Flowers in the Blood

by Gay Courter

  “I have no objection to medicinal preparations.”

  “Stop deceiving yourself. In your book, it is perfectly acceptable for a Chinese coolie to support your sumptuous life, yet not your own husband.”

  “No! I have never felt it was right for anyone—at least not since I learned more about opium and the harm it could do. You know full well I have always resisted the family trade and often questioned my father. If you remember, I never wanted you to work for the Sassoons and have been encouraging you to find another line. I thought that with the Luddy inheritance, we would free ourselves of it—once we had settled the situation with the Lanyados. But now I see you have never agreed with me about any of this. The whole while you have lied to me!”

  “No, I have kept a secret. Nobody can know everything about the next person. You have secrets from me.”

  “That is not true. I have no secrets from you.” My voice became strident. “What else don't I know?” I shouted. Then, more menacingly: “How can I ever trust you again?” The ooze of the broken egg could not be restrained.

  “When will you learn you can never control everything?” he said, as though that followed logically.

  “What are you talking about? I have never tried to control you.”

  “Haven't you? Then how did we end up back in Calcutta, where you wanted to be from the beginning?”

  A great force churned inside me. There was no release but words— awful words, horrid words, that should never have been spoken aloud. “Who insisted we go to Travancore? Who was dazzled by the princely offering? Who wanted to use that connection to make a quick fortune? Not me. I was happiest in the seaside cottage in Cochin. Why didn't you see Amar's design from the first, when you knew he had perverted tastes? Or were your own perverted by the same poison? Who selected the ship and said it was ready to sail? Who lost my dowry? Who?”

  “Yes. Your dowry. Your inheritance. Yours. Everything has always been yours. When you talked to Raphael you said: 'I do not want to mingle my money . . . pay me with the last of the sycee . . . I can afford to wait.' “

  Blackness swirled around me as I sat down hard on the bed. I no longer could see Edwin. If he was still speaking, I could not hear him. An hour earlier I had thought I was on the brink of having everything. Would a moral victory over Uncle Samuel and Aunt Bellore now cost me my happiness? Me! My happiness! Edwin was right! I was thinking only of myself. What about us? What about our children, our marriage?

  “Edwin . . . darling . . .”I managed as I swam up past the blinding pain to the light. “Edwin, you are right. I am sorry. If s not the opium, it's—”

  Where was he? “Edwin?”

  The door was open. “Edwin!”

  He was gone.

  46

  He would be back in time for supper. He would be back in time for bed. To avoid a confrontation, he would slip in beside me in the night. . . .

  I was up most of the night waiting, and when I drifted off, it was for but a few moments. Each time I opened my eyes, I was startled anew to find myself alone.

  At dawn I lay in bed unable to move. Any twist of my body drove the stake that impaled me deeper.

  He would arrive in the morning to dress for the auction. . . .

  When Yah came to wake me, I had to force myself to stand.

  “You are ill?” she asked, worried.

  “No.” I sent her away. If I took shallow breaths, the sharp twinges could be mastered. I could not drink or eat. Swallowing was impossible. The clock was a demon ticking away. I had to dress. I had to walk downstairs. I had to call for a carriage.

  He would meet me there. . . .

  The auction rooms were in a hall near Dalhousie Square. Pools of limpid light poured through the arched windows two stories in height and illuminated the polished benches where the agents and merchants sat. Six times every year these modestly attired gentlemen gathered to bid a price for a commodity that controlled the empire's balance of trade in China.

  From the number of office jauns and phaetons waiting in front of the building, I ascertained that most of the people had already arrived. If I hadn't been waiting for Edwin, I would have been earlier myself. At the last possible minute I had left without him. Now I had to muster the courage to enter the room alone—except for Gulliver. Dressed in a long white jacket and shiny boots, he was an imposing companion, but he would hardly deflect questions on my husband's whereabouts.

