Page 85 of A Thousand Painted Hours

Peter, Grayson, and Jonathan have already enlisted. Although I have no spiritual practice, I do wish for a way to pray for this all to be over soon, and everything safely righting itself.

Yours, always, forever

Elsie

September 12, 1914

Talwarpur Palace

[In Urdu]

Dear Elsie,

It grieves me deeply to say this, but we cannot marry. I have known this always, but you persist in wishing a different future for us.

Please understand that I would be the happiest man in India if I could make you my bride. Truly. You are birdsong and morning, the comfort of sleep, the challenge of noon. Our minds are as well suited as our bodies and hearts, and I cannot imagine a world where I could ever grow tired of your company. Would that we could grow old sparring over ideas until late in the night, then share breakfast in good humor!

This vision makes me weep with longing. For me, it would be the best of all possible things.

But it would be a terrible futurefor you. You are fortunate to enjoy the very edge of modernity in your life in England. You have the freedom to explore your art and your own mind. You have freedom of movement and even the ability to defy the powers that would shape you. You are part of the new world for women, Elsie, and you must step into that leadership by becoming fully yourself. It would be impossible for you to do that in India, with me. No matter how happy we would begin, you would resent me over time. We would end up as old bitter people, despising one another, and that is a future I truly cannot bear.

If we make peace with what the truth is, this truth, that we love each other deeply and perhaps irrevocably, then we can still be friends. We would be free to remain friends, always. Always.

Never doubt that I love you. I feel you moving in the world even when I am thousands of miles away from you. I dream your dreams.

We promised we would put each other’s happiness first. I am keeping my vow.

With sorrow and hope,

Tanveer

—43—

London

September 1914

It was, paradoxically, the most exquisite and most wretched evening of the summer. Lanterns had been set out in the garden of Nina’s town house. Roses and jasmine filled the air, and the grass beneath our feet sent up herbal notes. I sulked in a corner, as I’d done for weeks, and Rocky was brooding over a fight with his family. Both of us had drunk rather a lot of gin. On the patio, couples danced to a record on the gramophone.

“Nina’s going to marry Jon,” he said, gesturing. He was quite undone, his hair tousled, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat.

“But he’s—”

“Mmm. And so is she. They’ll give each other shelter.”

I watched them dance, laughing, spinning. “They do seem quite happy in many ways.”

“Sex isn’t the only unifier, is it?”

A ripple ran over my arms, my back, bringing a fresh wave of grief. I gripped his hand.

He gripped mine back. “You miss him terribly.”

“Don’t. I’ll fall to pieces.”

“He is magnificent, Elsie. Everything about him. I know why you adore him. And he clearly loves you in return.”

“It’s a foolish infatuation,” I said, swallowing my grief as well as I could. This was my second round with his rejection, after all. A woman might learn her lesson. I trusted the truth of his love, and only thought he was misguided. Foolish. Arrogantly paternalistic.