The Foundling’s Daughter

by Ann Bennett

  ‘Come out here,’ Charles said, unlocking another door that led onto a stone terrace directly beside the lake. We wandered along beside the water that lapped at the low wall and I stared up at the building.

  ‘Would you like to sit out here and sketch it?’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s the best view of the palace from here, but I could try.’

  I paced about, trying to get a view of the whole building. Although it was close up, I thought I could probably sketch it from the wall.

  ‘It might be better to start by drawing the lake and the mountains. Look at the way they frame the water. It would make a good picture,’ I said. ‘I’ll sketch the palace afterwards.’

  He smiled, ‘Whatever you think. I’ll bring you a drink. There are some supplies in the back of the car. I’ll bring a blanket out too, so you don’t get cold sitting on that wall.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, surprised at how thoughtful he had been.

  He left me alone for a few minutes and I began to plan my drawing. I sketched out the shapes of the distant mountains, the surface of the water, the shimmering reflections, a few distant dwellings on the other side, and a couple of fishing boats out on the calm surface of the lake.

  Charles returned in a few minutes with a picnic blanket and some flasks of lemonade.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said after he’d poured me a glass. ‘I need to take a closer look at the building and have a word with the chowkidar. There have been some rumblings of trouble around these parts and I want to make sure none of it has come this way.’

  I sat alone on the blanket on the low wall and sketched for a long time. I was completely absorbed in the task and the picture came together quickly. When I had finished the drawing of the lake and mountains to my satisfaction, I turned round and began on the palace. It was difficult from this angle, but I think I managed to convey the essence of the building. I must have been sketching solidly for well over an hour. When I got up to stretch my limbs, I noticed that the sky had started to darken in the west. I realised that the journey must have taken a good two hours, so it was probably around six o’ clock by now. I looked around for Charles, beginning to feel a little anxious.

  I closed the sketch book, put it in my bag and wandered back into the palace. It was still and silent. A sudden chill went through me. I felt quite alone. An irrational thought entered my head: perhaps Charles had left me here? Feeling a little anxious, I wandered back through the halls towards the main entrance, thinking he must be with the driver and the chowkidar in the lodge.

  But my attention was taken by a shaft of light flooding in through an open door in one of the side rooms. Perhaps Charles was through there? I walked towards it. Reaching the door, I saw that it opened out onto a courtyard. I stepped out. The courtyard was vast and surrounded on all sides by the inner walls of the palace. Windows and balconies looked over it on every side. The floor of the courtyard was paved with bright blue ceramic tiles and there were trees creating shade around the edge surrounded by flowerbeds. In the very centre was an elegant pond with a bubbling fountain. I walked towards it. The sound of the lapping water was soothing to my jangling nerves.

  Charles was clearly not there but I couldn’t resist lingering and admiring the symmetry and beauty of the place, as the pink evening sun played on the pale stone walls. Birds and insects chattered in the trees.

  Suddenly there was a thundering of feet from the palace roof and in a matter of seconds I was surrounded by dozens of monkeys. They pulled at my clothes, jumped around me, bared their teeth at me. I cried out as one leapt on my shoulders. The others pawed at me, looking up at me with pleading eyes, begging for food. I tried to push them off, but the one on my shoulders clung on, his claws digging into my face and neck. I was shouting now, ‘Charles! Please! Help me!’

  Other monkeys leapt up at me, scratching my arms and legs, leaving me with bleeding cuts.

  Then Charles was there, shooing them away, clapping his hands. The driver was behind him with a stick, beating them off. As quickly as they had arrived, the whole troop scattered and ran away, scurrying up drainpipes, jumping from window to balcony to return to their vantage point on the roof.

  I felt Charles’ arms around me. He pulled me to him, holding me close. I couldn’t stop shaking. Tears were streaming down my face and I couldn’t speak.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you inside and clean up those wounds.’ He picked up my bag. The contents had spilled out and the sketch book had fallen on the ground. He examined it. The cover was torn and dirty, but the sketches inside were unharmed.

