by Nev March
I recalled Burjor’s embrace and winced. I’d have liked such a father, open, honest and tenacious. Mrs. Framji’s warm acceptance, her delight in feeding me, her touch upon my cheek. These were precious, partly as they were rare to me, but more so because they were given so honestly, so freely.
The sounds of celebration filtered through the hall: Burjor’s booming chuckle, Diana’s laugh plucking the strings of a harp somewhere inside me. Her music found a place within and settled there, reassuring in its weight. Our parting had not broken her.
A child’s giggle tumbled through the air, pearls of precious sound. I should leave.
Moved beyond words, I sat on the stairs in the foyer and listened. Hearing them soothed a restlessness in me, like watching silver ripples in a stream I longed to touch. In the dining room, Adi’s younger brother answered a question. A burst of laughter followed his speech, bringing a smile to my lips.
Joy was made of moments like this, each insignificant in itself, piled together into a monolith, immutable and strong, something to lean against when one’s world went awry. Since I’d done my part to keep it safe, might I not enjoy the sound of it?
Footsteps alerted me to the quick stride of patent leather shoes. Adi appeared from the morning room bearing a decanter, and stopped when he saw me sitting in the gloom.
“Captain!” His astonished voice rang out over the marble. “What’s wrong?”
I rose to my feet. “All’s well, sir. I’m too late for the festivities. I’ll go.”
“Nonsense, Jim.” He caught my elbow and tugged me toward the dining room. When I held back, Adi peered at me in the dim light.
“Come.” Hoisting the decanter, he led me to the morning room.
I followed. What I had to tell him was difficult to say. The quiet morning room would serve me better.
He poured out two whiskies as his father usually did. Already he seemed taller and surer of himself than the young man I’d first met.
And I? Although I had funds, having been paid handsomely by the Framjis, I felt worn, far older than the raw journalist I’d been. That battered soldier yet had hope of something better around the corner. Now I saw my path wind through unknown mountain crags. Surprised at my maudlin musings, I faced the window. Adi handed me a glass and joined me, gazing out at the purple dusk.
Very well. I would tell him now, and ask his advice. I cleared my throat to speak.
The door swung open, admitting light and music. Diana entered in a burst of energy. “Adi, how long you’ve been! Oh!”
She smiled, sunset and moonlight in one elegant package as she pulled the door shut, closing out the dinner talk. Diana stepped into the quiet with the grace of a dancer, confident, beautiful, at ease with herself.
“Jim! Come join us. There’s still plenty of dinner.”
As she came to greet me, our stillness caught her attention. “How solemn you are, standing there against the night.”
She turned up a lamp. Adi’s hand stopped her from lighting the rest.
“Miss Diana,” I said, “you look … radiant.”
This time she was not deceived. “What’s happened?”
“All’s well, Miss.”
As I’d expected, she scowled at me. That word separated us, and I had used it deliberately. In the silence we heard a faint clatter of plates, exclamations and compliments on the dessert. I’d hoped to seek Adi’s opinion, but it was too late. Instead, I’d seek hers.
“I’ve had an offer, from the Dupree Detective Agency,” I said. “They have a job for me. In Boston.”
“America,” Adi said. “Will you go?”
“It’s for the best,” I said to Diana.
“Excuse me,” Adi said, starting for the door to give us the room. Then he stopped, grasped my forearm and squeezed. He gave his approval with that touch, telling me he cared, and wished me well.
The door closed behind him. At the center of the floor Diana stood too still, too quiet.
“Diana, we can’t go on this way.”
Her voice trembled. “You asked me to try. To do my duty. I have.”
Why wouldn’t she look at me? I went to her. “It’s why I can’t stay, can’t manage your father’s land or build Wadia ships. I can’t see you with someone else. I can’t come to dinner and be ‘Uncle Jim’ to your children. I won’t.”
There. I’d said it. It might be enough for her to see me now and again, but for me it was all, or nothing.
