Flowers in the Blood

by Gay Courter

  The unpleasant memories wove in and out of my grasp like a moth in the moonlight. I blinked my eyes. Gulliver was standing before me straight and proud.

  “Gulliver, you must be tired and hungry. Please, come in and have a rest.” I looked around for Hanif. He stood in the shadows awaiting my instructions. “Take this old friend and make him comfortable.”

  “Yes, memsahib.”

  Aaron wiggled down. “Hello.” He gave Gulliver a shy smile.

  “This is your son,” Gulliver said softly.

  “Yes.”'

  “May I ask, where are the other two?”

  The question stunned me. How could he have known about the “twins? “They are upstairs. You shall meet them later, but who told you about them?”

  “The sahib,”' he said matter-of-factly.

  “But. . . ?”

  “He always reported how you were doing. From time to time there were messages from the family of your father's wife.”

  “Oh!” Zilpah's relations must have kept Silas informed about my marriage, my travels, my children, and probably my troubles. Silas might have known about the Luna Sassoon, about Free School Street, and what else? I hoped he had known how content I was with Edwin, and wished I had been able to learn that his life had been as satisfactory. It was too late now. . . . Tears streamed down my face unexpectedly.

  “Gulliver, I am sorry, this has been a shock. I need time alone.” As I backed toward the parlor, Yali came forward and scooped Aaron into her arms. Hanif escorted Gulliver away.

  The poor man, I thought as I sank into the nearest chair and covered my eyes with my hands. My tears could not blot Gulliver's tragic face. Nor the image of Silas, of Silas and Euclid, of Silas and Euclid talking together, feeling a tremor, staring with surprise and then horror as the bottom fell away . . . away . . . Over and over I replayed the scene. First they were standing, smiling; then they were two bodies pinned under piles of debris. The suspended seconds when they must have known their fate were too harrowing to contemplate. Had they died on impact? Might they not have been conscious for minutes or hours? The rescuers could not have known whether they suffered or not. They had said that to comfort the relatives. . . .

  I saw scenes moving in front of me as though I were watching from a long distance off. Nepalese and Tibetan natives climbing down the ravine, lifting timbers, branches, using tree trunks like fulcrums to move boulders. I pictured Gulliver pushing through the crowd, clawing at the earth, and pulling Silas away. A jagged edge of a branch ripped Gulliver's sleeve. Mud dripped onto his cap as he lifted Silas' broken body from the soggy earth. Had he told me this? No! Yet the image was as real as a burning beacon.

  What else did I know?

  I found my tears had dried. I looked around the shabby room with its child-stained chintzes, ragged carpet, broken ornaments piled in boxes. This would not be my home for long. It had never been my home. Free School Street was but a stop on the journey—as were Xanadu and Jew Street and the Cochin cottage and Orchid House. Where would we live next? My mind focused on Theatre Road, but that was illogical. The knowledge would come.

  I heard footsteps behind me. When I turned, I saw Hanif was waiting. “The man would like to speak to you again. He says he cannot eat or rest until he delivers his message.”

  Was there more? “All right, Hanif.”

  Gulliver appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Luddy sent me to you. He told me that if anything happened to him I was to come to you.”

  “And so you have, Gulliver. I am thankful you told me yourself.”

  “You do not understand, memsahib. I am to stay with you.”

  “Oh, Gulliver, that is impossible. My home is now Calcutta. You would miss your people.”

  “That is not important to me. It is my duty.”

  “But, Gulliver, as you can see, we already have a bearer. This is a small household. Don't worry, if you want to stay in Calcutta, I can find you a position.”

  “I will work only for you,” he said resolutely. I had forgotten how fine-boned and sensitive his face was. I hadn't meant to hurt him. My heart pounded as he added simply, “I can live on my own. Mr. Luddy provided for me.”

  There was no use protesting. The gentle servant had no place to go. When he had overcome his own grief, we could settle the matter. “Very well, Gulliver. We'll make the necessary arrangements later. Is there anything else, or do you think you now could take that well-deserved rest? You must have been traveling for several days.”

  “Yes, there is another matter. I was told to come to you and ask you to attend to something without delay.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Many years ago Mr. Luddy sent you a bureau. Do you still have it?”

  The bureau? For a moment I was puzzled. The Clive desk! “Yes, certainly.”

  “Will you take me to it?”

  “It is not here.” I had never moved it from my room at Theatre Road and now I wondered why. Cochin had been too far, Travancore too temporary. But why not Free School Street? Because it had never felt like home, I reminded myself with the new clarity of vision the shock had bestowed. “I have kept it at my father's house.”

  “May we go there now?”

  “Is it that important?” I asked, and as I did so I knew it was. In a moment I had ordered a carriage, made arrangements for the children, and was on my way. Before leaving the house, I turned to Hanif. “Go to Mr. Salem at the office and tell him to meet me at Theatre Road at once.”

  “Yes, memsahib,” he said with a bow.

  As we rode past the ruined houses and littered lanes of Calcutta, I didn't know what was happening and yet I felt that Edwin should be at my side when I discovered the mystery of the Clive desk.

