The Shallow Seas (18 page)

Now she turned and turned, her belly uncomfortable. The constant need to relieve herself was a vast nuisance. The night was hot and close. Finally, as the light began to slip into the room, she rose.

The notion of seeing him had taken root in her mind.

“Oh, Kitt Macleod, for heaven's sake.” she said to herself.

Charlotte lit a candle, went to the closet and opened his door. She could hear the bird sounds stirring in the jungly reaches of the grounds. She could make out the four-poster bed and some furniture but little else. What was she doing? If she entered that room he would expect … would suppose … Did she want this? She wasn't in the least sure, but the wish to see Tigran had become irresistible.

She moved forward. Tigran lay naked on the bed, one hand thrown back around his face. She took in the form of his body, the way his hair fell about his arm and her eyes went, as if pulled, to the dark indistinct space between his legs. She shook her head, annoyed at this awful peeping. He was asleep. She contemplated him, would have liked to touch him.

Then he turned, and her heart made a violent thump. She put her hand to her mouth. His hair had fallen half across his face, and she stretched forward to move it. Tigran started and opened his eyes, gripping her wrist without thinking, half asleep. Then he sat up abruptly, alarmed. “Charlotte?”

She looked at him, silent, unsure of what to say. He rose, taking up a sarong and tying it around his limbs. “Are you hurt? Is it the baby?”

She heard the concern in his voice. She shook her head. “I can't sleep. I wanted to see you.”

Tigran took her hand and led her along the balcony back to her room, which was cooler. He helped her back onto the bed. Then he saw the baby give a great kick and smiled. He put out his hand. She looked at him for a moment, then took his hand and put it on her belly. He could feel the baby moving under the skin. It was time to go to Buitenzorg for the birth, while she could still travel.

He leaned forward and, through her nightgown, very gently kissed her belly where the baby had kicked. Charlotte was moved and suddenly felt a longing to feel his skin on hers. She felt so ugly, deformed by this pregnancy, heavy and stupid. Yet he did not seem to mind; on the contrary. He showed her how desirable she was every day. She ran her fingers into his silky hair, and he looked up and saw the softness in her eyes.

“Can I hold you, Charlotte? Just hold you, kiss you? Nothing more. You need this. It has been too long.”

Charlotte saw that he meant it. And his words were true. She desperately needed to be caressed. She wanted to feel his lips on her skin, his hands on her belly, his reassuring presence. He had seen the birth of five children, and she had begun to be fearful of the unknown pain which lay so soon ahead of her.

Charlotte feared childbirth. In Scotland she had once, unknown to her aunt, who was in attendance, seen a woman die in labour, her agonies appalling, her face contorted with pain beyond endurance and a wild-eyed, violent and hideous desperation, like a half-slain animal seeking life. The memory of it had never left her mind, as it could have never left the mind of any woman. She shuddered, and he saw it.

“I am afraid.”

He moved on to the bed instantly and lay behind her, the length of his body against hers. He took her in his arms, pulling her against him, his lips on her neck, his hands moving gently on her swollen breasts, her swollen belly, until she released the tension of this encounter and relaxed against him. This feeling was exquisite, and she moved slightly in his arms, facing him, putting her hands in his hair. As their lips met, she sighed and he gave a small groan and deepened the kiss. He undid the ribbons of her gown and slid it down her body, lifting her legs to support her back against the weight of the belly, turning her into him. She did not think of Zhen; she thought of nothing but this feel of his skin, his lips, on her, his hands caressing her.

As she touched him, she wondered briefly why she had waited so long for this. She was married to him, and this seemed the most natural thing in the world. His body was hard, but his skin was soft. Eastern men had skin like silk, smooth and hairless. She felt him grow hard against her under his sarong, but she knew he would do nothing. She liked this hardness, affirming, physically, his desire and her own desirability, which she had begun to doubt. She drifted into sleep.

In the morning he was gone, and she felt the place where he had been. When she went to breakfast, she saw him, sitting at the table, looking out over the lawn. As she arrived he rose, smiling, and kissed her hand. Charlotte smiled too, and went close to him, putting her lips to his, her hand to his cheek. Her belly got in the way, and they both laughed.

