The Linnet Bird: A Novel

by Linda Holeman

  I kept shaking my head, wanting him to stop. But it was as if he were enjoying it all, seeing my misery as he recounted the ugly details. I put my hands over my ears, closing my eyes and lowering my head.

  “Eventually he tried to force me to join in.” He spoke loudly and clearly; it was impossible to shut out his words. “My father kept me at his bidding like a pet monkey, stroked occasionally, thrown a tasty morsel now and then, but impossibly shackled. And he wouldn’t, even in death, allow me to live as I wished. He knew from an early age I had little interest in women. In fact, he first supplied me with the boys I grew to hunger for. But he stipulated in his will that I must be married in order to receive my rightful inheritance. Quite like him in every way to have a final laugh from the grave.

  “And so it appears that you really have had a remarkable impact on my life, Linny. First you killed my father, and then you made it possible for me to receive my inheritance. In reality you allowed me freedom. Twice.” With that word he stopped, and was silent.

  I removed my hands and opened my eyes. Now mosquitoes buzzed around my ears and sweating hairline. Somers was looking at me in a manner that was almost jaunty, his head tilted and eyes bright, as if surprised at his good fortune.

  I dropped to my knees at the side of the bed. “Then repay me, Somers. Set me free, in turn. Let me take David and disappear.” I grabbed his hands. They were icy. “You’ll never hear from us again. I’ll ask for nothing.”

  He shook his head gently, as if I were a naughty child caught stealing sweets. “You don’t understand, do you, Linny? And yet you’ve always been such a clever girl.” He pulled his hands away from mine. “You can’t be trusted to leave me, and you can’t be trusted with our son. There is no other way but for you to be put away, properly, lawfully, so there can never be any future questions about you.” His eyes were unblinking now, like a snake’s. “I’ll have the papers drawn up by Dr. Haverlock as soon as possible. He won’t need any convincing, of course. One look at you would be assurance enough that you need caring for. As for David . . . I’ll bring him up as I see fit. It won’t take me long to have him trained into the shape he should be.” He attempted another of his horrible laughs, but it brought on a fit of coughing, and a chill suddenly came over him.

  As I stared at him, his body trembling, his mustache sprayed with cloudy beads of saliva, I imagined his face settling into the leering specter of his dead father. I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear away that old and horrific vision, but the haunting wouldn’t leave. It seemed that in the most terrible twist of fate, the evil hand that had brought me to Rodney Street had led me to this room. I got to my feet, stumbling away from the bedside. I looked, in absolute horror, at the man who was my husband. Knowing the power he wielded. Knowing that his twisted hatred, his lecherous ways, and his truly vile nature would continue to grow with each passing year.

  This was the man who would finally destroy me, and who would raise my son.

  I had to stop him from what he was about to do to me. I had to protect my child.

  I KNEW THE TIMING must be perfect. I didn’t sleep that night but nevertheless arose early in the morning and bathed. I had no weariness. I smoked my pipe, but only to prevent my body from going into painful spasms. I had Malti pay special attention to my hair, and I chose my dress carefully. I sat at my dressing table and studied myself. Now I understood how Faith had felt in her last days at Simla. There is a tremendous lifting, as if a heavy yoke has been taken from one’s shoulders, when one knows with complete certainty what one must do. That there can be no other way.

  Malti looked at me strangely. “Mem Linny? I don’t understand.”

  “What don’t you understand?” I swiveled so I was facing her.

  “Last night you appeared so distressed when you left Sahib Ingram’s room. And yet today you appear more at ease than for a long, long time. What is it, mem, that I see in your face? It appears to be happiness. But that cannot be, with the sadness of this house.”

  I smiled at her. “It’s not happiness, Malti. Not yet. But there is the future. We must light new lamps for the future.”

  Malti shook her head, confused. The rest of that day I sat on the verandah and played with David, my mind whirring, planning. At one point I looked toward the windows of Somers’s room and saw Dr. Haverlock staring at me. He turned abruptly when I met his gaze.

