The Sandalwood Princess Read online

  “You leave tomorrow for England,” said the rani. “We may never meet again. Besides, they are all idiots, and tiresome.” She made a slight gesture with her hand, and a large, jewel-encrusted hookah was brought forward.

  “Your brother, for instance,” she went on, as she examined the mouthpiece. “Generally not a stupid man, but he has married foolishly an ignorant woman. If she were not so ignorant, she would love you. Instead, she hates you, and drives you away. I detest her.”

  “Two women cannot rule one house,” Amanda said calmly. “My presence is a constant irritant. Or perhaps embarrassment is more like it. My ways aren’t hers and never will be, so there’s always friction. You understand,” she added.

  The rani studied the silken-clad woman who sat cross-legged opposite her. “I understand she would fly into a rage, could she see you now. I am told she considers the sari indecent.”

  Amanda grinned as she took up her mouthpiece. “She’d certainly drop into five fits if she saw me smoking this.” She gave a defiant shrug, and drew on the hookah with practised ease.

  She knew her erratic attention to deportment merely aggravated her sister-in-law’s dislike. In time, Eustacia might have nagged her wayward relation into more acceptable behaviour. Unfortunately, no lessons, no reminders, however regular, could change Amanda’s appearance.

  Her light complexion resembled too closely the mellow ivory lightness of the natives of the northern Ganges. Glossy dark brown hair, rippling in duck waves, framed the oval of her face. Thick black lashes fringed large eyes of a peculiarly light, changeable brown. The bones of her countenance strongly defined, the nose straight and well-modeled, the mouth wide and overfull, Amanda’s face was far too exotic for European beauty. More mortifying to Lady Cavencourt, both Europeans and natives regularly mistook Amanda for an Indian.

  “I comprehend well enough,” the older woman answered, “but I object. We will speak no more of her. She is tiresome. I have a story for you, much more interesting than your foolish new sister.”

  Nothing could be so pleasurable as this, Amanda thought. How she would miss the sultry Calcutta evenings spent with the fascinating princess... the languorous clouds of smoke and incense that filled the room with shifting spirit-shadows ... the rani’s clear voice, smooth as a running river, coiling through the twists and turns of ancient legends. Amanda forced back the tears filling her eyes.

  The rani smoked silently for a moment. Then she raised a finger. All the servants scurried from the room, save the large Padji, who stood still as a statue by the door. When the rest were gone, she began:

  “Tonight, I tell you of the goddess Anumati, she from whom the childless women of my native kingdom besought sons and daughters. When she answered their prayers, the women would bring her gifts, as rich as their means permitted. But whether rich or poor, the new mother must always bring as well a carved figure.”

  From the cushion beside her, the rani picked up a small wooden statue. Amanda had seen it before. Normally it stood upon a shelf, along with other statues and talismans in the rani’s vast collection. It was about ten inches tall, a beautifully carved sandalwood figure of a smiling woman whose belly was swollen with child.

  “Many lifetimes ago,” the rani continued, “such figures filled Anumati’s temple, and precious stones adorned her magnificent statue. In her forehead was set a large ruby, and in her right hand an immense pearl in the shape of a tear. These were the gifts of a prince and princess of ancient times. The ruby, from the prince, symbolized the blood of new life: the son Anumati had given the previously childless couple. The pearl, his wife’s gift, represented the tears of happiness she’d shed at her son’s birth. This stone, more rare than even the ruby, was called the Tear of Joy.”

  By the doorway, Padji shifted slightly, and threw his mistress a glance. Her eyes upon the statue, the rani went on.

  “Many lifetimes later, marauders came and ransacked the rich temple. The chief of them must have the greatest jewels, of course. With difficulty, he removed the ruby. The pearl, however, was more deeply set. To get at it, he must break the hand from the statue. He beat upon it with an altar stone and at last the arm began to crack. At that same moment came a great rumbling. The temple walls shuddered and the ground beneath trembled. His terrified companions fled, some dropping their loot in their haste. He remained, still struggling for the pearl. Just as he broke the hand away, the temple roof collapsed.”

