HALF AN HOUR LATER I STUMBLED INTO THE OUTSKIRTS OF town. The streets and gardens were quiet; it came to me, from the height of the sun, that most families would be at tiffin. As I passed through the almost empty Mall, a few women standing outside the shops stopped their conversations to turn and look at me, and although I recognized them, and knew they knew me, my sudden appearance after all this time obviously shocked them into silence. One did say, “Mrs. Ingram?” her hand to her throat, and took a few steps in my direction. But I didn’t respond, and she remained where she was. I felt dull surprise at what I’d forgotten in these weeks—how pale they looked, how tightly they were held in by their armor of clothes. And their reactions to me—the expressions of disbelief, the murmurs to one another, began the first tiny tear. It was a rip of only a few stitches that would, all too soon, widen into a gaping hole of reality where I could see that I was more alive than I had ever been. In their faces I saw my own, and this was the jolt that brought me back not only to Simla, but to my life as Mrs. Ingram, and all it represented.
I tried to plan what I would say when I reached the bungalow, but I seemed incapable of forming logical thought. Would Mrs. Partridge still be there? As I turned into the side street that would lead me to Constancia Cottage, I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Ma’am?”
It was a soldier in a spotless red uniform. “Do you need help, ma’am? I saw you walking through the Mall, and you looked . . . I thought you might be in trouble.”
I looked down at my dusty Kashmiri clothes and turned-up sandals, realized my hair hung in a tangle to my waist. “I . . . no, not really. I’m just . . .” I gestured at the bungalow.
The soldier said, slowly, “May I assume you’re the other young lady who . . .” He stopped, and I nodded.
“Well then, let’s get you home, shall we? I imagine there will be a number of people very pleased to learn you’re safe.” He tried to take the saddlebag and chapan, but I held them tightly against me, shaking my head.
We entered the quiet house. I thought perhaps it was empty, but Malti suddenly appeared out of Mrs. Partridge’s bedroom carrying a flowered china basin. At the sight of me, she stood motionless for a fraction of a second, then screamed loudly and dropped the bowl. It smashed into a few large pieces, and Malti drew her head scarf over her face and ran shrieking from the room, out the back door.
“I expect she thought you a spirit, ma’am,” the soldier said. “They’re so superstitious.” He turned at the sound of a whimper.
I looked to see Neel sitting in the doorway of my bedroom. “Neel,” I said, crouching and holding out one arm, the other still cradling the saddlebag and chapan.
Neel’s mouth relaxed into a wet grin, and he dashed across the slippery floor, his toenails clattering and his whole rear end wiggling in delirious joy. He had almost reached my outstretched hand when he slid to a halt, whined, and backed up a few steps.
“What’s wrong, Neel?” I asked. He came toward me again, crouching low, his stubby tail now still and curving toward his hind legs. As he drew near enough for me to touch him, he suddenly drew back his lips and bared his teeth, then let out a short, nervous bark.
“Don’t you know me, Neel?” I asked.
The soldier cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but it would be the smell of the things you’re wearing and carrying. Those dogs can detect nomad blood; they’re bred for it. They’ll tear a gypsy to pieces, given the chance.”
I looked down at the saddlebag and chapan.
“Once you burn those gypsy clothes and bathe he’ll be back to normal, I guarantee it.” He looked away from Neel, who still rumbled, deep in his throat, as loud voices came from the back door.
I stood as Mrs. Partridge stormed in, followed by Malti and the other servants, hanging back and peering nervously. Mrs. Partridge slowly looked me over from head to foot.
“Where have you come from?” she asked. No joy, no relief, just a matter-of-fact question. Actually, a suspicous matter-of-fact question.
“I was . . . in the hills . . . I don’t know. Really, Mrs. Partridge. I don’t know.” I was suddenly so exhausted that it hurt to speak.
“It doesn’t appear you’ve come to any real harm,” she finally said, her voice uncertain now, as if she didn’t know whether to be relieved or dismayed by this fact.
I felt as if a cord were being drawn around my throat. The silence stretched, and I saw Mrs. Partridge’s flat brown eyes filling with tears, her lower jaw trembling, although I knew her sympathy wasn’t for me. I envisioned soldiers bringing Faith’s broken body back to the cottage. A sudden rush of words tumbled from my mouth.
