by Patty Bryant
It was overly harsh, she knew. Penelope had been born in India like Savitri, and perhaps she had even held the same expectation of spending her entire life there. Besides, she was very young.
And rich.
It wasn’t fair, but Savitri knew that was how the world worked. Some people, like Penelope (and Alexander, a treacherous part of her mind whispered) could expect to be coddled and taken care of; they had the money to pay for governesses and companions and servants, a whole army of followers to see to their every need.
And on the other hand there were people like Savitri, who were paid rather than paying, who did the coddling – at least if she wanted to keep her job. The simple fact was that Penelope’s needs had to come before her own. And so Savitri didn’t yell at Penelope, but stuffed her irritation down inside herself and listened patiently to the girl’s memories.
In truth, sometimes such talk was a comfort to Savitri too. She had few people other than Penelope and Lucy to spend her time with. The older members of the Ware family had never had much interest in chatting with their governess, even if she wasn’t currently avoiding Alexander. The maids in the house were friendly, but it was always clear that she wasn’t truly one of them. Savitri was caught in between: not one of the gentry, but not exactly a servant either. It was a lonely position.
One afternoon she found herself hungry and went down to the kitchen to see what food was available. The cook always kept a loaf of fresh bread and a wedge of Wiltshire cheese on hand for anyone who needed a little extra between meals. When Savitri entered the room, two chambermaids and a stableboy were clustered around one end of the servants’ dining table, busily gossiping together.
They fell silent when Savitri entered and she paused in the doorway, feeling awkward. Before she could make up her mind to go or to stay, one of the maids smiled at her and waved her over. “Miss Booth! Oh, please come and sit with us, do come! Don’t mind Tommy, we made him wash his hands before he sat down.” The stableboy scowled at her, but the maid only giggled and shoved over her friend to make room for Savitri to sit.
Savitri took the spot, grateful for the welcome. “Are you hungry? Shall I cut you off a slice?” the maid asked, taking up the bread knife and doing so before Savitri could answer. “I’m Alice, and this is Beth, and that one over there is Tommy, like I said. And your name is Miss Booth, have I got that right?”
Savitri nodded, a bit overwhelmed by the quick flow of Alice’s words.
“Booth. Bit of a funny name, isn’t it, for India? I expected you to have some sort of outlandish name, you know, like in the stories. I like Booth though. Easy to pronounce.” Alice slid the bread onto a plate, added a large chunk of the cheese, and handed it to Savitri.
“My father was Irish,” she said, not sure how else to respond. “He worked for the East India Company, but he died when I was very young.”
“Ah, that would explain it. I expect you’re happy to be here and out of the jungle!”
“Not all of India is a jungle,” Savitri began, but then she decided that it was too much to explain when she was still hungry. She put the cheese on top of the bread and took a bite of both at once. It was very good. The bread was soft and still warm on the inside, with a crackling crust dusted in white flour, and the cheese was rich and creamy.
“Good, ain’t it?” Alice asked.
Savitri nodded, but the truth was that the bread and cheese filled her stomach but couldn’t fill the hole in her heart. They were delicious; they just weren’t what she wanted. A sharp pang of homesickness flooded her.
What she really wanted was her mother’s cooking: fish coated with mustard paste and wrapped in a banana leaf to steam, flaky luccha bread, or even something as simple as curd and rice. As far as she could tell, the English never ate yogurt, and though she had once seen a rice pudding offered at dessert, rice wasn’t the staple it had been back home. She had never known she could miss something as common as rice! When she’d eaten it every day, she’d never thought about it. Now that she was deprived she couldn’t forget it.
“You know what I wish I could eat right now?” Savitri said. She knew Alice and the others would never understand India, not really, but maybe if Savitri could teach them just one thing, that would be enough.
“What?” Alice asked eagerly.
“Dahi vada.”
Alice and Beth glanced at each other in confusion, and Tommy wrinkled up his nose. “What’s that?” he asked.
