Before the Rains

by Dinah Jefferies

  ‘And British cash?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  He snorted. ‘They have wealth hidden away and yet here they come cap in hand as usual!’

  He got to his feet and with his hands in his pockets seemed to be thinking. ‘Would you stay to lunch, Eliza? It will give me time to give it some thought and maybe get some messages to key individuals. What do you say?’

  Eliza inclined her head. ‘I’d be delighted.’

  ‘Let’s go out to the garden. There’s shade.’

  In the garden they sat on a bench together – a little too close for comfort, but Eliza thought it a small price to pay if Clifford agreed, and so, despite her inclination, she didn’t shift away. Instead she sat calmly with her hands in her lap and waited, just as Laxmi would have done. She smiled at the thought that she was being influenced in that way and remained looking at the pretty gazebo, the dainty splashing fountain, and the climbing plants spilling over the garden walls.

  ‘Penny for them?’ he said.

  ‘Just what a lovely garden,’ she said, and was rewarded with a smile.

  ‘My pride and joy. By the way,’ he said as he adjusted his tie, ‘I’ve a letter … judging by the postmark it’s from your mother. I’ll let you have it before you go.’

  Eliza thanked him, though a letter from her mother – likely to be full of complaints – wasn’t something she relished.

  ‘So how are you really getting on?’ he asked.

  A butler in white came out with pre-luncheon drinks on a silver tray and Eliza watched as Clifford picked up his glass and sipped. He was clearly a fastidious man, fingernails clipped short and always immaculately dressed, whatever the weather.

  ‘Well, it is strange, of course,’ she said.

  ‘Strange? Is that all?’ He frowned. ‘You don’t mind the polygamy? The concubines? As a woman I would have thought you’d find it abhorrent.’

  ‘I try not to think of it, and the concubines are friendly.’

  ‘What about the idolatry?’ he continued doggedly.

  ‘Laxmi explained it to me. It all sounded quite sensible.’ She knew she could never bear to speak to him about the widow-burning.

  He raised his brows. ‘Not turning native, I hope? You really would have trouble on your hands then.’

  If only he knew how far from that she was. ‘Really, Clifford, hardly,’ was all she said.

  He squinted at her behind his spectacles. ‘Be careful, Eliza.’

  ‘As I said, I’m fine.’ She looked up and held his gaze, hoping that it was true.

  ‘Well, Anish isn’t fit to rule. We’re constantly crushing civil disobedience and potential rebellions he barely seems to notice. The British Crown is supreme in India and this fellow sometimes forgets it. We’d like to get him out, if I’m honest, and you may be able to help.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Not sure yet. Just a thought. His old man was a good fellow, open to making the changes we suggested, but this one wants only to dress up in his finery or play polo, though now he’s getting too fat to even do that. If we can’t keep the princely states on board, the rebels will have rich pickings.’

  ‘The rebels?’

  ‘Those who favour an independent India. We can’t have any further mutinies. As it is, civil disobedience is on the increase.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘Clifford, are you religious? Do you believe in fate?’

  ‘Fate as a predetermined course of events beyond human control?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  He shook his head. ‘That’s just fatalism. If we can’t change destiny, then why even try?’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘In any case, I’m not a religious man.’

  ‘I don’t think the Hindus quite see destiny as we do,’ Eliza said.

  ‘No. You’d have to ask one of them, but I believe it’s all connected with their idea of karma. Destiny as we define it simply means something that was meant to happen. They think it can be affected by past and present deeds. I sometimes wonder if the misunderstandings between our cultures are down to the interpretation of language.’

  Back at the castle Eliza went straight to her rooms, where she was horrified to see that the padlock on her darkroom wasn’t properly locked. She could have sworn she’d locked it after picking up the contact prints and the plates for Clifford, but perhaps in her haste she had not done so fully. She rang the bell for some masala chai, then sat at the desk to read her mother’s letter.

