The Tigers in the Tower Page 11

  She knew full well what it meant. “I didn’t lie. Ned does have a new position.”

  “Not about the boot boy – you lied about who you really are. Mr Rummage is Lord Chalmers’s man of business from the firm Rummage, Rummage and Battledore, sent here by his lordship.”

  A wild burst of hope flamed inside Sahira. Perhaps in the nick of time, the lawyer had come to rescue her from this place and offer her a home? Maybe her English family wanted her after all? “You’ve come to fetch me, sir?”

  Mr Rummage waved away the hand that she had stretched toward him. “I am under orders to look at you, girl, and report back. That is all.”

  “Oh.” Sahira dropped her hands and laced them tightly behind her back. She should have known better. If the family had wanted her, surely they would have come themselves?

  Mr Pence took his stance behind the desk. “Mr Rummage has set me straight about a number of things. He claims that your mother was no princess, just a Muslim woman your father took into his household.”

  “I never said she was a princess – that was the story given you by the man from the Company.”

  “I distinctly remember you making such a claim in front of many witnesses on that absurd display of your peacock gown.”

  He had her there. She hung her head. “That was just a story.”

  “Stories are lies. What is more, Mr Rummage says Lord Chalmers doubts that any valid marriage took place between your father and the Indian woman.”

  “But it did!” Sahira burst out.

  “Silence! I’m talking about a failure to conduct a proper British ceremony. My cousin, Mrs Bingham, reported the rumours in Company circles that your father had become a Muslim and betrayed his nation by casting his lot in with the natives. He even dared criticize the Governor General.”

  He probably had criticized the Governor, but what was that to do with her legitimacy? “My father was Christian, my mother Muslim. My parents were married – twice,” Sahira replied, but her voice was weaker than she wished. The ceremony had taken place in a Christian church and in a Muslim ceremony a week later – or so her parents had always told her. Mother was a lady of high birth; she would never have lived with an Englishman without the status and respect marriage gave her.

  But knowing how strong-willed her mother was, Sahira didn’t doubt that she would have considered a Muslim ceremony sufficient.

  “I’m sending to India for confirmation,” said Mr Rummage. “However, that is immaterial. Even if the girl is the product of a legal marriage, Lord Chalmers could not accept her. Just look at the child! She is too dark. Had she a lighter skin, we might have passed her off as European, but one glance and anyone would know her shameful origins.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right, sir,” agreed Mr Pence with barely hidden glee.

  “If Captain Clive had been in his right wits when he left, he would have made arrangements for her to stay behind as other officers have done for their Indian children.”

  Sahira could feel the flush of shame creep up her neck to her cheeks. But what had she to be ashamed of? She forced herself to lift her chin and meet Mr Rummage’s eyes with her own. She knew that her amber-coloured irises, so like the tigers’ according to Father, had the effect of unnerving people. “I’m a legitimate daughter and my father expected me to be treated as such.”

  Mr Rummage cleared his throat, fingering his watch chain that lay across his waistcoat. “Regrettably, Captain Clive has passed so we have no idea of his intentions. He might have been planning to put you and your mother away on his return. He had written asking for his father’s help.”

  “Put us away?” Sahira’s temper got the better of her. “You do not know my father if you think he would allow that. No, he loved us. He even thought his father might be brought to care for me too if he met me. He wanted to ask for help, yes, but it was to pay for my schooling as Lord Chalmers does for his other grandchildren.” She could feel tears threatening but she hoped the heat of her anger would dry them up before they fell. “Where is Lord Chalmers? Why can’t I see my… my grandfather?” She almost choked on the words. She was beginning to hate her closest relative in this country for his cowardice in not facing her himself but sending this grey little man to do his dirty work.

  “Control yourself, Eleanor!” snapped Mr Pence. “You have chalked up punishment enough by your actions today without adding rudeness to a guest to the list!”

  “I’m not the one calling someone an illegitimate child!” Sahira exclaimed.