“We just went for a picnic, Mrs. Partridge. A picnic. I didn’t know she would—”
“Stop it,” Mrs. Partridge said, all traces of distress put firmly in check now. Her low voice was far more deadly than all the loud blustering and ranting of the past. “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. We all know Faith would never have gone off like that without your urging. That poor girl,” she said again. “And now she’s dead, dead and buried.”
Even in my state, I realized the falseness of Mrs. Partridge’s put-on grief. She had cared little for Faith, and had been just as horrifed as Somers at having her join us. I knew with certainty then that whatever matters of skin color she referred to in front of Faith had been done spitefully, to hurt her.
Now she pressed a handkerchief against her nose. “She didn’t stand a chance, apparently.” She took away the handkerchief and stared at me. “After they retrieved her body, the soldiers, joined by all the men in Simla, spent the next week searching for you, Linny, but finally gave up. None of us ever expected to see you alive again, I can assure you.” Her eyes were hard and dry as they traveled down my body. “Well, here you are, looking none the worse for wear. Except for that heathen getup.”
“Charles?” I asked. “Has he been notified?”
“I sent a message to the John Company offices at Delhi immediately, of course, to both Mr. Snow and Mr. Ingram. The Company would get word to them. I wrote to Mr. Snow of Mrs. Snow’s tragic death, and I reported to Mr. Ingram that you were missing, and that’s all. No point in them coming up here; nothing to be done now, is there?” She studied my clothing. “I don’t want to hear where you’ve been for all this time. Don’t speak of it, do you hear me?” She started to her room.
How I hated this large, pompous woman. “You weren’t there,” I said quietly. “You don’t know what happened. Nobody does. Nobody but me.”
Mrs. Partridge turned back. “Do you think I didn’t see the state Faith was in? How unhappy she was? She needed caring for, true friends who wouldn’t drag her out into the wilderness, who wouldn’t think more about their own needs than hers. What she needed from you, Linny, was quiet companionship, walks through the Mall, tea at Peliti’s, encouragement with her sketching and embroidery. Not some crazy pony ride into the hills. And now she’s dead. Thrown over the cliff by that wild man. Oh, it’s all been such a terrible business.”
I opened my mouth. “Is that what you were told? That he threw her over the rocks?”
She ignored my question. “Well? How did you convince the Pathan not to kill you?” She sniffed, then shook her head as if she couldn’t bear to imagine. “The sooner we leave, the better.” She started through her bedroom door.
“Leave?”
“I had made plans to leave tomorrow. First to Delhi,” she said, over her shoulder, “where Colonel Partridge is currently working. I’m going to stay there with him until his job is done, and then we’ll return to Calcutta together. It’s too distressing to stay here. The season has been spoiled for me, with all that’s happened. First Mrs. Hathaway, and then you and the dear Mrs. Snow . . . So you may as well come along, and go straight on to Calcutta from Delhi. I can’t imagine you’d want to stay here on your own, nor would your husband wish it.” Did she stress husband? Perhaps the word sounded strange because I couldn’t think of Somers
at this moment; I hadn’t thought of him for so long. “To say nothing of the reception you would be sure to receive here. I can’t imagine anyone here would choose to include you in their plans at the moment. I would think you’d be viewed as quite a . . . well, I cannot think of a polite expression for what others might think of you. When one considers that you’re responsible for Faith’s death, and tries to envision where you’ve spent all this time doing whoever knows what—would you blame anyone for being horrified at having you present?” She shook her head once more, then closed her bedroom door firmly.
I looked at the huddled servants. The soldier was gone.
“Malti,” I said, seeing her bulging eyes. “Don’t be afraid. It’s only me. I’m the same as I was.” Although of course I wasn’t, not in any way.
But Malti continued to stare at me, still covering her mouth with the soft folds of her mustard-colored sari. Finally she lowered the material. “But where have you been, Mem Linny? And your clothing . . .”
