The Linnet Bird: A Novel (41 page)

I
DIDN
’
T FAINT.
Something, desperation perhaps, drove me to fight the thickness in my head and to rise from the chair. I ran, stumbling, from the room, and from Somers Ingram. I ran down the deserted hallway and passed the music room, smelling the burst of hot, scented air, hearing the French horns and violas singing sweetly. I ran on, out onto the wide drive, where one of the servants stopped me and understood my desperate pleas to leave. His calm expression beneath the high turban showed no surprise at an English girl running like a lunatic from the house, panting and gasping, and he summoned a small palanquin pulled by one runner.

I don’t remember giving the
boyee
the location, or getting back to the Watertons’ house. I dismissed the servants who gathered around me as I stepped inside, and fell across my bed fully dressed. It wasn’t more than a few minutes before the chill started, my teeth dancing against one another, and I couldn’t get warm even though the night was far from cool. I pulled a cover over me but it didn’t help. I heard Faith’s voice in the corridor, heard the rustle of taffeta as she peeked in my room, and then the reclosing of my door as she assumed I was asleep.

Shortly afterward I became ill, throwing up the light tiffin I’d eaten hours before.

Faith heard me as I retched into the washbasin, and came into my room, laying her smooth, cool hand against my cheek. “We all wondered where you’d got to. I came back early, before they served the evening refreshments, worried over you. I hope it’s not malaria, Linny. Have you been taking your quinine?”

I nodded. “It’s not malaria,” I whispered. “Perhaps—I think I ate something at lunch that disagreed with me.”

“Do you suppose it was the pea-fowl pilau? It was a bit oily. Or perhaps you ate too much of the amandine comfit. Can I fetch you anything?” She looked at the empty mat at the foot of my bed. “Where is your ayah?”

“I sent her away. I want to be alone. I’ll just sleep, and be fine tomorrow, I’m sure.” My teeth started their dance again, and I hugged my arms against my chest.

“I don’t care what you say. I’m going to send in your ayah, and she can help get you into your nightdress. You can’t be alone when you’re ill. And she can alert me should you grow worse in the night.”

I nodded, too distressed to argue, and the ayah came in. I let her undress me and take down my hair and slip the nightdress over my head and bathe my hands and face with cool water. But even the quiet rhythm of her breathing in the still room as she fell asleep did little to ease my illness, brought on not by food but by terror, and I knew I wouldn’t sleep that night, and perhaps for many more.

Chapter Twenty-One

A
DAY PASSED, AND THEN ANOTHER.
I
STAYED IN MY ROOM,
telling Faith I was indisposed. Mrs. Waterton felt we should call for the physician, should it be the start of a tropical malaise, but I insisted it would pass with time, implying that it was simply my monthly discomfort.

I couldn’t stay still, though, and endlessly wandered about my bedroom, picking up objects and setting them back, unable to sleep or keep food down or even read.

By the third day I was so agitated, waiting, trying to guess what Somers Ingram would do with his information, that I simply could not remain shut up any longer. I sat at dinner with Faith and the Watertons, trying to focus, to act normally. I felt my mouth smile, felt food, dry as ashes, struggle down my throat, actually heard my own words prattling unimportant nonsense. There was a fête at the Club that evening; Mr. Snow had invited Faith to be his escort, and the Watertons would also be present. I convinced everyone to go, that I would be fine, but didn’t feel up to socializing yet. I was terrified of running into Mr. Ingram, and yet thought that perhaps it would be better to face him, let whatever he was going to do surface. Surely it would be better than what I was suffering with now—the unknown.

The Watertons’ palanquin had barely pulled away when the
chuprassi
appeared in the drawing room, where I sat at a desk, holding a quill in my hand, the sheet of paper before me blank. I had thought of writing to Shaker, hoping that the act of describing trifling matters would calm me. The
chuprassi,
adjusting his distinctive red sash, announced the arrival of Mr. Ingram.

I stood, the quill falling onto the paper, ruining it with a smear of ink. Had Somers Ingram been watching the house, waiting to ensure that I was alone before he came to call? How improper, I thought, in that one insane instant, that he arrive unannounced and me without a chaperone. And it was followed in the next instant by a small and bitter sound, laughter at my own hypocrisy. I was acting in the same way as the women I secretly scorned. And it was a little late to be worrying about improprieties with this particular man.

He was ushered into the drawing room by the
chuprassi
and followed by the
khitmutgar.
As the
chuprassi
bowed his way out of the room, the
khitmutgar
went to the sideboard and poured out a measure of dark rum into a heavy crystal glass. He brought it to Somers Ingram on an inlaid tray and then bowed in front of me.

“No. Nothing,” I said, and the tall man bowed again and took up his place at the sideboard.

“Linny,” Mr. Ingram said, smiling as he took a sip. It appeared to be an artless smile, but I knew better. “No point in bothering with Miss Smallpiece any longer, is there? Surely—given what I know you to be—there’s no need for playacting.”

I stepped closer to him, returning his false smile with an even falser one. “Look. All I care about is staying here, and of course I won’t be able to if you disclose what you know of me. There’s no point in spoiling it for me, Mr. Ingram.” I said his name with the same firmness he’d used with mine. “You don’t tell my secrets, and I don’t tell yours.” At least I had the tiny comfort of thinking I could also hurt his reputation. His next words dashed that comfort.

“So, you threaten me? Do you really think anyone would believe your tittle-tattle? Can you really imagine that anyone would take you seriously—a griffin, fresh off the boat—over me, well established and respected throughout Calcutta? Anything you might say would come across as the hysterics of a bitter woman, rejected by her heart’s desire. It’s quite laughable, and rather pathetic, that you actually feel you can intimidate me.”

