by Shona Patel
So busy was Biren talking to the cows and befriending the baby fox, he was not aware of another red-haired creature watching him. She, like the fox, was intrigued by the sight of a madman marching up and down among the wildflowers and talking to the sky.
* * *
During summer months, the People’s Playhouse held its performances on a jutting-out apron stage in a small meadow behind the stables of the Red Roof Inn. A carnival-like atmosphere sprang up around the playhouse. Pushcart vendors did brisk business with penny pies, and colorful stalls with streamers and buntings enticed people with games of lucky dip, coconut shy and hook-a-duck. The audience—farmers, shopkeepers and Cambridge students in various stages of inebriation—filled the ticketed, tiered seating, while the “groundlings,” or freeloaders, packed the straw and nutshell-strewn dirt area in front.
Twelfth Night was playing to a full house and Estelle was running late. After stepping over several feet, she managed to find an empty seat just as the flamboyantly feathered Duke Orsino made his grand entrance surrounded by the lords of his court. A young courtier immediately caught Estelle’s eye. He had an intelligent face and very dark eyes. The young man only had a few short lines to deliver, and when he spoke one of his eyebrows arched more than the other. Estelle found she was looking out for him and watched him intently whenever he appeared onstage.
The audience broke into a rousing cheer and drummed their feet when Bertie barreled out as the comic Sir Andrew Aguecheek in his loud striped bloomers, buttoned orange doublet and monstrous ruff. One of the loudest people cheering in the audience was a chubby-looking fellow who hooted and clapped for all he was worth. That pomade-slicked hair and shiny suit was unmistakable. Goodness, Estelle realized with a shudder, it’s that dreadful Sammy Deb.
Sammy was a classmate of her brother James’s at Harrow, and he once visited Grantham Manor. He obviously fancied himself a ladies’ man and tried to impress Estelle with his family’s wealth and connections in India. Sammy had courted her relentlessly for months, sending her gifts and writing flowery letters. He’d backed off only when she’d gotten engaged to the Jolly Pear. Just remembering Sammy’s sweaty advances made Estelle shrink back in her seat. She prayed he would not see her.
She shifted her gaze back to the courtier onstage. A handsome fellow, he was, rather exotic looking with his dark eyes and curly hair—a foreigner, no doubt. He stood to the side, not doing much, really, but it was a pleasure just to watch him. Why did he look familiar? She had seen him somewhere. Estelle sat up with a start—of course, he was the same fellow she had seen in the meadows, talking to the cows. It had to be him! He must have been practicing for his part in the play. But that hardly made sense. For all the dramatics she had witnessed, he should have had a lead role in the play, but all he was doing was just standing around. How very odd. Now she was even more intrigued.
* * *
Biren walked Sammy to a cab before heading back to the theater. When he returned to the green room he saw Bertie standing outside still in his clownish breeches, the elastic suspenders unlooped off his shoulders. He was talking to a petite woman. She had strong cheekbones and a casual elegance in the way she wore her red hair pinned into soft curls framing her face. From the easy familiarity of their exchange, Biren could tell they knew each other well. He was about to slip past when Bertie saw him and called out his name. The girl turned to look at him. She had pale porcelain skin, and when Biren walked up he noticed a small sprinkling of freckles over her nose. She studied him with a bold and lively gaze.
“Here is the fellow I was talking about,” Bertie said to her. “Biren, this furry creature is my cousin, Estelle Lovelace. Be careful—she bites. She’s a rabid feminist.” Bertie drew aside the curtain to the changing room, treating them to a peep show of unlovely male actors in various stages of undress. “I will leave you two to get acquainted while I get changed,” he said, and slipped inside.
Left with the bright and shiny Estelle, Biren fidgeted. He was unused to making conversation with English girls.
“You are renting the room above the stables, I hear?” she said conversationally. “Daddy’s peacocks make quite a racket. They are loud enough from the main house—I can’t imagine how loud they must be for you.”