  “Anumati was very angry,” Amanda murmured. “I don’t blame her.”

  “Her revenge was greater than that. Mere hours after the temple’s collapse, several of the marauders returned. The new leader, as greedy as his predecessor, determined to have the two great stones. They dug through the rubble— a tremendous task—and at last, by the next day, found the chief’s crushed body. The ruby lay in his hand. The pearl was gone.”

  She looked at Amanda. “What do you make of that?”

  The logical explanation is that the pearl was crushed to powder,” Amanda said thoughtfully. “Yet Anumati’s worshippers would probably conclude she took away her treasure because, instead of Life and Love, death and destruction filled her temple.”

  The princess nodded. “It was said Anumati had abandoned the defiled place and taken all joy with her. The temple grounds were considered accursed. My people followed the advice of their priests, and did not attempt to restore either the temple or their ravaged town. Instead, they built new houses a safe distance away.”

  Gently she stroked the figure’s forehead. After a moment she said, “Now I come to my own lifetime.”

  From the doorway came a long, drawn-out sigh. The princess affected not to hear it

  “I was many years a younger woman than you when a Punjab prince conquered my father’s kingdom,” she said. “When this conqueror investigated his new domain, he made two discoveries. One was myself. To strengthen his political position, he took me as his wife. He also discovered the temple ruins. His greed being far greater than his fear of curses, he ordered the temple excavated. Thus he unearthed all the treasure the robbers had left behind in their terror. Also, he found the skull of the chieftain, and within it”—she paused briefly—”the Tear of Joy.”

  Amanda stifled a gasp. “In the skull?” she asked incredulously. “How did it get there?”

  The rani shrugged. “Who knows? There it lay, undamaged after nearly a century. My husband gave it to me, before all the town. He was a pig, but politic. Before them, he gave it to me. In private, he took it back—for safekeeping, he said. He permitted me to keep a few baubles, and this figure, the only one which had not been destroyed in the temple’s collapse. I was not pleased,” she added with a faint smile.

  There came a loud sniff from the doorway.

  “What ails you, Padji?” the princess asked.

  “Nothing, mistress.”

  “Then be silent.” She turned back to Amanda. “Once and only once in my life have I loved,” the rani said. “I speak not of ordinary love, which I have possessed in abundance. I speak of a great, all-consuming love, such as most persons merely read of or see performed in drama, but never experience in their lives. In your legends, it is the love of Tristan and Isolde. In mine, it is that of Krishna and Radha.”

  After a moment’s consideration, Amanda said softly, “You mean sinful love, I think.” She blushed as she spoke, not for any missish reason, but because to speak of sin to the rani was... oh, absurd, really. Her morality was not defined by the Church of England or English society.

  “Yes,” the Indian woman answered calmly. “Sinful love.” She lazily drew upon the waterpipe.

  While she awaited the rest of the story, Amanda gazed about her, trying to memorise her surroundings, for it would be the last time, perhaps. Thick with smoke and incense, these chambers would have frightened the ladylike Eustacia, and most gently bred British ladies. They would have perceived the place as a den of iniquity. Certainly it fit their image of the Rani Simhi as a dangerous woman whose histo
ry comprised one long career of sin.

  Perhaps it was sin, Amanda reflected. Nonetheless, the princess’s world was fascinating, and Amanda had been happier here than anywhere else she could remember. Whether legend or history, the universe her Indian friend revealed was a dream world, captivating as a fairy tale. It was also just as safe as one, for Amanda could never enter its pages.

  A light breeze wafted from the garden, carrying the scent of flowers and the fresh fragrance of the carved vetiver entryway. Something else, Amanda thought, drawing an appreciative breath. Agarwood?

  “My husband became one of the most powerful princes in India,” the rani continued. “Thus the British soon arrived, to persuade him to accept their protection rather than that of the French. Among them was one, tall and fair. In his hair gleamed the golden light of the sun, and in his eyes the glistening sea. I saw him and love consumed me. This passion caused me to risk death, the punishment for adultresses. Richard Whitestone became my lover, and in time, I ran away with him.”

