Zemindar (18 page)

‘Old
cats
!’ she spat out, as I took the brush. ‘Nasty, illnatured, mean old cats!’

‘Oh? Who are?’

‘All of them! All those dreary women Connie and I were drinking tea with this evening.’ They had been to a ladies party at the house of Wallace’s commanding officer. ‘They talked of nothing but babies. Having babies and bringing up babies, and babies being ill and babies dying and who was about to have a baby. You’d think there was nothing else in the world to interest a woman.’

‘Oh, poor Em,’ I comforted. ‘But still, that doesn’t make them ill-natured or mean—just limited.’

‘Yes, but… but somehow they have already discovered that I, that I am …’

‘I see: that you are going to have a baby?’

‘Yes. I can’t think where they can have heard it, because I certainly haven’t breathed a word and I’m sure Kate wouldn’t have either. But there you are, they know!’

‘Connie, I expect. You know how good she is at saying the wrong thing.’

‘Yes, of course. I never thought of Connie—drat her! She just sat there grinning, with her nose all pink at the end, and hiccoughed into her handkerchief. I felt so mortified, Laura, I can’t tell you. What my mother would say if she knew about Connie! All the other women just ignored her; even when she let her cup and saucer slip off her lap. Mrs Sandes just raised her hand for a servant to clear up the mess and went on talking as though nothing had happened, and poor Connie was so apologetic and nearly in tears. And they all looked at me—pityingly—as though Connie was my responsibility. As if I can do anything about her.’

‘And that’s what upset you?’

‘Oh, no! That just made me cross. But one of the old … the old
besoms
, who sat near me, a fat woman with snuff on the bodice of her dress and under her nose, would insist on squeezing my hand and saying things like, er, “Poor little dear. So far from home, and so young and all your good times coming to an end so early. Poor, poor little dear.” Ugh! I could have screamed. And then they all turned and looked at me, measuringly you know, wondering how … how far along I was, and trying to make out whether it showed yet. It was quite horrid, and the worst of it was that I knew I was blushing.’

‘
I
should have been there. I would have looked right back at them in a way that would have made them mind their own business.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you would have. You can do that sort of thing so well. But then the fat snuffy one said, and I swear she was gloating, Laura: “What a pity that your dancing days will be over before the Residency ball,” and when I looked at her—blankly, you know—she went on about it not being “seemly” to dance when it was generally known that one was having a baby—not “delicate”, she said. So I turned away very haughtily and talked to someone else. But is it true, Laura? Will I really not be able to dance at the ball?’

‘Heavens, I don’t know! I’d never have given it a thought, and if you are feeling well enough I don’t see why you shouldn’t. But I suppose people might talk, especially in a place like this where everybody knows everybody else’s business. It’s too bad.’

‘Well, if I can’t dance, I’m not going and that’s that. I’m not going to be stuck in a corner with all the old crows, fed on ices, and forgotten for the rest of the time. I won’t do it!’

‘Now don’t get fussed. The ball is only a little more than a week away, so I expect we’ll be able to manage it. The word will have got around, certainly, but so long as Charles doesn’t think about the propriety of the matter and forbid you to dance, there is nothing anyone can do to stop you. And I don’t believe anyone would be foolish enough to mention the subject to him afterwards, no matter how much they chatter among themselves. We must just contrive somehow that he doesn’t think about it beforehand, for if he does, I believe he might keep you from dancing; he is rather a “proper” fellow, after all, isn’t he?’

‘Sometimes,’ his wife rejoined sourly. ‘But they know everything about us. All of them. All about my father, and Charles’s partnership and the Company in Calcutta. Wouldn’t be a bit surprised if they even knew just how much our income is, which is more than I do myself. And of course they know all about Oliver Erskine.’

‘Oh, do they?’ And with a memory of the strange face in the portrait in Calcutta, and my conversation with Kate Barry, I went on, ‘What did they have to say about him?’