“Tonight I will come to you. Like last night. Yes?”

“Yes,” she said and looked down. She suddenly felt inexplicably shy.

When Takouhi arrived, she saw that something new had happened. She could see it in the way Charlotte looked at Tigran. Despite the pregnancy, which was almost at term, she seemed lighter. They made plans to go to the hills.

At Buitenzorg, she began to feel a happiness and a surge of feeling for Tigran, especially when he joined her in
la seraille
, sending the women away chattering and giggling, taking her in his arms, feeling the movement of the baby and running his hands over her, pouring water through her hair, massaging her, kissing her. When he came to her she pulled him to her unashamedly. She liked watching him as she touched him, exploring his body, enjoying this power. He warned her, smiling, of his revenge when she was over her confinement. Against his expectations, he enjoyed this delay, this quiet exploration of each other. He had never kissed any woman as much as he kissed Charlotte. She sought his constant touch now when they were together, wanted his lips all over her. This newfound sensuality in her he found surprising and gratifying. Apart from the most intimate place, there could not be one inch of her skin that his lips had not touched, and he found it as heady and potent as any aphrodisiac. He discovered you could get drunk on kisses. For two weeks, he found himself practically abandoning his business; all other claims on his time annoyed him. They shared the big bed in the long room, sinking into the soft cotton kapok mattress, drinking wine, watching the fire, talking of the day, planning the morrow. She lay in his arms as content as a kitten, and he stroked her hair and kissed her, filled with gratitude and joy at her quiet trust in him. He was almost sorry when her time came.

Takouhi had told Charlotte about the Javanese ways of birth, the
jamu
, the ceremonies. To Charlotte's astonishment, the father was always present. Tigran had attended the birth of all his children, Takouhi told her; he was very experienced.

It was not like the horrible English way. When it had been time for her to give birth to Meda, George had been banished. She had been attended only by Dr Montgomerie, a man she hardly knew! Only one of her own Javanese maids was allowed to help her, wipe her sweating body. There was no singing and soothing incense, no water and loving words. It was hideous and embarrassing, utterly cold, a dreadful, fearful experience, especially at her age, over forty. She was amazed to have survived.

Charlotte knew that both Takouhi and George had been surprised by this late conception of their only child, their delight greater for its unexpectedness. But their life together had died with Meda; neither had been able to get over this loss.

The Javanese way of birthing was much better, said Takouhi. And so it was. Though Tigran had brought the Dutch civil surgeon from Batavia as a precaution, the birth was carried out in a Javanese way. The low, square bath was prepared with pure white cloths and soft cushions. Curtains and bamboo screens were hung around
la seraille
against the cold and in case of rain. Flames from the braziers chased shadows on the walls and warmed the air.

It was early evening, and candleglow and frankincense filled the room. The
dukun
chanted quietly in the corner. Two women fanned her continuously, wafting the fragrant and healing smoke of the frankincense gum around her lower body. Clad in a loose white sarong, Tigran cradled her. More frightened than she had ever been in her life, Charlotte clung to him, and he supported her, his cheek against hers, murmuring words to her: words he had never before said, feeling her pain like a knife in his chest. When the crown of the head appeared, Charlotte was exhausted, but Tigran whispered Madi's instructions to take little breaths so as not to tear as the head passed. Madi eased the baby forward with her hands and when the final contraction came, pulled him out gently. Tigran cut the cord, and the Javanese women chanted quietly in that sing-song way, sending prayers. A healthy boy, they exclaimed, praise be to Allah.

It was over, and Charlotte had never felt such relief, such a release.

One hour after the delivery, Madi bathed her carefully with wild rose and jasmine oil and wrapped her like a mummy from below her breasts to her thighs in a long white cloth. Round and round they went, sealing her up. Cooling aloe lotions were massaged into her breasts to encourage milk and warm oils on her lower body to rid her of the lochia, the postnatal blood. Her table was covered in special foods in dozens of tiny dishes—tonics bitter and sweet. Twice a day she was placed in a billowing skirt over the smoking frankincense bowl to cleanse her birth passages, bathed and wrapped again. After six days, she was permitted to walk in the evening around the park with Tigran and Takouhi. In this way, Takouhi explained, she would heal quickly and regain her figure.

