The Linnet Bird: A Novel (76 page)

“Well,” he said slowly, “I’m not exactly sure what you’re refer—”

“The commitment report, Dr. Haverlock. Do you carry it?” My voice never lost its sweetness. I moved the package an inch closer to him.

Still studying the lakhs of rupees, Dr. Haverlock reached into his inside breast pocket, and I heard the reassuring crackle of folded paper.

He gave it to me, and once I read what was written there, I passed him the package of money, then held out my right hand.

He looked down at it, took it as if to bow over it, but I pulled back slightly. He then understood, and shook it, firmly. And then we stood, each holding our reward, and exchanged a pleasant smile.

We were each as good as the other at this game. We both had acquired that which we wanted most.

I
T WAS OVER
in the next few hours. And in Somers’s last painful moments on earth, I knelt by his bed and stroked his hollow face, appearing to the servants and to Dr. Haverlock to be the dutiful wife comforting her dying husband with final gentle gestures. I kept my own face composed, but in my head I spoke to Somers.
I have tricked and deceived you in ways you will never know. And now it is over; the nightmare is over. I have saved my life and the soul of my child
.

In spite of the depth of his illness I sensed his comprehension of this unspoken fact, that in spite of my past I was the stronger of us. That he was unable to control my future. I knew this from the way his unfocused eyes skittered in their sockets, how his lips shook loosely, as if he needed to speak. I put my fingers against his mouth and brushed back his hair, kissing his cold, dry forehead. “It is all over, Somers. All the hate and hurt you have subjected me to,” I whispered, so quietly that the only sound the others in the room would hear was a breathless murmur, the last few pledges of love from a wife to her husband. “I have made it so,” I whispered, still more softly, little more than a sigh, and I saw his eyelids move ever so slightly, and I knew he heard me. I knew he understood.

A low rattle came from somewhere within him, and then his eyes rolled upward, to the limp ruffles of the punkah, and stayed there, unblinking.

Epilogue

1840

I
T IS ONE OF THOSE GLORIOUS SPRING DAYS WHEN THE AIR CARRIES
the scent of the earth warming. The light from the open window falls across the floor in soft, buttery squares; the rustle of the birches that surround our home is a soft whisper. I rise and go to the window, looking out at the new growth in our lovely garden—the delicate bluebells and irises, flowers too fragile to ever have survived India’s heat. I have grown to see the beauty in England’s misty weather. The colors of the garden, without the vibrancy of India’s hues, are delicate, tender. I find them beautiful in a way impossible to me before. I marvel at them.

W
E LIVE
, D
AVID AND
I, in a home that shares its garden with Shaker and Celina’s.

Shaker has opened a small dispensary in the village of Marigate in Cheshire. Known all over the county for his quiet, trustworthy manner and acute ability to diagnose ailments, he discusses symptoms and possible healing herbs for the treatment of many of these physical and mental complaints. The rooms of the dispensary are always full, and Shaker is often referred to as a physician, although he always gently corrects the misapprehension: he is a lay practitioner of homeopathy. Most days I help him in the dispensary, pulverizing and weighing and measuring, discussing particular cases with him.

I have been amazed at the difference in Shaker since I returned to England last year, after the settling of Somers’s will. Shaker still often trembles, but at other times—when he sits and watches David play, or listens as Celina reads aloud by the fire—he is perfectly still. I have seen this but do not comment on it, afraid that if those perceived moments of peace are spoken of they may disappear.

Celina, too, displays a sensitivity I would not have predicted. I remember her as sharp faced and quick tongued, but of course that was only because she saw me as a rival. Now that fear has long fled; I believe it is the simple and powerful act of loving and being loved wholly in return that has changed her. She now has a quiet beauty, her eyes filled with a glow I never saw when I first met her in Liverpool almost a decade ago. She welcomed David and me when we arrived at their door, helping me adjust to the life I had so long been away from. It took some time for me to regain my energy and health, but she seemed to find joy in aiding and watching my recuperation. Whether it is learned from Shaker, or a natural talent that Shaker has brought out in her, she does possess a healing nature.

Neither Shaker nor Celina knows of David’s true paternity; their grasp of my time in India will rely forever on the letters I wrote. It is all that is necessary.

