Dishonored (18 page)

Moving out on to the terrace, Jane glanced at his attire. “Have you been riding?”

“No, not yet. I’m off in a few minutes with the maharajah. He wants me to try out one or two of his new ponies.” Phillip looked
at his watch. “Would you like tea? I can ring for some before I go.”

“No, I think I’ll dress first. You get off.” Jane put her hand on his shoulder and smoothed the crisp cotton of his shirt.
“Are you back for lunch?”

“Yes, hopefully. Around one?”

“Good. I’ll see you then.”

Phillip went across to the small cane table and finished the last of his tea. He took a handful of sugar lumps from the bowl
and wrapped them in a napkin. “Not for me,” he said.

Jane laughed. “I hope not.” She watched him straighten and smooth his hair back. “
Au
revoir,”
he called, heading down the steps of the verandah and out into the sunshine. The sheen of his boots was so high that they
gleamed in the sunlight.

“Have a good morning!” Jane noticed how well the jodhpurs suited him, the tight muscular shape of his buttocks clearly visible
as he strode off. He disappeared from view and she turned back toward her room. It was good to see him back on form; she was
relieved that this was the Phillip she knew and had married.

Ramesh Rai had been drinking coffee with the maharajah on the terrace of the palace, discussing the two new polo ponies he
had just bought from Argentina, when he saw the figure of Major Mills in the distance, walking through the palace gardens
and up toward the terrace. He stood and called out to Vikram who had gone in to change.

“The major is here, Viki!”

The maharajah came out, fastening the top button on his polo shirt and carrying his hat. “Thank you, Rami. Are you sure you
won’t join us?”

“No, thanks, but I have something I must do for my grandfather.” Rami held down an irritated sigh; he would have loved a ride.

“Phillip!” The young maharajah walked toward the steps of the terrace as Phillip came up. They shook hands and Viki turned
to Ramesh. “Phillip, this is an old friend of mine, Ramesh Rai. Hiss family have been associated with mine for many, many
years. Major Phillip Mills, Ramesh Rai.”

Phillip nodded, but as Rami stepped forward he was obliged to shake hands. “Pleased to meet you,” he said without warmth.

“And you, major.”

Viki smiled, his usual broad grin. “Rami and I were at the same college at Oxford, Phillip.”

Phillip nodded. He wasn’t the slightest bit interested in Ramesh Rai. “Really?” He looked over Rami’s head.

“Of course Rami gained a much better degree than me but then I was only there for the women and the alcohol!” Viki laughed
and patted Rami on the back. “Come, Phillip, shall we make tracks?”

“Yes, of course.”

Rami held out his hand again but as the maharajah had turned away Phillip ignored it, pretending he didn’t see it. There was
something about educated upper-class Indians that really got up his nose.

“See you later, Rami, eh?”

“Yes. Have a good ride!”

The maharajah led the way across the terrace and Rami watched them go, the heels of two pairs of long riding boots clicking
smartly on the marble. He went to dig his hands in the pockets of his jacket and realized he was wearing a
kurta
, the long Indian tunic worn over
churidar
, loose trousers. He smiled and shook his head. Once an Indian, always an Indian, the thought, despite too long in England.
And he walked down the steps toward the gardens and the palace bungalow in search of Mrs. Mills.

Unpacking took far less time than Jane had thought it would. Unused to help, she trailed the ayah around the room for an hour
or so trying to do her bit and then realized she was only in the way. She gave directions as to where things should be put
with hand actions and much pointing and decided to leave the girl alone. Putting on her straw sunhat and a pair of dark glasses,
she slipped her phrase book into the pocket of her skirt and set off for a tour of the garden. She didn’t know what else to
do with her time.

An hour later, Jane took off her hat and scratched her head. She had got rather hot under the straw and her scalp had begun
to itch. Dropping it on to the ground, she turned back to her phrase book and held one of the drooping rose heads in her hand.
A sweat had broken out on her upper lip with the effort of it all.

“Greenfly,” she said to the head
mali
and the two other gardeners that stood with him. “It’s riddled with bugs.” She pointed to the brown patches on the leaves
and the tiny almost invisible fly, then she thumbed the pages of her book frantically searching for the right word. “Bad!”
she announced, shaking her head and wagging her finger. “Very bad!” The head
mali
nodded and smiled. “Oh dear Lord,” Jane muttered. She found the word for fly, aviation and tried that. “
Ud na
.” The gardeners tittered.

