I never wanted to ruin your idolized view of your father but I don’t feel I can keep these secrets any longer. I’m sorry.
I hope this letter finds you well. Please give my regards to Clifford. If he is showing an interest I hope you’ll be compliant. As you now know, no man is perfect, even your beloved father.
Your loving mother
The ground tilted but Eliza got to her feet and paced back and forth, distraught at the bitterness that spilled from the pages. What could her mother’s purpose be in telling her these dreadful lies? Anna had struck a blow to the very heart of who Eliza believed she was and who she believed her father had been. She thought of his bear hugs and his warm smile and then she remembered his absences. Oh God! What if this was all true? But no. This was another of her mother’s attempts to undermine her love for her father. She could hear the tone of her mother’s voice as she penned it. Yet whether it was true or not, Eliza felt devastated; the fact that Anna had even written of these things made her feel sick at heart and she had mentionedmore. Whatmorecould there possibly be? And was her mother’s health seriously deteriorating or was this a less than subtle touch of emotional blackmail?
She went in search of Jayant but was told that he had gone and would be away for some time, meeting with British engineers. She was surprised he hadn’t even waited to hear how she’d got on with Clifford.
On her way back to her rooms she heard footsteps that seemed to be coming from behind her. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise and she spun round. Nobody. Just the old castle creaking and groaning. But a chill ran through her at the possibility that somebody might be silently watching and listening. She told herself it was just her imagination, but something prowled these corridors, she was sure of it. Maybe a padding servant girl? Maybe a stealthy guard? Either that or the castle was full of ghosts, which wouldn’t have surprised her. This presence she couldn’t identify, and the way she felt she was accompanied by shadows through the half-light of the corridors, left her with a nagging undercurrent of fear.
She hurried out into the relief of a sunlit courtyard, where Indi appeared to be starting a new drawing at a small easel. The scent of rose and jasmine drifted in the air and, longing to feel a proper part of life at the castle, Eliza watched her for a few moments. Then, desperately in need of a friend while feeling so low, she decided to reach out to the girl once again.
‘Is it a sketch for a new painting?’ she asked in a friendly voice, while taking a few steps forward.
Indi spun round, but with no smile on her face. ‘Just a sketch.’
‘It’s good.’
Indi didn’t reply, and Eliza felt as if she might be wasting her breath. ‘I wondered if you might like to learn more about photography? I’d love to show you how I go about catching a particular moment.’
Indi stared at her. ‘Nahin dhanyavaad.’
Then she studiously turned her back and ignored Eliza. It had been a very determined ‘No thank you.’
13
January 1931
After that Eliza gave herself over to the only thing she knew to do when life upset her. Engrossed in work, she did not feel the hurt of her mother’s accusations. Up before dawn, when a soft blue mist hung its veil over the town below, and before the temple bells began to ring, she explored the castle, seeking out unusual shots of external architecture, little corners of exquisite, detailed decoration, or sharp contrasts between light and shade. These were strange, sublime moments of almost enjoyable loneliness. She went to the town, accompanied of course, and managed to capture images of craftsmen at work; she even spotted a musician playing an instrument that seemed to have been made from a coconut.
Back at the castle, the one positive was a short note from Clifford telling her that he’d set the wheels in motion and it was probably safe for Jay to go ahead with the irrigation project. After that she photographed the servants with a lighter heart. Everyone seemed willing, and she was invited to spend time with the concubines, the swirling pinks and oranges of their long scarves shimmering against the emerald of their skirts and tunics. They began to trust her and, as they chattered and giggled, allowed her to take the relaxed shots she desired. When she revealed the contact prints later on, they exclaimed and excitedly pointed out the images of themselves and in return offered to initiate her in the sixteen arts of being a woman. Afraid of what that might involve, she declined at first but, as they were utterly insistent, she was left with no choice.
The room they led her to was on the ground floor and enormous, its walls and floor tiled in pale pink marble. The windows, covered by carvedjaliscreens through which the sun filtered golden geometric patterns on the floor, seemed more beautiful than secretive. Brighter. Less made of shadows. And when the maids carried in huge bowls of steaming water which they poured into a deep copperghangal, a sort of tub, Eliza felt expectant and happy.
As she sat on a wooden bench, the concubines washed her hair in coconut water and bathed her in jasmine-scented water. But, acutely shy to be naked before them, and with so many pairs of eyes appraising her, and so many fingers touching her pale skin, her smiles turned to embarrassment. They made personal remarks about her breasts and thighs, but gradually she relaxed, and as she surrendered she became more languid with each moment. When they had dried her and while they were massaging her body with rose-scented oils they told her their stories. One said she was the third daughter born to a poor family, far away in a barren land, with no sons.
‘So you have sisters?’ Eliza said. ‘I always wanted a sister.’
The girl shook her head and began to scrape Eliza’s feet with something sharp. ‘They were taken by wolves and I was brought here.’
‘As a baby?’
‘My parents could not afford to keep me. What use is a girl?’
The girl then rubbed Eliza’s feet with what looked like butter and sang softly as she worked.
Another girl pointed out that Eliza must wear more jewellery or she’d be taken for a widow. Eliza protested, but they told her to visit thesonaror goldsmith as soon as she could and buy plenty. Eliza laughed but took note. All the time she was there the women cuddled each other and dissolved into laughter at jokes Eliza didn’t understand, but a kind of chaotic reverie developed and she enjoyed feeling as if she understood a little more of this land of diverse traditions.
One of the women had made what she calledkaajal.It was the dark black stuff they ringed their eyes with, and she offered to show Eliza how to use it. After it was finished Eliza glanced in a mirror and was astonished by the drama it added to her eyes. They looked greener, brighter, and when she smiled at the result the woman gave her a little pot of the stuff in a tiny silver box, with a little wooden stick with which to apply it.
She’d been at the castle since the middle of November, and had passed a quiet Christmas at Dottie’s. Now it grew quite cold at night, so she had to seek out an extra blanket or two. She was given arazai, a quilt filled with cotton and smelling quite strongly of musk. It was thought to help retain heat in the body. And so, like the rest of the household, Eliza became used to wrapping a large cashmere shawl around herself in the early morning, only shedding it as the heat of the day took over. She still felt as if she was being followed, though nobody had been there each time she’d turned to look. The castle seemed shrouded in mystery. Sometimes she felt as if she was waiting for something awful to happen, and the uncomfortable sensation of being under observation left her feeling strained and tense. Other times she put it down to sounds coming from elsewhere. She was surprised how much she missed Jay and, wishing it was his footsteps she heard echoing down the long corridors, she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that something was wrong.
Early one morning she heard a knock at her door, and when she opened up she found one of the maids indicating that she should follow. At first she had no sense of foreboding, but as they descended into the bowels of the building her skin prickled with apprehension. In a place as vast as this it wasn’t easy to keep things in perspective; it wasn’t just that these lower corridors were cold, windowless spaces, lit only by oil lamps, there was something odd going on.
When the girl stopped outside a dark wooden door, Eliza was surprised when thedewan, Chatur, opened the door and signalled that she should enter. She hesitated and twisted to glance back at the handmaiden, but the armed guards who had suddenly appeared in the corridor blocked her path. She did not like, nor trust, Chatur. Everything, from his upright bearing to the curl of his lip, not only implied disdain but actively expressed it.
As she entered the dark suffocating room his smile was intimidating and completely lacking in warmth. ‘This photography project means a great deal to you?’ he said.
