Mr. Ritchie shifted the papers in his hands, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, but it is a pleasant disturbance, so please take your time.”
She ducked her head a little so he couldn’t see the smile on her face. He was so sweet—a little shy or perhaps awkward, but with a presence that made him very attractive.
She attempted to search through the books, but couldn’t actually read one title, she was too distracted. It seemed as if Mr. Ritchie, too, was having difficulty focusing on his work.
Finally, he said, “At about five o’clock the weather cools down quite nicely. I…I would be honored if you would go riding with me at that time. Just for a bit of exercise.”
“Oh, that sounds wonderful. I would love to!” Cassandra spun around to look at him.
Mr. Ritchie smiled, but his expression became a little clouded as he remembered propriety. “I…I believe you should ask your mother first.”
“Yes, I suppose I should.” But already she knew what that answer would be.
Perhaps it was for the best, Cassandra sighed, as she softly closed the door to the office behind her. She did not want to become interested in a man only to have her heart broken again. Perhaps it would be better to stay away from Mr. Ritchie.
Although, she thought, slowly walking down the hallway turning over the book she had picked at random, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to ask her mother–after all, what harm could one little ride do?
Chapter Four
As expected, her mother did not agree.
“But Mama, why ever not? What have you got against Mr. Ritchie? Is it just because he works for Papa?” Cassandra asked, tucking her feet up under her in the soft overstuffed chair of the informal drawing room where she and her mother were sitting.
Lady Renwick sighed and put down her embroidery. “You may have learned proper deportment and the social graces of a young lady at that school I sent you to, but I am certain they never touched on the particularities of Calcutta society. It is high time you learned about it, however, since somehow I did not do a good job of explaining things to you this morning.”
Her mother paused. Considered her words, and then said, “Cassandra, Mr. Ritchie is not one of us. It is not just that he is a clerk, which is certainly no point in his favor. Even if he were an Englishman, I would never allow you to go riding with a mere clerk. But my point is that he is not a full-blooded Englishman.”
Lady Renwick paused for effect and then exclaimed dramatically, “He is a half-breed!”
Cassandra looked even more confused. “A half-breed? What is that?”
“A half-breed is an Eurasian, my dear. His father is English and his mother Indian. He has no place in our society.”
Lady Renwick picked up her embroidery again. “I am sure you understand and will spurn any further advances he makes. They are totally inappropriate from one in his position.” She paused and then said partially under her breath, “Although Mr. Ritchie has remained particularly obtuse, I expect that someday he will learn his proper place.”
Cassandra closed her mouth with a snap. It must have fallen open with her mother’s explanation, although she hadn’t been aware of it.
Suddenly everything made sense.
This was why people had turned their backs on the poor man at the ball. This was why Major Vernon had frowned at her so fiercely when she had shown an interest in him.
And it also explained his unusual coloring. His features, including his brilliant eyes, must be inherited from his father, but his hair and skin color from his mother. What a striking combination!
But it still wasn’t right. No matter what his birth, no one should be treated the way people were treating Mr. Ritchie.
Lady Renwick gave a nod of approval at her daughter’s silence. “Now that you understand how things work, Cassandra, I trust that you will no longer give a thought to your father’s secretary. I do believe, however, that Major Vernon is going to be present at Lady Minto’s soiree tomorrow evening. We shall attend, of course. Everyone will be there.”
Cassandra did not even acknowledge her mother’s chatter about who would attend the soiree. She couldn’t imagine how her mother could expect her to just forget about someone like that.
Cassandra began to tap her fingers together, her hands steepled in her lap.
How could she just sit back and allow someone to be treated this way? Had she not just suffered the same injustice at the hands of Lord Felbridge? How could her mother not see the similarity?
She locked her fingers together. She could feel all of her muscles tense in her growing anger.
Finally, she could not stand it any longer. “Mama,” Cassandra tried to interrupt her mother’s prattle.
“…and when they danced, why, you could just see that he was all wrong…”
“Mother!” Cassandra worked to keep herself from shouting.
“What is it?” Her mother looked up in surprise from her embroidery.
“Mama, don’t you see that what you are doing is wrong?”
“Wrong?” She held her embroidery out to examine the flower she had been stitching. “I admit the colors are not exactly right…”
“No! Not your sewing! Mr. Ritchie.”
“What, are you still thinking about him? I thought we had resolved that.”
“No, we have not. Don’t you see that the way you treat Mr. Ritchie is exactly the same way that I was treated in London? You are discriminating against him because of who his parents are. Can you not see that is wrong?”
Lady Renwick looked at her daughter as if she had lost her mind. “Your parents, Cassandra, are both English. If you were discriminated against because of that, it is the first I have ever heard of such a thing.”
“No. I was laughed at because I had thought to marry a marquess when my father is only a baronet. It is the same thing. You look down on Mr. Ritchie because his mother is Indian.”
Her mother looked blankly at her. “I do not see the similarity.”