  Charles guided me inside the cool of the building along a corridor and through some inner rooms that we hadn’t seen on our way through. Deep in the interior of the palace was a room with sofas and low tables. He led me to a sofa of red velvet.

  ‘This is the maharani’s chamber. Sit down and rest. I’ll get some salt water from the chowkidar.’

  His footsteps echoed away, and I lay back on the cushions, still shaking. The room smelt of must and mothballs. I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm my nerves.

  On the opposite wall was a silk painting of a beautiful woman in a cream saree. Her backdrop was the lake and the craggy mountains, and I realised that she must have sat for the artist exactly where I had just been sitting to sketch. She wore many jewels in her hair and round her neck and wrists. She had long, luxuriant dark hair and huge eyes that were like great pools of understanding. She seemed to be looking straight at me. I stared into those eyes for a long time. It felt as though they were looking directly into my soul, telling me something. Was it a warning? Was it a prophesy? I couldn’t tell.

  Charles returned with a bowl of water and a clean white sheet. He was also carrying a bottle of brandy and a couple of glasses.

  ‘I think you’ll need this after a shock like that,’ he said, pouring us both a generous measure. He handed me a glass.

  ‘Your hands are shaking,’ he said, as the brandy in the glass shook as I held it.

  ‘I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting those monkeys. They took me completely by surprise.’

  ‘The monkeys here are a bit of a problem. The chowkidar tries his best to discourage them with various bird scarers and pellet guns. He’d like to shoot them, but the maharajah won’t hear of it.’

  He put his glass down on the table and took up the sheet.

  ‘This is an old one. I’m going to tear it into strips and use them to bathe your wounds.’

  He sat down beside me and started dabbing at my cuts. At first the salt in the water made it sting and I gasped each time he touched me, but I got used to it. He was very gentle, stroking my skin with the cloth, doing his best to ensure he didn’t hurt me.

  ‘I think that’s it,’ he said finally, putting the bowl on the floor. ‘Are you feeling any better?’

  The brandy was coursing through my veins, warming my insides and making my head feel fuzzy.

  ‘Yes, I do feel a bit better now, thank you.’

  ‘Have some more brandy. It’s obviously doing you good,’ he said, holding up the bottle. I held out my glass without thinking.

  ‘Perhaps we should go home soon,’ I said, taking another sip. It was almost dark outside now.

  ‘Nonsense. You need to relax for a while. There’s plenty of time yet. Besides, what is there to go home for?’

  I took another sip of brandy. What indeed? But I said, ‘The servants will be expecting me. They thought I went out in the rickshaw for the afternoon. I’m normally back before dark. They might be worried.’

  ‘Let them worry. What harm can it do? It’s getting dark in here, I’ll light a couple of gas lamps.’

  I watched him go to the far side of the room where some Tilley lamps stood on a table. He lit two and brought one over, placing it on the table in front of us.

  ‘If you’re hungry, I have some food in the car,’ he said. ‘Some cold meat and bread.’

  I smiled. ‘You’re very well p
repared. Do you always travel like that?’

  ‘Only when I have the chance to spend time with someone as delightful as you. And that’s not often,’ he said.

  I glanced at his face, its clean lines, warm and golden in the flickering light of the lamp. I realised how close he was sitting to me, that his arm was touching mine. Heat seemed to radiate from him. I tried to shift away. But straight away he moved closer and put his arm around my shoulder. Then he turned my chin towards him and started kissing me. I tried to pull away at first, but after a few seconds I was kissing him back, abandoning myself to the kiss. Soon he was unbuttoning my blouse and his hands were on my breasts. He pushed me back onto the sofa, carried on kissing me, moving his lips to my neck, to my breasts. I was reluctant at first, unresponsive, knowing it was wrong, that we are both married. That it shouldn’t happen.

  But the brandy and the seductive atmosphere of that mysterious, romantic palace broke down my resistance.

