by Shona Patel
He fidgeted. “That’s awfully kind of you, but unfortunately I have another engagement.”
She was deeply disappointed but she did not show it.
“Very well,” she said, giving an airy wave as she turned to go. “Some other time, then.”
He cleared his throat. “Estelle?”
“Yes?”
“I can go for a walk tomorrow, if you like.”
She gave a little hop of joy. “That would be lovely. I’ll bring along a picnic.”
“Oh, no, please, that would be too much trouble.”
Estelle felt exasperated. What was wrong with him? Any other man would have jumped at the chance to go on a picnic with her.
“It’s no trouble at all,” she said firmly. “I will meet you here under the chestnut tree at eleven o’clock.”
With that she ran back toward the house without giving him a chance to change his mind.
* * *
The day of the picnic turned out to be gray and miserable. A wolfish wind howled around the garden, and the peahens huddled under the chestnut tree, their beaks tucked into their wings. Biren pulled the coat collar of his tweed jacket up to his ears and waited at the appointed time. He fully expected the outing to be called off, but there she was rushing over in a pea-green coat, her red hair flying, a picnic basket looped through her arm. Estelle Lovelace, it seemed, was hell-bent on having a picnic, whether Mother Nature approved of it or not.
The tall grasses in the meadow whipped in frenzy and the daffodils were flattened to the ground. They found a grassy knoll, but the wind made it impossible to spread the tablecloth, so they ate ham sandwiches with frozen fingers and made attempts at teeth-chattering conversation that was quickly abandoned when two white napkins flapped off like wounded seagulls in the grass. Finally all semblance of a picnic came to a halt as big dollops of rain fell. They ran for cover to an abandoned mill, where, protected by a derelict wall, was a miraculously dry spot facing the pond. It was a sly and furtive hideaway, the kind lovers seek out. The hearts and initials scratched on the wall and the ashes of a burned-out fire hinted of forbidden intimacy. The same thought must have crossed both their minds because they were suddenly self-conscious. They spread the picnic tablecloth on the floor and sat side by side, their backs against the wall. The light rain dripped off the overhang with a soft tippity-tip sound.
The lull began to bother Estelle, so she talked. She told him about growing up in India. About the big thatched bungalow with the wraparound veranda around which she would gallop on her hobbyhorse. About her ayah, who’d told blood-curdling stories of she-demons and secretly fed her rice with her hand. Estelle asked Biren about his childhood and was surprised to learn he was poor and grew up in a small fishing village.
“My goodness!” she blurted out. “And here I thought you were a prince of royal blood.”
It was Biren’s turn to be surprised. “Where did you get that curious notion?” he asked. A furrow appeared on his brow.
“You have courtly manners and a princely way about you,” she said. She waved her hands in a la-di-da gesture, which made him laugh.
“Are you disappointed?” He still smiled, but his eyes were serious, searching hers.
“Good heavens, not at all.” She laughed, tossing back her hair. “On the contrary. I am fascinated!”
Estelle went on to describe the young men she had known, with their crushed suits and expensive accents who drank port and talked armchair politics and behaved like peasants at any given opportunity. “And here you are, a real-life peasant with the manners of a prince!”
Surprised by the compliment, Biren rested his chin on his knees and traced a pattern with his forefinger on the dusty floor.
Estelle’s eyes followed his finger. He had nicely proportioned hands, she noticed. “What was life like growing up in the village?” she asked.
“It’s a simple life,” he said, dusting off his finger. “A little monotonous, but beautiful in a way.” He told her about the rivers, the fishing boats, the bamboo groves and the jute mill.
“It sounds so romantic,” she murmured. “And your parents, what are they like?”
He told her how his father died, his mother’s widowhood, the great floods and the cholera epidemic that wiped out half his village. It was more than he had told anybody before. There was a deep sadness in his eyes when he spoke. “I have still not recovered from the news,” he said. “I feel helpless being so far away.”