“They have not bothered me much, to tell you the truth,” Biren replied. She was standing so close that when she moved he caught a whiff of something fresh and lovely, like orange blossoms in the rain.
“Bertie tells me you are one of the speakers at the next union debate. Are you speaking for the motion or against?”
“I am speaking for the motion.”
“Oh?” Estelle arched an eyebrow. “I am curious why an Indian man would be interested in the suffrage rights for women in Britain. Pardon me, but Bertie did mention you are from India. Your interest is purely academic, I gather?”
“It—it’s...rather personal,” stammered Biren, at a loss for words.
“I would love to attend the debate,” said Estelle. “Of course, I will be an outcast sitting up in the gallery with others of my lowly sex.” She made a woebegone face. “We females are not allowed in the main hall, you know, just in case we contaminate the Union.”
“It’s unfair, really,” said Biren passionately. The Union’s unfriendly attitude toward women no doubt fueled the resentment among female students, as evidenced from the stinging article in the Archangel. Then a surprising thought crossed his mind. E.L. Estelle Lovelace. Could she possibly be the author of the article? He tried to imagine her disguised as a man. With her hair tucked inside a hat, it was not entirely impossible. She’d make a very pretty man, for sure, but would she dare to sit through the entire debate in a disguise? Well, this woman wasn’t shy, he could tell. She had an alert playfulness that reminded him of the young fox.
Estelle gave him a mischievous smile. “The next time you need a sounding board for your debate, you don’t have to talk to the cows, you know. You can talk to me.” Seeing his startled look, she laughed. “Yes, I was crossing the woods the other day and saw you in the meadows. At first I thought you were off your rocker. Now I realize you were practicing for the debate. The next time let me know if you need an audience.”
Biren was flustered. “Thank you” was all he could say. “I will certainly keep that in mind.”
CHAPTER
28
Estelle hated the gloom of an uninhabited house. She had not bothered to air out all the rooms. It was too much of an effort; besides, Mummy had her own elaborate system of getting the house up and running. The dust covers—and there were several dozen—had to be removed in a specific order, washed, folded and put away in a linen cupboard somewhere in the attic; all the windows had to be opened, the curtains aired and sprayed with lavender mist squeezed from a rubber ball attached to a scent bottle.
It was a relief to see all the furniture hidden from view. Under the bumps of their custom-fitted dust covers was Mummy’s mishmash furniture collected over the years from Barrett Auctioneers. Mummy believed no room was properly furnished unless stuffed full of furniture and decorations. Estelle shuddered looking at the glass windows of curio cabinets crowded with knickknacks.
Her own bedroom and Daddy’s study were the only two inhabitable rooms in the house, the latter looking out toward the peacock enclosure and the stables beyond.
It was mildly disconcerting to know the Indian man was living on the grounds now. She felt herself staring out of the study window more often. The chestnut tree obstructed the view of the stables, which felt like a relief and a frustration at the same time. She wished she could part the leaves just a little to peep through and catch a glimpse of him.
The man intrigued her. He was the first Indian man she had talked to in England, besides that obnoxious Sammy Deb. She had liked the sound of his voice. He spoke with a poetic lilt, the intonations curled softly around the edges of his words
. She wished she had asked him more about himself. Biren spoke little and was content with silence, which made her jittery. He watched her with a soft indulgent look in his eyes. It was the same look Daddy had had when as a little girl she did a pirouette or some daredevil thing to impress him.
The mournful call of the peacock floated across the lawn. It sounded eerie, like a newborn infant. Estelle looked out of the window and saw the male bird give a shiver of its dorsal feathers and unfurl its tail into a fan of outrageous glory. Even though she had witnessed this marvel countless times, it never failed to evoke in her a feeling of awe. Daddy loved peacocks. Mummy hated them. “Too little in the head and too much in the tail,” she said, and sniffed.
When she was a child in India, Estelle would collect the fallen tail feathers of the peacock, but her ayah had never let her bring them inside the house.
