Nightrunners of Bengal (9 page)

The canvas walls and roof were dyed the same shade of red-brown as the stones of the fort. A few small tapestries decorated the walls, and Tabriz carpets in grey and blue patterns covered the grass. A lonely black and gold figure sat with crossed legs and upright back on a profusion of scarlet cushions. It was the Rani. He slowed his stride, putting his heels down less emphatically.

She sat in an amber pool of light under the highest point of the roof. The lamp was on a table beside her, with a carved metal box, an enamelled vase, and a bowl of jasmine petals floating on water. In each corner of the canvas room a charcoal brazier stood on bare grass, making the air warm and slightly acrid. She was watching his face as he came on towards the light; her expression was drawn, but he could not interpret it. He realized that his mouth was set in the hard lines it fell into when he was angry.

Now he was here he’d tell her of his decision—but not just yet; he’d have to choose his moment. If he spoke now she’d think from his face that he was annoyed with her, and he wasn’t He relaxed the muscles of his face, smiled, and stopped beside the table. Looking down on her, he said lightly, “Well?”

She dropped her eyes. ‘The Dewan did not send a message to you.”

“That I had already begun to suspect, ma’am.”

“I sent the message. I wanted to thank you. I was afraid you would not come unless I said it was about your company.”

“That wasn’t necessary, ma’am. I had to come and see you sometime anyway, to——”

She swept her hand up to rearrange her sari and knocked
the metal box off the table. It burst open, and a few rings and loose gems—emeralds and rubies—rolled out on the carpet.

“Oh! How careless! Let me help.”

She swirled off the cushions and knelt beside him, picking up the stones and putting them back in the box. While Rodney still knelt, peering about for any that had been overlooked, she said, “Will you have some peach sherbet? It is cold. I think this tent is hot? And I have sweetmeats, and brandy to drink your health. Please sit down.”

He lowered himself to the cushions and arranged his legs beneath him. The Rani clapped her hands twice, and waited. No one came. She shrugged carelessly. “A woman without a husband is always badly served. I will bring them myself.”

She went out at the far end of the marquee and glided back almost at once with a tray of gold and black Jaipur enamel work. The brandy was still in its labelled Courvoisier bottle; the sherbet flagon, the two goblets, and the sweetmeat dish were of honey-coloured Venetian glass. An opened but full box of cigars stood on the tray. He saw that they were the Burma cheroots he usually smoked, and took one. She moved quickly, poured a mixture of brandy and sherbet into each glass, put the filled glasses into his hands, brought him a live coal in tongs from the brazier, held it to his cigar. His hands were full, and his mouth stopped by the cigar; he could not move or speak, and did not much want to. Warmth, inside and out, smoothed his aches and doubts.

At last she sat down, not very near him, and took her glass. She had not met his eyes once since he had first spoken. He felt a constraint of shyness, knowing what he must say to her.

Still looking down, she idly swirled the mixture round in her glass. “How would an Englishman thank a person for saving his life?”

“Well—usually he’d say, ‘That was uncommon civil of you.’ Perhaps he’d shake the person’s hand. It rather depends on whether the two had been introduced.”

“Then I suppose I had better do that It was uncommon civil of you to save my life today, sir. Is that right?”

“Perfect, ma’am.”

“Thank you. And if it was an English lady, what would she talk about when she had said it? If she had been introduced to the person.”

“Herself. Or possibly the weather. She’d say, ‘Haven’t we been having a lot of weather recently?—for, of course, the time of the year.’ She might discuss the servants.”

“I have talked about the servants already, have I not? Myself—I have nothing to say. The weather——” She held the empty glass in her lap, and turned away to refill it. When she faced him again he looked for an instant into her eyes and saw tiny lines of strain at the corners and by her mouth. It must have been a terrifying experience to face the tigress, unarmed. She looked away. “What can I say about the weather?”

“Oh—‘lt’s unusually hot—or cold.’”

“Is that what I say?”

“It’s customary, ma’am.”

“Very well. It is unusually hot—or cold—this evening, is it not, Captain Savage?”

“No, no—one, but not both.”

