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Prologue
i
India—1872
“Wild blood! It’s a taint in the blood. I’ve heard it said that every generation of Dangerfields produces one of them. They call it the Dangerfield devil.”
Mrs. Leacock, beginning to fan herself vigorously, continued, “All those generations of inbreeding… what do they expect? They call Melchester ‘the Eccentric Earl’ behind his back, but at least he hasn’t done anything too outrageous yet… but I think it’s a positive outrage that he lets Rowena go her own way! That girl will come to a bad end one day—I can feel it. That temper… do you remember the time she half whipped a groom to death because he had forgotten to rub down her horse? And she’s the only white woman in the province of Jhanpur who has ever witnessed a public execution. The colonel told me he was stunned to see her there in the first place, and that she didn’t turn a hair, either!”
“Something,” Mrs. Leacock pronounced awfully, “must be done! You know how my dear husband hates to interfere, but I shall ask him to speak to the governor. We cannot have a scandal here, and especially one involving a young Englishwoman and a native prince!”
It was the custom of the Englishwomen who had followed their husbands to the small province of Jhanpur to gather together for tea every afternoon. When Mrs. Leacock, who was the bishop’s wife, or Mrs. O’Bannion, whose husband commanded the small English garrison, presided at such gatherings they became tea parties, with the rules of protocol and etiquette strictly adhered to. Dainty iced cakes, sweet fruits, and thin sandwiches cut into pretty shapes by a well-trained cook were graciously served. Either of the two ladies sat graciously behind a silver tea service, making a pretty ceremony of pouring.
On this particular afternoon, Mrs. Leacock was the hostess, and as she served the last steaming cup of tea she leaned forward, lowering her voice slightly.
“Speaking of discipline,” she continued, “I must confess that the natives are not alone in their lack of it! I tell you, my dears, that girl’s behavior grows more outrageous every day!”
Ever since the Earl of Melchester, who was British governor of Jhanpur, had brought his granddaughter to live with him, Rowena Dangerfield had been a source of speculation and comment among the small British community.
“Oh, heavens!” Mrs. O’Bannion said, sitting up straight, “are the rumors true?”
“I learned from our groom, Mohammed Khan, that she has taken to meeting the young prince on her rides. And if you’ll remember we were talking about him only last week, about how glad the maharajah must be that his son has stayed so long on a visit.”
“Oh, dear! You think this is why he’s stayed?” Little Mrs. Loving, whose husband was a very junior subaltern, opened, her blue eyes very wide.
Mrs. Leacock smiled graciously to show that she forgave the interruption.
“Everyone knows that the Shiv Jhanpur is far fonder of the fleshpots of Bombay and Delhi than he is of the province he’ll rule one day. He was educated at Oxford, like his father, but that doesn’t really make too much difference to these native princes—they follow their old ways as soon as they return here!”
“But, Marion!” Mrs. O’Bannion looked visibly agitated. “Surely—what I mean is, is the governor aware of this? As—as peculiar as some of his ideas are, I do not think…”
“You know as well as I do, Amy, that he allows that girl to run wild! Allowing her to visit the palace, and even to—to visit the women’s quarters! It’s unchristian, positively heathenish that these Indian princes should be allowed to continue with their old custom of having so many wives! Why, even the prince has five, at least. He was married to the first of them when they were both no more than infants!”
“Oh!” Mrs. Loving breathed, and the older women gave her understanding looks.
“You haven’t been here long enough, my dear, to understand how very primitive these people can be!” Mrs. O’Bannion smiled knowingly.
“Of course not!” added Mrs. Leacock. “And you haven’t met the governor yet, have you? My husband, who is a dear, sweet, charitable man has reached the point of despair. I mean, one expects the governor to set an example, but he hasn’t been to church for years, and neither has that hoydenish, arrogant granddaughter of his. I mentioned it to him myself, I said, ‘It would be so pleasant to see dear Rowena in church some Sundays; after all we do live in a country of heathens, and if children are not taught their own religion while they’re still young enough to be influenced…’ and then, my dear, he cut me off! He wouldn’t let me say another word, merely frowned down at me in that bushy-browed way and said curtly that he did not wish his granddaughter’s mind to be cluttered up by dogma! I can tell you, that left me speechless! I sometimes doubt if he’s a Christian himself.”
“But you were telling us about Rowena,” Mrs. O’Bannion persisted, and
her friend gave a long-suffering sigh.
“Yes, of course. Well, to my mind it’s all part and parcel of the way she’s been brought up. She’s never been to school, and when I mentioned once that my own dear Marcia would be going to an excellently recommended boarding school in England, all he did was raise one eyebrow and growl ‘Is that so, madam? Well, I’ll not have my granddaughter’s mind ruined by pianoforte lessons and watercolors. She’ll get her education from me.’ He had boxes and boxes of books brought here—some of them from France and Germany. And if the girl isn’t out riding, or on a tiger shoot, she has her nose in those books—some of them, I’m sure, hardly suitable reading material for a child her age.”