  My father was asleep, Zilpah was out, and Edwin had not yet arrived as I took Gulliver directly to my old room, now used for guests.

  The Clive desk looked as magnificent as ever. The rosewood gleamed a burnished bronze. The intricate ivory inlay of leaves and flowers and swirls glinted in the sun. I remembered how respectfully. Silas had described the Vizagapatam workmanship. Rubbing my hand across the. silver encrustations, I thought about the desk surviving a hundred and fifty years, outliving it's creator; Clive, its plunderer; and now Silas, its latest, but not last admirer.

  Gulliver also seemed to heed a few moments to contemplate the desk, which must have brought him his own flood of memories. At last he spoke. “The bottom drawer, memsahib.” His voice was deep and hollow.

  “I don't recall anything there,” I protested, but Gulliver seemed confident in his mission, so I asked, “Which one?” The desk had thirteen drawers: one top drawer that extended across the width, four smaller ones down each side, and four in the center, which curved like crescents to allow knees to fit under the writing surface.

  “The center one on the bottom.”

  I opened the top drawer, which I kept unlocked. The key for the other drawers was at the back tucked in an envelope with the note that had accompanied the desk to Calcutta. My heart leapt at the first sight of Silas' elegant handwriting. I again read the quotation from Wordsworth:

  Every gift of noble origin

  Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.

  What had Silas meant? What did it mean now that he had breathed his own last mortal breath? With a surefooted expectation of impending discovery, I turned back to the desk. Nothing of value was stored in it, just some of my school papers, old letters, and a few books I had not taken to either Cochin or Free School Street. I unlocked the bottom drawer. Since it was deeper than the rest, this is where I had stacked the most items. I removed two bundles of letters, including the last ones I had received from Silas that contained his responses to my moral queries about Opium as well as his encouragement to ask my father for a salary. How long ago that seemed! I turned to Gulliver for direction. “There is nothing here except my books and papers.”

  “Please lift them out.”

  I made a neat stack of the letters. Underne
ath were the Dickens books I had never returned, including The Mystery of Edwin Drood. Below that was a wrapped volume tied with faded ribbons: The Kama Sutra! I had not looked at it in years. Now the drawer was empty.

  “Can you pull the drawer out any farther?” Gulliver asked.

  It slid halfway, then resisted my tug. “It doesn't come out.”

  “It does.”

  I gave a firmer yank, but could budge it only another inch.

  Gulliver fell to his knees. “May I?” Even under his muscular grasp the drawer refused to budge. Frowning, he removed his kukri from its scabbard and, using the curved sharp tip to push back the wood that had swollen in the humidity, he was able to wriggle it forward, first on one side, then on the other. With a radiant smile of triumph he lifted the drawer out and turned it upside down.

  “What now?” I asked, perplexed, for the drawer was obviously empty.

  With one hand he supported the bottom of the drawer frame. With the other he coaxed what had seemed to be the bottom panel forward. Once its front edge was exposed, I reached over and pulled it farther. Out fell a pristine vellum envelope with the thunderbolt crest. My name was on it.

  11 December 1890

  My dearest Dinah,

  This is being written the day after the writing of our divorce papers, but will be seen by you someday far in the future, if ever. If you are reading this, something will have happened to me. If Gulliver outlasts me, he shall be at your side when this is found. I have given the matters that shall be addressed in this and subsequent documents deep consideration. The legal papers will more completely describe the nature of how the transactions will be undertaken. Here let me explain that the intent of my last will and testament is to leave all my worldly goods, including Xanadu, any other real estate I may own, my shares in the Luddy Tea Company, and other business interests in your hands.

  I cannot know what time and place in your life this finds you. Possibly, this may be an additional burden you have no desire to undertake. In that case you have the freedom to sell any portion of these holdings to the benefit of yourself, your family, or anyone else you may assign. Most probably you have been well-provided for by your father, and if you have remarried, your spouse and his family. Perhaps my goods will be a small but pleasant addition to your wealth. Or, if luck would have it, and you might truly benefit from this bequest, use it to your advantage.

  But, you are asking, why me? Why indeed! You know the reasons as well as I do, but I will state them as a reminder.

  First, I married you with the full expectation that I would share my fortune with you. But I married you under false pretenses and did not bring a single benefit to you. In fact, I may have harmed your chances of finding a companion for life. You would not accept my help afterward, and I could not force you to. These documents are irrevocable and cannot be voided, thus I know that my last wishes to right a wrong will be met.

  Second, I cannot leave my interests to Euclid or another man who may have taken his place, for this would remove their considerable value from a chain of inheritance through a Jewish family line. If you yourself do not have children, I would hope you might (although this entails no legal obligation) leave these interests to a member of your family with heirs.

  Third, you may be wondering why I have overlooked the most obvious answer and not left my shares to other members of my own family. Because of my circumstance, I have been deeply hurt by them, and although this may be my fault, I have never been able to change my nature, any more than my sisters could make their eyes blue. Also, there was wisdom in my father's structure giving control to me. The Luddy Tea Company would not have survived without this division, and it may not survive past my death. You have a basic understanding of the business and a strong mind that will certainly become more astute with age. I have confidence you either will manage the business yourself or find intelligent lieutenants . . .