Cassandra sighed. “It is not Mr. Ritchie’s fault that his mother is Indian, just like it is not my fault that Papa is a baronet. He should not be discriminated against because of who his mother is,” she explained as patiently as she could.
Cassandra paused. “In fact, I believe, it is what makes him so interesting. He bridges two cultures.”
Her mother scowled and turned back to her embroidery. “You are too young to understand. You must simply accept what I say and stay away from Mr. Ritchie.”
Lady Renwick shuddered dramatically. “Bridging two cultures indeed. As if anyone would have the slightest interest in Indian culture, if you can call it that. Why they are nothing more than dirty heathens!”
With a groan of frustration, Cassandra got up and left the room.
In her bedroom, she paced back and forth. How could her mother not understand? How could she treat people this way? Oh, she wanted to scream!
No. She had to calm down. She took a deep breath. There had to be some way to get through to her mother and to others in English society. How could these people live in a foreign country and have no interest in it or its people? She just didn’t understand.
Of course, she thought as she dropped down into the chair in front of her dressing table, if she could learn more about Indian culture and, even possibly, what it was like to be a Eurasian, then maybe she could help change the way people thought. Was it possible? Could she make a difference?
She didn’t know, but it was certainly worth a try. And she had to do something.
As Julian left through a side door, he noticed Miss Renwick was coming out the front gates.
“It is a pleasant time for a walk, is it not, Miss Renwick?” he said, moving quickly forward so that he could walk alongside her.
“Oh, Mr. Ritchie, what a pleasant surprise! Are you on your way home?”
“Not quite yet. I still have some more work to do. I just thought I might step out for a bit of fresh air.” Out of the corner of his eye, h
e noted approvingly, her ayah was following discretely behind.
Miss Renwick noticed him looking about. “I’ve brought my ayah. I don’t know how dangerous the streets are here, so I thought that would be safe.”
“Indeed. You most certainly shouldn’t go out by yourself.” He paused, so many thoughts chasing through his mind at once. The only one he could catch and hold on to was his overwhelming desire to take advantage of this unforeseen opportunity to be with Miss Renwick.
“I would be delighted if you would allow me to join you on your walk.”
She turned back to him with such happiness in her eyes, he could feel a tingle running straight down his body.
“Would you?” she breathed.
He nodded and was about to hold his arm out for her to take, when he thought that that might overstepping things a bit – and there was the ayah right there watching his every move. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and started off toward the gate, inclining his head to indicate that she should walk along with him.
Miss Renwick gave a little nod of her head. Although she kept her eyes looking forward, she did not hide the look of pleasure that crossed her face.
“Calcutta is a fascinating city,” she said. “There are such opposites existing side by side. I am just amazed at the incredible differences between the palatial homes of the British and the Indian nobility and the mud huts of the poor natives.”
Julian looked at her, surprised at her perceptive mind. He had never known anyone to openly comment on the vast differences between the poor Indians and the English, and to find it interesting was quite beyond what he would have expected from such a pretty and innocent girl.
He looked back at the Renwicks’ house, seeing it through her eyes. It was no exception to the standard design of British homes–quite large with numerous bedrooms and drawing rooms. There were also two other buildings within the compound–one was the servants’ quarters, the other the kitchen.
But just outside the walls were small mud cottages with thatched roofs. Even Julian did not know who lived there, despite the fact that he had passed these houses nearly every day for the past two years.
They walked past the cottages slowly, trying not to stare. Miss Renwick scrunched up her nose at all the smells that assailed them. They were so familiar to Julian that he almost did not notice them, but seeing Miss Renwick’s reaction brought the scents to his attention.
It was a heady combination of flowers, some delicious spicy cooking odors, frying chili peppers which burned the throat and sent them coughing, and the smell from the cows, chickens and goats that wandered about freely.
Miss Renwick smiled at the wide-eyed stares of two women cooking their dinner over an open flame just in front of their door. The women had been gossiping, but stopped abruptly at their approach. The women stared at Miss Renwick in particular, as did the children who had ceased their playing to watch the white lady walk by.
In the sudden silence of the street, a loud shout and a child’s cry caught their attention.
Slightly farther down the road was one of the commonly seen roadside tea stands. The noise seemed to be centered around a young boy, who was squatting on the ground next to an overturned pot of steaming tea and some broken clay cups.
It was clear that the boy had been trying to carefully pour the hot tea into the cups when the pot had slipped out of his grasp. From the way he was holding his hand, it looked as if he might have burned himself.
Miss Renwick gasped as the man standing over the boy suddenly bent over and slapped him so hard the child flew to the ground.
Letting out an outraged exclamation, she drew up her skirts and ran full-tilt to the tea stand.
“How could you hit a child that way?” she cried out at the man. Then, completely heedless of her dress, or the very interested audience that was quickly gathering to watch, she gently picked up the boy in her arms.
The tea-wallah, stopped in mid-sentence by Miss Renwick’s outburst, was completely speechless. He stood with his mouth hanging open, staring at the young Englishwoman.
