The Sandalwood Princess

Philip elected another tack. “It isn’t my heart that’s troubled, but our footman’s. If you won’t consider your pride, you might consider his. James has been with us more than four months. He’ll think we don’t trust him.”

“No other menservants did you hire but this ignorant boy. You trust him with nothing that concerns the mistress. Always it is Brentick sahib who arranges the fire. Brentick sahib who carries the tray. Brentick sahib who lights the candles. Always it is Brentick sahib who follows her about like a little dog.” Padji folded his arms across his chest and surveyed Philip from head to toe. “Or perhaps like a lovesick little boy.”

“Very amusing,” Philip said calmly, though the blood rushed to his face. “I see this is no time for a rational conversation. You are in one of your perverse humours.”

He turned to walk away.

“Poor Brentick sahib,” Padji said sadly. “What can be in these letters that troubles him so? Tender words from a lover, perhaps, a noble prince who is worthy of the mistress? Or perhaps her brother writes of a fine match he has arranged? What will become of you when she weds?”

The world grew dark, suddenly, and wild, as though knocked from its axis. Philip’s fingers fell away from the door handle as he caught his breath and his balance. The sick sensation passed in a moment, though, and he answered with forced lightness, “In that case, I should find a less arduous position.”

“Indeed, that is so. Brentick sahib labours so hard, and the night gives him no rest. All in this house see how he burns for the mistress, and all pity him.”

Philip turned abruptly. “Pity?”

“Even Padji’s heart aches,” the Indian said charitably. “I have heard you cry out her name in the night, begging her to come to you—”

“You filthy swine!”

“Pitiful, like a lovesick boy—”

In a flash, Philip leapt, with force enough to hurl any other adversary to the ground.

Padji never flinched. He pulled Philip’s hands from his throat as easily as if they’d been bonnet ribbons. Instantly, the giant had him in a stranglehold.

“I know you, Brentick sahib,” Padji whispered while Philip fought for breath. “Not a garden snake, but a cobra. Yet you must strike more quickly to strike me. We understand each other, I think?” His forearm pressed a degree more firmly against Philip’s throat.

“I would have killed you long since,” Padji went on in the same soft, sweet tones, “but the mistress would not permit it. She is a child in many ways and, foolish like a child, she trusts you. Do you give her any pain, little cobra, or you die slowly.”

He let go, and Philip crumpled to the floor.

Amanda gazed in blank astonishment at the brown giant as he carried the soup tureen into the dining room.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, disliking the innocent expression on his face. The more cherubic Padji looked, the greater the mischief he’d perpetrated. “Where is Mr. Brentick?”

He calmly ladled soup into her bowl. “Brentick sahib is indisposed.”

“Is he?” Mrs. Gales enquired. “How odd. He seemed fully in health this afternoon.”

“The ailment came upon him suddenly, memsahib.”

Amanda leapt from her chair. “What have you done to him, you wicked creature?”

“Amanda!”

Ignoring the widow, Amanda ran to the door, but Padji backed up, blocking it.

“Let me by!” she shouted. She tried to push him out of her way. She might as well have tried to move a stone mountain. Tears sprang to her eyes. “What is the matter with you?” she cried. “Who is mistress here? Get out of my way!”

She started to move to the other doorway, but Padji clasped her arm.

“No, mistress. It is unseemly.”

“He’s quite right, for once,” Mrs. Gales put in before Amanda could retort. “You cannot go to the man’s room, my dear. Brentick would be mortified.”

“For God’s sake, Leticia, he might be dead, for all we know—and you speak of embarrassment.”

“He is not dead, mistress. Did you ask me to kill him?” Padji enquired gravely. “No, you did not desire this.”

Mrs. Gales threw him a baleful look.

“Then what’s wrong with him?” Amanda asked, forcing steadiness into her voice. Her hands were shaking. “Why won’t you let me see him?”

“He would not like it,” said Padji. “The memsahib Gales speaks true. He would be ashamed to be seen, weak and ill, by the mistress.”

“Drat you, I’ve already seen him weak and ill.”

Padji shrugged. Amanda turned pleading eyes to Mrs. Gales.

The widow rose and crossed the room to release Amanda from Padji’s custody. “If you wish,” she said calmly, “we shall send James to check on Brentick. There is no need for you to go yourself.” She dropped her voice to add, “My dear, you cannot go to the man’s bedchamber.”

