The Peacock Throne (27 page)

Mrs Adkins made to introduce him. “We have not seen Dr Marshall this age. In fact, he tells me he returned to India just yesterday.”

“Dr Marshall kindly acted as surgeon aboard
Legacy
. We are well acquainted.” Lydia made her curtsy anyhow. With a pang, she realized how little she actually knew of him. “I did not know you had interests in India, however.”

He offered a short bow in return. “My father's estate is a mere baronetcy in the Midlands, but my mother's family had extensive properties, not just here but in France, Italy and Switzerland as well.”

“You must be exceptionally well travelled. Is that where you developed your interest in botany?”

“Indeed, there is an infinite variety of vegetation to be found in this world. All of it either useful or at least decorative.”

The doors opened and Dr Marshall offered Lydia his arm. “May I?”

The table was laid with an extraordinary amount of silver, which glimmered in the candlelight. Servants stood behind each place and offered innumerable dishes with solicitous aplomb.

The colonel on Lydia's left nudged her arm familiarly. “I had not the least notion I was dining with an adventuress. I thought you must be someone's daughter, out for the first time.”

“An adventuress?” Lydia asked coolly, one eyebrow arching of its own accord. Did she actually seem the type of woman who preyed on men for their money?

His red cheeks turned even redder. “I must watch my tongue. That did not come out right at all. I merely meant you must have had some remarkable adventures if you are embroiled in this affair.”

Lydia frowned. Had news of the throne's arrival spread so quickly? She thought they'd meant to keep the matter quiet until just before the ball, in order to mitigate the risk of theft. “Mostly I did a lot of climbing and walking in beastly hot weather.” Attempting to appear pleasant, she sipped at her soup and then set aside the spoon. “How did you come to hear about our adventures?”

He chuckled indulgently. “It's impossible to keep a secret in Calcutta. As grand as it is, we English are really just a village. Everyone knows what everyone else is up to. Especially if there is any hope of diversion in it. And you, my dear, are quite diverting.” He raised his glass to her.

Lydia smiled. Perhaps there was a way they could turn the situation to their advantage? If a rumour was started that the throne was kept in a certain place, when it was in fact somewhere else all together, perhaps Le Faucon could be persuaded to attempt a theft even sooner.

Deep in thought, Lydia bent her head towards Dr Marshall as he told her a story about some plant or other he had discovered on some island or other. She tried to look attentive but only caught maybe one word in ten. She had more pressing things to think about.

Anthony grew so distracted watching Dr Marshall monopolize Miss Garrett's attention that he no longer made any pretence of attending to the young lady on his right. She had told him a number of boring and pointless stories about her brother, whom she thought he might know, despite his protestations that he had not had the pleasure. The dowager lady on his left snatched him back from his abstraction.

“I asked whether you will be at Government House for the ball,” she said in response to his request that she repeat herself. Her deep, penetrating voice and her question—phrased, he thought, rather loudly in case he were hard of hearing—came at a moment of unintentional lull in the conversation around the dinner table.

Mrs Adkins answered for him, speaking from her place at the end of the table. “Of course Lord Danbury will be joining us for the ball. He and his colleagues are responsible for bringing the treasure back to India. It is all most thrilling, isn't it?”

“Treasure?” asked one of the diners, obviously not as up to date in his gossip as some in the room.

Lord Wellesley took the conversation in hand. “We are restoring a great historical treasure to India. A magnificent object. It will do much to show our good faith to the princes. These fine gentlefolk are responsible for preserving it from the French.”

“But what is this treasure?”

Lord Wellesley's smile had something of the predator about it. “We are keeping it a secret—a whim of mine. I do love surprises, and this will be a thumping great one.”

“How delightful,” said the pretty but singularly dull young woman to Anthony's right. She gave him an adoring look and clasped her hands together in front of her bosom.

He shuddered and turned to speak further to the lady on his left.

“What have you discovered?” the older woman asked. “The Delhi diamond, a rajah's rubies, or is it Tippoo's Tiara?”

Anthony managed a game smile at this sally. “How did you know?”

“Oh, la.” The lady laughed too heartily and thumped him with her fan. “A lucky guess.”

He took a swig from his glass and turned to the young miss at his other hand. She couldn't be all bad.

“How far do you believe the rumours have spread by now?” Lydia asked. She and Mrs Adkins had just set to work. She stared at the neat piles of invitations on the desk. A great deal of work remained to be done.

Mrs Adkins sipped her coffee. “I am certain every English lady in the vicinity has heard the news and is anxious for details.”

Lydia could not restrain an unladylike grin.

