by Gay Courter
“Yes, sir, they do,” Edwin muttered. “Now I will take her home to rest.”
“Don't wait until tomorrow,” the maharajah demanded. “I want you here tonight. Let us talk about it then, shall we?”
“All right. I will not bring Dinah.”
“No, no, of course not. Give her time to recuperate and to think. There is no rush. Tonight we will share another pipe . . . and whatever suits your fancy. We both need to blot our sorrows. Until then I, for one, plan to get some sleep.” He gave a wide yawn and clapped his hands. Guards bounded inside each of the six doorways. Three rushed to attend the maharajah. Two others were directed to escort us home. I felt myself half-carried, half-pushed from the room by Edwin, and somehow, without any will of my own, I found myself back out in the festering midday heat of the hideous Travancore summer.
The next hours were a blur. Edwin would not speak until we locked ourselves in the bath at the Orchid House. He sketched his plan slowly, to be certain I understood each aspect. “I will go to the maharajah. tonight. I will tell him we have spoken and will make him a counteroffer. You will come to him once a week for a month. You will satisfy him in any manner which will not require penetration, as even we are having difficulties in that area.”
“But . . .” I sputtered. “That is not true!”
“Hush, darling, listen to me. Nothing will ever happen. We will leave Trivandrum tonight. I am only trying to explain how I will pacify him. I will tell him we will go to Cochin for the birth, returning here to live. Once we are back, I will offer to share you for a year. With that we will agree the debt has been repaid, and you will determine what happens after that.”
“He'll never believe you.”
“Yes, Amar will be fooled because I have asked for conciliations and you will be given the final decision at the end. He will suppose you would have demanded that. Then, after we have made our bargain, I will sit with him while he has a few pipes.”
“Is anything he said true?” I gasped, wondering if Edwin had partaken of the opium or the women.
“Did he tell the truth about you?”
I shook my head. “All lies.”
“Then I won't believe him if you won't.”
“Of course I won't,” I cried fervently. “But can we get away?”
“Listen, I know how Amar reacts. By midnight, when he dozes off, I will slip away.”
“Amar will have us followed.”
“Not quite that soon. I know the way he thinks. He has the curious capacity to reduce everything to the lowest common denominator. He truly believes that his loss can be repaid by having you. In his convoluted mind, if this simple solution can meet his need for retribution, he does not see why we would object.”
“He is not stupid.”
“No, he is nearsighted. Even with his considerable brains, he cannot fathom a love as encompassing as ours. What does he know about us? Our union was arranged, in much the same way his was. He recognizes how he feels for his wife. He assumes our relationship has the same basis. I pity him as I pity every man who has never experienced the sublime joy of a love like ours. 'From the hour we met, I have never doubted you; you have never doubted me. There is no one else in my life. Nothing that anyone could say about you could change that. Some men may have lapses because they remain unsatisfied at their core, but I feel as complete with you . . . as I hope you do with me.”
“Yes!” I was mesmerized by every word. The shell of our perfect egg was inviolate. Every sense became more alert. “Tell me what I should do.”
“I have sent Hanif to find a suitable small boat—a boat for four. We will 'borrow' one after dark. To hire one would be too dangerous. Later, when I am at the palace and you are pretending to rest, Hanif and Yali will go off together like lovers trying to find a nest, and they will bring the boat to the same place you met me when I returned from Bombay. Be there at midnight. Wear your darkest clothes. Slip out this very window into the kitchen courtyard and follow the servants' path away from the royal enclave. Come alone. Take nothing with you. I will meet you there.”
Although I could think of many problems with the plan, I did not argue with my husband. When we returned to our rooms, we tried to act as normally as possible. We ordered an enormous meal, which I ate with gusto. My lethargy had passed, for bitter anger fueled my movements. I took a last walk around the confines of the Orchid House, which had never been more than an elegant prison. I surveyed the elaborate wardrobe for court appearances and some infant apparel the talented Travancore seamstresses had been fashioning. The thought of wearing any of the garments I had worn to the palace or dressing my baby in the handiwork of the state appalled me. I could not wait to be gone from this place forever.