“It’s…” Savitri stretched out a hand; she could almost see the dahi vada in front of her, they were so clear in her memory. But of course the others couldn’t see it. How to explain dahi vada to someone who had no experience of them? She let her hand drop. “You start with balls of flour, and fry them until they’re golden brown and crispy. Then you soak them in with a thick, creamy sauce.”
The others nodded. “That does sound nice,” Alice said.
“Then you top them with red chili powder.” There were other ingredients, but Savitri wasn’t sure the English knew what tamarind or coriander were. “When you’re finished, they’re soft and sweet and spicy all at once. There was an old man on my street who made the very best ones. I used to buy three every afternoon.” She could feel a smile on her face as she almost tasted that explosion of yogurt and chili, the flavors perfectly balanced, the vada so soft it almost melted in her mouth.
Savitri opened her eyes again, only now realizing that she had closed them to better remember. She expected to see the others looking hungry and pleased. Instead she was confronted with three identical frowns, and the shock drove away the lingering memory of the taste.
“No,” Alice said, shaking her head. “I don’t think I’d like those. Sounds too spicy for me.”
“Cook don’t like pepper,” Beth piped up. It was the first time she had spoken, and her voice was soft and shy. “He says it takes over a whole dish and then you can’t taste anything else. But his pepper is black, not red. Does it turn black when it gets cold?”
“No. No, they’re different kinds.” Savitri suppressed a sigh. She had been foolish to think these strangers could understand. “Thank you for the bread and cheese. I should get back to work now.”
Alice gave her a cheery wave. “Come back any time! I liked hearing your story even if it didn’t sound very tasty. Maybe next time you can tell us about tigers!”
“Tigers?” Beth said, her eyes opening wide. “Don’t say you’ve seen a real tiger! I’d be so terrified that I’d drop dead before he could even chase me.”
Savitri had never seen a tiger in her life, other than a tiger skin one of her former employees had kept in their parlor, the souvenir of a hunt that had taken place far from Calcutta. The man who owned it had been as English as Beth herself. But her frustration with this conversation, with all of England, and particularly with everything to do with the Ware family rose up, and Savitri found herself giving a very different answer. “Of course I’ve seen tigers. Everyone in India has. I’d have brought with me, but the captain of the boat we took wouldn’t let her on board.” She gave the three gaping faces a broad smile and made her way as quickly out of the kitchen as possible.
She kept her shoulders straight as she walked through the hallways back toward the schoolroom, her chin up and her mouth soft. On the inside, though, she was a swirling turmoil of emotions; only a great deal of practice at controlling her features allowed her to fight back the prickle of tears in her eyes and the hot burn of anger in the throat. And why should she be angry – or sad, or homesick, or anything else at all? It had been such a small misunderstanding.
And yet she could see her life here in England stretching out ahead of her, years and years of small misunderstandings. Of never feeling an easy connection with another human being, or always needing to explain herself to uncomprehending strangers.
Her traitor heart brought out a memory of Alexander, his blue eyes bright with curiosity as he listened to her, the easy spark of similarity
that had flared between them.
No. She pushed it away. He was no different from Alice or Beth or any other English person, and it was only foolish romanticism that made her want to believe otherwise. Falling in love with him would lead to a lifetime of homesickness and difficulty. If she wanted a happy future, she needed to be smart: find someone of her own background, of her own station in life.
On the other hand, her mother and father had loved each other. Savitri didn’t have many memories of her father, but the ones she did have were happy. In the few faint images she could remember, he was always smiling, always holding her or embracing her mother. If he hadn’t gotten sick – if he hadn’t died – would that have lasted?
The part of Savitri that was rational and coolheaded wanted to say no. The world always brought its troubles eventually. But another, more powerful part of her refused to believe that her parents’ marriage would have turned unhappy. Her mother had refused to remarry after Savitri’s father had died. She could have; perhaps she even should have. It would have meant more money for their little family, certainly. But she never had.
