Flowers in the Blood

by Gay Courter

  “You do like Jemima Clifford,” he added hopefully.

  “Yes, darling, I like her very much.”

  Relief flooded his face; then he grimaced.

  “What is the matter?”

  “Too much wine.”

  I shook my head. “Were you naughty boys last night?” My voice was light and teasing, but when his face darkened for a moment, my pulse quickened. Mother Esther had warned me about Amar's adverse influence. What did she know that I did not? At least if Edwin was away, the maharajah could not sway him. I would stay with the Cliffords, protected by them. Once Edwin bought the ship, we would return to Cochin for good. After a few brief weeks of separation, all would be well.

  The moment the maharajah's launch disappeared into the mists of the captive seas of the backwater, I burst into sobs.

  Jemima Clifford comforted me as though I were an injured child. “Now, now, he will be coming back soon . . .”

  Something terrible was happening to my throat. I choked, coughed, sputtered, and then was grasped by the fear that I would never be able to breathe again. My panic must have worsened the condition. As I slumped to my knees, even sanguine Jemima became alarmed.

  “Boy! Come here!” she yelled at Hanif, who at Edwin's insistence had remained behind to assist me. “Your cap! Take it off! Fill it with water.” He bent down and scooped up some brackish water. She splashed my face. “There . . . there, Dinah.” My hysterical sobs diminished to sputtering gasps. “Ah, your color is better. We must get you home and cool you off properly,” she said as she continued to dribble water across my forehead.

  I sat up and wiped my face with the back of my sleeve. I must have been a horrid sight with my hair mussed, my face streaked with tears and muddy water. She helped me stand. I thought I could manage until my gaze followed the turn in the river where I had lost sight of Edwin. Once again my legs felt like jelly.

  “What am I to do?” I mumbled as she seated me in the cow-cart.

  “You will go on,” she said firmly. “I know this seems like a tragic moment, my dear, but Edwin is alive and well and will return in a few short weeks. You must do him credit by holding your head high and making certain everything is in order when he returns. Dennis and I both know you are not some silly sprite who will require coddling. Give yourself a day to recover and organize a new routine, and you will be fine.”

  “What do you mean by 'a new routine'?”

  “It’s never smart to become set in one's ways, for if you do not alter your habits, life has a way of altering them for you.”

  My mind was far too flustered with the loss of Edwin to comprehend what she meant, but the next morning she put her words into motion. Much too early came a knock at my door. “Hello, Dinah. It's Jemima.”

  “Come in,” I said as I sat up in bed. “What time is it?”

  “Half-past six. Won't you join us for breakfast in the garden?”

  “I rarely get up before eight and I usually eat in my room.”

  “Now, remember what I said about making a change? The mornings are so cool and pleasant in this season that I thought we might take a walk together with Vicky and Teddy. They adore the women who draw the mandelas, and want to decide which is the most beautiful. Won't you help mediate with me?” Her children had arrived the day before, but I had been too preoccupied by my last hours with Edwin to see them.

  After we had admired the designs, Jemima suggested we sit on a bench while the children raced down the paths. “You are fortunate to have such healthy children,” I said.

  “Aren't I?” Jemima glowed. “I seem to have had my children in clumps, two years apart with a break to catch my breath in between.” “How old are Vicky and Teddy?”

  “Twelve and eleven. And over there are Alexandra, who is seven, and Norman, who was just six. Then there's the last set: Sebastian is two and . . .” She patted her swelling abdomen. “Number eight. I wish you could meet Mary and Paul. You remind me very much of Mary. She's the brightest of the lot, although Alexandra may prove to be her equal. It's my view that girls are so much better at studies than men. What a pity they can never go as far, at least in public life.”

  “I'm not half as bright as Edwin, and I understand the maharajah is brilliant.”

  “Now, now, your husband's told us about your considerable achievements, but you have made my point for me. There is no way for you to gain recognition for what you know. After all the school prizes are handed out, girls fade into the background.” The resident's wife mopped her brow with a lace handkerchief. Her blowing curls softened her tired face. “Will you help me with the two oldest and possibly Alexandra? We could have lessons every morning around this time and finish before tiffin.”