Mrs. Leacock’s pause was purely rhetorical, but Mrs. Loving, knitting her fair brows, said softly: “Oh! I didn’t know she was still a child. I thought—I mean I’m almost certain I heard someone say she was almost eighteen…”
“Rowena Dangerfield is seventeen, but you would never think it to look at her. She cares not in the least how she dresses, and some of her riding habits have grown far too tight and far too short. She goes out riding during the hottest part of the day, bareheaded if you please, and it’s a wonder she hasn’t caught sunstroke yet! My Marcia always wore a hat and carried a parasol, and it was only with the aid of my buttermilk and cucumber lotions that we managed to keep her complexion so fair and pretty. Rowena is positively sunburned, and with that mane of black hair I’m sure she hardly bothers to comb, she could easily pass for an Indian herself. It—I hate to sound uncharitable, but it’s positively shocking, and a terrible example to the natives. And now, this!”
“Deplorable,” Mrs. Carter murmured, shaking her head. She cast an almost pitying glance at Mrs. Loving, who had not been in Jhanpur long enough to hear all the gossip, and added, “But of course, when one considers her background—that terrible scandal—it’s no wonder the governor brought her back here, and hasn’t been back to England himself!”
Mrs. Loving’s eyes widened with a mixture of horror and pleasurable anticipation.
“Scandal?” she murmured softly.
“My dear child, where have you been?” Mrs. O’Bannion asked incredulously. “They were whispering of nothing else in London, some years back.”
“It was fifteen years, to be exact, and Rowena was still no more than a baby when he brought her here.” Mrs. Leacock shook her head ominously. “Such a shocking affair! But then, Guy Dangerfield was always a ne’er-do-well. The younger son—spoiled by his mother, of course. He was sent down from Oxford twice for the mischief he got into. Then, to make matters worse, he ran off to America, to make his fortune, he said.”
“And then, some years later, he was back again, like a bad penny! You see, William, who was the heir, was killed in a hunting accident, and that left only Guy to inherit the title. I suppose the earl sent for him. But suddenly, after people had almost forgotten him, there he was, and engaged to be married of all things! Fanny Tolliver—a pretty little thing, she was only seventeen and barely out of the schoolroom. Good enough family, though not very much money, of course. We were back home on leave at the time, and I remember reading the announcement in the Times, and telling the colonel, ‘You mark my words, I’ve a feeling that no good will come of that match.’ And I was right, of course.” The lady paused to draw a breath and her friend interposed quickly:
“Amy’s quite right, nothing good did come of it. Fanny Dangerfield was a flighty little thing, and not at all ready to settle down. They say she threw hysterics when she found she was to have a child. She persuaded Guy to let her live in London with her aunt after that, while he stayed down in the country at Melchester with the baby. The best thing I can say for him was that he positively doted on his daughter and neglected his wife. He should have gone to London and taken her back with him the minute she started kicking up her heels. Letting other men escort her everywhere in public—all those soirees given by the wrong set—and when he did go, she talked him into staying. No good came of that either. Took to gambling and drinking hard; visiting those dens of vice in Soho. And then…” Mrs. Leacock paused dramatically for effect.
“And then,” she repeated triumphantly, “he shot and killed a man over a game of cards! I hear that in America men carry pistols around with them, but in this case it turned out to be all the worse for Guy Dangerfield. Not only did he kill that French gambler, but he also shot a constable who tried to arrest him. No one knows how he managed to escape and catch a ship that sailed to America that very night, but I can tell you it caused quite a furor!”
“Oh, my!” Mrs. Loving sighed, her small hands clasped together.
“Later, to make matters worse, Fanny Dangerfield actually divorced her husband. And after that she went away to France and came back married to that scoundrel, Sir Edgar Cardon. A baronet—but his money was made from trade, of course. A man with a notorious reputation. You see now why the Governor was so anxious to get his granddaughter away?”
Mrs. Leacock would have been even more perturbed if she had known that at that very moment Rowena Dangerfield, unescorted by a groom, was perched on a broken wall of an ancient ruin, talking to the prince.
“Shiv,” she was saying in her soft, calm voice, “you are being silly! Why should I want to marry you and join your collection of women?”
“But I’ve already promised you I would give them all up!” the slender young man said urgently, brushing back a lock of his dark hair. “I will have no other wife but you, and you will come everywhere with me in public. You will help me to govern my people. I will do anything you ask but turn Christian!”
“Heavens!” she replied calmly, “sometimes I’m not sure that I’m one myself! But that’s not the point. I can’t possibly marry you, Shiv, even if I wanted to, and I do not. I don’t think that I shall ever marry. Why should I? To become some man’s domestic pet, to be treated like a child with no mind of my own, to—to have all my movements, yes, even my money, controlled! Why, I’d rather be dead!”
