He smiled, but she stiffened slightly and ran a hand over her hair. ‘I prefer to think of it as honey-coloured.’
‘Well, this is Rajputana.’
‘And Indira. May I ask who she is?’
‘There’s a question … just nineteen but a law unto herself. You’ll find Indira very photogenic.’
‘Your sister?’
He turned to look out of the window now. ‘No relative at all. She is a very talented miniaturist. An artist. She lives here under my mother’s protection.’
Eliza heard the sound of children’s voices as they laughed and shrieked somewhere out beyond the window.
‘My nieces,’ he said, and waved at them before twisting back to look at Eliza. ‘Three of the little darlings, but no nephews, much to my brother’s eternal shame.’
A youngish woman padded into the room and indicated that Eliza should follow. Eliza picked up her bag, feeling annoyed. How could he say such a thing right in front of her? Did he really believe that having only girl children was somehow shameful?
‘Leave it. Someone will bring it to you.’
‘I may only be a woman but I’d rather take it myself.’
He inclined his head. ‘As you wish. Be ready at six the day after tomorrow. Not too early for you?’
‘Of course not.’
He appeared to be scrutinizing her. ‘Do you have any female clothing?’
‘If you mean dresses, yes, but when I’m working I’ve found trousers to be far the best.’
‘Well, I shall enjoy getting to know you, Miss Fraser.’
His indulgent smile irritated her more than it ought. Who was this arrogant man to judge her? Lazy, spoilt, aimless no doubt, like all the Indian royal men. And the more she considered it the more irritable she became.
Eliza woke early the next day. Her curtains were flimsy and the sun was already bright enough to force her to shield her eyes as she jumped out of bed and went to gaze out of the window. She had the strange sensation that, despite all the intervening years, something of this oriental country still coursed through her blood and had remained deep inside her. Just the smell of its soil stirred distant memories, and she had woken many times during the night feeling as if something was calling her. The air carried the fragrance of the desert sands and she breathed in the chill morning, feeling exhilarated and nervous.
The view of the courtyard was as promised and she smiled at monkeys leaping from tree to tree and playing on the most enormous swings she had ever seen. Because the castle – just one part of the gigantic fort – sat high on the vast craggy sandstone hilltop rising above the gilded city, the vista across the flat rooftops below took her breath away and she hugged herself in delight. Small cubic houses, snuggling close to the fortress walls, were shining a deep burnished ochre, but the more distant houses faded gradually to pale silver at the horizon, where the town gave way to desert. It was a child’s paintbox of every sublime shade of gold and honeysuckle under the sun. Dotted in among the houses, dusty trees reached up to the light, and above the whole city great clouds of birds swooped and dived.
It was cool now, but Eliza suspected that by the afternoon the temperature would reach the mid-seventies or even higher and there would be little chance of rain. She wondered what to wear for a polo match and decided on a long-sleeved shirt with a heavy gabardine skirt. What to pack for India had troubled her for weeks before she began the long journey by ship. Her mother had been hopeless, and seemed only to recall the evening dresses she had used to wear during their time in India before her husband, Eliza’s father, had been killed. Eliza remembered so little of those days but even now a lump came into her throat when she thought of him.
Life hadn’t been easy, and then, after her husband Oliver died, Eliza had returned to live at home, where she’d found Anna constantly hiding secret gin bottles, usually under her bed or beneath the kitchen sink. Anna persistently denied her own behaviour and sometimes could not even recall her episodes of heavy drinking. In the end Eliza had given up hope. That they knew Clifford Salter had been a lucky twist of fate, and by coming to India Eliza had sought to move forward, yet here she was still looking back, and not just to thoughts of her mother.
She glanced around her room. It was large and airy, the bed hidden behind a screen, and one corner had been set up as a little sitting room with a large armchair and a comfy-looking sofa, behind which an arch led to a small dining room. There was no sign of moths or ants. Another decorative archway in the wall opposite her four-poster bed led through to a lavish bathroom. The door to her darkroom was outside in the gloomy corridor and she was happy that it had been confirmed that only she would have the key.
As she laid out her clothes she thought about her arrival the evening before, just as a brilliant sunset had reddened the sky. The temple bells had been ringing and two girls, zooming along on roller skates, had almost taken the legs from under her. They shrieked and giggled and apologized in Hindi, and Eliza, pleased she had more or less understood them, was grateful to the old Indian ayah who had taught her. The lessons she’d recently taken to bring the language back had helped too.
Soon after that an immaculately gloved servant, wearing a white uniform and a red turban, had brought her bowls of dahl, rice and fruits on a silver tray and, after unpacking, she’d been grateful for an early night. Had it not been extraordinarily noisy she would have fallen asleep instantly, tired from the long journey from England, plus the ongoing trek to Delhi, and then another day’s journey to Juraipore. But noisy it had been. Music, laughter, birds calling, frogs belching and children up until all hours: all of it drifting through her window along with the shrieking of peacocks – a sound more like cats howling – and all of it punctuating her night.
She had lain awake helpless beneath the intoxication of a Juraipore night: the drums, the reed pipes, the smoke in the air, but more than anything it was the ever-present sense of life being lived to the full in spite of poverty and the harsh desert world.
Unable to stop her mind spinning, she thought of her father and her husband. Would she ever be ready to forgive herself for what had happened? She must if she was to make the most of this chance in a lifetime, and she could not risk having to crawl back to her mother with her tail between her legs. Eliza hardly dared admit that she had come to rediscover something within herself, something she’d lost the day they had left for England.
2
The day was blazingly hot and Eliza soon felt sticky and overdressed. This was a day for muslin summer dresses, not heavy linens, though Clifford wore a linen suit with collar and tie. It was a smaller affair than she’d been expecting, rather more like a garden party than anything else, but with a sprinkling of supporters already gathering on both sides – some sitting on chairs – there was a definite air of excitement. Eliza had never been to a polo match before and the ground, surrounded by trees and iron railings with a view of the hills in the background, was idyllic.
‘At least it’s dry here,’ Clifford said. ‘Unlike England, where muddy fields are a problem.’
He told her the British team consisted of army officers from the 15th Lancers, and they appeared to have brought with them a crew of highly vocal supporters, many of whom seemed to have already been drinking. There were a few other military types too, complete with their servants, and also a couple of kitted-out additional players should the day’s play require them.
