The evening light in Lahore was fading, the city settling into a tired elegance of tram bells and thinning traffic. Jinnah climbed the stairs to his rented house with his usual precise fatigue, hat in one hand, a briefcase in the other.
He pushed the door open, his mind still arguing with Bilal about the risks of arming more men, and stopped dead.
Two women were sitting on his sofa.
Dr. Evelyn Cartwright sat with one leg crossed over the other, looking as though she were presiding over a hospital board rather than a lawyer's drawing room. Beside her, propped up on cushions with a cup of tea cupped in both hands, was Mary D'Souza. Her sari was carefully arranged around her bandaged side; her posture said pain, but her expression said occupation: this territory was now hers.
In the doorway behind him, the bearer froze with a tray in his hands, equally unsure who was actually master of the house. Somewhere in the back, the clink of utensils and the murmur of the cook and sweeper reminded anyone inclined to gossip that this was no secret assignation; half a household staff was within earshot.
For a long second the sheer impropriety struck him: two women, unchaperoned, in a bachelor's residence in 1930s Lahore.
Somewhere, Bilal murmured, a whole battalion of Aunties just fainted.
"Ah," Jinnah said dryly, recovering. "My apologies, ladies. I appear to have walked into the wrong house. This looks like a family reunion. I would not wish to intrude."
Mary's mouth twitched; Evelyn did not bother to hide her smile as she rose half an inch in greeting.
"On the contrary, Mr. Jinnah," she said. "You are exactly the man we were hoping would intrude. It is your house, after all. Unless you have already signed it over to 'Sandalbar & Co.' without telling us."
Mary set her cup down with exaggerated care. "Good evening, Sir. We thought it was time we disturbed your peace for once."
Jinnah took a step in, closing the door behind him. "You are both aware that in our society, two ladies appearing in a bachelor's drawing room without notice is considered… unusual?"
"Compared to setting up a clinic in canal country guarded by fifty armed men?" Evelyn countered. "We are long past worrying about 'unusual,' Mr. Jinnah."
"And anyway, Sir," Mary added, a little shy but firm, "you're hardly a bachelor in people's minds. Everyone knows you have a sister and a daughter, and half of Montgomery thinks they are your unofficial council. One doctor and one nurse, with your servants listening at every keyhole, will not tip the scandal balance."
She's getting cheeky, Bilal noted with satisfaction. Sign of recovery.
Jinnah's eyes had already drifted to the line of her sari where the bandage lay hidden.
"How is the wound?" he asked. "And why are you not in your hospital bed terrifying the ward staff?"
"Discharged this morning," Evelyn answered. "Clean wound, stitches holding, no sign of infection. She insisted on travelling in a proper car, with cushions, a disreputable amount of fuss, and my signature on enough papers to frighten three hospital clerks."
"I did not insist on fuss," Mary protested, then winced as the movement tugged her side. "Only on not being sent back to Bombay where I'd never see either of you idiots again. Sir," she added, formal again, "I have come to ask to return to your service. Properly."
"That," Jinnah said, "can be discussed when you can walk from chair to door without changing colour."
Mary shook her head, jaw tightening. "Not just to the estate, Sir. To here. To Lahore. I won't go back to Montgomery yet. I want to be based where you are, at least until I can work again. Someone has to make sure you don't cough yourself into the grave while you are drawing maps for other people."
"You are not obliged," he began. "You were stabbed in my service. I will not demand—"
"I'm not talking about demands," Mary cut in, her voice unsteady but fierce. "I don't want people saying ten years from now, 'That great barrister died because his stupid nurse wasn't there to force his medicine down his throat.' If someone dies in your story, Sir, it will not be because I was too far away to nag him."
Evelyn gave a low laugh. "She has been repeating some version of that line since she came out of ether. She has convinced herself she is personally responsible for the continued existence of your lungs."
"You are aware," Jinnah said, "that I survived many years before your arrival without being harassed over my tablets?"
"And how many lungs did you have then?" Mary shot back. "And how many now? Exactly."
Damn, Bilal said. Point to the nurse.
She drew a breath, steadied herself. "Please, Sir. Let me stay here. I'll be useless the first week, I know. But at least I'll be useless in the correct location. The bearer says there's a small spare room off the back courtyard. I can manage with that. Your staff will not be scandalised; they've already decided I'm a sort of junior aunt."
"There is also the question," Jinnah said, "of my family's opinion."
Evelyn seized the opening. "Already addressed," she said. "I wrote to Miss Fatima from Montgomery as soon as we knew Mary would live. I explained the attack; I explained your condition; I explained that Mary proposed to act as a kind of resident nurse-companion while she convalesces. Your sister replied yesterday." She reached into her bag, produced a folded envelope. "She says—and I quote—'If it keeps him from working himself into an early grave, install the nurse in the drawing room itself.'"
Jinnah took the letter, glanced at the familiar, uncompromising handwriting and the short blessing at the end. A corner of his mouth twitched.
"Well," he said. "It appears the Women's Council has already voted. I am only being informed of the resolution."
"On that subject," Evelyn went on smoothly, sensing victory, "Mary has another demand. Before you return to Montgomery for so much as a day, she wants you to have another full examination. Chest, lungs, all of it, with a senior specialist here. She is unreasonably concerned that the next collapse will involve you, not knives."
Mary nodded, a little too vigorously. "Yes. You work day and night, you get angry at bandits, you shout at contractors… if you cough blood, who will tell the villagers you died because you were too proud to see a doctor?"
Jinnah looked from one woman to the other. They were, he thought, remarkably united for people who claimed to be his subordinates.
"Are you both quite finished conspiring?" he asked.
"No," Evelyn said. "But answer this part now."
He sighed, but the resistance was already ebbing. "Very well. I will see a consultant physician. Full examination. You may consider this a signed undertaking."
Mary sagged back against her cushions, satisfied. "Good. Then if something happens, I can blame the doctor instead of myself."
Jinnah rang the bell. The bearer appeared at once in the doorway, eyes bright with curiosity he tried and failed to hide.
"Tea," Jinnah said. "Fruit. Biscuits. Whatever the ladies desire. And tell the cook that tonight he is cooking for Miss Fatima's orders, not mine."
"Yes, Sahib," the man said, vanishing with a grin he suppressed too late.
Jinnah turned back to his unexpected visitors. "If you will excuse me, I will change. Please continue your plotting against my autonomy. I see it is already in capable hands."
He picked up his briefcase and hat and stepped into the corridor. Behind his ribs, the familiar ache in his chest flared for a moment; for once, he did not reach automatically for a cigarette case.
You know, Bilal observed, if the British press ever saw 'the most reserved man in India' being bullied into a medical exam by a lady doctor and a nurse in his own house, their heads would explode.
One day, Jinnah replied inwardly, I shall charge you rent for the space you occupy in my head.
He closed his bedroom door behind him and sat on the edge of the bed, loosening his tie. On the table lay a folder containing a rough map of Sandalbar, circles drawn in two different hands.
Outside, the murmur of women's voices drifted faintly from the drawing room. For the first time in many days, the house did not sound empty.
"All right," he said quietly, opening the folder. "Let us discuss your 'root' idea before Mary comes to inspect my pulse."