  “Eleanor Clive!” Mr Pence threatened.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, breathing through her nose to calm down as her mother had taught. Elegance and good manners are the mark of an un-Issa, her mother’s family.

  The lawyer stood up. “I was told to offer you a choice. Your passage back to India, steerage class, will be paid if you return to your family there and never disturb Lord Chalmers again, nor lay claim to any blood relationship.”

  Sahira swayed on her feet. They were planning to send her back to a country where she had no home with nothing but her passage paid? She had no illusions that there were as many prejudices against someone of mixed blood in India as there were in England. Her mother had agreed to come to this country and place her daughter at school here, knowing that no man of her class in Hyderabad would marry Sahira; whereas she had hoped an Englishman, liberal-minded like Captain Clive, might eventually fall for Sahira when she had learned to fit in. The hope was that her grandfather’s status might make many overlook her birth.

  But that only counted if Lord Chalmers recognized her as part of his family.

  “My other choice?” she stammered.

  “You stay here in the orphanage. I will monitor your progress and send occasional reports to your grandfather. He does not wish you ill; he just does not want you around, tarnishing the good name of his family. When you are of age, I will organize a suitable situation for you,” Mr Rummage said.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Sahira said. Suitable for whom? she wondered.

  “Marriage to one of his lordship’s tenants perhaps, on one of his Irish estates.” The lawyer leafed through a notebook as if searching for a name. “Yes, that would do. They are desperate enough there to think the connection a boon.”

  Sahira’s response was immediate: “No, thank you.”

  “What?” Mr Rummage asked, incredulous.

  Sahira regained her composure. “No. I don’t like either option. You can tell my grandfather that he needn’t concern himself about me. I’ll make my own way without his aid.”

  This reply wrong-footed the lawyer. “Child, you surely don’t understand!”

  “Eleanor, do you know what you are saying?” Mr Pence chimed in.

  “Yes, sir. I surely do. You offer to send me back to a place thousands of miles away where I have no one anymore. My mother has no close relatives alive and I know well that the journey is dangerous and the destination hostile to someone like me. Or you say, ‘sit here and be quiet and if you’re good you might marry an Irishman’, a complete stranger – one that only wants to wed me to curry favour with the grandfather who despises my existence? So no, thank you.”

  “You can’t just refuse!” Mr Rummage exclaimed.

  “Why? Is slavery legal then?” Sahira countered.

  “You’re a minor,” Mr Rummage scoffed. “Children can’t decide such things for themselves.”

  Sahira felt her resolve strengthening. “But my grandfather doesn’t claim me so has no guardianship over me. Unless you are telling me he is willing to acknowledge me before the courts?”

  The man swallowed. “No, no, I don’t think that would be my recommendation. It is imperative the connection is not made public for the sake of his granddaughters.”

  “I am his granddaughter.”

  “I mean his English ones on the marriage market. A whiff of scandal and they might lose their chance at making the best matches.”

  “And that’s more important than
me?”

  The lawyer turned to the orphanage director, who had a very self-satisfied grin on his face. “Mr Pence, I see what you are dealing with. I didn’t expect such impertinence from one of only twelve years.”

  Sahira had had to grow up fast since being orphaned. “What have I done? I’ve only refused what you offered, as is my right, surely?”

  He ignored her. “I will give her three months to reconsider her answer and return in the autumn to discover if experience has curbed her pride.” He placed a bag of coins on the desk. It fell over, spilling golden guineas on the blotter. “Until then, I’m instructed to pay for her place here.”

  Sahira reached out to hand the bag back. “I’m already earning my place. I don’t need my grandfather’s charity.”

  But Mr Pence was too quick for her and had pocketed the amount. “Understood, Mr Rummage. I will work on making sure she knows the reality of her situation.”

  Mr Rummage got up and offered his hand to the orphanage owner. “I’m relieved to be entrusting her to safe harbour. Goodbye. Eleanor, I hope you learn the error of your ways before it’s too late.” He gave her a nod and walked out, leaving her alone with Mr Pence.

