Page 66 of The Henna Artist

“Leave it with me.”

She thought I’d brought sachets.

“I haven’t come for that.” I smiled. “I need to talk to him.”

There was a pause. “He’s not here.”

“Is he expected?”

Another pause. “Later.”

“May I wait?”

She set the book on a table in the entryway. Did I detect a sigh? “Of course. Please.” She indicated the drawing room.

The moment I stepped into the room, I felt as if I might faint. Blood rushed to my head. My legs ached. I leaned against the doorframe to steady myself.

Geeta grabbed my arm.“Hai Ram!”She looked worried. “Are you quite all right?”

I realized I hadn’t eaten all day and that I had fainted at Kanta’s house. I touched the bump on my forehead. “Perhaps I will take some juice.Nimbu pani, if you have it.” I eased myself into a French bergère chair.

“Of course.”

I smiled my thanks, and rested my head against the back of the armchair.

On the fireplace mantel, a clock ticked, then trilled, delicately. It was decorated in an emerald green enamel, and it was much finer than the heavy English clocks many of my ladies favored.

“It’s French,” said Geeta, setting a glass of sugared limewater on the table next to me. “My late husband was a Francophile. The English were never good enough for Jitesh. In the end, he was proved right.” She smiled, revealing charming dimples, and I could see why Samir was drawn to her. She took a seat on the sofa.

I took one sip of my drink, then gulped down the rest; I hadn’t realized I was so thirsty.

“Another?” She stood, but I shook my head.

“Thank you, no. I’m feeling a little... If it’s not too much...perhaps I could lie down,Ji?”

“Are you ill?” She took the glass from my hand. “I can send for someone if you wish.”

“Nahee-nahee.I work too much...and forget to eat.”

I could see she wasn’t happy about it, but she led me upstairs, into a room that must have been guest quarters. There were no photos in it, no paintings or books. The walls were painted a pale yellow. The furnishings, a narrow bed with an ornate headboard and a dressing table, were French Empire. I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. Unlike the hard jute of my cot, the feathered mattress gave way, and I slept.

I was awakened by a sharp click. I opened my eyes to see Samir closing the door. He sat next to me on the bed and placed a hand on my arm. His brows were drawn. “What’s happened? Are you hurt?”

I didn’t know where I was or how I’d ended up here. The room was dark. Was I dreaming?

“What time is it?” I was groggy with sleep and shut my eyes again.

He turned on the bedside lamp and checked his pocket watch. “A quarter past twelve.”

I sighed.

“What’s the emergency?”

Reluctantly, I opened my eyes. He brushed the hair away from my forehead to examine the swelling. His face was inches from mine. I could see the copper rim of his irises, their olive centers. How long his eyelashes were! And the feathered lines at the corners of his eyes—deeper now that he was frowning. I reached up to smooth them with my fingers and let my hand linger there. I caressed his cheek, the skin soft but the whiskers rough against my fingertips. I trailed my thumb across his lower lip.

He watched me with a puzzled smile.

I smiled back. He always made me feel safe. He was my comfort, made the big problems go away. Like when the owner of the Rajnagar land didn’t want to sell to a woman, Samir had stepped in and talked him into it. And when he loaned me money for herbs when I first arrived in Jaipur. He was on my side, always.

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