his horse, and chastity his saddle’ is in the Guru.”
“How could the monarchy have wanted to throw away its own empire?”
“They didn’t want to throw away their empire, that would have been ridiculous,” he drawled. “They wanted to keep it—keep the palaces and the stuffed coffers and the all-night debauches with man, woman, and donkey—and throw away their army. You build a fighting force that strong, what do you suppose they’re keen to do after breakfast and a spot of coffee?”
“Fight,” I realised.
He nodded, staring at his sleeve. “When the royals figured out they’d created an uncontrollable army, they got the trots, and arranged for John Bull to slaughter ’em.”
“You cannot mean that is truly what happened?” I exclaimed, horrified.
“I can, I was there. Anyhow. There were too many ghastly betrayals to recount, and when the Director of the Company understood that the area was about as stable as a rocking horse, years before the fighting started, he began to send . . . emissaries.”
“Spies,” I supplied.
“Oh, Jane,” he said warmly, and for a spear-flash moment, he was here with me and not long ago and far away. “Spies, yes. The Company soldiers always rather despised the politicals because the latter gorged over greasy state dinners and the former got shot full of holes, but some of these were good eggs.”
“John Clements,” I suggested, remembering the half story I had been told regarding the funeral.
“Aye, save he’d the brains of a fly whisk. In any event, Lahore grew a bit thicker with white men, though never so’s you’d notice unless you were British yourself.” The smile he attempted fell yards short of the mark. “I noticed, though, and my mother and father—didn’t they fleece the sheep. ‘Oh, have you seen the Pearl Mosque yet?’ and then, ‘If a pipe’s in your line, guv’ner, won’t you share one with me?’ and before long they were rooking the lot. One of these Company interlopers was, as you know, a consummate worm by the name of Augustus Sack. Sack’s assistant was John Clements, and the third player in this happy pantomime . . .”
“David Lavell,” I supplied. “Sahjara’s father.”
“Yes.” Mr. Thornfield coughed. “Yes, he was that as well. So. David Lavell . . . he was five years older than I when he arrived in Lahore, ostensibly to conduct border discussions, but really to take the measure of every toady he could tattle back to Delhi regarding. My family was brown as a nut by then, and Augustus Sack cut too ridiculous a figure for the Sikh to credit him—and if the superior is absurd, why should they mind John Clements trailing after him like a spaniel? But David Lavell was one of your strapping soldier types. For face furniture, the man was a palace. Adonis’s brow, blinding teeth, you see the portrait I’m painting.”
As I did not trust myself not to say, he could never be so handsome as you, I kept my peace.
“He was also charming.” Mr. Thornfield spoke the word as if it cut his lips. “Lavell could talk an elephant in musth* out of charging and, in a cunning way, there were brains in his head. Witness him flatter the jewels off a kunwar* one moment! Gape as he drops a hint and ruins an officer’s chances for advancement the next! Two-faced? Whoreson bugger had a hundred of ’em, and you hardly minded when your pockets were empty and your mother cashiered.”
“You didn’t get on.”
“Is she truly teasing me?” He sighed fondly. “No, Jane, we didn’t get on, but when he discovered that the Thornfield family was quite close to Sardar’s, and that loot flowed down our street like rain down a gutter, he began popping round uninvited.”
“That is how you and Mr. Singh and the other two British politicals all became acquainted?”
“Yes, and would the Director had sent the devil himself to Lahore first.” Mr. Thornfield’s face darkened, as if I could see the spiritual bruise beneath the sun-bronzed features. He shifted, seeming to steel himself, drawing a knee up to rest on the sofa beside me. “Did Sardar ever mention to you he had a sister?”
Oh, I thought, my heart breaking for them.
“Karman Kaur,” I replied, proud that I kept my voice steady.
Charles Thornfield’s lips wavered, but he did not shrink. “I knew her from the cradle, as she was my closest friend’s sibling and was always besting me at sword fighting. Sardar’s physiognomy has been hidden under that magnificent bush ever since he was old enough