  “I'll give it a try.”

  She smiled and the gap between her front teeth winked at me. “Thank you, Dinah. The children do find the same voice tiresome after a while. Besides, it will be good practice.” She gave me an affectionate glance. “How long have you been married?”

  “Five months.”

  “You are fortunate to have some time to yourselves before the babies start. Even though they take nine months, once they take hold inside your belly, nothing is ever the same again.” Thinking about how quickly Mozelle had changed, I shuddered. Mrs. Clifford took my reaction wrongly. “There is nothing to fear,” she said, patting my hand. “Even the birthing is not as horrid as some women make it seem. Of course it hurts—I'd be doing you a disservice to say otherwise—but the pain is temporary, and the moment the babe is born, you feel it was worthwhile.”

  “I want to have a child,” I muttered.

  “Of course you do. Who knows? Maybe your Mr. Salem will come home to a little surprise of his own.”

  I shook my head. “Not this month.”

  The resident's wife flushed. “There'll be plenty of opportunities once you are reunited.”

  Thinking of Edwin's welcoming arms, his breath hot against my neck, his long, lean bronzed body pressed to mine, brought too many tears to blink away.

  “What’s the matter with Mrs. Salem?” asked Alexandra, who skipped up to me, her long golden braids flopping under her topee.

  “Too much sun,” her mother said. “Call the others, it’s time to go inside.”

  The next afternoon Jemima proposed a cultural hour, when we each would prepare something to read to the other and then we would discuss the points. Jemima was a clever woman. By keeping me occupied with her children and a round of obligations, she was staving off any chance of my collapsing into despair. Indeed, when I was alone for more than an hour, loneliness washed over me like a rogue wave and I had to struggle to keep my head above water.

  The first week Edwin was away, I did not see the maharajah, but Dennis Clifford reported on his activities each afternoon. Mostly Amar was embroiled in tedious affairs of state. There was one curious ceremony, to which only the highest Brahmins and British officials were invited, that I was sorry to have missed after Dennis reported to us during a tea in the garden.

  “As you know, one of the maharajah's titles is 'Slave of the God of Wealth.' As Maharajah of Travancore he receives a revenue of more than thirty-seven lacs each year for his personal treasury. Thus the avaricious Brahmins invented the custom of ceremonial rebirth for their master and their slave in order to obtain a share each time there is a new ruler.”

  The Quilon resident paused dramatically and bit into a cucumber sandwich lathered in chutney. Jemima and I were so captivated by the story, hardly a cup rattled. At last he continued. “This morning we gathered in the audience hall. Amar sat himself on one end of a gigantic pair of scales. Gold was placed on the other end until it balanced.”

  “I thought that sort of thing happened only in fairy tales,” Jemima commented.

  “He is not a light man,” I said, laughing. “It must have taken quite a load.”

  “Gold is very dense. Still, the amount was impressive.”

  “What happened next?” his wife asked.

  �
��As I understand it, the gold will be formed into a large hollow cow with space enough to permit the maharajah to pass through it, and in doing so, be spiritually reborn. That will take place sometime next week, and only the Brahmin priests will attend, for the cow will later be divided among them as one of their perquisites.”

  “It never ceases to amaze me that while we are different from others in many ways, the likenesses shine through,” Jemima said in a wistful tone. “One cannot help recall the Christian doctrine that 'unless a man be born again, he cannot enter the kingdom of heaven.' “

  “My dear,” Dennis said kindly, “the new birth of the Christian is a far different thing from the new birth of a heathen prince. The latter is the work of man; the former is the work of God. The new birth of the Christian is that the soul becomes alive to God.”

  “What else is happening at court?” his wife said to spare me digression into Christian theology.

  “Oh, yes, we all are invited to a musical soiree at the palace tomorrow evening,” Dennis said, getting his wife's message.

