The Royal Rebel Page 2

  We sailed first to Aden in the Middle East. But when we arrived, we were not allowed to leave the boat. The British government stopped us. Indians were beginning to turn against British rule of their country. Rebellion was growing. The British thought we would cause trouble if we visited India. Indians might see Father’s return as a reason to fight for independence and then rally behind Father because of who he was. This meant the British government did not want us in India.

  For the next fortnight we were held in a house in Aden. We children grew bored and lifeless. There was almost nothing to do. I soon ran out of books to read, and Eddie spent his time sitting and staring out of the window. I missed empty Elveden. Mother tried to keep us entertained, but she was almost desperate. It was unbearably hot, and Father did nothing to help her.

  Finally, two weeks later, Father decided we could return home. Mother’s mood improved right away, and the rest of us were delighted.

  “At last!” said Catherine.

  “What I’d give for some rain,” said Bamba. “And proper tea, with proper milk.”

  Eddie was the most excited of us all. He talked of seeing his friends again, and of returning to Elveden. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I had no choice but to tell him the truth about our problems.

  “We can’t go back to Elveden,” I said.

  Eddie’s large brown eyes grew watery.

  “But …” he began.

  “Father had to sell our home,” I told him. “We’ll have to find another.”

  “I don’t want to!” Eddie screamed.

  I held him close, comforting him as he wept. I felt like crying too but did not. Mother asked after Eddie, so I told her he was upset. Her face fell.

  “I’ll think of something,” Mother said. “We still have friends in England who care for us. Even if your father does not.”

  Her last sentence shocked me, but I didn’t let it show. It was only when we boarded our ship back to England that I realised: Father wasn’t coming with us. He didn’t seem at all concerned. He simply waved us off, saying that he had important business to finish in Egypt.

  “Bon voyage!” Father shouted from the jetty.

  I didn’t know it then, but he was abandoning us. Things would never be the same again.

  CHAPTER 5

  It was my godmother, Queen Victoria, who saved us when we returned to England. She paid for us to stay at the Savoy Hotel in central London at first. Then we moved to Father’s rented house in Holland Park. But both places felt strange and unfriendly. They were somewhere to sleep, not home. I didn’t know whether I’d ever feel at home again. I felt like an outsider, not really fitting anywhere.

  We were having breakfast one morning at 53 Holland Park when Catherine swore.

  “Catherine!” I scolded her.

  Breakfast was hard-boiled eggs and toast, with very milky tea. Eddie had eaten and was playing with his toys. Bamba was busy writing letters, and Mother hadn’t risen from her bed. Catherine and I were alone, and she was reading The Times newspaper as she ate.

  “Here,” Catherine said, passing me the newspaper. “Read it for yourself and see if you can stay calm …”

  She’d been reading the public notices. I saw what had caused her anger, and my stomach lurched with pain. I could not believe what I was reading.

  “Some father we have,” said Catherine. “I’m so ashamed of him.”

  “But …” I trailed off as I kept on reading.

  I felt suddenly cold inside. Father had taken out a public notice, resigning all his property. He had lost everything – he’d gone bankrupt. What’s more, the notice stated he was no longer responsible for us.

  Breathless and feeling sick, I let it fully sink in. Father was washing his hands of us. It was shameful and disloyal, and heartless too. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. Only, what good would that have done? I simply handed Catherine her newspaper and ate some of my toast.

  The Queen appointed a guardian to us soon afterwards. A man called Arthur Oliphant. He was to ensure we led settled lives and look after us in place of our father. Arthur seemed genuine and kind, but Mother took an instant dislike to him.

  “He’s nothing but a spy,” she complained.

  “What does it matter?” Catherine argued. “Father has left us. Mr Oliphant is our only hope now.”

  Eventually, Mr Oliphant decided to move us to Folkestone on the Kent coast.

  “I have a house in Folkestone,” he told us. “It’s a lovely residence and very close to the sea. I believe moving there would benefit you all.”