The merest slip of a moon shone a pale line of light along the trail to the wharf. At first I did not see anyone. Then Yali cooed birdlike in the reeds. The craft was well-hidden in the marsh. Hanif rowed it around and Yali helped me in. We went to hide and wait for Edwin. An hour passed. With every minute my heart pounded more fiercely. Finally, out of the blackness he came wading through the low-tide muck. There was a sucking sound as he climbed into the craft. Wordlessly he took up the oar opposite Hanif and pushed us off into the stygian night.
By dawn we had almost reached Kadhinamkulam Lake. There Edwin had hoped to hire a larger boat with a team of oarsmen who would propel us faster on our way north. “In the morning Amar will learn of our disappearance.”
“I can't believe he would come after us.”
“He will be furious. He will think it a point of honor.”
“Even if he catches us, what can he do? Kill us?”
“He does rule the state. He could have us jailed on a pretense: theft or fraud or . . .”
“Only under the watchful eye of the British resident,” I said.
“Sir Mortimer offers more of a blind eye than anything else, and it would take a good long time for our plight to come to the attention of the viceroy.”
“Amar is a modern prince, not some crazed medieval ruler.”
“Why are you defending him?”
“I'm not! I think he's the most horrid, spoiled, disgusting man I have ever known, and I am sorry I didn't heed my better judgment and stop this before it ever happened.”
“You agreed about the ship!”
“Yes, that did sound like a good idea at the time, but if you remember, I never wanted to come to this dreadful place. I knew the gift of the Orchid House had to be tainted. I knew that slimy man wanted more than the purity of 'friendship.' For your sake I always buried my fears. I thought his attentions to me were odd, but I tried to convince myself I was misinterpreting them. If only I had trusted my instincts sooner!” I buried my face in the crook of my arm as I thought about the comparisons to Nissim Sadka that I had discounted for too long.
Edwin put down one oar for a moment and stroked my back. “Let's not argue. We must find a faster boat. Hanif and I cannot row to Cochin.”
After an hour of paddling around the lagoon, Edwin had made a deal with the owner of a sleek wallam, which had a curved dragon neck at both the bow and stern. Normally a crew of two propelled it, but Edwin had more than enough coins to entice four men aboard. With our head start, it would be difficult for anyone to beat us to Quilon.
From the floating market Hanif and Yali purchased supplies, including a small charcoal stove and teakettle, to prepare meals. The day was warm and mild, the water calm, and my baby seemed lulled by the gentle movement of the boat. We ate, we slept in each other's arms, and the nightmare of Trivandrum fell farther and farther away.
In Quilon, Hanif ran ahead to alert the Cliffords. They sent a chair to carry me to the hillside mansion. There we were bathed and cosseted like storm-tossed children. Edwin told an abbreviated version of the tale: the loss of the Luna Sassoon, the professor's death, and Amar's outrageous proposal.
“I have been worried about you,” Jemima admitted. “When the maharajah invited us on the elephant hunt, I was concern
ed then—not about you, but about myself. I tried to refuse, due to my condition at the time, but he was so insistent.”
“What do you mean?” Edwin asked.
Jemima flushed.
“You owe it to them to explain,” the resident urged. “It might help them now.”
“Shortly after our arrival at the camp, the maharajah made up some tale that it was considered good luck to touch the belly of a pregnant foreigner, and he asked if he might place his hand on mine.”
“I was there at the time,” Dennis added. “Jemima was so taken aback, she didn't know how to respond. Foolishly, perhaps, I joked that since she had been through this so many times, I could see no harm.”
“Did you let him?” I asked, aghast.
“For a moment.” Jemima bit her lip.
