As they watched other people negotiate for goods, Mr. Ritchie leaned down toward Cassandra. “Are you sure you do not want to leave, Miss Renwick? Are you truly interested in seeing all of the market? It is rather dirty.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Ritchie, I do not mind the dirt. I am finding it absolutely fascinating. Is there more to see?”
He laughed at her enthusiasm and led them on to another section where vegetables were on display in the same manner as the fruit had been.
This time Cassandra realized that she should stand back and look from afar.
Pointing to the different types of vegetables, she asked Mr. Ritchie once again to tell her the names of all of the unfamiliar ones.
This time, however, he was as unknowledgeable as she. He shook his head and laughed. “I am afraid that, although I’ve probably eaten all of these vegetables, I’ve never seen them raw. When they are given to me, they’re cut and cooked.”
Cassandra laughed and turned to Gita for help. Unfortunately, Gita only knew the names of the vegetables in Bengali. But between the two of them, Mr. Ritchie and Gita were able to identify and describe each one to her.
A little further down the road, they were assailed by the sharp smell of fish.
Once again, Mr. Ritchie stopped to ask if she would rather leave, but once again she insisted that they go on, despite the terrible smells.
As they entered a large area that was the fish market, Gita handed Cassandra a handkerchief scented with perfume she had brought for the purpose. Fish, being the staple of the Bengali diet, had the largest space in the bazaar.
It was, however, also the dirtiest section of the market, with scales littering the floor and splashes of dirty water from the fish that were still alive and swimming in the small containers in front of the fishmongers.
Cassandra didn’t insist on staying there long, the smell was overwhelming.
The party returned to Clive Street, where Mr. Ritchie helped the two women down from his phaeton outside the gates to her father’s house.
Cassandra could feel his smile all the way down to her toes. “Now I shall have to think up another interesting outing for you.”
“I should like that very much!” Cassandra said. “I am enjoying learning about Calcutta and its people. You’re a wonderful tour guide,” she laughed, meaning for him to take her comment as a joke.
But he just stood there smiling down at her with a look in his eyes that made Cassandra’s knees go weak.
“Well, goodbye, then,” he said, not moving.
“Goodbye.” The end of her sari slipped off of her head. She let go of it so that she could take the hand that he held out to her.
If perhaps he held her hand a little too long for propriety, she didn’t notice. She was too caught up by the contrast of his jet-black hair and his stunning blue eyes, set off by his honeyed brown skin.
Gita’s cough interrupted the spell. He dropped her hand abruptly, and smiled a rather embarrassed smile at the ayah. Cassandra felt herself blush and looked down.
“Thank you, again,” she said quietly. She then turned and rushed through the gates and into the house, the end of her sari flying behind her.
Running to her room, Cassandra released the breath she seemed to have been holding without realizing it. She stood, slightly dazed, as Gita unwound the sari and dressed her in a sprigged muslin gown.
Her excitement with the trip to the bazaar was replaced by a completely different type of exhilaration–a fire sparked by those intense blue eyes.
For a girl who had determined never to feel anything for any man ever again, her desire to be with Mr. Ritchie was very disconcerting. She’d tried to fight it, and she knew rationally that she should continue to do so, but her emotions–her body–just would not cooperate.
It was getting more difficult by the day to ignore these feelings.
Cassandra idly wondered what her mother would say if she knew that she had held Mr. Ritchie’s hand and wanted to do so again. His hands were so large and strong, yet he had held hers ever so gently.
Her mother would be shocked, horrified even, if she found out. No, Cassandra just could not reconcile her mother’s prejudiced ideas with the reality of Mr. Ritchie.
Chapter Eight
As soon as he entered his house, Julian slipped off the Indian sandals he’d worn to the bazaar. Feeling tired from all the walking and hungry from all the food they had looked at, he went in search of his mother.
His conscience still pricked him about how he’d held Miss Renwick’s hand before they parted, but something inside of him just did not want to let her go.
Perhaps it was seeing her in that sari, or her enthusiasm and interest in the most mundane of outings? Whatever it was, he had to remind himself again of why he was deliberately spending time with her.
Yes, she was an interesting girl, although she did ask the most outrageous and bold questions anyone had ever asked him. And it could not be denied that she was beautiful enough to set his blood pounding through his body.
But he was bent on revenge, he sternly reminded himself. He would make Lady Renwick pay for all the years of torment she had put him through.
He did not care for Miss Renwick, he cared only to teach her bigoted mother a lesson in humanity and humility.
Julian had to repeat this argument to himself nearly every night as he lay in his bed, as Miss Renwick’s lovely blue eyes and sweet angelic face swam before his eyes. He could not afford to lose sight of his intentions–otherwise things could become very dangerous.
He found his mother supervising the cooking of his dinner in the open courtyard in the center of the house.
“Oh, there you are, Ma.”
“Have you been looking for me?” his mother asked, smiling up at her son.
“Yes, is dinner ready? I’m exceedingly hungry today,” he replied, after properly touching her feet with respect.
