by Ladd,Ashley
“Good morning, Madam,” he called. “Are you Mrs. Archer?” His English was near-perfect. The lilt of his accent just made his speech more melodious.
“Yes, I’m Priscilla Archer. Can I help you? Please, come up out of the rain. You’re drenched.”
The Indian scrambled up the steps with his portmanteau, struggling to shut his umbrella on the way. He smiled, his teeth even and brilliantly white against skin the colour of milk tea. “Thank you, Madam. I am indeed wet. The carriage from the station left me at the foot of the hill. I had no alternative but to walk to your door, and in this wind my umbrella is hardly effective.” He leaned the umbrella against the railing and reached into his jacket pocket for his visiting card. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Anil Kumar. I am—that is, I was—your father-in-law’s solicitor.”
Priscilla took the card, noting the Calcutta address. “You’ve come a long way, Mr. Kumar. Please, sit. I’ll ring for some tea.”
The man beamed and grasped her hand, “Thank you so much, Mrs Archer. Tea would be very welcome. But perhaps I should change my clothing, rather than causing your furniture to become as wet as I am.”
“Of course, how inconsiderate of me. Lalida, show Mr. Kumar to the guest bedroom and bring him some hot water for washing.”
“Right away, Madam. Sir, please follow me.” The two natives disappeared into the house, leaving Priscilla alone again on the porch.
She sank down into one of the chairs, staring blankly at the card, seeing its owner in her mind’s eye. Anil Kumar was a native, true, but clearly a gentleman. His clothing, even when wet, showed signs of custom tailoring. His bearing was regal, his face both comely and intelligent. Heavy eyebrows arched over deep eyes the colour of teakwood. His high forehead was crowned by lush black hair, cut neatly but with a tendency to curl. His long, straight nose and square chin were balanced by a set of lips full enough to belong to a woman.
A handsome man, yes, but more than the sum of his parts. Even in their brief interaction, Priscilla had sensed something, some energy or life in him that made him doubly appealing. He exuded confidence but without a trace of arrogance. The English had learned the hard way to be wary of the natives. Nevertheless, Priscilla could not help trusting Anil Kumar.
She heard the squeak of the door, looked up and caught her breath. It was Kumar returning. He was dressed all in white, in loose cotton trousers and a gauzy kurta that bared his throat. A gold amulet hung around his neck. His skin seemed darker, his face more exotic. Priscilla was reminded of the statues of Krishna she and Jonathan had seen in Calcutta, on their way to the plantation. Her heartbeat surged. Wet heat gathered between her legs. Before, he had looked like a gentleman. Now, he seemed a god.
“Please forgive my state of undress, Mrs. Archer, but I’m afraid that these are the only garments I have with me that are not soaked through. Your maid has kindly taken my suit for cleaning. As soon as it is dry, I will dress myself more appropriately. Meanwhile, I hope that I do not offend your sensibilities.”
“Not at all,” Priscilla waved off the concern with a smile. He certainly affected her sensibilities, but she was far from offended. “We all have to muddle along during this infernal rainy season. It’s difficult to imagine being completely dry.”
“Ah, but the monsoon is a blessing from the Mother Goddess. Without it, all India would starve.”
“Yes, I’m sure that you are right. It’s just hard for me to imagine living with this for another three months.”
Anil leaned toward her, his face earnest. Priscilla caught a hint of sandalwood essence wafting from his warm skin. A wave of dizziness swept over her. “It must be difficult for you, being so far from your home. I think, though, that if you allow yourself, you will come to love India.”
Priscilla struggled to control her physical reactions, “Perhaps. Certainly, the rain is very beautiful. It softens the rough edges and makes everything seem dreamlike, insubstantial. Sometimes you can see the hills. Sometimes it’s as though they are not there.”
“Yes, exactly. The monsoon reveals the truth, that all is Maya, illusion. Our bodies, this world, pleasure and pain, it is all a dream of the gods.”
