by Lane, Nina
The third painting gave Gerald pause. He looked at the painted likeness of Rohan’s face, thinking it was quite different from the inexpressive drawing. The painting showed the man with a passionate, almost hot countenance, one edged with more than a hint of lust.
When in the love of God had Rohan ever looked like that? Could Devora simply be creating such a look out of her imagination? It didn’t make much sense, particularly given Rohan’s stolidity. Gerald let the other canvases fall back into place. Something wasn’t right. He knew it as surely as he knew that his relationship with Devora had endured several cracks since she arrived in India.
“Kalindi!” Gerald barked.
She scurried out of the kitchen and came to him. “Yes, sahib?”
Gerald was in no mood to phrase his question delicately. “What do you know about the memsahib and Rohan?”
Kalindi looked startled. “I am begging your pardon?”
“I said, what do you know about them?” Gerald repeated.
“Oh, they have argued frequently. Rohan did not want the memsahib to go with the maharaja, but she went anyway. He found her to be most uncooperative.”
“I know that. What else?”
An uncomfortable expression crossed Kalindi’s face. Gerald smiled grimly. Just as she could never hide her physical arousal, Kalindi had always had a difficult time concealing what she was thinking.
“Go on, Kalindi. What else?”
Kalindi twisted her hands together. Dismay lit in her brown eyes. “Oh, sahib, I do not know anything.”
Gerald swallowed some gin and took a breath. “Kalindi, do you like working here?”
“Oh, yes! I like it very much. You and the memsahib are very kind.”
“Good. Then, if you want to continue working here, you’ll answer my question. What has gone on between Rohan and my wife?”
“I do not know for certain,” Kalindi said, dismay flashing in her brown eyes. “I do not know.”
“Then what do you think?”
“I did see the memsahib enter Rohan’s quarters one day last week,” Kalindi reported. “I do not know, I think she was there to ask him about his previous marriage.”
“Why on earth would she want to know about his previous marriage?”
Kalindi shook her head. “No, not a marriage. He was intended to be married, but he was not. She wanted to know why. I think that is why she was there.”
“Well, how long was she there?”
Kalindi almost looked terrified now. She grabbed an end of her sari and twisted it frantically between her fingers. “I think…I do not know…but I think she was there for five hours.”
Shock reverberated through Gerald like a gunshot. He stared at Kalindi. “You’re lying.”
Kalindi shook her head. “No, sahib. It was a long time before they both came out.”
“You little bitch!” Gerald smacked his hand hard against the side of the woman’s head, sending her to the ground. Kalindi gave a cry as she banged against the edge of a sidetable. “You’re lying!”
“No, I am not!” Kalindi begged. Tears filled her eyes. “She was there for hours, I do know that! I am not lying to you! She went after you left in the morning, and then they did not emerge until lunch!”
Rage boiled in Gerald’s blood. He couldn’t possibly believe that Devora had spent all that time asking Rohan about his fiancee. He knew something had been brewing between Devora and Rohan ever since they set eyes on each other, only Gerald had attributed that to animosity and a conflict over who was really in charge of the household.
He looked at Kalindi, who was curled up on the floor, still sniffling and whimpering. “Get up,” he snapped. “And get back to work!”
Relief flashed on Kalindi’s face as she realized she wasn’t dismissed and that he wasn’t going to hit her again. She scrambled up and hurried back to the kitchen, clutching her hurt head.
Gerald grabbed his gin and swallowed half of it in one gulp. Damn Devora. If his suspicions turned out to be true, then this marriage was over. He had a reputation to maintain in this community, and he couldn’t do so if his wife became known for fucking a goddamn Indian servant.
Devora climbed out of the carriage and went up the steps of the bungalow. She hadn’t intended to stay at the club for the entire afternoon, but she had been rather intrigued by the gossip about the maharaja. According to rumor, he was being officially investigated for giving funding and protection to the gangs who were responsible for starting so many riots in neighboring towns. Devora couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if he was found guilty. She had every intention of asking Gerald about it, but the minute she stepped into the bungalow, she knew something was wrong.
All the windows were open. Gerald sat in a chair by the veranda, his feet up on a table and a drink in his hand. He held a small canvas in the other hand and was looking at the painting with a scowl.
Devora paused by the door, her heart plummeting. She knew without even having to look at the canvas who the subject of the painting was. “Gerald.”
He looked up, peering at her with bleary eyes. “Oh, hello, darling. I was just admiring this lovely painting of yours. I hadn’t realized you’d taken to depicting the servants.”
Devora approached him cautiously. “It’s only a painting. Rohan has an interesting face.”
Gerald lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, so you know what painting this is.” He looked at the canvas again, putting on a mockingly critical expression. “Yes, he does, doesn’t he? Very noble. Rather like one of those Michelangelo statues or perhaps even the Greek gods themselves. Of course, our Rohan is no Greek god, is he? Why, he’s just a bloody coolie.”
Devora frowned. “Don’t talk like that, Gerald.”
“What, you mean ‘bloody coolie’?” Gerald asked. “That’s what he is, isn’t he? And just why do you find it necessary to defend him?”