“I am just seeing to it. It should be ready in a few minutes. You wash up and I shall see to the setting of the dining table for you.”
“No need to do that. I’ll eat on the floor, Indian style,” he said, moving away to get cleaned up.
After washing away the grime of the bazaar, Julian changed his white pants for a more comfortable lungi. Still tying the floor-length cloth around his waist so that it fell like a skirt from his narrow hips, he went into the dining room.
As he ate, his mother asked, “Where have you been this afternoon?”
“I took a friend to the bazaar,” he answered, unsure of whether he should admit to his mother who that friend was. He remembered her admonition not to see Miss Renwick, and didn’t want to hurt her by letting her know about his direct disobedience.
“Really? Who is this who would want to go to an Indian bazaar?” she asked.
“Oh, just an English fellow in my office. He is new to Calcutta and said he’d like to get to know the country in which he is now living.”
Julian paused, feeling terrible about lying to his mother. “I think it is very admirable.”
His mother smiled, “Admirable, yes, but most unusual.”
“Yes, that’s why I am happy to take him around. Can you think of any other places that he might be interested in seeing?” Julian asked.
His mother thought for a few moments and then answered slowly, “Your father was also very interested in seeing more of native India. My father took him to the ruins of the Shiva temple just south of Calcutta. I believe he enjoyed it a great deal.”
“To the Shiva temple?” Julian stopped to think about it. He hadn’t been there for many years. If he wasn’t mistaken, the outside of the temple was decorated with sculptures that had been inspired by the writings in the Kama Sutra, the Indian book of love.
A smile slowly crept over Julian’s face. That would be a perfect place to take Miss Renwick! Why had he not thought of that himself?
Of course, a temple of love would be a perfect place to inspire romance. He would have her swooning over him in n
o time.
He sat back with the smile still on his face, wondering when he should plan this outing, and just how he was going to pull it off.
In the back of his mind, he also wondered just what the proper Lady Renwick would say if she knew that the unworthy Julian Ritchie was going to take her sweet, innocent daughter to see sculptures of naked people doing unspeakable acts.
Julian looked up as Miss Renwick entered her father’s library.
“Good afternoon, Miss Renwick. I hope you are well?” he said, attempting to sound as if nothing was out of the ordinary—as if they hadn’t just had the most wonderful time together the previous day and as if he didn’t want to stride over to her, take her in his arms and kiss her soundly.
“Oh! I am sorry, Mr. Ritchie. I didn’t know you were here. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I won’t be above a minute. I just wanted to get the next volume of this book I am reading.” Miss Renwick spoke quickly, trying to hide the smile that came to her face.
If Julian didn’t know better, he would think that she could read his mind. No, if she knew what he was thinking, her beautiful face would be bright red.
Julian hid his own smile, watching as she slowly scanned the shelves pretending to look for another book, while actually stealing very meaningful glances in his direction.
When she had finally found the volume, he said, “Miss Renwick, I don’t know if it can be arranged, but if you are interested there is a fascinating and beautiful ancient Hindu temple not so very far away. It’s about a two hour ride to the south.”
“Oh, that sounds fascinating!” she said in all eagerness.
A white owl abruptly flew in through the open window behind Julian. The owl’s wing grazed his head, disturbing his carefully arranged locks. It then circled the room, finally alighting on top of a bookcase.
Miss Renwick had let out a startled scream when the bird had flown in. Now Julian motioned to her to be calm and quiet so as not to scare the bird.
He then slowly walked to the door and began to close it, calling softly for a servant to come quickly with something to catch a bird.
A few minutes later, the door slowly crept open. The elderly servant, Promeela, came into the room and carefully closed the door behind her.
Miss Renwick’s eyes widened in fright at the sight of the woman. She looked ancient, with lines creasing every part of her face. Her beaked nose protruded sharply from her long thin face, which ended in a pointed chin.
The old woman, completely ignoring Julian and Miss Renwick, took a quick look around the room to locate the bird. Spotting it on the bookcase, she followed the owl’s line of sight and saw Julian, standing near the desk.
The old hag let out a cackle of laughter that was very loud in the silent room. She spoke in Bengali, but it was unclear to whom she was speaking, as she was looking directly at the bird.
“Oh, Ma! This one has been blessed. The way you stare at him so, Ma, he will surely bear your blessings for his life. Wealthy beyond his dreams!” the old woman cackled.
Julian froze. Wealthy beyond his dreams! The bird had touched him when it had flown into the window and now it sat gazing at him. It was rather unnerving the way it stared, unblinking.
Could it be true? Could he be destined to become rich? If he were wealthy, no one would shun him as they did now. He would have the status that came with riches, and people would accept him despite his heritage.
How lovely would that be–to have what he’d wanted all of his life. He didn’t so much care for the money, only for what it would give him—social acceptance.
The old woman looked at him sideways. “You understand me, Englishman?” she crooned.
It was clear that the old woman had not realized that he would understand her. Despite his coloring, she thought him to be English.
He had been tempted to let her continue to think that, but the ridiculous nature of her statement had caught him off-guard, and he supposed his expression had given him away.
