned at the fortress at Sheikhpura. There's no one around me now who remembers the past, or is willing to talk about it.

Bhajan Lal was educated at the American Mission School, and there converted to Christianity. He and I read the Bible together, both before and after my own conversion. I learned my English very fast after Lord Dalhousie became Governor-General of India, because he insisted that everyone around me should speak only that language, not Persian, not Urdu, not Hindustani. Dalhousie imposed a fine on anyone who spoke in a native tongue.