Dishonored (16 page)

“No, of course not, I’m sure they won’t mind!” She wrapped the telephone wire around her fingers. “I’ll ring them now and
explain.” She paused. “Honestly, it’s fine! Now don’t worry at all, Phillip, just get here when you can… and don’t kill
yourself in the rush! Yes, all right, see you then. Bye.” She hung up. “Phillip’s been held up,” she said, looking around
for her bag. “Poor dear, something at the palace. I’ll just ring the Lythes and tell them we’ll be late.” And, totally unfussed,
she found it, took out her book and dialled her parents’ friends.

I
T WAS A GLORIOUS SPRING DAY, WARM, WITH THE LIGHTEST
south-westerly breeze that came in off the Sussex coast and cooled the edges. The ancient wisteria that framed the back of
the house rustled with the wind, its heavy lavender blooms drooping and scattering their tiny petals over the grass. The marquee
stood in the center of the second lawn, behind the box hedge, its high tented roof visible only over the top, a trail of white
ribbons on sticks, white balloons and rich green ivy led down to it.

Jane sat in her room, her things packed for the trip to India, a mass of cases and bags, her suit hanging neatly on a padded
hanger in front of the wardrobe and half her hair in curlers. She listened to the hairdresser’s prattle as she unclipped and
unraveled without taking any of it in and watched Clare put the final touches to her own silk-suited appearance. She wasn’t
nervous or excited even, she was simply longing for it all to be over, for a deep hot bath at the hotel tonight, and a tumbler
full of single malt.

“Gosh!” Clare turned away from her own reflection in the dressing-table mirror and stared at Jane. “That does look, erm…” She stopped and coughed. “It looks really something, Janey.”

Jane narrowed her eyes. She couldn’t see herself but she’d had her doubts when the curlers began to come out. “What does something
mean?”

Clare shrugged and glanced away. Jane immediately stood up and marched across to the mirror. “Oh no!” She pulled at a tightly
curled strand of hair and it bounced right back into position. “Oh dear Lord!” The whole effect was frightful. “I’m terribly
sorry,” she said, turning toward the hairdresser, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to wash this out.”

“Oh, Janey, no!” Clare darted around her, patting bits of her hair into place. “There isn’t time! You have to be ready in
twenty minutes.”

“Don’t worry, I will be!” Jane started for the door. “I should never have listened to you and Mummy,” she said, taking the
towel off her shoulders and chucking it on to the bed. “I’ll be back in a minute.” And she left the room with Clare and the
hairdresser speechless behind her.

John Bennet slammed the door of the car and smiled at Caroline and Clare inside. He tapped the roof and the driver swung the
old Jaguar around, its wheels crunching on the gravel drive. He tipped his cap and the car drove off. What a different affair
this was from Clare and Teddy’s wedding, he thought, nodding to one of the caterers carrying a case of champagne around to
the marquee, an altogether much quieter and understated nuptial.

He walked into the house, dark after the bright sunshine outside, and wandered through to the sitting-room, decked with May
blossom and early, huge, white, old-fashioned roses, their scents mixed with the smell of beeswax polish and potpourri. He
sat on the edge of the sofa and looked at the photograph of Jane on the piano, Jane as a young girl, always his favorite and
so like him that he could honestly say it never bothered him not having a son. He wondered if he should give her a shout;
she was late and probably up there reading, or doing a quick sketch of the marquee from her bedroom window. He smiled to himself
and slowly got to his feet.

“Jane!” As he turned he saw her, and he stood looking at her for a few moments, one hand resting against the doorframe, her
tall slim figure neat in the pale cream silk suit and matching shoes, her hair tied back off her face in its usual loose ponytail
and the only adornment her bouquet, a bunch she had tied herself from the garden.

“You look beautiful, Janey,” he said.

She smiled. “Thank you.” She came across to him and took his arm. “I look nice, Daddy, better than usual,” she said, her eyes
laughing up at him, “but never beautiful.”

He bent and kissed her cheek. “You always have been and always will be beautiful to me, Jane,” he said quietly, “because I
love you.” He saw her look away quickly and he touched her hand on his arm. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” She put her finger up to her eye and wiped away the beginning of a tear. “Yes, I’m ready.”

“Good.” But John stood where he was for a moment as if deciding on something. Then taking Jane’s hand, he held it and faced
her. “Janey, are you absolutely sure about this?”

Jane looked at him, at the concern in his eyes. “Yes,” she answered, “I am sure.”