  ‘I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you, Anna,’ he murmured. ‘I know you feel the same way. Tell me it’s true.’

  I stared into his eyes. Those words he’d said to me when he brought me home in his car had gone round and round in my head ever since that night. ‘I know you want it too,’ he’d said. I had not been able to banish them from my mind because I knew they were true.

  ‘Yes. It’s true,’ I said. And in that moment, it was true. In that moment, I threw caution to the wind. Why shouldn’t I know what it’s like, I thought, to have someone strong and attractive make love to me? Those painful fumblings with Donald on the train were all I had known, but I knew it could be different. I wanted to find out.

  He was on top of me then, covering me with kisses, pulling off my clothes, pulling off his own clothes. I responded to him, kissing him back passionately, pulling him towards me, wrapping my legs around his back. Soon we were moving together, moving as one, moving towards ecstasy together. And in that final moment of rapture I finally understood what it could be like.

  All the way home in the car, Charles held my hand on the back seat. We didn’t speak. My thoughts were all over the place; veering between soaring with joy at the memory of what had happened between us and torturing myself with guilt for betraying Donald, and Charles’ wife.

  When we finally reached the house, it was after ten o’clock, he walked me up to the front door and kissed me tenderly.

  ‘When can we see each other again, Anna?’

  I was silent for a few seconds, then I said, ‘I don’t think we should.’ My voice was just a whisper.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Charles replied.

  ‘It feels wrong,’ I said.

  ‘Are you racked with petty middle-class notions of morality? You don’t owe Donald anything, you know. Let yourself be free. You deserve to be happy.’

  ‘But not this way, Charles. Not at the expense of others. How can that make me happy?’

  ‘I can’t let you go like this. I love you, Anna. I need you. Don’t you realise that?’

  He grabbed my wrist. He was looking into my eyes, pain in his look.

  ‘Let me go, please Charles.’

  He dropped my hand. ‘We will talk again,’ he said, ‘I’m sure you’ll come round to my way of thinking when you’ve slept on it.’

  He left me then, turned away and went towards the car.

  ‘Thank you for the day,’ I called weakly as an afterthought, but he was already getting into the car.

  Manju was waiting for me inside, with anxious eyes.

  ‘Where you go, memsahib?’ she said. ‘We all wait for you. We all worry.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Manju. Mr Perry took me out into the countryside to see an old palace. I didn’t realise we’d be so late back.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘What happen to you? You have many scratches!’

  ‘It’s fine, Manju. Some monkeys attacked me, but it’s nothing serious.’

  She frowned, but I couldn’t meet her eye. I knew she was already suspicious and I didn’t want to give her any more cause to wonder.

  Now, lying alone in my bed, I’m going over and over what happened between us today. Every touch, every glance, every kiss. I want to freeze it in my memory because I know it won’t happen again. It can’t. I won’t let it. Despite Donald’s deceit, I’m still his wife and I shouldn’t give in to my weaknesses and descend to his level. I need to preserve my own dignity in the face of Donald’s betrayal, even though it means making sacrifices.

  5th September 1933

  Over a month has passed since my trip with Charles Perry to the summer palace. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought about it, regretted the fact that I’ve had to distance myself from him and from what happened that day.

  The morning after the trip, I awoke to Ali entering my room with a huge bunch of flowers; chrysanthemums, peonies, lilies, roses.

  ‘Mr Perry’s bearer brought these for you,’ he said, laying them on the bedside table. They were wrapped in a red silk ribbon.

  ‘Would you like me to put them in water, memsahib?’ I glanced at him to try to gauge his reaction. His face was inscrutable.

  ‘Don’t worry, Ali,’ I said, ‘I’ll do it later on.’

  After he had shuffled from the room, I looked inside the flowers and found a note sealed in an envelope, addressed to me.

  ‘My dearest Anna,

  I hope your wounds are healing and that you will reconsider what we discussed.

  I live in hope! All my love, Charles.’

