A singular hostage, p.32
A Singular Hostage, page 32
“A proper wedding takes place in church,” agreed Macnaghten. “How well I remember my own wedding day, how anxious I was, how lovely my wife looked.”
He smiled to himself and crossed his legs.
“One thing is certain,” pronounced Lord Auckland from the front seat, “Miss Givens is never to have a real wedding. We have tried everything to save her, and it is now too late. Tomorrow, she will return to us in utter disgrace. For all that she is to blame for her own misfortunes, I cannot help feeling sorry for the girl.”
IT was quite dark before the fabled picture wall of the Citadel rose before them at last, its bright tile figures of battling elephants, horses, and warriors fiickering in the torchlight.
“Welcome, welcome, most respected Governor-General Sahib! Welcome to the Governor-General and his party!” The Maharajah's ambassador, a smiling man in a striped turban, started forward to greet them, torchbearers running beside his velvet-draped elephant.
As Macnaghten gave his prepared reply, a fiock of white doves erupted abruptly from a hundred small apertures in the wall. Their beating wings made the rushing sound of a sudden windstorm as, fiying together in a spiraling white cloud, they fiew in an arc, then in a circle, over the English party, before vanishing again into the wall.
“Kindest greetings and salutations from the Governor-General and his party,” replied Macnaghten warily as the ambassador's elephant advanced.
Lord Auckland glanced upward at the wall. “If I were a native,” he observed solemnly, “I might believe the appearance of those birds to be an omen of some sort. But I am not a native. I, praise God, am English.”
The thudding of artillery fire reached them through the filigreed window. Moran called sharply for silence.
“They have come,” she announced to the crowded room, as braying trumpets and rattling drums followed the sound of the guns. “Send for the clothes.”
“Who has come?” Mariana loathed the wobbly sound of her voice.
“Your husband, his family. They have come to take you away.” Moran cocked her head and smiled. “Your husband has come for you, dressed in beautiful clothes, riding a white horse.”
Mariana's throat closed. Uncle Adrian's instruction returned through the ringing in her ears. “Always remember who you are.”
Moran's eyes were fixed on Mariana's face. She frowned. “Bring a light, Reshma. I want to see how well her nose is healing.”
The sour girl from the howdah sat against the wall. “This wedding is nothing,” she said nastily, her nose ornament swinging like the tassel on a bell pull. “She has no relations of her own, no jewels, not even a copper pot for a dowry. How do we know the bridegroom is wearing beautiful clothes? She has sent him nothing to wear.”
Murmurs of agreement filled the room.
Moran stopped peering at Mariana's nose, and pointed at the girl with beringed fingers.
“You, Saat, were you not a dhoolie bride, brought to the Maharajah's tent with no wedding dinner? Do not speak,” she snapped, as the girl opened her mouth. “We have heard enough of your doings.”
As the girl named Saat Kaur recoiled, a maidservant stepped into the room carrying a shiny cloth packet, followed by a eunuch holding a black velvet pillow on outstretched hands. An intricate emeraldand-pearl necklace, a pair of heavy gold earrings, and other jewelry lay on the pillow, stitched onto their places with black thread.
“These are your wedding clothes, and your jewels,” said Moran, gesturing toward the bright packages. “Come, then,” she ordered as she opened a mustard yellow veil the size of a bedsheet. “They will do the nikah, the marriage agreement, now. We are bringing you upstairs.”
“Now? Like this?” Mariana wrapped her arms tightly around her middle. “But my clothes are all oily and—”
Moran tugged her to her feet. “You do not wear your wedding clothes yet. Lower the blinds upstairs,” she barked over her shoulder to a eunuch as she draped the veil like a tent over Mariana's head and face, “and make sure the seating is ready. Come, be quick, and keep your head down.” She put a hand on the back of Mariana's head and pushed it forward. “Do not walk proudly.”
“No!” Mariana stood straight and snatched off the yellow veil. “I have already told you there has been a mistake. I have told you that the Shaikh does not wish this marriage to take place.” She held the veil at arm's length, and dropped it onto the fioor. “I cannot be married against my will,” she announced, planting her feet on the tiles. “I will not participate in this wedding of yours.” She folded her arms.