Estelle fingered the soutache trim on her pea-green coat. “Oh, Biren,” she said softly, “I had no idea.” Her eyes welled with tears. She turned her face toward the millpond.
He hated to see her sad, so he talked instead about the upcoming debate and was able to stoke the old fire back. When Estelle was indignant, a high color rose to her cheeks and her eyes took on a wild look.
“Don’t you think it’s ironic we live in the most industrially advanced nation in the world and we are still so backward when it comes to social equality?” she said. “Women don’t have the right to equal education, married women don’t have the right to property and we don’t have the right to vote. We need more people like you to rally for us in Parliament.”
“There are plenty of people championing for the rights of women in Britain,” Biren replied. “The women in India have no voice at all.”
She scrutinized his face. “Surely you don’t plan to go back to India?” She sounded incredulous. “What with all the floods, cholera and rampant diseases, life sounds very unpredictable.”
He gazed into her round, innocent eyes. Estelle looked like a small child worried about the she-demons in her ayah’s stories.
“None of all this is new,” he replied quietly. “In India we are not spared hardship or tragedy but, despite it all, I love my country. I plan to go back as soon as I get my law degree. I am here to study law because I want to effect change in my own country. All big social changes in India were the result of new laws approved by Parliament here in England.”
“It seems our government is better at changing laws in other countries than in their own,” Estelle said bitterly. “We English portray ourselves as the great liberators bringing the natives out of the Dark Ages, but look where we are. It is hypocritical. Our Royal Navy makes a show of intercepting ships and freeing slaves smuggled out of Africa, but the working conditions of our own factory workers is often worse than the plantation slaves. What a farce!”
What a pleasure it was to talk to her! Estelle was educated and well informed. She had a lively, questioning mind. Biren had never met anyone quite like her.
The sun did eventually come out later that afternoon to light up the meadow. The air smelled moist and rich after the rain. As they walked back to the house, Estelle bent down to pluck a daisy and weaved it into a posy with a sprig of wild grass as she walked. She stopped, turned around and threaded it into the buttonhole of Biren’s jacket.
“There,” she said, giving his chest a playful pat. “A boutonniere for Monsieur Biren.”
Biren looked down at the lapel. “Why, thank you. That’s really quite a professional job. Who taught you to make such a clever—what do you call it?—boutonniere?”
“Miss Smithers, my governess.” Estelle made a face. She slipped her hand easily into the crook of his arm. “That is the only useful thing I learned from her. She was awful.”
As they walked toward the woods, Biren pointed to a thicket. “A friendly little fox lives over there.”
“If it’s friendly it won’t survive,” said Estelle matter-of-factly. “Foxes are by nature not friendly. I am not surprised it warmed up to you, though. Any creature would.”
Her boldness constantly caught him off guard. Estelle did not cloak her feelings. She was playful and mischievous, a girl-child in a woman’s body. He did not know what to make of her.
> As they approached the orchard, the lightness of their chatter faltered. It was as if the ancient stonewall of Grantham Manor had come between them.
Biren climbed the four-rung stile into the orchard and held out his hand to help her over. With the playfulness of a child, Estelle gave a gleeful jump and he had no choice but to catch her in his arms. And there she was, flushed and laughing, her body against his own.
She lifted her face and gave him clumsy peck on the chin. Then, flustered by her own impertinence, she scampered through the orchard, fleet-footed as a ten-year-old, leaving Biren holding the picnic basket, his boutonniere on the ground.
* * *
They met a few days later, this time to go cycling.
Estelle was wearing some kind of new-fangled sporting outfit, the likes of which Biren had never seen. In her forest-green bloomers and fitted shirtwaist she looked wasp-waisted and exotic—like a harem girl out of The Arabian Nights.
