Under the Jeweled Sky (13 page)

“You should have left us behind instead of dragging us out here,” said Mrs. Schofield, her shrill voice piercing right through her husband. “You have no idea just how out of place one feels here. It's exhausting. And as for you.” She started on her daughter again. “You are not to speak to that boy ever again. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“If we knew who he was, we would have him dismissed immediately.”

Sophie had remained tight-lipped on the matter of Jag's identity, saying that she did not know what his name was or his role in the household. She flatly denied that he was the son of the Maharaja's bearer, her face so highly colored anyway that she felt sure that the lie would pass unnoticed. The Maharaja had lots of bearers. All she would say was that he was a boy who she had bumped into on occasion and that that was all she knew.

“You are never again to see him, do you hear me?”

“Yes.” Sophie stared at the rug, unable to look at her mother. She had seen so little of Jag lately that it felt like less of a lie. And when she had seen him, it had been unbearable, the two of them burning up inside. She would feel herself trembling as they whispered to each other, hidden in the shadows of their secret passages, his arms around her as they made promises they couldn't possibly hope to keep.

“I think that's quite enough for one evening,” Dr. Schofield said, bringing the subject to a close. He had been planning to speak to Veronica tonight about the matter of their staying on. She wouldn't be happy about it, but he had no doubt that he could make it sound palatable, attractive even, given reasonable conditions and a fair wind. Yet the moment had gone. That had been evident the second he stepped in through the door to find his wife in a state of high anxiety, screaming like a banshee, and his daughter aflood with tears. The brooch would just have to stay in his pocket for the time being, a gift he had picked up to soften his increasingly brittle wife. One of these days, he would stop bothering.

• • •

Lying in her bed waiting for sleep to come, Sophie finally felt herself drifting off, the faint night breeze seeping deliciously through the open window, playing with the thin suggestion of the mosquito net that shrouded her bed. A small sound crept into her half-sleep, like a pin dropping to a marble floor. She sank deeply into her pillows, yearning for her dreams to take hold.

Tap
. Her eyes opened. Again came the noise, a little harsher,
tap-tap
, and the skittering of a tiny stone as it rolled across her bedroom floor. She looked to the window and blinked herself awake. In the dark, moonless night, the leaf-thin curtain twitched and in came another pebble, bouncing sharply and rattling away.

Sophie flew out of bed, wrenching the mosquito net aside, snatching up her dressing gown and throwing it about her shoulders. She lit a candle, cupping the flame with her hand, illuminating the room in a soft glow, her bare feet crossing silently to the window in quick strides. Pulling back the curtain, she peered out, looking for movement below. Jag stared up at her from the shadows.

“Jag!” Overjoyed as she was to see him, she found herself immediately overwrought and covered her mouth, aware that her parents were just a few rooms away, the terrible dressing-down and subsequent row between them still ringing fresh in her ears three days later. He had never dared to come near their quarters before, and if they were to be found like this, there would be untold trouble. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

“Come down!” he said. “I have to talk to you.”

“I can't! My parents are still up.” Sophie glanced anxiously over her shoulder to the closed door of her bedroom. “Where have you been? I've been searching everywhere for you!”

“Yes, you can! You must! It's important!”

“Somebody told my mother about us. Now they've said I'm not allowed to see you or speak to you and they won't let me out of their sight.”

“I know,” he said, his hands clenching into tight fists. “That is why I have not seen you. We have to talk. We must hurry before I am missed.”

For a moment, Sophie thought she heard a movement at her door. She raised a hand of warning to Jag and rushed inside, listening intently, waiting until she was sure that the danger had passed before returning to the window.

“There is no way for me to get out,” she said. “We will have to meet tomorrow. Somewhere that nobody will see us. Just tell me when and where and I will wait for you. But right now, you have to go. If you are caught, my mother will have you dismissed. Hurry! You must go.”

Jag put his head in his hands and let out a small cry of anguish. He turned this way and that, as if looking for some secret passage that might take him to her, but there were none in this part of the palace. “Please!” he implored her. “You must come down.”

“What is it? What's the matter?”

“We are leaving,” he said.