Everyone began talking at once.
“Wedding of mine? Against your will?” Moran thrust her face into Mariana's, her voice a loud, persuasive singsong. “Against your will, when you announced aloud to a hundred men at court that you were betrothed?”
She snatched up the veil and jerked it into place over Mariana's head. “As for the Shaikh,” she sneered, “you are wrong. He has just now arrived with his son to take you away. You are only feeling shy.” She raised her voice, as if speaking to a deaf person. “Brides always feel shy.” There was a murmur of assent and giggles from the crowd.
“Tell the eunuchs to wait,” Moran added over her shoulder. “We may need them to take her upstairs.”
Bodies crowded against Mariana. Hands pushed her head down. Bent over, she tottered helplessly toward the tower stairs.
Chattering women propelled her up the stone steps. There was no need to guess where she was; as soon as she reached the head of the stairway, she was assaulted by a blast of noise. Lights fiickered through her veil as she was pushed outside and across a carpet, then nudged onto a platform like the one she'd just left, this one covered with scratchy, metallic cloth.
Her breath dampening her face, she listened through her veil.
Her attendant ladies were leaving. As their whispers faded, a rustling sound signaled the arrival of two other women who sat down, one on each side of her.
After a moment's silence, a familiar voice spoke into her ear. “Mariana,” it said, in English, “is that you?”
Mariana tore her imprisoning veil from her face. There, like two tardy rescuing angels, sat the Misses Eden. Both were wearing black, as if they were in mourning.
At the sight of Mariana's face, Miss Emily started, her eyes wide.
“Oh, Miss Emily, Miss Fanny,” Mariana choked out, “I am so glad to see you. Please help me. They did so many things—”
Should she describe her ordeal to two spinster ladies?
Miss Emily produced a handkerchief and pressed it mutely into Mariana's hand.
“But, Mariana,” Miss Fanny whispered, staring, “what have they done to your nose, to your hands? Why have they wrapped you up like a parcel? I must say that yellow does not suit you. Why is your face all shiny?”
Miss Emily found her voice. “Perhaps there are things,” she intoned, “that are better left unmentioned.”
Mariana looked about her. She and the Eden sisters now sat in a darkened enclosure connected by a covered passageway to the ladies' tower door. The sides and back of the enclosure were of thick canvas, while the side facing the courtyard had been made up of thin cane screens lined with fine muslin. Through the screens, she could clearly see a brightly lit gathering of men, no more than ten yards away.
Was that Lord Auckland in a silver chair?
“Can they see us?” she breathed.
“No, my dear, it is the oddest thing,” replied Miss Fanny. “As we approached, we could see nothing at all. We had no idea what was inside this enclosure, and yet from here we can see the courtyard perfectly.”
“I am so glad you have come, Miss Emily,” Mariana said eagerly. “I had feared no one would come to save me. But why are you wearing black? Has someone died?”
Miss Emily tightened her black-gloved hands in her lap, then spoke briskly, allowing no further interruption. “No one has died, my dear, but I am sorry to say that we have not come to save you, although my brother and Mr. Macnaghten have certainly tried their best to prevent this disaster.”
What had Miss Emily said? Mariana's mind whirled.
“This ‘wedding’ business of yours,” Miss Emily went on stiffiy, “has gone too far to be stopped. You must marry the man to whom you say you are betrothed.” Black ribbons quivered under her chin. “I cannot imagine how I shall explain this to your aunt and uncle after they trusted me to guard your safety and your reputation….”
“But Miss Emily, I cannot marry the Shaikh's son. It was never, Shaikh Waliullah never—”
“Mr. Macnaghten is to call upon the Shaikh tomorrow afternoon,” Miss Emily broke in firmly. “He did his best to arrange a meeting for today, but the Shaikh was too busy to see him.”
Too busy to see Mr. Macnaghten and cancel the wedding? Impossible! Mariana shook her head vehemently. “Miss Emily, I cannot possibly marry—”
Miss Emily ignored the interruption. “As much as it pains me to say so,” she went on, “you are the sole author of this dreadful situation. We all warned you to keep away from the natives. I shudder to think what you could have done to invite a proposal of marriage from one of them.”
