Oh, that was so dreadful—and I didn’t understand what Charles meant by joking that you had a knife, but I hope you aren’t vexed.” Sahjara had put on a brave face, but I insisted that we were too rattled for lessons; so we sat in the bow window, pillows stuffed behind our backs, our feet tangled together like schoolmates, gazing at the grounds.
I pulled the small folding blade from my pocket and tossed it once, quickly returning the weapon to its hiding place. “It wasn’t a joke—London is dangerous. As for Mr. Sack, he was most insolent to your guardian.”
Sahjara rolled her head against the wall tiredly. “He is not Sikh like Mr. Singh and Mr. Thornfield and myself, only an East India Company man.”
“I meant to ask whether knives were de rigueur for your people,” I teased.
“Oh goodness, yes! The pure ones wear five articles of faith.”
“Your comb is a religious symbol? And the metal bracelets as well?”
“Yes, these are the kanga and the kara—the comb and the wristband. We’re also meant to wear a short sword called a kirpan, but here in England we find knives more convenient because even though the wars are over, we must remain invisible. And Charles says that if we have to hide in plain sight, then we must make allowances over what will make us look noteworthy to Britons, and fix the symbols to suit us here in England. At first Sardar was a bit uncomfortable over changing tradition, but later he agreed since the kachera—those are our knee breeches—would make us look absolutely ridiculous here, Charles says, and God is in the Guru after all, not in outward forms.”
We must remain invisible, I thought, wondering at her words. We have to hide in plain sight.
“You said five?” I asked aloud.
“Oh yes, long hair—kesh.”
“It looks more natural on you and Mr. Singh than it does on Mr. Thornfield.”
Sahjara regarded me with the eyes of a kitten tracking a string. “I’ve never seen him without it, so I couldn’t say. But I do think Charles handsome—don’t you?”
“He’s everything a gentleman ought to be, I’m sure.” Unsettled, I cast my eyes out at the lingering snowfall, the spun-sugar dust coating the bare limbs of the trees. “Are his gloves also religious, then?”
My charge frowned. “I don’t think so.”
“Perhaps they could hide burns or marks?”
“Heavens, that would be awful.” She shrugged. “I almost forget they’re there. They must look awfully peculiar to an Englishwoman.”
Englishwoman, I thought warmly; now I knew more of their history, the appellation was magnificently sensible, as they all originated in the Punjab and regarded me as the foreigner.
“Mr. Singh and Mr. Thornfield seem like fast friends.”
“Yes, they grew up together!” Sahjara smiled, tapping the edge of her boot against my skirts. “Charles was born in Lahore, you know, and Sardar—well, that isn’t his name, but anyhow—Sardar’s family traded in indigo and jaggery. They were frightfully rich before the wars.”
“Sardar isn’t his name?” I repeated, mystified.
“Oh, no.” Sahjara hopped out of the window, idly twirling her skirts. “All that rubbish Charles was talking about Sardar being incapable of jokes couldn’t be further from the truth. Mr. Thornfield said that for us to live without much remark here in England, he would have to be the butler, and he changed his name not ten seconds later to mean ‘high commander.’ May I just run downstairs and see whether Dalbir’s hoof is any better? Mr. Sack’s visit left me so flustered that I might almost have forgot.”
? ? ?
This soup is delicious.”
I sat across from Mr. Thornfield in the dining room. After admonishing myself not to gape, I reminded myself you’ve never been here before, and then gaped as I pleased. Every placid English landscape in which the dogs had contemplated the sheep and the sheep contemplated the dogs was replaced with decorative mirrors. There were as many gilt-edged and silver-embossed mirrors as there were days upon a calendar, multiplying us ad infinitum until there were a thousand Jane Steeles and a thousand Charles Thornfields.
“Is it?” he answered.
Mr. Thornfield’s voice, I noted, sounded much the richer for what it did not say. It occurred to me that I wanted to know what his favourite summer had been like, whether it happened in England or the Punjab, hot desert sandscapes versus gleaming green afternoons, and then it occurred to me this topic was egregiously far afield from my true mission.
I waited for him to speak; no overtures were forthcoming.