  When she had finished she let it fall to the floor and buried her head in her hands. It simply could not be true. Her mother was lying. She had to be lying. A long-repressed memory came back. She must have been about eight and it had been a lovely sunny day. Eliza had been delighted to accompany her ayah, who needed to buy some lace in Chandni Chowk. While the ayah was paying, Eliza had glanced out of the shop window and spotted her father in the street, holding a huge bouquet of flowers. When she’d got home she’d excitedly asked her mother where the flowers were that he’d brought home. There were no flowers. In fact her mother hadn’t seen him for two days. Eliza had been so little but, despite that, something about it had chilled her.

  She picked the letter up and read it again, her heart sinking further with every word.

  My dear Eliza

  This is a letter I have been intending to write for many years. I wanted to tell you when you married Oliver, but the words just would not come and I could never bear to speak of your father’s despicable behaviour face to face. I know you idolized him, but everything I am about to tell is, I swear, God’s honest truth. Now that my health is beginning to suffer I must speak while I still can. Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to come home, at least not yet.

  It all began when I was carrying you, some months before you were born. I hadn’t suspected a thing until one of my friends told me she had seen David kissing a dancing girl in one of Delhi’s gardens. I loved him and refused to believe her, then I put it to the back of my mind. After that I preferred not to consider her a friend. I trusted David. We were happy and I could only suppose she was jealous. I had a dashing young husband, while she was a spinster reliant on her brother’s largesse.

  But the damage had been done and gradually I noticed little things. The way your father came home smelling faintly of jasmine, his collar a little awry. The occasional unexplained late nights that gradually turned into days. When I found out he had hefty gambling debts I actually felt relieved. Imagine that. At least he hadn’t taken a mistress, that’s what I thought, that’s what I told myself over and over. But I’m afraid I was wrong. Soon I was to understand the full extent of his betrayal, not only of me but of you too.

  It all came out even before his death. Not only had he ruined us financially with his incessant gambling, he had also squandered almost everything we had and incurred other debts, because for years he had been keeping a dancing girl in a small apartment near Chandni Chowk. Debts which, after his death, I was somehow expected to make good. There is more, much more, but I can’t bring myself to speak of it.

  I never wanted to ruin your idolized view of your father but I don’t feel I can keep these secrets any longer. I’m sorry.

  I hope this letter finds you well. Please give my regards to Clifford. If he is showing an interest I hope you’ll be compliant. As you now know, no man is perfect, even your beloved father.

  Your loving mother

  The ground tilted but Eliza got to her feet and paced back and forth, distraught at the bitterness that spilled from the pages. What could her mother’s purpose be in telling her these dreadful lies? Anna had struck a blow to the very heart of who Eliza believed she was and who she believed her father had been. She thought of his bear hugs and his warm smile and then she remembered his absences. Oh God! What if this was all true? But no. This was another of her mother’s attempts to undermine her love for her father. She could hear the tone of her mother’s voice as she penned it. Yet whether it was true or not, Eliza fe
lt devastated; the fact that Anna had even written of these things made her feel sick at heart and she had mentioned more. What more could there possibly be? And was her mother’s health seriously deteriorating or was this a less than subtle touch of emotional blackmail?

  She went in search of Jayant but was told that he had gone and would be away for some time, meeting with British engineers. She was surprised he hadn’t even waited to hear how she’d got on with Clifford.

  On her way back to her rooms she heard footsteps that seemed to be coming from behind her. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise and she spun round. Nobody. Just the old castle creaking and groaning. But a chill ran through her at the possibility that somebody might be silently watching and listening. She told herself it was just her imagination, but something prowled these corridors, she was sure of it. Maybe a padding servant girl? Maybe a stealthy guard? Either that or the castle was full of ghosts, which wouldn’t have surprised her. This presence she couldn’t identify, and the way she felt she was accompanied by shadows through the half-light of the corridors, left her with a nagging undercurrent of fear.