Thundering in Mariana's brain joined the pounding of her heart. She could scarcely breathe. “Miss Emily,” she shouted, “I invited neither this proposal nor the Maharajah's!”
Desperate, she turned to her other side. “Miss Fanny, I—”
Miss Emily raised a finger. “Do not appeal to my sister. Fanny quite agrees with me. You, my dear, did not stop at merely soliciting a marriage proposal. You announced your engagement before the Maharajah's entire court, and then went away on his elephant. Had you not done those things, there might have been some way out.” She smoothed her black skirts. “As it is, nothing can be done until tomorrow morning when Mr. Macnaghten will come to the Shaikh's house to collect you and return you, sadder but wiser, I am sure, to our camp at Shalimar.”
Her teeth clamped shut to prevent herself from shrieking with rage, Mariana gazed out over the crowd of glittering Sikhs and black-clad Europeans.
“What is that scent you are wearing, Mariana?” Miss Fanny inquired. She had covered her nose with her handkerchief. She shifted on the platform beside Mariana, her taffetas creaking. “It has quite given me a headache.”
“The second thing we have come to say,” Miss Emily interposed in a repressive tone, “is that no word of these events is to escape the British camp. My brother has issued instructions to all those who were present at the Maharajah's dinner and to all who are present this evening that no mention of this ‘marriage’ is ever to be made in either personal letters or official dispatches. As far as we are concerned, these events will never have happened.” She coughed delicately. “As far as he is able to do so, my brother has determined to preserve your reputation. It is not, of course, within his power to preserve your honor.”
Mariana could not take her eyes from the throng outside her enclosure. Of course they would gossip. They would all talk about her. How she despised Miss Emily, Miss Fanny, Mr. Macnaghten, every one of them. If he were here, she would hate Fitzgerald, too.
A loud gasp came from the passageway.
It was the torturing Moran, now glittering with jewelry, layers of maroon silk rippling about her. Without pausing to acknowledge the English guests, she rushed forward and cast the yellow veil for a third time over Mariana's face.
“Shameless girl,” she hissed. “The court solicitor is coming to hear your consent! How foolish you are to uncover yourself!”
She sat down on the platform, her jewelry clashing. Beside the now-enshrouded Mariana, Miss Emily rustled and sniffed.
“I do not wish to know what that rude woman was saying,” Miss Emily declared, “and I shall be very glad when this absurd ceremony is finished.”
Mariana raised a corner of her veil and looked out. An elderly, bearded man in a knitted skullcap shuffied toward the ladies' enclosure, aided by a stocky person in plain-looking clothes.
Miss Fanny nudged Mariana. “Is that square young man to be the bridegroom?” she whispered.
Mariana repressed a whimper. Bridegroom.
Another man followed the first two. He wore a tall headdress. Shaikh Waliullah. Mariana stiffened, despair welling inside her. Why had the Shaikh spoken of her courage, and of the love she felt for Saboor, then cheated her of her honor and her life?
The trio of men waited uncertainly before the wall of screens until two eunuchs appeared, carrying chairs.
“Ah,” declared Moran, sighing gustily, as the three men seated themselves before the screen, “it is time.”
Shaikh Waliullah raised his head. For a moment, although she knew he could not see her, Mariana felt his powerful gaze reach through the screen, and pierce her heart.
“This,” murmured Miss Emily, “seems more a fancy-dress party than a wedding. I must say that if I had ears like open carriage doors, I should not have chosen a costume involving a foot-high tubular headdress.”
Mariana dropped her veil into her lap and stopped her ears with her fingers.
Bodies shifted beside her. Something was being said. She pushed her fingers harder against her ears.
She took them away when an elbow dug into her side. “Answer him,” hissed Moran.
“Is she present?” an old man's voice asked.
“Yes,” Moran answered. “I, Moran Bibi, declare that she is present.”
“And does Mariam Bibi,” rasped the ancient voice, “give her free consent to marry Hassan Ali Khan Karakoyia?”
Free consent?