“You… need… to… treat… it…” she said slowly and carefully but all three faces stared blankly at her.
She felt near to tears with the sheer frustration of it, she’d been here for nearly an hour, trying to explain in the heat
of the midday sun and she wished she’d never opened her mouth in the first place. She searched the book a last time and wiped
her damp face on the corner of her skirt, lifting it up and showing her knees. She flushed, realizing what she’d done and
saw the hasty glances of all three men. “Oh God,” she murmured, “three randy gardeners is all I need.”

“Hello.” She instantly looked up from the book.

“Er, Mrs. Mills? Hello? Over here!”

She turned, overwhelmed to hear an English voice. “Oh! Yes, I, erm…”

“Are you having a spot of bother?”

Jane stared at the man coming toward her. He was in Indian dress, dark gray silk
kurta
and white cotton trousers and he was smiling.

“You’re Indian!”

“Yes, well the last time I looked, I believe I was.” He was laughing at her and she blushed. Her face, already pink from the
sun turned an angry red. “I’m sorry, I meant that you didn’t sound, erm…” She held out her hand. “Jane Mills,” she said
and smiled. “I didn’t mean any offense.”

“No offense taken, Mrs. Mills.”

Jane stared for a few moments at the man’s face. It was an extraordinary face, she thought briefly, cool and classic as if
someone had chiseled the features from dark brown sandstone and then, he smiled; it came alive when he smiled. “Jane,” she
said quickly, “please call me Jane.”

“Thank you, I will. Ramesh Rai.” He still held her hand. “Please, call me Mr. Rai.” Suddenly Jane burst out laughing and Rami
decided almost immediately that he liked her. “Rami,” he said, “my friends call me Rami.”

Jane’s laughter died away but she stood smiling at him. “Nice to meet you, Rami.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Jane.” He glanced down and realized he was still holding her hand, a long, elegant, strong hand.
He let the fingers go slowly, reluctantly and she dropped her arm by her side. “You were having a bit of trouble?”

“Oh! Yes, I…” Jane glanced to her right and saw all three gardeners absorbed in the scene in front of them. She blushed
a second time. “I was trying to tell them that the roses have greenfly.” She turned and took one of the flowers in her hand.
“Look, it’s awful! And they need feeding, I have some wonderful stuff at home that my father uses, we developed it together,
it’s organic fertilizer, I could ask him to send some over and…” she stopped. “And I do go on, I know. Roses are my specialist
subject.” She smiled. “Sorry.”

“Not at all, Jane.” Rami took the phrase book Jane was clutching and looked at it. He shook his head, smiling at it. “Would
you like me to explain all of this?”

“I don’t know if it’s worth it really.”

“Do you know how to treat greenfly?”

“Of course!”

“Then it’s worth it. Roses are the maharanhi’s passion, that’s the maharajah’s mother. Look, you explain, I’ll translate.”
He dropped the phrase book on the ground. “Fire away.”

Jane hesitated, not quite sure if he was serious.

“Go on!” Rami spoke in Hindi to the head
mail
and he nodded, turning toward Jane. “He’s all yours!”

Jane smiled. “OK then,” she said. “Now the first thing about roses and greenfly,” she began, and Rami translated it. Together
they went through Jane’s lecture stage by stage, with the head
mail
nodding and smiling and the two under-gardeners hanging on every word.

“You know that really was very interesting,” Rami said, sitting on the verandah of the bungalow an hour later and sipping
a
nimbupani
. “I didn’t realize there was so much to know about roses.” He smirked as he said it.

Jane turned to him. She had been watching the gardener in the far distance already carrying out some of her instructions regarding
the greenfly. “There’s no need to be sarcastic, Mr. Rai.” She smiled. “Some people are very interested in roses.”

“But presumably they are all over sixty.”

“No!” Jane laughed as she protested, and thought about the advice given to her at the West Sommerton Water-color Society on
the subject of her roses. “Well, yes, all right then, perhaps it is mainly the older generation but…” She stopped. “What’s
so funny?”

“You are!”

“I am?” Jane had started to laugh as well now, not for any reason but because Rami’s chuckle was infectious. “Why am I?”

“Why are you what?”