“What?” Sophie felt her chest turn over. “When?”

“Tomorrow, first thing. My father asked the Maharaja to release him so that he can return to our family.”

“No!” Sophie cried softly, hands flying to her face. “You can't leave me here on my own!”

“I have no choice,” he said grimly. “I cannot leave my father. It would kill him.”

“Jag! Please, no! What will I do without you?” Again she threw a glance behind her, in the hope that there might be some escape. But there was none.

“We can write to each other,” he said.

“But how? We will be leaving soon too, and I have no address to give you, and nobody will allow me a letter from you anyway.”

“Then you must write to me,” Jag said.

“How will I know where you are?”

“I have an aunt who lives in Amritsar. That is where we are going. My uncle is a shoemaker.” Jag took a scrap of paper from his pocket. “I have written the address.” He bent to the ground and picked up a stone, wrapped the paper around it, and threw it up to the window, where it sailed past Sophie's shoulder, landing with a dull thud on the rug behind her. “This is as much as I can give you.”

“No!” Sophie said. “Please! I don't want you to go. What if I cannot find you? What if you cannot find me?” She felt sick, so sick that her skin became clammy. “We might never see each other again.”

Jag knew this to be true, but in that moment there was nothing else he could think of to say. “Don't worry,” he said, yearning to hold her as her face betrayed its despair. “We will travel quickly and safely, and as soon as we arrive I will get a message to you. I will get a message to you before you leave here.” Sophie began to cry. “Don't cry, Sophie! Please don't cry!” She pressed her face into her hands, unable to speak.

In the distance, voices came through the darkness. Jag looked over his shoulder, his face twisted with desperation. “I have to go,” he said. Sophie reached behind her neck and undid the clasp of her necklace, a small gold locket that held a picture of her parents.

“Here.” She held her hand out of the window, dropping the locket down to him. “This is all I have to give to you.” He caught it easily and held it tight.

“I will find you, Sophie. I promise. You'll see.”

And with that, he turned and disappeared into the darkness, Sophie watching after him long after his shadow faded from view.

Through the open window, night moths flew in, heading toward the candle's flame.

“What's the matter with you?” Mrs. Schofield glared at her daughter. “I hope we're not going to be subjected to another one of your enormous sulks today. That won't get you anywhere, young lady. I have a good mind to pack us up and leave him to it. Of all the selfish—”

“Mother, please.” Sophie continued to try to reason with her mother, tiring as it was, when all she really wanted was to go to her room and lie down. Whether it was due to the heat or the grief of her loss, she didn't care. Wrung out and tearful, she didn't have the energy for this today, her mother sapping every last shred from her. “He only wants what's best for us.”

“No, he doesn't. He wants only to please himself. He couldn't give two figs about anyone else. It's this godless country. Put a man here for ten minutes and all of a sudden, his wife's opinion counts for nothing. It's a disgrace. He knows very well how we hate it here.”

“I don't hate it here.”

“Of course you do. I've seen your sniveling. I'm not blind. You're just taking his side, as usual. I've told him, one year. That's all. Just one year and we will be going straight back to England whether he likes it or not. And if he doesn't like it, then we'll damn well go without him. I've put up with far more than I should have done, and now I'm expected to stay here indefinitely on his whim? He's the most selfish man I've ever met. I knew very well that it was a mistake to marry him, and I wasn't wrong.” Mrs. Schofield counted her blouses and made an angry note on her list. She didn't trust the
dhobi
wallah
and kept a detailed inventory of every last little thing that was taken for laundering. “And I do wish you'd stop moping around.” She picked up the blouses and shoved them angrily into a drawer. “You should be at the mission, putting your time to good use.”

Sophie sat on the edge of the bed and felt her head spin. Her father had proposed they stay on at the palace for another six months, after which they would travel down to Ooty for a holiday, to see how well they liked it,
to
test
the
waters
, he said. The Rippertons had rented a summer house there for some years running, and Mrs. Ripperton couldn't speak highly enough of the place, saying that she and Rip had always planned to retire there, if only he could be persuaded to give up work. She had shown them some photographs in an album over tea in her apartments one afternoon, and it did look beautiful, set in the cool blue hills of the south, the climate more in keeping with an English garden than a desert plain. Despite her father's enthusiasm, her mother had not greeted his decision kindly.

