Manner of Devotion

"Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."

Jane Austen (1775 - 1817), Mansfield Park

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Author's Note – There are some terms in this chapter and future ones that some may deem offensive by modern sensibilities, but this is pretty much how people viewed and were viewed in this period, so sorry.

Chapter 2 – Bride and Prejudice

"You see," Mahmud said as his servant fired the rifle, which only emitted a large sound but no bullet, only smoke from the powder exploding. "I cannot make it work. This it does, every time. I am afraid to do it myself. Nizam has burned his hands several times."

Mahmud Ali Khan's English was very good, and by now they were used to the local accent. His trade with the East India Company in Calcutta was in dye, but he was in talks about opening a cotton plant, which the Company promised astronomical returns for, but he said he was hesitant to introduce a new crop to his extensive lands. Somehow he had obtained a Baker's rifle from the local Sepoy Battalion, and was utterly fascinated by it.

"It's the cartridge," Charles Bingley said without hesitation. "Let me show you – when it cools down."

Tea was brought for them, and the three of them – the Mughal lord, the fair-haired tradesman, and the Englishman dressed in Japanese clothing – sat beneath a red umbrella. They overlooked their host's gardens, all neatly arranged into rows of plants neither Bingley nor Brian Maddox could recognize, but seemed more colorful than anything they had in England. Beyond them, not far north but out of their direct sight lay the Ganges. They were trying to purchase tickets for a boat to Agra. Bingley was desperate to see the Taj Mahal, having heard its virtues extolled many times before leaving England. Brian found himself in the more hesitant position when exploring the Indian mainland. All of their stops so far – Bombay, Madras, and Calcutta – had been coastal and sufficiently English. Thoroughly obviously an Orientalist himself, Brian had to weigh his own interest against the fact that he had promised to deliver Bingley safely home, and Brian was not keen on committing seppuku because his cousin had drowned in the sacred river, or had his head bitten off by a tiger (no matter how tame the wrangler said it was), or simply knifed by an insulted shopkeeper because he mispronounced something in Hindustani and insulted the shopkeeper's daughter. The first threat had been on the boat itself, when Bingley burned himself quite badly in one afternoon, his fair hair and skin doing nothing for him, and spent the rest of the trip wearing one of Brian's bowl-shaped gasa hats, at the expense of Bingley's dignity before the crew.

Mr. Bingley had done his best to prepare. Once he had secured his wife's approval for the trip – which was done at a cost he refused to mention – he went to Bath, where the legendary ex-Sepoy Indian Dean Mahomet had a bathhouse, and spent many hours attempting to pronounce languages he had only read in books and never heard spoken. He also hired a drawing instructor. His penmanship was hopeless, but to everyone's surprise, he was quite talented with a charcoal pencil when using his left hand, mainly because there was no ink involved. He was most duteous about sketching all that he saw, as he assumed that life would never bring him round these parts around.

Mr. Maddox, who had already ridden their company's boat once to the Orient with his wife a year prior, focused more on planning the route. They would be gone easily eight months, and the only possible communications would be from the Cape or Bombay back to England. He had never left his wife that long in their entire marriage, but she reassured him that keeping Bingley from getting himself killed was more important, and she would be fine. She was a samurai's wife, so he had no doubt of it.

So far the trip had gone without any life-threatening incidents that had succeeded in taking either of their lives. That was why Brian let them accept the invitation from Mahmud Ali Khan to visit his palace beyond the boundaries of British Calcutta.

Now they sat on pillows as the gun cooled before Bingley, who was familiar enough with guns from his love of the sport end of it, picked it up and demonstrated how to load the powder and the cartridge, just as the servant had done. "Now the key is to make sure the cartridge is all the way in. Sometimes you have to do this –" He set the gun down, took the ramrod in both hands, and shoved it hard into the barrel, "– to get in there." He removed the ramrod, brought the rifle to his right shoulder, and fired high in to the sky.

"Perfect!" Mahmud clapped with delight. He stood up and clasped his hands together. "I am grateful to you, Mr. Bingali."

"It's no trouble," Bingley said, handing the rifle back to him.

"No, let me invite you to my daughter's wedding tonight. Surely you will come?"

Bingley cast a glance at Brian, sitting with one of his swords resting on his right shoulder. Brian only nodded in approval.

With his patented smile, Bingley said, "We'd love to come."

The male crowd that gathered for the wedding of Khan's second daughter (out of eight) was largely Muslim mughals, the earliest arrivals coming in time for evening prayer. The rest were a spattering of peoples – Afghans, Hindu Brahmins, a few British officers from the nearest base and higher-ranked local Bengal troops. The spoken language was Persian, with a surprising amount of English, and of course Hindustani, Punjabi, and some scattered Arabic, or at least what Bingley was fairly sure was Arabic.

They both had never seen such a display of Oriental pageantry, and they had seen quite a few in the last month. The houses and pavilions were adorned with green branches and bright orange flowers in an elaborate fashion. They passed rows of musicians, and lowered seats, and had been instructed not to speak to the people on the lowered seats beneath them. "Lower class" was a term taken quite literally in India.