‘Just the usual things. When were we going out to Hassanganj, and how long was it since Charles had met him and so on. They were quite put out that I couldn’t tell them more than they knew themselves, but went on about his being so rich, and his grand house and his horses, and what a recluse he was. That’s how they put it, though of course they meant he was unsociable. And I couldn’t even say we would be visiting Hassanganj, which was very awkward for me, as having come all this way we really should have had an invitation from the wretched man, and not getting one looks so, well, pointed, doesn’t it? I do wish Charles would forget about him and take us on to Delhi directly. I think I’ve seen enough of India now, and with this wretched brat on the way, I want to get home to Mother and Mount Bellew. But there was something about him, Laura, that I fancy Charles doesn’t know and wouldn’t like to know.’ She swung round and faced me so suddenly that I drew the brush across her forehead and nose. ‘Ouch! Mildred Myers, she’s the very fat one with rabbits’ teeth, you know? Married to that foxy-faced Myers with ginger whiskers who tried to hold my hand under the tablecloth at the Greshams’ dinner …’

‘He did what?’

‘Oh yes, lots of them do, you know. I used to think being married would put a stop to all that, but it hasn’t, not that it is of any consequence, but anyway Mildred told me,
sotto voce
of course, and out of sheer spite too, I’m sure, that he has a terrible reputation with women.’

‘Naturally. That is only to be expected. If people don’t know anything good about a man, they will certainly invent something bad,’ I said disingenuously, having in mind my conversation with Kate Barry on the way to the bazaar.

‘I don’t think it can be only that,’ Emily said dubiously.

‘I’m sure it is. He has probably put quite a parcel of doting mamas into a temper by not marrying their daughters, with the result that they are happy to believe he must be unprincipled. It follows.’

‘Oh, but it’s not girls, that is it’s not girls like
us
that he is supposed to be interested in. It’s native girls. “The browner the belles, the better he likes ’em.” That’s how that odious Myers woman put it anyway.’

‘Well, I’m sure he is not the first, even if there is anything in it, and it would be wrong to judge him before we have even set eyes on him whatever the gossip,’ I said as prosaically as I could, for I was rather startled by this intelligence. We were then just at the time when to acknowledge an Indian wife or mistress was to invite the wrath of the authorities and the contumely of one’s peers; a generation earlier such associations were part and parcel of Indian life; later, though they still occurred, they were never mentioned. But at that time, although many eminent men had taken to themselves Indian wives, a floodtide of decorous middle-class opinion, brought out by the dim, prim wives and daughters of officers and civil servants making increasing use of the overland route, was beginning to sway judgement of such matters from tolerance towards outrage. I was sufficiently of my time, as a young woman, to share something of that outrage.

‘But, Laura, it would be awful if it were true, for then we certainly couldn’t go to Hassanganj.’

‘We haven’t been invited yet, my dear Em, and you’ve just said you wished Charles would forget all about going there. But if we
are
invited, there’s nothing to prevent us going, surely? Mr Erskine is not likely to flaunt his inamorata in public, is he?’

‘I don’t have the slightest idea what one does and does not do with inamoratas, but I do know that Charles would never permit it.’

‘Well then, we must hope to discover that these tales are nothing more than malicious rumour.’ And I added to myself, as I confessed to a growing curiosity about Mr Erskine and his palace in the wilderness, ‘Or at least hope that the rumours never reach Charles’s ears.’

The ball at which Emily had been advised not to dance was the official opening of what, for want of a better word, I must describe as the ‘Season’. It served to announce the advent of the cold-weather gaieties as well as to welcome back to the station the ladies who had been to the Hills for the summer, and had for some time been the topic most in the minds of those who were fortunate enough to be invited. I had reconciled myself to being overlooked, for when Charles and Emily paid their official call on the Resident, I had not been asked to accompany them, Emily having been in one of her more intractable moods that day. However, Charles had asked for one of my cards to leave on Mr Coverly Jackson’s tray, and whether due to his thoughtfulness or Kate Barry’s influence, I was surprised and pleased when an invitation arrived for me as well as the others in the house.