“What are they asking?” inquired Miss Fanny in her stage whisper.
“Speak,” ordered Moran.
Mariana breathed in. “No,” she said grimly and distinctly through her veil. “I do not give my free consent.”
“What does ‘nay’ mean?” Miss Emily demanded. “Are you saying, Mariana, that you refuse to marry the man?”
Miss Fanny drew in a sharp breath. “I think she is very brave, after all the things these people have—”
“You will say yes.” Menacing fingers pinched Mariana's arm.
Mariana blinked. On second thought, to refuse would be a mistake. Moran would only return her to the rooms downstairs and infiict more punishments upon her. But if she consented, she would leave for the Shaikh's house within hours. Had it not been her plan to escape the Citadel at any cost?
“I consent,” she croaked.
“What did you say, Mariana?” asked Miss Emily and Miss Fanny in unison.
Mariana did not reply.
Bent over in her greasy clothes, she half listened as instructions were given and prayers recited in drawn-out Arabic. When clashing music started up in the courtyard, Moran tugged at Mariana's veil. “Tell your ladies to join the other English people,” she commanded, “while we dress you in your wedding clothes.”
Sick at heart, Mariana stumbled down the stairs again. What had the old man said? What was her husband's name?
• • •
BATHED at last, her hair dried, her eyes painted, and her skin massaged with almond oil, she stood drooping with fatigue. Moran, her own eyes ringed with dark circles of fatigue, tied the drawstring of Mariana's crimson wedding pajamas and tugged a matching brocade shirt over her head.
“There.” Moran stood back. “Now we are nearly ready.”
The watching women nodded.
“No, her hair is not right.” The heavy-faced Charan chewed as she spoke. “Look. It is like a rat's nest.”
A rat's nest! Would she ever recover from the insults of the past two days?
Moran lowered a crimson dress of fine embroidered tissue over Mariana's brocade shirt. “Why is everyone criticizing?” she muttered, as she broke the basting threads that had restrained a heavy, fringed veil into a neat square. “Pah! Do they all think I have never before dressed a bride?”
With a snap of thread, she freed the pearl-and-emerald choker from the velvet pillow. “Be still,” she ordered, putting the necklace over Mariana's head and jerking the fastening cords tight.
After rummaging in a wooden jewelry casket, she pulled out a dozen straight ropes of pearls, each with a hook on one end and a large, lustrous pearl on the other.
“Here. These will help,” she said as she tugged at Mariana's hair. “They will be our wedding present to you.”
She stood back and narrowed her eyes. “You look all right.” She nodded. “You make a nice bride. The clothes they sent are good enough. They are not very elaborate, but after all, they have had a death in the family.”
What did Moran mean by “not very elaborate”? Mariana had never worn such fine clothes in all her life.
One piece of jewelry remained stitched to the pillow. Moran pulled it loose and approached, her eyes on Mariana's nose.
Backing away, her hands before her face, Mariana shook her head. “No,” she cried. “No!”
Moran let out a noisy sigh. “Can you not hear the sounds from upstairs?” She gestured impatiently toward the window, her many rings fiashing. “We must take you there now. There is no more time to waste.” Gripping Mariana's chin, she tweaked out the neem twig and forced the gold nose ring through Mariana's nose with one decisive gesture. Her work accomplished, she stood back, her head cocked.
“Now we are done,” she said.
Mariana gazed at the brown tracery decorating her hands, as elaborate as the marble filigree of the window of the room in which she stood. She studied her four rings, two of rubies and pearls, two of emeralds and pearls, the enamel-work bangles on one wrist, the heavy gold circlets on the other, the seed pearls and gold thread decorating her sleeves. Other jewelry lay on her forehead. Her nose, having burned fiercely when the ring was first put in, now merely ached.
“Remember one thing, bleed heavily tonight,” Moran advised carelessly as she unfolded the heavy fringed veil and draped it over Mariana's face. “Bleed as much as you can, all over the sheets. It makes the family happy.”
ON her platform in the ladies' enclosure once more, Mariana drooped with exhaustion. She made no more attempts to see through her new red veil. Outside, musicians nearly drowned the noise of male conversation.
