The Linnet Bird: A Novel (45 page)

“Your ayah, Linny,” Somers said, his words running together. “Let me know how she works out. Came with quite a good reference.”

The woman rose and stood in front of me, her head still lowered.

“I’m off to bed,” Somers said now. “The girl will show you your room. Your trunks were delivered earlier, I believe.” His eyes weren’t quite focusing on me. They blinked heavily.

I nodded. Although I knew full well that Somers had no physical interest in me, I felt curiously empty. And in that brief moment I think I would have preferred a meaningless encounter to this disconcerting sense of loneliness, if only to be close to another body.

“All right then. Good night,” he said, and walked, rather unsteadily, down the hallway. His
khansana
followed closely, arms slightly outstretched as if to catch Somers if he fell.

The ayah and I stood in silence until I realized she was waiting for me to instruct her. “Could you show me to my room, please?”

She turned and padded softly along the hall on bare feet, in the opposite direction of Somers. She opened a door to a bedroom lit dimly by a few candles, and, still without a word, helped me out of my wedding finery, into my nightdress, and took down my hair. She fetched scented water and bathed my face and hands and feet. She turned down the sheet of the bed, and when I got in, she pulled it, very gently, over me, and let down the netting. If she thought it strange that a bride spend her wedding night alone, her face betrayed nothing.

“Do you speak any English?” I asked, finally.

For the first time, she met my eyes through the fine mesh. I saw her hesitate. “Yes, some English,” she finally said. Her voice was low and melodic. From the darkness outside came the distant scream of a jackal, followed by the baying of a pariah dog. “Does memsahib wish me to remain?”

I blinked at my new title. “Yes,” I told her, turning my head away as my eyes suddenly burned. I wondered, as I had done constantly in the last few weeks, if the choice I had made was the right one. “Yes, please stay,” I repeated, keeping my face averted and my voice firm.

As she blew out the candles, I thought that this would be the first time, since I had left Back Phoebe Anne, that I was not sleeping in close proximity to another woman whom I called friend—whether Dorie or Helen or Annabelle or Chinese Sally or any of the others on Jack Street, or Faith on Garden Reach. Thinking of these women, I felt the gaping loneliness increase.

The ayah settled, almost noiselessly, on a mat in a corner of the room.

“What is your name?” I called.

“Malti.”

“Does it have a meaning in English?”

There was a moment of silence, and then she said, very quietly, “Its meaning is a small flower. Very small and very fine.”

“Oh.”

Silence. And then I said, “Although I’m called Linny, my name is Linnet. A bird. Also small.”

“Very good, memsahib.”

And so we lay in the darkness, a small Indian flower and a small British bird.

Chapter Twenty-Three

T
HE MARRIAGE STARTED OFF QUIETLY.
R
IGHT FROM THE FIRST,
Somers told me I was to entertain twice a week, and to accept all invitations that came our way. The couples we had for dinner seemed eager to be included on the invitation list—after all, Mr. Somers Ingram did hold a senior position, and of course now that he was married and could entertain properly, many wished to bask in the glow of that small celebrity.

Somers’s position was unimportant to me; I cared as little about how he spent his days as he cared about mine, although occasionally the weariness on his face some evenings made it clear that his responsibility was great.

I found it a simple matter to plan the menu and confer with the cook about it; it required no stamina of any sort. The actual evenings did, however, require Somers and I to act like a blissfully married couple. We were both quite magnificent at acting, I must admit. There were times, when I smiled at Somers across an acre of blinding white damask, the silver winking in the candlelight, hearing the laughter of our guests, that I almost believed, for those brief, make-believe moments, that we were what we pretended to be. He could be absolutely charming in company, and I also felt embraced in the bright rays he so easily emitted. But at the final closing of the front door he turned off his charm and took a bottle to his room, and I retired to my own room, suddenly aware of how stiff my neck was, how my face ached from the tight fit of the mask I must wear.

Occasionally, were I particularly hot or tired, I knew the mask slipped. And Somers was the first to notice, and reprimand me for it later. Eventually I believe others saw it, as well, and there were many times when I sat at my end of the table with all heads turned to Somers, at the opposite end, as if I were no longer there.

After one especially trying evening, as the last of our guests were ushered out, Somers turnd to me, and I tensed, waiting for his reprimand.

“Were you particularly weary tonight, Linny?” he asked, surprising me with the quiet tone of his voice.

I nodded. “I was. Did it show?” Because he had spoken almost respectfully to me, I was willing to meet him halfway. “I did try, Somers. But that insufferable Major Cowton, well, really, he talked so much that it was quite difficult to pay attention after a while.”

“I must admit I found tonight difficult as well,” he said, sighing, and I felt a rush of something toward him that he and I would agree on this simple fact. I put my hand on his sleeve.

“Must we see so many people, so often?”

“I’m afraid there’s no other way. We would be viewed oddly if we didn’t follow what is expected.” His eyes rose to my hair. “I find your hairstyle tonight attractive.”

