The Linnet Bird: A Novel (36 page)

Mr. Waterton’s left eye winked furiously. “We have an earnest desire to teach these heathens what the Almighty has given us. There is only anarchy without us. The good Indian is the obedient Indian, the one with complete dependence on us. We must have faith that our values will put things in order.”

“Our values? Ha!” declared Meg. I hid my smile behind my napkin. “And just what have we achieved so far?”

“Meg? May I offer you more fruit compote?” Mrs. Waterton asked, glancing at her husband, a wan smile fixed in place. “The cook has tried so hard to get it right; I’ve been working with him for the last—”

“What have we achieved?” Mr. Waterton demanded. “Achieved? Why, Mrs. Liston, look around you. Do you not believe in the hierarchy of society? Do you not believe that as British men and women we are at the top, and therefore able to do our job of controlling and bringing enlightenment?”

“Why should we think only we are at the top?” I asked.

All heads turned toward me, and I felt a moment of trepidation.

“Good for you, Linny,” Meg said. “You see—she agrees. We are the new generation. Myself, and Linny—and Faith,” she added, with only a second of hesitancy, “are confident women ready to rise to a new challenge of being part of the bigger whole.”

Faith made a sound that could have been agreement or denial. I wanted to shake her. Why didn’t we speak up? She had so many opinions—too many, I’d sometimes thought. And yet, since we’d left Liverpool it was as if she’d left something of herself behind. Could it be that she felt that old Faith had been unsuccessful in securing a proposal of marriage, and now, in what she saw as her last chance, she was determined to fit into the conventional role that might work more successfully for her? I intended to ask her.

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Waterton said, now having completely lost the last vestiges of her smile. “Really, I’m afraid we must move to the verandah, where it’s fresher, for our coffee. Please. We must move to the verandah.” She stood, and we all were forced to rise and follow her outside. Mr. Waterton excused himself to smoke in his billiard room, and the conversation—aggressively directed by Mrs. Waterton—regressed to talk of the weather and its effect on the flowers. “Just think, all the lovely phlox and nasturtiums will be ruined by the first blast of hot weather,” she exclaimed.

I saw that Meg’s chest was rising and falling too quickly as she sat stiffly on the edge of a grass chair, not joining in or even appearing to take note of Mrs. Waterton’s attempts at a conversation. She finally rose, excused herself, and left the verandah, heading to the garden, her back stiff. I watched the
mali
follow her with a light chair should she wish to sit. Meg turned and waved him away with an impatient flick of her hand. He stood there momentarily as if confused, finally setting down the chair and squatting beside it. His eyes never left Meg, as if hoping she would change her mind and need his services.

When Meg was out of earshot, Mrs. Waterton shook her head. “My. I wonder how her husband will deal with her. She is all too eager to show signs of learning. Not a desirable trait at all. Not desirable at all.”

I glanced at Faith, who was absently picking at a loose strand of rattan on the arm of her chair. Wearing a gown of pale rose batiste with matching pink satin slippers, she was lovely and languid. Her pale, long-fingered hand played listlessly with the bit of binding as if unaware of her surroundings.

Meg’s husband arrived that weekend, a young, good-looking man with a black eyepatch over his left eye, which somehow added to his air of dashing attractiveness. He and Meg left, full of talk of their upcoming adventures. As we waved good-bye, I knew how I would miss her. And how I envied her. I knew that there would have to be other British women in India who were individuals, who didn’t follow the lead of all the others. It just appeared that they were few and far between.

W
E HAD BEEN IN
I
NDIA
a full month and I had yet to experience anything of what I thought would be the real India. I was living a British life, eating many-course meals of meat and gravy and vegetables and heavy cakes for dessert, being spoken to in English voices, seeing only that which was carefully controlled. I knew that, even with the little I had been allowed to see of it, I could love India. And yet I had begun to despair. When would the time come, and under what circumstances would I be able to venture further into Calcutta, or perhaps the country? I understood now that this was simply not the introduction; this was the whole game, and the rules were that I was more of a prisoner in Calcutta than I had ever been in Liverpool or even in Everton. I was good at game playing, and at waiting, but the troubling sense of captivity grew daily.

Shortly before Meg left I had asked her whether she found it difficult to wait for her husband, to spend such quiet, passive time at the home of the Watertons before she could begin her life.
Her true life,
as Chinese Sally had said so long ago in Liverpool, and I thought that this was what Meg was waiting for as well. “I have learned patience, living in India,” she told me. “Something that has helped me is a Pashtu proverb: ‘Patience is bitter, but the fruit of it is sweet.’”

Now I repeated the proverb many times a day.

Faith did not seem in need of a proverb. She appeared outwardly content with all of this—the staid visits to the Maidan, helping Mrs. Waterton plan the meals, writing out responses to invitations we received, or sitting in the garden. Or, of course, attending the never-ending circus of social events, where we were introduced to eligible bachelors. Faith had been right; there were more than three men to every woman.