“I’m not defending him,” Devora said. “And you’re drunk.”
“Yes, I am!” Gerald reached for the bottle of gin next to him and took a long swig. “Bloody good thing too, considering I just discovered my wife is fucking a servant.”
“Gerald, stop it.” Devora went to take the canvas away from him, but Gerald glared at her with such fury that she stopped in her tracks. “Listen to me, it’s not what you think.”
“What the hell do I think, then, huh?” Gerald looked at the painting again and put it face-up on the floor. “You’ve never done a portrait of me, have you? Why is that? Haven’t I got a face that’s interesting enough for you?”
“Gerald, I’m not going to talk to you when you’re in this condition,” Devora said icily. “When you’re sober, we’ll have a conversation like adults.”
“Oh, like adults, will we?” Gerald spat, his voice dripping with contempt. “Is that how you’ve been acting lately? Have you been so stimulated by all that pornography you’ve been drawing? Is that why you spread your legs for a goddamn coolie?”
“Stop it!” Devora snapped. “I said that we’ll discuss this when you’re sober.”
“You’re a whore, Devora, did you know that?” Gerald looked at the painting again and then tilted the bottle of gin over it. He let the alcohol spill onto the canvas, causing the paints to run together and blur the image of Rohan’s face. Devora watched him silently, sensing in some deep part of her soul that this was the beginning of the end.
“There!” Gerald said with satisfaction. “Now, what do you think of that?”
“I think I’m going to lock myself in the bedroom until you’re sober,” Devora replied coldly. “You’re in no condition to even think rationally, let alone talk.”
She strode into the bedroom and slammed the door, ignoring Gerald’s rantings behind her. She locked the door and pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart beating wildly. She had never honestly considered what would happen if someone, particularly Gerald, found out the truth about her and Rohan.
It was ridiculous, really, that she wouldn’t have been c
oncerned with such a thing, but she had been living by an entirely different set of rules ever since she set foot on Indian soil. A set of rules that not only insulted the rigid, British conventions, but created completely new ones. Her own.
Devora wondered if Gerald had spoken to Rohan yet. She went to the window and pushed aside the curtain. Rohan went into the village at least once a day to purchase supplies and fresh vegetables, but usually he had returned by late afternoon.
Nerves clenched in Devora’s stomach. She knew Gerald hadn’t physically fought with Rohan since Gerald appeared unhurt, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t had an altercation.
Devora didn’t dare go outside via the sitting room and have to face Gerald again, so she grasped the edges of the window screen. After three, hard yanks, the screen gave way. Devora put it aside and climbed out the window, tearing her dress on a jagged piece of wood. She hurried through the garden and towards the servants’ quarters.
Please, please be there, she thought. She knocked on Rohan’s door.
“Rohan? It’s Devora. Please open the door.”
No answer. She knocked harder. “Please! It’s an emergency.”
To her infinite relief, the door opened. Rohan stood there, his jacket half-unbuttoned and his feet bare. He frowned at the sight of her.
“Memsahib, something has happened?”
“Hasn’t Gerald spoken with you yet?” Devora asked breathlessly.
Rohan’s expression darkened. He shook his head. “No. Should he have?”
“Yes. I think he knows about us.”
Rohan pulled the door open wider and let her inside, placing his hand against her back as she entered. The warmth of his palm burned through the thin cotton of her dress. Devora clenched her hands together, trying not to start shaking. She sat down on the bed as Rohan closed and locked the door.
“How do you know this?” he asked.
“He’s drunk and furious. He found a painting I had done of you.”
“And that is how he knows?”
“No, that can’t be all.” A realization suddenly broke through Devora’s fogged mind. “Kalindi.”
“Kalindi?”
“She saw us that day I came here,” Devora said. “She saw us both come out and return to the house. She was on the veranda. I had hoped she didn’t know how long I had been here, but I assume she did. She must have told Gerald.”
“You think she volunteered the information?”
“I don’t know. I’m fairly certain she’s Gerald’s mistress, so maybe she had other designs on him. She must have told him, and then he assumed the painting confirmed her words.”
Rohan buttoned his jacket and picked up his sash. “I will go and speak with him.”
Devora stared at him in shock. “No, don’t. He’s drunk and violent. He could hurt you.”
“As I told you, I have dishonored my position in this household,” Rohan replied. He fastened the sash around his waist. “He has been a good master, and I must apologize.”
“He’ll dismiss you, of course.”
“Yes, I know.” Rohan headed for the door.
Devora’s throat hurt as she fought back a sudden onslaught of tears. She stood and went after him. “Wait. I’ll go with you.”
“No, memsahib. This is not for a woman to witness. Please wait here.”
Devora bit her bottom lip, feeling sick to her stomach. She would never forgive herself if something happened to Rohan. “Rohan, he could really hurt you.”
“Please wait here. I will return.” He pressed his lips briefly against her forehead. Then he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Devora went to the window and watched him walking towards the house, his stride long and certain. A tight knot curled inside her at the thought of what might happen.