Julian had also been momentarily frozen by Miss Renwick’s shocking behavior. But now he ran to catch up to her. “Miss Renwick, please put the child down. This is none of our business. We should not get involved.”
Miss Renwick turned to him, her pale blue eyes filled with tears of distress. “How could I put the poor thing down? I cannot stand by and watch a child be abused.”
“But truly, this is none of our concern. Please, please put him down,” Julian implored. He could see the tea merchant beginning to get angry and knew he had every right to be. Why she felt the need to interfere was beyond both his and the merchant’s comprehension.
“Oh please, Miss, he is filthy!” Miss Renwick’s maid said, joining in the fray.
“Nonsense! As if I would let a little dirt bother me. Come, Gita, we will take him home and see to him.”
“Oh no, Miss! You should not even think of doing so!”
“No, honestly, Miss Renwick...” Julian began.
Miss Renwick ignored them both, and turned to the man. “Are you the boy’s father?”
The man looked curiously at Julian and the maid, clearly not understanding any English. Gita translated her mistress’s question into Bengali.
The man shook his head. “Baba nei, Ma o nei.”
Understanding that the child was an orphan, Miss Renwick nodded with authority. “Then we shall relieve you of your responsibility to the child.”
She then turned and marched back the way she had come, the boy still held in her arms. Julian ran after her, leaving Gita to translate as best as she could.
He contemplated arguing with her during the short walk back to the Renwick’s home, but the determined set of her chin stopped him. He had seen such abuse so many times in his life and yet he had never thought to intervene. But this young woman, new to Calcutta, had done what no one else would have had the courage to do.
Julian could not stop his admiration for her from growing as the significance of her actions solidified in his mind.
They ignored the man’s impotent shouts that his property had just been stolen from him. Both he and Gita knew well that no one was going to challenge the young memsahib for a street urchin.
Gita kept silent through the walk back to the house. But she was moved to protest once more when Miss Renwick paused to walk up the few steps to the front door of her parents’ house.
“Oh no, Miss, what would your mother say?”
At that Miss Renwick finally stopped. Turning around, she came back down the couple of steps she had taken.
“But where else shall I take him?” she asked quietly, with a stricken expression on her face. Julian could see that the enormity of what she had done had begun to dawn on her.
“Come to the servant’s quarters,” he directed gently.
Miss Renwick nodded and followed him around house to the back. Gita led them into a large room where straw mats were laid out along one wall.
“This is where the men servants sleep,” she said.
Miss Renwick nodded, and laid the boy down on one of the mats. Julian, standing behind her, looked down to find terror-filled liquid brown eyes staring up at them.
Smoothing the boy’s hair, Miss Renwick said reassuringly, “It is all right. I will care for you now.”
Gita translated, but they were all surprised when he looked directly at Miss Renwick and clearly said, “Memsahib, rice eat?” and motioned with his hand to his mouth.
Miss Renwick smiled broadly at him and then up at Julian. “He does know some English. I am certain that he will quickly learn more.”
She nodded to Gita. “Get the poor thing some food and then we’ll give him a bath. And could you please try to find some clean clothes for him as well?”
Gita looked at Julian for guidance, but he nodded his assent. They would probably all get into trouble for this, but there was nothing to be done about it now.
Afte
r she had gone, Miss Renwick turned back to the boy. “What is your name?” she asked slowly.
“Harishchandra Paramanik,” he answered, puffing up his skinny chest.
Julian nearly laughed at the pride in the boy’s voice. Miss Renwick just blinked at him and then smiled slowly. “May I just call you Harry? Is that all right?”
The boy seemed to understand and smiled up at them. But his attention turned quickly to Gita, who had returned with a large bowl of food.
“Sir Lionel is looking for you, sahib,” she said to Julian.
He had nearly forgotten that he was supposed to be working. Although reluctant to leave the touching scene that was unfolding here, he knew that the maid would see to both the boy and her mistress.
Cassandra acknowledged Mr. Ritchie’s quick goodbyes, but her attention was entirely on Harry. The urchin was sitting up, and, with eyes as wide as saucers, was gesturing to the plate in Gita’s hand. He said something to her in Bengali, looking at her quizzically.
Gita looked down at the one plate then began blinking back the tears in her eyes. “He wants to know if we will be sharing the food with him,” she said softly, translating the boy’s question.
Cassandra was confused. “Is that the custom?” she asked.
Gita shook her head. “The child has never been given so much food before. To us it is a normal, even a small helping, but to him it is an incredible amount of food.”
With a catch in her voice, Cassandra told her to tell the boy that it was all for him and there would be more if he wanted it.
But first he had to bathe.
Clearly Harry did not like the idea of a bath at all. But the thought of having all that food, and more, helped to persuade him that it would be worth it.
Gita led Harry and Cassandra out to the side of the house, where a bucket of water had been drawn for him. To the sound of loud and fervent protests from Harry, he was quickly and efficiently scrubbed from head to toe. It was a sweet smelling boy, albeit dressed in clothes that were much too large for him, who finally went back to his room to eat his meal.
An Exotic Heir Page 5