“She was fully clothed and there were servants everywhere,” her husband replied tensely.
“I have to admit the experience was unpleasant. There was something about his touch”—she shuddered—”it felt unclean.” She looked at me for confirmation.
“Yes.” I nodded. “I felt the same way whenever he looked at me. Sometimes I chided myself for being silly. Now I wish—”
“Never mind! You are here now and safe with us,” Dennis said firmly. “Come see our beautiful baby, Robert.”
When we were calmer, Dennis confided that he was not astonished by the turn of events. “The man has been unstable from the first. Before his uncle died, he was moody and depressed. Ever since his brothers became ill he has had few periods of contentment. Once he went swimming in the backwaters at night and almost drowned. Some think it was a suicide attempt. The first time I had seen him happy in many months was when he was on his way back from Cochin after attending your wedding. We had hopes you both would be good for him, help him settle in. If I could have predicted this tragic result. . .” The resident trailed off.
“If I could not see what was happening, nobody else is at fault,” Edwin replied kindly.
The men went on to discuss the serious problems in the capital. “The gross mismanagement concerned me and I was planning a trip to Madras to consult with the viceroy. Now I must not delay any further. I will leave in the morning.”
“Perhaps you should wait a few more days in case they come looking for us. I would not want Mrs. Clifford to have the burden—”
“You are absolutely correct. I do not know what I was thinking. The whole situation is a perfect muddle, isn't it?”
“You don't think Amar will send his soldiers after us, do you?” I asked the resident.
“A rational man would not, but I do not trust Amar's faculties. Besides, since there is no point in second-guessing him, you are not safe in Quilon.”
“I agree,” Edwin added. “We must get on our way tonight. If the maharajah's launch has set out with a full crew, they could catch up to us if we delay.”
“You must not go to Cochin. The Maharajah of Cochin is one of Amar's closest allies. The resident there would never trust your word above the royals'.”
“My mother is waiting for our return, and Dinah is going to have her child there. Where else could we go?”
“Why don't you take Dinah to Calcutta?”
“How can she cross the country in this heat and in her condition?”
“I am sorry, young man, you do not have a choice.”
“In any case, we have to go to Cochin to get to Calcutta,” I offered. “We could see your mother, even take her with us.”
“No, Dinah, Edwin, please listen to me.” The resident's eyes narrowed. “Didn't you know the maharajah has a steam launch? I haven't seen it used for more than a year, but the old maharajah was especially proud of its shiny engine. He used to toot the whistle himself.”
“How fast is it?” Edwin wondered.
“It could make the journey from Trivandrum to Quilon in less than a day, certainly outrunning any numbers of oarsmen. The waters may be too low in spots this time of year, but there is a chance it could get through.”
“We must leave at once!” I gasped.
“You cannot attempt the inland sea.”
Edwin shook his head. “What other choice do we have?”
“There is a small freighter that called here a few days ago. I believe it is heading up the coast to Bombay. There you could get the train for Calcutta.”
While the resident located the captain of the ship, Jemima burst into action, gathering a suitable wardrobe for me and a small packet for an infant. “If s always wisest to be prepared,” she said in an offhand manner.
“The baby is not due for at least six weeks.”
“Well, my dear, babies have a clock of their own.”
“I should not be traveling now, should I?”
“You seem to be doing splendidly. Take tea and stimulants sparingly, and if you feel any cramps, drink one brandy an hour for three hours, then sleep. If they return, you can continue the brandy as long as you take plenty of bread and fruit with it.”
“I will pickle the baby.”
“Do as I say, and just in case . . .” She went on to discuss how to deliver a baby in an emergency. “Your Yali will know what to do.” She patted my arm. “Don't worry, I am certain you will make it to your father's house. You will be in my prayers every minute.”
By nightfall we were pulling out of Quilon's harbor and chugging north along India's western coast. If the maharajah, his soldiers, or a herd of wild elephants had been clamoring after us, we were beyond their reach.