Estelle confessed she was new to cycling and said she needed practice. She wobbled and teetered across the lawn and for a dreadful moment Biren thought she was heading straight for the old oak. He rushed up and caught her just as she fell. He was so relieved she was unhurt he missed the mischievous look in her eyes. It took several near disasters for Biren to realize he was being taken for a ride. The next time she headed for the wall, he stood his ground and watched. And he was right. Not only did Estelle know how to stop the bicycle in time, she had excellent control of it, as well. Oh, you naughty, naughty girl, Biren thought, grinning to himself.
A fine day it was to be out in the country. They cycled through the dim forest glade dazzling with bluebells and out on the open road to Wicken Fen. The wetland wildflowers were in bloom, rising from the deep peat—milk parsley, marsh pea and fen violet. The only sounds were the whirr of bicycle wheels and the trill of a lark rising from the tall grass.
When they returned to Grantham House they wheeled their bicycles back to the stables. She stopped suddenly, her hand on his arm. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright from the outdoors.
“I always wondered what the view of the main house was like from your window,” she said innocently. “Do you mind if I take a look?”
Not knowing how to respond, he led her up the stairs and opened the door to his room. She went inside without hesitation.
“So this is where you live.” Estelle swirled around, taking in Biren’s neatly made bed, the washbasin, the melted tallow candle on a wooden ledge above the fireplace. On top of a notebook by his bed was the wilted posy she had given him. “You kept my boutonniere,” she murmured, almost in a whisper.
She picked up Charulata’s painted bookmark. “What is this?” she asked, fingering the bumpy pattern. “What an exquisite design!”
“It’s a bookmark,” replied Biren. “Given to me by a special person. To remind me of my commitment...” He saw Estelle’s face fall and added, smiling, “To an old widow in my village.”
She flushed and tossed back her hair. “Oh!” she tittered. She ran over to the window and stood on her tiptoes to look out over the window ledge but it was just above her eye level.
She turned toward him, laughing. “I can’t see a thing!” she said. “It’s too high.”
Without a word, he lifted her up by the waist. She felt buoyant in his arms, strong but delicate, like a bird. Estelle grabbed the windowsill and tried to hoist herself up for a better look.
“Careful,” he chided her. After a few moments he relaxed his grip and let her slide down till her feet touched the floor. “So now you see what I see.”
“The peacocks and Daddy’s study window,” she said breathlessly, turning to him. Her eyes were unnaturally bright. “Do you see me sometimes, standing by the window in Daddy’s study?” Her voice was soft, wistful.
“Yes,” he said.
She leaned her head against his chest. Her hair smelled of sunshine and wild grass. Through the thin fabric of her shirt he could feel the birdlike fluttering of her heart.
Then she lifted her face and pressed her lips against his. It was a long, winding river of a kiss. Her beauty blotted out everything. Through the madness of it all, something stirred in the dim recesses of Biren’s memory. He drew his breath in sharply and pulled back.
“Please, Estelle,” he murmured. His eyes were gentle. “I cannot do this.”
She stared at him in disbelief. He watched the hurt spread in her eyes. She pushed him off with a choking sob and ran from the room.
“Estelle!”
He watched her fly past the chestnut tree and up the garden path toward the rockery. Sick with despair, he went looking for her. She was sitting on the stone bench by the old sundial, her face buried in her hands.
Biren sat down beside her.
“Please!” she cried in a strangled voice. “Please go away.”
He stroked her hair softly. “Estelle, please try to understand.”
“You don’t have to explain anything,” she sobbed. “Oh, I am such a fool!”
“Don’t you understand? I have nothing to offer you.”
She gave a broken sob and turned to face him. With her wild red hair and tear-clumped lashes, she was beautiful in her anger.
“Have I ever asked you for anything?” she demanded. “Anything at all?”
Seeing her so broken brought back memories of his mother’s tearstained face in the flickering candlelight of the woodshed. It was more than he could bear.
He held her face in his hands and forced her look at him. His eyes were soft with tenderness. “I cannot bear to see you cry, Estelle. You must never cry. Please promise me that.”