  She smiled at me. “Dinah, that should take your mind off Edwin for a few hours.”

  Gulping ever so slightly, I glumly agreed.

  Once I learned it was to be an event attended by Sir Mortimer Trevelyan and other members of the European community, though, I had no concerns about how Amar might behave. I dressed in a pale violet tea gown and took special pains with my hair. During the dinner preceding at the British residency, I was seated between Sir Mortimer Trevelyan and Percy Dent. After initial pleasantries Sir Mortimer engaged two Portuguese visitors from Goa in a discussion on currency exchange. I was more comfortable chatting with the professor.

  “Were any of the books I sent over suitable, Mrs. Salem?” he inquired. “I admit they were not exactly 'light reading' in the line of Lorna Doone, but you did say you wanted food for discussion.”

  “The essays were perfect. Mrs. Clifford thought we should concentrate on poetry as a start. Last week I presented James Henry Leigh Hunt's An Answer to the Question: What Is Poetry? while she discussed Shelley's A Defense of Poetry. Next week we will tackle what Matthew Arnold had to say in The Choice of Subjects in Poetry.”

  The professor leaned back and crossed his arms above his protuberant stomach. “If you would like to elaborate any points with me, I would be most happy to act as your sounding board.”

  “Thank you. Perhaps you might have an opinion on—”

  “You shall form your own opinions. You have a perfectly capable mind of your own. All you need is to be steered in the right direction, if you slip off course.”

  “You sound more like a sailor than a teacher.”

  “I am hardly that. I've had only one trip out that was the opposite of 'posh.' You know what that means, don't you?”

  “No, I don't think so.”

  “Port outbound, starboard home, the placement of the more expensive cabins so you avoid the sun. Well, one taste of baking in starboard on the way to India poisoned any affection I could have had for the sea, which also managed to be as ghastly as possible. Some think I stayed on in Travancore to avoid the return passage.” He gave a charming smile that made me forget his pocked face.

  “That can't have been the only reason,” I said sweetly.

  “I was orphaned whilst I was at Oxford. Here I have found a true home.”

  “You will be going to Europe to supervise the. acquisitions, won't you?”

  “Yes, I am afraid there is no other choice.”

  “I hope the voyage won't be too dreadful.”

  “I am mustering my courage even as we speak.”

  “How long will it take to locate everything?”

  “At least six months.” He went on to tell me about the letters of inquiry he had sent to European dealers.

  Six months! If he took our ship over, that meant the boat would be idle at the wharf until he was ready to leave. A ship should be sailing, not waiting like a syce at his master's beck and call. As I made a mental note to talk to Edwin about the advisability of this plan, the professor explained he would have to leave for Europe before our ship could be ready.

  “That makes sense,” I said, camouflaging my commercial concerns. “Tell me more about what you will be looking for.”

  Delighted at the opportunity, the professor prattled on about his preference for Regency over Louis XIV. “The pieces made for Versailles set the standard. The veneer techniques of Boulle cannot be surpassed, and I want some superlative examples for the maharajah's private suites. Our collection must also include a few of the solid silver pieces of that day, although I believe the swirling curves, the asymmetrical designs, and carvings in the form of rocks and shells of the Régence will blend in with the native workmanship in Travancore more harmoniously.”

  “Come now, Percy, you shall put Mrs. Salem to sleep,” Sir Mortimer Trevelyan chided. “Have a cheroot with me on the veranda while the ladies take this opportunity to freshen themselves.”

  The professor stood and gave me a deep bow. “I apologize if I have humored myself at your expense.”

  “Not at all. The decorative arts are of particular interest to me.”

  Trevelyan tugged the professor's arm and whisked him away.

  The women, including Jemima, the wives of the two Portuguese diplomats, and the daughter of a Dutch trader, retired to an upstairs room to primp.

  “I don't know if I ever will accustom myself to the manner in which the ladies of Travancore dress,” one of the Portuguese women said as she adjusted her corset.