  I remembered the scratches on my arms and neck and got up to look in the mirror. They were still there. As I examined them I knew that as long as they were there, they would remind me of that day, of how I got them, of how gentle Charles had been when he bathed them, and of what had happened afterwards.

  Life has been going on much as it did before that trip. I have been to the club several times since that day. Sometimes Charles has been there, drinking at the bar with other men, or sitting with his wife at a corner table, in silent hostility. I have hardly dared to look at him, not trusting myself to conceal my feelings. I don’t want the others to suspect, and their antennae are always finely tuned for gossip of any kind.

  Occasionally the conversation turns to Charles and I try to keep silent, but I listen avidly. Normally it begins with talk about his wife.

  ‘She’s clearly unhappy that one. Does nothing to help herself though. She doesn’t bother to be sociable or to entertain anyone. Of course, we’d meet her halfway if she gave us any scope.’

  ‘Well, you can see why she’s depressed, can’t you? With a husband like that. Always eyeing up pretty women. She’s got good cause to be unhappy.’

  ‘Yes, with a philanderer like him, no wonder she drinks. Anyone would.’

  I smile inwardly at these words but keep my silence. They might suspect him of being a ladies’ man, as Donald had put it, but all they had seen were women throwing themselves at him in the club. They don’t know him like I do. They know nothing about the man. They don’t know of his tenderness, his sensitivity, and of the fact that he only has eyes for me.

  Charles has been to the house several times since our trip. Most times I have told the bearer to say I’m out or resting, but once he arrived when I was sitting outside on the veranda and I couldn’t get inside the house quickly enough.

  He got out of his car and bounded up the steps.

  ‘Why are you avoiding me, Anna?’

  ‘I’m not avoiding you. You know my decision. I’m sorry, but I can’t see you.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do to make you change your mind?’

  I shook my head, but I couldn’t look at him. I didn’t want to give him a chance to beat down my resistance.

  ‘I’m not going to give up hope. One day you’ll come round. I know it,’ he said finally, and left me alone.

  Another time he pulled alongside me in his car when Rajiv was pulling me in the rickshaw. We were returning from my favourite temple, the temple of Shi
va, where I’d been watching a puja ceremony and making sketches of the pilgrims.

  Again he leaned out of the car window.

  ‘Would you like a lift?’

  ‘No thank you, I’m fine in the rickshaw.’

  ‘As you like it. Have you thought about what I said?’

  ‘I’ve thought about it, but my answer is the same. I’m sorry, Charles. I just can’t be that kind of person.’

  ‘You were that kind of person at the summer palace!’ he said angrily, then shut his window and the car pulled off abruptly, leaving my cheeks burning with shame at the thought that Rajiv might have heard and understood what he said.

  Despite this, several times a week he sends me flowers. I’ve no idea what the servants think. Manju just gives me sidelong looks but says nothing. Ali remains unfathomable. I will just have to hope that they keep their silence when Donald returns.

  I have received a few letters from Donald. He writes every week or so. I get the feeling that he only does so through a sense of duty, because he has seen other men writing to their wives and thinks it is the thing to do.

  His letters describe the barren mountains, the spartan conditions in the camp, the night patrols into the hills to seek out rebel Pashtuns. Despite his stiff language, through his words I can visualise the place if I close my eyes. I can visualise him too, sitting down in his bare room in the officers’ mess to write. He will do it dutifully but thoroughly. Then he will seal up the letter and ask his bearer to take it to the post office. He will then put on his cap, check it is straight in the mirror, take up his cane and go down for drinks in the bar, putting me and the letter completely out of his mind until the next time.

  October 1933

  I am reeling with shock at what has just happened in the club. As I sit down to write I’m still shaking.

  It began when I was sitting down to drinks with a few of the wives including Sally Napier and Celia Smethurst. It was early evening, and the gin slings were flowing. People were getting a little squiffy and conversation was getting loose and loud. Charles and his wife were sitting at the other end of the room. I kept my eyes studiedly away from him. I didn’t want to betray my emotions by even glancing in his direction.