More and more I thought about Faith’s behavior. At first I thought she was simply worn out by the long journey and that she would regain her cheekiness after a short while. But instead, as the weeks went by, it was obvious to me that she had chosen—here in Calcutta—to embrace the tight reins of respectability that she had so strained against in Liverpool. She was snappish with me the one and only time I questioned her complete acquiescence to the frivolous and what I saw as shallow lifestyle of our life on Garden Reach.

“One does not come to India for one’s health, Linny,” she reprimanded. “I thought that was clear to you. It is all about the social season.” She pushed back a strand of hair that had come loose. “And I simply will not suffer the indignity of being sent back to England as a Returned Empty.”

She was doing her best. I often heard her bright, high laughter from across the room, although it was only I who heard the undertone of desperation. She regularly appeared to be surrounded by men. On our return from each party, she came into my room and sat on my bed, telling me about each young man and what he had said to her. She had a favorite, a dark and shy gentleman named Mr. Snow—Charles, she confided to me—who said little, but seemed mesmerized by her chatter and the lustrous color of her hair.

I personally found it tiresome, the troops of appraising young men, none of whom held the slightest interest for me. I did try, but found fault easily. Some appeared tight-lipped and priggish, although more of them struck me as vain. Strutting about, full of themselves, they reminded me of the peacocks on the lawns, their tails in full display for any peahen about.

I wondered if it was because, unlike the other young women here, I had once known men too well.

I
T WAS AT ONE
of these parties, the week before Christmas, that I met Somers Ingram.

He was tall and quite handsome in a rather traditional sense, with thick, wavy dark hair and a well-trimmed mustache. He had deep brown eyes and even features—a slightly aquiline nose, full-lipped mouth, and strong chin. His complexion was burnished by the sun. The first time we were introduced he bowed over my hand, holding it just a moment longer than necessary, and gave me a slow smile. How well I knew his type, but perhaps there was something else, some carefully controlled danger under the brilliant smile and guileless expression. I smiled back, murmuring my pleasure at making his acquaintance.

“You arrived on the November ship, then?” he asked.

“Yes. How long have you lived in India?”

“Five years.”

“My. You must have had some very memorable experiences.”

It was just a game. The same questions, the same answers. Was he as bored as I?

“Yes. And what are your impressions of India?”

I had been asked this question by every young man I had spoken to. I had a small, memorized speech that I’d heard Faith and other women use, about the wonder and strangeness of it all, the exotic difference between India and England, and so on. All lies, in my opinion, since I hadn’t been allowed any impressions of India. So far, they were all of England—the endless pressure of proper behavior, the snobbery that showed itself in the ranking of the gentlemen within the civil service, the attempts to dine strictly on English food, the disdain shown to the servants within the household—picked up and set down in another country that was still a tantalizing mystery.

I was weary this evening, and in general bad humor. I sighed, not bothering to launch into my rehearsed speech.

“I wish I could speak to the servants properly,” I said. “You must speak Hindi very well after all this time here, Mr. Ingram.”

“Only what’s necessary. Command and rebuke, mainly.”

A moment of silence passed. Mr. Ingram waited for my reply. Should I do the proper thing and agree with him? No. I looked straight into his eyes and thought I saw something of substance then, in spite of our rather quotidian introductory conversation. I deemed that his was not a nature to trifle with. He might even react with interest if I spoke my mind. “Well, I would like more than that. I’m studying the language in some depth, but it’s difficult. I try to practice with the servants at the Watertons’, but they seem reluctant to respond. I don’t know if I’m not pronouncing the words right, or they’re frightened to answer.”

“Probably neither,” Mr. Ingram said, his eyes narrowing just the tiniest bit. “They’re not comfortable, you coming to their level. Confuses them. I don’t know why you bother; all you need is a smattering, just enough to get them moving. They’re like children, really. Best to treat them with a firm hand. And consistency. Their own worlds are so tumultuous, so undisciplined, that it’s a comfort to them to be told what to do, and to know what to expect if they don’t obey.”

I didn’t answer. He was definitely like so many of the rest, then, with his plummy voice and arrogance. I tried to think of an answer Meg might have to his prejudiced announcement, and yet knew I must not make my disappointment too obvious. I had briefly thought I recognized something in Mr. Ingram that might have made him different.

My annoyance grew as we stood in the crush of silk and fine wool, the laughter and chatter all around us. I had no further wish to talk with him, and Mr. Ingram quite obviously felt the same way; his eyes briefly roamed the room. But there was no polite way for either of us to escape.

“Have you family in England, Mr. Ingram?”

He shook his head. “There is no one. My mother died when I was a child. I lived in London until five years ago. But after my father’s death I decided to venture here. Are you from London as well, Miss Smallpiece?” he asked, his eyes suddenly looking into mine with intensity.

“Liverpool.”

“Liverpool? I’ve never had call to visit Liverpool. Your family is there, then?”

“My parents are no longer living either,” I said. “I had been staying with an aunt and cousin.” It was easier to give simple answers. Back to boring, safe territory.