Adi took one look at the garments spread out over our bed and said, “All that? You expect me to wear all of it?”
“Start with this,” said Diana, picking up a petticoat. “Over your drawers, ’course. Right. Take this off.” She flicked at his sleeve. “You can keep your sudreh on.”
Grumbling, Adi climbed out of his trousers and shirt, to stand before us in his underpants and thin, snowy-white muslin undershirt, a sacred garment for Parsis. With a sigh he untied a yellow twine from around his waist, and asked, “Di, you don’t wear your kusti anymore?”
“Of course I do!” she retorted. “Jim can attest to it. I say the prayers each morning! Here, let’s get the petticoat on.”
She gathered up a mass of fabric and dropped it over Adi’s head. He stood like a morose tailor’s dummy while she reached around him. A few expert tugs moved the flounced skirt into place, then she tied the drawstring.
“Too short!” Diana tut-tutted. Although the siblings were alike in build, the skirt hung above Adi’s narrow ankles. “We’ll have to add a ruffle. Aunt Dinbai will have some fabric.”
At the mention of ruffles, Adi looked pained.
“Now a corset,” she went on. “We won’t lace you tight, but it will give you some shape.”
Chuckling at Adi’s horrified expression, I picked up one of Diana’s lace gloves. It was soft, the fingers neat, seams invisible. “So small,” I said, tempted to try my hand through the narrow tube. “Will it stretch?”
Wrapping the corset around Adi, Diana slapped away his fingers, then hooked it up and tugged at the rigging. As though squeezed by an invisible claw, the waist contracted into a thick-necked hourglass.
Adi’s face scrunched like a child eating pomegranate seeds. When Diana loosened the folds, he huffed and grimaced at his reflection.
Diana leaned back to survey his pale, hairy chest above the blue, satin-trimmed garment. “Yes, Thomson’s sateen, long waist is all right. Now a high-neck blouse, I think,” said Diana, pulling out more pastel fabrics. “Or would you prefer a sari?”
At Adi’s shocked intake of breath, she giggled, her chuckles tumbling over us. “Come now, Adi, I didn’t mean it. Here. A blouse that a nun would be proud to wear.”
She offered it, smiling when he thrust an arm through the sleeve. “No-o! It buttons up behind, so you put both arms forward.”
Alas, the blouse gaped at his back. Though Diana tugged the sides together, they remained inches apart.
“Di, it’s hopeless,” said Adi, groaning.
Diana tapped her chin, then brought out a blue jacket with white trim. “Let’s leave it open and cover it with this. It’s very loose for me, so might just fit you.”
Adi tried. He put one arm in, then flailed about with the other. Diana helped him, but he could not get it on. Pulling out of the garment, he dropped it on the bed.
His lips quirked in mock despair as he peeled off the blouse as well. “I’d have to wear this for days onboard. Could you alter a couple?”
That gave me an idea. From my own wardrobe I pulled out a grey jacket. “Diana, your jacket isn’t that different from this. What if you added some … uh…” I pointed at her waist.
She raised her eyebrows and passed a hand across her chest. “These? Jim, that would take rather more skill than I have.”
“Ah, no,” I fumbled, feeling my face warm.
Adi chuckled. Diana’s eyes twinkled as she said, “Goodness, Jim, I’ve never seen you blush before! It’s very becoming.”
“Dash it. These—can you add these?” I picked up her blue serge jacket and pointed at the seams in front.
“Oh! Darts! Why yes! Adi, put this on. Let me measure you.”
My jacket went on easily. It hung off his shoulders, making him look like a child.
Grinning, he shook his head and took it off. “It’s the Goldilocks problem. Too small, too large. But this one”—he put on his own jacket over his undershirt—“is just right!”
“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Diana rummaged in her sewing basket for a box of pins. These she tucked here and there, fitting Adi’s coat to the shape of the corset. Touching his crisp linen shirt, she toyed with the collar, which was still buttoned on.
“This isn’t bad. If I add some ribbons and trim the collar in pink, then you could wear your own clothes onboard.”