Savitri had never asked her why. She hadn’t thought about it, growing up, and then she had been so accustomed to having a husbandless mother that it had never occurred to her things could be different. Savitri suddenly missed her mother sharply, a feeling like a physical pain in her chest. How could she ask her now? For a letter to reach India and return to London would take nearly a year. It would be hard to put down such thoughts in writing. There were so many things she longed to discuss with her mother: food, adulthood, the unexpected strangeness of England. And love.
Once more her thoughts turned to Alexander. What sort of relationship had he had with his mother? Did he miss his parents? Savitri knew from comments Lord Bernard had made that their parents were dead, but she didn’t know how long ago it had happened or what the cause had been.
She shook her head fiercely. She had her own problems; she couldn’t continually allow herself to be distracted by thoughts of Alexander. Even if it would be nice to have someone intimate, someone to talk to...
But that person couldn’t be the Duke of Clermont. An Anglo-Indian governess and a duke – their positions were simply too far apart for them to ever be happy together. Anything else was mere fantasy.
Being impulsive had made her feel better, but the happiness hadn’t lasted. From now on, Savitri Booth was going to be a proper governess.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alexander normally worked in the library, but the last week had made it clear that would be impossible. He simply could not sit at the desk where he had made love to Savitri and sedately answer letters. No matter how sternly he urged himself to the task, no matter how he gritted his teeth or clenched his hands, he would shortly find his thoughts drifting back to memories of the night of the ball: the sight of Savitri’s hair falling loose and wild down her back, the taste of her lips, the heat and softness of her skin beneath his fingers.
And then he would come back to himself with a start, realizing that he’d ruined yet another sheet of paper with an inkblot.
Every part of the room was tainted with memories of her. Here was the chair where she had sat, here the shelf where she had run her hand, here the spot on the rug where he had held her in his arms. The pile of books he had suggested for her still sat on the table beside the window. There had been no time for her to carry them away on that night, and apparently she had not been by to fetch them since.
He wondered if she had forgotten. Perhaps he should remind her – through a servant, of course. He hadn’t spoken to her since she had made it clear she had no further interest in him. On the occasions when they encountered one another in the hallways or in the evenings after dinner when she escorted his nieces to greet their parents, he simply nodded and immediately looked away.
He could force his eyes away, but his mind betrayed him. He still saw her, and the brief glimpses he caught were collected and stored like a series of precious jewels. Prim and cool as ever, always the respectable governess in her simple dark dresses and quiet manners. If she suffered from their separation, she gave no outward indication of it. Damn her for that.
It was clear to everyone that Alexander suffered. His brother had gone so far as to suggest that Alexander was in need of a doctor! As though any quack could help him with this problem.
Alexander gave up on pretending to work. There was no point in it, at least not until he managed to remove Savitri Booth from his thoughts. He decided to go for a ride in Hyde Park instead; at least his horse would get some benefit from the exercise. The air was fresh and bright for October, and the good weather briefly lifted his mood. His horse also obviously enjoyed the day, and Alexander had to pay close attention to keep him reined in. As a consequence, he did not spare much notice for the other people promenading in the park.
One of those people was Nicholas Danford, whom Alexander normally would have been glad to see. Nicholas was his oldest friend and one he hadn’t seen since the night of the homecoming ball. That was exactly why Alexander didn’t want to see him now – Nicholas was certain to pick up on his dark mood and ask intrusive questions. Unfortunately Nicholas caught sight of him first and quickly turned his horse and cantered over. Alexander’s escape was blocked.
Nicholas’s wavy blond hair looked even brighter and more golden in the sunshine, and his habitual cheery expression was a perfect fit for such a promising day. Alexander noticed a nearby young woman gazing adoringly in Nicholas’s direction, and his scowl deepened.