  I went to Somers’s room. Dr. Haverlock sat at the desk there, writing. Was it the commitment report he worked on? He stopped when he saw me, and looked at Somers, lying on the bed.

  “Do you want something, Linny?” Somers asked, his voice deceptively concerned. “Or have you forgotten something?”

  “I thought you might need fresh water.”

  Somers gestured to the full pitcher beside his bed. “But Linny . . . it was you who brought this in just before Dr. Haverlock arrived.”

  “No. No, it wasn’t. It must have been one of the servants.” I hadn’t been to Somers’s room that day.

  Somers shook his head, smiling gently, and, raising his eyebrows slightly, looked at Dr. Haverlock. You see?

  Dr. Haverlock studied my hands. I realized I was lacing and unlacing my fingers. I stopped, but he had already turned back to his paper and continued writing. I left the room, but lingered in the hallway. I heard Dr. Haverlock tell Somers it was done; I heard Somers assuring Dr. Haverlock that he would receive what had been promised when all matters had been taken care of.

  He was making his plans. It was time to finalize mine.

  IT WAS EASY TO acquire a supply of dhatura from a box wallah that very day. The shrub’s English name was thorn apple. It was one of India’s indigenous plants, growing wild in rank soil and wasteland. I remembered Nani Meera’s caution about using it. In the right amounts it could be useful in limiting the coughing fits due to pertussis, as well as problems in the bladder. Although the large white corollas of the flowers had narcotic and sedative properties, these properties were found to be even stronger in the leaves when powdered.

  The entire plant had elements similar to those of belladonna, only stronger, and overdose caused fatal poisoning.

  ALTHOUGH EVER GAINING in strength, Somers was thankfully still weak, and there were sudden moments of extreme fatigue and feebleness. While recuperating he enjoyed cooled tea, much sweetened, and called for it many times a day. I took it upon myself to fetch it from the cook and carry it to him each time he requested it, as any concerned wife might. By the way he looked at me the first few times I appeared at his bedside with the tray, his lip lifting in a sardonic, quizzing movement, I knew he thought I was trying to prove to him that I wasn’t mad, that I was attempting to appear normal. I allowed him to think this of me.

  I started with very minute amounts. I had to be extremely careful; it must look as if he had finally succumbed to his oldest and truest Indian enemy.

  Within two days he had regressed considerably, his face dry and flushed. He had difficulty swallowing, and was given to muttering and restless, purposeless movements. On the third day he fell into a sleep so deep it was impossible to wake him for many hours; I knew it could eventually lead to coma. When he finally did stir and open his eyes, which had grown gummy, the pupils were dilated and fixed. I continued to get him to swallow a few sips of tea each time he was conscious, crying to the servants that he must have fluid.

  As I wrung my hands in front of Dr. Haverlock, I said a silent prayer of thanks that the old man was so lacking in medical knowledge. “He appeared to be rallying,” I said. “What has caused this turn?”

  Dr. Haverlock shook his head. “One never knows how these foreign diseases will work on their victims.” I stared, wide-eyed, into his face. “I fear it’s become much more serious. My diagnosis, Mrs. Ingram, is brain malaria.”

  I put my fingers to my lips in consternation. “Brain malaria?”

  “His slipping in and out of consciousness, as well as the mental confusion, are both symptoms. Should he start showing signs of jaundice
, or perhaps convulsing . . .”

  “But—but he will recover, won’t he?”

  “Now, my dear, you mustn’t distress yourself unduly. Your state is quite delicate—”

  “Dr. Haverlock.” I stood tall. “I’m not in any state, delicate or otherwise. Are you telling me that Somers may not recover from this bout? Tell me the truth, Dr. Haverlock.”

  The old man took both my hands in his and shook his head, an insincere expression of sympathy on his face.

  WHEN DR. HAVERLOCK RETURNED the following day, he made a cursory check of Somers and then led me into the study. “Please prepare yourself, my dear,” he said.

  I waited.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you that your husband’s death is imminent. I doubt he’ll survive the night.”

  I allowed myself to crumple to a chair, lowering my head and covering my face with my hands. “Please dismiss the servants,” I said through my fingers, “but stay with me.” When we were alone, I looked up.

