There was almost a small opening in the crowd at the bar, but the space between the Major and a welcome gin-and-tonic was occupied by a rather unhappy-looking Sadie Khan and her husband, the doctor. The doctor looked stiff to the point of rigor mortis, thought the Major. He was a handsome man with thick short hair and large brown eyes, but his head was slightly small and was stuck well into the air as if the man were afraid of his own shirt collar. He wore a white military uniform with a short scarlet cloak and a close-fitting hat adorned with medals. The Major could immediately see him as a photo in the newspaper of some minor royalty recently executed during a coup. Mrs. Khan wore an elaborately embroidered coat as thick as a carpet and several strands of pearls.

“Jasmina,” said Mrs. Khan.

“Saadia,” said Mrs. Ali.

“My goodness, Mrs. Ali, you look quite ravishing,” said the doctor, giving a low bow.

“Thank you.” Mrs. Ali gathered an end of her wrap and tossed a second layer across her neck under the pressure of the doctor’s admiring gaze. Sadie Khan pursed her lips.

“Major Pettigrew, may I present my husband, Dr. Khan.”

“Delighted,” said the Major, and leaned across to shake Dr. Khan’s hand.

“Major Pettigrew, I believe we are all to be seated together this evening,” said Sadie. “Are you at table six?”

“I can’t say I know.” He fumbled in his pocket for the card that Grace had handed to him in the foyer and peered with disappointment at the curly “Six” written on it in green ink.

“And your friend Grace DeVere is also going to be joining us this evening, I believe,” said Sadie, leaning past Mrs. Ali to read his card. “Such a lovely lady.” The emphasis on the word “lady” was almost undetectable, but the Major saw Mrs. Ali flush, and a small twitch along her jaw line betrayed her tension.

“Would anyone care for champagne?” said one of Mrs. Rasool’s catering waiters, who had glided up with a tray of assorted glasses. “Or the pink stuff is fruit punch,” he added in a quiet voice to Mrs. Ali.

“Fruit punch all round, then, and keep ’em coming?” asked the Major. He assumed none of them drank and wanted to be polite, though he wondered how he was to get through the evening on a child’s beverage.

“Actually, I’ll get another gin-and-tonic,” said Dr. Khan. “Care to join me, Major?”

“Oh, you naughty men must have your little drink, I know,” said Sadie, smacking her husband’s arm lightly with a large alligator clutch bag. “Do go ahead, Major.” There was an uncomfortable pause in conversation as they all watched the drinks being poured.

“You must be very excited about the ‘dance divertissement’ before dessert,” said Sadie Khan at last, waving the thick white program labeled “A Night at the Maharajah’s Palace Souvenir Journal.” She held it open with a thick thumb adorned with a citrine ring and the Major read over her long thumbnail:

COLONEL PETTIGREW SAVES THE DAY

An interpretive dance performance incorporating historic Mughal folk dance traditions, which tells the true story of the brave stand in which local hero Colonel Arthur Pettigrew, of the British army in India, held off a train full of murderous thugs to rescue a local Maharajah’s youngest wife.

For his heroism, the Colonel was awarded a British Order of Merit and personally presented with a pair of fine English sporting guns by the grateful Maharajah. After partition, the Maharajah was forced to give up his province but was happily resettled in Geneva with his wives and extended family.

After the dance, a Silver Tea Tray of recognition will be awarded to the family of the late Colonel by our distinguished Honorary Event Chair, Lord Daniel Dagenham.

“Relative of yours?” asked Dr. Khan.

“My father,” said the Major.

“Such an honor,” said Mrs. Khan. “You must be very thrilled.”

“The whole thing’s a bit embarrassing,” said the Major, who could not quell a small bubble of satisfaction. He looked at Mrs. Ali to see whether she was at all impressed. She smiled, but she seemed to be biting her lip to keep from chuckling.

“It is absurd the fuss they make,” said Mrs. Khan. “My husband is quite appalled at the way they’ve splashed the sponsors all over the cover.” They all looked at the front cover, where the sponsors were listed in descending type size, beginning with “St. James Executive Homes” in a bold headline and finishing up, behind “Jakes and Sons Commercial Lawn Supplies,” with a tiny italic reference to “Premiere League Plastic Surgery.” This last was Dr. Khan’s practice, the Major surmised.

“Who on earth is ‘St. James Executive Homes’?” said Dr. Khan. The Major did not feel like enlightening him. However, the mystery of the decorative extravagance was now clear: Ferguson had made another shrewd move toward controlling the locals.

“They want to build big houses all over Edgecombe St. Mary,” said Mrs. Ali. “Only the rich and the well-connected will be allowed to buy.”

“What a clever idea,” said Mrs. Khan to her husband. “We should look into how big a house is permitted.”

“It’s Lord Dagenham’s doing,” added Mrs. Ali.

“I understand Lord Dagenham is to present the award to you himself tonight,” said Mrs. Khan to the Major. “My husband was so relieved not to be asked. He loves to contribute, but he hates the limelight.”

“Of course, when you’re a lord, you don’t have to come up with any cash,” said Dr. Khan. He took a long drink from his small glass of gin and tried in vain to signal for another round.

“My husband is very generous,” added Mrs. Khan.

A small drumroll interrupted their conversation. Alec Shaw, turban once again quivering on his head, announced the arrival of the Maharajah himself, accompanied by his royal court. The orchestra broke into a vaguely recognizable processional piece.

“Is that Elgar?” asked the Major.

“I think it’s from The King and I or something similar,” said Mrs. Ali. She was actively chuckling now.

The crowd pressed to the sides of the dance floor. The Major found himself pinned uncomfortably between the doctor’s sword hilt and Mrs. Khan’s upholstered hip. He stood as tall as possible so as to shrink away from any contact. Mrs. Ali looked equally uncomfortable trapped on the other side of the doctor.

From the lobby, down the crimson carpet, there came two waiters carrying long banners, followed by Lord Dagenham and his niece dressed in sumptuous costumes. Dagenham, in purple tunic and turban, seemed to be having some difficulty in not snagging his scimitar on his spurred boots, while Gertrude, who had obviously been instructed to wave her arms about to display her flowing sleeves, held them at a stiff thirty degrees from her body and clumped down the length of the room as if still wearing wellies instead of satin slippers. Two lines of dancing girls—the lunch ladies—trudged after them, led by the light-footed Amina in a peacock blue pajama costume. She had hidden her hair under a tight satin wrap and though her face, below kohl-ringed eyes, was obscured behind a voluminous chiffon veil, she looked surprisingly beautiful. There was a distinct symmetry to her troupe: and as they passed, it came to the Major that they had been arranged in order of their willingness to participate, the lead girls wriggling their arms with abandon while those in the back trudged with sullen embarrassment.