“It’s something new Malti tried,” I said, flustered. What was happening? Where was his arrogance, the usual verbal sparring in which we tried to outdo each other?

“Well, good night then,” Somers said, but his voice held a slight hesitation, something that I could almost—almost—interpret as loneliness. And I knew, too, how lonely I was, in the midst of the endless stream of events with people who cared nothing for me except my position in the community, and in my moment of unexpected emotion, I put my arms around him and laid my head against his chest.

He immediately removed my arms and held me at length. “Why would you do that?” he asked, his voice tight, the usual voice he reserved for me.

“I don’t know,” I replied honestly. “I felt—well, was it wrong of me?” Was I so repulsive to him that he couldn’t bear my touch?

But he didn’t answer, leaving me in the entrance, while behind me began the discreet sounds of the table being cleared.

F
AITH MARRIED
C
HARLES
S
NOW
six weeks after my own wedding. And while hers was a hurried affair, as was mine, it was far less auspicious, a simple exchange of vows at the Registry Office. Poor Mrs. Waterton—she must have regretted the day she opened her home to guests. Within less than a year she had to calm the flames that the untameable Mrs. Liston had fanned, arrange my wedding, and then deal with the terrible social implications that befell her due to the scandal caused by Faith and Charles.

When Faith’s father arrived in Calcutta, three weeks after I was married, it was said that Mr. Snow had already proposed, and Faith accepted. I heard all of this news secondhand, as Faith still had not answered any of my invitations to call. Daily my thoughts went to her, missing her, wanting to share my life with her as I had once done. I refused to give up on her, refused to believe she would abandon our friendship so completely. I sometimes found myself thinking how she would laugh over some small incident, or would enjoy hearing about a book I was reading. I had conversations with her in my head at times.

When he arrived, Faith’s father forbade her to marry Mr. Snow. Nobody knew why at first, but then the rumor spread like a river flooding its banks throughout the cloistered English enclave. It was somehow disclosed that Charles Snow was Eurasian, although he had managed to hide it until he and Faith announced their betrothal. He had already disclosed his heritage to her, she confided to me eventually, when we had begun to speak again, but she wasn’t aware of the backlash of gossip and discrimination it would herald. It’s impossible to know who began to speak of it, and Charles, being an honorable man, did not deny the fact, once confronted. Apart from gleaming black hair, there was nothing in Charles’s appearance to suggest that his mother, who died in childbed, had been Indian. Mr. Vespry was enraged at the slur he felt his daughter was threatening to cast upon his family’s good name by her union with a half-caste. It was reported that he had shouted at her, on the very steps of the Calcutta Club, that if she chose to marry this man he would disown her.

And that is when Faith came back to me. Without even a prior calling card she stood in my hall, gloveless, picking at her nails, asking what she should do, her eyes tear-filled. Without speaking I opened my arms, and she came into them. It was as if I had been missing a part of myself as I hugged her, and she returned the pressure. I felt an immediate lightening sensation, a heaviness lifted from me, and although I sorrowed for her tears and her trouble, I also inwardly rejoiced.

Once we were seated in the drawing room, and I had sent out the servants and closed the doors, I felt I could speak to her candidly, as we had once been able to.

“Do you really love him, Faith?”

“Linny, I do. I never thought I could feel this way. Of course no one—absolutely no one—supports me in this. And although I so want you to, I will understand if you don’t, either.” Her bottom lip was flaky and she continually bit at the loose skin with her small teeth. “But somehow I sensed you would understand, and so took a chance on calling on you, hoping you would admit me if you found me at your door. I was afraid to send a calling card and be rejected.”

“I will support you, Faith,” I said quietly. I knew better than most of the need to follow one’s own instinct. “If a marriage with Charles is what you want, then of course,” I told her, and her face crumpled with relief.

“I can’t bear not to have you as my friend any longer, Linny, even though I will accept your decision if you don’t want me back, after the way I’ve treated you.” She wept, and I took my handkerchief from my sleeve and handed it to her, as she appeared not even to have brought a reticule. “I realize how ridiculous I must have seemed when you announced your marriage plans. I was so afraid—” She stopped, as if unsure if she should continue, then took a breath and plunged on. “It was fear, my darling Linny, fear that I would be sent home. I had hoped and hoped that Charles would propose, and was a bundle of nerves, waiting, and then you came along and announced, so unexpectedly, that you would marry, and . . . and I’m sorry, Linny. Please forgive me. Since Charles has asked me to be his wife, and I recognize the true depth of his feelings for me, I feel as if I am a new person. I’m happy, Linny, happier than I’ve been for—well, I don’t remember. I don’t care about my father’s threats. And I don’t care that Charles has been lowered to the uncovenanted ranks, and that our manner of living will be much reduced. I realize, as I look upon his dear face, that I don’t give a fig about all of that. I love him, and he loves me.” She gave a great shuddering sigh.

I took her hands. “Then you must marry Charles, Faith. How many times, after all, does one feel love, and have it returned, within a lifetime?”