I gave the pair a considering look and said, “Not quite. Look in the mirror.”
They turned to stand side by side before the glass, the genuine article and our make-believe woman. Adi’s short, cropped hair wouldn’t pass muster.
“Oh, that’s easily fixed,” said Diana. From a hat box she extracted an enormous confection of ribbons and feathers. This descended on Adi’s head and was fixed with a pin. When she donned her own hat, my skin tingled. A startling pair of elegant beauties stood before me with dark eyes and neat figures—one diminutive, the other lean and straight.
“You won’t be able to take off your hat,” I told Adi. “What about the dining room?”
Diana pulled in her lips, then caught his chin and turned him to right and left. “You have nice eyes, Adel,” she said. “We could do you up a bit, what d’you say?”
“Why thank you, ma’am.” Adi’s stage whisper had a strangely pleasant sound.
Pulling out some bottles, Diana went on, “Why don’t we ask Aunt Dinbai for a wig? She wears one every day.”
When I jerked in surprise, she smiled. “Her own hair is sparse, so she’s worn them for years. The only time I saw her without was in her bedroom. Jim, ask her if she can spare one?”
“Now?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Righto.” I took myself off to find our hostess.
Aunt Dinbai and Uncle Shapur were in the reading room. I declined Shapur’s offer of a whiskey, and posed my bizarre request. “Ma’am, could I ask you for a hairpiece, if it’s not too much trouble?”
She blinked. “A hairpiece? Did you say—”
Face warm, I explained, “Adi’s got to return to Bombay. Safer if he travels as a woman.”
“Oh! Like Charley’s aunt in the play! He’s dressing up!” she cried, turning to her husband. “On stage, Lord Fancourt Babberley pretends to be Donna Lucia, the dowager aunt! We saw it at the Royalty Theatre last year. Penley played Babbs, simply hilarious as Charley’s aunt!”
Beaming, she hurried from the room, leaving me to explain the matter.
“As a woman?” her bemused husband repeated.
When I returned carrying my prize, the door was opened by a composed young woman with creamy skin who offered her gloved fingers. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Ma’am,” I said automatically as Diana took the wig from me, grinning.
The siblings shared a glance then burst into laughter.
“His face!” chortled Adi. He took tiny steps to the window seat, sank into it gracefully and arranged his skirt.
“It will work! Mr. Agnihotri, may I present you to a new woman!” cried Diana. A tendril of hope curled inside me, winding around the worry rooted in my chest.
Two days passed in a flurry of activity as I wrapped up my London assignment. What with outfitting and preparing Adi for his new role, we had little time to explore the heart of the Empire. Seeing the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral rise above the fog, I sighed. I dearly wanted to visit Baker Street where Doyle had situated Holmes’s quarters, but gave it up as hopeless.
On the eve of our voyage, in a bookstore window on Piccadilly, I spotted The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. Diana bought it over my objections. Smoothing the leather cover, I anticipated long sunny days stretched out on a deck chair when I’d dive into it.
Then I remembered. At the Dupree Agency in Boston, most blokes had heard of the famous detective. One had a subscription to The Strand Magazine, so we borrowed his dog-eared copies. Just before we left, I recalled him saying, “Holmes’s last adventure! I mean, can you believe it? His last adventure.”
I frowned, turning over the crisp binding. Holmes couldn’t die, could he? Although we scoffed at the ease with which he came to his miraculous conclusions, he was our hero, a detective nonpareil. Conan Doyle wouldn’t do a thing like that?
At dawn, the “girls” preceded me as Adi wobbled up the gangplank clutching his skirts and reticule. Since he lacked Diana’s coifed hair, his hat teetered frequently. From the ship’s railing we watched the flutter of kerchiefs on the overcast wharf and made our way toward our staterooms.
In the corridor, sharp voices broke the hum of excited conversation. Mustache bristling, a flushed Englishman glared at a tall, emaciated young man whose dark complexion and high forehead marked him as a fellow Indian.
“But this is my cabin,” the youth insisted, holding out his ticket. “Number seventeen. That’s what it says.” He fell silent as we approached.
