The Linnet Bird: A Novel (39 page)

“Well, Miss Smallpiece, it is wonderful to see you again,” he said, the picture of politeness.

“And you, sir,” I said, trying to keep my voice pleasant, not meeting his eyes. A definite tension hung in the air.

A slender young attendant in crisp white pants, jacket, and turban, hovered near us with a silver tray of fluted glasses filled with crimson liquid. He appeared nervous, stepping from foot to foot, and the glasses shivered against one another almost inaudibly. I noticed a fine line of perspiration running from under his turban. Finally he moved forward, holding the tray in my direction but looking at Mr. Ingram.

“Claret? Or perhaps Madeira?” Mr. Ingram said to me.

“No, thank you,” I said, and yet the server stayed where he was. Mr. Ingram finally took one of the glasses. Still the boy stayed. Mr. Ingram dismissed him with a quick murmured sentence in Hindi that I couldn’t make out.

At that moment our hostess clapped her meaty hands and announced that we would break into pairs for a game of whist.

“If it’s all the same to you, Miss Smallpiece, I think I’ll slip out for a cheroot. I’m not terribly interested in card games that don’t involve a major gamble.” He flashed his practiced smile, setting his full glass on a nearby table.

I nodded, not sure of my feelings now, watching him disappear through the open doors. He had acted as if nothing unpleasant had passed between us only ten days earlier. I breathed deeply, reassuring myself that he would have the manners never to mention my vulgar display.

I played a few hands of whist, but was restless and edgy, and felt I might bite through my tongue if Mrs. Clutterbuck, with her low drooping bosom and donkey’s bray of laughter, asked what was trump one more time, or moaned that she was destined to receive only the pip cards, never the court. I begged off the rubber, slipped out through the open patio doors, and descended the deep, broad stone steps into the villa’s back garden.

The garden was lovely, with its array of chest-high canna, and beyond, a stand of temple frangipani with delicate, almost sculptured flowers giving off the heavy fragrance that always surprised me, coming from such delicate blossoms. The full moon was white, round, and swollen, shining over it all. I stopped in the middle of the garden, putting a frangipani blossom behind my ear, and looked at the sky. I felt odd, suddenly, very light, as if I might rise up into that starry night sky. It was vertigo, a dizziness that was unsettling and pleasant at the same time. I smiled, thinking of the gentle hospitality of the merchant who gave me the vegetable, of the silkiness of the child’s hair, and then I held out my arms and slowly twirled, there in the moonlight. I felt that something cold and hard and dark, deep inside of me, was coming undone, releasing. And I realized, with surprise, that what I was feeling was happiness.
I am happy,
I thought.
I am here, in this garden in Calcutta. I am Linny Gow, and I am here, now. I am not waiting, not dreaming of another life. This is my life.
“I am happy,” I said, into the tangled beauty of the garden. The words sounded odd in my mouth, full and round, silvery and bright, as if they were catching the reflection of the moon. It seemed that I had been holding my breath all my life, my chest tight with the effort. And now, when I breathed out those words,
I am happy,
my chest was able to expand.

I steadied myself, standing undisturbed on the moonlit grass. I couldn’t possibly go back to the loud, stuffy drawing room. I slowly made my way down the path to the servants’ quarters, the simply built godowns huddled against the back wall, where there was the constant muffled thrum of voices and the slow beat of a drum. Outside one hut a young woman sat with her back against the rough wall and nursed her baby. She jumped up when she saw me, trying to cover her breasts with her sari and salaam at the same time, the infant losing the nipple and wailing thinly in startled protest. Please, I tried to tell her in my stilted Hindi, please, continue. As I wound my way along the path I passed men and women squatting around rush lights set on the dirt outside their huts, talking in low voices. They all rose and fell silent as I walked by. I smiled at each of them, greeting them, knowing I was making them uncomfortable by venturing past their quarters, but I didn’t care. There was one final hut and, as I could see in the flood of moonlight that made everything as clearly outlined as day, a narrow path beside it that would loop back in the direction of the house. I was glad I wouldn’t have to retrace my steps and disturb the servants a second time.

The hut sat alone, slightly distanced from the others. As I passed the open doorway, the familiar sounds of coupling made me stop and look in. I instantly made out two figures, moving in rhythm on a mat, and I should have immediately kept on my way. Why didn’t I? What human curiosity made me want to watch the couple in this private moment for even an instant? I believe now that it was that loose, bright hold of the joy I possessed at that moment, the realization that I could feel this way, that created my lack of inhibition. I stopped, listening to the harsh quick breath of one, answered by the other, and realized, in that same second, that it wasn’t a man and woman, as I had assumed, but two men. My eyes adjusted enough to see that one was on his knees, supporting himself with his elbows, his small slender body gleaming darkly in the moonlight. The other, larger and more strongly built, was kneeling behind him, wearing a white shirt whose pearl buttons winked as he grasped the thin hips in front of him, driving himself in with urgency.

Before I could step away, or even avert my eyes, the man performing on the other turned his head, as if somehow aware of my presence, and I stared into the face of Somers Ingram. He stopped, midmovement, the drumming from somewhere behind me seeming to grow in intensity, and the other person—I recognized him now as the young serving boy from the drawing room—also looked toward the door, and cried out in alarm. Mr. Ingram roughly pulled away from the boy, who rolled onto his side, grabbing his shirt and throwing it over his turban and face.

It was too late to pretend I hadn’t seen them. “I’m so sorry for intruding,” I said, the words stilted, almost comical, in my own ears. What could possibly be said, given the situation? “I’m really terribly sorry. I . . . was lost,” I went on, feebly, and Mr. Ingram simply stared at me, not even attempting to cover himself, his arousal still obvious as he sat back on his heels.

