Emeralds & Ashes

by Leila Rasheed

  “Your father will not approve,” Ravi said, when he finally released her.

  Ada laughed without humor. “That is an understatement. But I will have to face it. He must learn that I am not his little girl anymore.”

  “I do feel for you. As much as I love you, I detest the idea that I should separate you from those you love.”

  “Perhaps he will come round in the end,” she said with confidence she didn’t feel. “But if not…well”—she swallowed—“we will be a long way away from everyone and everything I knew before. So it should be easy to forget about it…when I know how happy we will be together.” In her heart she was not sure that was true.

  “And I will do everything to make you happy. You will have more opportunities, and though the society isn’t what you have been used to, it has its own advantages.” He spoke eagerly. She felt with a pang how much he wanted her to be happy…and another when she thought of how every member of her family would be deeply unhappy with her action.

  Ravi was still talking, arm in arm with her as they walked along through the crowded street. “My salary is enough for a pleasant house in one of the better quarters. Of course it won’t be what you are used to, but I think you will enjoy it. There are some very educated women—and men, of course—there, and I see no reason that with your reputation and class you would not be accepted as a legal professional.”

  “It sounds more advanced than England.”

  “Ah—it is so much more than England in every way,” he said, his face alight with passion and pleasure. “The mountains are higher, the plains are greater, the rain is more powerful, the cities are older than those in England. I can’t tell you how small this country seems to me in comparison. And the sunsets! I cannot wait to show you India.”

  “You forget I lived there until I was seventeen,” Ada said with a smile, trying not to mind his criticism of her home. She knew he did not mean it, that he was simply swept up in his feelings.

  “Ah, but that was different,” said Ravi. “Now you will see it through Indian eyes.”

  It was a casual comment, and he went on speaking, telling her with passion of the great dusty plains, the noble Himalayas, the cool beautiful tea plantations, the sensation of seeing an elephant step silently from the dusky jungle, the chatter of parakeets like jewels in flight, the intricately carved temples and statues—and yet that one comment stayed with her through the afternoon and even on the train as she traveled back to Oxford, an unfading echo. That was different.

  She watched the soft countryside—so small, this island—pass through the train window. Horses galloped across a field and rooks wheeled above the copses. She blamed herself for remembering that one comment. And yet there it stayed, and she knew in her heart that it stayed because it was true. Would she ever be able to see India through Indian eyes, as he believed? Did she even want to?

  She was deep in thought as she stepped down at Oxford. She hardly noticed the walk back to Somerville; it was automatic. Her thoughts were with her family. The more she thought of it, the more troubled she felt at the idea of leaving them. It would create a rift. Georgiana would feel abandoned, especially with the inheritance question so uncertain. She did not like to go away with Rose’s fate still uncertain. Her father in particular would be inconsolable, furious. But was it fair of him to stand in the way of her happiness?

  A flash of anger and resentment at all the ways in which her life was limited—not allowed to vote, as if she were a child or a lunatic; allowed to study but not to be awarded a degree even if she were a better scholar than any of the men; not allowed to do the work she longed to do; treated as if she were unable to look after herself, meaningless without a man to complete her—went through her. And her father had been part of all of this. No matter what she did, no matter what she achieved, she would still be nothing to him but his daughter: a chattel to be disposed of, an ornament rather than a person. Let him be furious, she thought. I don’t care. I owe him nothing.

  She came to the end of the road and could see the bulk of Somerville in front of her. A few steps later she recognized the girl who stood in front of it, her veil over her eyes—her clothes all black. It was more the way she stood, the way she moved, that was familiar, for there was nothing in the clothes of mourning that reminded her of her sister.

  “Georgiana?” she said, and she broke into a run.

  Georgiana turned toward her, and as she reached her Ada saw that she was crying.

  “Georgie, what’s wrong?”

  “Ada, you must come home. Come home now.” Georgiana threw herself into Ada’s hugs, sobs choking her. “It’s Papa. He’s dead.”

  Somerton, December 1914

  The weather could scarcely have been more appropriate for a funeral. There was a dull, cold, gun-metal gray sky, and frost that made the ground like rock. Georgiana stood with Michael at the door of the church. Her hat was draped in embroidered lace, veiling her face, and her hands were buried deep in a sable muff against the cold. They were waiting for the funeral procession to arrive. The congregation was seated in the church. Only Georgiana and Michael were left, standing on the threshold, between the wide-open oak doors. A cold breeze blew in and swirled dead leaves around their feet, stirring the branches of holly and ivy that wreathed the church. Christmas had come and gone and she had barely noticed the day passing, caught up in the horror of the news about her father. Only the fact that the church was decorated reminded her of it.

  “This awful frost,” Georgiana said to Michael, her voice low. “The grave diggers will find their job very difficult, I am afraid.”

  “Try not to think about it,” he replied softly. “It is not something you should concern yourself with now.”