The bridegroom was carried in on a palanquin, followed by a train of servants with lit torches, leading him from the house on one end that was his to the place where the bride sat, whom he had never met. Brian had to be careful not to lose Bingley in the crowd of overexcited people thronging to the raised semiana for the ceremony, though it was not terribly hard to keep track a person with red hair in this particular crowd.

The music ceased as the Mulna, the priest, entered and read the ceremony rites, and rings were exchanged, and the couple joined by tying the end of their shawls together. A glass of sugar water was passed to the bride and groom, and then around to the immediate audience of personal friends and family.

"Whatever you do," Brian said, "don't draw this," he said as the dancers entered, in embroidered silks and muslins. In some ways their dress was flowing and modest, not like a tight bodice, but the way they moved did all of the work for them.

"Oh, I promise," Bingley whispered back as they clasped their palms together and bowed to the passing Mulna as he sprinkled perfumed water on both of them.

As the bride and groom were ushered away, the festivities truly began, complete with fireworks that put to shame any of the Regent's proud displays in Town. There was a man who seemed to swallow fire, but did not understand Bingley when he asked how he did it, the language barrier being too much or the entertainer not accustomed to being questioned.

The British were officers who had come because they were paid and maybe would make a fortune. One of them was rather old and retired and worked as a translator. He claimed to have served under General Wellington in his early days as a colonel, when the now-Duke led the outnumbered British forces to storm the fortress of Gawilghur during the Maratha War.

"He could inspire us to do anything," said Mr. Kingston. "Even get ourselves killed. By G-d, he could do it with a single speech. Say, whatever became of that man?"

Brian and Bingley shared a laugh as another guest showed them the proper way to smoke a hookah, not like "you bloody foreigners" – to hold the pipe just right, to not exhale until the precise moment. They watched the man in a turban bigger than the size of his head puff rings through rings and were entranced. The mild feeling of tobacco was the only altering thing there, since their host was religious and did not serve spirits. Instead there were trays and trays of sweet cakes, bananas, fruits, and bread with honey.

"I would still give anything for a good plate of ribs," Brian said in Japanese. Bingley understood it adequately thanks to three months education on the boat, and they used it when they wanted to talk privately.

"I thought you were an Oriental," Bingley said. Brian had not brought a single piece of English clothing in his trunks; he said it was a waste of space.

"An Oriental who would go for a good cow right now," he replied. "But don't translate this to this guy," he said as a man in Hindu dress sat down. He had a bright red Turban and a red dot on his head. He spoke only Hindi.

"The eye that spies," Bingley translated for Brian. "I ... think."

"You mean all-seeing."

"Maybe I do," Bingley said, then returned to his conversation with Shalok. "What? Yes, I have daughters – well, one of them does, the other is blond – No, I will not sell the red-haired one! What, 5000 rupees? No sale. Understand? No sale! Not selling!"

What Brian understood made him fall over sideways with laughter.

"When did I become the responsible one?" Brian said as they finally made it back to their guest house now well into the morning, when the muezzins were already making their calls for prayer. Prayer is better than sleep! G-d is Great!

"After that, my wedding seems like it must have been positively dull for the guests," a sleepy-eyed but still hyperactive Bingley said. He had eaten more sugar that night than perhaps his entire life, so he was still wired. As they entered, he washed his face in the washbasin, scrapping off the red body paint on his forehead. "It was fine for me – I honestly don't remember a thing."

"I remember not understanding anything," Brian said, removing his swords and carefully setting them on the cushions. "It was all in Russian, I think. Orthodox ceremony. And I thought, 'What I would give, to have Danny see me here, wearing a crown and marrying a princess.'"

Bingley lay down on his own bed. He was wearing a silk, orange kurta that he used for both sleep and activity, something he found very convenient. "Darcy was at my wedding, but I don't think he was particularly paying attention to me." He sighed in exhaustion. "Maybe we should do something with flowers and fire-eaters for my daughters instead of a vicar going on and on about marriage and sin."

"I'm sure Mrs. Bingley will take well to that." Brian disappeared behind his screen, so that they were fairly visible to each other, but only if they really looked, and removed his hakama, letting his robe fall down. "And where are you going to get all those tiny flowers?"

"I suppose we'll have to start growing them when we get back. In ten years, they might be ready."

"Ten years?"

"Something tells me Georgie isn't going to be begging me to go Out, much less be eager to marry. Eliza, I don't know, but she's only ten, thank goodness." He paused. "May I ask you a personal question?"

"You may."

"How old is Her Highness?"

"Two and twenty."

Bingley put a hand on his head. It was too early in the morning to be doing these calculations. "So when you were married she was –"

"– young, yes. Certainly not anything objectionable, but I am nearly two decades her senior." He sighed. "I've never been good at planning. In fact, I think my entire life has been one happenstance after another."

"Turned out fairly well anyway."

"Still. It would not have been the safest bet. But then again, I was never any good at betting, which is what got me in trouble in the first place."

Bingley laughed. "You should become a Mohammedian, then. They forbid gambling so you won't be tempted."

"And spirits. No, I would not survive long without a good shot of whiskey, or maybe gin, or beer. The point is - I won't be sitting at the dinner table, drinking milk or something. Like a child."

"I like milk."

"My point exactly."

Bingley threw one of his sashes at Brian, but it didn't make it over the screen.

...Next Chapter - To the Ends of the Earth