Just as Alexander had anticipated, Nicholas immediately realized that something was wrong. “What’s the matter, Alexander? You’re in an awful mood – even more so than usual.”
Alexander rolled his eyes. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” That was true enough, as he had been preoccupied with plans of how to make Savitri change her mind. All of them had come to nothing, of course – Alexander wasn’t the sort of man to torment an uninterested woman by buzzing about her endlessly. It was hard to remember that in the dark and quiet of the night though, especially when one was alone.
Nicholas ignored his explanation and tipped his head to the side, like a hunting dog that’s caught the scent and isn’t about to be dissuaded from pursuing it. “Can’t be money problems; you’ve got too much of it to ever need more. Is it Bernard and his family? I told you that sharing a house would lead to trouble. No matter how close two brothers might be, they’ll be closer with a good fence between them.”
“Bernard is fine. His wife has extravagant ideas of what’s necessary for fashion – both in her own clothes and in household matters. You should see the chaise longue she bought for the parlor. I swear it’s the same shade of green as a dead pigeon I once saw.” Alexander waved his hand, gesturing the matter aside. “But it’s unimportant. As you say, I have money enough that she can buy all the ugly furniture her heart desires.”
“Are you really going to make me guess?” Nicholas swung down from the saddle of his horse, then waited until Alexander had done so as well. Nicholas had clearly dressed with the intention of making a good impression on the society that could always be found in Hyde Park, with closely fitting trousers tucked into highly polished riding boots, a waistcoat in a subtle shade of gray, and a top hat that was tilted rakishly over one eye. He looked equally stylish on the ground as he had on horseback.
Alexander had all his clothes produced by the best tailor in the city, but somehow he was never as fashionable as Nicholas. He didn’t believe that Savitri would have stayed with him if he’d worn a better waistcoat, but it was hard not to take Nicholas’s outfit as a personal insult.
Alexander snapped his fingers at an attendant, who quickly came forward to take the reins of both horses. Unencumbered, the gentlemen then strolled along the gravel path to a more secluded spot of the park. Nicholas thankfully waited until there was no chance of someone overhearing to say, “Of course, it could always be a woman problem.”
Alexander pointedly said nothing.
“Is that it?” Nicholas laughed, and Alexander reminded himself firmly that he did not want to challenge his oldest friend to duel. “I never thought I’d see Clermont the Cold heartsick over a member of the gentler sex. What happened? Does she already have a man? Did she threaten blackmail? Did she make an unreasonable demand – no, it can’t be that; we’ve already established that money is no object for you.”
Alexander planned to maintain a stoic silence until Nicholas gave up but his friend showed no signs of even slowing down.
“What a change this is!” Nicholas shoved his hands into his pockets and shook his head. “I’ve never before seen you even flicker an eyelash at a love affair gone sour. Normally you’re the one who leaves them sighing and sobbing.”
That stung Alexander’s pride. “I’ve never given a woman cause to complain of my behavior,” he protested.
Nicholas shrugged, then carefully corrected the line of his riding jacket. “You might have broken no promises, but that doesn’t mean you’ve never raised a woman’s hopes. You can’t tell me that Mrs. Pemberton doesn’t plan to hitch one or the other of her daughters to you.”
“Mrs. Pemberton would marry her daughters to a pumpkin, if the pumpkin had a title and ten thousand a year,” Alexander muttered. “But you’re wrong there. She’s far too canny to base her future plans on me. Mrs. Pemberton and I understand one another.”
“All right, but what about that pretty little actress you were keeping last summer? What was her name… Mary?”
“Maria. And she never wanted to marry me. She loved her freedom, and a duchess doesn’t perform on the public stage. Maria was very clear: she preferred Shakespeare to me. I’m not naive enough to think she cried any tears over our parting.”
Nicholas glanced at him with a frown. “Everything’s so neat and rational to you, isn’t it? Haven’t you ever been unreasonable, Alexander?”