She drew a quick breath, and her eyes flickered to my face. “It was awful, this evening. People saying, ‘It should be you getting married! Aren’t you already twenty-one?’” she mimicked in a high voice.
Ah. She would not acknowledge what I’d finally voiced out loud. Wasn’t that an answer, in itself? But again, I was wrong.
“Jim.” She regarded me sadly. “I can’t marry anyone who isn’t you.”
I took her hands in mine. “Diana, I have to leave. As long as I’m here, we’re stuck … in this place. You’ll hate your father for coming between us. It will rankle that I won’t stand up to him. You might even blame yourself because we didn’t elope. Sweetheart, I can’t let that happen. I’ll go.”
Just like that, her composure dissolved. “Boston, Jim? How will I know you’re all right?”
Hope flared, ran hot in my veins. To remain in Bombay brought disgrace. But what if we left? Could we truly have a life together?
“Come with me.”
I knew it was hopeless before the words left my lips, but I’d regret it for the rest of my days if I didn’t try. I caressed her fingers, persuading, trying to believe. “Come to Boston. We could start over, make new friends, build a family. Leave all this behind.”
Her eyes widened, a moment locked in time. I waited for the bullet, or the misfire. One smile now, and the path of my life was set.
Instead there were tears. Diana’s eyes squeezed shut as they overflowed. I pulled her into my arms. She came easily and folded against me. I felt each sob rack her little frame. I heard a whisper, bent to catch it: “It’s tearing me apart.”
I knew, then, what it might be like to inhabit two bodies, felt her sorrow like my own. Face buried in my waistcoat, her voice wobbling with hiccups, she said, “They’ve lost two children. I can’t … they can’t lose another.”
“Shhh, it’s all right.” I touched her hair, so soft and fragrant, brushed away the tears on her porcelain cheek with my thumb. “I’d give anything to have what you’ve got. Parents who dote upon you. Siblings to love.”
“Jim.” Her fist clenched in my collar, forehead pressed against my neck.
I said, “I’d sooner lose an arm than hurt them.”
“Go, then,” she said, rosy and fierce, “but I will have my kiss.”
Reckless. I could so easily have pulled back. Yet if this was all I could have of her, I would not back away. Her hands reached up my shoulders, around my neck. Taking charge, she closed her eyes and set her lips to mine.
It shook me, that touch, the warm velvet of her. She deserved better for a first kiss. I gasped against her cheek, held on to my shaking breath. This waiting, too, brought both exquisite pain and exquisite joy. Once I’d mastered myself, I kissed her softly, felt her smile. I’d never had such sweet gentleness, such complete belonging. I tasted salty tears and breathed in lavender, tuberoses and dessert.
“I never imagined I’d envy Adi. Well, not since Bacha…” Diana whispered against my jaw. “But I do. They had a year together.”
I understood. All this we would not have. Her fingers on my face. Her arm across my chest while I slept. I recalled her fury when I saw myself as less, somehow, than Adi and she. A weight shifted in me, a sense of worth, a substantial feeling. Diana gave me something without measure—she gave me back myself.
A tap at the door broke our solitude. Diana raised her head, regret in each reluctant movement. Adi cleared his throat and entered, sorrow etched into his troubled forehead.
“It’s all right,” I said,
setting her down.
Diana wiped away tears. I watched her sigh, recorded each precious detail. Her dress was pale blue, I saw now. Pearls dangled at her ears and curled around her neck.
“Goodbye, sweetheart,” I said against her ear, and pressed my lips to her temple, breathing in the creamy, fresh scent of her.
Then I clapped Adi on the shoulder and walked away.
CHAPTER 69
LEAVING BOMBAY
The next day I booked a berth on RMS Arcadia, a British India liner to Liverpool, where I’d board the Cunard steamship Umbria to New York. In the meantime, McIntyre’s cases kept me occupied: knotty contradicting evidence, statements twisted with deceit, land records buried in great ledgers. These took my mind off the ache in my chest.