“I am only half-English,” he explained in the native tongue. “My mother is Bengali.”
“Oh, Baba,” the old woman came toward him, her toothless grin wide on her face, “you can spare some sweets for an old woman. You are going to be rich.” She held her gnarly hand out and looked up at him, waiting for her tip.
Julian looked at her pleading face and thought of the money he had in his pocket. It was just enough to buy a cup of tea and a few sweets for himself in the afternoon.
No matter how much an owl stared at him, it did not put money into his pocket.
“Just get the bird and get out, woman. Stop spouting your nonsense!” Julian said, more harshly than he had intended.
The old woman is a fool as well as a witch, he thought to himself. And I am an even bigger fool to be taken in by her superstitions.
He had never met Promeela before, but her reputation for being a witch was well-known among the servants and the local native community. They all came to her for her potions, for she could cure nearly anything with her herbs.
But he had never heard that she could prophesize.
He then noticed Miss Renwick looking at him, her mouth open in surprise. If he hadn’t been so embarrassed, he would have been tempted to laugh at her expression.
She quickly closed her mouth, blushing when she saw him looking at her.
“The old woman is spouting old mythical nonsense,” he told Miss Renwick by way of explanation.
“What did she say?”
Julian shrugged his shoulders and smiled apologetically, “The white owl represents one of the goddesses in the Hindu religion—Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth. The old woman said that because the bird is looking at me she will bestow great wealth upon me. Pure nonsense, I’m sure.”
Miss Renwick laughed, somehow relieving the moment of its tension. “Oh, but it wouldn’t it be wonderful if she was right!”
Julian did not get an opportunity to respond. While they were talking, Promeela had made some cooing noises and enticed the bird to fly down to the floor. Gently picking it up, she carried the bird carefully to Julian and put it right into his face.
“You take a good look, Ma. Do not forget our friend of mixed blood who speaks our tongue. You bring him his money, and maybe he will remember old Promeela who foretold it.”
Julian moved away from the bird, saying sharply to the woman, “Enough of your nonsense, you old witch. Go!”
This set the woman laughing harder, but she let the bird loose out of the window and then left the room to return to work.
After Promeela was gone, Miss Renwick smiled shyly at Julian, “I did not know you spoke the native language. It is very beautiful.”
“Thank you. My mother taught me.”
“I suppose I assumed that you did not speak it because your English is flawless.”
“I only went to English schools. But my mother speaks both languages and made sure I did as well.”
They were silent for a few moments.
Abruptly returning to their previous conversation, Julian said, “But we must think and figure out how exactly to arrange our outing, if you understand what I mean?”
“Yes, yes indeed. I will have to think about it. Will you be here again so that we may make arrangements? Let me see… today is Monday…” Cassandra thought out loud. “Perhaps we can arrange for our outing on Friday?”
“I will have to switch my day off, but that shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ll arrange to be here at this same time the day after tomorrow so that we can discuss it further. Would that be all right?”
Miss Renwick smiled and nodded. Julian watched her as she left the office, her book clutched to her chest and a spring in her step.
Cassandra forced a smile on to her face. “Your performance was wonderful, Miss Mackley.” She then gracefully congratulated the other performers and moved away from the crowd surrounding them.
Cassandra wanted to go home. This had to be the most insipid entertainment ever. When her mother had t
old her that they were to attend a musicale by some very talented performers, she had hoped that the young ladies performing would, in fact, have some talent. Unfortunately, that had not been the case.
Although she didn’t, herself, profess to having any extraordinary musical talent, she did have a discerning ear, which was why it was painful for her to listen to her own attempts at the pianoforte. Because of this, she played as little as possible.
However, to be forced to sit and smile for two hours listening to the most pitiful performances was almost too much to ask. Now that it was over, she was more than ready to go home. She could feel the beginnings of headache already.
“Oh no, Cassandra, what can you be thinking? We cannot leave yet! Why that would be most rude of us, to be sure,” her mother had said when she had broached the subject.
Cassandra sighed. She wasn’t entirely surprised by Lady Renwick’s answer, since she’d interrupted her mother in the midst of a serious exchange of information with Mrs. Hurst.
Perhaps, Cassandra thought, a glass of ratafia and a breath of fresh air would help her aching head.
She took a glass as it was offered by a servant and then moved over to the open doors which led out onto a balcony. It was pleasantly cool outside, and Cassandra simply could not resist the pull of the fresh scents from the garden. The smell of Indian flowers was one thing she could never tire of.
As she stood in the semi-darkness off in one corner of the balcony, a familiar voice wafted up to her from below.
“I must say, I could not have planned it better if I’d tried. Lady Renwick is practically throwing the chit right into my lap! If she could have us leg-shackled tomorrow, I think she would do it.”
A chorus of men’s laughter echoed Major Vernon’s voice.
“Honestly Vernon, you are the luckiest dog! Sir Lionel’s daughter! You’ll be set for life,” another gentleman said.
“Not only do I stand an excellent chance of obtaining a rather decent position in the government, but I understand her dowry is at least five thousand pounds.”
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