  Georgiana did not reply. She knew he was right, but she could not stop worrying—as if she had been guilty of some inconsideration toward the workmen. She knew it made no sense, that she could hardly be considered responsible for the late-December weather. And yet she couldn’t stop her mind darting after every anxious thought. Were the servants prepared, would the refreshments be adequate for all these people who had traveled so far? Were the flowers as they should be? What if there had been some mix-up, what if the cortege did not arrive—and most of all, where was Ada?

  She still found it painful to think that Ada had not come directly back with her. It had almost been a scene, there in front of Somerville College.

  “I must collect my books,” Ada had said, once her first tears had died down.

  “You don’t need to,” Georgiana had replied, shocked at the idea. “How can you even think of studying at a time like this?”

  “You don’t understand. I must keep on studying. If I fall behind, all this will have been in vain.”

  Georgiana stepped away from her sister. “I don’t pretend to understand you. But I see clearly that you care more for your books and studies than you do for your family. Very well, have it your own way: come in your own time. But I am going back to Somerton now.”

  Georgiana forced herself to breathe deeply. Deep down, she knew that feeling anxiety and anger was easier than allowing herself to feel grief. She knew that if she once allowed her mind to linger on the fact that her father was dead—dead so brutally, so suddenly, with no chance for her to tell him that she loved him—she would break down completely. And she could not do that. She had to be calm, dignified—an Averley. It was what her father would have expected of her.

  “I wonder what the weather was like when it happened,” she said quickly, to Michael. Her voice sounded shrill in her own ears, but she didn’t dare stop talking, in case she began to cry. “Perhaps it was a fine day; perhaps that was why they decided to tour the trenches. And perhaps that was why the sniper could see him so plainly—perhaps the sun flashed from the gold braid on his cap. Just think, if it had been overcast, perhaps Papa would still be alive.” She fell silent, unable to trust herself to keep speaking calmly.

  “Georgie,” said Michael. He didn’t say anything
else, but just the way he said her name was like a comforting arm around her shoulders. Georgiana knew that he understood the way she was feeling, perfectly. She had to swallow a sob.

  “I am sorry, but I can’t help wondering. The official communications are so…”

  “They’re damned brusque.”

  Georgiana nodded, carefully, so as not to spill tears.

  “I do hope the doctor is looking after the countess,” she said, once she had composed herself again. “I worry so much when there is laudanum to be given. It is such a strong sedative, and—”

  “Oh, Georgie,” said Michael, and this time he did take her hand. She looked at him in surprise. “I hate to see you worry like this. It’s the last thing that should be on your mind. I’ll take care of my mother, and whatever else I can.”

  “You are so kind,” Georgiana said softly. When, she wondered, had Michael become so grown-up, his hand so much larger and stronger than hers? She pushed the thought away, and glanced down toward the road. Where was Ada? She knew the funeral was today.

  The sound of approaching hooves, a hollow music like forlorn applause, broke into her thoughts. The funeral procession was coming up the lane at last. Nodding black plumes could be glimpsed over the hedgerows. He voice faltered and all thoughts of Ada, all thoughts of everything except the ceremony ahead of her, faded away.

  Michael squeezed her hand wordlessly. Then he released it and walked down to the lych-gate to take his place as coffin bearer. The assembled mourners bowed their heads as he passed. Even the crows in the bare trees seemed to cease their cawing in respect. Georgiana could see down the path to where the bearers were taking their places around the simple box in which her father lay—mahogany, with his coat of arms discreetly gilded on the lid. It would be laid to rest, Georgiana knew, in the mausoleum with all his forebears. It was so hard to understand, she thought, that it could really be her dear papa in there. Surely he was still in France and this was some kind of a bad dream. Surely there would be a chance to see him again, to wipe away the memory of the disagreement under which they had parted. She tried to bring the memory of his face to mind, but all she could see, all she could focus on, was the coffin under its velvet pall. If only Ada were here.

  She turned away and walked back into the church, right up to her pew at the front. She held her head high; none of these people should say that her father’s daughter had let him down at his funeral. She seated herself and waited for the coffin to arrive. She pressed her lips together so as not to cry as she saw the seat next to her, empty. Ada, who should be at her side now, had not even written or telegraphed to let her know when she could be expected. There had to be some explanation, but what?

  She looked up as Mrs. Verulam, resplendent as a mourning peacock in black satin and a hat trimmed with ostrich feathers and jet beads, rustled toward her. “My dear,” Mrs. Verulam murmured, “I think there is a little contretemps; your presence might be helpful.”

  Georgiana got up, too startled to reply, and followed her back to the church doors. As she reached them, she saw that she was right. The coffin was still at the bottom of the path. It was hard to see what was going on, among the identical sleek black suits and the shadows, but she made out the priest’s white surplice and heard his raised, pleading voice. He seemed to be trying to calm two of the bearers.

  “But what on earth is happening?” she said. “Can they possibly be arguing?”

  “It does appear so,” Mrs. Verulam murmured.

  Sudden fury flared up in Georgiana. This was unacceptable. Nothing should be allowed to mar this most sacred hour.

  Without another word, she set off down the path toward the coffin. As she approached, she saw and heard what was going on.

  William was there. He had not been invited, but he was there, in full mourning. His red hair bristled, and Georgiana noticed his nose was as swollen as a strawberry—a sure sign of drink. He was squaring up to Michael, who was not backing down.