Sundays, after church, David and I walk home, hand in hand, along the quiet, tree-lined road from the village. Shaker and Celina walk a few steps ahead, their heads together as they discuss the sermon or whatever news we have heard at church. It is at these times that David and I talk about India, and the difference of life here. He remembers Calcutta clearly, and knows no other place but that and the village here. And so I describe Liverpool—the buildings, the bustling streets, the train. I have promised him we will soon visit Liverpool together and take a journey to Manchester on that huge, steaming beast.

A month after I returned to England I journeyed back to Liverpool and hired a mason to carve a beautiful stone in pale gray granite. When it was done I returned again, and as the headstone was put firmly in place in the graveyard at Our Lady and St. Nicholas, I arranged for the bells to be rung and said my own prayers for my mother as I ran my fingers over her name—Frances Gow—carved deeply into the smooth surface. And below, in letters just as deep, Forever Cherished. Beloved Mother of Linny Gow.

I can finally wear the pendant with pride, and I wear no other jewelry but this.

When the time is right I will take David to visit his grandmother’s grave. He will never know of the other grave I visited. The pink-streaked stone is barely visible, sunken into the soft grass, and yet the holly bush still stands, its spiny foliage glossy.

He listens to my stories about Liverpool with interest. He has learned to write and sends simple letters to Malti. Sometimes he draws pictures of his life in England and encloses those as well. He says he will go back to visit her someday. Malti lives with Trupti and her nieces and nephews in Delhi. They no longer have to work for others, and want for nothing.

David thrives, a healthy, strong-limbed, dark-eyed child, a child of seven who plays with his friends and complains about his daily school lessons. In this way he is an ordinary boy. But he has the love of horses in his blood. Shaker and I discovered this when I decided it was time he had his own horse. We took him to a stable, and he immediately chose a tall gleaming roan.

I thought the horse too big for him, but he was adamant. And when he was in the saddle I saw his father in him so clearly, in the way he held the short crop but was loath to use it, in his small, capable hands as they smoothed the horse’s mane, as he leaned forward and instinctively whispered into the horse’s ear. On that first mount, he pressed his knees into the roan’s sides and was off across the field, leaving me with my mouth open in surprise and worry, and yet also with such an overpowering joy that I could not speak.

Shaker immediately took chase on a quick dappled mare, and within minutes they rode back to me, the look of pleasure on David’s face unmistakable, while Shaker simply smiled with the proud, indulgent smile of a father.

He and Celina have not had the fortune to have children, and they treat David with the love and compassion they would have given freely to their own. Shaker and Celina are our family; I am like a beloved sister to them, while David is the cosseted child of us all.

And so, unlike me, who too early lost a mother, my son blossoms in the love of two women. David has his memories of the man he believes to be his father, although they are thin and rapidly fading, and soon will be reduced to the small likeness painted on a cameo. Shaker, who stands in for his father, is kind and loving. And the one who truly fathered him will remain—at least until David is no longer an impressionable child—unknown.

When he is fully grown, will I give him the missive I wrote at the end of that terrible time in Calcutta, in the days following Somers’s death? Who can say? At times I take out the shakily written, ink-blotched pages and read them, seeing myself—who I was then—as if through someone else’s eyes. I keep it safe, for I believe it may be important for David one day. I have come to realize that there are no certainties in this life, no promises—to others, or to oneself—that can always be kept.

There are days when the longing for the poppy is so strong I endure physical pain. I know now that it is most likely I will never lose the longing, but I also know that there is nothing that can ever drive me to once more be its slave. At odd times, unexpected times, perhaps when I am waking, I feel a sense of the old ebb and flow of the sweet smoke in my head. At these times I am confused momentarily, saddened, when I think over my life and see it as a disaster, a litany of errors small and huge, of lies and deception. But then I hear the sound of my son murmuring to his pup from the other room, and I know that the long journey I took has brought me to this place, with David, in the way it was meant to be. I can again bear to look at my own reflection: although my eyes are deeper, the skin around them finely lined, they are clear now.
I look like a mother, an ordinary woman.

Celina has suggested that perhaps I shall soon find someone—an ordinary man—to share my life. Perhaps. I have learned that I am capable of passion, of giving and accepting love. I am twenty-eight. There is time.

For now I have my dream—the dream that has nothing to do with the poppy. This real dream, the one I can bring at will, is the memory of the copper sun, of the Kashmir valley, its carpet of flowers. Of passion and of completeness. This dream has replaced the nightmare. I am free of all that kept me prisoner for so long. And who could wish for more than this?