  I had chosen my own garments with care. Vacillating between a utilitarian walking dress and a more frivolous creation, I had selected something in the height of fashion to counter my usual practical image. Here I was: the new heiress ready to flaunt her good fortune to everyone from the Jardines to the Lanyados. Some would speculate whether I was there just to be seen or if my new streak of daring had extended from my wardrobe to trying for a stake in the opium business. I especially hoped that my plum gown with the high officer stand-fall collar, wide satin revers, and the matching bonnet crowned with ostrich feathers would agitate Aunt Bellore.

  Heads turned when I entered the room. The men's glances were brief, the women's more intrigued. Just as they must have appraised me, I was equally interested in them. Olivia Davidson was wearing a sailor-style jacket with a jaunty white linen collar. Her friend Natalie Matheson was in a pink gown with a close-fitting bodice and frilled jabot. I did not recognize some of the younger women, but Sultana and her sister Lulu sported jackets with wide leg-o'-mutton sleeves. In front of them—sitting with the wives of the several smaller bidders— their mother was bedecked in black cotton with white lace collar and cuffs. Feeling satisfied I had not underestimated what to wear, I went over to the short trellised barrier that separated the ladies' and visitors' gallery on the right side of the room from the trading floor.

  “How nice to see you again,” Olivia fussed. “Do sit next to me, Mrs. Salem, for I must hear about your recent trip.”

  I took the seat that was offered to me between Olivia Davidson and Sultana Judah. “To Darjeeling?” I asked in a syrupy voice. Before I had inherited the Luddy estate, Olivia had barely looked in my direction. Nor had I ever taken an interest in the society in which Bellore and her kin had longed to become accepted. The British ladies would suppose my appearance as nothing more than a desire to establish myself at the pinnacle at last. I hoped Aunt Bellore's thoughts might range beyond the obvious.

  “The earthquake's ravages are not apparent, at least not on the surface, but some of the homes will have to be refurbished. Many need new roofs.”

  “Such a pity,” Olivia clucked. “Well, it is good to have you back. We must have you both over for supper.”

  “Thank you.” I forced myself to smile past my pain. From the corner of my eye I watched as Gulliver stationed himself behind me. A punkah-wallah on his right looked at the imposing Gurkha in awe and stopped pulling on the rope. Gulliver gave the skinny boy a discreet kick. He stirred the air twice as fast.

  Reluctantly Cousin Sultana acknowledged my presence. “This is my first auction,” she began sweetly.

  “Mine too,” I said as I eyed my mother's pearl bracelet on her wrist. “I have come to see what the fuss is about.”

  Olivia leaned over. “If s not often one gets to see so much money exchanging hands,” she said in her charmingly husky voice. “You must watch the expressions on the men's faces. There is one other time they ever look so intense.” She smiled slyly.

  “I don't see Edwin,” Cousin Sultana said with her face screwed in a perplexed expression. Everyone knew that we were rarely apart.

  “He doesn't usually come to the auction.” Aunt Bellore turned about and looked at me suspiciously. “Will he be here today?”

  The words twisted the spike that continued to pierce my heart, but I refused to wince. “I don't know,” I said with forced nonchalance. “I was curious to find out what people have been finding amusing. He probably has more important business to attend to in Clive Street.”

  Three men dressed in gray lounge suits app
eared from a side door. The tallest one mounted a small platform and stood in front of a lectern under a brass chandelier. The others carried leather cases. Each went to a table on either side of the lectern and began to remove stacks of documents.

  “Who are they?” I asked Olivia brightly.

  “The auctioneer is Jack Chappell,” she said as the man on the left handed the one in the middle a set of papers. “The other two are the government agents. The one with the black hair is Christopher Haythornthwaite. Isn't that the most adorable name? He's a cousin of the viceroy's wife. The other one, with the blond mustache, is Michael MacGregor, recently out from England and quite green.”

  To me the three looked like ordinary gentlemen, but in Calcutta's small European world they were intriguing morsels to the Olivias and Natalies, who were bored with their routine friends. The auctioneer pounded a silver gavel, and the ringing sound silenced the room. The women settled their skirts. The few men who still mingled about took their places. Papers shuffled, throats cleared. Six burly Indians carried in three mangowood chests and placed them on benches in front of the room. The lids were opened to reveal two levels of twenty opium balls.

