Wilful Impropriety (40 page)

“Dirty girl.” She hits my hands with her knitting needles. “Don’t you have any decency?”

Mary doesn’t understand why any girl would let a boy put his mouth on her. “It’s disgusting and dirty.”

I’m brushing her hair, which is thin and limp and nothing to be proud of. “Didn’t your father kiss your mother?”

“He would never,” she says emphatically.

Each night the officer’s wife reads to the children about an orphan boy named Oliver who falls in with a group of pickpockets. Apparently there are many child thieves in London. Their leader is named Fagin and he’s no worse than any British officer, but there’s also a nasty man named Bill who is cruel to everyone. There are half-brothers and lost lovers and Bill kills Nancy, but if there are any parts about kissing, the officer’s wife omits them. I don’t think the memsahib would approve of Mary listening to stories about murderers, but she seems enthralled, and it’s a disappointment to us both when we reach England without hearing the ending.

“The wicked get punished, of course,” the officer’s wife says. “That’s always the end of the story.”

She doesn’t know about the memsahib’s money, which I’ve taken to hiding in my shoe. She’s probably always lived in a good house with fine clothing and every need met. This money is my back wages, and Saidie’s, too, and is restitution for everything the memsahib and Mrs. Reverend and the other British did—spreading disease, and not giving us their doctors and medicine, and letting their men make girls pregnant. It’s money I deserve for serving Mary and her ill temper, and for all the tantrums to come now that England is a flat, brown lump of land on the horizon.

“Come away from that porthole, Ashna!” Mary snaps. “Tie my shoelaces.”

Before we left, the Reverend’s congregants donated clothes for me. I have two plain blue dresses, one pair of stockings, a pale chemise, a pair of sturdy shoes, and a dark gray coat that hangs heavy on the shoulders. They also gave me two black gloves and a black hat. All these things seemed silly at home, but when we step off the gangplank in London I’m extraordinarily glad. The stiff wind pushes us along the dock. I have to hold tight to Mary’s hand lest she be carried aloft and dumped into the waves.

“I hope it’s not always this cold,” she mutters, the first sign from her that maybe she’s worried about the future as much as I am.

In a large terminal we have to stand in lines, pass an inspection and answer questions. Finally we’re allowed through to a street jammed full of horses, carriages, and men shouting in odd accents. The ruckus is overwhelming. Even back in the bazaars, you’d never see so many people and so much chaos. The air smells like rotting fish and animal droppings. The officer’s wife takes us in a cab to a hotel. A woman is there, dressed in a purple dress and a black hat with silly purple flowers on it.

Her name is Mrs. Medlock and her mouth drops open when she sees me. “No one told me they were sending a black girl!”

“Yes, well, good afternoon and good travels to you,” the officer’s wife says, immediately bustling off with her children.

Mrs. Medlock’s disapproval of my skin color is matched by her disapproval of Mary’s plain looks, but it’s not as if she has a choice about either. She’s been instructed by Mary’s uncle to bring us to his manor, and that she will do. In the morning she leads us to a train station called King’s Cross to travel to Yorkshire. Everyone has to sit properly in a carriage, with no one allowed to ride on the top or hang from the back. Mary sits by the window, as cold and disinterested as ever. Mrs. Medlock has no choice but to either sit silently or talk to me.

“I suppose you’ve never seen a train before,” she says.

I try to stay polite. “We have trains in India, madam.”

“You’ve never ridden on one like this,” she sniffs.

“Neither Miss Mary nor I have ever been on a train, but I rode an elephant once.”

Her eyes narrow. “That’s preposterous. Young women do not ride elephants.”

“A man brought one to the village and the children rode three at a time,” I tell her. “They’re quite friendly, unless you get them mad. Then they make horrible noises and trample people underfoot.”

Mrs. Medlock harrumphs and turns her gaze out the window.

•   •   •

They say India is big, but England seems endless. The weather is miserable, and a nasty draft seeps through the gaps around the windows. Everything smells like engine smoke. Mary stares at the countryside for hours without a single comment. I don’t know if she misses her mother the way I miss Saidie, or if she has any emotions at all except for periodic rage. If I carried that much anger around in me I’d have a headache and stomachache and yell at my servants, too.