  “But I like it here,” I told him. “I don’t want to leave London.”

  I didn’t want to move anywhere. All I wanted was to feel like I belonged somewhere. I wanted to feel like I had at Elveden. I wanted a permanent home, not a new house.

  Mr Oliphant smiled warmly when he saw how glum I was.

  “It is for your own good,” he said. “And Her Majesty has appointed me to ensure your well-being.”

  I wasn’t convinced, but for once Mother seemed cheered by the news of our move.

  “I cannot stand London a moment longer,” Mother told me and my sisters. “Let Mr Oliphant move us. The sea air will do us good. London is overcrowded and dirty. At least Folkestone will smell better.”

  Mother was correct. From the moment we arrived in Folkstone, I could smell the difference. London’s streets were grimy, and the River Thames stank. Folkestone’s air was fresh and salty, and the sea was a stone’s throw from Mr Oliphant’s house. Eddie and I were fascinated by the place. There were boats and a beach, and a coastal park in which to play. The town was filled with narrow streets and alleyways to explore. Most of the locals welcomed us and told us tales of smugglers and their tunnels. I still missed my elder brothers desperately, but life seemed a bit more carefree again. I felt like I might belong in Folkestone, and I was more contented than I had been for a while.

  Queen Victoria took great interest in my happiness. She asked Mr Oliphant about me and sent gifts.

  “I have a gift for you,” Mr Oliphant told me not long after we’d settled in.

  He handed me a box.

  “From Her Majesty,” he added.

  My excitement grew as I opened the gift. Inside was a beautiful ceramic doll, with fine features and blonde hair. Every detail was perfect, down to the nail varnish on her toenails.

  “She’s beautiful,” I said, deciding to call her Little Sophie. “Will you thank Her Majesty for me?”

  “I will,” Mr Oliphant said. “Or perhaps you could write her a letter of thanks.”

  Her Majesty sent me outfits for Little Sophie too – Parisian dresses for grand balls and garden parties, and jewels and gloves, and even tiny opera glasses. I was delighted by them all.

  In Folkstone, Mr Oliphant decided we needed to be trained in the ways of polite society, even though I wasn’t sure we were accepted into such society.

  “This is your duty too,” Mr Oliphant told us. “To become princesses and uphold your family’s honour.”

  “Our father wasn’t allowed to uphold our family’s honour,” said Catherine.

  “Show some manners, Princess,” Mr Oliphant told Catherine. “You must never say such things in public, no matter how you feel.”

  We were given tutors and governesses, and even a drill sergeant from the army. They taught us to walk like princesses, talk like princesses, curtsey and sit correctly. It was all very formal, and Mother was delighted by it. I still wasn’t sure we’d ever get to use it. We never got invited anywhere.

  CHAPTER 6

  In September 1887, when I was eleven, I fell ill with typhoid and had to stay in bed.

  “I have red spots on my stomach,” I said to Mother as she brought me some water.

  “Try to rest, Saff,” she replied. “You will be much better soon, I promise.”

  I needed constant care, and Mother refused to let anyone else look after me. She became drained as she watched over me each night, tending to my
needs. But having Mother close to me again felt wonderful. In her depression, she had neglected us children. Her drinking and her moods had made life difficult. But she was still Mother, and she still loved us.

  “You look tired,” I said to her one night. “You must rest too.”

  “I’m perfectly fine,” Mother replied. “I will rest when you are better.”

  She fed me some soup and then gave me a little water.

  “Now close your eyes and try to sleep,” Mother added.

  That night I had a heavy fever. I was confused and kept waking up to see Mother watching over me.

  “There, there,” she whispered, wiping my forehead with a damp cloth and giving me water.

  “Mother,” I heard myself croak.

  I must have passed out eventually because I woke up and saw Mother lying on the floor beside me. The servants were wailing with distress.

  Mother had died.