Suddenly Jane sat up and turned. “Oh, Phillip!” For a moment she felt intensely guilty and then she thought, what on earth
for? She stood, smiling again and said, “Phillip, this is Ramesh Rai.” She moved toward her husband. “Rami, my hus—”

“Jane,” Phillip said coldly, “we’ve already met.”

“Oh? Have you?” She glanced up at Phillip and saw that he had turned his face away from her and was clicking his fingers for
the bearer. She waited for an explanation but none came.

“Phillip, Rami came to ask us to join him and his grandfather for drinks tonight at the club,” she said, attempting to cover
Phillip’s rudeness. “I more or less accepted but I said I’d better check with you that we’re not busy.”

She smiled at Rami as Phillip sat down. He reached for his wife’s hand. “Well, I’m afraid we are.” He looked across at Ramesh
and without warmth or courtesy said, “Sorry, but no can do.”

Jane pulled away. She was shocked at such a lack of manners. “Ah, bearer, could we have some more drinks please,” she said,
keeping her voice calm. “Rami? Would you like another
nimbupani
?”

“A what?” Phillip interrupted.

“A lime and soda,” Jane answered.

“I see.” Phillip picked up the paper. “Say it in English then.” He glanced at the bearer. “I’ll have a cold beer please, bearer.”

Jane clenched her jaw and forced a smile. “Rami?”

Rami stood. “No, thank you, Jane, but I must be getting off.”

“Must you?”

“Yes. Thank you for the drink.”

“Thank you for the help.”

Phillip kept his head in the paper.

“Goodbye, major.”

He glanced up momentarily and nodded.

“I’ll see you out, Rami.” Jane was fit to burst. She had never seen Phillip so surly.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” she said, and only just resisting the urge to kick Phillip, she led the way across the terrace and into the
bungalow.

Five minutes later she was back.

“Phillip! What the hell has got into you?” she demanded angrily. She stood in front of him and put her hand in the middle
of his paper, crushing it. “I’m sorry, but that was unforgivably rude!”

“For God’s sake, Jane!” Phillip folded the paper and stood up walking away from her. “It’s no big deal. Forget it, all right?”

She followed him. “No I won’t forget it! What are we doing tonight that we can’t go for drinks? Hmmm? And why didn’t you tell
me before?”

“Because we aren’t doing anything,” he answered, turning and leaning back against the balustrade. “I am not going for drinks
tonight and that is my last word.”

“But why?” Jane was exasperated; she simply didn’t understand him. “Why on earth not?”

Phillip looked out at the garden for a moment then he said, “Because I don’t socialize with Indians, that’s why.”

“You what?” Jane’s eyes flashed.

“You heard,” Phillip snapped. He walked past her toward the bungalow. “It’s them and us, Jane,” he said. “And the sooner you
realize that the better.” He walked inside without another word and left Jane speechless with anger behind him.

J
ANE SAT ON THE EDGE OF HER BED IN THE WHITE, HIGH-
ceilinged bedroom of the bungalow with the sun streaming in through the windows and dropped her feet down on to the cool marble
floor. The coldness of it against the warmth of her skin was delicious. It was still early morning, seven a.m. but even so
it was hot and, looking out at the terrace at the intense blue sky beyond it, Jane knew that this was just the beginning,
that by mid-morning it would be stifling.

Walking naked to the bathroom, Jane turned on the cold tap and splashed her face and neck with water, taking a sharp breath
as it hit her skin. Then she ran the shower, adjusting the temperature to exactly the right degree, tepid, just above cold,
tied her hair up and stepped under the jet. It was the only way she could face the day.

Twenty minutes later, she joined Phillip in the shade of the terrace for breakfast. She walked out of the cool sitting-room,
wondering why on earth he insisted on taking breakfast out in the heat and the warm air suddenly rushed at her, rendering
her momentarily breathless. She waited for the feeling to pass, ran her fingers across her brow already slightly damp with
sweat, then walked on to where he was sitting.

“Good morning, Jane,” he said, without lowering his paper.

“Morning.” Jane smiled at the bearer as he helped her into her chair and shook out the napkin for her. “Thank you, DhaniRam,
and how are you this morning?”

“Very well, memsahib. And you?”

“Fine thank you.” Jane glanced across at Phillip’s plate, pushed to the side with its half eaten full English breakfast already
congealing, and wondered how the hell he could eat that in this heat. “I’d like some tea please,” she said, “with lemon and
some papaya, melon and orange.”