The Linnet Bird: A Novel (46 page)
Read The Linnet Bird: A Novel Online
Authors: Linda Holeman
She attempted a shaky smile. “I knew I was right to talk to you about this. I know I’ve been impossible since we left Liverpool, Linny. I own up to that. It’s you who have been so brave, and so strong. And no matter what I might have said to you, in anger, please know that there is no one I would rather have had on this journey. So you do forgive me?”
I smiled, nodding. “I am so very happy for you, Faith,” I told her. “And we shall always, always be friends.”
“But you are a senior lady now, and Charles . . . well, I will no longer be of your standing,” Faith said.
“I won’t allow us to be pushed apart because of that.” I snapped my fingers. “That’s what I care about what anyone might say of our friendship.”
She hugged me, quite spontaneously. “Isn’t it absolutely marvelous, Linny, to be loved so deeply and so truly? Just think. Soon we will both be memsahibs in Calcutta. Would you have ever dreamed of this life?”
“No,” I told her, honestly. “No, Faith. I wouldn’t.”
A
ND SO
F
AITH CHOSE
Charles over her allowance and inheritance and returning to her old life in Liverpool.
I liked Charles. He was unassuming and had a quiet appeal. He had been employed as a commissioner in one of the Company’s smaller offices, but immediately after the disclosure of his heritage he had been reduced to a member of the uncovenanted ranks, his salary only a fraction of what he had formerly commanded. As soon as they were wed, most of the English community snubbed Faith, and cards requesting her presence at the finer events stopped. Social rank and the invitations it brought had been terribly important to Faith, but I hoped she could get over that, buoyed by the strength she must now draw from Charles. With him I saw her blossom, although I later realized it was to be a brief season.
I
MADE A HORRENDOUS
mistake in trying to include Faith and Charles in our own circle. Somers and I had been married four months, and Somers often let me draw up the invitation list, choosing from a roster of names he supplied. Tonight I chose two former Fishing Fleet girls whom Faith and I knew well. They were now betrothed to young men Somers approved of, and who had worked with Charles before his recent fall from grace. There was also an older couple known by Somers for most of his time in India who would act as chaperones for the engaged couples. I selected Charles and Faith without mentioning it to Somers.
As Mr. and Mrs. Charles Snow were announced in the drawing room, where the rest of our party stood with drinks in hand, a hush fell over the room. I hurried to greet them. Faith looked particularly fetching in a flowered poplin dress, the underskirt a deep, rich brown red, which of course emphasized her hair. But her eyes were wide and uncertain; Charles stood, poker-straight, at her side.
“Please, please come in,” I said, smiling, turning to look back into the room, and saw that there were no welcoming smiles, no murmurs of greeting. And then Somers turned his back, speaking loudly to one of the other gentlemen of an inconsequential matter, completely snubbing Faith and Charles, and setting the tone for the evening.
It was completely miserable; I struggled to include Faith and Charles in the conversation at the table, but they, too, aware of the atmosphere their presence had created, were stilted and uncommunicative. I saw Charles’s dark, intelligent stare across the table, and I was deeply ashamed that I had put him and Faith in this position.
When the last of the guests finally departed, Somers turned on me. “How
dare
you do that to me,” he growled. “Of all the asinine, inappropriate—”
“Don’t tell me that you go along with the rest of them, Somers,” I said wearily. “You told me yourself you had even considered courting Faith when we first arrived. And it was she who brought me here, who—”
But he cut me off. “Those bloody half-castes. They’re all alike, you know, with that damn chee-chee accent, bowing and scraping and stabbing you in the back whenever they get a chance. Mixed blood,” he sneered. “If you’ve been touched by the tar brush, you can’t hide it. It will come out in one way or another.”
“You had no difficulty accepting Charles before you knew,” I said. “And he speaks no differently from you.”
“I always suspected there was something off about him,” Somers said. “Just as I knew there was something hidden about you when I first met you. I’ve got a nose for deceit. You must know that about me by now.” He turned to go to his room, but stopped, looking back at me. “Don’t you ever, ever humiliate me like that again. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, I understand,” I answered, refusing to acquiesce to his demand.
He stood there a moment longer, staring at me, and then, with long, angry strides, went to his room, slamming the door.
I
SENT A CHIT
to Faith the next day, asking her to call in the early afternoon, after lunch, when Somers would have returned to work. She sent back the chit with a large
yes
written across it.
When she arrived, I took her hands in mine. “I’m so, so sorry for last night, Faith. Please forgive me. I could not have imagined you would be so shabbily treated.”
