Methwold hid the smile that a glance at De Jesus’ stricken expression threatened to summon.
“Nur is, by all reports, a formidable personage, having once wielded great power,” Carvalho said.
“How? With the constraints of purdah, she must act through intermediaries to obtain her every need!” De Jesus said, Carvalho’s reminder of his personal failures to deliver on promises not enough to silence him.
Carvalho nodded placidly. “Women of a certain age are far more free of the restraints of purdah than women of marriageable age.
“And, to answer how she remains powerful: She is still the closest female relative either brother has in camp. Mughal courts traditionally rely on their aunts and grandmothers for certain…restraints as well as courtly refinements. And, while Nur is firmly in Aurangzeb’s camp, she does spend some of her time interacting with Shuja, as the emperor Shuja has only the ladies of his umara with us, and the fathers of such women require marriages before they allow their daughters to exercise such power on behalf of a man outside their family. Shuja, for whatever reason, has been slow to take wives…”
“Do you think Nur will provide us an answer for such queries?” Methwold asked, interested. He hadn’t thought to apply to Nur for assistance navigating court politics. She had certainly figured large in Company fortunes on occasion, but before Methwold had ever set foot in India.
“She will surely know. She might be forbidden to answer, though.”
“Interesting,” Methwold said. “Perhaps I should have considered her earlier.”
“Perhaps? Perhaps you did not because she is even further from the throne than the prince who keeps promising but never delivers. I, for one, will not see her.”
“Shall we make your excuses, then?” Carvalho asked, expression blank. Something, perhaps the speed of Carvalho’s question, led Methwold to believe the older Portuguese had intended to leave his countryman behind all along.
“Feel free. I will busy myself with more useful pursuits, like prayer.”
Methwold cast a searching glance at De Jesus but the priest didn’t seem to be speaking ironically nor did he seem to have noticed Carvalho’s manipulations.
“Very well,” Carvalho sighed. “Will you join me, William?”
“I will,” Methwold replied, schooling his expression to show less interest than he felt at the prospect.
Chapter 23
Agra
Red Fort
Harem precincts
The dancers stopped, golden bangles and sweating bodies catching the light of a hundred lamps and scattering it back across.
Dara and Nadira rose to their feet, eyes shining, and sent slaves bearing gifts to reward the dancers for their exquisite performance.
Already standing, Jahanara smiled behind her veil, glad to see the pleasure the dancers she’d commissioned had elicited in her brother and his wife. Dara had been greatly upset by the explosion in the factory. Dashing many of his hopes in one blow had so upset the emperor that he’d suffered a seizure the doctors—both up- and down-timer alike—claimed was a direct result of too much stress. She swallowed past a knot in her throat at the memory of his collapse when she informed him of the incident. The guilt-ridden hours that followed had been painful, not least because, with Dara incapacitated even for a few hours, the rest of his inner court had been hard-pressed to cover for him.
Without conscious thought, she found her eyes searching for Salim. The proud Afghan profile was easy to pick out, standing as he was among the up-time men of the Mission, none of whom—aside from perhaps the giant Rodney, and that merely a result of his prodigious size—had anywhere near Salim’s presence.
She caught her own smile widening to match his as he grinned at something Bertram said.
“Your promised man is a treasure, Monique,” Jahanara said, turning to look at the woman she’d grown closer to than any other outside the family. Monique knew all but her most personal of secrets, and was, in fact, more deeply involved in her current intrigues than any other.
“Perhaps,” Monique said, lips curling in a half-smile.
Jahanara sniffed. “As I am not in line to compete for him, you hardly need to play down his many virtues.”
Monique snorted. “I do not ‘play down’ his virtues.” The words had a surprising edge to them, so much so the princess touched her friend’s hand in sudden concern.
The ferenghi covered her hand with her own. “It is nothing serious. I simply wish he could speak his heart the way he speaks his mind: freely, easily, and with the passion I see burning in him. Instead he acts like every other man: silent when he should speak, speaking when he should be silent, and seemingly deaf to how my heart beats for him.”
Jahanara shook her head in wonder. “I had little idea you were such a poet, dear friend.”
“Not generally…” She bit her lip rather prettily. “Then again, perhaps the burgeoning need to get a leg over has made my tongue more clever than is its habit.”
“A leg over?” Jahanara asked, puzzling over the phrase.
Monique colored, looked away, then back up at Jahanara with an insouciant grin and broad wink.
Such was Monique’s charisma that Jahanara found herself returning the grin even before she fully comprehended the foreigner’s turn of phrase, which only served to increase Jahanara’s embarrassment and deepen the flush that spread like fire across her skin upon fully realizing what Monique meant. As if the flush were truly flames, Jahanara felt a stab of pain that slaughtered the smile with its suddenness. Fighting a welter of tears, she struggled to keep the pain from finding expression.
She speaks so easily of…of…something I am never to have for myself, not with things the way they are. Not without crippling my brother’s already tottering regime.
Perceptive in the extreme, Monique’s smile was replaced with a look of concern. “I’m sorry, I should not have said anything.”
“No, my sweet friend, it