“Have you already begun your campaign of slander, then? Shall I expect to be dismissed from the Watertons’ this very night?” The words burst out with an edge of hysteria.

He seemed to be considering my question, enjoying making me suffer. He shook his head, smiling.

“Or will you use your knowledge to satisfy yourself at will?” I cried. “Is that what it is to be about, then? You think you will be able to use me as you imply you had once, at least, in Liverpool—although I must admit that your efforts had so little effect that I have no memory of you. You must have performed in a very lackluster manner indeed.”

I saw his jaw clench.

“I was never interested in such common trade then, and still am not. My interest, as you have discovered, runs more fully toward the stronger sex. No. Although I would never have used you myself, I am full aware of recognizing that birthmark, and knowing it is tied in to the various times I spent with the lower end of life in Liverpool.”

Still I found it strange that I had no stronger recollection of him than some tiny, disturbing whisper that might have only been created by my current fear.

“Have you had many offers of male companionship of late, Linny? Any prospects? Has any man here ever paid you serious individual attention?”

There was little point in trying to bluff with Somers Ingram. I knew I’d managed to scare away the young men of Calcutta all on my own. Or, if I hadn’t actually scared them, I’d made them uncomfortable enough that they weren’t approaching me. I knew what they were looking for—a reserved, and perhaps slightly coy, accommodating woman—for was there any other kind in these circles? But that role—coy sweetness—was so difficult for me to play; no matter how interested I appeared in their stories, nodding, downcast eyelashes creating what I’d seen as becoming shadows on the cheeks of other women, I knew I couldn’t do it. My heart wasn’t in it. Now I shook my head.

“But then how do you propose to stay in India, Linny, if there are no marriage proposals forthcoming?”

“As I said, I—perhaps . . . some kind of position.”

“Really, Linny. Stop your dreaming.” The scent of rum wafted toward me, strong.

I knew he was right. I think I had known, almost from my arrival, that if I were to stay I would indeed have to find a husband. I had just refused to admit it to myself. Our time at the Watertons could last at the most six or seven months without an announced engagement, and we were into the fourth. Looking at Somers, I knew I would only have to fool one man. At that moment I realized that I didn’t care who it was.
Faced with the thought of leaving India, of returning to Liverpool, I knew then that I would do whatever I had to. Marry someone. Anyone. I thought of Shaker and my words to him—that I would not marry while in India. But if it came down to the choice of staying as a married woman or leaving. . . . Here, with servants to carry out every domestic duty, there would be no demands on me other than entertaining. I could learn to do it, make endless, tedious talk over the dinner table and order servants about, organize parties and plan meals. And as for the rest—it would certainly be no hardship to spread my legs under the mosquito netting for a faceless husband. These things meant nothing to me; a small price to pay for staying here, in India, where my heart had unclenched for the first time in my life. If I were to be a prisoner, better a prisoner in India, where I might eventually earn some freedom, some time outside of the curtained palanquins and the Maidan and the Calcutta Club.

I thought of Meg Liston, riding off into the wilds with her husband. Writing her book. Free to explore. It could be possible for me, too.

“Are you listening, Linny? I said I had a plan.”

I blinked. “A plan?”

Somers sat on the settee, nodding at the chair across from it.

“I’d rather stand.”

“As you wish. But this is what I’ve been thinking about, these last few days.” His eyes drifted about the room, then returned to the dark liquid in the bottom of his glass. He was taking forever to say what he had to say. He brushed back his springy dark hair with manicured fingernails. “Simply put, I need a wife. I cannot wait any longer. I had planned to pick someone out of this fleet; in fact, for a while I thought I might choose that little parakeet with the high voice you came with—Miss Vespry. She looked as if she would be easy to put up with, pretty enough to not turn me off my breakfast every morning, although she appears a bit skittish and possibly given to instability. I would venture to guess that she’s also scared witless of the touch of a man, and that could help me for the first while—she would have no expectations, of course.” He continued to rake his fingers through his hair, gazing into his glass, and then he looked back to me. “Anyway, never mind about that. It came to me, the other night, that not only is the timing perfect, but that we are an ideal match, Linny.”

“A match? You and I? We’re no such thing. Please don’t compare us. I find it an insult.”

Somers laughed, a loud and spontaneous laugh. “Very refreshing. That you, a Liverpool doxie, would be insulted to put yourself into my league.” He laughed again, gesturing at the
khitmutgar.
The tall man stepped up immediately, the silver tray ready. His hennaed beard trembled slightly as he waited for Somers to set down the glass. Taking it to the sideboard, he refilled it and brought it back to Somers. Then he faded into the recesses of the room once more.

Mr. Ingram took a delicate sip. “But we are a match, my dear, for the simple reason that we both have a secret to hide, and that we can use each other to fulfill our needs. There is the added benefit of both of us having no other attachments in this world.”

I watched the
khitmutgar
in his darkened corner, seeing that his eyes never lifted from the floor. “Why must you marry so hurriedly? Why is it so important right now?”

Mr. Ingram drank again. “I’m waiting to come into my full inheritance. My father made his fortune by his instincts and shrewd investments in the building trade. Although in later years much of that fortune was squandered due to his . . . shall we say, ungentlemanly pursuits.” He stopped and shook his head in an impatient and angry motion. “I’m the only heir. In spite of a goodly loss, the sum of the inheritance is still pleasing. Not huge, as it won’t allow me complete leisure for the rest of my life, but sufficient to allow me some choices. My father’s will specifies that I receive it at twenty-five, if all conditions are met. One of those conditions is that I be married. I turn twenty-five in a mere three months.” With a swift motion he drained the glass.