He had demanded my presence at a banquet for the Governor the next evening. Spiffy in uniform, my boots freshly shined, I watched discreetly, seeing Bombay’s elite decked out to the nines: old stalwarts in black tails, the Governor’s council, Parsee industrialists, their wives in glittering sarees.
I hoped Diana would come. As neighbors of the Sureewala family, the Framjis would be invited. Would she come? A quartet from Portuguese Goa performed familiar British tunes.
She entered in a daring blue satin that left her shoulders bare. Adi, elegant in black tails, spotted me, nodded and murmured to Diana as she greeted the hosts.
Then Diana did something surprising. She crossed the empty dance floor, making a beeline to me. Head high, long neck pale against the blue of her dress, she walked with such composure, graceful and contained, commanding the room.
“Hello,” she said, a smile twinkling in her eyes.
“My God, Diana,” I said, then gathered my wits and presented the gentlemen to her. She shook hands and made charming remarks. I didn’t hear what she said, but my companions’ amusement attested to it.
Diana said, “May I borrow you for a bit? Want you to meet my friends.”
Without waiting for a reply, she took my hand and started back across the room. Her dash across the dance floor had drawn attention, and now our return caused another stir.
“Diana, what are you doing?” I asked.
As we approached a group of young people, she said, “Burning bridges. Only way to get the army across.”
What the devil? Before I could seek an explanation, she began introductions. Miss Ellis, daughter of Colonel Ellis; Mrs. Petit; Mary Fenton—a theater actress; Perin Petit, who went to school with her; and so on. Since we were constantly among other people, I could scarcely bring up her bizarre remark about burning bridges. Had I misheard? Diana calmly discussed the expansion of railways with an elderly civil engineer.
The evening passed in a blur. Diana danced with Smith and another army bloke, returning to me between sets. Smith claimed her for another dance, winking at me. He didn’t bother to hide his glee when she accepted, and they swept away.
Across the room, Byram signaled me over. Chuckling, he introduced me to the Governor General of Bombay and his wife. When I snapped to attention, Lord Harris offered his hand with a crooked smile. His wife Lady Harris was utterly charming—I have no idea what I told her about “the situation in the north.”
Later, I asked Byram, “Haven’t seen Mr. and Mrs. Framji. Are they here?”
When he shook his head, a weight settled on me. I’d have liked to say goodbye, but my appearance at Framji Mansion would only give them pain. Perhaps it was fortunate they were not here. Diana had made rather a spectacle in her marked attention for me, and would surely answer for it. But nothing had changed, had it? So I watched and stored every moment with her, hoarding them like treasures to examine later.
At evening’s end, Adi came to fetch his sister. He gave me a meaningful look as we shook hands. Dash it, what the devil was he trying to tell me?
Diana looked demure and untroubled as she gave me her slim, gloved hand.
Jaw clenched, I took it. It was the last time I would see her.
“Well, Jim, bon voyage, then,” she said, and was gone.
* * *
I ached, keeping to my rooms, but darned Smith would not let me be. He came by that evening with a bottle of Glenfiddich and we mumbled to each other, emptying it between us. I can’t recall what we talked about.
Next day I brought home a sheaf of blank foolscap pages. At the top of one, I wrote, I turned thirty in hospital, in a quiet, carbolic-scented ward, with little to read but newspapers.
I wrote to fill my remaining nights in Bombay, when sleep rarely came. I wrote because memories of Diana crowded and jostled me and would not be contained within the narrow confines of my body, because to record my story meant I could dwell on it in some sane way and walk down the street next day and say “good morning,” as a civilized person should.
Yet in those foggy, unfiltered moments, when I breathed in the dawn, my mind without defenses, I could feel Diana’s touch. I’d find the Rakhee that Chutki had given me, now knotted around my medal, or look up at the sky above, crowded with stars, and turn to tell Diana, look at that, what beauty!—it’s like the sky above Simla. Then I’d remember she was not there.
She wasn’t there until I picked up my pen again and wrote.