  Girl and orphanage owner stared at each other a moment, the animosity between them so strong it was like the stench of the fish market in the air.

  “Hold out your hand,” Mr Pence demanded, bending the cane between his fists.

  “Why?” She tucked her hands behind her back, though she knew that was futile. He had wanted to hit her ever since she arrived.

  “You need to be disciplined.”

  Could she avoid this punishment, come up with a clever story to divert his attention? Her mind had gone blank. There was no escape she could conjure up in the next few moments. She held out her hand, determined that it wouldn’t shake. She didn’t quite succeed.

  “You have earned six strokes for taking Ned away without permission, and six for being rude to a visitor. When I have finished, you will thank me for the correction and go to bed with no supper, understood?”

  Sahira didn’t reply, just gazed at him, wishing her stare had the power to kill or she had claws to rake across his hateful face.

  He poked the end of the cane in her chest, one prod to go with each word. “Do. You. Understand?”

  “I understand. Sir,” she hissed.

  She didn’t close her eyes as he administered the strokes. He insisted on making six on one palm and six on the other so that both hands would be sore. Sahira vowed not to make a sound, even though her eyes were watering and her breath ragged.

  “Now thank me,” he demanded.

  She cursed him in Hindustani, wishing his nose rot off and his teeth fall out. That earned her an extra stroke.

  “Thank me!” He looked like a rabid dog, mouth flecked with foam.

  “Thank you for teaching me what you think is correction,” she said hoarsely.

  He knew she was defying him but he couldn’t quite pinpoint how. “Hands out!” He made the last stroke across both palms, his hardest strike of all. “Remember this. Do not do anything to earn such again or you’ll go straight to the workhouse after Mr Rummage gives up on you. Dismissed.”

  Sahira was already on the way out as he gave the order for her to leave. Shoulders straight, she marched through the crowd of eavesdroppers.

  “Fourteen!” mocked Alf. “My, my, Indian Clive, you must really have got on his wick.”

  Tommy hooked the back of her dress. “Give us your boots, or it’ll be much more than fourteen puny little pats from a cane that you have to worry about.”

  She told them in Hindustani to go jump in the Ganges River, and marched upstairs.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sahira half-expected Mr Pence to say she was forbidden to return to the menagerie but she had not factored in his desire to carry on receiving her wages. No one tried to stop her as she went out after morning lessons. She ran with her halting stride all the way to the Tower, desperate to put as much distance between herself and the orphanage as she could. She changed quickly and painfully, swollen fingers clumsy on the strings and buttons, then went in search of the tigers.

  She kneeled before the bars, rather too close if truth be told. She could feel the warm breath of Sita huffing on her skin as she crouched before her.

  “Sita, I really, really… h… hate London.” She’d been holding in her tears since her beating but now she let go. Her crying was messy – chest wracked with sobs, nose running, mouth a grimace of misery – but it didn’t matter as there were only the tigers to see. She wanted to run away with them.

  The tigress grunted, circled, and took a place so that her back was pressed against the bars. Swiping a sleeve across her face, Sahira tentatively reached out and stroked the fur, something she’d never dared do before. The rough silk soothed her. Rama sat proudly beside his mate, watching them both, perhaps guarding his girls. It was hard to say what was going through his mind. He must blame Sahira for bringing him here, yet he seemed to like her as much as a tiger could like anyone.

  The door banged open and Ned ran in. Sita got up and prowled further off, as if embarrassed to have been caught comforting a human cub.

  “Sahira! I’m so pleased you’ve come. I missed you this morning. This is just the most wonderful place I’ve ever been! Nebbie has stolen three half pints of ale already. He’s so funny, such a clown!”

  She tucked her hands under her arms and hoped he couldn’t see the tear stains across her face. “You’re supposed to be stopping him doing that.”

  “Oh, I do, but I let him have the occasional sip – he so likes it. Good morning, tigers!” He waved enthusiastically at her friends. If there hadn’t been bars between them, Rama would have put an end to such familiarity with a leap. As it was, he turned his back on Ned, tail a-twitch with disdain. Ned just laughed.