  Padji cried out, “Oh, mistress, would that I’d cut out the dog’s heart!’’

  “Hold your tongue,” said his mistress. “My friend does not wish to hear your ignorant babbling.” She turned back to Amanda. “He is like a child sometimes. He thinks everything may be resolved by cutting out hearts. One cannot explain to him. He is not a woman.”

  Amanda’s gaze slid from servant to mistress. She understood. “Your lover betrayed you.”

  The princess shrugged. “Men are easily confused. One night I awoke, and found my lover gone.”

  “He took everything,” Padji growled. “The jewels-”

  “He took from a thief,” his mistress corrected. “Merely to abandon my husband was insufficient payment for his selfish cruelty. I stole from his treasures, took what he held truly precious, gold and jewels. Yet this was not entirely revenge. My lover and I must live on something, and he was not a wealthy young man.”

  “Still, he took everything? Abandoned you and left you destitute? Whether you’d stolen the treasures or not, that was a despicable thing to do,” Amanda said indignantly.

  “There is more to be unfolded,” the rani answered, “as it was unfolded to me. I later learned my husband had persuaded the Englishman to seduce and take me away.”

  Amanda’s mouth fell open.

  “My husband had grown to fear my influence. He was eager to be rid of me, but dared not kill me, for fear of an uprising. If I committed adultery, however, my own people would pursue me and put me to death, while he stood by, innocent, the injured spouse.”

  “Good heavens.”

  “As I told you, he was politic. Still, he also betrayed his English ally. He’d promised Richard Whitestone a considerable reward, which he failed to deliver. Thus my lover took his payment from me.”

  “That hardly excuses him,” Amanda said, rubbing her forehead. “I know you believe each matter also contains its opposite, but all I see in this is villainy.”

  “So it is, memsahib,” Padji solemnly agreed. “I might have caught and killed him, but my mistress would not permit it Even then—”

  “I was betrayed. What of it?” the princess interrupted. “Women are always betrayed. Yet I prospered. Did not this Englishman show me the Fire of Love, which so few experience? Did he not release me from my husband and carry me to safety? Within months my husband lay dead of fever—and I was spared the sati. Instead of burning on his pyre, I was free, many miles away. Did I not find another husband, worthy and loving, who gave me strong sons and showered me with wealth?”

  All while she’d spoken, her voice calm and cool, the rani had continued stroking the statue.

  After a moment’s silence, she said, “Though he took all else, Richard Whitestone left me this figure. One night, as I lay weeping for him, Anumati came to me in a dream. In time, she said, I would discover the meaning of this suffering, and its end. The one object my lover had left me was her gift to me, which she would fill with all her blessings. This was her promise, and she kept it.”

  She must have observed dissatisfaction in Amanda’s face then, because she laughed. “Ah, my young friend, the matter of love still troubles you.”

  “You speak as though you forgive him,” Amanda said, “yet he behaved abominably in every way. He behaved like a—a prostitute. Then he stole all you had.”

  “Merely the acts of a desperate man. Yet I have no doubt he loved me. Such passion cannot be feigned. Perhaps that made him most desperate of all, for ours was the love that is madness and rapture at once.”

  “If it is a sort of madness,’’ Amanda said reflectively, “then no wonder it is treacherous. As you said, most of us only read about it—yet the stories are always tragic, as yours seems.’’

  “What tragedy?” was the cool response. “I found happiness after.”

  “But destructive, at least,” Amanda argued, without quite knowing why she needed to argue. “I don’t know about Krishna and Radha, but what about Tristan and Isolde? What about Romeo and Juliet?”

  “Ah, yes,” the princess said. “Romeo and Juliet. I have read this work of your great poet many times. A fine scene, that in the garden. She calls to her lover, as I called to mine in my sorrow and loneliness.” In English, then, she quoted as she gazed towards her own garden, “‘O! for a falconer’s voice, / To lure this tassel-gentle back again.’“

  The Rani Simhi was still a beautiful woman. As she softly uttered the longing words, her face softened, too, and for an instant, Amanda saw in her profile the young girl who’d known rapturous passion. For that instant, Amanda almost envied her. Almost.

