Now we sat alone in the kitchen, Mr. Sardar Singh and I. All the hanging copper pans and cast-iron pots remained the replica of my memory’s; they were augmented, however, by queer skillets and glazed vessels, and where once only salt and pepper had reposed, a sunset blaze of glass-jarred spices sat next to a heaping bowl of onion, garlic, and gingerroot, all emitting a perfume so overwhelming that I had already sneezed twice. For good measure, I did so again.
“Bless you,” my companion said smoothly. “I already informed you last night we must keep away from the cellars, Miss Stone.”
Yes, and now I am determined to visit them.
“And now you know everyone here by name.”
Would that were true.
“Should you have any further questions, I am your man,” he concluded, mouth tipping upwards as he spread his hands.
“Mr. Thornfield is a most . . . peculiar individual,” I attempted, feigning interest in my teacup.
“So often the way with individuals.”
Chuckling, I added, “He treats Sahjara like a princess.”
“Well, she is a princess, so that is quite natural.”
My eyes shot up to find that Mr. Singh’s were equally mirthful. “You cannot—no, it is impossible.”
“Not merely possible but true.” Mirroring me, the butler watched the vortex created by his spoon. “We Sikhs call ourselves the pure ones. You were bemused by our names last night—men belonging to the religion are baptised, you would say, with the surname Singh, which means lion. Women are baptised with the surname Kaur, or princess.”
“Every Sikh female is a princess?”
He took a sip of tea. “You must think us altogether mad.”
“No!” I exclaimed so fast that droplets splashed into my saucer. Embarrassed, I set the cup down. “I mean to say, I think I could grow fond of Sahjara, and I intend to do well by her.”
“That is gratifying to hear. Mr. Thornfield is not incorrect in calling her the Young Marvel, though he sounds ever in jest—her name means daybreak, and she truly does throw the curtains open, doesn’t she? You seem too restless for tea, Miss Stone—no, no, I taxed you with social necessities. Might you enjoy a short tour?”
Eagerly, I agreed, and we pushed back our chairs that I might enjoy a tour of my own estate.
“The music room remains relatively intact, but some minor alterations have been made,” said Mr. Singh, sliding back a glass-paned door a few minutes later.
The walls were covered with scores of minuscule framed artworks which had been rendered in such fine detail that I imagined I peered through an enchanted telescope. In one set, the same cottage was depicted in high summer, brilliant autumn, blue winter, and lush spring; in another, a saint with a beard and turban stared as if the viewer’s soul were being weighed upon his scale; in others, lovers clasped each other with such enthusiasm any governess ought to have been shocked.
I barely remembered to flare my nose in dismay.
“This is Mr. Thornfield’s collection of Punjabi miniatures.” Mr. Singh either had not noted my pretended disapproval or did not care, for he smiled as he reached my side. “His eye for worth is exceptional, having been raised in Lahore. See this portrait of Maharajah Ranjit Singh, the way the furnishings are patterned so lovingly, but his face most carefully rendered of all?”
“Mr. Thornfield is from Lahore?” I asked, latching on to undeniably the most intriguing word in this statement. “How is that possible, the East India Company only having arrived there some five years ago? Or so I read in the newspapers—I supposed Mr. Thornfield English.”
Again I sensed a tick of the clock before Mr. Singh spoke. “He was born there, to a British entrepreneur, but he studied medicine at the British and Foreign Medical School and then Charing Cross Hospital before he returned to the Punjab. Ah, you would not have known he belongs to the Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons of London, of course. Yes, Mr. Thornfield is a man of medicine. This particular painting is moving for us—Amritsar, the Sikh holy city where our sacred book resides.”
It was a gilded palace at the end of a pure white pier surrounded by sapphire waters—an impossible place, a dream breathed from a dawn pillow.
“To have left this behind—you must miss it very much,” I mentioned, wisely refraining from commentary regarding homes from which I myself had fled.
“God has his seat everywhere,” Mr. Singh returned without inflection, as if quoting a text.
“I thought from the advertisement that Mr. Thornfield