• • •

Dr. Schofield had assured Sophie that her mother would be sure to fall in love with Ooty, given a little time. The brooch had helped a little. Veronica's face had been a picture when she opened it, the tight smile she offered him a good deal more than he had had from her these last few months. His only regret was that he had not thought to bring anything for his daughter, who bore the news brightly enough, given her general unwellness. She had fallen prey to the sort of sickness that occasionally troubled one of them, caused invariably by a lapse in concentration with regard to the water supply. He had suffered a devilish bout of it himself not so long ago as a result of a careless wet shave. Dr. Schofield kept an eye on his daughter and made a mental note to have Dr. Reeves take a look at her if things didn't improve. One could never be too careful, and it had crossed his mind that she might have picked up a parasite. Dr. Reeves had been here for years and might be better qualified to spot the signs.

“How was your day today, my dear?” Dr. Schofield smiled patiently at his wife over the supper table, the one time of day when his family sat together lately since Veronica had started taking breakfast in her room.

“As well as can be expected, given the upheaval you've decided to subject us all to,” she replied. “I wrote to Mother this morning, asking her to send out more clothing.”

“Why don't you order some things from one of the big stores in Delhi? Fi Ripperton can tell you where to go. She's always ordering something or other.”

“No, thank you,” Mrs. Schofield said. “I'd rather send home for them.”

“But this is home.” Dr. Schofield reached his hand across the table to cover hers. “At least for a little while. So why not do as the Romans do, hmm?”

Veronica's hand shrank away. She picked up her cutlery and attended to her plate of plain grilled chicken with boiled potatoes. She couldn't tolerate Indian food, the very thought of it making her stomach turn, and their cook had daily instructions to serve her meals plain, with salt and pepper provided in a cruet set from which she would help herself if she deemed it necessary. She abhorred the thought of his black hands touching her food and had to put it firmly out of her mind.

“I'm sure we can manage with what we have.” Dr. Schofield spoke to his daughter. “We'll just have to work it out, won't we, Sophie?”

Sophie stared down at her supper, a simple plate of dhal and rice given to her in the hope that she could be tempted into eating more than the few small mouthfuls she had managed recently.

“Sophie?” Dr. Schofield peered at her. She didn't answer. “Sophie?” He stood from his chair. “Veronica!” he shouted to his wife. “Quickly!”

Sophie buckled in her seat, clutching at the table to steady herself as her face turned gray, pulling the cloth and everything laid upon it to the floor with an almighty crash.

• • •

Dr. Reeves emerged from Sophie's bedroom, his face set with grim determination as he closed the door quietly and came away.

“She's sleeping now,” he said to her waiting parents in the sitting room. “I've given her an anti-emetic to stop the sickness and a mild sedative to help her rest.”

“What's the matter with her?” Mrs. Schofield demanded, wringing her handkerchief. “Will she be all right?”

“Yes,” Dr. Reeves assured her. “She'll be fine. She just needs to rest. See to it that she stays in bed for a few days, and no rich food. Some beef tea and toast. Perhaps a light vegetable broth, a few slices of banana. Coconut water would be good.” He noted Mrs. Schofield's eyebrow, raised in disapproval. “It's very nourishing, no matter what it looks like. Just make sure she eats little and often and stays off her feet for a while. I'll pop back and check in on her tomorrow.”

“This place is full of disease,” Mrs. Schofield said. “It's a wonder we haven't all gone down with the cholera, the state of the water.”

Dr. Reeves gathered up his bag and made ready to leave.

“Not staying for a peg?” Dr. Schofield said hopefully.

“No thanks, George.” He gave him a brief smile. “I'll catch up with you in the morning. I think we've all had enough stimulation for one evening.” He patted his friend on the back. “Try to get some rest, the pair of you. And don't worry about Sophie. She'll be fine.”