Amanda did not care for “cannot” and “ought not”. Over the past few weeks, Padji’s cool distrust of her butler had swelled to black hostility. Tonight, Mr. Brentick, who was never ill, always by, was ill and absent. Meanwhile, Padji wore an ominously innocent expression. In these observations Amanda found quite enough to overcome any absurd notions of propriety.

On the other hand, Mrs. Gales’s pitying expression gave Amanda pause. She flushed, and though she did agree to sending James, she insisted on a note from Mr. Brentick. If he was too ill to write, she’d go to him.

The footman went, and the note duly arrived a short while later. Mr. Brentick assured her he simply had a sore throat. He preferred to keep away from the rest of the household until he felt certain it was not a symptom of a contagious ailment.

Two hours after a dinner only the widow tasted, and following a frustrating conversation with Padji, Amanda joined Mrs. Gales in the drawing room.

“They did quarrel,” Amanda said as she dropped wearily onto the sofa. “Padji admitted they both lost their tempers. He says he may have hurt Mr. Brentick a little, but only enough to calm him down. I can’t believe Mr. Brentick would be so rash as to fight with Padji.”

“I understand tempers have flared more than once belowstairs,” said Mrs. Gales. “Bella says Padji has been teasing Brentick unmercifully from the start. Recently, he has taken to humiliation. Only yesterday, she says, Padji peered down at the man’s head, and there before all the staff, very amiably offered to remove the lice.”

“Lice?” Amanda echoed blankly. “But that is insane. You know how fastidious Mr. Brentick is.”

“I’m afraid Padji knows as well. It is just the sort of comment to make Brentick quite wild.”

Amanda nodded. She remembered how upset he’d become the day he’d arrived, when Padji had complained that Mr. Brentick stank like a pig.

“I collect your cook is bent on driving him away, Amanda. If, that is, he doesn’t drive him mad, first.” The widow hesitated briefly before adding, “I think you know why, my dear.”

Amanda turned away. She knew why. Padji was convinced Mr. Brentick meant her ill. He claimed the butler flattered and bewitched her, day by day stealing her trust and affection, only to satisfy his base male appetite. When Amanda argued that her butler had been a thorough gentleman for more than four months, Padji only sneered. Brentick sahib was cunning. He wanted the mi

stress completely in his power. By the time he made himself her lover, his besotted victim would have given over all control to him. All her wealth would fall into his hands. Then, when he’d stripped her of reason, honour, and worldly goods, he’d abandon her. Padji declared he could no longer stand idly by, watching her make the same mistake his former mistress had made with Richard Whitestone.

“I know why,” Amanda answered at last. “Padji has decided he must save me from myself.’’

“I daresay you could discharge him.”

“How could I? He believes he’s protecting me, which is his duty, his dharma. In any case, Padji chooses his employers. They don’t choose him.”

Amanda rose from the sofa to take a restless turn about the room, as though she’d find some other answer there. Yet she knew there was but one answer. Padji wouldn’t kill Mr. Brentick outright, because that, for some inscrutable reason, required his mistress’s command. He would, however, make the man’s life hell.

“Padji wouldn’t go, even if I discharged him,” she said, pausing by Mrs. Gales’s chair. “I owe him far too much to attempt that anyhow. Yet if he stays, he won’t leave Mr. Brentick alone. It’s my fault. The way I’ve behaved... because I wanted as much of Mr. Brentick’s company as I could get. It was enough for me, truly it was—much more than I’d ever hoped for.”

Mrs. Gales took her hand and patted it. “My dear,” she said simply.

“I suppose this is what the rani meant when she spoke of a love beyond reason,” Amanda continued. “It had already taken hold of me, long before I realised, and so I was beyond thinking, even when I knew the truth. I wanted only to be with him. I would have done whatever he asked, I think. No wonder you were so worried, all of you. I gave you reason enough. Yet you’ve been so kind and patient, Leticia.” She squeezed the widow’s hand. “I wish I’d listened, if only to spare you anxiety.”

“I’m afraid I’ve not been terribly helpful.”

“Because you don’t like to interfere or nag. In any case, I wouldn’t have listened. But the madness is done now,” Amanda said. Her voice shook as she added, “We’ll go to London, and take Padji with us. That will be best. London will keep us busy enough. We’ll go to parties, Leticia, and— and we’ll drive in the park. They shall have to endure me this time, because I have money. Not ‘poor Miss Cavencourt’ any longer, am I, thanks to Roderick? Even respectable now, after a fashion. You don’t know about—about before, do you? That’s all right. I’ll tell you. Not tonight, but tomorrow, perhaps, and you will tell me how to go on. You always know, Leticia. I should have listened to you, long ago.”