  She hurried out into the relief of a sunlit courtyard, where Indi appeared to be starting a new drawing at a small easel. The scent of rose and jasmine drifted in the air and, longing to feel a proper part of life at the castle, Eliza watched her for a few moments. Then, desperately in need of a friend while feeling so low, she decided to reach out to the girl once again.

  ‘Is it a sketch for a new painting?’ she asked in a friendly voice, while taking a few steps forward.

  Indi spun round, but with no smile on her face. ‘Just a sketch.’

  ‘It’s good.’

  Indi didn’t reply, and Eliza felt as if she might be wasting her breath. ‘I wondered if you might like to learn more about photography? I’d love to show you how I go about catching a particular moment.’

  Indi stared at her. ‘Nahin dhanyavaad.’

  Then she studiously turned her back and ignored Eliza. It had been a very determined ‘No thank you.’

  13

  January 1931

  After that Eliza gave herself over to the only thing she knew to do when life upset her. Engrossed in work, she did not feel the hurt of her mother’s accusations. Up before dawn, when a soft blue mist hung its veil over the town below, and before the temple bells began to ring, she explored the castle, seeking out unusual shots of external architecture, little corners of exquisite, detailed decoration, or sharp contrasts between light and shade. These were strange, sublime moments of almost enjoyable loneliness. She went to the town, accompanied of course, and managed to capture images of craftsmen at work; she even spotted a musician playing an instrument that seemed to have been made from a coconut.

  Back at the castle, the one positive was a short note from Clifford telling her that he’d set the wheels in motion and it was probably safe for Jay to go ahead with the irrigation project. After that she photographed the servants with a lighter heart. Everyone seemed willing, and she was invited to spend time with the concubines, the swirling pinks and oranges of their long scarves shimmering against the emerald of their skirts and tunics. They began to trust her and, as they chattered and giggled, allowed her to take the relaxed shots she desired. When she revealed the contact prints later on, they exclaimed and excitedly pointed out the images of themselves and in return offered to initiate her in the sixteen arts of being a woman. Afraid of what that might involve, she declined at first but, as they were utterly insistent, she was left with no choice.

  The room they led her to was on the ground floor and enormous, its walls and floor tiled in pale pink marble. The windows, covered by carved jali screens through which the sun filtered golden geometric patterns on the floor, seemed more beautiful than secretive. Brighter. Less made of shadows. And when the maids carried in huge bowls of steaming water which they poured into a deep copper ghangal, a sort of tub, Eliza felt expectant and happy.

  As she sat on a wooden bench, the concubines washed her hair in coconut water and bathed her in jasmine-scented water. But, acutely shy to be naked before them, and with so many pairs of eyes appraising her, and so many fingers touching her pale skin, her smiles turned to embarrassment. They made personal remarks about her breasts and thighs, but gradually she relaxed, and as she surrendered she became more languid with each moment. When they had dried her and while they were massaging her body with rose-scented oils they told her their stories. One said she was the third daughter born to a poor family, far away in a barren land, with no sons.

  ‘So you have sisters?’ Eliza said. ‘I always wanted a sister.’

  The girl shook her head and began to scrape Eliza’s feet with something sharp. ‘They were taken by wolves and I was brought here.’

  ‘As a baby?’

  ‘My parents could not afford to keep me. What use is a girl?’

  The girl then rubbed Eliza’s feet with what looked like butter and sang softly as she worked.

  Another girl pointed out that Eliza must wear more jewellery or she’d be taken for a widow. Eliza protested, but they told her to visit the sonar or goldsmith as soon as she could and buy plenty. Eliza laughed but took note. All the time she was there the women cuddled each other and dissolved into laughter at jokes Eliza didn’t understand, but a kind of chaotic reverie developed and she enjoyed feeling as if she understood a little more of this land of diverse traditions.

