Flowers in the Blood (30 page)

 

Two hours later, when the light completely filled the room, he called to me from the bed. “Dinah, darling girl.”

I rushed to him. He pushed me down beside him and lifted my gown, but did not remove it. Now I was convinced he did not find me pleasing. By stripping myself I had disgusted him. Better not to show my ugliness; better he should grope in the dark. I lay back. He parted my legs. I could see he was as ready, as he had been earlier, and I knew he would have to remain that way for us to continue. He had liked it when I touched him, so I reached for him, stroking as I had before.

“Yes, that's it, yes . . .”

He aimed for me and I lifted my hips, guiding him to where I thought he should go. I tried to receive him. My hand closed on the stem, but the diameter diminished until he shrank into a soft little pod.

“Too soon. We need to have our chota hazri.”

We separated to dress, and met timidly at the table. I wondered what Gulliver and Lucretia thought, for by now they knew we had spent the night together. They were, of course, expressionless. I was thankful Euclid was away, for I would not have wanted to think about his musings on the events of the night and morning we shared.

We both pretended to be famished. The meal proceeded in silence until Gulliver poured second cups of tea and went to stand at the far end of the room.

“What are your plans for the day?” I asked as Silas began simultaneously, “What do you wish to do today?”

We laughed uneasily. He indicated I should go first. “I suppose, with Euclid away, you will be very busy.”

“The monthly accounts must be completed this week.”

“Silas . . .” I began, without thinking through the idea that was crystallizing. “Couldn't I help you—just while Euclid is gone? I am very good with sums, and my writing is tidy. I used to assist Dr. Hyam with his accounts, and I trust I could learn yours. Or I could write letters for you or organize your papers. I would feel so much better if I could be useful.”

He was thoughtful for a moment. “I don't see the harm, if you will follow my instructions. Euclid has attempted to make 'improvements'

on my systems, but I have firm reasons for setting out the columns and notations as I do.”

“Your obedient servant,” I said with a twinkle.

We set to work in the next hour. I did not tell Silas, but his system was so simple any fool could have mastered it within the day. With only thirty lines per page, there was never need to tabulate more than thirty figures. The only challenge was to carry over the totals on the bottom of the page to the top of the next without transposing a figure. When I could not achieve a balance at the end, I went back to a previous page and found that just such a mistake had occurred in the work Euclid had completed earlier.

“Here's the difficulty,” I said, showing Silas the error.

“How did you find that so quickly?”

“There is a trick with nines that will disclose a transposition error,” I told him.

“How did you know that?”

“They do teach girls some useful methods in school,” I said lightly, but the sarcasm in my voice was impossible to hide.

He examined my work. “Very nice, and you did it amazingly fast. I thought this would take the entire day. Would you like to go down to Darjeeling after lunch? It's market day, the best time of the week to go to town.”

 

Clusters of people thronged around us as soon as we began our way on foot through the crowded lanes of the market. Most people recognized Silas and showed a quiet curiosity about his memsahib.

“Why do they stare at us?”

“They are surprised we are walking. Most sahibs ride about on ponies, their women in rickshaws or
dandies.
Look.” He pointed to a hillside where two men were pulling and two were pushing a fat Englishwoman up the side of the hill in a rickshaw. “And over there.” Four men were carrying a lady in a dandy, a strong cloth slung like a hammock to a bamboo staff.

“How uncomfortable that looks! How do you sit in it?”

“Sideways, or you can lie on your back. We often use them for treks in the high hills.”

I shuddered, recalling my horrible palanquin experience. “I would rather walk,”

Silas made his way down the rows of tea sellers who had come in from the most remote plantations high in the hills. “They offer leaves of the rarest grades,” he explained. Between his thumb and forefinger he rolled, then broke a leaf and sniffed it. This he repeated over and over at each stall. A few samples seemed to please him. “Some of these independents have lots they tend better than their children. Just the right amount of rain or shade or a more loamy soil can make all the difference in a leaf. I will pay a premium for small flavorful amounts to include in my special blends.”

“Where do these people come from?” I asked as I surveyed the crowds of mixed races.

“Most are pickers who come down to purchase and show off their finery.”

I pointed out some Oriental-looking women. “Where are they from originally?”

“Those are Lepchas from Sikkim. Their women wear those heavy ear ornaments, and both men and women part their hair in the middle.”

“And who are those pretty women?” I indicated two girls who were wearing necklaces that dangled silver charm cases.