  We giggled about the thin draperies that barely covered the breasts of the Brahmin women, until Jemima, patting her own, lace-bordered décolletage, said, “Men are much more curious about what they don't see than about what they do. They want precisely what they are not supposed to have.”

  The second Portuguese lady fluttered her thick lashes. “As for my Manuel, I tell him that living in India is like visiting a marketplace. One checks out the merchandise in the stalls, but eats at home.”

  We laughed until tears came to our eyes, and our ebullient mood lasted as we made our way to the palace. Dennis Clifford walked with his wife on his right and me on his left through the Courtyard of the Sun. In the center was a huge circular stone surface. “The prince of sundials,” the Quilon resident explained. “With its thirty-foot-high gnomon, it is able to measure in units of fifteen seconds.”

  “If you come during the day, I would be delighted to. explain it to you” came the familiar mushy voice.

  I spun around. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now, Madam Salem, may I escort you into the Hall of Pleasure?” Amar offered his arm. I could not refuse. He led the way through an arch inlaid with ivory and sandalwood. “Here is our little Shish Mahal, a copy of the Mirror Palace in the Agra fort. My illustrious ancestors opened it for only one night each year, for diwali, the festival of lights. I am told my uncle gave private parties here, but he never invited me. As soon as I knew I would be the next maharajah, I vowed to use it as often as possible.”

  Two fifteen-foot doors opened at our approach. Coming from the torchlit darkness of the marble hall, we were assaulted by a thousand circles of light. Dizzy, I leaned against Amar. He paused and slipped his arm about my waist. I might have thought the gesture was meant only to steady me, but then his hand brushed down and over my buttocks.

  “Have you ever seen anything so gorgeous?” Jemima's high-pitched admiration gave me the chance to take a step away from the maharajah.

  The Hall of Pleasure was designed to refract and reflect light a thousand times over. Candles and torches were set in niches lined with convex mirrors and then banded with faceted colored stones. Every imaginable surface, including the panels on the curvilinear ceiling, was inlaid with silver. The room was alive with twinkling and blinking and glittering. If anyone moved, a flash occurred somewhere in the room, followed by an odd undulation that made one feel as though the structure had swayed. When Amar led me to a seat, I ha
d to feel it below me before I dared sit. I kept my eyes fixed on my lap until I felt my balance was restored. When I looked up, the maharajah was taking his place beside his mother at the front of the room. Shifting around, I could see the guests were arranged in a semicircle. No special situation had been given to me. Again, I must have misconstrued everything. The reason the maharajah himself had seen me in was that I was the sole female visitor without an escort. As the music began, my concern at his fleeting intimacy faded.

  The native instruments of Travancore were an unfamiliar assembly of strings, pipes, drums, and small basin-shaped cymbals that produced a tinkling tone. As lyrical ragas echoed in the shining room, I wished Edwin were beside me. After an hour the musicians seemed to be gathering strength, while I had to concentrate to keep my eyes open to the dazzling spectacle. Another hour must have passed before the maharajah stood. Even though the vina player continued with an elaborate solo that had begun slowly but escalated into a poignant plea, the audience followed the maharajah's lead. Servants wearing both red and white turbans carried silver goblets and platters of refreshments around the room.

  I took a glass of pungent fruit punch. I felt a burning sensation as the last taste lingered in my throat, and accepted a second glass to quench my continuing thirst.

  “That can be quite intoxicating,” Professor Dent warned.

  “I did not realize . . .” I said as I tried to swallow past the pain.

  I handed the empty glass to a passing servant. The professor waved to someone else carrying a pitcher. “Try some coconut water to dilute it,” he suggested kindly. At the maharajah's approach, he stepped aside.

  “I hope you have enjoyed the evening thus far,” he said with an exaggerated politeness.

  Perspiration covered my brow. My mouth filled with thick saliva. I managed to nod my head, but words would not form.

  “Do you require anything?” Amar asked with more concern in his tone.

  “I suggested coconut water,” the professor replied, and placed a glass in my hand.