Blame It on the Duke(101)
They didn’t need to take a carriage because Mr. Carey had suggested they meet at the nearby Government House, as the buildings housing the college were currently under renovation.
“How strange to think that it’s December, and our friends in London are huddled in front of their fireplaces,” Alice said.
“I never thought I’d leave England,” Nick said. “But now that I have . . . I’m not sure I want to go back.”
Alice smiled at him. “India is everything I dreamt it would be.”
A surfeit of new sights, smells, and sounds; a feast for her senses. Around the docks, Alice had caught snatches of German, French, Spanish, and Portuguese, and what she guessed had been Arabic and Chinese.
She’d dreamt of traveling for so long, picturing all the languages she would hear, and the new sights she would see.
But she’d never imagined the tall, handsome man walking next to her, carrying her valise filled with the ancient manuscripts she would donate to the college.
A companion on her journey. Someone to share the wonder of each new discovery.
Government House was an imposing, white colonnaded structure, built by Lord Wellesley in 1803 at great expense. The entrance on the north side had a handsome stone portico and Ionic white columns.
“Are you ready for this, my love?” Nick asked as they mounted the steps.
“I’m ready.” Ever since she’d saved her grandfather’s collection of manuscripts from the fire, she’d been ready for this moment. She knew returning them to India was the right thing to do.
Mr. Carey and Mr. Vidyasagar met them in an inner room paved in dark gray marble with cut-glass chandeliers suspended from a blue and gold painted ceiling.
“Lord Hatherly,” Mr. Carey said, bowing slightly, his spectacles sliding forward on his long nose. “I met your father many years ago.”
“Then you’ll have to call upon us and say hello again.”
“He’s here?” exclaimed Mr. Carey. “But I thought . . .” He squinted at Nick. “I thought he was . . .”
“Mad?”
“That is to say—”
“He is mad,” Nick said calmly. “Mad as a March hare. But that doesn’t mean he should be locked away.”
“Oh.” Mr. Carey cleared his throat. “Quite right, Lord Hatherly. I would enjoy speaking with him again.”
“You have brought your grandfather’s manuscripts, Lady Hatherly?” asked Mr. Vidyasagar, his brown eyes gleaming with scholarly fervor.
“I have. I’m only sorry my brother Fred couldn’t be here to present them himself.”
“I should like to meet him someday,” said Mr. Vidyasagar. “The translation he sent us was an extraordinarily erudite example of scholarship for one with so little experience in the Sanskrit language.”
Alice and Nick exchanged smiles. They’d sent the translation ahead by post. Alice was thrilled to hear the learned scholars approved.
Mr. Vidyasagar never took his eyes off the valise. “May I?”
Alice nodded and Mr. Vidyasagar immediately opened the latch on the valise. With great reverence and care, he lifted the silk-wrapped palm leaf manuscript and laid it on the dark wood of the table.
“Can it be, Mr. Carey?” Mr. Vidyasagar addressed his colleague. “Can it truly be the long lost chapters from the Kama Sutra?
He and Mr. Carey bent close to the manuscript, examining the script etched into the palm leaves.
“Remarkable!” exclaimed Mr. Vidyasagar.
“Extraordinary,” sighed Mr. Carey.
“Then you think it’s authentic?” Alice asked eagerly.
“I will need to perform some testing,” said Mr. Vidyasagar, “but my initial examination leads me to believe it is the original text.”
“I concur,” said Mr. Carey, trailing a long, slender finger along the text. “I don’t suppose your brother told you anything of the subject matter of the work. And I’m certain he never allowed you to read his translation, Lady Hatherly.”
Ha! Alice longed to reveal the truth, but she knew that that was not the prudent course of action. “Fred’s in Paris right now and sent me as his emissary, as I had always wanted to visit India. He told me nothing.”
“Quite right. Quite right. But you, Lord Hatherly?”
“Oh, I’ve read it. And I approve, gentlemen. I approve.”
Mr. Carey peered at Nick over his spectacles. He didn’t appear to have a playful or salacious bone in his thin, creaky body. Alice rather suspected the man had parchment for skin and ink running through his veins.
“Fred never allowed Lady Hatherly to read his translation, gentlemen,” Nick continued, “because he didn’t write it.”