“Please prepare a bath for me, Malti,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “I’m very tired, and I want to lie down after I bathe.” I went into my bedroom; on the little desk in one corner lay a book, a slim volume of Shelley’s poetry. I recognized it as one of Faith’s favorite books. She must have put it here before we left. I held it, running my hand over its soft morocco cover, touching my finger to the pages with their fine gilt edging. There was a ribbon marker; I opened the book to the page. The poem marked was When the Lamp Is Shattered. Faith had written, in her small, spidery script, on the top of the page:
For Linny, dear friend, whose strength I have admired from afar. Always keep your lamp burning. Forever your humble companion, Faith.
I closed my eyes tightly, then opened them and tried to read the poem.
When the lamp is shattered
The light in the dust lies dead—
When the cloud is scattered
The rainbow’s glory is shed. . . .
I could read no further. I dropped to my knees, hugging the book to my chest and rocking back and forth until Malti quietly knocked on my door to tell me the bath was ready. I realized, as I rose from my knees, that I had been crying.
It appeared that tears came with ease now.
THAT EVENING I WENT to the graveyard at Christ Church, accompanied by Neel. He had come into my arms, licking my face and whimpering, once I had bathed and dressed in my own clothing and carefully hidden the chapan and saddlebag at the bottom of a trunk. I had also kept the silver earrings Mahayna had given me, although Malti had taken away the clothes I’d been wearing.
Faith’s grave was covered in stiff, dying floral arrangements. I planted a small, perfect laburnum that I had dug up from the garden of the bungalow. It would flower every year with Faith’s favorite blossoms, the long drooping sprays of yellow flowers that cover the small tree in clouds of gold.
I thought about the other graves I had left behind me—my mother’s, in the damp, crowded graveyard of Our Lady and St. Nicholas Parish Church, and my baby’s, with its holly bush and pink stone. I sat beside the mound and the little tree in the advancing evening, the breeze fragrant, the sky growing silver, the birds settling. In that lovely hour, I felt that those I loved were destined to die or disappear from my life. And again, I wept.
MRS. PARTRIDGE AND I didn’t speak to each other on the journey to Delhi. I suppose she thought she was punishing me with her silence; I was thankful to be left in peace with my thoughts, which swirled between sadness and a strange, burning glow that never left. I thought constantly about Daoud, and I also thought of Charles, and how I must immediately see him once I was back in Calcutta.
After her trunks were unloaded onto the ghats at Delhi, I thanked Mrs. Partridge for her companionship and again apologized for all that I’d caused. She simply nodded, once, in an imperious manner, and I thought she would remain silent, but she couldn’t leave without one last remark. “I hope that by the time Mr. Partridge and I return to Calcutta the furor surrounding your activities will have died down. If there is one thing I can’t abide, it’s scandal.”
Now it was my turn to say nothing, although I found it difficult. I glanced away so she wouldn’t read the look I knew was there, brought on by her hypocrisy.
And then she disappeared, shouting at the bearers as she made her way laboriously up the slippery steps and into the crowd. I sent Malti to collect her sister and return as quickly as possible. When she was gone I went inside the hut on the budgerow and waited in the dim light, alone, rocking with the movement of the barge and listening to the voices—the laughter and chatter of those descending the ghats to bathe.
Malti returned with Trupti and Trupti’s eldest daughter, Lalita, who looked to be twelve or thirteen, and the budgerow set off again. The ride back down the Ganges was long and tedious. The water was a milky coffee color, the air muggy, as if the sky were an inverted copper bowl, trapping me in its damp, smothering heat. The fruit on board was overripe, buzzing with flies, and the sizzling spiciness of the curries the bargemen prepared at night was overpowering. Malti and Trupti and Lalita spoke in tones too quiet for me to hear. They treated me with gentle solicitation, as if I were an invalid recovering from a serious illness.
I had no interest in walking along any passable banks, as I had done on that other voyage that seemed years ago now. I didn’t read, but sat, much as Faith had, on a chair on the budgerow, watching, with little interest, the passing countryside.
It seemed we would never arrive in Calcutta.
But finally, almost four weeks after leaving Simla, I was returned to my old life, back at the house in Chowringhee.
I ARRIVED HOME while Somers was still at work and was relieved that I had time to rest and gather my thoughts before I had to face him. When he did come home I was on the verandah, Neel in my lap. He stood in front of me, immaculate in a pearl-gray suit and tie, a dazzling white silk handkerchief blossoming from his breast pocket. He had grown muttonchops. I had forgotten how handsome he was, sleek as a weasel.