  “…and I say that the earl would not have wanted you to bear his coffin,” Michael said, clearly keeping calm with a great effort.

  “How dare you? You’re not even an Averley. I am the earl’s heir.” William, bigger and broader than Michael, tried to push him from his place. Georgiana saw that Lady Edith was there, too, dressed in flowing weeds, and holding Augustus (with some difficulty, since he was wriggling and complaining) prominently in her arms. Georgiana had never seen her without a nursemaid before; this was clearly done for show.

  Georgiana stopped abruptly on the path, the rambling gravestones to each side, like witnesses. Each one of the dead here had been linked to the great house at Somerton, as a tenant or a servant or one of the family. The church had been roofed and given its stained glass by one of her ancestors. Georgiana felt a heavy responsibility.

  “William,” she said, surprised by the authority in her own voice. William turned, startled, to face her. “We will allow you and your family in the church.” Georgiana’s hands were shaking with the effort of speaking calmly and coolly. She clenched them into fists, hidden by her muff, and raised her voice so that Mrs. Verulam, still watching from the church, would be able to hear every word. It was important to make things clear, to forestall gossip. “As Averleys you and your family may pay your respects to my dear father. But he did not name you as one who would have the honor of bearing his coffin. Therefore, please be good enough to stand back and allow my father’s funeral to take place in peace.”

  William looked inclined to object, but a whisper from Lady Edith checked him. He stepped not back but forward, and strode up toward the church, scowling. Mrs. Verulam’s face was a frozen mask of disapproval as she stepped aside to let him pass. Lady Edith followed him at a much slower pace, now and then dabbing her eyes, through her heavy lace veil, with a jet-black handkerchief. She paused when she reached Georgiana.

  “I do condole with you on the passing of your father,” she said in a stage whisper. “No matter what injustices he has done to my own dear son”—Augustus squirmed—“I cannot help but feel for you. Such a tragedy! But there, we must not question divine will.”

  She swept on toward the church. Georgiana held her breath and counted to ten. At a nod from the undertaker, the sad, steady drum began again, and the bearers shouldered the coffin and began the slow march up to the church. Georgiana turned and went before them to her pew.

  Just as the priest reached the pulpit, and as the gloomy organ music booming through the cold stone arches was about to come to an end, Georgiana heard hasty footsteps coming up the aisle. She looked around to see Ada, elegant in black silk and a dramatic sweep of lace, hurrying toward her. Despite everything, Georgiana couldn’t repress a huge smile of relief. But, as quickly, her relief turned to anger. How could Ada be late for her own father’s funeral? How could she put her studies ahead of her family, especially at a time like this?

  Ada took the seat reserved for her next to Georgiana. She looked straight forward, her chest rising and falling as she recovered her breath. The organ heaved its last sigh.

  Georgiana glanced at Ada once more. Through the veil, she could see that tears were running silently down her sister’s face. Georgiana looked ahead again, her own heart wrung. But to touch her hand in comfort and sympathy—even to reach out for comfort and sympathy herself—seemed impossible. The gulf between them had never felt wider.

  Rebecca came up the stairs from the kitchen as fast as she could, trying not to let the tray of sandwiches she carried slip. They only had half an hour before the family would be back from church, and everything had to be ready and perfect to receive the guests. She checked the flowers with a glance as she came through the hall and made a small exclamation of annoyance. The yellow roses were still in the Lalique vase, even though she had sent Annie and Martha up to replace all of them with lilies half an hour ago, and the water was filthy. She went into the white drawing room, where the table was set for the refreshments. Annie and Martha were standing in the middle of the roo
m, arms full of flowers, whispering excitedly to each other.

  Rebecca didn’t usually protest when she saw them slacking—after all, it was hardly her place to do so—but today all the memories of her own father’s funeral were uppermost in her mind. Poor Lady Georgiana had looked exhausted as she left for the funeral, and Rebecca was determined that her life should not be made more difficult, today of all days. “Come along, you two, get a move on!” she challenged them, putting the tray down on the table. “The family will be back any minute!”

  Martha gave her a malicious look. “Very well, Miss Freeman—or should I say Miss Freudemann?”

  “What?” Rebecca felt a shock go through her at the sound of her old name. “What did you say?”

  But Martha had already swept past her. Annie scurried after Martha, having the grace to look embarrassed. Rebecca stood where she was, her heart thumping painfully in her chest. She had to confront them. She had to stand up to them, deny it. But she could not bring herself to lie. She was tired, she realized, so tired of pretending she had nothing to hide. But her job depended on it—

  A scream from Martha and a smash knocked those thoughts out of her mind.

  “Oh no!” she exclaimed, visions of shattered crystal and scattered flowers filling her mind. She raced into the room, and stood, dumbstruck. Everything she had feared was there—the vase had smashed on the edge of the marble coffee table and the water was dripping from it onto the Persian carpet—but there was one element she had never imagined. Martha and Annie stood as if frozen, and in front of them, backed up against the fireplace like a hunted deer, was a girl—a stranger.