Page 19 of The Art of Theft
By that point in her life, she’d served as several gentlemen’s official mistress.
“Then you don’t need me to point out that an arrangement with a protector has certain protocols that both sides observe. And that when it’s done properly, the mistress can expect economic gains, if nothing else. I assume your maharani did not offer you anything of the sort?”
“She offered me love and devotion. I don’t believe it ever occurred to her to sully that with monetary compensation. And I don’t blame her in the least for it. We women have always been taught that our love is the most valuable thing we can give.”
“That’s because sometimes a woman has nothing to give excepther body and her affections. But a queen who can afford an etiquette tutor for her children should have offered more.”
“And who would have told her that?”
Miss Charlotte looked at her directly. “You, ma’am.”
Mrs. Watson laughed, even as tears stung her eyes. “I know. I know. Ridiculous, wasn’t it? I’d negotiated ruthlessly with gentlemen and their solicitors for what I would receive from them. But with her, I never once broached the subject of money. I couldn’t bear the possibility of disillusioning her. And I never wanted to cheapen our love with demands of pounds and rupees.
“So I could either leap headlong into this future in which I had love and no other guarantees. Or I could remain where I was, contract every penny I was to receive for my time and affections—and have no love.”
She plunged her fingers into her hair. “In the end I told her no. I did not tell her the truth—only that I couldn’t leave my entire life behind. I hated myself afterward. Without meaning to, I’d punished her for not being a man, for not being able to marry me or give me the stature of an official mistress.”
Miss Charlotte shook her head. “You’d worked hard to be independent, ma’am. Had you left with her then, you’d have been dependent on her the rest of your life. Not to mention, you would have had to give up thoughts of children. Did you wish for children?”
“I did. I often wish I had more children.”
She’d never acknowledged that Penelope was her child, but then again, judging by Miss Charlotte’s utter lack of surprise, she’d known that from the very beginning.
“Then that would have been yet another sacrifice you would have had to make. It was not wrong for you to think of your own future, while considering someone else’s happiness.”
Mrs. Watson rubbed her palm across her forehead. “I know I was not wrong, per se. I know that if Penelope came to me with a similar dilemma today I would counsel her to think very carefullyof her own needs and wants. All the same, I broke the maharani’s heart. I was the proverbial greedy woman for whom love was not enough.”
“In the world we live in, women for whom love is enough often suffer for that belief.”
Miss Charlotte was so unmoved that Mrs. Watson’s heart sank. To be sure, a part of her was fiercely glad to have Miss Charlotte defend her long-ago choices so staunchly and unapologetically. But she’d said all the same things to herself and she was still here, begging Miss Charlotte to reconsider.
Perhaps her despair showed. Miss Charlotte regarded her for a moment. And though her face did not deviate from its usual custard-smooth blankness, something about her expression seemed to soften.
“I shall continue to hold the firm belief that you acted with both sense and honor in the dissolution of your affair with the maharani. But I accept that in your own estimation, you owe her a debt that must be repaid—and I will bow to your choice and join you in that endeavor.”
“My dear!” Mrs. Watson sprang up, gripped Miss Charlotte’s hands in her own, and laid them over her heart. “Thank you. I cannot thank you enough!”
“You need not thank me, ma’am—please do not forget that I owe you much more than you have ever owed anyone.”
Mrs. Watson dropped Miss Charlotte’s hands and pulled up to her full height, intending to educate her partner on how muchshehad benefitted from their association.
But Miss Charlotte was not yet finished. “I only hope that you will not regret your choice of gallantry. After all, you are no housebreaker and my sole attempt at burglary ended with me fleeing the scene so fast I almost left my shoes behind.”
Miss Charlotte smiled a little at her own anecdote but her smile faded fast. “I fear we will be out of our depth in this matter. I fearthat everything we learn about the maharani’s problem will make it worse. And I fear that hers will, in the end, turn out to be the sort of problem that swallows anyone who dares to approach it.”
Mrs. Watson shivered, forgetting what she meant to say.
“Ah, your tea has grown cold,” said Miss Charlotte, as if she hadn’t just warned Mrs. Watson of possibly mortal danger. “Shall I make us another pot?”
Four
The maharani’s hotel suite was essentially a compact town house, with its own street entrance. Inside, it was decorated in the style that seemed to please hotel managers everywhere: an unobjectionable palette, solidly built furniture, and paintings that depicted scenes from classical antiquity.
Mrs. Watson stood in the parlor, next to a pot of blooming narcissus, its fragrance delicate yet heady. She remembered her lover’s refusal to burn incense.To us incense is as unremarkable as lavender water is for the English. But here, shorn of its natural surroundings, it becomes exotic. And I don’t care to be thought of as exotic.
The maharani appeared, looking outwardly composed. But Mrs. Watson sensed her surprise and puzzlement.
And, perhaps, a trace of excitement?
