Page 66 of A Thousand Painted Hours

As I did so, smoothing my skirt, touching my hair, she said, “I shall have a little gathering, shall I? Intimate, only the closest of our friends, to welcome the prince.”

I looked at her. “Would you?”

“Of course. It shall be private, and no one will know. Otherwise you’ll wreck everything for yourself. And for the good prince.”

—34—

I could barely sleep after the ball, and the morning dragged by as if each minute weighed a thousand pounds. I should have told him to meet me at nine.

At last it was time to escape to Hyde Park. I wore a rose-colored frock, modern and lean in silhouette, a tidy straw bowler over my hair, and walked briskly to the Underground, which I rode to Lancaster Gate. I walked the rest of the way in my little boots, my heart skittering and sliding in my chest as if it had no mooring.

Our connection had not slipped in the slightest, but nothing else had changed, either. I could not make myself care, to weigh it out like a modest female and make considered choices. I only wanted him, Tanveer, his laughing eyes and his hands on my body and his mouth devouring me and long conversations for as many hours as we could squeeze out. I feared anyone looking at me would see an overripe peony, desire leaking out of my skin and eyes, staining the air around me a vivid pink.

The day was fine and bright, not yet hot. Late-spring blooms filled the beds with color, a delicacy of shade that was entirely different from the bolder palette of India. I sat on a bench to wait, pulling out my sketchbook to capture the blushing tumble of roses on a trellis, the fluttering society ladies of irises, and lush, disheveled poppies. I hadn’t brought my watercolors out of deference to the fabric of my dress, but I so loved these delicate shades. One iris bloomed white below and peach above, the beard an extraordinary pale orange. It calmed me to sketch.

I spied him walking from the same direction from which I’d come, tall and straight, unhurried and curious. In one hand, he carried a book. Again he wore western dress, which was strange for me, but I supposed he wore it for political reasons, as his father did. He wore a dastaar over his hair, a declaration of his identity, making him stand out in the English crowd. Women admired him from the corners of their eyes.

I quickly sketched him as he paused to examine a shrub, and as I looked back up, he turned and saw me at the same moment. His face lit up so brightly that I thought of Nina’s warning, that flames were shooting from our heads, and I tried to school my own face, but it didn’t matter so terribly here, where my brother wouldn’t see.

I stood, shimmering, and waited for him to join me. He took his time, strolling my way, a very slight smile on his lips. It was highly pleasurable to stand in his regard, to offer my regard in return. In my entire life, I had never seen a man so self-possessed. I thought of him when he was a child, with his too-big nose and knobby joints, and it gave me a rush of happiness that I had known him then, too.

He paused a foot away, tucked the book under his arm, and offered me the greeting of hands pressed together in front of him. In Hindustani, he said, “Your appeal is like that of a bird who takes his blue shimmering color through the sky, shaming the clouds, just like the royal kingfisher.”

Even in that language, it was an extravagant compliment, and I laughed. I thought for a moment, then said, “Your eyes are as wild and deep as the ocean.”

“As a monkey?” he said in English, eyes glittering.

I thought about my word choices and laughed. “Did I saymonkey? I meantocean.”

“Bandarismonkey,samandarisocean.”

“Samandar,” I said, and raised a hand to my throat dramatically. “Aap ki ankhen samandar ki gerhraiyon si choon jati hai.”

He lifted my hand to his lips. “Good.”

“I miss speaking Hindustani with you,” I said. “One can think different things in different languages.”

“Indeed. If we practice, it will come back quickly.” He gave me the book he carried. “I thought we might read together, if you like. I think you will like it very much.Umrao Jan Ada.It’s a woman’s story.”

“Thank you. I would like that.” I gestured toward the path. “Shall we walk?”

Lacy sunlight fell through the trees, delicate as a whisper. “How are you finding your visit?”

“Frustrating, which was to be expected. My father wants something of me that I find I cannot deliver, and we are at odds over it.”

“What does he want?”

He took a breath. “Cooperation with the British. He feels that is the only way we can move forward.”

“You disagree,” I said, not a question.

“As ever.” He smiled down at me. “But let’s not waste our precious words on nationhood and politics.”

“But politics are part of you. I would hear whatever is on your heart.”

“I shall look forward to discussing such matters with you, because I am learning things here I had not expected, but I’d rather not think of them today. Is that all right?”

“Of course.” The warm scent of him wafted toward me on a breeze, speaking to some invisible field around my body, teasing and alive. “In truth, I am so happy to be with you that we could say peas and carrots all day and it would be enough.”