  “I wanted to speak to you in complete privacy, Dr. Haverlock,” I said, no longer putting on a show of distress. “About unfinished business.”

  “Now, now, Mrs. Ingram. You mustn’t worry. I’ll take care of everything here. And very soon you will be back home, where people who know how to care for you can help you through the difficult times you’re facing. And you mustn’t concern yourself over the child. Mr. Ingram left strict instructions as to—”

  I stood, coming straight to him, stopping so close to his face that he took a step back. “Do you really believe me to be mad, Dr. Haverlock?”

  His eyes shifted. “Your husband knew what was best for you. There are many ways, many new developments in caring for those unfortunates, such as yourself, who—”

  I interrupted. “And there are many ways, I assume, that a man such as yourself may be . . . how shall I word it? May be persuaded to see the truth.”

  Dr. Haverlock’s chin jumped once, encouraging me. He was so transparent.

  “I know you must be weary of working. You’ve devoted your life to helping people, Dr. Haverlock.” The words swam out warmly, slippery, clean. “You deserve to spend the remainder of your years in pampered luxury, either here or at home. Whatever sum my husband and you agreed upon for writing your . . . recommendation with regard to my future and that of my son, I will double. If you put that letter in my possession, and we speak no more about it.”

  His chin jumped again, and by that subtle twitch and his hesitation, I knew I had him. He took my arm and had me sit beside him on the sofa, glancing around, although the room was empty. “I may have been hasty in my estimation of your condition, my dear,” he said. “Your poor husband made his request out of concern for you and for his son.”

  “And you realize that Somers has been deeply affected by his constant battle with malaria all these years,” I said. “You also know that due to this he may have been lacking in clarity this last while. I understand, Dr. Haverlock”—my voice grew low with a shared conspiracy—“how well I understand what an awkward position he put you in. Please. I insist you tell me what sum you are owed for the strain this whole unpleasant situation has caused you. Come now, what will it be?”

  He gruffly cleared his throat. Sly old goat. He was afraid of naming the price in case it was lower than what I was prepared to double.

  I went to the desk drawer, took out the wrapped package I had put there this morning, and brought it back to the sofa. I set it between us and untied the string. The paper fell away, revealing my huge pile of saved bills, the amount I had been pilfering from Somers for years and had kept so safe and hidden. Now it gave the impression of a king’s ransom.

  The physician licked his thin, dry lips, his breath quickening. I could almost hear the greedy ticking of his brain. “Oh my, Mrs. Ingram. Dear, dear. I don’t wish to appear grasping, but, in reality, all of this has caused me a great loss of time and, as you say, a considerable strain on my own constitution, which hasn’t been well of late. I’ve grown quite bilious. It wouldn’t be gracious to speak of the sum Mr. Ingram and I discussed, but . . .” Again, his eyes longingly caressed the money so close to his thigh.

  I patted his sleeve. “I understand, I’m sure,” I said, pity in my voice. “Would you be carrying anything with you, Dr. Haverlock, that we might exchange?”

  “Well,” he said slowly, “I’m not exactly sure what you’re refer—”

  “The commitment report, Dr. Haverlock. Do you carry it?” My voice never lost its sweetness. I moved the package an inch closer to him.

  Still studying the lakhs of rupees, Dr. Haverlock reached into his inside breast pocket, and I heard the reassuring crackle of folded paper.

  He gave it to me, and once I read what was written there, I passed him the package of money, then held out my right hand.

  He looked down at it, took it as if to bow over it, but I pulled back slightly. He then understood, and shook it, firmly. And then we stood, each holding our reward, and exchanged a pleasant smile.

  We were each as good as the other at this game. We both had acquired that which we wanted most.

  IT WAS OVER in the next few hours. And in Somers’s last painful moments on earth, I knelt by his bed and stroked his hollow face, appearing to the servants and to Dr. Haverlock to be the dutiful wife comforting her dying husband with final gentle gestures. I kept my own face composed, but in my head I spoke to Somers. I have tricked and deceived you in ways you will never know. And now it is over; the nightmare is over. I have saved my life and the soul of my child.