  “Would you lure him back?” she whispered.

  The princess’s gaze, dark and liquid, came back to her. She smiled.

  Padji shifted restlessly.

  “We bore Padji beyond his little patience,” his mistress said, her voice brisk again, “and I keep you overlong with my tales. Yet he understands,” she added, throwing her servant a warning look, “that you must know the story, because now the statue belongs to you, my dear friend.” So saying, she held the sandalwood figure out to Amanda.

  Stunned, Amanda took it.

  “Anumati’s is a woman’s gift, to be passed from mother to daughter. I have no daughters of my blood, but you have become the daughter of my heart. Thus I pass the Laughing Princess to you. May all her blessings enrich your life, as you have so enriched mine, child.”

  There was no holding back the tears men, a monsoon flood of them, so that Amanda scarcely saw the heap of gifts Padji began piling before her, barely comprehended the rani’s affectionate words of farewell. Silks, kashmir shawls, perfumes, and incense—a rajah’s treasure. In vain Amanda protested this largess. The princess waved away all objections.

  “If you remained with me, my daughter, thus would I adorn you,” she said. “Also, I would find you a fine husband, tall and strong and passionate. Unfortunately, I could find no one worthy in time.”

  Amanda gave a watery giggle. Indian women were often wed at puberty. At six and twenty, even by English standards she was at her last prayers.

  “That is better,” the rani said. “We part with smiles.” She embraced Amanda, then added, “If I find you a husband, I shall dispatch him to England, never fear.”

  In the flurry of gift giving and leave taking, they did not hear the soft rustle in the dark garden beyond or the feather-light footsteps fading into the night.

  Chapter Two

  Amanda thoroughly loathed the palanquin. She objected on principle to human beings used as beasts of burden. However, the rani always provided a palanquin to collect her English friend and bring her home again. Rather than professional bearers, who were notoriously untrustworthy, four of the rani’s own sturdy, well-armed servants carried it.

  They made their way speedily through the dark streets, Padji at their side to terrify any prospective evildoers with his muscular hulk and monstrous sword. Amanda doubted even Queen Charlotte’s safety was so well provided for.<
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  All the same, Amanda had never travelled with so much wealth, and the jewels in the lacquered box made her anxious. Still, who could know what she carried? Spies. Spies lurked everywhere. Not to mention that everyone by now had heard of the master thief, the Falcon. His vision, it was claimed, penetrated stone walls.

  Roderick called the stories typical native nonsense. Certainly, he admitted, India abounded in cutthroats and thieves. Nonetheless, no man could turn himself into the night breeze and slip through keyholes. No man slithered into gardens in the guise of a snake, or flew through windows in the form of a dove. That, supposedly, was how the Falcon had made off with one woman’s ruby necklace, and another’s diamond bracelets. More likely, Roderick told his sister (when Eustacia was not nearby), the women had bestowed the jewels upon their lovers, and accounted for the missing gems as supernatural thefts. Lately, everything was blamed on the Falcon.

  Yet Amanda had heard other tales—of documents, letters, political secrets bought or stolen, then sold. Always, one name was whispered: the Falcon. Only one name, but she little doubted it comprehended a vast network of spies and mercenaries, as likely controlled by the East India Company as by an Indian mastermind.

  She sighed. She would miss India, but not its atmosphere of suspicion and treachery. She had grown accustomed to the stench, heat, and din of Calcutta, yet she would not miss those, certainly. Apart from the rani, her one friend, what would she miss, really?

  A cry sheered the night, like a dying bird song, and the palanquin halted. Amanda heard Padji’s voice in sharp Hindustani: “What message?”

  “For the woman,” an unfamiliar voice answered in the same language.

  Amanda peered through the shutters.

  In the darkness she made out Padji’s immense form, then a flash of metal, whistling as it swooped to his neck, so swiftly she had no time to cry out a warning before the gleaming blade lay upon the servant’s throat. Amanda blinked. That must be Padji’s own sword, because his hand hung empty now. How had the man done it?