whitewashed cottages bordering a tree-lined lane. Fading light filtered through the peepul leaves, dappling the dusty path. She started in the direction of the large white banyan tree at the foot of the village; its ten or fifteen separate trunks rose beneath a single united awning of leaves. As she rounded the turn, she glimpsed the source of the music: a stone building topped by a gleaming pyramidal canopy. A Hindu temple.
She took a seat beneath the banyan and spent a long moment studying the geometrical patterns drawn in rainbow chalk on the houses' packed-earth walls. A group of monkeys, tails cocked upright, jumped off a roof nearby and strutted past her. She smiled, her eyes following them until they disappeared.
From inside the temple came a chorus of bells. She stepped up onto the banyan's protruding root to peer inside. A large group of women and men sat on the floor, facing a table at the very front. On the table rested a small statue of a six-armed, blue-skinned flutist. She knew very little about the native religions, but it seemed safe to assume that he was the god they worshipped.
A man in white stood, holding a silver tray upon which jars of oil burned. While he waved the tray, drawing smoke rings around the statue, a younger man next to him rang the bell she'd heard from her hut. How mysterious.
The bell stopped just as the singing did, and then everyone stood and approached the man with the tray. He smeared something on each of their foreheads, between the eyes. The Marquess, she saw with a shock, was one of the first recipients.
She was ducking back down when he turned and saw her. Someone had given him a change of clothes. His calf-length tunic and loose trousers were in the native style, made of simple homespun cotton with no ornamentation. His hair was freshly washed, rippling black and thick to just below his ears, and the red dot on his forehead called attention to his eyes, an impossible greener-than-green. If Marcus had reviled him before, he would have been apoplectic now, for Lord Holdensmoor looked anything but English.
When he reached her side, he said, "You look as though you've swallowed a frog."
His feet were bare! She raised her eyes to his. "You're Hindu, my lord?"
He came to a stop. "Please, it is beyond ridiculous at this point."
She surrendered a small smile. "You're Hindu, Julian?"
"My mother's mother is Hindu. I honor her beliefs, when I am asked to do so." He drew her up by the hand. "You look much better. But Kamala-ji said you wouldn't accept the clothing she offered you."
"My hostess? Oh, was she offering me that clothing?" There had been a pile of clothing shown to her during dinner, but since she'd had no clue what the woman was saying, she had simply nodded and smiled and continued to eat. "I thought she was asking if I thought they were pretty."
His mouth quirked. "And did you?"
"I did actually, yes." She smoothed a hand down the single braid the old woman had made of her hair the evening before. This talk of clothes was making her acutely aware of her rumpled state. Her skirts were soiled beyond repair; what had been rose was now, for the most part, brownish-gray. "I hope she hasn't retracted the offer. I'd like a change of outfits. And a bath, if possible." She gestured toward the temple. "Was the entire village there?"
"Only the Hindus. The Mussulman services are at the prayer wall, about a mile away."
"Why so far?"
He shrugged, propping a shoulder against one of the tree's trunks. "Invading armies would erect them wherever their forces camped. The villagers have probably been using that wall for five hundred years now."
She tried a smile. "Habits are hard to break."
"In some cases." He ran a hand up his forehead, shoving away a thick handful of hair. He looked tired.
"What's wrong? Didn't you sleep?"
"A little." He sighed. His hand dropped back to his side. "I've had some bad news."
Her tenuous peace evaporated. "It's not just Delhi and Meerut, is
She took a seat beneath the banyan and spent a long moment studying the geometrical patterns drawn in rainbow chalk on the houses' packed-earth walls. A group of monkeys, tails cocked upright, jumped off a roof nearby and strutted past her. She smiled, her eyes following them until they disappeared.
From inside the temple came a chorus of bells. She stepped up onto the banyan's protruding root to peer inside. A large group of women and men sat on the floor, facing a table at the very front. On the table rested a small statue of a six-armed, blue-skinned flutist. She knew very little about the native religions, but it seemed safe to assume that he was the god they worshipped.
A man in white stood, holding a silver tray upon which jars of oil burned. While he waved the tray, drawing smoke rings around the statue, a younger man next to him rang the bell she'd heard from her hut. How mysterious.
The bell stopped just as the singing did, and then everyone stood and approached the man with the tray. He smeared something on each of their foreheads, between the eyes. The Marquess, she saw with a shock, was one of the first recipients.
She was ducking back down when he turned and saw her. Someone had given him a change of clothes. His calf-length tunic and loose trousers were in the native style, made of simple homespun cotton with no ornamentation. His hair was freshly washed, rippling black and thick to just below his ears, and the red dot on his forehead called attention to his eyes, an impossible greener-than-green. If Marcus had reviled him before, he would have been apoplectic now, for Lord Holdensmoor looked anything but English.
When he reached her side, he said, "You look as though you've swallowed a frog."
His feet were bare! She raised her eyes to his. "You're Hindu, my lord?"
He came to a stop. "Please, it is beyond ridiculous at this point."
She surrendered a small smile. "You're Hindu, Julian?"
"My mother's mother is Hindu. I honor her beliefs, when I am asked to do so." He drew her up by the hand. "You look much better. But Kamala-ji said you wouldn't accept the clothing she offered you."
"My hostess? Oh, was she offering me that clothing?" There had been a pile of clothing shown to her during dinner, but since she'd had no clue what the woman was saying, she had simply nodded and smiled and continued to eat. "I thought she was asking if I thought they were pretty."
His mouth quirked. "And did you?"
"I did actually, yes." She smoothed a hand down the single braid the old woman had made of her hair the evening before. This talk of clothes was making her acutely aware of her rumpled state. Her skirts were soiled beyond repair; what had been rose was now, for the most part, brownish-gray. "I hope she hasn't retracted the offer. I'd like a change of outfits. And a bath, if possible." She gestured toward the temple. "Was the entire village there?"
"Only the Hindus. The Mussulman services are at the prayer wall, about a mile away."
"Why so far?"
He shrugged, propping a shoulder against one of the tree's trunks. "Invading armies would erect them wherever their forces camped. The villagers have probably been using that wall for five hundred years now."
She tried a smile. "Habits are hard to break."
"In some cases." He ran a hand up his forehead, shoving away a thick handful of hair. He looked tired.
"What's wrong? Didn't you sleep?"
"A little." He sighed. His hand dropped back to his side. "I've had some bad news."
Her tenuous peace evaporated. "It's not just Delhi and Meerut, is
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