When Mrs. Medlock speaks again, it’s to tell us about Misselthwaite Manor. It’s six hundred years old, and has a hundred rooms of fine furniture, but most of them are locked up. Mr. Archibald Craven, the master of the house, was born with a crooked back but nevertheless married a quite lovely woman who died some years ago.

“He’s never recovered from his grief,” Mrs. Medlock says. “Keeps himself away most of the time, or locks himself in his study when he’s home. Don’t expect to see him or hear from him. He won’t concern himself with little girls or black servants.”

At the next stop, Mrs. Medlock purchases a lunch basket full of chicken, bread, and tea. She and Mary share most of the meat and leave only a little for me. Mrs. Medlock is slightly more generous with the tea. I don’t understand why the English like tea so much. It always tastes bitter, even full of milk and sugar. Mary and Mrs. Medlock both nap after lunch and then, finally, after dark has come, the train pulls into a station and a conductor calls out, “Thwaite! Thwaite Station!”

They leave it to me to carry Mary’s suitcase, my own small bag, and the parcels Mrs. Medlock bought while in London. Out on the wooden platform, the rain and wind lash at us again. The stationmaster ushers us inside a small brick building and speaks to Mrs. Medlock with a strange accent.

“Tha’s brought tha’ young ’un, but who’s tha’?” he asks.

Mrs. Medlock adjusts her bonnet. “Nothing but a native girl.”

The stationmaster eyes me frankly. “From Africa, is tha’ it?”

“From India, sir,” I tell him, my teeth chattering.

“Such a strange world,” he says. “Tha’ carriage is outside for thee, Mrs. Medlock.”

It’s a fine carriage, attended to by a footman in a long dark coat. A lantern hangs from a hook and sheds watery yellow light around us. The footman helps Mrs. Medlock and Mary inside, then turns to take the packages and bags from me.

“I’ll take care o’ those for tha’, miss,” he says, cheerful enough, before he gets a close look at me. “Oh! Tha’s a . . . I’m sorry. Tha’s quite a surprise.”

“Not where I come from, I’m not,” I say, rather sharply, and climb inside without his help.

After a short trip through the darkened village, we start across a bleak expanse called Missel Moor. It’s hard to tell by the small light, but I don’t see why anyone would want to live near such a thing—it’s bleak and empty and makes an eerie noise with the wind rushing over it.

“It sounds like ghosts,” Mary says.

“That’s just the wutherin’,” Mrs. Medlock replies. “You’ll grow accustomed to it.”

Mary doesn’t look convinced. “Who lives out there?”

“Nothing but wild ponies and sheep,” Mrs. Medlock says. “And heather and gorse.”

“What is gorse?” I ask.

“Everyone knows what gorse is,” Mrs. Medlock replies, and I’d like to pinch her.

Every turn of the wheels pulls me farther and farther from home. Maybe I’ll be pulled so far that I’ll snap, like string stretched too far. Eventually the road turns uphill and we reach a lodge where we get more bitter tea. The final drive is along a paved road that runs through miles of park that surround the manor. Imagine that, I tell Saidie in my head. A man so rich he owns a forest and a road and a house with one hundred rooms. But it seems very lonely out here, too, and maybe that’s the price the English pay for wealth.

The manor appears, as large and foreboding as Mrs. Medlock made it sound. There’s a butler and another servant, and they stare at me while the footman brings our bags inside.

“Make sure to wipe them dry, John,” says Mrs. Medlock.

John nods and does his work briskly. Now that we’re inside, I can see he has blue eyes. Blue like the ocean we crossed, with all its secrets deep below the waves. His face is long and clean, no trace of stubble even though it’s late in the day. Barney’s face was like that, too. Mrs. Medlock settles things with the other servants and leads us through room after room of furniture. There are no people. I hope there’s a fire where we’re going, because the cold has settled into my clothes and skin and muscles. Mary is so sleepy that she keeps bumping up against me, and I’m so tired that I can still hear the wind howling over the moor, a constant rush.

