Page 14 of Her Royal Houseguest

What intrigued him most was the open area in the centre. Everything of note was shoved against the walls to leave a clear space in the middle. What was it for? It was not set up for company. One chair. One forgotten teacup. A couple sad plants on the windowsill. What did she do up here?

He found a pile of discarded stitching. Embroidery awkwardly done. Mending equally ignored. There was a little pile of fossils, which he found fascinating. And a couple sketchbooks showing only amateur skill. All little bits of Lady Anna, scattered about the room amid the dust. Hobbies, he guessed, not stuck with for long enough for true skill. But then ladies didn’t need skill, only a way to pass the time. She had obviously filled her hours with exploration of one kind or another.

Her books were equally intriguing. He was not quick with the English language but he could understand that some were scientific treatises, some stories of adventure and one well-inspected book of the human body.

Lady Anna had a lively mind that studied for a time and then wandered elsewhere. Such was the nature of women when they had no children to fill their time. That she’d spent her days in study instead of gossip was to her credit, or so he thought until he unearthed more of her tomes.

Fairy tales. A great deal of them, some written by hand, some printed with terrible images. Demons, goblins and hoary creatures to terrify one’s soul. No woman should see these things. Indeed, he had no desire to touch them but wanted them burned immediately.

At best, such tales encouraged a disordered, frightened mind. At worst, they brought on madness.

Normally he would ignore such books. It was not his business what a man allowed his daughter in his home. Deva could judge it but he should not interfere.

This was a heathen land, ignorant in the very civilisation that Deva’s country tried to impose on its citizens. Ignorant girls were rampant in the harem and were brought into the court when they were too young to know better. It was the work of the court—and often Deva himself—to ensure that the women turned to activities that improved their disposition, not hampered it.

So he set those books in a different pile. And when everything was sent downstairs out of the attic space, he kept those apart. He would discuss them with his host and the duke would see that they were disposed of properly.

The invitation came for tea but he left that to his brother and the abbot. They would not partake of the food but he knew his brother would enjoy seeing the tea ritual. They had learned that the English took great pains with this afternoon event. Vaji would see that it was honoured, while Deva would make sure that their place of worship was adequately prepared. That was his service to the Buddha.

But then she intruded. His favourite part of life was when he had a clear task and no interruption. Indeed, he had sent the servants away when he heard the creak behind him and smelled the scent of perfume. Thinking it was one of the female servants, he spoke too harshly.

‘Be gone! No woman is allowed here!’

Lady Anna drew up short at his hostile words. ‘Your place was my place not more than an hour ago,’ she snapped.

She abruptly clenched her teeth and forced herself to dip her chin. He could see the struggle to give him even that much and he respected her for it. How many times had he been forced to swallow his own outrage? Her next words were more polite but the tension remained clear.

‘Either way, I am not in the attic. I stand short of the door.’

It was true. She stood one step below the threshold. He, in turn, had to give her an equal measure of respect. After all, she was his host’s daughter.

‘How may I assist you, Lady Anna?’

‘I thought I could help. I understand that I’m not allowed up there but surely I could pass you cleaning supplies? Carry water? Or you could hand me my books,’ she said, gesturing to the pile he had set aside. ‘I will take care of them.’

He sighed. ‘These are your books, then?’

‘Yes. Everything except for the old nursery furniture.’

He nodded. ‘These books are not healthful for your mind. I can burn them for you.’

She frowned. ‘I beg your pardon.’

‘I have seen the damage such reading has done in my country. I do not wish you to suffer the same fate.’

Her hands settled on her hips, her attitude one of quiet fury though her tone remained polite. ‘You want to burn my books?’

‘It is the best thing for you.’

‘It is never the best thing!’ she snapped. ‘And you have no idea what is best for me or not!’

‘You will not miss them. They have been gathering dust in the corner.’

‘That doesn’t matter. They are my things, and you have no right to them!’

He sighed. He had pricked her pride and no wonder. If a stranger had had the audacity to tell him—in his own home—what he should do with his things, then he would be equally incensed. But she needed to understand that he was looking out for her well-being.

‘I know this makes you angry,’ he began.