For Priscilla at that moment, nothing seemed more real than the demands of her body. Anil’s closeness stirred her to extremes of desire she hadn’t experienced since her first weeks with Jonathan. Her nipples were aching knots pressed against the muslin of her shirtwaist. She could feel the juices leaking from her sex and soaking her skirts. She thought of Jonathan, tried to smother her lust in guilt, but failed utterly. Jonathan had neglected her. He had left her alone to suffer this awful, delicious temptation.
She called on her reserves of British propriety to help her through the moment, “So, Mr. Kumar, what has induced you to undertake the long journey to this remote place?”
Kumar sat back in his chair, “Business, of course. Your husband’s father made a variety of investments in India in addition to this tea plantation. I have been gathering information on their status. Now I have come to give your husband a report and to execute the various documents necessary to transfer ownership.”
Priscilla couldn’t bear it any longer. She had to get out of this man’s intoxicating presence, back to the safety of her room. She rose, careful not to reveal the damp patch at the rear of her dress.
“Well, Jonathan is currently out in the fields supervising the workers, but I expect him for lunch, around one. I hope that you’ll join us.”
“That’s very gracious of you, Mrs. Archer.”
“Not at all. It’s a pleasure for us to have company in this isolated spot. Meanwhile, I hope you’ll excuse me while I retire. The humidity often gives me terrible headaches. Make yourself comfortable; I’ll have Lalida bring out the tea.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Archer. I hope that you feel better. I will see you at lunch.”
Priscilla choked out some response and fled to the bedroom. She threw herself face down on the bed, hands between her thighs. A single touch, through the soaked fabric of her knickers, was all it took. She screamed her release into her pillow, surrounded by the fragrance of sandalwood.
Chapter Two
Jonathan leaned back in his chair and looked around the table, highly satisfied. The curry had been delicious—he’d begun to realise that skipping breakfast was a mistake sometime around ten thirty—and he’d enjoyed two hearty helpings. The workers were nearly done with the north slope, and his overseer Suresh estimated that the entire harvest would be complete by the end of the week. Then perhaps he could spend a bit more time with Pru.
Poor woman, she was looking paler than usual, in her place at the foot of the table. She hadn’t spoken much at lunch either, leaving him and their guest to carry the conversation. Perhaps she was angry with him for resisting her advances this morning. I haven’t been the best husband, he thought. First I drag her out here to the wilderness, and then I reject her.
He didn’t completely understand why their private life had become so dismal. He still found her attractive. With her red-gold ringlets, creamy complexion and lithe figure, she was highly desirable, even if she was no longer the innocent young creature for whom he’d fallen. She was still the woman he imagined on the rare occasions when he masturbated. Yet when she sought physical affection from him, he froze up and lost all interest.
Part of it was guilt. He knew that he was responsible for failing to give her children. The physicians had certified that she was completely healthy, that her cycles were normal and she should be able to conceive. It had to be him. He’d been with some whores before he met Priscilla; perhaps, unknown to him, he’d contracted some disease that left him sterile. Or maybe it was hereditary. After all, in the twenty-two years of marriage they’d shared before his mother died, his father had sired only a single child.
Jonathan pushed the thought of his father away. He didn’t want to ruin his good mood. Instead, he tried to pick up the thread of Kumar’s conversation.
“There are
rumours that Montagu and Chelmsford will introduce a bill that offers far more self-government to the provinces and repeals the ‘official majority’ provision. Have you heard anything about this, Mr. Archer?”
“Nothing at all, but you must remember that we’re very isolated here. We don’t even have a working wireless. Being in Calcutta, I’m sure that you’re much better informed than we are.”
Kumar smiled. He really did seem like a decent chap, quite charming in fact. Jonathan was glad for his company. “I cannot evaluate the truth of the many rumours that I hear. However, I think that the Crown is finally coming to understand that India is not a country of savages, and that we have the ability, and the right, to govern ourselves.”
“Be careful where you voice those sentiments, Mr. Kumar. Some people would label them as seditious.”