I hurried away from the hut, finding it difficult to breathe properly. I wasn’t sure why I felt this unnerving sense of shock at what I had seen—I, who had not only witnessed any manner of perversions, but who had also been a participant. I cursed myself for my boldness in wandering about, my elation of moments earlier spoiled now, my mood confused and sour. I took the frangipani blossom from behind my ear, tossing it to the ground. Was I disappointed to find Somers Ingram acting in this manner, or was I simply angry that he had made me uncomfortable during our conversations, for his own pleasure, as it was obvious that his taste ran to boys and not women? He had never been interested in me in the slightest, and I realized this offended me.

I had traveled only a short way before Somers Ingram strode up behind me, the ground shells of the path crunching under his feet. “Miss Smallpiece?”

I turned to him. He was as composed and neatly attired as he had been in the Clutterbucks’ drawing room earlier. “I don’t believe we have any business, sir,” I said, raising my chin.

“Please allow me to escort you back to the house,” he said, and took my arm firmly in his.

When I attempted to pull away, he tightened his grip so that I was unable to withdaw my hand. I tried to walk quickly, but he forced me to stroll at a leisurely pace.

“Miss Smallpiece,” he said, “I must speak frankly.”

I made a small sound of disgust. “Do you really feel that at this moment I care to speak to you about anything?”

He stopped, removing his arm but now holding my upper arm in his hand, and turning so that he was facing me in the moonlight. “You see,” he said, obviously not concerned at all with whether I wanted to speak to him or not, “what has just occurred is part of what’s been troubling me about you, Miss Smallpiece. What you just witnessed . . . well, I’m trying to understand your rather strange response. You didn’t react as any other young lady of your class when you saw me with my Ganymede. You didn’t shriek in absolute horror or faint dead away. You didn’t become a quivering, speechless wreck, bewildered at the sight, as would be expected of a young English virgin. A sight, which, by the way, most would not imagine even in their most guilty dreams, such is their carefully preserved innocence. I saw the expression—or perhaps lack of expression—on your face when you saw us—in flagrante delicto, shall we say? It was quite nonplussed. And that leads me to believe you weren’t particularly shocked, or even dismayed. As if you’ve seen sights a proper young lady from home should never have witnessed. Am I not right?” His hand burned through the thin silk of my sleeve.

I knew I was on a precipice and one wrong step would send me off the edge. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” A desperate note crept into my voice, unnerving me. Of course I did. He was working it out.

“Now this, coupled with your surprising language the last time we spoke, well, it does make one wonder.”

He knows, he knows,
rang in my head with a clanging loud as a heavy bell.

“Are you all right, Miss Smallpiece? Perhaps you are indeed suffering from shock after all; you’re looking terribly startled.” He had the audacity to smile, as if his words were somehow humorous.

I yanked my arm from his grip and picked up my skirts, running through the damp grass, ruining my slippers. I went back to the drawing room, finding a quiet corner where I sat, breathing deeply and fanning myself, trying to catch my breath. I constantly glanced toward the verandah doors, expecting Somers Ingram to appear, wondering how I would manage to stay composed. I had made too many mistakes with Mr. Ingram now. I was terrified.

But he didn’t return, and half an hour later I was thoroughly thankful when Mrs. Waterton suggested we take our leave.

Chapter Twenty

I
T WAS THE FIFTH OF
F
EBRUARY.
F
AITH AND
I
HAD BEEN INVITED
to an evening of light refreshments and chamber music at a home in Alipur, where several of the bachelors—including Somers Ingram—had their quarters. The party was being put on by the Senior Ladies Group from the Calcutta Club. Apparently, this was a proper evening, Mrs. Waterton assured us, chaperoned by this group of ladies who often assisted unmarried men with entertaining before they found a wife to take over the duty. “It’s a nice change for gentlemen to be able to entertain in their homes occasionally,” she said.

As soon as I had heard that Mr. Ingram was one of the hosts, I tried to find excuses to send my regrets. But Faith was very keen to go, as she had been seeing more of Mr. Snow, and she knew he would be in attendance. “If you don’t accompany me, Mrs. Waterton may say I can’t go, Linny. Please. You must come, for my sake if nothing else.”

I finally agreed, but knew I would be uncomfortable. And yet there was no way I could avoid Mr. Ingram indefinitely; our paths would have to continue to cross at social events. I could not remain within the Waterton home forever.

The home was airy and more sparsely furnished than the couples’ homes I’d visited. Apart from the Senior ladies, bustling about importantly, the crowd was all young, the laughter louder, the talk more animated. It was obvious that the mood this evening was less formal than usual.

Charles Snow immediately came to greet Faith. She took his arm and they wandered off, their heads together, intent in their conversation. I chatted with a few of the other young ladies in the drawing room, sipping lime cordial. I didn’t see Mr. Ingram and was relieved.

But as we were summoned to the music room, where the tuning of a viola was evident, he appeared at my side as if from smoke.

“Miss Smallpiece,” he said.

“Good evening, Mr. Ingram,” I said coolly. Now it was up to him to set the tone. His face was unreadable.

“It’s good of you to come. Welcome to my home.”

“It’s very nice.”

“Yes. It’s quite comfortable.” He stepped closer. “I was hoping we would meet again before too long, Miss Smallpiece. In fact, I had this event moved ahead a few weeks so that I would have a chance to speak to you before too much time had passed. I considered sending a card to the Watertons’ but thought you might turn down my offer to call. As well, Mrs. Waterton would have been present even if you did accept.”