Truly, Madly, Deeply

by Romantic Novelist's Association

  ‘I take no offence, but then, I am not a member of it. I have no intention of trawling a net through the shoals of bachelors or attempting to lure a widower with a well-cast fly.’

  ‘No? How refreshing, speaking as a widower myself.’

  Joanna could find no answer that was neither coy nor flirtatious.

  The boat bumped against granite steps awash with slippery weeds. Noise rose around them: bargaining, laughter, a furious quarrel. Flowers and fabrics were heaped in screaming harmonies of orange, purple, scarlet.

  ‘Let me.’ Sir Alexander bent and lifted her, stepped from boat to shore with the ease of a farmer carrying a lamb, and set her on her feet among scattered petals on the upper platform. ‘Are you certain I should not take you to one of the English houses?’

  ‘No.’ Breathe. ‘This is fabulous, like something from the Arabian Nights.’ Colour, noise, people with dark skins, black hair, flashing eyes, ignored her, slipping past her as though she were a rock in a stream and they shoals of fish. ‘It takes my breath away.’ It could be nothing to do with a pair of strong arms and a broad chest, she was surely immune to that nonsense now.

  ‘Most European ladies recoil in horror.’

  ‘Then they have no imagination.’

  ‘My gig is through here.’ His arm sheltered her as they forged through the crowd, stopped every few steps by calls of greeting from European traders, a tall Indian with a yellow headdress pleated into a massive cockade, even porters.

  ‘Here we are.’ A turbaned groom stood at the head of a bay mare, its ears flickering amidst the swarm of flies. Sir Alexander settled her and swung up himself. ‘You think your countrywomen lack imagination? You mean they have no romance in their soul and do not appreciate this exotic scene as you do?’

  ‘You think me capable only of admiring the romantic? I may read the Arabian Nights but that does not make me empty-headed.’ Most gentlemen treated ladies as though they were decorative nitwits and Joanna had learned to ignore it, but for some reason, from this man, it hurt. ‘I think they cannot be looking beyond the dirt and the flies to see both the beauty and the real, hard life behind it.’

  ‘I apologise, that was patronising.’

  There was that hint of a rueful smile again. Rather charming…For goodness sake! He is a complete stranger. ‘Please, do not regard it. Where are we going?’

  ‘To call on an Indian merchant who is helping Atherton to put together a consignment of textiles for London. You should lower your veil until you reach the women’s quarters.’

  ‘I cannot meet him?’

  ‘It is not done. But you will be able to watch and listen.’

  ‘I do not speak their language.’ Sudden panic that she might inadvertently cause offence sharpened her voice. ‘What if I do something wrong?’

  ‘Place your hands together and bow when you meet them. Do not refuse refreshment and eat only with your right hand.’

  His calm assumption that she would cope calmed her. ‘Very well. Good luck in getting a good price.’

  ‘Luck has nothing to do with it,’ Sir Alexander said as he turned the horse between high walls. Ornate gates creaked open, servants ran forward and Joanna twitched her veil into place. It preserved convention and it covered her smile at the calm masculine assurance in his tone. So very sure of himself! But, she sensed, with good reason.

  Half an hour later, seated on a pile of slippery silk cushions, Joanna saw nothing to change her opinion. She could not understand what the two men seated in the arcaded room below her were saying, but she could read their body language and watch the reaction of Devdan Khan’s wives.

  Another glass of sherbet, another plate of strange dainties, both sweet and spice at the same time, were offered. She smiled and accepted them. Her hostesses seemed bent on feeding her to death and stays were not garments designed either for hot climates or for folding oneself up elegantly on the floor, but a lady never showed discomfort.

  One of the wives –Nadia, she recalled –gave a little gasp and leaned forward to peer at the scene below. Her husband shrugged and the men clapped hands, palm to palm. A deal had been concluded, it seemed. The Indian handed across a small package; Sir Alexander reciprocated.

  ‘Your man,’ Nadia said in her halting English. ‘He is…clever.’

  ‘He has made a good deal?’ She did not feel capable of arguing that Sir Alexander was most definitely not her man. Besides, the thought that he had triumphed was rather pleasing.

