The Linnet Bird: A Novel

by Linda Holeman

  It was after the monsoons abated, and we were into the delightfully temperate cool season, that the downward spiral of our marriage began. I had been in India almost a year.

  Somers had taken advantage of the weather to go with a few other men on a hunt, and had been gone almost three weeks. He came home burnt a plethora of shades and immensely weary, sullen at the lack of a trophy, blaming the incompetence of his coolies to beat the bushes. He recounted that although there was a rich assortment of game—tigers, panthers, sambars, pigs—the coolies had been easily spooked after one was killed by the unexpected swipe of an injured tiger.

  “Damn cowards,” he added. “Clambering up trees at the first answering rustle to their beating after that. Letting the big game get away.”

  “But surely they had reason to be—”

  “There’s no excuse, Linny. It’s a job they’re paid to do.” We were in the drawing room, with its hushed and formal atmosphere. He paced in front of the damask sofa, where I sat with the book I had been reading before his arrival. He was in the worst temper I had ever witnessed, and I kept quiet while he ranted about the miserable time he’d experienced. Finally he shouted for the servants, and many came running. He demanded bath water be brought to his room and gave instructions for a hearty English meal to be prepared for dinner, ordering many courses, which included a saddle of lamb and roast beef and gravy with Yorkshire pudding. He took a bottle of port from the cabinet and disappeared for the rest of the afternoon.

  In early evening he invited me to join him for dinner, and the meal was served with its usual pomp on Sèvres dishes and fine polished silver. Somers kept a glass of watered Madeira beside his plate, sipping from it with every bite, and summoning the khitmutgar to continually top it up.

  As he rather clumsily cut his meat, chewing slowly but with obvious relish, I took a sip of water from my delicate crystal goblet and shoved my slab of pink beef around.

  Eventually Somers looked up. “Meat not done well enough for you?” His words were slurred; I had never seen him quite this intoxicated. I wondered if it was the beginning of another malaria attack.

  “I ate a late tiffin. And I find this a heavy meal.”

  “Well, call for something else. Rahul,” he said to a boy passing through the room carrying a stack of clean napkins, “take Mrs. Ingram’s plate away.”

  The boy looked at the table. His eyes widened and he lowered his head.

  “Take her plate, Rahul,” Somers instructed again, slowly and loudly.

  His head still down, Rahul backed away.

  “Somers, you know he can’t,” I said. “Call for someone else to—”

  But instantly Somers pushed back his chair with a loud scraping and jerked toward the boy. He grabbed the thin arm roughly, and the napkins fluttered to the floor like released doves. “When I tell you—”

  I ran to Rahul’s side, prying Somers’s hand off his arm. “Leave him alone.”

  “He must obey when I give him an order.” Somers’s neck and face were a dull red, and his grip tightened even further. “This one doesn’t like to take orders. I found that out earlier today, didn’t I, Rahul?”

  So it was more than the issue of the plate. My heart went out to the boy, no more than fourteen, his whole body shaking in fright. I hated to think what might have happened to him only hours earlier, when I imagined Somers to be resting. “Somers,” I said, quietly. “Leave him.”

  “You stay out of this,” Somers said. “How dare you go against me in front of the servants?”

  “He’s a Hindu. He can’t touch a plate that holds beef. You know that,” I said, my voice still low, my fingers working at Somers’s hand. “You could beat him until he was senseless and he still wouldn’t take it. Fetch Gohar, Rahul. Gohar can take the plate. Somers. Let him go.” I said the final word with more force than I had ever used since Somers and I had married.

  In the next instant Somers smiled at me. An odd, unnatural posturing of his lips. Then he dropped Rahul’s arm. Rahul fled, his shirttails flying, and in seconds another boy emerged and silently took my plate. The rest of the servants in the dining room—the punkah wallah and khitmutgar and boys with their fly whisks—continued as if nothing had happened.

  We both sat down. Somers methodically shoveled in forkful after forkful of his dinner. I picked a fig from the plate of fruit and nuts sitting under the soft candlelight of the huge brass candelabra in the middle of the table. I took a bite, but the fig was overripe, mealy, and my throat wouldn’t work properly. I looked at the fine spray of bloody juice from his meat on the front of Somers’s cream-colored silk waistcoat, at the perspiration trickling from his sideburns.

  We sat there, in silence but for the clinking of the punkah, the flutter of a moth over the candelabra, until Somers finished his meal with a large bowl of lemon custard, and then he left the table without a word.

  I thought the incident was over as I prepared for bed. But just as Malti helped me into my nightdress Somers came in and, leaning against the doorjamb, dismissed her with one barked word. She slipped away, having to turn sideways awkwardly in the doorway to avoid brushing against him. He had never come to my bedroom, nor I to his, at any time during our marriage.

  “Somers,” I said. “Why . . .” I stopped. From behind his back he pulled a riding crop.

  “Should you ever—ever—humiliate me in front of anyone again, you’ll think back to this night and pray for it, for this will only be a warning.”

  “What do you mean? You’re not going to whip me, Somers.” I said it with confidence. There were at least twenty servants within hearing distance.

