The Linnet Bird: A Novel (44 page)

P
OOR
M
RS.
W
ATERTON.
Still recovering from the shock of my leaving, she reclined on a sofa in her bedroom, a wet cloth on her forehead. I now had to go and tell her the same thing I had told Faith.

She was predictably amazed, sitting bolt upright and tossing the cloth to the floor. She kept repeating, “Mr. Ingram? Mr. Ingram, well. Well, Mr. Ingram,” making it clear that she thought it an impossibility that a gentleman such as he could have even noticed one such as myself.

“But why so quickly? Why must the wedding be so immediate?” she asked, when I told her the date. “There’s a great deal to go into planning a wedding; why, to enjoy it fully it must be drawn out for months. The end of February is terribly inconvenient. In fact, it is impossible.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Waterton, but it is at Mr. Ingram’s insistence.”

“Is there no way you can convince him to extend the engagement, Linny, and be married in the first glorious sweep of the cool season next fall?”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Waterton.”

Mrs. Waterton was silent for a moment, and I saw a veil of suspicion fall over her face. And then she took a deep breath and stood, opening her arms. “Well, no matter what I feel, I suppose congratulations are in order, my dear. I’m sure you’ll be very happy,” she said, coming to embrace me. Her hug was stiff.

I was grateful to her; I knew how difficult this was, but she was trying her best to be pleased.

She stepped away, her face now composed. Ever true to her class, I knew she would say no more to me about the strangeness of the situation, although I also knew that within hours there would be much tongue-wagging throughout Calcutta society. “There’s not even any time to make up proper invitations,” she sighed. “Well, I suppose the first thing we must do is have a dress made,” she said, opening the drawing room door to shout her usual “Koi-hai?”—is anyone there?—and send a servant running for the
durzi.

F
ACED WITH THE MAMMOTH TASK
of creating a wedding gown, the
durzi,
swaying back and forth in distress, called in a small contingent of his fellows, and they managed, in just over a week of round-the-clock work, to create a wedding dress for me. Mrs. Waterton oversaw the production, not really asking what I would prefer but telling me what would be most appropriate. It was as if she were informing me, with this action, that I was not to be trusted, and since I was her guest, and a most troublesome one at that, I would do her bidding. And of course I was more relieved than she would ever know to let her take over the complete planning of the dress and wedding. Instead of punishing me, as she must have imagined she was doing, she was making it possible for me to continue to carry out my charade, for I had absolutely no knowledge of what a wedding would entail. I had never even attended a wedding. The closest I’d come to a bride and groom was passing by a church in Liverpool as they descended the steps.

The dress was of the most delicate ivory silk with wide-blown gigot sleeves. Because the highly fashionable dress could be nothing but low cut, Mrs. Waterton came close to swooning when I first tried on the dress and she laid eyes on my scarred chest. I had always gone to great lengths to hide the scar with collars and lace and scarves and fichus, right from my first days in Everton with Shaker, and not even Faith had ever seen the horrid mess. The only people who knew of its existence in India were my ayah and the
durzi.

“Oh, my dear, I didn’t know—I don’t quite know how we’ll . . .” Mrs. Waterton was terribly flustered at the obvious harm I’d once come to, although of course she wouldn’t ask, and I didn’t offer any information. As I stood in the middle of Mrs. Waterton’s spacious bedroom, three
durzis
kneeling around me, Mrs. Waterton fanned herself rapidly as she sank into a chair in front of me. I saw a glimmer of pity in her expression, and hoped this would lessen her anger at me.

Then she conferred at length with the head
durzi,
and between them a bouffant bow was devised for the neckline, which effectively hid most of my scar. Transparently sympathetic now, she raved over the shape and creaminess of my shoulders, telling me that the small evidence of my “trouble” that still showed could be layered with a thick disguise of powder.

She then admired the tight belt and the inverted triangle of the skirt that emphasized the curve of my waist, while the wicker cage tied with straps around my hips held the dress out in what she said was a glorious example of the style in London.

W
HAT CAN BE SAID
of that loveless wedding? We had been able to forgo the banns, and there appeared no need for any legal papers of birth to be in evidence here in India. The word of Mr. and Mrs. Waterton to my character seemed all that was necessary, and Mrs. Wateron had, in her usual way, taken care of the details. The simple service took place in St. John’s Church. When the minister pronounced my name during the ceremony, Miss Linnet Smallpiece, I was aware of Somers’s eyes shifting in my direction. He hadn’t even known my full Christian name. I thought of my mother many times through that day, and felt ashamed for the falseness of it all.

