Fakirs or holy men are everywhere, a horrible sight covered in ashes and mud. There is even a sect which is believed to eat human flesh. It is outside of intolerable.
The city did, however, afford us a few days of rest and one incident redeemed the horrors I had witnessed. I was persuaded to rise at five in the morning and we took a boat out into the middle of the great river. Our guide threw orange marigold garlands into the river. Little candles in bowls bobbed in the water around the boat as the guide intoned a prayer. We watched as a great gold and orange sun rose on the horizon turning the waters rosy pink and gold. For a moment I could believe that this was indeed a stairway to heaven. India is full of both beauty and horror.
When we arrived on shore people were beginning to bring their dead to the burning places, smoke was rising and hundreds of people were coming to bathe in the sacred waters despite the presence of human and animal cadavers.
We have been somewhat refreshed by these few days and I was able to purchase some of the gold and silver tissue cloth for which Benares is famous, also some very stiff ribbon worked in silk and gold on which are the names of all the Hindu deities. The local people wear these around their necks. I decided to use this respite to send a letter to Selena.
March 18th, 1821
My Dear Selena,
You have not heard from me for many months and I am writing to assure you that I am alive and well, having endured many adventures, especially on our long sea voyage when we were shipwrecked! I wonder how many more misfortunes and adventures I must suffer? Already I have endured more of these in a few years than most people manage in a lifetime. When I consider that I will have spent no less than two years of my life at sea, should I live to make the return journey to Europe, it is outside of intolerable!
Our ship caught fire off the coast of Ceylon and we were able to reach the shore albeit with the loss of all our goods. We spent a few weeks as castaways with all manner of indignities and hardships, although I must admit that there were some compensations. Eventually a rescue ship arrived and we continued on to India in an even poorer state than we left England.
While we awaited a rescue ship we were obliged to live as best we could, bartering with the natives for food and scraps of cloth to cover ourselves. Some items were recovered from the ship, thankfully, one of our trunks together with many barrels of rum and brandy. As there were many soldiers on board you may imagine what use was made of these. There was a great deal of eating and drinking, dancing and singing.
The Edenic life has its good points but I confess I was overjoyed to be once again on board a ship. I did not think I would ever say such a thing! Not many days after we finally arrived at Calcutta. Would anyone in Meryton believe my stories? Certainly my family would scarcely credit it.
And so here I am in India at last: It is a vast country with many creeds and peoples.
I contrive to spend as little time with Mr Macaulay as possible. For appearances sake we must pretend to be man and wife but I am still full of rage at my situation and the loss of my jewels. I have acquired a beautiful horse called Byron and a pretty little terrier named Fudge and they are a great comfort to me. Loyal Adelaide is still with me. I must confess that I have taken up the vice of smoking (the hookah) in secret. I know this is despicable and unladylike but if I am not to deteriorate further I must have some comforts.
The Company people are for the most part very dull. Social life consists of endless balls when we are not travelling in great discomfort on elephants and other creatures. I anticipate an audience with one of the Indian princes who are festooned with jewels that they give out freely as gifts, if my friend is to be believed.
Needless to say I shall contrive to return to Europe somehow at the earliest opportunity. I am sadly lacking in reading matter, dear friend. If you could send me a novel or two I would be in your debt. I trust all is well with you and dear Miles? Please write and tell me all your news and news of what is happening in dear old England. I remain your forlorn and far flung friend,
Lydia Bennet Wickham (Macaulay manqué)
March 19th
We have now resumed our journey. Mr Macaulay was sufficiently jaunty to have importuned me last night but I refused him vehemently, reminding him that we were not actually married. This, together with a tirade about my missing jewels and other matters was enough to send him away in search of amusement elsewhere. He particularly enjoys watching the nautch girls and attending animal fights. No doubt he pursues other activities also which I prefer not to dwell upon. He took revenge by waking me in the early hours to describe an elephant fight he had witnessed.
‘Do you know how they enrage the elephants to the point where they are willing to fight? They give them balls made of human ear wax to eat! Is that not remarkable, my dear?’ I groaned and tried to fall asleep again, regretting the inevitable curry I had eaten the previous evening and its inescapable consequences.
Chapter 34
March 31st
We are still on the road again plodding across country wearily towards distant Rajputana and its various kingdoms. For a while I rode alongside the wife of one of the senior officers. When we pitched our tents for the night Claudine invited me to her abode and told me some fascinating tales. She has been in India for two years and has met many of the native rulers. She showed me some wonderful jewels that were quite eye-popping in their splendour.
‘The native rulers give us gifts when they meet us, for whatever purpose. It is the custom here,’ she said. I returned to my tent much cheered by this news. When I told Adelaide she looked hopeful, although as a servant she must expect to be content with a few silver bangles.
We rested during the heat of the day lying under the peepul tree, which is considered holy, or by mango groves and purple jacarandas. It is difficult to avoid one’s prose becoming purple when writing of the colours of India: the violet sunsets, the lemon sky and the flaming orange dawns. The conversation among the British is desultory at the best of times. Heat and weariness and the need to press on have jaded our appetites. I cannot face food and wish only to quench my thirst. Some of the officers can be vastly agreeable when they are civil and smart. Their wives are busy with small children or tending those who have fallen sick. Together with Adelaide I often feel I am on the fringes of this society. Mr M of course is definitely one of the merry band of soldiers.
