*
At Patna, she saw the same crowds of worshippers and monks she dimly remembered from her childhood visit. A vivid memory of her father flashed into her mind. She could almost feel his strong arms around her and hear his voice, but the romance his enthusiasm had given to the scene had been snuffed out like a candle flame. Now she noticed the dust devils that coated everything with red grit; the piles of fly-blown dung cakes stinking in the sun. The wails and shrieks of the mourners as they committed the ashes of their loved ones to the holy river chilled her blood.
When the boat stopped to deliver mail at Dinapore, she went on shore and walked to the dusty little graveyard where her father was buried. Close to the walls of a new, but half-built church, she found the stone tablet that marked his grave. A pair of ravens perched on a headstone nearby watched her with bright, cruel eyes. She picked up a clod of earth and hurled it them. With angry croaks, they wheeled into the air and flapped away.
She knelt down and traced the inscription with the tips of her fingers, murmuring the words under her breath: “Sacred to the memory of Ensign Edward Gilbert, HM 44th Regiment, who departed this life the 22nd day of September 1823, aged 26 Years.”
Bitter tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Oh Papa,’ she whispered. ‘If you were alive now, everything would have been different.’
By the time they reached Benares, the river was too dangerous to navigate. They travelled the rest of the way on palanquins carried by Indian bearers. Swaying over the bumpy roads, Eliza peeked out through the gap between the red silk curtains and felt the heat of the sun on her face. It was a wonder to her the men stayed so cheerful. They sang all the time as they jogged along. She was glad the palanquins were too small to take more than one person. It gave her a welcome respite from Thomas’s company.
In Karnal, spring arrived, but to Eliza, apart from the distant view of the Himalayan foothills, it looked a dull, barren place. The garrison was small and the posting not much sought after.
‘But at least we can afford plenty of servants,’ Thomas remarked. He raised an eyebrow. ‘I hope you won’t become too idle, Eliza.’
‘If I do, I’m sure you’ll make a note of it in your diary.’
The time dragged. Parties and entertainments were few in Karnal. It irked Eliza too that etiquette dictated she only attend them when Thomas was with her. At the end of a tedious week when he had been absent on recruiting duties, she lay on her bed in their bungalow. Apart from the chatter of a pair of monkeys in the baobab tree outside her window, the house was silent. She had no idea where any of the houseboys, or her maid, had gone. When Thomas was away, she couldn’t be bothered to direct their work.
She rubbed her eyes and yawned. Her head had ached all day. No wonder, when she had to spend her time alone in this dreary place. It surprised her how much she looked forward to Thomas’s return. At least then she would not have to miss her morning rides and evening outings.
A shiver went through her. Strange: she had been too hot a little while ago, now her hands were like blocks of ice and her toes felt numb. She tried to wriggle them but it made a pain shoot up her left leg. With difficulty, she hauled herself onto one elbow and reached for the bell pull. She was hot again now and the brass ring felt slippery in her clammy hand.
The effort of ringing exhausted her and she fell back onto the pillows. Her head swam as she waited for the sound of footsteps, but none came. Why didn’t her maid answer?
Water, I need water, she thought, a rising panic turning the ache in her head into a noise like the pounding of a blacksmith’s hammer. She made a fresh effort to reach the bell pull but it was impossible. Her stomach convulsed. Bile rushed into her mouth and a stream of vomit splattered the dusty floor beside the bed.
When Thomas returned, there was no question of morning rides or evening outings; shivering and sweating, Eliza was in the grip of a fever. The garrison’s medical officer diagnosed malaria and prescribed large doses of quinine. ‘Too bitter,’ she gasped as Thomas held the glass for her and she took a tiny sip. Her throat burned.
‘But you must take it. It’s the only remedy we have.’
She grimaced. ‘Very well, but I’ll hold it myself. She fumbled for the glass and drank.
‘There, it’s done.’
He stroked her forehead. ‘We must get you better as soon as we can, my dear girl. Where would I be without you?’