“It is not true. It is very good, between hot and cold. That is why we have the tiger hunting at this time of the year. Your orderly brought your note to me, about the Dewan. I told him to stop what he was doing. I had not heard of it.”

“Of course I knew that, ma’am. Sumitra, I’ve been thinking about——”

She jerked up her hand, turned her head, and said sharply,
“Shh! Sunta nahin?”

He listened but could not hear anyone trying to get in. He whispered, “I can’t hear anything.”

“I can. I will look.”

She walked silently to the entrance and pulled back the flap. He saw over her shoulder that there was nothing there
in the alley between the tents; the stars rode through blue-white clouds above the trees. A draught of cold air tugged at the flame of the lamp. She closed the flap and came back to the cushions, shrugging.

“Nothing. I am sure I heard a noise. Please have some more of this. It is good brandy, I think? It is imported through England.” In pouring, she splashed several drops on to the table. “It is from a shop in London. The Rajah bought from them. The Commissioner who was at Bhowani before Mr. Dellamain told him about the shop—that was Mr. Coulson. I met him once. He was a small man with pale hair, and I think his manners were coarse, but he was liked by the Rajah. Do you think the brandy is good? It is easy to make a mistake when you do not know exactly. Our tastes are different. Miss Langford tried to tell me about gold ornaments and carpets and too many pictures, something about taste, but I did not understand her. She is of a great family, and related to the lady who limps, you said. But she is not a clever woman, and not beautiful. These glasses—we ordered them direct from Venice. The Commissioner before Mr. Coulson was——”

“Sumitra, I have——”

The flow of her words turned off. The nervous animation drained from her face and left it utterly empty, the huge eyes hungry. In one motion she flowed off the cushions and knelt in front of him. He looked down on her bowed head, where a line of red lead marked the parting of her hair; she smelt of sandalwood and jasmine water. She brought her palms together in front of her face and moved them up to her forehead and down again in the gesture called
namaste.
Reaching out, she touched his right knee and foot in turn with her right hand, supporting her right elbow with her left hand as she did it. These were the signs that acknowledged overlordship, and Rodney’s eyes clouded. The sunlit dream had gone on too long; the incident of the tigress had thrown her off balance.

She raised her head. “My lord, I cannot act any longer.
I am not English. I cannot even thank you for saving my life. You are my lord and can save me or leave me as you wish. Only look at me kindly.”

His bruises ached. He slowly set down his glass and cigar and put a hand under her chin. “Sumitra, don’t speak like that I can’t——”

“No! No!”

She flung herself on him. He twisted his head, but her mouth was wide, soft, and wet, and a spasm contracted the muscles at the base of his spine. He put out his force, tightened his arms round her. She arched her back over and struggled open-mouthed for breath. She had given in, collapsed in a second from a queen to a woman. Had she? Had she not won a victory? There was pure joy and relief in her sigh as he relaxed a little the strength of his grasp, and deliberate abandon in her body curved back over his arms. Love him or not, at this moment she was using her sex for some purpose other than its own satisfaction. Angrily he recognized it from Joanna, and that six months ago—what the hell was it she’d wanted that time?

He crushed with sudden brutality, so that Sumitra gasped and opened her eyes. His mind grated in fury. When she was a jelly of desire he’d let her go and bow and say coldly, “Was there anything you wanted of me, ma’am?” No one should use him. Damn Joanna, damn, damn, damn.

She writhed in silence to break free, but he held her. With a desperate effort she jerked back an inch and tried to speak. Her breath heaved out in short gasps, and her eyes shone hugely luminous and black. Before she could say a word he slammed her back into his arms, closed her mouth with his tongue, and fought her to the cushions.

She went soft, and even in his anger he knew that this was not the other deliberately clinging softness. This was a helpless, moving softness, shivering and moaning under him. This was a composite of all women east and west, and of all female need. Sandalwood, jasmine, a sharpness of musk, and a flame of brandy. He drew back quietly and looked
into her eyes. This was Sumitra, and she loved him. Here were the keys to unlock power, power so flooding and full that he had to be gentle. He slipped his hand inside her sari, cupped her breast, and touched the trembling rigid nipple with his finger. He kissed her eyes and knew that she was pulling at the skirt of her dress. Her bare thighs were warm, and her hands were on him. She turned up her face and whispered, “My lord, I love you, I love you. I did wrong—you don’t know, but go on, go on. I love you.”