How wonderful it will be to arrive in Delhi after such a journey. I fervently hope that we will be delayed there for many months before proceeding on to Rajputana. The Company is always very mysterious about troop movements. We are not likely to know anything until the last moment.
March 21st
Today an officer approached me when we were resting and Mr M was out of sight. He handed me a note from Captain Marshfield! The captain’s arm reaches in to every corner of the world. He asked me to send a report on what I have observed of the Company’s activities. I was extremely irritated. Does he imagine that I have the ear of the Governor, Lord Hastings, or that I am based in Delhi or Calcutta? Does he realise that I will be marooned in a remote desert garrison with only tiger hunting as a diversion?
I devoutly hope that some mishap will befall my non-husband so that I may return to Europe as soon as possible. Perhaps not actually being eaten by a tiger – I am not so hard-hearted. However, he could fall prey to the cholera that has carried off so many of the troops recently. (No doubt he is hoping for a similar fate to befall me.)
The last phase of the journey to Delhi was the worst. Everything conspired to annoy us. Hordes of monkeys descended on us when we stopped to rest and eat. Their little black paws would tear the food from our hands causing the children to howl, but the native troops care little. Monkeys are sacred to them. The god Hanuman is a monkey so they are free to do what they will. Mr M mutters about wanting a joint of lamb and a dose of rhubarb while we reluctantly eat our chapattis. The relentless heat is crushing.
April 20th
Our longed-for arrival in Delhi w
as of little comfort. We were hastened on to Agra where our exhaustion was forgotten for a while as we beheld the most beautiful building in the world. It was a vision of white marble radiance when observed by moonlight, huge, yet so ethereal it could have been set down by a fairy hand. The ingenuity of the architect and the builders lies beyond mere skill. And to think that this loveliest of buildings is a tomb, and a tribute to lost love!
Knowing that Shah Jehan had erected this tomb as a memorial to his lost love, Mumtaz Mahal, brought tears to my eyes. To be so beloved! Would I ever be so cherished by any man that he would create any kind of monument to me, however humble? I felt a fit of the dismals threatening, combined with utter weariness. I had never felt so depressed as I stood weeping in the moonlight before such beauty. The darkness hid my tears and eventually I returned to our lodgings where there was great excitement among the womenfolk in our party. We had been invited to ‘breakfast’ and an audience with the Maharajah of Jaipur.
There was a great deal of primping next morning and unpacking of creased gowns. Large amounts of eau de cologne were applied to jaded bodies and distressed ringlets. Adelaide unearthed a silk gown that had travelled fairly well and we set off for the palace escorted by the rulers’ guards who were resplendent in gilded satin uniforms, far eclipsing our own finery.
When we entered the hall of audience I was overcome by the magnificence of pillared marble and crystal chandeliers. Inlaid mirror work and jewels winked from the walls in the morning sunlight.
The Maharajah was a small, elderly man with a white beard. He sat on a silver throne shielded by a canopy sewn with pearls and small rubies. Over his red brocade coat he wore a veritable breastplate of diamonds. His turban was secured with an extraordinary diamond peacock holding in its beak a rope of pearls and emeralds the size of quails’ eggs. A gold tassel hung from this brooch, which is called a surpeche. It is anchored to the turban with a gold pin.
How could I ever have thought my three rows of pearls handsome? This prince was literally cabled in huge pearls and emeralds. We ladies sank down in deep curtsies and refreshments were served which I contrived not to eat. Then the nautch girls danced, also covered in jewels and gauze scarves. One or two of them were very beautiful but most were ugly. I noticed Mr M watching them avidly.
The ladies were presented with long strands of tiny pearl necklaces, which delighted me until I discovered that these gifts are seized by the Company. Sometimes we are allowed to buy them back. My friend Claudine had failed to mention this fact. She said the pearls were of poor quality. It is beyond irritating.
Chapter 35
April 20th
When we reached Rajputana the women were in the fields or fetching water wearing their full-skirted fuschia and lemon costumes with long veils and tinkling anklets. As we rode past they drew their veils across their faces. Their turbaned menfolk were equally colourful, tapping their leather slippers with upturned toes as they sat by a well listening to a local musician playing the sitar and another playing the tabla.
April 30th
The great Fort of Rathambore is now within sight. I shall never complain again about a carriage journey from Longbourn to Pemberley. Having survived this trek with its discomforts, its frights, the fear of being eaten by wild animals I should be awarded a medal. Perhaps Captain Marshfield could arrange it. His shadow is never far away.
Rathambore is a great fortress many centuries old belonging to the Maharajah of Jaipur, who is now a supporter of the British. Once inside the fortress we saw many palaces and temples including one to the little god Ganesh so favoured by Adelaide. Pilgrims come from all over India to this temple. There is also a temple to Lord Shiva.