She looked at his worried face. Poor Thomas: he meant to be kind.
‘No more diary?’ she asked with a weak laugh.
He smiled. ‘No more diary.’
*
Sometimes, in the weeks that followed, she could not distinguish night from day, but she was dimly aware of Thomas by her side. In her lucid hours, he read to her as he had done in Bath. His concern touched her heart and as she recovered, she regretted the times when harsh words had passed between them. Perhaps they could be happy after all.
He came to her one afternoon with an envelope addressed in a strong, upright hand. ‘It’s for you. Shall I open it?’
She nodded.
He slit the envelope and pulled out the sheet of paper. After a moment, he whistled. ‘It’s from your stepfather.’
Eliza’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What does he say?’
‘He and your mother are on their way to Simla. He suggests we go up and meet them. See for yourself.’
She shook her head. ‘My eyes are too sore to read. So do they forgive us?’
Thomas’s brow wrinkled. Although Patrick Craigie claimed Eliza’s mother was anxious to see them too, she had not added any words of her own.
‘It seems so,’ he said cautiously, and then in a bluffer voice, ‘we should accept and go as soon as you are well enough to travel. The climate up there will be excellent for your health.’
Eliza hesitated. ‘I should like to see Simla, and I suppose that if my mother wants it, it’s time we made up our quarrel.’
His fingers brushed her cheek. ‘Yes, it is.’
Privately too, he reflected that Craigie was comfortably off. A little help in lieu of a dowry would not come amiss: something to help pay for Eliza’s expensive tastes.
Chapter 8
Simla
Pine and sandalwood perfumed the air as the little party arrived at the fair in the Annandale Valley. A month had passed since Eliza and Thomas had joined her mother and stepfather at Simla.
Elizabeth Craigie stepped from the carriage and squealed with delighted horror as a villainously bearded young man in patched, ragged clothes with a scarlet bandana around his head strode up to them and bowed.
‘Captain Crichton, is that you?’
‘Indeed it is, ma’am. I am a gypsy for the day.’ He pointed to a spot nearby where three other men crouched around a fire, one of them stirring a steaming cauldron. Beside them grazed a tethered donkey, decked with bright ribbons.
‘The donkey is for the children to ride and we plan to tell fortunes.’ He grinned at Eliza. ‘What a pleasure to see you, Mrs James. I hope you’ll let me tell yours?’
Eliza laughed. ‘Only if you promise to make it a happy one.’
‘How could one so lovely expect anything else?’
Thomas looked on indulgently. He rather liked the admiration that Eliza excited. It flattered his choice of wife and he did not think of himself as a particularly jealous man. As long as no one turns her young head, he thought, there’s no harm in it. He nodded to Crichton and offered Elizabeth Gilbert his arm.
‘With your husband’s permission, may I escort you around the fair, ma’am?’
She smiled coolly. ‘How kind. Patrick, will you and Eliza follow us?’
They moved away to wander among the stalls, greeting friends and acquaintances as they went.
‘I hear there will be races later on,’ Thomas remarked. He turned to Patrick Craigie. ‘I rode in Ireland a great deal but today I think I shall leave it to the younger men.’
Craigie nodded. ‘Very wise of you. Annandale is the one pla
ce at Simla flat enough for a tolerable course, but it’s still rough going.’
Eliza took a breath of limpid air and looked around her. Beyond the lush, tree-fringed valley, the sunshine bathed the snowy peaks of the Himalayas in rose and gold. ‘How beautiful it is here,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad you asked us to come.’
‘There’s nowhere in India as delightful as Simla,’ Elizabeth remarked.
Eliza felt a stab of irritation. Perhaps she deserved no better, but she wished that her mother would not brush away every overture of friendship as if they were no more than acquaintances. Was it so hard to say that she too was glad? She was beginning to suspect that if it had not been for her stepfather, the invitation would never have been issued.
‘And we are delighted that you joined us, aren’t we, Elizabeth?’ Craigie said quickly.
