veritable viper’s nest of petty deceptions on display—the sweating upper-level company clerk, Mr. Pillock, in charge of the warehousing of export trade goods, who was standing in the corner sporting a diamond pin that was surely too expensive for such a minor functionary, had most assuredly been skimming profits from the company’s coffers; the young subaltern chatting with the matron and her daughter had eyes only for his regiment’s master sergeant; and the fat cotton merchant Rama Kumar was augmenting his profits by dabbling in smuggled opium—where nearly every person alternated between platitudes and outright lies, Miss Catriona Rowan all but radiated pure truth and conviction.
Her every action, from her clear open gaze to her quick agile fingers as she shook hands with everyone she met, spoke of a forthright character, and an intelligence that never strayed to cunning. She did not say one thing and mean another. She spoke the uncomfortable truth.
The Lady Summers had steered her niece to the little cluster of English ladies, and was introducing her around. “You remember my niece, Miss Rowan? Mrs. Foster. Mrs. Foster is Mrs. Fielding’s sister, you know.”
“Yes, of course. We met after church services last Sunday. How nice to see you again, ma’am.”
From as far away as he could bear to stand and observe her, Tanvir Singh saw her smile and nod politely, and then step back, just as she ought, so that her aunt could take the place of precedence in her little pride of lionesses.
Only the English ladies were on hand for the evening. While Colonel Balfour was a friend to all and a confidant to many besides Tanvir Singh and Thomas Jellicoe, the rich cotton merchants like Rama Kumar and Sanjay Lupalti, who had fattened their purses to bursting trading with the East India Company under the aegis of the colonel, kept their women safe at home, and did not mix business and family. Only the English brought their tight-corseted, fainting wives and daughters. And nieces.
Miss Catriona Rowan was not the only younger, unmarried woman to walk under the high archway of the palace gate, but she was clearly the most beautiful. At least to Thomas. Because she was the only one who was alive to the beauty around her.
She was the only one who looked around her in open, happy amazement. She was the only one unafraid to cast admiring eyes on the beauty and splendor of the old Mughal fort Balfour had long ago made his own when he had married an almond-eyed local beauty. The Begum, as the colonel called his wife, was by her religion a Mohammedan, and as such, not at home to strangers. But the dear kind lady, who had done so much to help young Thomas Jellicoe when he first came to India, was no doubt keeping her eye on the proceedings from one of the screened windows high above, and her ladies would have their ears attuned to every conversation that carried upward from the courtyard or the spacious, tiered colonnades surrounding the hall where the European-style dinner table had been set.
Those ladies of the zenana were most assuredly listening to Lady Summers talking amongst her angrezi coterie. “Doing it a bit brown, the colonel,” the lady said in reference to the opulent decor. “He’s a bit of a relic—a holdover from a past age. He’s the only one who doesn’t know it yet.”
“Yes.” One of the pursed-lipped matrons was quick to wave her wrist in offhand dismissal of the billowing silk curtains surrounding them. “It is all a bit much, don’t you think, the whole effect?”
“Hmm,” agreed Lady Summers, with a considerable jaded rolling of her eye. “Not at all the thing.”
“I think it’s magnificent.” Miss Catriona Rowan was bold enough to quietly disagree with the popular opinion. She looked about with a generous gaze. “Colorful and enchanting. This is a beautiful home. I admire it greatly.”
“Oh, my dear.” Lady Summers turned her condescension upon her niece. “We’ll have to see what
Her every action, from her clear open gaze to her quick agile fingers as she shook hands with everyone she met, spoke of a forthright character, and an intelligence that never strayed to cunning. She did not say one thing and mean another. She spoke the uncomfortable truth.
The Lady Summers had steered her niece to the little cluster of English ladies, and was introducing her around. “You remember my niece, Miss Rowan? Mrs. Foster. Mrs. Foster is Mrs. Fielding’s sister, you know.”
“Yes, of course. We met after church services last Sunday. How nice to see you again, ma’am.”
From as far away as he could bear to stand and observe her, Tanvir Singh saw her smile and nod politely, and then step back, just as she ought, so that her aunt could take the place of precedence in her little pride of lionesses.
Only the English ladies were on hand for the evening. While Colonel Balfour was a friend to all and a confidant to many besides Tanvir Singh and Thomas Jellicoe, the rich cotton merchants like Rama Kumar and Sanjay Lupalti, who had fattened their purses to bursting trading with the East India Company under the aegis of the colonel, kept their women safe at home, and did not mix business and family. Only the English brought their tight-corseted, fainting wives and daughters. And nieces.
Miss Catriona Rowan was not the only younger, unmarried woman to walk under the high archway of the palace gate, but she was clearly the most beautiful. At least to Thomas. Because she was the only one who was alive to the beauty around her.
She was the only one who looked around her in open, happy amazement. She was the only one unafraid to cast admiring eyes on the beauty and splendor of the old Mughal fort Balfour had long ago made his own when he had married an almond-eyed local beauty. The Begum, as the colonel called his wife, was by her religion a Mohammedan, and as such, not at home to strangers. But the dear kind lady, who had done so much to help young Thomas Jellicoe when he first came to India, was no doubt keeping her eye on the proceedings from one of the screened windows high above, and her ladies would have their ears attuned to every conversation that carried upward from the courtyard or the spacious, tiered colonnades surrounding the hall where the European-style dinner table had been set.
Those ladies of the zenana were most assuredly listening to Lady Summers talking amongst her angrezi coterie. “Doing it a bit brown, the colonel,” the lady said in reference to the opulent decor. “He’s a bit of a relic—a holdover from a past age. He’s the only one who doesn’t know it yet.”
“Yes.” One of the pursed-lipped matrons was quick to wave her wrist in offhand dismissal of the billowing silk curtains surrounding them. “It is all a bit much, don’t you think, the whole effect?”
“Hmm,” agreed Lady Summers, with a considerable jaded rolling of her eye. “Not at all the thing.”
“I think it’s magnificent.” Miss Catriona Rowan was bold enough to quietly disagree with the popular opinion. She looked about with a generous gaze. “Colorful and enchanting. This is a beautiful home. I admire it greatly.”
“Oh, my dear.” Lady Summers turned her condescension upon her niece. “We’ll have to see what
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