  “Lot one hundred and one,” the auctioneer began, “comprising twenty-four chests of Malwa opium, grade double-A, processed in Nimach. Thirty thousand to open.”

  “Why don't they start with number one?”

  “Tradition, I suppose,” Olivia replied airily.

  Although I did not notice a flicker in the crowd, someone must have indicated a bid, for the auctioneer had moved on rapidly. “Thirty-two, thirty-two-five, thirty-four, thirty-four-five, thirty-four-five . . . and forty . . . and fifty and sixty.” The gavel fell. “Thirty-four thousand, five hundred and sixty for the lot.”

  “Who bought it?” I asked, perplexed that I had seen so little take place.

  “Probably Jardine, Matheson,” Olivia replied. “By custom, they always take the first lot. Not that it matters—they will share it later.”

  “Is that a good price?” I wondered aloud, even though I knew the fourteen-forty per chest I calculated was considerably better than the thirteen-fifty rupee reserve that we had estimated for the paste of Malwa flowers.

  Olivia tossed her honey curls. “Who knows? Who cares? But look, do you see that divine man behind my brother Thomas? He's from our Hong Kong office. If only my husband would consider transferring him here.” She giggled.

  Where was Edwin? Had he spent last night with his friend Howard Farrell? And if he had, could Olivia know about that already? No, there had not been time. . . .

  The auction had droned on while my mind wandered to the whereabouts of my husband. Several more lots were bought, yet they could not have disposed of even a hundred chests. With over nine thousand slated to be sold that day, I realized this could be a tedious business indeed. Thus far hardly a muscle had moved among the merchants scribbling figures on their bid sheets, and I had no idea to whom the lots had gone. If I were going to follow the auction, it would require my full attention. Better concentrate, I admonished myself as I straightened my back and turned away from Olivia's animated whispers.

  Uncle Samuel sat on the far left side of the third row with a weary expression frozen on his pinched face. Throughout the room I picked out the other members from Sassoon and Company. In the second row I saw Reuben's son Nathaniel, our company's designated bidder. With a pang I realized he was not privy to our plans, and hoped when everything came to light he would not be furious. Gabriel Judah sat at the end of the third row closest to us. Uncle Reuben and Uncle Ezra were side by side in the fifth row. The next generation was also represented, by Mir, Adam, and Noah, who were scattered randomly around the chamber. None of these people knew what was planned. Representatives from Jardine, Matheson held most of the prestigious front-row seats that were theirs for seniority.

  In the center of the front row was an empty chair. “Who sits there?” I asked my cousin curiously.

  “That was Uncle Saul's place and our grandfather's before him. I think it is shameful to leave it empty, for everyone thinks we do not have a leader worthy to head the company.”

  I tested the water. “Perhaps when my father has recovered . . .”

  Sultana shrugged and turned to say something to her sister. At least Uncle Samuel had not had the audacity to take it for himself—yet.

  I wondered if he was eyeing it covetously at that very moment. But no, his full attention was on the sheet of paper in front of him. His pen ticked the squares as the auctioneer continued his singsong soliloquy, punctuated by gavel drops that gave me no hint of who had won the round.

  The sample crates were being carried in and out rapidly. The lots varied in size from twenty-four to sixty chests each. Even so, I calculated that at this rate the auction would take five to six hours to complete. How was I ever going to follow the action? If I asked for papers, I would be suspect. Oh, but I had forgotten the scheme. I was supposed to be suspect! Ever since I had walked into the room and had not seen Edwin, I had been disoriented. It was fortunate the execution of the plan had not been left to me, because I would have muddled it already.

  I turned around and signaled for Gulliver.

  “Yes, memsahib.”

  I whispered my request for some sheets of paper like the ones the men had. Gulliver nodded and left the room. A few minutes later he handed me a sealed packet.

  “Sold. Lot one hundred fifty-three!” called the auctioneer.

  I shuffled the pages until I turned to where we were. Nudging Natalie, Olivia bent over and muttered, “Aren't you the serious one?”