The social gathering that followed, held in the ballroom of Government House, was in the finest taste, and attended by the closest friends of the Watertons, friends of Somers, and the other girls from the Fishing Fleet. Mrs. Waterton was constantly surrounded by the bevy of matrons who rather grimly swooped in to help her arrange this shockingly sudden event. More than one of those ladies, possibly with hopes for a match with Mr. Somers Ingram for her own daughter or for one of her houseguests, treated me quite coolly, some verging on rudeness.

But in spite of the strange pall that hung over that day, to all outward appearances it was a lovely celebration. The room was resplendent with mirrors and glass chandeliers, and handsome sofas of blue satin damask sat between the rows of shining white
chunam
pillars. An elaborate white cake on a stand was surrounded by a display of presents— vases, cruets, silver serving pieces of every description, clocks, and all manner of home decoration to help set up a young couple. Did it appear strange to anyone that the groom and his bride rarely spoke after the service? While trays of dainty sandwiches and liqueurs were passed by immaculate servers, my new husband was taken off to the smoking room by a crowd of friends. I was surrounded by the other girls, who repeated endlessly how lovely my dress was, what a sparkling array of gifts we had received, and how lucky I must consider myself. All this was spoken in loud and cheerful social voices that barely concealed true feelings, which I knew must run from disbelief that I, the odd Miss Smallpiece, had married the most eligible bachelor in Calcutta, to bitter jealousy that they had not yet had the good fortune to start planning weddings of their own.

Faith did attend, in spite of her vow, but I sensed she came simply to avoid any gossip that her absence might create. She had treated me with a careful distance for the last two weeks at the Watertons’, staying in her room while Mrs. Waterton fussed over me, giving excuses that she was resting or had a headache when I knocked on her door. During that long wedding afternoon, her face remained tightly pulled by a smile that never left. Her peck on my cheek after the ceremony reminded me of the harmless nip of a creature who only reacts out of distracted habit.

I felt as if I were somehow floating above the whole scene, smiling and accepting compliments, nodding. Eventually Mr. Ingram was deposited at my side by his cronies. His demeanor indicated that copious amounts of port and brandy had been poured down his throat for the last few hours. He put his arm around my shoulders in what I knew was an inappropriate public display, even at our own wedding, and gave my cheek a rather wet kiss.

“Mr. Ingram,” I trilled, for the sake of the others watching. “Please, darling. I believe it’s time we were on our way.” I cupped my hand coquettishly around my mouth as I spoke into his ear, as if I were whispering something very personal and loving. “Don’t overdo the display, Somers,” was what I whispered, using his Christian name for the first time since we’d met. “I do have a reputation to keep up.”

He laughed gaily at that, and the crowd joined in, uncertain of what they had just witnessed, but assuming it to be a very sweet and touching moment between two people who were utterly in love with each other.

I
LOOKED FOR
F
AITH
as Somers and I made our good-byes, but she had disappeared. I had so hoped she might have softened enough to at least wish me well before I set off for my new life as a married woman, but there was no sight of her.

Just before we left, Mrs. Waterton hugged me, pressing her cheek against mine and whispering, “Be strong, Linny. Pray to the Lord for deliverance tonight, and know I shall also be praying for your ordeal to be bearable.”

I pulled back and looked into her tear-filled eyes. Did she weep with true concern, or was it fatigue, and relief that such a bothersome houseguest was to no longer be her worry? “Thank you, Mrs. Waterton,” I said. “For all of this, and for your prayers. I am sure to need them.” Then, because I really did owe her a great deal, I said what I knew she would want to hear. “You have been like a mother to me, and I shall never forget your kindness.” She wept openly then, hugging me to her again, patting my hair, and said softly, so no one else could hear, “If you do feel that way, then permit me to speak as your own mother might. Do mind to keep your . . . you know, your . . .” Here she discreetly touched the bow at my neckline. “Covered by your nightdress. It may be distressing for your new husband to view it immediately. Let some time pass, and prepare him, so that it isn’t so shocking.”

“Yes, Mrs. Waterton, I surely will,” I agreed. As if Somers Ingram would be shocked by anything about me now. He would never see it anyway. “That is a very wise suggestion.”

And then Somers and I stepped into the opulent, ceremonial silk-curtained palanquin with its curved pole covered in silver, and we drove back to Alipur, to Somers’s bachelor quarters—the other young men having moved elsewhere—where we would reside temporarily, until he was able to find us our own home.

I was exhausted, my head pounding from the stressful day, from the ordeal of acting like the excited and demure young bride I must portray. Somers was, actually, very drunk, although managing to retain some dignity in spite of it. As we were ushered into the house by the
chuprassi,
both his
khansana
and a small woman came forward, obviously waiting for us. The woman kneeled at my feet, salaaming. She wore a simple white sari threaded with blue.