“Bhutias. Their men also wear long braids.”

“And that woman?” I pointed to someone with a large carved necklace, a silver headdress, and nose ornaments that hung to her chin.

“She's from Nepal,” he responded as we pushed through a crowd of coolies who carried huge loads on their backs supported by a wicker band across the forehead. We had to move out of the way for a milkman riding a pony, who balanced his pails on bamboo poles.

A shopkeeper showed us a drum made from two human skulls. “From the Dalai Lama's palace at Lhasa,” he claimed. Another tried to interest us in a set of temple bells.

A man who specialized in weapons offered a
dao
, or hill knife, for one rupee or a brass Buddhist scepter with prongs at the ends for two rupees. While Silas examined the pieces, I fingered some Chinese gilt buttons next door. The seller, a young woman dressed in a padded jacket, striped skirt, high felt boots, and a mass of jingling jewelry, moved gracefully as she brought out other treasures to tempt me, but my eye had roved to a stand where a white-haired man with a bronzed face offered iridescent butterflies.

I looked around for Silas, not wanting him to become impatient with me. He was neither to my right nor to my left. I turned around and saw a thin boy with long black hair to his shoulders whispering in Silas' ear and pointing. Silas followed the line of the boy's finger to a house at the end of a staircase cut in the hillside. Silas shook his head doubtfully. The boy's gestures signified he was certain of his words. A cloud passed over Silas' face as he moved beside me.

“Let’s go,” he said, disappointing the man, who had hopes of making a butterfly sale.

“Is something the matter?” I asked as we pushed our way to the edge of the crowd.

“I am more tired than I expected . . . the long night . . .”

I nodded amicably. “Shall we start for home?”

“Yes, after we have some tea in the market. Or would you prefer to go to the Planters' Club?”

“Something here would take less time.”

He led me to a café that was nothing more than some upturned crates covered with goatskin rugs. The tea seller poured two steaming cups and offered us a plate of spicy candied apricots. Silas joked with the man in his native dialect for a few minutes; then, glancing again at the hillside, he hurried me to the tonga, tied to a hydrangea bush.

As we made our way uphill, I focused on the peasants, who scaled the inclines with an enviable economy of action. With their thickset physiques and short limbs, they seemed a special breed, more animal than human. I turned around to watch a line of lithe bodies hugging the sinuous paths, when a familiar spot of yellow caught my eye.

I blinked. We were on the edge of a field dotted with green and golden patches. A darker spot moved in the distance, as though following our progress. We came around a bend, bringing us momentarily closer to the man.

Now I was certain.

It was Euclid. He had not returned to his home after all. He was staying in Darjeeling.

I looked over at Silas. His gaze was riveted to the road. Wondering if I should direct his attention to Euclid, I reached for his sleeve, then recoiled. In front of us, gigantic spiderwebs like ghostly curtains hung down from the abundant foliage that draped over the road. Behind us, the corrugated tin roofs of the town dazzled in the late-afternoon sun. My mind spun with questions. I felt suspended between the two places. I did not wish to go forward or backward. I would have burst into tears if I had not looked up, up, and been soothed by the creamy sameness of the snows.

19

 

S
ilas did not object when I told him I wanted a bath, a light supper in my room, and an early bedtime. If anything, I sensed he was pleased not to have to entertain me through the evening or feel he had to come to me in the night.

In the morning, I woke to find my monthly flow had begun. After we had chota hazri, my husband asked me how I was feeling.

Looking away, I tried to be offhand. “Not as well as I would like . . . a bad time to be a woman.”

He understood at once. “Then you must rest. I need to go to the company offices this morning. Is there anything I can do for you?”

The rapid way he made plans to go off without me put me on guard. “I would prefer to come with you.” When he did not respond, I filled in the yawning gap. “If I knew more about your business, I might understand the account books better and . . .” What else could I say to convince him? And why was it so important that I do so? I had not sorted out the muddle, but I sensed that if I did not remain close to Silas during the next few days, while I was indisposed, and the following week, during which I remained unclean by Jewish law, he would rush into Darjeeling alone at every chance. And if he were alone, he would meet Euclid—a thought which infused me with an amorphous anxiety.

I decided to be forthright. “You do not want me to accompany you.”

“That's not it.” He shifted his feet. “My errands are boring. Besides, my family will not understand your interest.”