“This reminds me. I should give orders that I am not at home to visitors.” Even as she spoke, a footman appeared.

Lady Groverton and the Misses Langley and Merrick all waited in the green drawing room.

“This is an uncivilized hour for callers. Though I believe I know what they want,” said Mrs Adkins. “You will accompany me, won't you, Miss Garrett? I should value your support very much. Lady Groverton is something of a bulldog, and her daughters Marianne and Martha Langley are dreadful. Miss Merrick is inoffensive enough, but I'm not sure I am up to facing them all on my own.”

“I shall certainly join you if you wish it.”

Mrs Adkins' wry look clearly stated that Lydia was displaying the lack of caution characteristic only in a person who had not met the ladies in question. But she would not give her a chance to change her mind.

“Come. We'd better hurry down.”

Down they went, entering the drawing room in time to hear one of the young ladies murmur something about a wicked adventuress
being a guest in the house, and how mortified she would be to have to meet her.

The blood drained from Lydia's face in a rush, leaving her cold for the first time since arriving in India. Mrs Adkins reddened and her jaw tightened. She took Lydia's hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze before sailing in for a bout of verbal sparring.

“Good morning, Lady Groverton; ladies. How are you all this morning? I do hope nothing is amiss.”

In a peculiarly deep, fruity voice, Lady Groverton reassured her there was nothing the least wrong. “We have been out this morning and realized we have not seen you this age. What have you been doing with yourself?”

“I am glad there is no trouble. It is such an unusual hour for calls I was quite taken off guard. May I present my very great friend, Miss Lydia Garrett.”

Cool greetings were exchanged and Lydia endured the sharp appraisal of four sets of eyes. She returned the scrutiny.

Though a small woman, Lady Groverton's harsh features and coarse manner made her seem larger. Her daughters were plain, mirror images of one another, quite tall with large hands and feet. Their hair—the colour of mud bricks—was piled into elaborate coiffures that suited them poorly. Their lovely dresses did them no justice: the matching shades of rose-coloured linen clashed with their yellowish skin tones, making them look gawkier than they were.

Miss Merrick was a pretty creature, plump and rosy with soft brown hair curled and pulled back from her face with a great number of pins. Her manner was by far the most congenial of the group and she lacked the edge of hauteur demonstrated by the other women.

After lukewarm greetings there was a momentary lull.

“And where is your chaperone? I hope we will get to meet her soon.” All of Miss Merrick's ruffles and bows seemed to be fluttering, though there was no breeze.

“No,” said Lydia, not unkindly. She could not bring herself to be cutting to the blushing young woman. “I do not have a chaperone.”

“But didn't you come out with a party of gentlemen?”

“I did indeed.”

The fact that the adventuress had brazened her way into their very midst seemed to dawn on the ladies all at once. Lydia calmly sipped from the ubiquitous lemon water.

“I understand that there was some sort of expedition led by natives on some dreadful little island.”

Lydia lowered her glass. “There was a battle at sea against a French ship-of-the-line as well.”

Marianne Langley was shaking her head so hard her many braids were in danger of tumbling down around her ears. “Don't you find such activities taxing? It is… why, it is unfeminine. I'm sure I would never wish to—”

Lydia had no compunctions about cutting short the elder Miss Langley. “Not at all.”

“Is Mr Harting still travelling in your party?” asked Miss Martha Langley. She was obviously not one to lose sight of the most important thing: an unattached and wealthy male.

“Yes, Mr Harting is a charming gentleman. The fourth son of the Viscount of Wiltshire. I should be delighted to introduce you to him if you desire.”

“Lucy Carrington told me he is very handsome and quite well off,” said Miss Merrick, rallying.

“He is both. He also has beautiful manners. I am sure he will make quite a stir among the young ladies of Calcutta.”

“How did you find the treasure, and what is it?” Lady Groverton asked.

“I do apologize.” Lydia smiled as sweetly as she could manage. “I cannot discuss the treasure. The Governor-General would be greatly put out with me, and I would not care to distress him. Once it is safely returned to the Indian people, the veil of secrecy will be lifted. Until then, I am afraid, I am bound to silence.”

The ladies' smiles grew even chillier—more like grimaces than expressions of good humour. But Lydia caught Mrs Adkins restraining a grin.

Despite cajoling and clumsy attempts at verbal entrapment, they could get no more information from Lydia. Nor could they get Mrs Adkins to invite them to the ball, though they did everything but demand an invitation.

Finally the ladies gave up, departing in a huff. As the door closed behind them Lydia distinctly heard the phrase “no shame”. She turned to find Mrs Adkins wheezing and holding her sides.