When we reach a flight of dark, steep stairs, Mrs. Medlock marches up them without hesitation. Mary rouses enough to grip the rail with fierce determination. I follow, but the steps sway out from beneath my feet. The ceiling spins. Suddenly, without even knowing that I’m falling, I thump my head on the floor. An extraordinary pain shoots up my left leg, red like a hot fire poker.

“Miss! Miss!” says John the footman. He’s leaning over me with worry in his blue eyes. But the pain keeps me from saying anything at all, and when he lifts me I slide right away into darkness.

•   •   •

When I wake, it’s in a room finer than any I’ve ever seen. The furniture is carved oak, very heavy, and the tall window has heavy green curtains on it to mask the light. A fire is burning in the hearth and I’m toasty-warm under clean sheets and blankets. It’s like a dream, except for the throbbing pain in my knee and my immediate fear about the memsahib’s money.

I lurch upward too fast. The room spins and sends me back to the pillow.

“Easy there!” says a cheerful voice. It’s an English girl, my own age, with ruddy cheeks and a plump figure. “You don’ wan’ to be risin’ till you’re well enow.”

“What?” I ask.

She puts down the tray she’s carrying. “Mrs. Medlock said you might not understand Yorkshire. I’ll have to speak better. I’m Martha.”

I sit up slowly. “I’m Ashna. Is there—do you know—my shoes?”

“You don’t need your shoes while you’re in bed. Or is that the custom in India? Mrs. Medlock said they do strange things there. Aren’t you hungry? I brought breakfast.”

The food on the tray smells delicious. There’s hot porridge and biscuits with butter, and I’ll never say no to butter.

As I eat, Martha chatters on. “I’ve never seen a black girl before. They say there’s black as in Africa black, and black as in India black. Ben Weatherstaff was a sailor once and he claims he’s seen them all, even Chinamen, who are yellow. Is that true?”

“There’s many different kinds of colors, yes,” I tell her.

She feeds wood into the fire. “The Queen herself has a goddaughter blacker than midnight. She was a stolen princess and the king of Africa gave her to England as a gift. I don’t think people ought to be given away, do you? That’s why they abolished slavery.”

There’s a knock on the door and Mrs. Medlock enters, as grim as ever.

“Mr. Craven wants to see her,” she announces. “Get her dressed and presentable.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Martha says.

Mrs. Medlock eyes me coldly. “It’s unfortunate that you fell. Of course, we all hope for a speedy recuperation. Miss Mary needs you.”

Once she’s gone, Martha helps me into one of my blue dresses and sits me on an overstuffed chair by the fire. The stocking won’t fit over my swollen knee, so she tucks a blanket around my waist.

“I need my shoes,” I tell her.

“Such a fuss about those,” she remarks, but brings them anyway and then busies herself tidying the bed.

I feel inside the right toe. The memsahib’s money is not there. The left shoe is empty as well. Dry-mouthed, I ask, “Martha, did anything fall out of my shoes while I slept?”

“Anything like what?” she asks.

“A small piece of jewelry. From my sister.”

“Strange place to keep jewelry,” she says. “Is that another custom in India?”

“It was for safekeeping.”

“Oh. Well, I wasn’t here when they tended to you. It was only Mrs. Medlock and John.”

Immediately I suspect Mrs. Medlock. It would be just like her to steal away what’s now mine. But before I can figure out how to get the money back, Mr. Craven arrives. His back isn’t crooked at all. He has black hair with gray streaks in it and a pinched expression, like he’s eaten something bad and his stomach doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Well,” he says. “You’re Ashna. Mary speaks well of you.”

Immediately I know him as a liar. Mary has never spoken well of anyone.

“Thank you for your generosity, sahib,” I say. “In bringing me here and letting me sleep in this fine room.”

His tense shoulders relax a bit. “It’s the least I can do after your nasty spill on the stairs. You scared Mrs. Medlock quite badly. Is your knee very painful?”

“No, sir,” I say, “although I can’t walk on it yet.”