“It’s bad luck, missybaba,” Ayah had said.
“Why?” Estelle had wanted to know.
Ayah had pointed to the iridescent blue eye in the feather. “See the evil eye? Evil eye spoil missybaba happiness.”
Ayah had braided Estelle’s hair with colored ribbons and tied it with a bow at each end. “One day missybaba marry handsome prince,” the ayah had crooned. “He come on a white horse and he wear peacock feather made of real emeralds and diamonds in his turban. That is only peacock feather you must bring into the house, missybaba.”
Ayah had balled up the fallen strands of Estelle’s hair from the hairbrush and spat on it before throwing it away. After all these years in England, Estelle still did the same. She never brought peacock feathers into the house, either. And unbeknownst to herself, she secretly waited for her Indian prince.
Sylhet
12th June 1891
Dear Dada,
You must have heard about the devastating floods in Bengal. We are in a dire situation. The water level has receded, but now Sylhet is in the grip of a terrible cholera epidemic that has spread from village to village. Our village has come under quarantine. A yellow flag now flies on Momati Ghat. No boats will stop here and every day people are dying like flies.
I have some very bad news. Our family is much diminished, Dada. What can I tell you? We have lost both our grandparents. Only Uncle, Mother and I remain. I was home for the summer holidays when the epidemic broke out. As a result I could not return to Calcutta. Kanai’s village across the river is all but wiped out. Kanai lost his entire family. He packed everything in his boat and is leaving for Silchar. I am sending this letter through him in the hope he will be able to post it from there. Assam is still unaffected from what I know.
I am convinced Uncle and I are alive only because of Ma. As you know, Mother does not eat food from the main kitchen. Let me tell you, Dada, her widow’s curse turned out to be a blessing. I had not been taking food from the main kitchen because I eat with Ma, which is why I was spared. Uncle miraculously escaped, as well, but within five days we lost both our grandparents one after the other. We are still in shock.
Uncle and I are eating Mother’s vegetarian food now. Only boiled lentils and rice. But please do not worry. The worst is behind us. I have heard the quarantine has already been lifted in the Tamarind Tree Village. It will only be a matter of weeks before there is some semblance of normalcy here and I can return to Calcutta.
After having lived through this experience, I have made up my mind to pursue a medical degree and become a doctor. I think I can be of more use to our people that way.
Your brother,
Nitin
Cambridge
13th August 1891
Dear brother Nitin,
I am deeply troubled to get your letter. It took over two months to reach me. It is unimaginable both our grandparents are no more and it is by God’s grace you and Ma have been spared.
Now it becomes clear to me why I have not received any letters from home. I feel very helpless being so far away. There is little I can do from here besides send you money. I had purchased some small gifts earlier for you. They seem paltry and meaningless after what you have gone through, but I am sending them to you in the hope that they will cheer you up. Ma once talked about a Scottish butterscotch toffee that reminded her of Baba. I have managed to find it. I am also sending her a vial of Floris Eau de Cologne, the fresh floral-citrus scent I am sure she will enjoy. The Pelikan fountain pen and folding pocketknife are for you.
Samir Deb will carry these back with him to India and deliver them to you. I am going to London to meet him today. He is leaving for India, permanently, to settle down. His mother has arranged for his marriage with a Bengali girl. Samir will take over the family business as his older brother, Diju, has settled in England and has no plans to return to India.
I must end this letter, as I have to leave for London shortly to meet with Samir.
More soon via post. My love to you all.
Your ever affectionate
Dada
For the next four days Estelle never caught a single glimpse of Biren. She wandered through the meadows and spent a long time hanging about the peacock enclosure. From under the chestnut tree she could see the small window of his room and the square of darkness beyond, but there was no movement within.
Finally, in a fit of brazenness she marched past the stables, through the orchard and into the meadows. She even coughed a little to attract attention. Nobody followed her or called out her name. On her way back she slipped behind the apiary and looked up toward the door of his room. Both the doors were padlocked but a small piece of white paper was attached to the second door. Estelle rushed up to read it.