“My dear, you were magnificent—so polite and immovable, and… and British. A beautiful thing to see.” She sighed and shook her head. “I shall have to invite them. The old dragon's husband is an important man, but I did enjoy withholding the satisfaction of it for the moment.

“Did you see Martha's face when you said you had no chaperone? She looked as if she had eaten something sour. Women such as we have a bad reputation, but I never met one with such a scandal-loving nature as those pious young ladies we just entertained.”

The day of the ball dawned clear and bright—a day made for frivolous pursuits. Still, Lydia was unable to go back to sleep. The weight of unfinished tasks made her restless.

It was too early for most of the household, and she breakfasted alone. Now she was up, but could not accomplish any of the tasks that wakened her with their clamour. Mrs Adkins would not be ready for her assistance for at least an hour.

She fingered her small notebook. At least she could make lists. The garden beckoned and she stepped outside to enjoy the last hint of freshness before heat took hold of the new day.

Every flower and shrub in the quintessentially English garden catered to British sensibilities. Government House was not the place for the exotic flora of India, but rather the familiar larkspur and poppies of home. It was formally laid out, and even though Lydia's taste leaned to the modern fashion for natural, rambling gardens, it was a pleasant place, especially with the dew still fresh on the ground.

She strolled amongst the blossoms for a while. Finding a bench, she made all the lists she could think of. If she were honest, her restlessness stemmed less from the arrangements for the ball and more from anxiety about the throne. There had reportedly been no attempts on either the throne itself or the location where it was supposedly hidden. If the murderer meant to turn thief, then his opportunities to do so were fast slipping away. If an attempt was to be made it would be made soon. They had conceived a good
plan—but it had drawbacks. If anything went wrong, there could be grave consequences.

She plucked a stray leaf from her skirt. The peace of the garden pulled at her. Absently, Lydia caressed the leather cover of her cousin's diary. It was the only thing she had of him, and she had taken to carrying it as a talisman, even though it had no further intelligence to offer that could be of practical assistance.

At last she stood and shook out her skirts. There was much to be done today. Hopefully, someone would now be up to help.

Ahead of her in the path, Dr Marshall stared at Government House. As if sensing her scrutiny he turned towards her.

“Good morning, Dr Marshall.”

“Miss Garrett.” He waited for her to catch him up. “It is a beautiful building, isn't it?” He did not wait for her response. “So unlike most of the architecture in India—a real symbol of British authority. It would be terrible if anything were to befall it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You mustn't be frightened.” He took her hand and patted it. “Many of the Indians aren't pleased with the British dominance of their commerce and government, but they are not likely to become violent, unless some outside force acts upon their passions.”

Lydia withdrew her hand from his grasp. “I appreciate your reassurance.”

The doctor continued. “My pleasure, Miss Garrett. As you know, I have had business in India for many years. I have come to know something of the region. If we placate the rajas, they will keep the people in line.”

“You have a great grasp of politics then?”

“No great understanding is needed. These are simple people. We've already made many improvements, such as building Government House. We will continue to bring civilization to these people. If anything, they should be grateful for our intervention.”

For some reason what he said, though it reflected the pompous self-satisfaction of many of the British she had met in India, did not
ring true. Was the doctor making sport of her? She could not make him out, so changed the subject in the hope of distracting him.

“Tell me more of your family and home in England.”

“I told you of my father last evening. My mother was a Frenchwoman. During the revolution, her family's French holdings were seized by the Committee of Public Safety. Of course, she had most of her jewellery, and her family had the foresight to ship over some of their prized possessions before hostilities broke out. Now that the revolutionaries are gone from France I have some hope that the rest of those properties will be restored.”

They had returned to the house now, and Lydia stepped inside. “Pray, excuse me. I must run and assist Mrs Adkins. There is much yet to be done.”

Government House was waking and the stirrings soon became a positive hum of activity. Mrs Adkins supervised the preparations for the ball as the flowers were put in place and other last-minute details seen to. She deputized Lydia, setting her to work overseeing the process in the entry hall and public rooms.

Luncheon was a hurried affair. Lydia took time only for a glass of the pervasive iced lemon water by way of refreshment before hurrying back to her tasks. They worked through the normal afternoon rest and when Mrs Adkins insisted it was time to dress for the ball, Lydia was soaked with perspiration and cross from trying to do too many things at once.

She trudged up the stairs to her room, intending to wash and change quickly.

“Miss Garrett.”

Brow furrowed, Lydia turned. “Yes, Mr Harting?”

“May I have a moment please?”

Lydia mustered a grudging smile. “I fear—”

“It will not take long, I promise.”