The love in her voice caressed him. He stroked his cheek against hers and could not speak for the welling up of tenderness. He wouldn’t harm her, sweet Sumitra who loved him, sweet tender tigress with her claws gone. With the boundless power she’d given him, he had to be gentle, had to be gentle.

Near three o’clock he awoke. She was coming into the tent, walking as though pleasant weights dragged at her legs, and smiling to herself. He caught at her as she passed, and she sat down beside him and stroked his hair. Neither spoke for several minutes, till he said, “I ought to apologize, Sumitra—but I can’t.”

She kissed his ear. “Silly! I am a queen, and you are my king. Who are we to make apologies?”

He held her wrists and looked up. Her face was so happy now—fulfilled, and relieved.

He said suddenly, “When this—when I came in, you had something on your mind. What was it?”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come back to take all the things I want to give you. I was a fool, but these last weeks have been awful, unbearable, to love you so much and treat you so formally. But I’m glad now—now I know that you love me, and you will come back to me.”

He stared at the shine of black cloth on his knees and could not speak. When she had first knelt down, he knew that she loved him, whatever she was trying to make him do. He knew, too, that he admired her and liked her and felt
sexual desire for her—but he did not love her. He wasn’t sure that he knew what love was, except that this was not love. In a sudden realization he saw that they had flown down from planets far apart in space, met, and for an instant joined on the scarlet cushions. She was a queen of the East. She loved, and thought he did. That was all; that was enough. Wife, child, profession—all would bow to her, take their new places, and be honoured. He was an Englishman, a married captain of Bengal Native Infantry. Surely she must know that this was a point of time, wonderful, but isolated and secret for ever? That here their touching wings must part? He was frightened that he, who admired her so well, and thought he knew India, could have been so blind. She lived in another room.

Sunk in unhappiness, he said, “I do not know whether I love you or not, Sumitra. But I cannot come back.”

The words came out flat and final. Her hands tensed, and he felt her fighting to control herself. Exhausted with the giving of love, she could not do it. She collapsed on the cushions and lay still while tears ran silently down her cheeks. The fight continued; Rodney watched miserably and admired. He knew that hell; Joanna used to have the power to send him down into it.

Suddenly Sumitra lifted her head, seized his arm, and almost screamed, “My lord, Rodney—you must, you must come; you must, you must! I must have you here—and your wife and child, everything you love. Oh, God’s cruelty! Everything has gone too far to stop. I can’t stop it!” She rocked in an agony. “My lord, you
must
leave Bhowani and come to live in my fort, now, before—— Now! I will give you all the money you want, all the money your wife can possibly use—ten thousand acres of land. You need never see me again except in public. I will submit even to that, and I am a queen. Do you not believe me? Does this prove anything?”

She ran to an iron-bound chest standing against the canvas, rummaged frantically, and pulled out an ivory silk bag. She
hurried back, breathing hard, and spilled a cascade of diamonds and pearls into his hands so that they overflowed and rolled across the carpet in glittering streams of fire. Rodney felt her panic scrabbling at his sanity; he knew there must be something appalling, because he knew she was fearless. In a moment he too would start to pant in terror, and not know why. He set his teeth and clenched his hands on the jewels: this wasn’t real, it wasn’t English. No one behaved like this, no man could possibly mean as much as this to any woman—not the jewels, but the mad panic.

“Take anything, ask anything, but promise!” She knelt, dropped her head on his knees, and sobbed.

He smoothed the wreck of her hair and said hoarsely, “Sumitra, I’m a swine. That’s all I can say. I didn’t understand how much—I didn’t know that—oh, Christ, I’m a swine. I can’t ever see you again.”

She looked up, and he saw that he had condemned her to live in a nightmare. He would never understand how it could be so, but he saw that it was. She climbed to her feet and stood unsteadily over him. He waited for the storm of her fury to burst. He wanted it, for that would be the real, proud Sumitra he knew. Perhaps he could believe then that she was not in reality so deeply hurt. He wondered if she had a knife on her.