  Tears flooded my eyes. I could not read any further for a few minutes. When I was able to continue, I shuffled the many pages of explanations and instructions until Gulliver's name caught my eye.

  As a special favor to me, I would like you to keep Gulliver in your employ. A fund for his maintenance is a part, though not a condition, of this trust. You may not feel you need Gulliver, but he will be of service if you are ever in the Darjeeling region, for he knows much about how my business and home are run. If you should wish him to manage Xanadu while you live elsewhere, that would be acceptable. However, my advice is to keep him with you as your personal servant. From my experience, wealth breeds danger as a swamp breeds mosquitoes. I realize that I may have bequeathed you enemies as well as rupees. There will be many who will be displeased with what I have done. Gulliver is a simple man with excellent instincts. Trust him with anything: your money, your children, your life. This Gurkha is as brave as a lion and would not hesitate to sacrifice his life to protect yours. . . .

  I looked over. Gulliver stood watching me with his dark, piercing eyes. He had brought me here and given me this letter. Had he known what it contained? He must have. What else did he know? I realized I could not handle the Luddy matters without him, nor did I want to. I thought about Silas' suggestion that he remain at Xanadu. Silas would never have expected that he and his house would have perished in unison.

  “What is it? What are you doing here?” Edwin burst into the room. “Your father?”

  “No, he is sleeping.”

  “Then what. . . ?” Edwin caught sight of Gulliver, who was holding his kukri in front of him like a shield. “My God, who is that?”

  I waved for Gulliver to stand back, and rose to greet my husband. “These papers were in the Clive bureau.” I shook them in the air. “They are from Silas Luddy of Darjeeling. He was killed in the earthquake.”

  Edwin's eyes shifted warily as he wondered why I was in contact with my first husband. “I see,” he said slowly, “but who's the mountain man?”

  “His name is Gulliver, at least that is what he has been called for many years. He's the Gurkha who was Mr. Luddy's bearer.”

  Edwin glanced over his shoulder. The kukri dazzled in the midday sun.

  “Gulliver, I must speak to my husband alone.”

  When Gulliver had backed into the hall, Edwin said, “Dinah, you look terrible. Are you certain you are all right?”

  “The news was dreadful. Silas' house slid down the mountainside and he must have plunged thousands of feet. He was a good man, Edwin. I never loved him, but I never disliked him either.”

  “You don't have to explain about—”

  “Yes, I do.” I showed him the drawer with the false bottom. “He gave me this desk as a wedding present. After the divorce he hid some papers here and sent the desk to Calcutta. I never would have known about them if Gulliver hadn't come.”

  “What is this all about?”

  “I do not fully understand it yet myself, but it seems as if Silas Luddy has left me all his worldly goods—including the controlling interest in the tea plantations and anything else he might have owned.”

  “Why you?”

  “The letter clarifies it somewhat, but it's an unexpected shock.”

  “What does this mean?”

  My knees trembled as I sat down at the desk chair. “I'm not certain.” I leafed through the papers. One contained an inventory that was at least seven years old. “When the desk was sent to me, there was a capital account held personally for five hundred and seventy-five thousand rupees, another account in London worth sixty-five thousand pounds sterling—that's a total of almost one hundred thousand pounds! When we were together, Silas was taking more than five thousand rupees a month from the tea business. Xanadu, his home, is gone, but he was to inherit his father's house, and his father has died. There are the tea-processing machines—his father's inventions—a great deal of land . . .”

  “And this is yours free and clear?”

  “I don't know exactly. He mentions solicitors . . . everything here is outdated . . . but . . .�
� I looked up and saw he was as perplexed as I was.

  Then he beamed. “But we don't need the Sassoons anymore!” “No . . . we don't,” I said in a quavering voice. “We are independent at last.” I looked up with a frown. “A week ago we could have walked away from the company. But how can we do that now . . . with what we know?”

  “We don't need them,” Edwin repeated with a snort. He grinned as a fresh realization lit his face. “They need us.”

  The Luddy Tea Company had prospered. Silas had implemented his plan to concentrate on producing what he had called a “brisk tea” for the British working-class markets, and a very brisk business had followed. In order to popularize his Luddy brand, he had set aside far more funds for promotion than his predecessors. Considering the enormous quantities of Luddy's Finest Orange Pekoe that were shipped to England each month, the concept had been a huge success.

  All this I learned in the offices of Mason, O'Malley, and Woodruff, the Luddys' Calcutta solicitors. Fifty percent of the Luddy family's combined holdings were mine free and clear. Maurice Luddy's two daughters and their husbands had inherited twenty-five percent each, but only of the tea-company shares. The land itself was mine, as was the homestead on the tea plantation. The parcels near Tiger Hill were mine, as were any effects that could be salvaged from the landslide. Silas' income and capital from other sources were mine, including the portion that had come to him on his father's death. Gala and Gracia had not shared in their father's personal estate. Although much of the value of the inheritance was tied up in real estate and company assets, the cash more than quadrupled the original inventory. In all, the bequest made me one of the richest women in the community.