We followed him down a series of gaslit halls to the dining room, where another black-suited man announced our arrival. Inside, three cut-glass chandeliers presided over a long mahogany table the length of the rani’s audience chamber in the Panch Mahal. Perhaps it was the light reflecting in the mirrors, or maybe it was the special ornamentation for Christmas, but nothing had ever looked so beautiful to me. Everything was red, and silver, and gold. A handsome damask linen spread across the table, which was filled nearly to bursting with glittering crystal and china. Next to every plate were multiples of silver cutlery: two spoons, four forks, two knives. And the glasses were so wide that a person could place a fist inside of them. The room was already half-filled with guests, and I noticed that there were as many women as men.
We were expected to stand in front of our chairs and wait until another black-suit pushed them forward after we seated ourselves. My place was near Arjun, and across from us were the empty chairs for the queen and her husband, Prince Albert. As I reached forward to take the cream-colored napkin from the table, as Mrs. McEgan had instructed us back home, another man arrived. He was unbelievably handsome—Indian, but dressed in an Englishman’s clothes. His suit had two tails following behind him like a pair of ducks. I had never seen an Indian man in formal British clothing before.
A black-suit led him across the room, and all of the women paid attention as he walked. When he arrived at the seat next to me, he pressed his hands together in namaste and made a polite bow.
“I heard that the Rani of Jhansi was sending ambassadors to England,” he said, “but I had no idea they would be so beautiful.”
He looked from me to Jhalkari, who was seated on the other side of Arjun, and I’m sure I turned several shades of pink. Then this Indian man took my hand and kissed the top of it. I had never been treated with such disrespect. Arjun rose from his seat, and several of the guards around the table did the same.
“It’s an English tradition,” the man assured them with an amused look.
There was deep alarm on the British guests’ faces; they had no idea what was happening.
“Molesting a woman is not a tradition in any country,” Arjun said in Marathi. “You will apologize.”
The man bowed very, very deeply. “I am sorry.”
Everyone resumed their seats.
“I was only practicing British courtesy,” the man explained to Arjun. “Forgive me. My name is Azimullah Khan.” When Arjun didn’t respond, Azimullah continued, “My patron knows your rani. In fact, they grew up together.”
“What is his name?”
“Nana Saheb.”
Well, this got everyone’s attention. Although I’ve already mentioned this story, it probably bears retelling, on account of the fact that it played such a significant role in the rani’s life. When she was young, the rani was known as Manikarnika, or Manu for short. She was raised at the court of Baji Rao II, and her father treated her like the son he’d wanted. He allowed her to dress like a boy and play like one, too, even though this might have diminished her chances for a successful marriage. Of all the children at court, the rani’s closest friends were Tatya Tope and Nana Saheb. The first boy was the son of Pandurang Rao Tope, an important nobleman at the Peshwa’s court. And of course, everyone has heard of Nana Saheb, the adopted son of Peshwa Baji Rao.
Many people thought the rani would marry Saheb, but it didn’t turn out this way. In 1817, Saheb’s adopted father was defeated by the British. His treasury, lands, estates, even his furniture, which had been passed down from generation to generation, was confiscated. In return, he was told that he and his heirs would receive an annual pension of nearly eighty thousand British pounds. But when the Peshwa died in 1851, they refused to give Saheb his father’s pension.
I don’t know how the heirs of other defeated rajas reacted, but Saheb responded the same way the rani did. By petitioning the Company to restore his kingdom, and on failing that, at least his father’s pension. We’d all heard the stories of Saheb’s appeals, and this was partly why the rani’s father was so suspicious of any attempt to negotiate with England. Saheb told him what sort of fruit such appeals would bear. But the rani, like Saheb, was utterly persistent, and now here we were, representing two separate cases of British injustice and hoping the queen could solve them both.
“So of all the men in Bithur,” Arjun said, “Saheb chose you.”
Azimullah grinned. He was truly an extraordinary-looking man, with lightly tanned skin, black hair that fell in waves, and light green eyes. “You may insult me as you wish, but I am very popular here.”
“Is that why you haven’t returned for two years?”
Azimullah looked a little surprised by this.
“I’ve heard the rani talk about you,” Arjun said.
“Your rani may say whatever she wishes, but this is hard work.”
I leaned forward. “What? Attending dinner with the queen?”
“Convincing her that Indians are capable of ruling.”
“And it’s taken two years to do this?” Arjun said.
“No. She was convinced of this the moment she met me. Now she needs to be convinced to act. And that takes time.” When Arjun glanced at me, Azimullah laughed. “You didn’t think you were going to come here and receive an immediate answer, did you?”