He nodded but still didn’t move. After a few moments he said, “Jane, I want you to understand that if ever anything goes wrong,
if ever you need me, I will be here for you.”

She lowered her eyes.

“You will remember that, won’t you?”

Finally she faced him. “Yes, I will always remember that,” she said. “Thank you.”

He took the hand he was holding and placed it back on his arm. “Let’s go then.” He smiled, proud of her, and they walked toward
the door. As they stepped outside into the bright summer sunshine the caterers, marquee people and flower arrangers all broke
into a round of applause.

“Thank you, thank you so much!” John held the door of the car open for her and Jane waved, smiling and laughing at the fuss,
as she climbed inside. She wound down the window and waved again while her father climbed in beside her and patted her knee.

“To the church then,” he said.

“Yes.” Jane held her bouquet up to her nose and breathed in the scent of the flowers. “To the church.” The car pulled off
and Jane went to her wedding followed by cheers and cries of good luck.

Suzanna Harvey sat in the Bentley with Mitchell by her side. It was early on Saturday morning and they had just left their
country house in Wiltshire for a lunch party in Wimbledon. It was warm, there was a high over the whole country and most of
the last week had been in the high sixties. Suzy wore her Hardy Amies sleeveless dress and bolero jacket; the dress was cut
low and the jacket had three-quarter sleeves. It wasn’t one of her favorite outfits but Mitchell had asked her specifically
to wear it, though God knows why, she thought as she glanced down at it, the color didn’t really suit her and he’d never taken
any interest in her clothes before. She looked from the dress to the window and stared out at the view. It was so early that
the mist still clung to the hills and valleys and the sky was leaden with the expectation of morning. Suzy stifled a yawn
and shifted away from Mitchell as he opened the morning’s newspaper and folded it on to the page that he wanted.

“Suzanna?”

She continued to stare out of the window. “Yes?”

“Suzy, I have a small gift for you,” Mitchell said as he bent and took a box out of his briefcase by his feet. Suzy watched
him out of the comer of her eye but didn’t turn her head away from the window.

“Here.”

She held out her hand, only slightly turning to look at him. “Thank you,” she said.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” His voice had a steely edge to it and she felt her insides recoil.

“Yes, yes of course.” Taking the small, dark, leather box, she lifted the top and saw Asprey’s name and crest in gold on the
padded silk. She looked down. “It’s lovely, Mitchell,” she said flatly, taking the pearl choker out and holding it up. It
was three ropes of large uncultured pearls, almost pink in color, with a ruby and diamond clasp.

“There’s something else,” Mitchell bent across and lifted the top tier of the box. Underneath were the same three ropes of
pearls and clasp but cut to fit her wrist. He motioned for her arm. “Here, let me help you with it.”

She held out her wrist and watched Mitchell’s long wrinkled fingers, his gnarled knuckles fiddle with the pearls. He fastened
the bracelet and said, “Lean forward, dear, let me do the choker as well.” She did as he asked and let him finger her neck,
admiring his taste. So this was why he’d chosen the outfit; to show off his gifts. She shuddered.

“You’ve been a good girl, Suzanna,” he said, smiling. “I’m pleased with you.” He took the paper up and handed it across to
her, a small high giggle escaping him as he did so. “I expect you’ve already seen this?”

Suzy took
The Times
and glanced down at the page Mitchell had marked. She started, holding the paper tightly between her fingers. She held her
breath, the nails of her other hand digging hard into the leather of the seat. “Yes,” she said, “I have.” The pain was so
intense that she wondered if she was going to faint. She let her breath go and refilled her lungs. She would be all right,
she had to be all right.

“It’s a lovely shot, isn’t it?” Mitchell leaned toward her and looked at the photograph of Jane and Phillip running through
a shower of rose petals outside the Church of St. Michael in West Sommerton, West Sussex, as the duke and several members
of the House of Lords looked on. “So natural, so happy…”

Suzy swallowed back the nausea that rose in her throat. “Yes,” she managed to say, “it is.”

Mitchell smiled again and touched the pearls at her neck. “Good girl,” he said, “I knew you’d agree with me.” And as he let
his fingers drop away from her throat and turned toward the window, Suzanna thought for a moment his present would choke her.
But that was exactly the way he had meant her to feel.

