“The Eye of the Dawn,” Lady Hathaway said as he held the gem up to the light. “Perfect pigeon’s-blood color and without flaw. It wasmined in the mountains of Persia and has a fascinating history. It was given by the Shah of Persia to a maharajah as a peace offering after years of violence between them. It is said that the stone was originally a diamond but turned to a ruby from the blood shed between these two warlords. The maharajah had it set into the turban ornament to display it proudly, but he wore it for only a month before he died. His son and successor wore it less than a year. After that, it was believed cursed for men to wear it, and it was removed from the turban ornament and placed into a necklace instead for the maharani. Eventually it passed into the hands of a particular maharani whose husband was instrumental in the Sepoy Mutiny. During the confusion of the rebellion, the jewels came into my husband’s possession. He presented them to me, of course, and they have been mine ever since.”
Stoker and I exchanged glances. Her ladyship had not been forthcoming onhowthe jewels came into her husband’s possession, but it was presumably not through legitimate means. Colonials had used the mutiny as an excuse to seize property owned by the native royals, and more than one upstanding English family had found itself the richer for it, albeit no one ever admitted publicly to behaving like privateers. If priceless gems and expensive bric-a-brac suddenly found their way from palace strongrooms to the necks and drawing rooms of the British in India, who would complain? Certainly not the various nobles whose possessions had been plundered. The collapse of the mutiny had left many of them in the precarious position of having openly supported the overthrow of the authorities who were firmly entrenched in India. A few ropes of pearls or blooded horses were a small price to pay to avoid serious repercussions for having been on the losing side of the rebellion. Whether Sir Geoffrey Hathaway had stolen the gems outright or exerted pressure upon the prince to hand them over, they had certainly not been given freely, I surmised.
“Magnificent,” Effie breathed.
“It is,” Jonathan Hathaway said in a low, reverent voice.
“It will be yours, lad,” Lady Hathaway told him. “I have sent instructions to my solicitor and the necessary codicil has been signed.” Jonathan opened his mouth but Lady Hathaway held up a hand. “Do not fuss. I mean to keep them until I am dead, for I do like to look at them now and again, but when I die, they are yours.”
Mary gave her husband a sharp look and he interjected. “But, Granna, surely you recall that the jewels were being fetched from the bank so that Mary might wear them for her portrait,” he began.
Lady Hathaway curled a lip. “The jewels are my own private property, Charles. And it is not your concern what I do with my property,” Lady Hathaway said firmly.
“Of course,” he replied, holding up a hand. “Certainly. Right you are.”
Mary said nothing, but her lips were clamped tightly together. She rose and smoothed her skirts. “If you will excuse me, I must look in on the children.”
Charles looked after her as she left, clearly unhappy at being caught between his wife and his grandmother. He fell to fiddling with his pipe, turning out the ashes onto the hearth and tamping in a fresh plug of tobacco.
“Well?” Lady Hathaway prodded Jonathan. “What do you think?”
Jonathan replaced the stone gently, almost reverently. He closed the box slowly, as if loath to take a final look at the ruby. He handed the box back to Lady Hathaway. “A most extraordinary stone,” he said in a soft voice.
She nodded towards the casket. “All of this will be yours. Consider it amends for the loss of your birthright.”
Jonathan covered her hand with his. “You are too generous. Perhaps we should discuss this later.”
Charles looked up from where he had finally got his pipe to light. “Do not wait on my account. One of the ram lambs has wandered offand I meant to see if he’d returned.” He rose and shambled out, looking more than ever like a forlorn sheepdog.
Jonathan’s gaze followed him. “I think your gift will bring trouble in its wake,” he told Lady Hathaway.
She gave him a sharp glance. “What do I care? I shan’t be here to see it. I shall be dead and moldering,” she added with a smile.
“Well, I certainly won’t fuss,” Effie put in. “The jewels are most likely still cursed and I’ve no intention of bringing that sort of thing down on my head.”
“And you call yourself a woman of science,” her grandmother jeered.
Effie colored slightly. “Iama woman of science, although precious little good it does me in this family.”
Her grandmother wagged a finger, sharp color rushing into her mottled cheeks. “Do not take that tone with me, Euphemia. I will not stand for it, do you hear me?”
She seemed a fair way to working herself up, but Anjali stepped forwards. “It grows late, your ladyship,” she said quietly. “Would you care for hot milk tonight or a tisane?”
“Hot milk,” the old woman said irritably. “Mind you sweeten it properly and none of your foreign spices.”
I felt a rush of sympathy for Anjali, trapped as she was in employment with such a disagreeable old person, but she merely inclined her head serenely. “Of course.”
Lady Hathaway thrust the casket at Effie. “Carry this up to my room so I can lock it away properly. Anjali, give me your arm.” She struggled to her feet, making use of her walking stick as she rose. Anjali dipped her knees a little to better support her ladyship. They bade the rest of us good night and left. As the door closed behind them, Jonathan let out a long sigh.
He seemed lost in thought, his attention fixed upon the fire. The light of the flames played over his face, shadows chasing one anotheras they flickered. I steeled myself. The time had come. I rose and looked at Stoker, opened my mouth to ask him to accompany me to my room, where I would tell him everything.
“I say, this has all been a bit much. Would you mind playing a game or two of billiards? A little distraction would not go amiss,” Jonathan said to Stoker.
“Certainly,” Stoker said. His innate courtesy would require him to oblige. Besides which, he adored billiards and was always complaining he could never get a satisfactory game since I am, in his words, “entirely lethal with a stick” and “not to be trusted anywhere near a billiards table.” (It is the rankest lie. I have only broken two windows in the course of playing with him and they were not particularly valuable ones at that.)
“I was hoping to speak with you,” I said, turning to Stoker. He paused by my chair and pressed a kiss to my hair.
“I will look in on my way to bed,” he promised. Behind his back, Jonathan gave me a long, level look and shrugged by way of apology. As I suspected, he had known exactly what I intended and had cleverly managed to put off my confession for at least a few more hours.