* * *
A September gust hit me as I stood on Victoria Wharf. Despite the light drizzle, neither Adi nor I wore our felt hats, but clutched them against the breeze. The SS Arcadia towered over the wharf, her bow rising and falling as she breathed gently in the water.
Adi, come to see me off, had invited me to lunch. In funds now, I offered to pay, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
My finances had replenished when Byram came through with the promised reward. With back wages from Adi and my department salary, I now held a respectable balance at Lloyd’s. Three trunks at my feet attested to how I’d spent some of it. I signaled a group of coolies to carry them aboard.
Adi fidgeted, in an odd mood today. He scanned the crowd, looked out over the water and back to me. “Captain, why did you undertake this investigation?” he asked. “You were a decorated hero. Why work for me?”
When I paused, surprised, he continued, “You were in hospital, convalescing after an injury. Reading the papers?”
I decided to give him the truth. “I had a head wound. Smith said I was, well, not quite there, for a year. Reading filled the time: Conan Doyle, the papers. Saw your letter in the Chronicle. ‘They are gone but I remain, sincerely, etc.’ That’s how you ended it.”
He looked puzzled.
Water slapped against the bow of the great ship that would carry me across the Atlantic. “My friends were dead,” I said. “They were gone but I remained. Your words … echoed how I felt.”
“That’s why you left the army?”
“I was numb … felt … dead inside, after Karachi. When I read your letter, well, I got interested in the case. Went to the Chronicle for a job—and Byram sent me to you.”
“For an interview.” Adi smiled.
“Yes.” The Arcadia gave three long hoots in the windy morning.
I said, “Goodbye, sir.”
I reached out to shake his hand, remembering our first meeting—he, a distraught widower; I, a novice reporter.
“Jim.” Adi evaded my hand and clasped me in a tight embrace.
I laughed and hugged him back, feeling the bones of his shoulders under my hands. He would do great things, this thin young man with his serious manner and deep thoughts.
In the crowded parapet above, something moved, flapping. Diana leaned over the edge, wrapped in a yellow scarf. One end of it broke free and rode the September breeze, a pennant to mark what I called home.
She’d come to see me off. That cold farewell at the Sureewalas’ had left a knot inside me. I could not speak. Adi must have felt me gasp, for he turned and followed my gaze.
Diana pulled back into the crowd. Would I ever see her again? Would Burjor marry her off to the Wadia chap? Or would she be alone the rest of her years?
“How old is s
he?” I asked, hoarse, barely coherent. I knew her age, but my mind was blank.
“Twenty-one, Jim.”
Old enough to know her mind; young enough to wait.
“Adi,” I said, gripping his shoulder, “write to me. If she’s not wed in two years, I’m coming back for her.”
His smile lit the damp, foggy morning as he said, “Jim. I want to give you something, something that belonged to Bacha. Will you have it?”
Nonplussed, I saw a box in his hand, a ring box.
“When you find a girl to marry, will you give her this?”
He opened it, revealing a square-cut blue stone, encircled by brilliant white diamonds. An heirloom, and Lady Bacha’s. I felt like he’d called me “brother.” My hand shook as I closed his fingers around it.
“Adi. There’s only one girl I’d give it to.”
He grinned. “Then, do.”
“Hello, Jim,” said Diana, behind me.
I swung around. Diana’s yellow scarf was wound tight against the drizzle, its fine mist enclosing us in a grey curtain. She smiled. “My trunks are already on board.”
I stared. Trunks? On board? She was sailing too?
“What?… How?” I gasped.
Burjor came up with Mrs. Framji, saying, “Tell him. For God’s sake, girl, tell the man.”
Diana’s eyes were wide, translucent oceans. “Mama overheard us—that night you asked me to come with you. She’d followed me. She was upset, really, that I said no, without talking to her. We spoke to Papa together.”
Mrs. Framji said, in an urgent whisper, “Son, she was miserable. It broke my heart to see it. I couldn’t let you leave it like that, not for me.”
Diana said, “Jim, you mustn’t think we’ve been idle all this time. Papa and Byram went to the Parsee elders and made our case.”