“Where’s that damned purser?” The older man snorted and strode away.
The dark lad gazed after him, a morose matador, determined to stand his ground but fearful he would not prevail. Catching my glance, he retreated to his cabin.
Diana had spotted her cabin number, so I knocked on my own, next door. When no one answered, I keyed it open and stopped in surprise.
A plump, mature gentleman inside said in a pronounced accent, “Guten Morgen! You must be my cabinmate?” Wobbling, the whiskered gent came up to shake my hand.
“Jim?” At the door, Diana glanced back, biting her lip.
An irate voice rose behind us, familiar in its protest. In the corridor, the perspiring purser was shaking his head. “We have no vacant berths until Port Said.”
The Briton cried, “I was told I would share with a suitable gentleman!”
The Indian youth winced, holding himself against the wall as though facing a firing squad. His glance searched the carpet but found no comfort there.
Adi strode over to the red-faced Briton. “Excuse me. Would you prefer to switch cabins?”
Diana sucked in a sharp breath because Adi had forgotten to disguise his voice!
I hurried over. “What she means is, I’ll switch,” I said, slicing Adi a look.
Grabbing his elbow, I propelled him toward Diana. “Well done, Adel!”
Adi acknowledged my reminder with a wry twist to his lips. Dash it all, I’d make a sleuth of him yet.
The Briton examined my curious German cabinmate hovering at the door, and the matter was settled. While the sweating purser directed a steward to move the Englishman’s luggage, the lamppost-like Indian shook my hand. He was John Raman, he said, a musician returning to Bombay. His eyes kept darting to Adi, sashaying down the corridor toward Diana.
Our purser returned to express undying gratitude and bestowed a fervent look at Adi that matched young Raman’s. I hid a grin. We’d barely left dockside and already Adi had acquired a pair of followers. At this rate, by the time we made Bombay he’d leave a slew of broken hearts in his wake.
Since none of Diana’s shoes would fit, Adi still wore his Oxfords under his copious skirts. Well-equipped with enormous hats, the siblings garnered companions for games, and generally went about as young people do.
On a ship the size of a teacup, one constantly brushed elbows with other passengers, so we’d decided not to discuss Adi’s troubles onboard. There would be time enough when we got to Bombay, or so I hoped. Gazing over the calm sea, I settled down to write my employer a full account of my London assignment. Hours later, as I stuffed my report into an envelope to be mailed at our next port of call, I thought Dupree would be relieved that Petersmith’s matter was settled. He might even grin at how I’d managed it.*
That afternoon we passed the crowded Alexandria harbor, our ship signaling others with streams of fluttering pennants. With the sun beating down and little to do, we entertained each other by attempting to “read” the signal flags.
My cabinmate John Raman guessed first. “We’re low on beer, send supplies.”
When Diana gave a delighted chuckle, he flushed with pleasure.
Adi pointed at a passing steamer, flags aloft. “Dancers onboard. Need one?”
Raman gasped. Diana smacked Adi’s arm with her fan, then chuckled. At least he’d remembered to use Adel’s whispery voice.
Content that at least for the moment Adi remembered his role, I picked up The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes and turned to “The Adventure of Silver Blaze.” However, some part of my mind resisted, as though warning me not to continue. At the end of this book, my hero would no longer be immortal, no longer be solving puzzles with deft complacency. The book’s allure was strong, but I set it aside.
Our ship crept along like driftwood in a lazy stream as we approached Port Said, then stopped to join a convoy. Since the Suez Canal could not fit two steamships passing, we waited to allow oncoming vessels through. Over the next day, a ribbon of liners trailed behind our stern.
Bright sunlight scorched the deck. The hot air buffeted my temples, my shirt adhered to my sweat-soaked back as I shifted in a deck chair. Adi hid his downcast face in the shade of a veiled hat, his abundance of coverings giving the impression of a trussed-up turkey.
Not so Diana. She wore a light cotton sari that flapped in the slightest breeze. Pale-yellow fabric sheltered her face as she pointed at a dhow piled high with bales.
“Look! Beyond it!” she cried, her eyes aglow.
