Lord Sebastian's Secret (The Duke's Sons #3)(48)
Her mother had flatly refused to participate. Emma and Hilda had not been invited, to Hilda’s vocal chagrin. And so their party consisted of herself and Joanna Byngham, Sebastian, his brother, and Papa. Also Mr. Mitra, of course, who hadn’t yet made an appearance.
Georgina looked at Sebastian, standing tall next to his brother on the other side of the circle. He gave her a warm smile, meant to be reassuring, she was certain. And she was reassured. She had begun to feel that when she was with Sebastian, she was safe, shielded from disaster. It was silly. No one had that power. Yet the feeling persisted.
Joanna was clearly excited. Tonight was a culmination of all her hours of study, Georgina supposed. Papa bustled about like the host of an evening party. He looked so happy. Georgina was touched to see it, even as she wanted to laugh. Who else had such a father? He was unique. She hoped the coming hours lived up to his expectations. As long as none of it distressed Sebastian, she was prepared to be amazed.
Mr. Mitra entered. He wore his customary narrow trousers and long tunic-like shirt, but tonight these garments were white. He carried a small cloth bag over one shoulder. Pausing beside the low table, he put his palms together and bowed to the group.
Joanna mimicked him. The rest of them, caught by surprise, managed more conventional acknowledgments.
In one smooth movement, Mitra settled cross-legged on the carpet. It looked entirely natural to him and, at the same time, made him seem alien. He’d been politely pretending to be just like his hosts since he arrived, Georgina realized, but he wasn’t. He was the product of an entirely different society. Candlelight illuminated his hawk-like features.
“Everyone take a seat,” urged Papa cheerfully.
He and Joanna chose chairs. Georgina sat in the one nearest her, and was glad when Sebastian strode over to sit beside her. Randolph was on her other side. “This is a ritual of your religion?” he asked Mr. Mitra.
“No. It is a… Call it a meditation of my own invention.”
“Your own? Fascinating.”
Mr. Mitra opened his bag and drew out a small drum, placing it on the floor before him. He reached in again and pulled out a small openwork brass elephant. Extracting a cone of incense from inside, he lit it from one of the candles and replaced it, setting the elephant on the table. The scent wafted upward, heady and aromatic. It was like what one smelled in church—and not like, Georgina thought.
Mitra began to tap out a rhythm on the drum. “I invite you to concentrate on the candles,” he murmured. “Fire is a messenger, and a vehicle. Clear your minds of everything except the flame.”
Georgina watched his face at first. Mitra’s eyes were closed. He looked serene. It occurred to her that he had depths that none of them had been allowed to plumb. He’d hidden much of himself with cordiality and smooth courtesy. Still, over the weeks of his visit, she’d come to like him and had discovered no reason not to trust him. She fixed her gaze on the dancing flames.
Mitra began to chant, repeating one phrase over and over. “Om Gum Ganapatayei Namaha.”
“What’s that?” asked Randolph.
Mitra paused, opening his eyes. “I am appealing to Ganesha, the remover of obstacles. I speak to him in Sanskrit.”
“Sanskrit. Yes, I’ve heard of it. It’s said to be one of the oldest human languages, isn’t it? I’ve often wanted to study…”
“Do be quiet, Gresham,” said Georgina’s father. “We’ll get nowhere if you keep interrupting.” Joanna made a sound of agreement. Randolph subsided, and Mr. Mitra took up his drumming and chanting once again.
Georgina watched the flames and listened to the rhythmic sound. The rich scent of the incense surrounded her. She began to feel a floating sensation—not at all unpleasant—as if the edges of the room had faded, or expanded somehow.
“Let go of time,” murmured Mr. Mitra. “Time is an illusion of the senses. If you release it, you can be free. To move among ages, to see another lifetime.” He took up the chanting once more.
Enveloped by the sound, the scent, the bright dancing images, Georgina experienced an odd dislocation. On the one hand, she felt as if she was drifting, like a leaf floating on the wind in autumn. Space opened around her; she could go anywhere. At the same time, she knew she was seated in an armchair in her home; she could feel the cloth of her gown beneath her fingertips. She could smell incense and hear small movements from the others in the room. The unusual double sensation went on, and on.
Next to her, Sebastian muttered incomprehensible words.
And then Georgina was looking down at a pair of gnarled, work-worn hands, which somehow were, and were not, at the ends of her own arms. One held a mass of raw wool, while the other teased out strands and twisted them into thread, aided by a whirling drop spindle made of polished stone.
One part of her mind wondered how she’d identified that unfamiliar object. Others lost themselves in the pull, twist, stretch of the task. It was lulling, like the chant, which she still heard, as if from far away. She’d just begun to get a sense of a different, much shabbier room surrounding those aged hands when Joanna gave a triumphant squeak. The governess threw up her arms and snapped her fingertips against her palms in a quick, sharp tempo.
Papa grunted as if he’d taken a blow.
Randolph sprang to his feet so suddenly that his chair tipped over backward and bounced on the carpet. “Incredible!” he cried. “I must set down a complete record of this at once.” Nearly stumbling over the downed armchair, he hurried out of the room.