S
HIVA
R
AI STOOD AT THE LONG, CARVED, TEAKWOOD DESK IN HIS
study and waited for the operator to connect his line to Bombay. He was motionless, staring out at the profusion of green,
the vivid purple of the jacaranda and the burning red and orange of the flame trees, ablaze in the early morning sun. He waited.
He was close now, closer than he had ever dared believe he would be and the bitterness, the acrid taste of revenge was heavy
on his tongue. So much time, too much had passed; it had taken a lifetime, too long. He sighed. If things had been different,
if his son had lived, had not been cut down in his youth struggling for Independence, if… Shiva turned away from the
garden. No more if, no more waiting. The gods had smiled on him and at last he had been given his chance. His lifetime’s chance.

The line rang and Shiva picked the receiver up. He listened for a few moments and then said, “Good, I will be ready for them.”
He smiled, the briefest and most chilling of smiles, and hung up. He rang for his secretary.

“Shekhai, you can tell my grandson to come in now.”

He remained standing at the desk, one hand resting on the edge, the other folded inside the opening of his
kurta
, between the third and fifth pearl buttons. He was a tall man, tall and heavy, his jet black hair smoothed back off his face
and oiled with a hair oil he had specially prepared for him in Bombay; it smelled of jasmine and sandalwood. On the last finger
of his left hand he wore a ring, gold, worked to resemble the head of a serpent and set with rubies and diamonds. It was a
beautiful piece, intricately set with the finest stones from Agra, and it signified power, the power of the man.

Ramesh Rai had been sitting outside his grandfather’s study in silence. The corridor was dark, the polished, cool, gray marble
floor like glass, the walls of white silk as flat and smooth as the floor. He sat and stared at the collection of paintings,
the same works he had sat and looked at as a boy, ten in all, small elaborate images, worked in silk and telling the stories
of the men in his family, his own father’s life and heroic death, the history of his inheritance. He followed the fortunes
of his family in the paintings, a family ruined once, only to go on to recover its fortunes, a brave, independent family,
a family of honor, and as he sat there he felt like a child again, waiting to be called by Shiva, waiting for the few moments
with his grandfather. He started as Shekhai came out and stood, fastening the buttons on his jacket, straightening his tie.
He had lived his life in awe of his grandfather and now, at twenty-five, it was still no different.

“Please, Shivaji is ready for you, Ramesh.” Shekhai bowed and indicated for Rami to go in. Rami bowed as well and, standing
erect, he walked into his grandfather’s study.

“
Namaste,
Ramesh.” Shiva stepped forward but did not remove the hand from his
kurta
or make any attempt to embrace his grandson. Rami pressed his hands together and bowed his head.

“Grandfather.’’ He walked across the room and bent to touch Shiva’s feet, the customary sign of respect. Then he stood and
smiled.

“I have missed you and I have missed India, Dadaji.”

Shiva nodded, patting his grandson on the back and placing an arm around his shoulder. “Please, let us sit.” They moved toward
the low silk covered divan. “You look well, Rami, we are glad to have you home.” At last Shiva smiled. “It is a very good
suit you are wearing.” Shiva fingered the cloth of Rami’s jacket and Rami smiled proudly. “But,” Shiva said, dropping his
hand away, “it is not Indian. We must get you some Indian clothes, Ramesh. I will telephone the tailor.”

Rami nodded, disappointed already at the way the meeting was going. He had wanted praise and affection, he had always wanted
those things but he had never got them, not from Shiva. “So,” Shiva sat on the divan and crossed his ankles, pulling his legs
up under him. “You have done well, Ramesh, your mother and sisters are very proud of you. You liked London? It is a lively
city, yes?”

“Yes, yes it is.” Rami hesitated. He found, having spoken English for so long now, that he was having trouble with his Hindi.
He flushed as Shiva frowned and said coldly, “Have you forgotten your native tongue, Ramesh?”

“No! No of course not, Dadaji, it’s just that I…” He broke off as Shiva turned his attention to some papers on the table
at his side. Shiva never listened to excuses. Rami folded his hands in his lap and waited for his grandfather to finish. It
was hardly unimaginable that he should be a little out of practice speaking Hindustani, he thought, he had been in England
for six years now, with only a short break each summer at home. Oxford, then Lancaster Gate, the job at Whitfield, Stacy,
Chance; it was Shiva’s idea in the first place, to train him up for the business. Rami turned to look out of the window at
the gardens. He had never understood his grandfather, never felt anything but frustration and remorse at not being able to
please him, but he had hoped, in his long absence, that things might in some way have changed. He was wrong.