  That wasn’t the end of tragedy haunting me and my family. After Mother died, we moved again – to Brighton. I lost a sense of belonging once again. Brighton was nice enough, and at first I felt a little better. But it didn’t last. My brother Eddie was sent away to a boarding school, and my sisters went to Oxford University. I was enrolled at a local girl’s school, and I missed my siblings.

  Our family was pulled apart and I hated it. I didn’t know who I was any more. I had always felt very British. I adored the Queen and was grateful for her kindness. Yet I began to feel unwanted. I started to blame the British government for our family’s misfortunes. The government had stolen our kingdom in India and made us refugees. My rage and frustration made me constantly tired and annoyed. I was often rude to Mr and Mrs Oliphant, even though they were the ones who looked after us all.

  I felt guilty for being so awful to our guardians, and I grew quiet. I spent most of my time alone, not talking to anyone. I hated school and the extra tutoring I was given after school. The only thing I enjoyed was my piano lessons.

  “You’ve certainly got a gift for music,” Mr Oliphant said one evening. “Your piano playing is excellent.”

  “I like it,” I told him.

  Mr Oliphant smiled warmly.

  “It’s a sign of good breeding,” he said. “Most important for a princess.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Are you troubled, Sophia?” Mr Oliphant asked.

  I shook my head and looked away.

  “You can talk to me,” he said. “And to Mrs Oliphant too. We are your guardians, and we care about you.”

  “I miss my sisters,” I said. “And I miss Eddie.”

  “Me too,” said Mr Oliphant. “But it will soon be the holidays and we will spend Christmas together. Something to look forward to.”

  But Eddie fell ill after Christmas 1891. By April 1892, he was confined to his bed and he stayed that way for an entire year. My sisters came back to help me care for Eddie, but he didn’t recover. In late April 1893, we were given terrible news by the doctor that Queen Victoria had appointed to Eddie.

  “Prince Edward’s condition has worsened considerably,” Dr Christopherson told us.

  “Can’t you help him?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid there is nothing left to do,” the doctor replied. “It is now just a matter of days.”

  “How many days?” I asked, my heart breaking.

  The doctor gave me a sorrowful glance.

  “I’m very sorry, Sophia,” he said. “I doubt the Prince will last the week.”

  Eddie passed away on 1 May 1893, with me by his side. He was only thirteen years old.

  Less than five months after Eddie died, Father went too. He died alone in Paris, penniless and broken. His dream of recovering the great Sikh empire died with him. I was hurt by Father’s passing and how he had died alone. I no longer felt as if I belonged in Britain. Everything that felt solid and true was torn away. Eddie, Mother, Father, Elveden. I felt utterly unwanted, with no sense of purpose or belonging. I had no home any more.

  PART 2

  India

  1903

  CHAPTER 7

  Nearly ten years later, my sisters and I decided to try to reach India again, and this time the British government didn’t stop us. As I’d grown older, I’d found myself wanting to see the country where Father had been born for myself. Maybe this would be the place that finally felt like home? I certainly didn’t feel that in Britain.

  The heat and dust of Delhi caught me and my sisters by surprise. We should have expected it, but it was our first visit to India.

  “I wish Father was here,” said Catherine as we picked our way through huge crowds. We were heading to the Great Delhi Durbar of 1903.

  The Great Delhi Durbar was held to celebrate the coronation of Edward VII – or Bertie as we knew him. Bertie had often visited Elveden – as Prince of Wales, and Father’s dear friend. Now he was King of Britain.

  “I wish Eddie was here too,” I replied.

  Our family’s losses had left me numb. I had been smiling on the outside but almost blank within. It took a few years for me to fully regain my feeling. Now, in India, I began to get a sense of what else our family had lost. We were heirs to the Sikh empire and should have been central to the festivities, but we were not. We should have been honoured guests, with all the glory and wealth that went with it. Not refugees from Britain, hoping for some acceptance.

  “I do hope the British have organised our accommodation,” said Bamba.

