The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy Read Free Page B

surprising amount of
English, and, of course, Hindustani, Punjabi, Urdu, and some scattered Arabic—or at least what Bingley was fairly sure was Arabic.
    Neither Brian nor Bingley had ever seen such a display of Oriental pageantry, and they had seen quite a bit of it in the past month. The houses and pavilions were adorned with green branches and bright orange flowers in an elaborate fashion. They passed rows of musicians, and lowered seats, and had been instructed not to speak to the people on the lowered seats beneath them. “Lower class” was a term taken quite literally in India.
    The bridegroom was carried in on a palanquin, followed by a train of servants with lit torches, leading him from the house on one end that was his to the place where the bride sat, whom he had never met. Brian had to be careful not to lose Bingley in the crowd of overexcited people thronging to the raised s emiana for the ceremony, though it was not terribly hard to keep track of a person with red hair in this particular crowd.
    The music ceased as the mullah, the priest, entered. He read the wedding ceremony, rings were exchanged, and the couple joined by tying the ends of their shawls together. A glass of sugar water was passed to the bride and groom, and then around to the immediate audience of personal friends and family.
    â€œWhatever you do, don’t draw this,” Brian said as the dancers entered. They wore embroidered silks and muslins. In some ways, their dress was flowing and modest, not like a tight bodice, but the way they moved did all of the work for them.
    â€œOh, I promise,” Bingley whispered back. Each man brought his palms together at his chest and bowed to the passing Mulna as he sprinkled perfumed water on them.
    As the bride and groom were ushered away, the festivities truly began, complete with fireworks that put to shame any of the regent’s proud displays in Town. There was a man who seemed to swallow fire, but did not understand Bingley when he asked how he did it, the language barrier being too much or the entertainer not accustomed to being questioned.

    The British were officers who had come because they never passed up a free meal. One of them, Kingston, was old and already retired from the military; he now worked as a translator. He claimed to have served under Wellington when he himself had been a colonel and Wellington a general. At that time, the gentleman who was now a duke had led the outnumbered British forces to storm the fortress of Gawilghur during the Anglo – Maratha War.
    â€œHe could inspire us to do anything,” said Kingston. “Even get ourselves killed. By God, he could do it with a single speech. I wonder whatever became of that man?”
    Brian and Bingley shared a laugh as another guest showed them the correct way to smoke a hookah, not like “you bloody foreigners”—hold the pipe just right and do not exhale until the precise moment. They watched the man in a turban bigger than his head puff smoke in rings and were entranced. The mild buzz of tobacco was the only intoxicant there, because their host was religious and did not serve spirits. Instead, there were trays and trays of sweet cakes, bananas, fruits, and bread with honey.
    â€œI would still give anything for a good plate of ribs,” Brian said in Japanese. Bingley understood the language adequately, thanks to three months of education on the boat, and they used it when they wanted to talk privately.
    â€œI thought you were an Oriental,” Bingley said. Brian had not brought a single piece of English clothing in his trunks.
    â€œAn Oriental who would go for a cow right now,” he replied. “But don’t translate that to this guy,” he said as a man in Hindu dress sat down. He had a bright red turban and a red dot on his head. He spoke only Hindi.
    â€œâ€˜The eye that spies,’” Bingley translated for Brian. “I think.”
    â€œYou mean