  One of the women had made what she called kaajal. It was the dark black stuff they ringed their eyes with, and she offered to show Eliza how to use it. After it was finished Eliza glanced in a mirror and was astonished by the drama it added to her eyes. They looked greener, brighter, and when she smiled at the result the woman gave her a little pot of the stuff in a tiny silver box, with a little wooden stick with which to apply it.

  She’d been at the castle since the middle of November, and had passed a quiet Christmas at Dottie’s. Now it grew quite cold at night, so she had to seek out an extra blanket or two. She was given a razai, a quilt filled with cotton and smelling quite strongly of musk. It was thought to help retain heat in the body. And so, like the rest of the household, Eliza became used to wrapping a large cashmere shawl around herself in the early morning, only shedding it as the heat of the day took over. She still felt as if she was being followed, though nobody had been there each time she’d turned to look. The castle seemed shrouded in mystery. Sometimes she felt as if she was waiting for something awful to happen, and the uncomfortable sensation of being under observation left her feeling strained and tense. Other times she put it down to sounds coming from elsewhere. She was surprised how much she missed Jay and, wishing it was his footsteps she heard echoing down the long corridors, she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that something was wrong.

  Early one morning she heard a knock at her door, and when she opened up she found one of the maids indicating that she should follow. At first she had no sense of foreboding, but as they descended into the bowels of the building her skin prickled with apprehension. In a place as vast as this it wasn’t easy to keep things in perspective; it wasn’t just that these lower corridors were cold, windowless spaces, lit only by oil lamps, there was something odd going on.

  When the girl stopped outside a dark wooden door, Eliza was surprised when the dewan, Chatur, opened the door and signalled that she should enter. She hesitated and twisted to glance back at the handmaiden, but the armed guards who had suddenly appeared in the corridor blocked her path. She did not like, nor trust, Chatur. Everything, from his upright bearing to the curl of his lip, not only implied disdain but actively expressed it.

  As she entered the dark suffocating room his smile was intimidating and completely lacking in warmth. ‘This photography project means a great deal to you?’ he said.

  ‘It does,’ she replied in an even tone of voice and with as much dignity as she could muster.

  ‘That is a pity.’ Another of those smiles that never reached the eyes, givin
g her the impression that he was mocking her. ‘You may have heard that a widow is deemed a guilty woman. We consider it dishonourable for a woman to outlive her husband.’

  He was playing cat and mouse and she swallowed rapidly. ‘A belief that is utterly ridiculous to my way of thinking.’

  He ignored her comment. ‘It has come to my attention that you are a widow, Mrs Cavendish. These rumours do rather spread in our enclosed world.’

  Her heart began to gallop, but as she opened her mouth to ask, he interrupted.

  ‘How I know is no concern of yours.’

  ‘I disagree.’

  ‘Well, be that as it may, the end result is that a woman like you cannot be allowed to move freely around. We believe contact with a widow to be extremely unlucky and few will wish to be in your company. To that end I, or one of my men, will accompany you everywhere and oversee all the pictures you intend to take, including the scrutiny of your contact prints. Anything I deem to be unsuitable will be destroyed. Is that clear?’

  Fired by indignation she stood her ground. ‘Perfectly clear, though I think the British Resident may have something to say about it.’

  ‘I believe Mr Salter is currently in Calcutta and likely to be away for some weeks.’

  ‘Well, Prince Jay –’

  ‘Do not be misled. The Prince will have no option but to do as I say. It is the Maharajah’s order.’

  ‘You told him I was a widow.’

  ‘I know my duty. We believe in duty here, and the first duty of a wife is to keep her husband alive.’ He laughed a bitter laugh. ‘So there you have it.’

  She turned away, but then twisted back and, sick of constantly wondering if she was imagining things, just came out with it. ‘Why are you having me followed?’

  He smiled. ‘It is your imagination. You are not being followed, but, if you were, would it not be in your own interests to leave the castle now, before, shall we say, something worse were to unexpectedly occur? To you, or even to somebody else. These castles can be dangerous places.’