  In spite of the depth of his illness I sensed his comprehension of this unspoken fact, that in spite of my past I was the stronger of us. That he was unable to control my future. I knew this from the way his unfocused eyes skittered in their sockets, how his lips shook loosely, as if he needed to speak. I put my fingers against his mouth and brushed back his hair, kissing his cold, dry forehead. “It is all over, Somers. All the hate and hurt you have subjected me to,” I whispered, so quietly that the only sound the others in the room would hear was a breathless murmur, the last few pledges of love from a wife to her husband. “I have made it so,” I whispered, still more softly, little more than a sigh, and I saw his eyelids move ever so slightly, and I knew he heard me. I knew he understood.

  A low rattle came from somewhere within him, and then his eyes rolled upward, to the limp ruffles of the punkah, and stayed there, unblinking.

  Epilogue

  1840

  IT IS ONE OF THOSE GLORIOUS SPRING DAYS WHEN THE AIR CARRIES the scent of the earth warming. The light from the open window falls across the floor in soft, buttery squares; the rustle of the birches that surround our home is a soft whisper. I rise and go to the window, looking out at the new growth in our lovely garden—the delicate bluebells and irises, flowers too fragile to ever have survived India’s heat. I have grown to see the beauty in England’s misty weather. The colors of the garden, without the vibrancy of India’s hues, are delicate, tender. I find them beautiful in a way impossible to me before. I marvel at them.

  WE LIVE, DAVID AND I, in a home that shares its garden with Shaker and Celina’s.

  Shaker has opened a small dispensary in the village of Marigate in Cheshire. Known all over the county for his quiet, trustworthy manner and acute ability to diagnose ailments, he discusses symptoms and possible healing herbs for the treatment of many of these physical and mental complaints. The rooms of the dispensary are always full, and Shaker is often referred to as a physician, although he always gently corrects the misapprehension: he is a lay practitioner of homeopathy. Most days I help him in the dispensary, pulverizing and weighing and measuring, discussing particular cases with him.

  I have been amazed at the difference in Shaker since I returned to England last year, after the settling of Somers’s will. Shaker still often trembles, but at other times—when he sits and watches David play, or listens as Celina reads aloud by the fire—he is perfectly still. I have seen this but do not com
ment on it, afraid that if those perceived moments of peace are spoken of they may disappear.

  Celina, too, displays a sensitivity I would not have predicted. I remember her as sharp faced and quick tongued, but of course that was only because she saw me as a rival. Now that fear has long fled; I believe it is the simple and powerful act of loving and being loved wholly in return that has changed her. She now has a quiet beauty, her eyes filled with a glow I never saw when I first met her in Liverpool almost a decade ago. She welcomed David and me when we arrived at their door, helping me adjust to the life I had so long been away from. It took some time for me to regain my energy and health, but she seemed to find joy in aiding and watching my recuperation. Whether it is learned from Shaker, or a natural talent that Shaker has brought out in her, she does possess a healing nature.

  Neither Shaker nor Celina knows of David’s true paternity; their grasp of my time in India will rely forever on the letters I wrote. It is all that is necessary.

  Sundays, after church, David and I walk home, hand in hand, along the quiet, tree-lined road from the village. Shaker and Celina walk a few steps ahead, their heads together as they discuss the sermon or whatever news we have heard at church. It is at these times that David and I talk about India, and the difference of life here. He remembers Calcutta clearly, and knows no other place but that and the village here. And so I describe Liverpool—the buildings, the bustling streets, the train. I have promised him we will soon visit Liverpool together and take a journey to Manchester on that huge, steaming beast.

  A month after I returned to England I journeyed back to Liverpool and hired a mason to carve a beautiful stone in pale gray granite. When it was done I returned again, and as the headstone was put firmly in place in the graveyard at Our Lady and St. Nicholas, I arranged for the bells to be rung and said my own prayers for my mother as I ran my fingers over her name—Frances Gow—carved deeply into the smooth surface. And below, in letters just as deep, Forever Cherished. Beloved Mother of Linny Gow.