“I understand your point. However, I feel that I can trust you with my honest feelings. Your father was my close friend for nearly a decade. I look forward to having the same sort of relationship with his son.”
“Of course,” said Jonathan, finding himself for some reason embarrassed. How like his father, to take a native as his bosom comrade! His father, who fled to India after his mother’s death, leaving his ten year old son in the care of his spinster sister. Who became so attached to his adopted country that he’d been cremated there, instead of having his body sent home to be buried in England! His father had no sense of propriety; based on her hints, Jonathan suspected that the old man had actually taken swarthy Lalida as his mistress.
On the other hand, it wasn’t fair to take all this out on Kumar. He was an innocent bystander. “I look forward to working with you, Mr. Kumar.”
“Please call me Anil, as your father did.”
“Very well, Anil. We can review the papers this afternoon, if that would be convenient for you.”
The handsome solicitor gave one of his dazzling smiles. “That would be perfect, Jonathan. However, what about our fair hostess? What will she do while we’re working?”
“Don’t worry about me, Mr. Kumar—” Priscilla appeared uncomfortable for some reason. A red flush crept into her pale cheeks.
“Anil.”
“Um—Anil. I manage to keep myself occupied. Fortunately we brought a whole trunk of novels with us on this trip.”
“Reading is an excellent pastime. But have you visited any of the famous sites in the province?”
“No, not really. There’s a local shrine above the tea fields that Lalida showed me, but that’s about all.”
“Ah, you must take advantage of your leisure and see some of our wonders. For example, you might visit the ruins of the temple/city of Madan Kamdeva, world famous for its graceful erotic sculptures.”
Priscilla’s blush deepened.
“Unfortunately, Madan Kamdeva is quite a distance,” Anil continued, seeming not to notice Pru’s discomfort. “However, I could take you to Kamakhya Temple. It is one of the holiest places in eastern India, and extremely interesting. The temple is set high above Gauhati city on Neelachal Parbat. Only a few hours drive, if we can secure an automobile .”
“The Resident at Cachor has a brand new Bentley,” said Jonathan .” But I don’t know how you’ll persuade him to part with it, even for a day.”
“Robert Stevens? I know him well. If you can get someone from the village to take him a message, I think I can manage it. What do you say, Priscilla? Shall we make the trip tomorrow, assuming I can influence Mr. Stevens to loan us his car and driver?”
Jonathan felt strange, hearing the native use his wife’s Christian name.
“I—I don’t know. I’m a bit nervous. I haven’t really been out on my own here…”
“You won’t be on your own, Pru. I’m sure that Anil will serve as both guide and protector. Look, I’m going to be out all day anyway, making a last push before moving to the southern fields. You should go and enjoy yourself.”
“I hate to leave you by yourself, Jonathan. What if there were some accident?”
“I’ll have Suresh and Lalida, not to mention the workers. I’ll be fine.”
“Well—I’m not sure…”
“Let me see if we can get the car,”Anil offered. “We will let the gods decide for us.”
Priscilla was silent, but she still looked uncertain. Jonathan rose from the table and circled to her chair, helping her to stand. From behind, he bent, a bit awkwardly, and kissed her cheek. “Go ahead, Pru. I want you to go.”
Jonathan could not understand the wild, desperate look she gave him.
Chapter Three
Jonathan threw open the louvered shutters in the bedroom that his father had converted to his office and library. The rain had trailed off during lunch, and now the early afternoon sunshine streamed in. The fresh-washed air smelled of the earth—mown grass, ripe fruit, animal dung. From here, he could see the tea fields a mile away, the rolling land brilliant emerald after its drenching. He caught a hint of movement, a rippling across the hillside, as if the bushes were rustling in the breeze. But the air was still. It was his small army of workers, filing along the ranks of tea plants, carefully plucking only the top buds and leaves.