The north side, known as the Palace of the Clouds, is largely in ruins but we have been given some rooms in the western half, which are quite bearable. Back in England people would consider our abode extremely primitive but we have already become accustomed to the strange mixture of the grandiose and the rustic. Most of the troops are accommodated in tents around the fort. The army is here to keep the peace since the treaty between the local rulers and the Company was only signed in 1818. There are still skirmishes between local princely armies from time to time.
Mr M is looking forward to a tiger hunt. ‘There are plenty of tigers in these parts,’ he said. The wildlife in general is very plentiful in this area, a fact that offers me little comfort. I must keep up the writing of this journal for posterity.
This land is part of the Maharajah’s hunting grounds and, instead of the desert I expected to see, it is sited among hills and jungle and beautiful lakes. Mr M is growing more and more excited about this prime tiger country. He does not anticipate any fighting. The garrison is here to uphold the princely ruler’s authority as a friend of the British, and to settle any tribal disputes. There are many Rajput clans and they have endless enmity with each other.
May 2nd
When we rode into the fort it was an extraordinary sight. Having just managed to learn the details of the Hindu religion I discovered that there is also an important temple to Lord Adinathji – a guru of the Jain religion which is akin to the Hindu faith. It is all too much for my tired brain to absorb. The site is quite picturesque with its archways and temples and ruins.
I was glad to collapse onto my charpai which I have become accustomed to on this journey. The swaying motion is most soothing and I fall asleep instantly. Tomorrow Adelaide must investigate the water supply, or lack of it. A chance to bathe has never seemed more enticing.
News has come that one of the Maharajah’s most important officials will arrive in a few days. Perhaps he is the chamberlain or Prime Minister or something similar. His mission is to welcome us and to see that we are settled and lack for nothing. What irony! We lack for almost all the niceties of civilisation but my friend Claudine maintains that this posting is excellent because of the climate.
‘It is not bleak desert or suffocatingly hot plains,’ she remarked. ‘There is cooler weather, there are lakes and trees. It is almost ideal – for India.’
May 7th
When we heard that the official’s procession was approaching the fort, everyone rushed to make preparations. While the military did what they had to do, the ladies began elaborate rituals as we had for the Maharajah. Claudine told me she had heard rumours that the official – the chamberlain, as we knew him to be – was young and handsome, a great favourite of the ruler and extremely wealthy.
I hurriedly donned my best silk, added a lace fichu and, of course, the pearls that now seemed so meagre. Adelaide wove the string of small pearls that had been given in Agra into my hair. Fortunately, I had contrived to be unavailable when a Company official had asked for all the jewels to be handed over. Lastly, I emptied a phial of attar of roses onto my person. I had already noticed that Indian women – and men – valued perfume highly and used a great deal of it. Adelaide had obtained the phial during one of her excursions into the bazaar in Calcutta. Mr M was not there to comment on my appearance or my highly-scented self as I set off confidently to witness the chamberlain’s arrival. Sadly, my hairstyle was somewhat obscured by my bonnet which is essential to keep off the sun’s rays so I had to be content with bright new bonnet ribbons.
India had also put on its finest clothes that day. From our vantage point in the fort we looked down on palm-fringed lakes in the distance, lush green forests, valleys and crags all shining in the sunlight. Small domed pavilions could be seen amid the scenery and the cries of tropical birds and beasts could be heard in the distance until they were drowned out by the sound of horses with much jingling and shouting. The chamberlain is called Kymar Singh and his appearance at the head of his escort was incredible. I was overcome with admiration as I beheld his handsome figure with his jewelled turban flashing in the sunlight.
He wore a coat of sky-blue satin embroidered in silver; there were diamonds glinting in his ears and a diamond-studded sword hung at his waist. His dark, finely-drawn face wore the short beard brushe
d upwards with two points in the manner of the Rajput warriors. I was captivated by his brooding almond-shaped eyes and the almost vulpine expression in them. His horse was as finely caparisoned as its rider, and on the chamberlain’s wrist sat a huge Sahin falcon on a jewelled leash.
I must confess, dear reader, that my heart missed a few beats at the sight of this wonderful man, if indeed he was a man, and not some god condescending to visit mere mortals for a few hours. Of course, he was not one of those Hindu gods with their animal heads and several arms, he was masculine perfection! My heart had not been afflicted in such a way since I first encountered my lost highwayman, now lording it in the jungles of Brazil with his harem. Indeed no European male, no British redcoat in his stiff uniform could compare with this vision.
The horsemen rode through the main gate, the garrison soldiers saluted and Kymar Singh descended from his horse. After receiving the greetings and salutations of the assembled company he invited everyone into the fort for refreshments. Our visitor had brought his own feast and his retainers immediately began to spread out various delicacies carried in muslin bags.
I scarcely recall the food served delicately on large green leaves. My senses were still reeling. The chamberlain had also brought a special drink to honour us. Aska, the traditional drink of princes, was offered to us in tiny cups set with precious stones. Claudine said this liquor was distilled from powdered jewels and fruits. We sipped it and became mellow and satisfied. I caught myself staring so hard at Kymar Singh that I felt sure he must be aware of the thoughts I was beaming in his direction. Once he looked at me, as I thought, and I gave him a dazzling smile.
The Bad Miss Bennet Abroad Page 17