“I should have known my place,” I said, exaggerating my facetious tone. “I am just a woman. Nothing proves that more than my current predicament. Until you wrote me those letters, introduced me to Lucretia Mott, told me about the freedoms that awaited me, I did not question my lot.” I modulated my voice. “I am not angry with you, Silas, because I know your beliefs conflict with those of society—and possibly with those of your own family.” I stood up, as though I were going to retire to my room, then turned and spoke. “What disappoints me most is to be disillusioned. The unique way your father organized his business and family affairs impressed my father. I suppose I was expecting that Maurice Luddy would sanction your philosophies on other matters.”

“Dinah . . .” His voice warbled with anxiety. “Your health is my only concern. Nothing would please me more than to have your company. In fact, I planned to show my brother-in-law Harold your accounting work today.”

“How soon will you be ready to leave?” I asked.

“Can you be ready in half an hour?”

“Certainly, Silas. I am not one to make a fuss.”

 

After two days of office work, Silas and I went out on ponies to inspect the tea gardens. “Garden,” which conjures a tidy plot, is both an apt and an incorrect term. The huge plantations, employing fifty thousand workers in the Darjeeling region, covered every inch of slope that had enough soil to hold roots fast. These were not rude patches, but tidy sections with plants laid out in such geometrical precision the hillsides looked as though they had been combed.

Every time we left the house, I kept a lookout for Euclid's saffron robes. I had not seen him on the last two treks to or from Darjeeling, and he eluded me that morning as well. As I sighed in relief, a spicy odor reminiscent of ginger root mingling with the acrid smell of hay— the combination creating the tannic scent of tea—assaulted me. “I wonder if vineyards smell of wine.”

Silas laughed aloud. “What a thought!” The he turned serious as he mulled over the idea. “I. think not, because the chemical changes in making tea are less drastic than those in fermenting wine.”

“How logical you are!” I grinned back at him, deciding I was right to stick close to him.

From a distance the green patches of tea plants seemed like velvet squares. Up close the leaves were broader and coarser than I expected. We rode our ponies up and down the rows, and once in a while Silas dismounted to check the base of a plant, smell the leaves, and search for pests. “The manufacture of tea begins in the field,” he explained as he picked a few leaves and showed them to me. “Good cultivation multiplies yield; careless plucking modifies price. You see, only the first flush of the new shoots is taken. The younger, more succulent the leaf, the finer the tea. And it is important to take care during the picking not to bruise or crush the tender leaves. That is why we do not pay our pickers by weight, but by the day. Otherwise they would rush and the whole crop would yield less at market.”

“May I try?”

He helped me down and held the reins in his hand. “You pick two leaves and a bud: that's the golden rule of tea plucking.”

“Two leaves and a bud,” I said as I attempted to grasp the stalk and break it cleanly without injuring the leaves. The job was trickier than it appeared. I tried again.

Silas laughed. “It is said the Chinese emperors would not accept tea bruised by rough or impious hands; thus the leaves for the imperial brew had to be plucked by young virgins by moonlight.”

When I scowled at the fact that I still was qualified to pick tea for the emperor—and might be so for some time to come—Silas looked at me quizzically. I managed to avoid his gaze and ask, “Once the tea is picked, what happens next?”

He snapped off a leaf and rolled it in his hand. “You can take the leaves of one of these bushes and come out with three different results: black, green, or oolong tea. Most of the world prefers black tea—which is completely fermented—so the bulk of this crop will end up in that state. Green tea is not fermented, just steamed to make the leaves sufficiently pliable to be rolled and to stop fermentation. Then we alternately dry it and roll it until it turns too crisp to be handled. After it is fully dry—in a state that kills the start of any fermentation process—it is ready to be shipped.”

We remounted our ponies and made our way down a steep grade, with Silas leading and me following. Thinking we might slip at any moment, I concentrated on the animal's footholds more than the words of Silas' explanation of the oolong tea process: “. . . bruised by manipulation . . . sets fermentation going . . . stopped by roasting.” On a piece of flatter ground I drew alongside. “The Chinese prefer the oolong, but the Europeans have not acquired the taste, which is good for us, since the full process is elaborate and expensive.”

“So you primarily produce black tea.”

“Yes. Now, I believe the area to develop is the highest end of the spectrum: the rare-tea market. I will call my newest blends Emperor and Imperial. What do you think?”