Elizabeth smiled, but her eyes lacked warmth. With an effort, Eliza quelled her anger and began a new topic.
In spite of her mother’s coolness though, she found that the day passed very pleasantly. As usual, she collected a crowd of admirers. It seemed that every man there wanted to compliment her or give her tips on which horses she should back.
‘Well done, Captain Crichton,’ she smiled as the captain, smart once again in his regimentals, came over to her after he had won the final race. His steaming horse tossed its head and its foam-smeared bit jangled. ‘Thank you,’ he beamed.
‘And the beard has gone.’
He grinned. ‘It was made of goat hair and boot black. I apologise for the stench. It must have been awful.’
‘It was rather strong.’
He lowered his voice. ‘I hope you know that I wanted to win for your sake alone, Mrs James.’
She reached up to stroke his horse’s nose. ‘You’re teasing me.’
‘No, I mean every word. But sadly, your husband has all the luck.’ He straightened up and frowned. ‘And here he comes now with your mother and stepfather.’
‘Captain Crichton! Congratulations on your win. I’m afraid I must take my wife away from you. The Governor’s sister has expressed a wish to meet her.’
Eliza rose from a low curtsey to find herself looking into a pair of shrewd, humorous, grey eyes. Their owner indicated the straight-backed chair set beside her under the canvas awning. Eliza smoothed out the skirt of her blue dress and sat down while Thomas and the Craigies hovered at a respectful distance. Lady Emily nodded regally in their direction, then turned back to study Eliza through her lorgnette.
‘Well, my dear, how do you like Simla?’
‘I think it’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen, Your Ladyship.’
‘You like mountains?’
‘Oh yes, I would climb them all if I could.’
Lady Emily chuckled. ‘That might be rather unseemly, but at your age, I would have felt the same. Do you play the pianoforte?’
‘Yes I do, Your Ladyship.’
‘Excellent. And who is your favourite composer?’
‘Chopin, Your Ladyship.’
‘Mine too. You must visit us at the Residence. We have an excellent instrument no one plays.’
‘Thank you. I should like that very much.’
Eliza could not resist casting a triumphant glance in her mother’s direction. She was gratified to see the strain in her polite smile.
By the end of the afternoon, Eliza went home with a promise from Lady Emily that she would send a carriage for her the next day. She was as good as her word and from then on, Eliza received many invitations to visit the Residence.
Swept up in a round of parties and picnics, showered with compliments and flattered by a stream of admirers, as the season in Simla followed its gay course, five months flew by. By the time they drew to a close, Eliza counted on the fingers of one hand the evenings she and Thomas had been obliged to spend alone in each other’s company. Whenever she thought about it, she frowned. November was almost upon her, and with it, the end of their stay in the hills.
They were to return to Karnal for a short time then travel to a new post at the recruiting depot at Bareilly. From what she had gathered, it was an even smaller place than Karnal and there would be very little in the way of parties and entertainments.
A grand ball marked the end of the hill season. Eliza wore a dress of pink satin Lady Emily had given her. Fine Brussels lace embellished the low neckline and the cuffs of the full sleeves. She wore her pearl necklace and fastened a nosegay of shell-pink rosebuds to the waistband to emphasise her slim figure. When she stood back to study the finished effect in her dressing mirror, she smiled. The dress was very elegant and probably far more expensive than anything her mother could afford. Her face clouded. This might be the last chance she would have to wear it for a very long time.
When she walked up the Residence’s sweeping staircase on Thomas’s arm, her first glimpse of the ballroom, glowing in the light of hundreds of candles, dispelled such gloomy thoughts. A small orchestra played and in the long dining room, tables covered with fine linen clothes groaned with bowls of mangoes, papayas and melons and silver dishes of sweetmeats.