  “I’m not?” he asked. He waited a heartbeat, then stepped closer, smiling as if reading my mind. “You think the servants will help? Do you? Have you learned nothing about this country? Are you so blind as to believe that anyone cares what happens to you? That any of these subservient curs would stop me from controlling my own wife?”

  I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything he had grabbed the front of my nightdress and yanked me against him. I struck his chest with my fists, but I was no match for his strength, driven by an alcoholic rage. As he threw me onto the bed, an unlit lamp crashed to the floor, spilling coconut oil, filling the room with its odor. The bench of my dressing table was overturned. He effortlessly flipped me over, his knee in the small of my back, pinning me against the mattress, and holding my wrist with one hand, used his other to whip me with the stinging leather thongs of the crop. I felt the thin fabric of my nightdress shred, and then my own skin split. He whipped me as I screamed at him, cursing him in the worst language I knew—the language of my old friends Helen and Annabelle and Dorie and Lambie and Skinny Mo. He stopped, suddenly, and I turned to look over my shoulder at him. I saw his heaving chest and twisted, contorted face, running with sweat. The odd, glazed look in his eyes was, I realized with a shudder, one of sensual intimacy as he stared down at my flayed, bloody back. And then he flung down the crop and unbuttoned his trousers and pulled up my hips so I was forced onto my knees. I struggled, wrenching myself violently away from him as he fumbled with his clothing, and then I crouched, facing him as I held the bedcover against me. He looked down at himself. Then he muttered his own curse and turned away. The mattress dipped as he half-fell off the bed.

  “I can’t be bothered to spill my seed in you,” he said, getting to his feet and tucking in his shirt, buttoning his trousers, smoothing his hair. “And I’d never dirty myself in such a filthy hole. That tight little black Hindu arse of Rahul’s is a hundred times cleaner than you’ll ever be. I should use the end of my riding crop instead, although I wouldn’t want to pollute it, either.”

  His words were no more than a false boast, for I’d seen that although he was aroused by my anger and fear and the sight of my torn back, he couldn’t maintain it. He left, and I knew then that the bargain we had made was more than I had foreseen.

  I was his prisoner, as surely as I had been Ram Munt’s.

&nbs
p; THE NEXT DAY Somers offered an apology in the only way he was capable.

  I was sitting on my verandah when he appeared in late afternoon. It had been difficult for me to move before noon without furious pain. I knew the deep lashes would leave scars. Malti had hurried into my room after Somers crashed out. She wept, moaning in Hindi as she washed and dressed the wounds. Her hands were tender and soothing, working with a salve that smelled of almonds. Once she had settled me she sat on the floor beside the bed and sang softly to calm me enough so that I fell into an uneasy sleep. She was still there, her head against the side of the bed, when I awoke in the shadowy early morning. Now Somers carried in a large wicker basket and set it down in front of me.

  “What is it?” I asked, not wanting to look at him. The basket trembled, and there were wet, snuffling sounds. In the next instant the lid was pushed open, and a young dog looked around, his wet tongue flopping out of one side of his mouth. I took his small, bony black head in my hands and stared into his liquid amber eyes.

  “He’s a crossbreed of sorts; I can’t even being to pronounce the Indian word, meaning a complicated mixture of hand-picked sire and bitch. Apparently they thrive in India, with their sturdy disposition and short hair. They’re not subject to mange as our dogs here. They’re ferocious but loyal.” Somers’s voice was quiet, tinged with a tone I didn’t recognize. Was it embarrassment or remorse?

  “They don’t breed well,” he went on, “and it’s difficult to get one without a wait. Got lucky with this one. Quite a bit of terrier in him, I would think, judging by his wiry build. There’s a half-caste who raises them for the English here.”

  I pulled the dog out of the basket and into my lap, wincing as I moved. Even though the dog was small, he was leggy and awkward, his hind legs scrambling and clawing for a foothold in my skirt as he put his paws on my chest and licked my face.

  “He has some sort of awful Hindu name, but you can call him what you want. He’s been weaned for a few weeks now and will learn to obey easily, the breeder assured me.” He leaned in and scratched the dog’s ears. “They’ve wonderful tracking abilities.”

  The dog’s stub of a tail wiggled with furious intensity. I looked at Somers. His eyes were veined with pink, and the skin around them pouched. I suddenly saw that he had gained weight since we’d married, and his face was bloated. And I saw that he looked truly miserable, a misery that was not only a physical cause from the alcohol he’d consumed. He looked away, and I knew he was ashamed for what he’d done.

  Still, I didn’t thank him for the pup. I would never thank Somers for anything again. I wasn’t grateful for anything he had to offer, and had decided, after the last minor altercation the week before, when I had refused to accept a tiny flagon of toilet water, to never take anything from him ever again.

  But I was surprised at how I wanted the pup after those first few moments. I had never had anything of my own.