Faith squeezed my hands. “It’s all right. Charles didn’t want to come, but I convinced him, pouting and putting on an act to make him guilty, telling him you were my only real friend in Calcutta, and how I would never forgive him if we didn’t attend. Now I so wish I hadn’t. Like you, I had no idea that our presence would be so inappropriate.”
We sat down beside each other on the settee, still holding hands. And at that moment there seemed little more to say.
June 15, 1831
Dear Shaker,
Thank you, thank you, thank you! When I received your letter I cannot tell you how my heart tumbled and raced. I immediately recognized Mr. Worth’s distinctive hand. It is kind of him to scribe for you. Does he still do all the lettering for the announcements?
I was deeply saddened to hear of the death of your mother. I can well understand how difficult this last year must have been for you, with her needing constant attention. How kind that Celina Brunswick and her mother paid a condolence call. Faith has often spoken highly of Celina, citing her many good qualities and her musical abilities.
I have been a married woman—a memsahib—for all of four months. My husband, Somers, has family wealth that allowed him to purchase a home for us in Chowringhee within two months of our marriage. The area is one of the spaciously planned districts of Calcutta, one that attempts to catch the cooling effect of the wind off the river and shade from natural vegetation. It is set in a verdant garden compound, and the house is a stucco villa.
The house is really quite lovely, but too large and echoing. Somers takes great delight in an ongoing decoration, smothering the rooms in an English scheme of furniture and rugs and artifacts which, frankly, hold less appeal for me.
The thing I love the most about the house is the wide verandahs, front and back. They have proved essential in the hot season, which is full upon us. There are occasional small, blistering winds now, the precursor, I’ve been warned, to the monsoons that will arrive within the month. The sun, which I welcomed on my arrival in India, has now become a threatening and brutal master. The air is bright, brilliant, and washes out the color from the trees, the roads, the gardens, the rocks, even our faces. Surfaces are impossible to touch; the hurtful edge of the sun is everywhere. I can feel its sharpness against my own skin. There is debilitating humidity. I am covered with heat rash. There are insects that defy explanation. Even my words, when I have the energy to speak, seem to melt as they leave my mouth, dissolving as if made of sugar, and carrying little meaning.
But in spite of this cruel god in the sky, the more intense the heat, the sweeter the fruits, the heavier and more fragrant the blossoms.
I stay inside my lair with all manner of devices to try and stay cool. There are the everpresent overhead fans—the punkahs—although they do little but churn the thick, hot air. The
tatties
—reed screens over all the windows and doorways—are constantly spashed with water in the hope of cooling the hot air that blows through. And I also have a thermantidote—a horribly noisy contraption that is intended to dispense cooled air through the room. For all its deafening roar, it helps little.
When Somers is home, we are kept busy with the endless rounds of unbearable social visits. There is a kind of forced jolliness in all this business of calling cards and daytime visits between eleven and two—when the sun is at its worst—that I find vapid. But when Somers is away—which he is, frequently, pig sticking in the jungle or visiting one of the other Company presidencies in Madras or Bombay—oh, Shaker, my Indian world opens, although I must keep my activities secret. And perhaps this is how I am, and how I feel the most comfortable. I see clearly now that much of my life has been a secret, and may always be so.
With Somers gone I send my regrets to all invitations that come in and instead stay home, going barefoot, pushing aside the dhurrie rugs and savoring the coolness of the stone floor. I read endlessly—there is a small but adequate library at the Club, and I am a frequent visitor. I give no orders for meals, which sends the cook into deep sulks, and I know he is terribly offended. But I prefer to avoid the everpresent meat—venison, beef, mutton, pork, veal, and poultry—and the endless courses of rich English food that our poor
biwarchi
tries so desperately to create, often with strange results.
The servants think me mad, I’m sure, except for my beloved ayah, Malti (her name means small, fragrant flower, and suits her perfectly), and they pretend they are not staring at me dancing about the house barefoot, in one of Malti’s saris, my hair down, living on rice and almonds and muskmelon and mangoes and an occasional curry. They have also grown bold enough to carry on—at my urging—very minor conversations in Hindi with me when the “
burra
sahib” is not at home, and my command of the language has grown remarkably.
I have also learned to ride. Again, this activity had to be done in secret, for how could I explain to the fine British ladies of Calcutta that I had never ridden? Even the smallest English child here is set into a ring saddle and becomes competent at an early age. And so I sought out a stable away from the Club, with a patient Eurasian handler who doesn’t question my inexperience, and within a few months found myself managing quite ably in the saddle. I have not yet tackled jumps or anything more ambitious than a trot or canter or gallop, but I can ride passably enough to not draw attention to myself.