  The festival site was enormous, and we had been promised somewhere to stay. It was a city of sparkling white tents set against almost red earth. We were surrounded by thousands of people from across the world. They wore fine outfits in a kaleidoscope of colours, and many had animals with them – decorated elephants and monkeys in top hats, and so much more. I was reminded of my Elveden childhood in many ways, and I smiled as I remembered our grumpy baboon.

  It was a vibrant, noisy and dusty spectacle. In the disorder, Catherine approached an official – a short, balding Indian man.

  “We’re the Duleep Singhs,” Catherine told him. “Where may we find our tent?”

  The man checked his papers and then shook his head.

  “I have no record of you,” he said.

  “But that’s impossible!” Bamba said, her eyes fiery with anger. “We are expected!”

  “I’m very sorry,” said the man. “I cannot locate a space for you.”

  Catherine sighed.

  “This is the British government,” she said. “They are making us pay for visiting India.”

  “That’s simply not acceptable,” Bamba told her, and turned back to the official. “Look at your papers again,” she said. “We’re the granddaughters of Maharajah Ranjit Singh!”

  The official looked dismayed.

  “Please,” he said. “I’m very sorry. I wish I could help, but …”

  “Oh, never mind!” said Bamba, walking off in disgust.

  When we caught up to Bamba, Catherine told her off.

  “Why get angry with that chap?” she asked. “He is just doing his job.”

  “I hate the British!” said Bamba. “How dare they treat us with such disrespect?!”

  My stomach churned, and I felt a sense of dread. I’d believed I might find my true home in India. Already, that idea was being challenged.

  Another Indian man approached us. He wore a pale blue turban and a gold embroidered waistcoat.

  “Excuse me,” he said in a heavy Indian accent. “I could not help overhearing your troubles. You say you are Duleep Singh’s daughters?”

  I nodded, and the man gave a huge smile.

  “Then please allow me to find you accommodation,” he said. “You are more than welcome.”

  “But, sir, we do not know you,” said Catherine.

  “Your grandfather was Maharajah Ranjit Singh,” said the man. “You are beloved to us all, my dears.”

  He smiled again and led us away from the royal enclosures, towards the rear of the tent city. We were still
annoyed but also grateful for his assistance.

  We spent the first night as guests in a camp of large and luxurious tents, being told stories of our grandfather’s achievements. I felt a little more at home. A little more wanted. Maharajah Ranjit Singh was a hero to most Indians, and the stories of him warmed my heart. In the morning, we were given a delicious breakfast of sweet rice and fruit, and spicy tea. Bamba didn’t stop grinning.

  “This is who we are,” Bamba told me. “This feels like home, not London.”

  I wasn’t so sure. Home for me had always been Elveden. With Mother, Father and poor Eddie gone, I longed for India to feel like home too. I just wasn’t as certain as my sister yet.

  “There’s a garden party for royal guests at noon,” Catherine told us. “Even the British government can’t stop us from attending that.”

  We reached the entrance later that morning, but something wasn’t right.

  “I’m sorry, Your Highnesses,” said a British attendant. “You aren’t on the invitation list.”

  “But that’s scandalous!” said Catherine. “We must be on the list!”

  “My orders are very strict,” the man told her. “No entry to anyone but those invited.”

  I was disappointed too. As heirs to the Sikh kingdom, we should have felt welcome everywhere we went. Yet we did not. This was the country of our ancestors, and the British were making our visit miserable. I wanted to belong here, but the British were doing everything they could to kill my hopes of this. It hurt deeply.

  On the second day, we watched as many wealthy maharajahs and maharanis strolled around the festival. They were dressed in beautiful clothes and draped in jewellery and gold.

  “Look how wonderful their outfits are,” said Bamba.

  “Just wonderful,” I said. A carriage drawn by six black horses passed us, carrying an Indian prince wearing a top hat. A clothed monkey sat atop each horse, and an elephant made up the rear, dressed in gold and scarlet silk.