I reined in my pony. This was the first time he had asked my opinion, and I did not want to blandly agree, nor sound ignorant with a careless remark. “I see the necessity for both, like gold and rice,” I said slowly, choosing my words. “On one side of the scale, there will always be people who want gold—a small quantity for a large price. On the other, there will be more who require rice—a large quantity for a small price. I suppose the fluctuations in the market might balance each other in good times and bad, but . . .” Silas was staring at me queerly, so I stopped myself.

“Go on, please,” he urged.

“Well, even though there must be a large market for something very inexpensive and a small market for something very dear, the most stable market most likely would be the middle ground. You know, the government worker, the civil servant, the army major, the professor. They would want the finest quality they could afford at a price they thought was fair but not cheap. Do you understand what I mean? They certainly do not want the same brew their servants drink.”

“What a mind you have! You have set out the question more exactly than anyone else I have ever heard. What we are attempting to do is to arrive at three grades of leaf tea: one which produces the lighter, less intense tea the lower classes select; a broken grade, which gives the brisk liquor the Continentals prefer, for the middle markets; and a fancy line of expensive blends, for the upper classes. I expect to do a brisk business from brisk tea.” He rambled on about how his father had reservations about his idea to combine the body of an Assam with the fragrance of a Darjeeling and a touch of the pungency from a Ceylon leaf, but at the moment I was too flattered to follow the details.

Later, as I lay in bed that night, I thought about Maurice and wondered again why I had not seen him yet. I was more certain than ever there was some difficulty between father and son—the cause of which I had not yet discovered. Putting those distressing thoughts aside, I concentrated on my husband's complimentary words and went to sleep more content than I had been since seeing Euclid skirting the path.

 

Over the next several days, winds buffeted Xanadu Lodge around the clock. I was learning that it howled from the west and whined when it poured through a gap in the hills to the east. Then, three nights later, a storm blew up the valley, lashing the house with dry, violent winds. The windows that brought us the snow views were shuttered and locked with iron bars. As there were but small high windows on the entry side of the house, I felt as if I were being encased in a coffin. “Better than a shower of glass,” Silas replied when I complained. “If this subsides in the night, Gulliver will have them off before you awaken.” Seeing my distress, he had reached out to touch me. I pulled back as a reminder that I was still unclean. He did not persist.

I understood the laws of
niddah
, the days my husband could not come to me, but did not know how to signal him when he again might do so. Grandmother Helene had explained that sexual contact was prohibited from the moment I discerned blood, and continued at least five days or until every trace of the menses had disappeared, plus another seven clean days thereafter—always a minimum of twelve days. I expected this would mean two weeks away from Silas. This was the eleventh day. I had a few more days to find a way to tell him, although I was both anticipating and fearing our next intimate encounter. I hoped he would find me more desirable the next time, especially if I made no more foolish mistakes, but what if the time apart had muted his interest in resuming our marital relations?

On that turbulent night, as I lay awake listening to the high-pitched screeching that rolled up the ravine, then dissipated somewhere far in the distance before beginning again, my mind churned with the possibilities. During the lulls, I slept lightly. A new clatter brought me to my feet. Voices. I opened the door a crack. Gulliver and Silas were speaking. Other servants were moving around. More storm protection, I assumed. I closed my door. Soon the house was quiet except for the wailing through the treetops in concert with the tattoo of branches slapping on the roof.

Because the protective boards were not removed before dawn, I had no sense of day and night. I was awake through the fiercest hours of the tempest, asleep when the winds diminished to a dull roar. Lucretia did not arouse me until after one in the afternoon. My head was pounding, my stomach weak with hunger. I took my meal in bed, then dressed in a loose dressing gown and went out to find Silas.

Gulliver stood by the hearth as I entered the room. I looked for Silas in his usual chair or by his writing desk. “Where is Mr. Luddy?” I asked.

“He went to Darjeeling, memsahib.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“In that storm?”

“On an urgent matter, memsahib.”

I thought at once of Maurice Luddy. “Is someone in his family ill?”

“He left you a letter.” Gulliver handed me an ivory envelope like the ones I had received in Calcutta in what seemed like another lifetime.

I sat on the hearth bench to read the few scratchy sentences.

I did not want to disturb you, but a friend has had an accident. Do not concern yourself about me. The roads are dry and pose no problems downhill. I will return in time for supper tomorrow. Forgive my haste. Silas.

A friend? An accident? Euclid! I called for Gulliver.

“Yes, memsahib.”

“Who has had the misfortune?”

“I do not know.”

Yes, he did. “Euclid?”

The bearer's impassive face twitched imperceptibly.