The Henna Artist(70)

For the tenth time, I reached in my petticoat to check my pocket watch before remembering that I hadn’t been able to find it at home.

The attendant beckoned me inside. The Maharani Indira was sitting on the same sofa, in the same position, as the first time I met her. The younger maharani had made a complete recovery and my services were no longer required at the palace. I had not seen either maharani for several weeks.

Now, as then, Her Highness was playing patience, her cards arranged in rows on the low mahogany table. Today, she wore a sari in marigold yellow silk and a matching blouse patterned with taupe leaves, large and small. Her neck was adorned with five strands of pearls clasped in the middle with the largest amethyst I’d seen.

Madho Singh was in his cage, making quiet noises that sounded very much like grumbling. His door was open.

I greeted Her Highness with a namaste and reached for her feet. She gestured to the adjacent sofa. She was faring better with her cards today. Most lay faceup, in orderly rows, a good sign.

“Madho Singh has been very naughty today,” she said. “He was stealing cards during our bridge game.” She turned to glare at him. “Badmash.”

The parakeet paced nervously on his swing with his head down. “Naughty bird.” He sounded miserable, stretching out each syllable as if to emphasize the depth of his regret.

The maharani looked at me but tilted her chin at the bird. “He’s as peculiar as his namesake. For King Edward’s coronation, my late husband insisted on taking water from the Ganga to avoid bathing in ‘filthy English water,’ as he put it.” She laid a ten of clubs on a jack. “To make matters worse, he carried the water in those preposterous silver urns. I knew the English would make fun of him, but did he listen?” She turned a baleful eye on the parakeet.

“Naughty bird,” Madho Singh repeated, as if he had been responsible for that idiocy, as well.

She turned her gaze to me. “You look unwell, my dear,” she said with what seemed like genuine sympathy. “You must take better care of yourself.”

“I’m fine, Your Highness. Only a little tired.”

There was a crystal bowl filled with salted pistachios on the table to the right of her card game. The maharani selected a few and rolled them in her palm. Throwing her head back, she tossed a nut in her mouth, expertly, and chewed, studying me. She, at least, looked rested and refreshed. I heard she had recently returned from Paris.

“You’ve pulled off an amazing feat in a very short period of time, Mrs. Shastri. The maharaja is impressed. Latika has recovered, again, full of energy and purpose. Almost every day she leaves the palace to officiate at functions, or kiss babies, or cut ribbons. She’s been inaugurating government centers for the unfortunate. And I—” she tossed a second pistachio in her mouth and chewed “—am free as a oiseau.” She chuckled.

“I’m pleased to be of service.”

“Before Samir suggested your work with the maharani, His Highness was thinking of sending Latika to Austria to see a specialist. What an embarrassment that would have been! I believe you would agree that a family’s dirty laundry is best cleaned by its own?”

Bilkul, I thought, but said nothing.

An attendant brought the tea service and poured. During my previous visits, she had waited to drink until the tea had cooled, but today Her Highness took a sip right away. I had eaten nothing, and my body welcomed the chai, infused with hints of vanilla and saffron.

“And so we come to another bit of dirty laundry. Samir Singh tells me there is a baby, due in October, out of wedlock. A baby of royal blood. Whom we might consider adopting as the crown prince.”

She waited a few moments before resuming.

“How could we be sure of his lineage? A blood test will prove it, he assures me. When I ask for more details, he says I must talk to you, my dear. Now why would Samir continue to intercede on behalf of a woman we know only as a henna artist?”

I felt my neck flush with heat.

The maharani continued. “I begin to think your talents may extend beyond your art.” Her gaze dropped, pointedly, to my stomach.

I set my cup and saucer on the table. “The baby is not mine, Your Highness. It’s my younger sister’s, who is underage. I am her legal guardian. Because of my negligence, she spent unsupervised time with the Singhs’ elder son, Ravi.”

“Ah.”

“The baby will be of Rajput blood and fine features, Your Highness. All the guardians involved are in agreement.”

From the recesses of her sari, the maharani produced a fine linen handkerchief, and brushed the pistachio salt off her fingers. That accomplished, the handkerchief disappeared once again in the folds of her sari.

“I see,” she said. She picked up her teacup.

“You know the Singhs well. You know their past, and pedigree, Your Highness,” I said. “The Shastris are Brahmin. My sister, Radha, attends the Maharani School for Girls thanks to a generous scholarship from Maharani Latika.”

“And how is she doing?”

“First in her class, Your Highness.”

She sighed. “Pity.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant. “Your Highness?”

“I’d rather hoped it was yours.” She grinned, then shrugged charmingly. “Very well. I have already spoken to His Highness. As Samir is a favorite, the maharaja has consulted his advisers and has approved the agreement—pending this interview and paternity tests, of course.”