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would never accept the Company.’
    ‘I wonder … Ahmed, remember the royal banquet in honour of the governor general?’ he asked. ‘When we put a cockroach on one of the English mem’s hat?’
    ‘Of course I remember Salim mia. The cockroach kept marching up and down the hat while the mem was unaware of its existence. How all the begums seated behind the purdah hooted with laughter,’ Ahmed chuckled.
    ‘And do you recall how we tied fireworks to General Sahib’s horse’s tail? Ya Ali, how the poor horse baulked and pranced and neighed and tried to throw him off. That got us into real trouble.’
    ‘But nothing like the time we sprinkled coloured powder in the zenana bath on Holi.’
    ‘The way the begums shrieked when their bodies started turning blue,’ Salim guffawed.
    ‘And if you hadn’t started giggling, we would have never got caught,’ said Ahmed.
    ‘Ahmed,’ Salim paused and cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry I spoke to you like that yesterday. It’s just that – there’s no way I’m getting involved with an English girl. No way.’
    Ahmed merely nodded his head.
    ‘You saw how they treated Ramu kaka this morning. Besides, they can’t be trusted.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Haven’t you seen the number of times the English have signed treaties with the nawabs of Avadh and then breached them?’ Salim stood up and leant against the shisham tree. Turning back to look at Ahmed, he added, ‘You know, the first treaty was signed in 1765 between the Company and the nawab. It gave the firangis permission to trade in Avadh without tax.’
    He paused and nodded briefly at his servant to begin packing his fishing equipment. ‘Then in 1768 another treaty was drawn up which stated that the nawab could not maintain an army of more than thirty-five thousand men. In return, the Company would protect Avadh from outside attack.’ He looked across at Ahmed who was pulling in his line. ‘And Ahmed, this trend has been going on ever since. These firangis keep drawing treaties and breaking them. They never keep their word.’
    ‘Yes, tha—’ Ahmed started to speak.
    ‘Abba Huzoor is too soft,’ Salim interrupted. ‘If I were the ruler … Ah well, let it be. That can never happen.’ Salim threw a pebble with full force into the river. ‘But seriously, if I were the ruler, contract or no contract, I would send these bloody foreigners packing.’

Chapter Four

    R ACHAEL

    There was a hesitant knock on the door.
    ‘Yes, who is it?’ Rachael asked as she lay on her stomach, propped on her elbows, reading her book.
    ‘Missy baba, sahib wanting to see you in study.’ It was Ram Singh. He coughed a little before continuing, ‘Memsahib there as well.’
    Oh dear, what had she done now, she wondered, as she rolled off the bed. Papa summoned her to the study only when it was something crucial. And mother was there as well. It meant she was in deep trouble. What could it be? They must have come to know she’d eaten at Ram Singh’s house. When Papa had espied her outside the window yesterday she had told him she was trying to stop the window from rattling. He had seemed convinced. Then why did he want to see her now? Had someone tattled to him? Who could it be? She knew Ram Singh or Ayah would never do that. Then who?
    There was another knock.
    ‘Do hurry, missy baba. Sahib getting angrier by the minute.’
    Rachael opened the door and walked out, chin up in the air. The soft, wooden, musty smell of books greeted her as she entered the study. Mother sat by the window, arms crossed. Her hair tied back tightly as usual, her thin lips in a straight line. Rachael wondered – when was the last time she had smiled? Papa was pacing the room. How handsome he looked in his Italian suit, she thought with a sigh. If only he’d loosen up a bit.
    ‘You know why you’ve been summoned here, don’t you?’ he enquired without any preamble.
    ‘Well, Ram Singh’s son had asked Ayah to make some rice pudding yesterday …’