  The other woman nodded. ‘Hard man. My lord admires him.’

  When she finally managed to escape her new friends and rejoin Sir Alexander in the courtyard she could read the satisfaction in his smile. ‘Congratulations. I gather you came off best there.’

  ‘How do you know that, Lady Joanna?’

  ‘I was watching you. You bargain forcefully and I could tell you won. Nadia says you are a hard man and that her lord admires you.’

  ‘Did she, indeed!’ He seemed amused.

  ‘What were you bargaining for?’

  ‘Golden silk. Look in the package. Devdan Khan said it was a present for my lady.’

  ‘I am not –’ It was not the sort of conversation that she should get into, even in denial. Joanna opened the tissue and shook out a scarf, shimmering gold, crisp and alive in her hands. ‘How lovely! What is the dye?’

  ‘It is naturally that colour. It is from Assam, a very scarce variety of silkworm. Now the most important business is done we will go to the flower market so I can order garlands to be delivered to the Athertons for the birth of the child. Do you mind crowds?’

  ‘Not at all, although as we are driving through a throng that makes the Strand on a busy day look like a village lane, it is a trifle late to ask!’

  ‘The flower market will make this look like the village lane, believe me.’

  There was no hope of moving faster than a walk. Most of the crowd was on foot, but there were bullock carts and tiny donkeys, only their feet visible under huge loads of reeds.

  ‘Camels! Look, there are camels.’ Joanna found she was hanging on Sir Alexander’s arm and bouncing with excitement. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon.’

  ‘There’s an elephant.’ He pointed with his whip and Joanna could only stare as the great beast lumbered past, the tiny long-lashed eye studying her calmly as it went. When they found themselves following its massive backside –crumpled grey leather swaying as the crowd parted around it –her hand was still tucked into the crook of his left elbow. Somehow it seemed awkward to tug it free.

  ‘Why are you here, if not to find a husband?’ he asked without preamble.

  ‘Because I discovered my betrothed tumbling a friend of mine in the conservatory during a reception and I would not do the required thing and pretend nothing had occurred. He is exceedingly eligible, you understand. I threw a potted fern at him, everyone heard –and saw –what was happening. Mama decided the only thing to be done was to pack me off to Cousin Maria. At best, I would find a rich husband out here. At worst, I would return in a year or two and everyone would have forgotten.’

  ‘I admire your restraint in only lobbing the potted plant. In your shoes I would have been tempted by the thought of gelding the swine with blunt scissors.’

  ‘What a shocking suggestion, Sir Alexander!’ Somehow she managed not to burst out laughing. ‘Unfortunately the fern was all that came to hand.’

  ‘You are a woman of sense. Don’t stay here.’ The amusement had gone from his voice.

  ‘I have no intention of doing so. I will stay for perhaps a month out of politeness, and now, of course, to see if I can help my cousin. Then I will take the first available berth back. There is nothing for me here.’ He gave a grunt that sounded like satisfaction. ‘But why do you urge me to leave?’

  ‘Because this country absorbs hundreds of people and most of them do not survive the experience. It is no place for delicately reared young ladies, nor for their children.’

  ‘I have seen Europeans everywh
ere we have driven. You are here, alive and well.’

  ‘You see the men. I have lived in India since I was nineteen and I’ve caught most of the diseases it threw at me and survived. This…market in young brides is obscene.’

  There was more behind his words than an impersonal observation. ‘Your own wife died young?’

  ‘Yes. With our child. A fever.’

  ‘Alex, I am so sorry.’ The name slipped out. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon.’

  ‘I do not mind, no one else calls me that.’

  His wife did not, that is what he means. ‘I meant…’

  ‘I know. It was six years ago.’ He seemed to be choosing his words with care. ‘She came out with the Fleet. It was not a love match, simply a suitable one.’

  But it mattered to him and the hurt was still there, however he tried to hide it. ‘As mine would have been.’ Suitable. Loveless. ‘I shall go back to England, become an eccentric spinster and write lurid novels of eastern romance.’

  Alex gave a snort of laughter. ‘That would be a waste, Lady Joanna.’

  ‘Joanna, please. We are having a day away from the conventions, are we not?’