• • •

The palace's clinic was housed in a wide bungalow set in the grounds behind the game lodge, where an open surgery was held five mornings a week for the household. The small waiting room was full, as was the norm on a Monday, with the usual collection of commonplace ailments ranging from bumps and bruises to amoebic dysentery. Most patients were usually dispatched within a matter of minutes with the necessary medicines to aid their recovery, some clutching a note excusing them from duties, trying to disguise their delight. The Maharaja made a point of preserving the health and well-being of his household—a most generous gesture considering the high level of pilferage that went on. The palace's supply rooms were said to resemble Fortnum & Mason, stacked from floor to ceiling with every conceivable delicacy. The wine cellar too was the envy of many a royal visitor, the vaults stocked with rare vintages and fine champagnes alongside crates of Johnny Walker whisky and Bombay Sapphire gin. The issue of temperature control was a constant headache and was attended to with great diligence, particularly in the dry season when the heat soared.

Everybody knew that the staff had been helping themselves for years, creating a localized black market that ran through the ranks, exchanging one favor for another, pockets lined along the way. It was believed that there was so much of everything that nobody would ever notice if something went missing, and nothing was allowed to run out anyway, so replacement stocks would arrive well before the store master ever got wind of a shortfall. Yet a problem had arisen. Word had gotten about that the new Third Maharani had decided to involve herself where she had no business and that she had demanded an inventory of the palace's supplies, intent on introducing a rationing system to stem the alarming outward flow of the Maharaja's reduced coffers. Such a move was unheard of. Everybody knew that no woman could possibly get to grips with something as complex as the palace accounts, yet that was exactly what she had set out to do, and according to the reports, she could even speak French, a language most of the staff had never even heard of. It was no wonder the waiting room was so full, thought Dr. Schofield as he arrived ten minutes late. Half the palace must have been sick with worry that their tidy little arrangements were soon to be uncovered, with the inevitable punishment that would follow. A sacking at the very least. At worst, jail.

“Good morning, namaste, salaam!” Dr. Schofield said cheerily as he picked his way through the patients sitting on the floor, partially blocking the way to his chaotic consulting room. “Good morning, Miss Blanche,” he added, passing the secretary. “A cup of tea whenever you're ready, please.”

“Dr. Schofield…” she started, but he had already walked past her little window and entered his room, where Dr. Reeves sat waiting for him.

“Robert!” Dr. Schofield closed the door. He placed his sun hat on the stand and reached for his white coat, slipping off his jacket and replacing it with his daily uniform. “I was just about to come and find you to thank you for coming to our rescue last night. Veronica was almost hysterical.” He dropped himself into his chair. “I've asked Briony to bring in some tea. We'll grab a few minutes before opening the floodgates, shall we?” Dr. Reeves shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Poor Sophie. White as a sheet she was. I popped my head around her door this morning. Fast asleep, but it looked like some of the color had returned to her cheeks at least. Thank God it's nothing serious. I was beginning to wonder if she hadn't gone and picked up some kind of nasty—”

“George,” Dr. Reeves interrupted him. Dr. Schofield looked up from his list of messages.

“What?”

“About Sophie.”

It was the way Dr. Reeves said it. The way he fixed his colleague with the same benign expression they all used when delivering bad news. George Schofield had seen that look before many times and been the bearer of it often himself. The paper became still in his hand. “What?” he repeated. “What's the matter?”

Dr. Reeves drew a heavy breath and sat back a little, as though withered by the heat. “Before I tell you this, George, I want you to know that I am absolutely certain about it. God knows this is not the kind of news that I would deliver unless I was completely sure. I also want to say that if there is anything I can do, anything at all, you have only to say the word.”

Dr. Schofield felt his blood run cold, and in that moment, he was reminded of all the textbooks, all the papers, all the cramming he had done on tropical diseases and the litany of early deaths visited upon so many of those who came out to live in these far-flung places.

“All right, Robert,” he said quietly. “Just spit it out.”

Dr. Reeves removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose where they had pinched his skin. He let out a dismal sigh, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and began to clean the lenses. “I'm sorry, George.” He paused a while, placing the spectacles back on his nose. “There's no easy way to tell you this.” Robert Reeves looked his friend straight in the eye. “Sophie's pregnant.”