  “I will fall asleep if I don't have something to look at,” I said with a laugh that sounded forced. Natalie rolled her eyes in a gesture I recalled from my school days, when a friend thought me too studious for my own good.

  “Lot one hundred fifty-four.” Chappell was at the top of the third of sixteen pages. “Patna, grade double-B, from Ghazipur.” A prickling sensation shot up my back. The ryots in that area had always had close ties with the Sassoons. Long ago I had been in Ghazipur with my father. This was Edwin's domain. “Thirty-six chests.”

  What was the reserve that Abner Raphael had set for lower-grade Patna? Edwin had taken down the figures, but he was nowhere in sight. Less than thirteen hundred, I recalled. I did a quick multiplication: forty-six thousand was the minimum.

  “Forty-five . . . forty-six . . . forty-six and five hundred . . . forty-eight . . . fifty . . . fifty-one . . .” Was I imagining the slight catch of excitement in the auctioneer's voice? Was that a high price for double-B? Had Uncle Samuel begun his run?

  “Fifty-one and five hundred and fifty!” was finalized by a gavel thump. I scribbled some figures. That was over fourteen hundred rupees per chest—a slight elevation, but not an absurd price. Who had made the purchase? My eyes, which had adjusted to the nuances in the men's frugal movements, had caught a slight wave of the fingers of an agent sitting behind my Uncle Ezra. And Uncle Samuel had shifted slightly in his seat, not turning around but twitching enough that I sensed he had garnered that group of chests. What was Gabriel doing? Making careful notations—after he nodded respectfully to Olivia Davidson, the woman closest to him. I was right! I had to be right! Before I could calm my rushing pulse, another bid was under way.

  The next lot of twenty-four higher-graded crates of Patna went for 1,468 rupees. Had the same agent got both lots? I was not certain, but the climate in the room seemed changed. The men were more alert. The choicest grade of Patna was on the block: triple-A. Abner Raphael whispered something to the man one chair to his left, an Indian with a high forehead, who I presumed was either his manager or agent. A raise of this man's dark finger indicated he was opening the next round of bidding. Again the crates were sold to someone sitting behind my Uncle Ezra.

  “Seventy-four and four!” I overheard Haythornthwaite say as he filled in his documents.

  “Is that a great deal?” I asked Olivia innocently, even though I had already
calculated this was over fifteen hundred rupees per chest.

  “I suppose so, but the lots were large. Did he say thirty-six or forty-eight chests?” Olivia bent over and asked Sultana.

  “I'm not sure,” Sultana replied nonchalantly.

  My cousin always pretended to be dense when in fact she had a conniving streak that had presented difficulties when we were children. I had a feeling she knew almost as much as I did about what was going on.

  “At least your friend from Hong Kong seems pleased,” I mumbled to Olivia.

  “A pity. If he is cheerful, my husband is bound to be grumpy.” She babbled on about something that had happened at a previous auction, when the auctioneer had made a mistake and they had got a parcel under the reserve, while I tried to concentrate on who was bidding for the next lot.

  Two more loads seemed to go to agents. The quality was high and the price more than ten percent above the reserves I recalled.

  “Who buys the higher-priced opium?” I asked Olivia.

  “Usually those who need it for medicinal purposes,” she replied officiously. “Surely you know the more expensive grades contain a higher percentage of morphine. Anyway, the independents, who buy particular chests for special customers or the pharmaceutical interests, will be finished shortly and then the merchants will settle up the rest. Everything moves more swiftly once the smaller fish are out of the pond.”

  “Good,” Sultana said, fanning herself, for the September day was turning out to be typically warm and moist. “I don't plan to stay here the whole afternoon.”

  Was that what was going on? Had the expensive parcels gone to the pharmacists? Had I misread the higher prices as the beginning of Uncle Samuel's move? My searching glance caught Abner Rapahel's eye. He made an exaggerated nod in my direction. I remembered my presence was supposed to be obvious, and I gave him as expansive a smile as possible. Perhaps the agent who had accrued the recent lots had been working for him (and thus me) all the while. Being on the outskirts was infuriating. If I only knew where matters stood . . .