Tigran was forbidden to do anything but hold her hand and kiss her for the forty-day period of confinement. He did not mind, though Madi's strict instructions to sleep apart were galling. Madi knew that, though her master might have some control, in her experience many men would require “comfort”, some even within a few days of the birth. This lack of care for the birthing woman made Madi despise men. She was adamant, knowing the master would obey.

Charlotte, despite all that had gone before, perfidious, suddenly desperately missed Zhen as she gazed at his little son, seeking a resemblance in his features, his eyes. She let herself be smoked and fed, wrapped and rubbed like a doll. When it was over, however, she had regained her spirits. And she had to admit, it had all worked. She was as slender as ever, her skin glowed and she felt rejuvenated.

On the forty-first night, Tigran banished everyone from their quarters. Madi, knowing this would happen, treated Charlotte carefully with the essence of Neem and other oils to prevent another pregnancy so soon after the birth. Then the maids dressed her in the white satin nightgown Tigran had sent, infused with the smoke of incense, and brushed her hair down her back. As they pampered her she felt as if she was in a story from
Les Mille et Une Nuits
, which she had read avidly in her grandfather's library. But it did not matter. She was happy to play Scheherezade, and she had nothing to fear from him.

All restraint she had felt was in the past. They had lain together too often, touched each other too much. She wanted this final step now, and more than she had thought she would. The forty days had restored her health and filled her with gratitude for Tigran's strength and generosity at the birth of her son. She felt his sureness, the security he gave her in her new motherhood. As he lifted her onto their bed, she held his head in her arms and sought his lips. At first he simply held her, but so tight she thought he would crush her, and she pulled her head from his shoulder and cried out. When he came into her for the first time, he was all urgent and groaning passion, and she felt a disappointment.

She had been adamant in her wish not to compare him with Zhen, but she could not help but feel the difference, almost the shock of this rapidity. Tigran sensed her feelings, but the waiting for her had taken its toll. When Zan was brought to her to suckle, he watched, touching her breasts, kissing her lips, stroking the baby's head, and when Alexander was taken away, he pulled her again into his arms. This time he determined to show he was not just storm. As Charlotte sensed this she relaxed into his hands. He was glad he had had the wisdom to endure the torment of waiting for her. This night and those to come would make it all worthwhile.

Only when the sun began to rise did they sleep.

Zan was a lusty baby. Very quickly her own milk was not enough, and he went to the wet nurse. Before long, she ceased nursing him at all.

Fourteen months later, Takouhi and Charlotte were bathing, surrounded by petals of jasmine and mountain rose. A fire under the stone baths kept the water warm if the day was cool. The odour of aromatic wood smoke floated on the air. Meda's final mourning period, the one thousand day
slametan
, would be next week. The final details were being settled, and Takouhi was speaking quietly to her
dukun
, who knelt on a gold cushion by the side of the bath. When the old woman left, the maids brought cotton towels and they rose, dripping, and then, dressed in batik gowns, sat on the cushions to pick at the little dishes which lay on the low wooden table.

Jasmine-scented incense glowed in the stone bowls at the four corners of the pavilion. Beyond the parapet, the valley fell away five hundred feet below. Two of the maids were occupied in staining henna patterns on Takouhi and Charlotte's feet and chattering quietly. There was always a little tussle as to who would serve Charlotte, her white skin a canvas they all wanted to paint. When Charlotte was here, she felt like Cleopatra.

She looked over at Alexander playing in the smallest pool with the son of the wet nurse. Alexander was as strong and muscled as his little companion was slight and fine-boned. The Javanese children were small and delicate-featured, pretty. Charlotte was not big, but she felt like a giant next to the graceful, tiny Javanese women. Alexander's wet nurse and her niece, his
babu
, called him Iskandar, sometimes Zandar. Charlotte mostly called him Zan. Tigran refused to call him anything but Alexander. He had very light brown skin, dark almond eyes and thick, jet black hair. He was as handsome as Arjuna; all the maids told her so, and showered him with kisses.