For days past the cantonment ladies had given little thought to anything but what they should wear for the ball. On every back verandah in Mariaon
derzis
squatted behind screens, stitching, ripping and altering gowns with dexterous haste, and liveried servants trotted from house to bazaar to house with snippets of silk, lace and ribbon for matching and comment. Emily had a lavish and expensive trousseau to choose from, so the question of what she should wear occupied both our minds for some time. At length she decided that nothing would do but her best blue taffeta, and even this was not quite as elaborate a toilette as she wanted so a
derzi
was put to work making a new tulle overskirt and train, and the basque was trimmed anew with part of her wedding lace. I was to wear the coral-pink silk that became my dark complexion best. Emily would have preferred to see me in white muslin and forget-me-nots like Elvira Wilkins on account of my spinster state, but my choice was made as much by necessity as taste, for my wardrobe, although enhanced by the Calcutta
derzi
, was still modest, and my resources too slender to warrant sartorial extravagance. In any event, as I reminded myself, I was a ‘companion’, and therefore required to look every day of my twenty-four years. But on that evening in early December when the ball took place, I found it difficult to think either of my inferior position or my advanced age. Perhaps the more benign climate, perhaps the smaller circle of acquaintances, lent this event more interest than any of the probably grander affairs I had attended in Calcutta, but I found myself anticipating the hour of our departure with some fervour.

On my advice Emily banished from her mind the stringent dictates of her elderly acquaintance regarding dancing when expecting a child, and, since the days passed with no mention of the matter from Charles, her spirits soared and she threw herself into her preparations with excited zest. No one was to be allowed to outshine her at this ball. Every detail of her toilette was agonized over until she was satisfied it could not be improved. I tried her hair in a dozen different styles before she could choose which suited her best and would do most justice to the little diadem of pearls with matching earbobs and bracelet which had been her father’s wedding gift. She wasted an afternoon and half the blooms in the garden making up and then discarding posies in various colours and combinations of flowers; and, so that she could dance every dance with comfort, she wore her new dancing slippers about the house for three whole days. I rejoiced to see her once again her giddy, self-absorbed but endearing self, and only wished her mood could outlast the ball.

At last the great day dawned, and I watched the sky anxiously since nothing would content Emily but accompanying Charles to the ball in a high curricle. This equipage was unsuitable for the use of ladies in ball gowns, but Emily had her mind made up. If it had rained, she would have had to use the Avery buggy along with Connie and myself, and our ride would have been made miserable by grumbles about the cramped conditions, the dust and the sagging springs of the upholstery. Fortunately the weather remained fine and clear, though there was a chill in the air, and, as we bowled along the avenues of Mariaon, the first star appeared in a milky pink sky while the sun had yet to dip behind the dark foliage of the mangoes. Six o’clock seemed a strangely early hour for the commencement of a ball (especially as I learnt on good authority that we could not expect to be home before four in the morning) but there were advantages in setting off by daylight: we were enabled to glimpse the finery of our friends as they drove past us or we caught up with them. Soon we were part of a stream of carriages, gigs and landaus all making in the same direction; young officers on horseback called cheerfully to each other or saluted the ladies in the carriages as they galloped by, each of them with a
syce
running at his horse’s heels carrying a cudgel and a lantern to guard and guide his
sahib
home.

Of course it was not the Cantonment Residency to which we were bound, but the City Residency across the River Goomti—more often called the Baillie Guard.

In the middle of the last century, the first Resident appointed by the East India Company to further its trade with the Kingdom of Oudh had sited his house (with a consideration to prudence as well as prospect) on a bluff overlooking the Goomti, which formed the highest part of the surrounding country and gave him, as well as a fine view, the possibility of self-defence in time of trouble. Over the decades, as the position of Resident had grown in importance and power, other houses and bungalows, warehouses, barracks, a church, a gaol and a hospital had been built within the Resident’s compound, forming a self-contained community. At one time the compound was probably fortified and walled, but the walls had long since disintegrated or been built over, the only stretch remaining being that flanking the main gate or Baillie Guard, from which the little complex now took its popular name. As the buggy slowed to a snail’s pace in the press of traffic and we drove up the sloping roadway and under the arch of the Baillie Guard, I looked about me with no small interest and curiosity.