The Maharajah's Monkey

Natasha Narayan was born in India but emigrated to England at the age of five. She has had many jobs in journalism including working as a war correspondent in Bosnia. Like Kit Salter, Natasha loves traveling and exploring new places. She hopes to get to see some of the far flung deserts and mountains of her heroine—even if it's by bus rather than camel and yak. She lives in Oxford.

By the same author

The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis

A Kit Salter Adventure

Natasha Narayan

New York • London

© 2010 by Natasha Narayan

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The Maharajah's Monkey

“Measles.”

“Tomatoes.”

“Radish.”

“‘Your lips are rosier than any radish,'” Waldo said, in a pompous voice. “Hmm. Not bad at all. Go on, Kit. Put it in the letter.”

“A rotten radish,” Isaac added, grinning.

“Hush,” I hissed. “Some of us are trying to concentrate.”

My friends clustered around, pelting me with suggestions, as I forged a love letter to my governess. I kept half an eye on the schoolroom door as I worked. This thrilling note was just the sort of thing a tall dark stranger might dash off, a figure from one of those romantic novels my governess devoured under her bedclothes. I could imagine him clasping Miss Minchin in his arms, while covering her upturned face in burning kisses. My governess would be wearing a trailing organdie gown and, for once in her life, a smile!

If only he existed.

If only I, Kit Salter, could bring the character I had dreamt up to life! He might even offer to marry my governess, freeing the four of us from endless lessons and even more endless nagging.

“Miss Celestina Minchin, your skin is whiter than a lily, your eyes are bluer than a periwinkle, your lips redder than a—”

My pen had come to a halt. Obviously Miss Minchin's lips were not redder than a radish, that was hardly romantic. I needed inspiration. How to describe them? To tell the truth, they weren't exactly lovely. Usually they were snapping at me or pursed in a grimace. Not the kind of lips to inspire love letters.

“If you don't like measles or tomatoes,” said Waldo, in a sulky voice, for he always loves to take charge. “How about blood! The Minchin's lips glisten like a pool of fresh blood!”

“I'm not trying to give her nightmares,” I explained gently. “It's meant to be a love letter. I know. I'll compare her lips to a rose.”

“Boring!” they chorused.

“Some roses are pink,” Isaac added. “A kind of horrible peachy color like a baby's bottom.”

Meanwhile my best friend Rachel sat apart from the rest of us, arms folded in disapproval. She glared at me, her brown eyes trying to pierce my conscience. I knew
she disapproved of the joke, for you see, Rachel cares. She is always considerate of other people's feelings. But I ignored both her looks and my conscience. If I listened to that pair of killjoys I would never have any fun.

“We're running out of time, Isaac,” I urged. “The Minchin will be here any minute.” Taking up my pen again I continued in the same dashing handwriting.

“Your lips are redder than the reddest rose. You are celestial indeed, Miss Celestina …”

“What does ‘celestial' mean?” Waldo interrupted, peering over my shoulder.

“Heavenly,” I snapped. “It's a joke. A pun on her name, Celestina.”

“Not a very good one.”

I ignored him, for what does Waldo know about puns? Quickly I scrawled:

You shine brighter than the Morning Star. I would be in heaven at just one glance from your eyes. My dear lady, I implore you, meet me at the entrance to the Ashmolean Museum on the stroke of ten this morning and I will pluck up the courage to offer my heart.

Your secret and devoted admirer.
Sir X

PS No insult to your reputation is intended. You may bring a chaperone if it pleases you.

I had no fear that my governess, the Minchin, would recognize the handwriting. Forget embroidery and the piano, one of my finest accomplishments is the ability to disguise my hand. I have forged sick notes from my papa and grocery bills from our housekeeper. I thrust the note in the envelope and sealed it, hurriedly placing it on her desk and scurrying back to my place. Just in time, for I heard the sharp clack of my governess's heels on the steps outside as she swept in with a flurry of crinoline.

“Good morning, my little lambkins,” she greeted us, as if we were babes in the nursery. She paused and looked at me. “Are you quite all right, Kathleen? You look uncommonly flushed this morning.”

I frowned, annoyed that, as usual, she called me Kathleen. My name is Kit, pure and simple, Kit Salter. No one else calls me by the girlish name of Kathleen, so why does she persist in it? Rachel could lecture all she liked. Quite frankly the Minchin deserved to be taken down a peg or two.

“I have a twinge of indigestion this morning, Miss Minchin,” I muttered.

She stared at me suspiciously. “You haven't been
banting
, have you?”

“Certainly not,” I replied. “Only nincompoops bant! Starving yourself just to be thin! Just to be able to fit into some silly old corset! Giving up puddings and chocolate
cake and ices and caramels and—”

“And those delicious chocolate tiffins they sell at Bunter's cake shop,” Isaac added helpfully.

“And sherry trifle,” I continued. “I just love sherry trifle and—”

“That's enough,” Minchin snapped, a hungry look in her eyes. “I would have you know I bant myself; very occasionally, of course. Purely a question of health, you understand, I have no vain interest in being slim. If your digestion is really upset, may I recommend Beecham's Powders? They have certainly helped me. Now. To work.”

Clacking and whooshing around the schoolroom like a starving ghoul, the Minchin distributed our grammars and workbooks. It was only when she returned to her desk that she noticed the lavender envelope lying on her desk. Glancing up from my work, I watched her open it. As she read the message, she flushed, as the anonymous writer of her love note would put it, “redder than the reddest rose.” The flush started in her cheeks and traveled down her neck, till in truth, she did look like a tomato. Or a measle. She half rose from her chair and then subsided down again. Her lips trembled. I looked at Waldo. His eyes were shining, as were Isaac's, but Rachel turned a troubled face toward me.

“Children, I find I have an urgent communication to
attend to,” the Minchin said, rising unsteadily from her seat. “I have just this minute received a note from the … my … um … aunt.”

“Nothing serious I trust?” I said, in my most concerned voice.

“Not at all,” she replied, too quickly. “Well—at least, one hopes not. She has a weak heart. One cannot be too careful. Pray continue with your work.”

With that the Minchin swept out. To my surprise she didn't go downstairs, but up, toward her bedroom.

“Send her our very best wishes!” Waldo called after her, before turning to us. “That woman could lie for the Empire,” he said admiringly.

Well, it served the Minchin right. She always treated me as if I were a bad smell. Even worse was her habit of trying to mold me into a polite young lady, like a lump of common clay.

“The Minchin's gone up to her bedroom. She's seen through the trick,” I added.

“Hold your horses,” Waldo said, talking like the American cowboy he is at heart. “She'll be back in the saddle.”