“It would seem that you’re all right, then?” he asked, unsmiling. Without waiting for my answer, he continued. “A bit thinner, I would say, and your skin is an unflattering sun-baked shade, but you seem none the worse for your little escapade.” He almost spat the last few words.
“Escapade? How can you call what happened to me an escapade?”
He leaned against the stone balustrade, casually crossing one ankle over the other and clasping his hands in front of him, watching me. “I want to hear what happened in more detail,” he said.
I found it hard to breathe properly. In my head were images of Daoud, his hands on me, his weight, surprisingly light, on my body. “But didn’t Mrs. Partridge write to you about—”
“She wrote that you were seen visiting a makeshift jail, where a Pathan, waiting to be hanged for the rape of a young woman, was held captive. This was the day before you convinced Faith to leave Simla and go off to some Godforsaken place.”
“My visit to the jail isn’t important. I took Faith on a picnic. A simple picnic. And we were caught in the middle of the soldiers chasing the escaped prisoner.” I didn’t trust myself to even say the word Pathan, afraid my voice would tremble. “And Faith . . . she . . . her pony . . .” I stopped. I had promised myself during the endless voyage from Simla back to Calcutta that I would never tell what I had seen, Faith sailing out into the air by her own volition. Better that Charles—and everyone else—believe that Faith was a victim, not of her own desires, but of a terrible accident. “Faith fell over the cliff. And I—the man who was being pursued took me with him.”
“Why?”
I stroked Neel’s head. “I suppose he would use me as a ransom. I don’t know. I couldn’t understand him.” And so the lies continued.
“And where were you, for the good part of a month?”
I pushed Neel to the floor and stood. “Why are you questioning me like this? So coldly, as if I chose—chose—for this to happen. Do you
think I wanted to be shot—did you even know that I was shot, in the back of my shoulder?—or to be taken on a wild ride into a gypsy camp in the far hills?”
Now Somers’s silence was making it more difficult; I felt his eyes boring into my brain, seeing the images of Daoud and me on the quilt under the deodar tree.
“What did you do, all that time, in the camp?”
“I stayed with a girl, in her tent, and helped her prepare food and wash clothes and look after her baby. After a while one of the gypsy boys led me back to Simla.” My voice sounded unnaturally loud.
“And what of this particular Pathan who captured you? And of all the other gypsy men?”
“What of them?”
“They must have been highly excited to have you in their midst. You, with your light hair, your skin soft and white.” Now he came close to me. “Did you like it, Linny? Did they pass you around, night after night?” He put his hand on the back of my head and closed his fingers in my hair. “Tell me about it. Were they as well endowed as their horses? Do they like it rough?” His fingers pulled back on my hair, so my face was tilted up, forcing me to look into his eyes. His voice was husky, his breath in my face smelled of tobacco and whisky. He pressed against me, and I felt him harden.
I twisted away from him. “Stop it, Somers. Nobody hurt me. Nobody touched me.”
“Are you sure, Linny? Once a whore, always a whore. Surely you had to do something to persuade them to let you live.”
“No,” I shouted, and he raised his hand, open palmed. “No,” I said then, immediately dropping my voice and lowering my head. “Nothing happened, Somers. Nothing,” I whispered.
I knew what he wanted. He was building up to beating me; he was already provoked, excited. Or perhaps he wanted me to live up to his expectations of what I was, so he might find a way to be rid of me. It would be easy to convince a few people of what he imagined me to have done in that camp, with as many men as he chose to count, and carry out his long-ago threat to throw me out in disgrace. I knew that nobody would have sympathy for me if Somers could find a way to convince them that I was a fallen woman. Surely the gossip about me had already started; I had seen a few white women at the docks when I arrived. I would imagine the story of Faith’s death and my disappearance was already common knowledge throughout the community. It was sure to be a topic of conversation at dinner parties for at least a month. And if Somers were to add fuel to the fire . . . Oh, yes. Somers had his ways, and his friends. And I . . . I had no one, now that Faith was gone. I readied myself for the crushing slap.
The Linnet Bird: A Novel Page 40