The Redhead of Rajastan: Chapter 1: Introducing Timothy Akbar Patel
A brown-skinned man with Asiatic features wearing a white linen suit and tie approached the reception desk of the British Embassy to Rajastan. Removing his Panama hat, he gave a half-bow to the pretty blonde receptionist. “Your pardon, mem-sahib. My name is Timothy Akbar Patel. I have an appointment with the Lord Ambassador.”
She glanced at the folders on her desk. Yes, his name was listed for an eleven o’clock appointment on Friday, March 3, 1933. “Yes, of course, Mr. Patel. If you’ll wait just a moment, I’ll inform His Lordship that you’re here.” She rose from her chair and walked slowly down the corridor.
She returned two minutes later. “This way, Mr. Patel. His Lordship is expecting you.” She escorted him halfway down the corridor — a courtesy he had not expected, and pointed to the correct door. She gestured to him to go ahead.
Had he been a white man, he knew the ambassador might have come out to meet him, or the pretty young receptionist might have led him directly to the ambassador’s door. But he was a Rajastani in Rajastan, and the partial escort was already more than he had expected. He knocked on the door and waited for the ambassador to call out, “Come in.”
Lord Joseph Swanlea, the younger son of the Marquess of Delham and representative of His Majesty’s Government to the semi-independent princedom of Rajastan, greeted Patel politely when the white-clad man stepped into his office.
“Shukria for agreeing to see me, My Lord. I appreciate the time from your busy schedule. I am in need of your assistance.”
“So your letter said, Mr. Patel, but you were vague as to the details. You are T. A. Patel, manager of Jackson’s Jazz Club?”
“Manager, accountant, and number two tabla drummer,” Patel confirmed. “It is a matter of some delicacy, Lord Joseph. I need your assistance in finding Mem-Sahib Jackson a husband.”
“Is Mem-Sahib Jackson old enough to marry?” He knew of her, of course; it was a small island, but they had never been formally introduced.
“Younger than she are happy mothers made,” Patel quoted.
“True enough.” If Lord Joseph was surprised at a native drummer quoting Shakespeare, he was well-bred enough not to show it. “But my understanding is that Jackson-Sahib was American, not British. I have no authority over the girl.”
“No longer have I authority over the mem-sahib. She regards herself as a woman grown, out of the nursery and free to ignore her old ayah. But when one wants things done in this part of the world, one goes to the British. The Americans cherish nonsensical notions of beardless boys falling in love and being wise enough to choose a suitable helpmeet for the next four decades. The British are more sensible. Your Lordship has but to find a respectable European or American gentleman, someone of whom her father, my late friend and master, would approve and introduce them. I then announce I do not approve of this man, and Bob’s your uncle, they are betrothed in a week or less.”
Lord Joseph nodded. That was the way of teenage girls, based on his experience with his own daughters.
“If Your Lordship can find a suitable gentleman, Miss Cynthia will have a husband to take care of her,” he added under his breath, “and beat some sense into her, if necessary, and I can concentrate on running the club.”
Lord Joseph discreetly pretended not to have heard the last comment.
[Rajastan is a fictional island in the Arabian Sea, northwest of India, roughly parallel with Gujarat.]
Further misadventures of Cynthia Jackson, the Redhead of Rajastan, will follow on an irregular basis.
Chapter Two: The Case of Count Davidoff