After supper, when the dancing began, Thomas watched as she swooped around the floor in the arms of captains and colonels. As time had gone by, he had tired of being just the husband of the popular Mrs James. It didn’t seem to have done his preferment much good. He would be glad when they returned to duty and he had her to himself. Perhaps there would be a child. It often surprised him that she had not conceived yet. Goodness knew, the old soldier had been on campaign enough times for that. Some people said too much junketing and dancing might stop a woman breeding. Well, if that was true, Bareilly would solve it.
On the other side of the room, the Craigies’ attention was also on Eliza.
‘I believe her dance card has been fuller than any woman’s in the room,’ Patrick remarked, but no sooner were the words out of his mouth than he realised that the remark was unfortunate. He could not pretend that the experiment, in which he had placed such hope, had gone well.
‘It’s a wonder to me Thomas puts up with her ways,’ his wife replied acerbically, ‘but then she was always headstrong. I could have told him that long ago.’ She scowled. ‘A thousand pounds on her education,’ she muttered. ‘A thousand pounds.’
Craigie stroked his moustache and frowned. He wished she would not harp on about the cost of Eliza’s education.
He looked up to see Thomas bearing down on them. ‘Hush, my dear,’ he whispered. ‘Evening Thomas, splendid occasion, eh?’
‘Indeed it is, sir.’ Thomas bowed to Elizabeth. ‘If your husband permits, may I have the honour of a dance?’
‘By all means. You must enjoy yourself, Elizabeth my dear. As you know, I’m not much of a dancer.’
Elizabeth took Thomas’s hand and let him lead her onto the floor. The orchestra struck up a polka.
Craigie watched the couples dip and turn: a rainbow of silks and taffetas interlaced with scarlet regimentals and magpie evening dress. Across the room, he noticed Captain Crichton leaning against a pillar, watching Eliza with a dejected air. He was a very able chap, Crichton, with a bright future ahead of him. Craigie was certain nothing improper had occurred between them. In the goldfish bowl of Simla, nothing ever did without gossip spreading like a monsoon flood, but a fellow like Crichton would have been far more suitable for Eliza.
Not for the first time, he felt a stab of guilt. He wished he had not given in to Elizabeth over old Abraham Lumley. Still, there was nothing to be done now. In a few weeks, they would be back in the plains and Eliza would be on her way to Bareilly. He would be sorry to see her go. Even the candles seem to burn brighter when she was in a room. He only hoped that she would adapt to the quiet married life that awaited her.
Driving home in the carriage, Eliza looked up at the stars, sparkling like polished diamonds in the inky sky. She drew in a deep breath of crisp, pine-scented air and savoured it. She would miss Simla so much. She looked across at Thomas, dozing with his h
ead bumping against the side of the seat. How would she manage when there was no society to fill her days? When she must make do with no company but his?
His growing paunch strained against the gleaming buttons of his scarlet coat. She thought of Captain Crichton’s tall, slim figure, his mischievous sense of humour and the endearing way his chestnut locks seemed to resist his attempts to tame them. Life was not fair. She turned back to the window to watch the stars.
Two days later, the whole British community assembled with its baggage teams. Donkeys, elephants and camels groaned under the weight of the trunks, furniture and household equipment that had to be lugged back to the plains. Eliza stood with Lady Emily while she supervised the stowing of the grand piano. The next day, the slow procession down from the hills began.
Chapter 9
Winter in Bareilly seemed endless to Eliza and she and Thomas often quarrelled. As spring approached, the invitation to Simla was not renewed. Bored and lonely, Eliza faced the prospect of a long summer of relentless heat.
On one of many sultry evenings, Thomas’s heavy boots clumped up the stairs of the verandah. He passed Eliza’s scarlet macaw and it let out a raucous whistle and rocked on its perch. Her pet monkey scuttled off into the bushes, chattering angrily.
From where she lay in their bedroom, Eliza heard him shout for whisky. She winced. Why must he always be so grouchy? He wasn’t the only one who had to suffer this dreadful place. She turned over and buried her head in the pillow to shut out the noise he made. The blinds in the room had been closed since morning to keep out the sun and the air was stale and heavy.
Becoming Lola Page 7