  Sahira got up, shaking off the pins and needles in her calf muscles. She gave her eyes a stealthy wipe with her sleeve before facing Ned. “So it’s working out well for you?”

  “Like a dream.” Ned took a second glance at her. “Are you feeling all right, Sahira? You look sad. Have you been crying?”

  She couldn’t deal with anyone’s sympathy at the moment, not unless they had four paws and whiskers. “I’m fine,” she lied. “Tell me what’s going on here.”

  “The big news is that the old lion is sickening.” He pulled Sahira along to the cage next to the tigers. A great lion lay stretched out on the straw, bald patches on his fur showing he was in bad condition. “Poor old George. Mr Cops says it is mainly old age getting to him.”

  A rattle and a curse announced the arrival of Joseph Croney with a barrow of dung. “We should shoot the blighter.”

  Ned stuck his tongue out at the keeper’s back. “No, we shouldn’t. And anyway, there’s an old London story that the top lion represents the King. If the lion is in a bad way, it means bad news for its namesake.”

  Sahira’s father had always laughed at such tales but her ayahs had been careful not to attract bad luck, saying humans would never know the mind of the gods on such matters. “Does it hold true?”

  Croney gave a harsh laugh. “Mr Cops just swaps the names around when one dies – no point offending the royal family. This old George here will be succeeded by the cub William if he kicks the bucket – and William will then be George, get it?”

  “But the King is ill – the real one, I mean. Mr Cops might need William as William,” Sahira said.

  “How do you know that?” asked Ned.

  “The Prime Minister told me.” She tried one of her usual grins but her face wasn’t cooperating.

  Ned took a closer look at her. “Sahira, there’s something the matter. What is it?”

  “There you are!” boomed Mr Cops. Croney hurried off to spread his doom and gloom somewhere else. The lion looked up wearily then settled back to his sick bed. “The aviary won’t clean itself, ladies and gentlemen. Sahira, here’s a broom. Ned, what about Nebbie?”


  Ned brushed straw off his knees. “I left him tied up by the ale stall. The barkeep said he’d watch him.”

  Mr Cops raised a brow.

  Ned realized the foolishness of what he had said. “I’d better get back. Quickly.”

  “You do that, lad.” Mr Cops watched him dart out and chuckled. “Sharper than a case of knives, that boy.” He turned back to Sahira. She couldn’t get her fingers to wrap around the broom handle without wincing. Alert to the silent injuries of his animals, the keeper diagnosed the problem at a glance. “Show me.”

  Ashamed, Sahira held out swollen palms.

  “Mr Pence did this?” he asked.

  She nodded, gulping against a renewed wash of tears.

  “For bringing the boy here, I suppose?”

  She couldn’t bear to tell him the whole story. “Yes,” she replied simply.

  He took the broom. “Go see my wife and tell her I sent you – ask her to do what she can for that. You need to cool the skin to reduce the swelling. It should’ve been done immediately but I suppose he considers it part of the punishment.” He sighed, removed his hat, and scratched his head. “That man! I wouldn’t entrust him with my horse, let alone a child. Run along now.”

  Relieved not to have to wield a rake or broom with sore hands, Sahira knocked shyly on the door of Lion House. Mrs Cops answered and smiled at her visitor in recognition.

  “Have you come to see how Pithy is doing?” She stood back to let Sahira inside.

  “You don’t mind the snake now?” Sahira mustered a smile.

  “Can’t say I like him, but he is awfully fascinating, peeling off his skin like that as if he were a piece of fruit.”

  Sahira stepped across the threshold and went into the kitchen. Mrs Cops lifted off the lid of the basket to show a freshly shining python coiled up inside, lying on the papery remains of his old scales.

  “I think he’s done with his shedding,” Sahira said. “He can go to his cage now.”

  “I’ll tell Fred.” She put the lid back on, making sure it was secure.