He rocked her gently like a child without saying a word. His heart chafed at the thought he would never be able to give her what she wanted. Biren’s heart was locked away in an inaccessible place. It was not his to give, but Estelle would never understand that.
Grantham Manor
28th August 1891
She is the most unusual woman, more unfettered than anyone I know. She refuses to wear hats, she has freckles on her nose and the hairpins have surrendered their hold on her hair, which slips out in big, bright curls. She is bold and buoyant. A soap bubble floating through life, reflecting all the colors, unaware of its own fragility. Ma used to be that way when father was alive.
Estelle gives of herself without reserve. She slips her hand trustingly into mine and wants to skip through life by my side. How can I tell her I must travel alone? My wish for her is to remain free from sorrow. I grew up too quickly, but Estelle does not have to. Every person deserves to remain a child at heart: curious, playful and without fear. My wish for her is to stay like the young fox cub, bright eyed and eager for life.
I think of Ma. I think of Apu’s daughters. I think of Charulata, who gave me my name. I think of all the stepping stones life laid in my path to bring me to this point. It points to a bigger purpose. I have chosen this path and I must walk it alone.
CHAPTER
30
The day of the Union debate dawned wet and sodden. What began as a sprinkle turned into long and stringy rain that spiked on the cobbled streets and ran down gutters that gurgled with overflow.
Estelle shook out her umbrella and waited at the entrance of the Cambridge Union for Samantha and Isadora. She wished she had chosen to wear her dark coat—the pea-green one made her feel too conspicuous standing there in the hallway crowded with male students. She studied them sardonically. They looked like crabs, she thought, the way they squared their shoulders, circled one another, all that manly shoulder bumping and hand thumping.
One student said loudly for her benefit, “Oh, don’t get me wrong, old chap. I’m all for women’s emancipation, just keep it below the waist, I say!” They jabbed one another in the ribs and laughed like hyenas.
Estelle was so enraged she
wanted to hit them on the head with her umbrella, but all she could do was dig her fingernails into her glove and bite her lip. She fumed, thinking about the cowardice of the male race. When encountered alone, these same students would pass her by looking frosty and studious, but put them in a herd and they became crass and mindless. Something had happened a week ago to exacerbate this behavior. A crude effigy of a woman riding a bicycle and wearing bloomers had been found suspended above the Braxton and Beele bookshop in the middle of the town square. It was a student prank aimed to degrade the feminists and it created quite a ripple. The effigy was taken down by the college authorities but not before obscene jokes floated up and down the corridors.
“Why, good evening, Miss Lovelace!”
Estelle turned at the sound of the baritone voice and saw Professor Burton shaking out the raindrops from his umbrella. He was the visiting professor of philosophy at Girton—a delightful bespectacled man, with very bushy eyebrows, and an old friend of her father’s.
“You are here to attend the debate, I see,” he said. “Are you alone?”
“Well,” said Estelle, glancing around. “My friends were supposed to be here. They are running late, it seems.”
Professor Burton pulled out his gold chain watch. “You have another five minutes. I would go inside, if I were you. You are sitting up in the gallery, I presume?”
“That’s right.” Estelle sighed. “I better go in. I don’t suppose my friends are going to make it.”
“May I have the pleasure of sitting with you?” asked Professor Burton with a gallant little bow. “That is, if you don’t mind my crusty old company.”
“But of course,” said Estelle, warmed by his kindness. He was doing this for her protection, she could tell, knowing well that if she sat by herself the male students would heckle her.
They climbed the stairs together and took their seats in the gallery. Estelle leaned forward on the railing, chin on her hands. From where she sat, she had a clear view of the front of the chamber and the speakers. The hall was packed. There were at least three hundred in the audience. She scanned the gallery and counted five other women, and felt deeply grateful to Professor Burton. None of the male students in the gallery would dare to pass a single comment with him sitting beside her.