  I named him Neel, Hindi for blue, for his glossy coat was so black it had a blue sheen.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  March 12, 1832

  My dearest Shaker,

  Thank you so much for your last letter. I was so very interested to read of your growing interest in the new homeopathic approach to healing and pleased to hear that it is being embraced in England. There is much use of natural vegetation for various ailments among the Indians here. If you would be interested, I could ask Malti to give me more specific information about those she considers to have healing qualities.

  I am leaving for a hill station in a few days and want to put this letter in the post before I depart. I’m making the journey to Simla, far in the Himalayan mountains, and will stay there for the duration of the hot season. My first experience with it last year made me very grateful that Somers suggested I spend the next few months away from the dust and heat of Calcutta. This time at a hill station, I was instructed, is the thing we memsahibs “must” do, if one’s husband can afford it and the lady’s constitution is hearty enough to withstand the difficult journey—traveling 1,200 miles north, first on the Hooghly and Ganges and Yamuna rivers by budgerow, and then a long slow march up into the mountains by dooli. Summer in the cool greenness of the mountains is, obviously, most desirable. From what I have gathered, memsahibs apparently think little of leaving their husbands to swelter in the cities and plains while they enjoy the thin, fragrant air.

  I am very pleased that Faith has agreed to come. I am grateful that she is able to join me, as Somers was insistent that I travel with a companion. There is a certain amount of irony in these circumstances, is there not?

  But I am troubled for Faith, Shaker. She appears unwell in a profound sense. At times I wonder if she has inherited a form of melancholy from her mother, although she refuses to speak of it when I gently question her health. Although Charles is dear to her, the circumstances surrounding their marriage have only added to the considerable strain of her malaise. When I think of the lovely, laughing girl I first met in Liverpool my heart is heavy. I really do fear for her and wish there were something I could do to help her.

  I am hoping this time in Simla will revive her.

  Your faithful friend,

  Linny

  P.S. Guggal (Indian bedellium) has a fragrant resin that is extracted and used for those bloated with their own fluids, and also for painful swelling of the joints.

  When I had first suggested that Faith accompany me to Simla, convincing her and Charles with the facts that Somers had already rented a bungalow (true) and arranged and paid for the journey (true) and was in agreement that Faith come along (a lie), Charles urged Faith to take the opportunity. It was unspoken that he couldn’t afford to send Faith. She said she couldn’t bear to be apart from him, but I knew that Charles didn’t want her spending another hot season in Calcutta. She had fallen victim to a strange ague as well as nasty conditions, first boils and then shingles during that time last year, which had only worsened during the wet season. Her body was covered in sores and wracked by a fever that left her weak and wordless.

  She recovered physically, but had lost the ability to chatter and smile. Instead, she sat, wan and unmoving, in her chair by the window for hours at a time.

  Charles had confided in me, after the invitation to Simla had been accepted, that he feared she might not survive the approaching hot season, having so recently recovered from the ills of the previous year. Now he was jubilant at the thought of her spending months in the cool comfort of the Simla hills. He wanted her to be happy again, to smile and clap her hands and read and argue and sketch the birds she loved to watch. I also suspected he thought that she might be more accepted in Simla without his constant presence. A perfect, albeit temporary, solution, he called it.

  But Somers was furious that I’d invited Faith. I’d known all along that he would be, and I would suffer the consequences, but I accepted that fact. I purposely didn’t tell him about Faith joining us until the night before we were to leave. He was on his way to the Club when I stopped him at the door and informed him.

  He frowned, then shook his head. “No. As you well know, I’ve already arranged for Mrs. Partridge to accompany you,” he said, fuming, turning his hat in his hands. His thumbs made deep imprints into the soft fabric. “You had no right taking this upon yourself. You know I spoke to Colonel Partridge about it a good month ago, and Mrs. Partridge was going anyway, and so is quite willing to share a bungalow with you, and be your—”

  “Minder? Somebody to watch my every move, Somers?”

  “Your companion. That was the agreement, that you go to Simla with a companion. And now you’re muddying the Ingram name by keeping up your association with that woman. You’ll just have to find some way to cut her out.” He put his hand on the doorknob as if the matter was concluded.

  I pulled at his sleeve. “No. It can’t be done. I’ve invited her, and she’s agreed to come, so it’s settled. It will have to be the three of us, and you have no further say in it.” I held my breath, then, having l
earned that now I need only provoke Somers with the smallest thing to bring out his violent behavior toward me. And for some inexplicable reason I sometimes found myself goading him purposely. I knew full well what I was doing as I corrected him in mixed company, or went against his wishes with some domestic request, or some other equally simple action. It was as if I wanted to see how far I could push him before he would react; I knew by the look on his face when he was reaching his limit, and yet I kept on, finding a perverse pleasure in baiting him. I think now, looking from afar on my strange behavior, that it was a way of drawing Somers’s attention—even if it brought me nothing more than trepidation and fear of physical pain. I wanted to reach him in some way, in the confusing push and pull of our relationship, and perhaps this was the only way I could make him respond to me.

  Now he grabbed me by the arm and swung me around. He punched me in the jaw with his knuckles, and as I fell he left, slamming the door so hard that a gilt-framed painting of King William IV also fell from the wall, its glass smashing on the stone floor beside me.