The master of the rusty steamer, a pitiful cousin of the Luna Sassoon, had managed to find comfortable quarters for the “esteemed owner of the Salem Steamship Service.” Along the way to Bombay, Hanif and Yali tended us dutifully. There we booked a first-class compartment to Calcutta, but it was hardly a match for the private car that had taken us across country the first time.
The baby did not appreciate the motion of the train. Pains began right after we left Nagpur, diminished before Raipur, then increased on the outskirts of Calcutta. Brandies and fruit drinks were offered, wet towels cooled my limbs, while Edwin crooned, “Wait, baby, wait.”
As we passed the outskirts of the city, I heard Yali muttering that I might make it to Calcutta.
“I agree,” I said, then sat up and announced that the contractions had gone away.
“But, Dinah . . .” Edwin tried to restrain me as I combed my own hair, and insisted that I change into one of Jemima's prettiest gowns.
“No, really, this baby is so pleased to be getting off the train, he has gone back to sleep.” Peering into the reflecting glass, I saw my sweating, disheveled face. “I look a fright. I cannot let my family see me like this. What would they think?”
“Indeed,” Edwin muttered as he thought about facing his father-in-law with the news that he had squandered his generous dowry and almost lost his wife to a deranged maharajah.
The train slowed. Familiar images were framed in the moving window: the Hooghly River . . . the bathing ghats and country boats . . . the tangled web of rigging on the sailing ships . . . the pontoon bridge. And soon . . . soon . . . Theatre Road.
P A R T I V
The Harvest
In this age of civilisation we are unwilling to see anything that can detract from that distinguished character which in former times gained to the Merchants the title of “Princes” and to traffickers that of the “Honourable of the Earth.”
—JAMES MATHESON, The Canton Register,
19 April 1828
41
Calcutta, 1892–1897
The egg of our marriage survived intact. Our sojourn in Travancore may have contaminated its pristine surface, but once it was washed clean after our return to Calcutta, not even a hairline crack could be found. Edwin's concern for my health and mine for his loss, coupled with our mutual disgust for the maharajah's despicable proposal, united us further. Although we knew we could weather the storm together, we had still to face my father and the other Sassoons.
I would
recommend that anyone running away from a wrathful maharajah and having to confront parents after disposing of a munificent dowry arrange to give birth within a week of returning home. Our son, Aaron David, was delivered by Dr. Hyam, who was assisted by the Jewish midwife Saleh Arakie and Yali on the first of October. In the feverish hours of my labor, everyone tried to hide the significance of this date from me, yet I eventually realized that my child had arrived on the fourteenth anniversary of my mother's murder. Rather than dwell on the bizarre coincidence, Edwin prodded me to remember that our lusty son proved there was much more goodness than sadness in life.
Aaron had been born several weeks early, and being a small baby, required feeding every two hours. Heeding Jemima's advice, I nurtured him myself, much to the dismay of the Sassoon aunts. However, Zilpah thought mine the most sensible course, especially in the anxious aftermath of the plague.
One benefit of my postpartum state was that explanations of our predicament had been left to Edwin. He must have handled them admirably, for I received sympathy in place of reprimands. Only after the baby passed the crucial three-month mark with plump cheeks and a glowing report from the doctor did my father sit down with us to address our future. The January morning was so cool, a patina of moisture fogged the windows, and he asked us to join him in the parlor, where a pungent fire burned in the hearth. Aaron, wrapped in muslin, slept in my arms.
“As much as we would like to have you at Theatre Road, you need to continue to make a life of your own,” Papa began gently.
“Absolutely,” Edwin responded with an agreeable smile.
“These days it is costly to set up a family in a suitable house.” His expression became more somber. “Also, we have experienced tragic losses, proving once again that families must share responsibilities along with their fortunes.”
There was a long pause that I felt I had to fill. “What do you have in mind, Papa?”