Oddly enough, however, she couldn’t find it within her to berate either herself or Rohan for having succumbed to lust. It was as if the entire course of their relationship had been leading to the inevitable end of carnality and affection. They had simply worked to follow a path that had already been laid out for them. Destiny and exertion.
And, oh, how they had exerted themselves. While Devora was sickened by the thought of the damage that would surely be caused by the discovery of their affair, she could not regret the affair itself. She could not regret having fallen in love with this complicated, intriguing man.
Love. The word appeared in her mind like a single lotus blooming through a patch of frozen snow.
For all Rohan’s stoicism and disapproval, Devora had been able to discover that beneath his stony exterior lay a wealth of passion and feeling. No, maybe she hadn’t yet understood everything that he was about, but the cracks in his armor had provided her with enough tantalizing glimpses of his soul. Now, she wanted so much more from him. And she wanted to give as much as she received.
Devora sat on Rohan’s bed, hugging her knees to her chest as she tried to make sense of the thoughts tumbling around in her head. She wanted to ignore his request and go to the house anyway, but just as she was about to do so, the doorknob turned. Devora scrambled off the bed as Rohan entered the room.
“What?” Devora asked, her heart racing. “What happened?”
A bruise darkened Rohan’s left cheek, but other than that, he appeared to be physically unharmed. Devora stopped in front of him, reaching up to touch his cheek.
“He was too drunk to attack me with much force,” Rohan replied. “Although I suspect he might attempt to find me again once his head has cleared. Of course, he is furious and dismissed me.”
Devora stared at him. “That’s it?”
“I’m not saying it was pleasant,” Rohan said. “I will not repeat his words to me, but he wanted to rip me to shreds. He would have, too, if I hadn’t stopped him.”
“Did you hurt him?”
“No. He hit me once, but as I said, he was too drunk. He is asleep on the sofa now.”
“I see.” Devora watched as he removed a suitcase from the closet. Her heart suddenly hurt with more than just fear. “You’re leaving now?”
“You suggest I wait until he wakes up?”
Devora swallowed hard and shook her head. “No, of course not. Where will you go?”
“I will find a temporary room in the village,” Rohan replied. “After that, I do not know.”
Devora wanted to ask him if she would ever see him again, but she knew that such a question would be foolish. They may have had an intense physical attraction towards each other, and she might even have fallen in love with him, but ultimately, Rohan was right. British-Indian relations would never reach a point in which a relationship between a British woman and an Indian man would be acceptable.
Rohan started to fold his clothes and put them in the suitcase. Devora watched the quick, smooth actions of his hands.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
He straightened and turned towards her. For a moment, he merely looked at her, his dark eyes inscrutable. And then he reached for her, grasping her shoulders and pulling her against him in a movement so quick it was like the beat of a bird’s wings.
Devora closed her eyes, struggling against tears as she rested her forehead against his chest and breathed in the familiar scent of him. She could not imagine never seeing him again.
Rohan’s arms tightened around her as he pressed his lips against her temple, then moved to kiss her cheek. He whispered something in her ear, Hindi words that sounded as symphonic as falling rain.
Devora lifted her head to look at him. “What did you say?”
A gentle smile curved his lips. “Maybe someday you will know.”
He put his hands on her hips and urged her toward the door. “You must go now.”
“I’m sorry, Rohan. You know I never wanted this to happen.”
“There is no need for apology,” Rohan replied. “I am as much at fault. As I said, I have disgraced my position and your husband’s employment.”
“Yes, well, I�
�ve been rather a disgrace myself.” Devora opened the door. She paused and glanced back at him, unable to help herself from asking a burning question.
“Do you regret it?” she asked.
He straightened and returned her gaze, his expression as enigmatic as it had ever been. And then, his eyes softened.
“No, memsahib. I regret nothing.”
Devora smiled. “Neither do I. Must have something to do with that old soul you said I possess.”
“Having an old soul also means that the karma of your many previous lives conspired to create your destiny,” Rohan said. “Do not forget that.”
“No, I won’t. Goodbye, Rohan.”
With a deep ache in the pit of her soul, Devora left the room and went back to the house. She entered the sitting room from the veranda and was greeting with the noisy sound of snoring. Devora sighed and approached her husband, who lay on the sofa with one arm hanging to the floor and the empty gin bottle beside him. The room itself also bore signs of altercation, as two tables and a chair had been tipped over and the shards of a broken vase lay scattered on the floor.
Devora retrieved a broom and swept up the porcelain pieces, then righted the table and chairs. She threw the damaged painting of Rohan in the rubbish bin and arranged the rest of her drawings and sketches into a portfolio. She was grateful that Gerald hadn’t seen fit to tear up her other work, as he might well have done in his rage.
A loud snort from Gerald split the air like thunder. Devora glanced at him, noticing that his forehead was bleeding from a small cut. She found some antiseptic and dabbed the wound.
Luckily, Gerald was so gone that he didn’t awaken and only muttered some unintelligible words of protest. After bandaging the cut, Devora went into the bedroom and began to pack her things. She didn’t know what Gerald had in mind, but she had realized their marriage was stifling her. That he was stifling her. Why would she have sought excitement and stimulation elsewhere?