  ‘I think we must be. Here is the flower market.’

  It was an unnecessary observation. Colour spread around them, spilled in heaps, ran in drifts and rivers, dripped from poles. Colours she had no names for, flowers she had never seen, never imagined except, perhaps, in a feverish delirium. A wanton, lavish abundance that filled a space the size of a town’s square.

  And people were everywhere, shouting, working, tipping out great wicker baskets of more blossoms, sitting creating the garlands and plaques that were heaped around her. A hump-backed cow wandered through snatching mouthfuls as it passed and no one seemed to care. Camels, their legs folded like surveyors’ tripods, sat and sneered at her, a goat trotted up and tried to eat the trailing hem of her gown.

  ‘Get off!’ Joanna flapped her parasol at it.

  Alex snapped a command to the groom who jumped down and shooed off the animal. ‘Naresh will stay and guard you. There is no danger, but he will keep the goats away.’

  ‘Why can’t I come with you?’ She didn’t want Alex going off alone into this carnival atmosphere to buy garlands to celebrate the birth of another man’s child, not hard on the heels of those few terse words about his loss. Somehow he had changed from a good-looking, chance-met gentleman to someone whose intelligence and humour she admired: someone who mattered.

  Alex was already standing beside the groom. Strong, intelligent, self-contained. What could she do to help a man like that? Be there, Joanna realised. She didn’t wear her heart on her sleeve either and no one had seen past her anger with at Giles to the pain underneath. No one had seen her misery as anything but a problem. Alex had allowed her see into his own tragedy out of his concern for her. Now she owed it to him to distract him from his ghosts.

  ‘Let me come.’

  ‘In those shoes?’ he enquired, leaning to the side to look at her left foot. Joanna twitched her skirts: she knew she had pretty ankles. ‘What is underfoot here is indescribable.’

  ‘I will throw them away,’ she said and held out a hand to him.

  Alex hesitated then swung her down. ‘On your feet be it.’

  They were both laughing as he took her arm and plunged into the mêlée.

  ‘How much does all this cost?’ she asked, as he negotiated the delivery of what looked like a hundredweight of garlands to the Athertons.

  ‘Paise. Pennies. These people make a living by working very hard. Now, let us get back to the carriage.’

  ‘No, please. I love this –can we not explore a little more?’

  ‘If you are sure. Look out!’ Alex took her by the waist and swung her out of the way of a porter, blinded by his load of foliage. His hands lingered for a moment, broad and strong, and Joanna looked up, amused and off balance. What she saw in his eyes silenced the laughter on her lips and yet she felt no shyness about keeping them curved into a smile. Someone bumped into her back and propelled her against him.

  Alex’s hands slid up to gather her in. ‘I…’ He cleared his throat. ‘I think one of the side alleys would be less crowded.’

  ‘Yes.’ Joanna studied his linen shirtfront an inch from her nose.

  Neither of them moved for a heartbeat, then he said, ‘Here, let me take your arm. We go down here.’

  She glanced up. The only evidence the moment had happened if it were not for the heat in her cheeks and the dip of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed hard. Best to pretend nothing had occurred. She tugged free to dart across to a heap of weirdly frizzled purple and pink blooms, but he caught her hand and held it.

  ‘If I lose you in here I might never find you again.’

  Was it her imagination or were there layers of meaning under the simple warning? ‘No,’ Joanna agreed and slid her fingers between Alex’s. ‘I would not want to lose you.’

  ‘Darvell sahib!’

  Alex guided her to where a plump trader was waving from behind a mountain of roses. Joanna could not understand but she caught the word ‘memsahib’ and saw Alex’s eyes suddenly narrow. The man bustled out from behind his flowers, a garland of red roses in either hand.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But they are so lovely? May I not accept them? If you could lend me the money…’

  ‘He offers them as a gift.’ The flowers were already around her neck. With what looked like resignation Alex bowed his head for his own garland.

  ‘You be very happy, memsahib,’ the man said. ‘Darvell sahib is a good man. Give you many –’

  ‘Band karo!’ The man subsided, grinning sheepishly. ‘Thank you. Come, Joanna.’

