Page 45 of The Art of Theft
Miss Charlotte turned toward her. “I have spoken to the gentleman you are thinking of about this matter, and he has judged that there would be very little harm done to the Crown to allow the maharaja’s sentiments to remain private.”
By now, Mrs. Watson should have become accustomed to being astonished by this young woman. Yet she was still very nearly speechless. “Ah,when?”
“Before we left London. And I’ve spoken to his ally, too. That gentleman also has no objections.”
Mrs. Watson bit the inside of her lip. A lifetime ago, she had met the young maharaja. He’d been a beautiful, friendly toddler who’d loved it when she put on performances for him in her real theatrical costumes. She could not bear to think of him in such ill health that his mother worried for his life. She wanted even less for him to spend all his remaining days under the crushing weight of his greatest mistake.
She squared her shoulders. “In that case, if it’s quite all right with you, Your Highness, we will carry on with our work.”
The maharani looked from Mrs. Watson to Miss Charlotte and back again. Her gaze was contemplative, almost melancholy. “That will be quite all right with me. Thank you. Thank you both.”
Mrs. Watson felt an upsurge of both warmth and terror. For the first time, they were all in this together.
Miss Charlotte, however, seemed to feel none of the emotions buffeting Mrs. Watson. She gave her coffee a leisurely stir, set it aside, and said, “Your Highness, you would best thank us by telling us what you have thus far held back.”
Ten
It was not raining, but a wet sheen lay on the boulevards. The air was damp and cold. Despite the ermine-lined hood of her cloak, Mrs. Watson shivered.
“Miss Charlotte,” she said, “did you happen to notice that even though the maharani disapproves strongly of her son’s naivety and impetuousness, she never condemned, explicitly or implicitly, his desire to expel the British from India?”
“I did take note of that.”
Mrs. Watson wrapped her cloak tighter about herself, but the cold air still penetrated. “Do you think then, that in her heart, the maharani also wishes to expel the British from India?”
“Yes,” said Miss Charlotte without a moment’s hesitation.
“But she never said anything to me!”
Mrs. Watson’s words rushed out like pellets propelled by exploding black powder. Miss Charlotte’s answer, on the other hand, was slow in coming. “Do you, ma’am, disapprove of the existence of the British Raj?”
“I—I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it one way or the other.”
“To you, that Britain occupies India is but the way the world is. To her, it is something to be overturned. Perhaps not by her, perhapsnot even in her lifetime, but she wants that change. And who knows, she may even be working toward it, just not in such a way as could be traced back to her.”
“But we were in love and we talked abouteverything.”
“You were in love not long after the Indian Rebellion of 1857.”
“I—I see,” said Mrs. Watson.
The rebellion of 1857 had mattered little to her while she clawed her way up in the world. But to the maharani it would have been a formative experience.
And when they had met, Mrs. Watson could speak frankly of everything that was important to her, because nothing she said could have got her into trouble—at least, not the sort of trouble that would have bothered a woman who had already been the mistress of three men.
It had not been the same for the maharani, who, visiting the heart of the empire that controlled her country, had to watch every single word she uttered.
Mrs. Watson squeezed her eyes shut. She had thought her beloved much too sheltered. That her beautiful Sita Devi, raised in the lap of luxury and prestige, had known nothing of the darker underbelly of life.
But as it turned out, Mrs. Watson had been, in her own way, just as divorced from reality. And unlike Sita Devi, who had asked a thousand questions about the world beyond her ken, Mrs. Watson hadn’t even known enough to realize the extent of her ignorance.
?Lord Ingram was sitting in the library at Hôtel Papillon, sealing a letter to his children, when Mrs. Watson came in.
He rose and smiled at her. “Good morning, ma’am.”
She rushed forward and enfolded him in an embrace. After some hesitation, he hugged her back.
“I’m so happy you are all right,” she said, her face buried in hislapel. “I kept imagining you dragging Mr. Marbleton toward the inn while thinking desperately of your children.”