Along the shore, youngsters leapt and splashed in the shallow estuaries between the ridges of the docks. Ever since we embarked, Diana wore an expectant look. She was returning to the bosom of her family. Did she still think of it as home?
I contemplated that word. Home. It conjured an image of our little apartment in Boston: our threadbare rug, Diana’s tablecloth with trailing roses, a dented couch covered with a paisley print fabric. Her mother’s yellow drapes warmed the winter light and the battered old stove, the bane of Diana’s cooking ambitions. With assignments taking me away, I’d spent barely a year in that tiny place, but it was our own.
At four bells, Diana said, “Presents for Mama and the little ones,” and wafted away to change clothes.
The thought of seeing her parents again brought an unaccustomed flutter to the pit of my stomach. Given enough time, our memories tend to extremes: happy times are bejeweled with glorious moments as though they were exclusively so; times of trouble painted unreservedly dark. Since I’d grown up sans parents, I had adopted Diana’s. Her father Burjor had embraced me in Simla—that was real enough. But was it a momentary enthusiasm? While I recuperated in Diana’s home after the rigors of my ride to Pathankot, her mother had taken particular pains over my care. She had sent up trays of food and servants to tend me. Was that just the great lady’s nature?
At first, the Framjis had disapproved of my interest in Diana. Her father had warned me off, saying, “Please understand, she’s not for you!” Despite that initial reluctance, they’d accepted me as Diana’s choice. A half-breed without social standing or fortune, a man without claim to status or parentage, the illegitimate castoff of some nameless Englishman, yet they’d given me their daughter—their glorious girl, the center of their home, their being. Would they have done that if they had no feeling for me?
Before we left, Burjor had wheedled the Parsi elders’ compliance by setting up a Widows’ and Orphans’ Trust. By marrying outside the faith, Diana could no longer inherit, he was told, and our children would not be accepted as Parsis. We’d had no choice but to agree. Our return might break that gentlemen’s agreement. Dread flickered in my chest as I gripped my book, unread. Would all Burjor’s careful diplomacy come to naught?
Beyond the ship’s railing, dusk had descended over the dunes. Perhaps Diana was looking forward to our return, but I knew better. We’d come to fight Adi’s battles. But we’d also need to face our own.
Digging into his reticule, Adi pulled out a ship’s brochure. “Look here. We stop in Aden for a day. I’m going ashore, if that’s all right.”
I frowned. “You’ll remember, yes?”
His quizzical look told me he’d quite forgotten. When I tapped the brim of his flounced hat, he gave a muffled groan, and said, “I want to buy a watch. A Waltham pocket watch—American. Couldn’t shop in London, you see?”
I shrugged. “It’s a port city. You’re more likely to be robbed than spotted.”
Adi’s brow cleared. Without his mustache he resembled an earnest choirboy. He said, “Then I’ll have to be on the lookout, won’t I?”
Eventually I went along to guard the “ladies.” If Adi wanted a lighthearted foray before the ruckus in Bombay, I could hardly blame him. But I was damned if I’d see him fall prey to a slimy pickpocket.
The crowd flowed and pushed against us in the bazaar as I kept the ladies close. Meat simmered on open grills, baskets of spices were piled high with aromatic herbs, and bright colored scarves streamed above the stalls. It was almost too much to absorb, mounds of fabrics, statuettes, kabobs, rounds of bread, tokens to ward off the evil eye. Vendors hollered, black-draped women haggled, little turbaned boys hawked everything from tobacco to handmade toys—the street was a circus gone mad.
Adi’s slim elegance attracted a wave of eager vendors whom I was hard-pressed to dissuade. Then one of them had the nerve to draw Adi’s attention by yanking on his hat. It wobbled, almost toppling off.
Before I could intervene, Adi pulled back a fist and laid the bloke out flat.
The fellow gawped up at us from the dust, his pride in shreds, while I waggled a finger at him, admonishing him to leave the ladies alone.
“Manhandle women, will he?” Diana said, as I bustled the ladies away. “Won’t make that mistake again.” She laughed all the way back to the ship.