  ‘What is the matter?’ The scent was intoxicating. Not the sweet apple scent of English roses but perfumed and rich. Wicked.

  ‘These are flowers for a betrothal. He thinks we are affianced.’

  Suddenly they were out of the market onto the grass of the riverbank. A few feet in front of them the Hooghly swirled, muddy brown.

  ‘But I have only known you half a day.’ Joanna heard her own words and scrabbled to retrieve them. ‘It is not as though he has seen us together many times to come to that conclusion.’

  ‘No,’ Alex agreed, as he swept some dead leaves from a stone slab in the shade and gestured for her to sit. He made no attempt to remove the flowers.

  ‘I thought I would hate India.’ Joanna found her hand had somehow curled into his again.

  ‘You do not know it. How can you learn to love…something after a few hours?’

  ‘Love is an emotion, an instinct. I believe it can be instantaneous or it may grow. I believe it finds us and we cannot seek it. I never expected that it would find me.’ Beside her Alex had become very still. Embarrassed by her intensity, perhaps. Or was he in denial of its truth? Joanna swallowed the lump in her throat and deliberately lightened her tone. ‘I can tell it is dangerous as well as beautiful here. I can see the poverty, I can smell the raw sewage.’ She pointed upstream to where a column of smoke was rising. ‘They are cremating a body, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, that is a burning ghat. And the remains will be thrown into the river –this is part of the Ganges and so, sacred.’

  ‘It does not make me want to bathe in the river, certainly. But it does not disgust me, if that is what you expected.’

  ‘I do not know what to expect from you.’ It was almost a whisper. An angry whisper, as though he had fought against the words and lost. ‘I did not expect you.’

  ‘Nor I you.’

  She turned so she was facing him. ‘And you are sorry I am here.’

  ‘Yes. You should go home.’

  Joanna’s heart lifted. He was afraid for her. But she knew he wanted her to stay whatever he might say.

  ‘I will not. Not this year. And one person’s friendship or rejection will not change that: you need not have my decision on your conscience.’

  ‘Friendship?’ Alex’s smile did not reach h
is eyes and he turned from her to stare across the river, fascinated, it seemed, by the efforts of a clumsy barge to come alongside a larger vessel. ‘In India it is considered very shocking to kiss in public,’ he remarked.

  The startled breath had to be dragged up from her toes. ‘Not unlike Mayfair, then?’

  He gave a choke of laughter as he got to his feet. ‘I have never met a woman like you. Come, I have something to show you.’

  They did not speak as he led her back through the market, nor when he helped her into the carriage and drove along a road bounded by a high wall on their left. At a gate he halted and Naresh took the reins, impassive as ever.

  Where are we? To ask seemed intrusive for some reason she could not fathom. She followed Alex between a pair of low gatehouses and into a garden. Or a shrubbery, perhaps. It took a moment before she realised what it was. ‘A cemetery?’

  Paths radiated away beneath trees and everywhere were obelisks and columns, small Classical mausoleums. Tombs and monuments. She walked to the first inscription, brushed away dust.

  ‘Read them.’ Alex’s voice was so harsh that she had to turn to be certain it really was he who spoke. He was relying on these testaments in stone to teach her the harsh truth about India, but she already understood the risks. But not, it seemed, the reality of the heartbreak and the pathos.

  ‘Sarah Bright, beloved wife…aged nineteen years. Jane Maddox…twenty-five.’ And lists, no less pathetic for being inscribed in hard stone, of children. One family had lost six. ‘Aged one year and three months, aged five months and two days. Aged four days…’ There were young men too, dead in their prime: lieutenants, attorneys, merchants. Nineteen years, twenty-four, twenty. ‘Cut down in the flower of his youth.’

  It was eerily soothing in the deep shade, patches of brilliant sunlight dappling a dome here, highlighting an inscription there. The only sound was the rustle of leaves underfoot and the bell-calls of birds overhead. Perhaps it was chance that brought her to a simple tomb: Amelia Anne Darvell, daughter of James Hughes of Braughing, Hertfordshire, wife of Sir Alexander Darvell. Died in her 23rd year…and of her daughter Elizabeth aged two months and ten days.