Jane Steele(49)

“I hope meeting us all at once was not too terribly overwhelming.” In the satiny winter light of midday, I realised that Mr. Singh was younger than I had supposed; he could not have exceeded Mr. Thornfield’s five and thirty. The beard framing his mouth lent the impression he was always mildly smiling or lightly frowning, both somehow solicitous expressions.

“Oh, no.” Sipping my tea too soon, I scalded my tongue. “It was lovely.”

It was not; I was wholly ignorant of how governesses are expected to behave. We had been groomed for the profession at Lowan Bridge: so was my first step to steal food, tell lies, or thrust a letter opener into someone’s gullet?

“They were gratified by your open nature, fearing a traditionalist. You already seem quite at ease with Sahjara. I don’t suppose I need tell you she is beloved by us all.”

I smiled, shaking my head. I had now formally been introduced to Mrs. Garima Kaur, the housekeeper with the terrible white mark on her brow, who indeed spoke scant English but listened with such care it hardly mattered; Mrs. Jas Kaur, the cook; and eight additional Singhs and Kaurs, the remaining house servants and grooms, all of whom fascinated and overwhelmed in equal measure.

During some confusion I gathered had to do with the cellar workmen, Mrs. Garima Kaur leant into my face as if consulting a mirror and murmured, “Quiet. Afraid?”

“Why would—no,” I stammered. “Only anxious.”

Garima Kaur was a gaunt woman with severely stark bone structure, her cheeks hollow beneath dark eyes so deeply set one could not help but see the skull beneath. Without the silvery streak across her brow, and with a stone more flesh on her skeleton, she might have been beautiful—as it was, she was only striking. She stared straight into my mind, or so it felt.

She cocked her head, the scar glinting at the same instant as an unreadable smile. “Mr. Sardar Singh—good. Nothing bad. You, how in English?”

I had no notion.

“Safe. Mr. Singh. Do not worry, do not worry,” she repeated, using a phrase she must have just learnt.

It might have been dreadfully alarming, save that it was not; butlers have the run of every estate, and to be assured by the housekeeper that ours would not infringe upon my virtue was rather companionable.

“I won’t worry,” I assured her, touching her sleeve, and I noted she wore no wedding ring. It was common practice for housekeepers to go by Mrs. without husbands, however, as a token of respect. “You are unmarried, then, Mrs. Kaur?”

Her lips pursed. “Yes, Miss Stone. You?”

“I can’t think of anyone who would marry me,” I joked, and Mr. Singh returned to finish the introductions.

Now we sat alone in the kitchen, Mr. Sardar Singh and I. All the hanging copper pans and cast-iron pots remained the replica of my memory’s; they were augmented, however, by queer skillets and glazed vessels, and where once only salt and pepper had reposed, a sunset blaze of glass-jarred spices sat next to a heaping bowl of onion, garlic, and gingerroot, all emitting a perfume so overwhelming that I had already sneezed twice. For good measure, I did so again.

“Bless you,” my companion said smoothly. “I already informed you last night we must keep away from the cellars, Miss Stone.”

Yes, and now I am determined to visit them.

“And now you know everyone here by name.”

Would that were true.

“Should you have any further questions, I am your man,” he concluded, mouth tipping upwards as he spread his hands.

“Mr. Thornfield is a most . . . peculiar individual,” I attempted, feigning interest in my teacup.

“So often the way with individuals.”

Chuckling, I added, “He treats Sahjara like a princess.”

“Well, she is a princess, so that is quite natural.”

My eyes shot up to find that Mr. Singh’s were equally mirthful. “You cannot—no, it is impossible.”

“Not merely possible but true.” Mirroring me, the butler watched the vortex created by his spoon. “We Sikhs call ourselves the pure ones. You were bemused by our names last night—men belonging to the religion are baptised, you would say, with the surname Singh, which means lion. Women are baptised with the surname Kaur, or princess.”

“Every Sikh female is a princess?”

He took a sip of tea. “You must think us altogether mad.”

“No!” I exclaimed so fast that droplets splashed into my saucer. Embarrassed, I set the cup down. “I mean to say, I think I could grow fond of Sahjara, and I intend to do well by her.”

“That is gratifying to hear. Mr. Thornfield is not incorrect in calling her the Young Marvel, though he sounds ever in jest—her name means daybreak, and she truly does throw the curtains open, doesn’t she? You seem too restless for tea, Miss Stone—no, no, I taxed you with social necessities. Might you enjoy a short tour?”

Eagerly, I agreed, and we pushed back our chairs that I might enjoy a tour of my own estate.

“The music room remains relatively intact, but some minor alterations have been made,” said Mr. Singh, sliding back a glass-paned door a few minutes later.

The walls were covered with scores of minuscule framed artworks which had been rendered in such fine detail that I imagined I peered through an enchanted telescope. In one set, the same cottage was depicted in high summer, brilliant autumn, blue winter, and lush spring; in another, a saint with a beard and turban stared as if the viewer’s soul were being weighed upon his scale; in others, lovers clasped each other with such enthusiasm any governess ought to have been shocked.