He ushered her inside a small sitting room which was probably in general use by lower-level functionaries who were entertaining other low-level functionaries. Even here there was a moderate showing of
British grandeur with a number of knick-knacks on display and fine, brocaded furniture. Inside, a young Indian woman stood with head respectfully bowed and fingers linked primly in front of her.

“I thought you might require a ball gown for the evening.” Harting extended a scrap of paper to her. Lydia recognized it immediately and accepted it with trembling fingers. It was one of Sophie's drawings.

“Where did you get this?”

“I requested it from Emmanuel. I thought this would be a means of honouring the girl Sophie. When I told him my plan he was quite willing.” He seemed intent on assuring her that he had not come by the drawing through illicit means.

With a flourish, the Indian woman produced a gown from where it had been secreted. Lydia caught her breath. One hand flew to her mouth in wonder.

The delicate silk was pure white, shot through with silver thread making it shimmer as it caught the light. Drawing near, she realized the silver threads created a subtle paisley pattern very common in India, but usually executed in garish colours. The sleeves were fitted, ending at the elbow. Every edge was trimmed with intricate crystal beadwork. A short train completed the gown, trailing behind in a graceful arc.

“I asked Mrs Deepta to make it for you.”

“It's lovely.” Lydia extended tentative fingers to brush the airy fabric. She wanted to say something more, to somehow express how much the gesture meant, but she could not find the words.

“I'm afraid you'll have to hurry now.”

Lydia raised her eyes from the gown and met Harting's. The tenderness she saw reflected there froze her in place.

As if in a dream she watched as Harting raised a hand. With infinite gentleness he brushed a thumb across her lips. Enthralled, she raised a trembling hand to cover his. A warm tingle started in her fingertips. It spread through her palm, her wrist, and up her arm, until it settled in her belly.

Her breathing grew shallow even as her pulse pounded loudly in her ears. Unbidden her lips parted slightly. Harting lowered his mouth towards her.

Crash!

The spell shattered. Lydia whirled round.

The little seamstress stood in the midst of smashed porcelain. Fear quivered in every line of her being. Lydia had not seen what happened, but the poor woman had likely just brushed against one of the endless array of pots and urns and jars that decorated the interminable galleries of Government House.

“So sorry. So sorry,” the woman whispered. She stooped to pick up the pieces.

“It does not matter.” Lydia bent and raised the woman to her feet. “Don't fret now. I'll call for a maid to clean up this mess.”

The seamstress nodded and blinked back tears.

“Thank you for the dress. It is the loveliest gown I have ever seen.”

The woman bowed.

Harting placed a hand under her elbow, gently steering her away. “I'll handle this. You should be preparing to dazzle the citizens of Calcutta.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, of course, go. Go and make yourself presentable.” His small smile and the warmth in his eyes brought the heat back to her cheeks.

“I carry this for you,
Missee Sahib
.” The seamstress retrieved the gown and carried it lovingly from the room.

In a daze, Lydia followed.

A lukewarm bath welcomed her to her room. Lydia slipped into the water and sighed. Even tepid, the water felt refreshing. She raised a hand to her face. Were her cheeks still red? She hugged her legs to her chest and rested her forehead against her knees.

What had she been thinking? Such behaviour justified the assumption that she was an adventuress. Her cheeks flamed again as she remembered the feel of his thumb on her mouth. How could she ever face Harting again? She couldn't even say precisely how she felt about him. Until that afternoon she had striven not to view him in any sort of romantic light. And what of Lord Danbury? She groaned.

Lydia lingered longer than she had intended. The maid's noisy arrival in the outer room brought her back to reality with a start, and she jumped from the bath, sloshing a prodigious amount of water over the side with her. She flung her dressing gown over the mess to sop up the water and hurried to the other room.

The maid set to with brush, pins and comb, poking and pulling until Lydia's hair was arranged to her satisfaction. She carefully placed a pair of silver-beaded combs among the piled curls so they would show to best advantage. Having helped Lydia don the rest of the ensemble, she stepped back to admire her handiwork, darting forward to tuck a curl in here or pluck away a bit of fuzz there.

Finally, she allowed Lydia to look in the glass. The gown fitted her to perfection. The way it shimmered and caught the light made her think of melting ice. The impression of coolness made her seem a being apart, untouched by the wilting heat. She looked as elegant and refined as Sophie could have wished.

“Will I turn into a pumpkin if I'm not back in my room by midnight?”

Seeing the confused look on Annette's face, she realized she had spoken aloud. She offered her thanks and a generous tip for the girl's hard work.

Straightening her shoulders and taking a deep fortifying breath, Lydia stepped from her room.