Why did he care so much about this harvest? His London factories produced machinery, the engines and boilers that were powering the new century. He was no farmer. Somehow, though, it was important that he complete this task, bring this final harvest to a successful conclusion before selling the plantation. A last symbolic effort to win his father’s approval, perhaps? But his father had never really disapproved of Jonathan. He had merely been absent when Jonathan needed him.
A knock drew him away from the scene at the window. “Come in,” Jonathan called. Kumar glided in on sandaled feet, his casual native costume an odd contrast with the heavy lawyer’s satchel that he set on the desk.
“Am I disturbing you?”
“No, not at all, Please, make yourself comfortable,” Jon gestured at an armchair at the side of the desk.
Kumar seated himself, and began pulling folios of papers out of his case. He did look comfortable, perfectly at ease despite his attire. Jon shrugged off the jacket he had donned for lunch and hung it on his chair back. No cause for formality here.
“So. You said my father had other business interests. I’m a bit surprised. This plantation was all that he ever mentioned in his letters.”
“The plantation was his home, the focus of his life. He loved it here. However, he also owned a jute factory, a cotton mill, and several apartment buildings in Calcutta, as well as a pilgrim’s hostel in Varanasi.”
“A pilgrim’s hostel?”
“Your father went to bathe in the Ganges every year.”
“You can’t be serious! I’ve heard that it’s unbelievably filthy…”
Kumar smiled gently. “Earthly concerns such as hygiene are not a concern of those seeking enlightenment.”
Jon snorted his astonishment. “Enlightenment? My father? He was a businessman, not a mystic. ”
“The two are not necessarily mutually exclusive.” Kumar laid a long-fingered hand on Jon’s arm. “India changes people, Jon. It reveals their true natures.”
Jon found himself caught in the Indian’s beneficent gaze. The man’s eyes drew him in more deeply. He searched Kumar’s face, trying to understand the odd stirring in his heart and in his loins. The man was bloody beautiful, that was the truth of it, with that noble brow, those liquid brown eyes, that ripe mouth. His height, his broad shoulders, and the muscled curve of his bare forearm were undeniably male, but in his face Jon found something feminine, something exquisitely desirable.
With an effort, Jon tore his eyes away and forced his mind back to business. He reached for a handful of papers. “Let me see the details.”
Kumar laid out the first folio in front of Jon. “Here are the accounts for the jute company. As you can see, it has been a moderately profitable enterprise. Last year it cleared forty percent more than in 1917.”
The Indian leaned over to p
oint out the relevant figures. Jon couldn’t help but notice the man’s scent, some spicy, aromatic perfume that made him momentarily light-headed. The scent was somehow familiar. It had the strange and alarming effect of causing Jon’s penis to harden.
“Well—the war…” Jon struggled to retain his composure. “I’m sure that the international situation…”
“Of course, you’re right,” Kumar agreed smoothly. If he noticed Jon’s discomfiture, he did not show it. “Do you want to see the detailed revenue and expense statements?”
“No, no, I’ll take them and look at them later. Just give me the ownership transfer documents for now.”
Kumar leaned closer, leafing through the folio until he reached the last page. Jon shrunk away, afraid that the native’s body would brush against his own, terrified of his own response if it did.
“Sign here, please,” said Kumar, so close now that Jon could feel his breath. “And initial here, with the date.” Jon followed instruction, giving a sigh of relief when Kumar moved away to put the papers back into the satchel .” The ownership transfer will not be official for at least a month—the English have done what they can, but trying to rationalise Indian bureaucracy is a losing battle—but you can take possession of the factory any time.”
Jon tried to slow his racing pulse .” Well, I expect that I’ll be occupied here at the plantation for the next two weeks at least.”
“Quite so. Well, what would you like to deal with next?”
“Can you give me a moment?” Jon pushed himself back from the desk. “I think need a bit of air; I’m feeling a bit ill.” He turned to the window, gulping in the moist, fragrant air. His cock was still swollen, harder in fact than before. What was going on?
“Can I do anything to help, Jon?” The Indian stood behind him, lips close to Jon’s ear. “Should I call Priscilla?”