13th August 1891
Dear Bertie,
I had to make an urgent trip to London.
The backdrops are inside my room. The paint is still drying.
The keys are with Mrs. Pickles.
B.R.
So he was in London. Estelle walked back to the house feeling utterly foolish. To think she had spent so many hours imagining things when he was not even there.
“Pia-ow, pia-ow, pia-ow,” screamed the peacock. He fanned his tail and pirouetted on fat, ugly legs, but Estelle marched past without giving him so much as a cursory glance. The peacock’s tail deflated bit by bit. He cocked his head and gave a puzzled cluck at her retreating back.
CHAPTER
29
Estelle fingered the chipped rim of her bone-china teacup, the result of a small calamity that had occurred a minute ago. She turned the saucer over to read the back stamp and winced. It was the Spode Stafford White set. Mummy would not be pleased.
She was busy writing the article for the Archangel and had lifted the teacup absentmindedly without looking. The next thing she knew, it had bumped the rose-quartz elephant on Daddy’s desk. You naughty elephant. Estelle tapped its trunk reproachfully with her pen. She regarded the whimsical elephant tenderly. It had a pink upturned trunk, ornate patterned back and sorrowful human eyes. Daddy’s study was full of interesting memorabilia from India. The walls were decorated with survey maps, the edges curled and brown. There was a photograph of Daddy in his white jodhpurs and sola topee standing next to Naga tribal warriors in their full-feathered ceremonial dress. The corner cabinet displayed the tools of a surveyor’s trade: a wooden box containing a vernier compass, a wye level and a small mounted optical telescope. There were hunting photographs, too: one of Daddy with his gun next to a dead royal Bengal tiger, surrounded by Indian villagers dressed in loincloths and turbans carrying long sticks.
Estelle’s favorite section was what James called the “wall of horrors.” There were tribal spears decorated with human hair and boar’s teeth, head-taking baskets, a quill case embellished with a monkey skull and the infamous human shrunken head, which was the size of an orange and dangled at the end of a long shock of hair. It never failed to amuse Estelle that the room with th
e most morbid things in the house was in fact the liveliest. The south-facing window of Daddy’s study invited a leafy green freshness from the lime tree outside, and made the wood-paneled walls glow a deep and friendly brown. In stark contrast, her mother’s rooms, decorated with drapery and lace, smelled of dead roses and stale lavender—rather like a mortuary.
Estelle got up to pour herself another cup of tea. Wandering over to the window, she leaned against the lintel and glanced toward the old chestnut tree. She was about to take a sip when she almost dropped her cup. Biren Roy was standing by the peacock enclosure. He stuck his fingers through the netting, and it looked as if he was trying to feed the birds pieces of bread. The peahens gathered around, bobbing their heads, while the male luxuriated in the tree with his long tail cascading over the branch like a jeweled veil.
Estelle lifted her skirts and ran out of the study, down the stairs and across the garden path. She caught him just as he was disappearing around the corner into the orchard.
“I say!” she called out gaily. “You’re back!”
He turned around and waited for her to catch up. His hands were thrust deep into his trouser pockets and there was a small notebook tucked under his arm. As Estelle drew closer she noticed he was growing a rather nice-looking moustache, which he obviously tended with loving care.
“How is the debate preparation going?” she gasped, stopping to catch her breath.
“It’s coming along.” His eyes were lively and warm and he had a quizzical, amused look on his face. He took his hand out of his pocket and twirled a pencil between his index and ring finger. A big droopy silence hung between them.
“My offer still stands. You can practice your arguments on me, if you like,” she said. “I can pretend to be the opposition. I’ll give you a good rebuttal.”
“Of that, I have no doubt,” he said, arching an eyebrow, the tiny smile wandering in.
“I was just going for a walk,” she said impulsively. “It’s such a jolly day. Perhaps you would care to join me?”
