Would he never greet her? John wondered, feeling an intimacy in the moment, but refusing, out of curiosity, to turn away. At last the old man was moving toward her, one hand outstretched as tentatively he touched her face.
There was a bond between them, of that John was certain. But what sort of bond, he had no idea. He saw a sadness in the young woman's face now, a remarkable face, rich smooth olive complexion, dark eyes, perfectly sculptured nose and cheekbones.
Then the strange nongreeting was over and John saw Jennings scoop up the young boy, who, unlike the other children, seemed ill-at-ease in his arms and within the moment struggled for his freedom and hopped down to the woman, burying his face in her full black skirt.
So engrossing was the encounter that again John was caught unawares as Jennings called to him. "I'm sorry," he apologized.
John smiled, still unable to take his eyes off the young woman, whose beauty increased close at hand.
As though eager to put his blunder to rights, Jennings said to the young woman, "This is John Murrey Eden, Dhari. We passed several enjoyable months together at sea, over endless chess games, and
we've been companions on the road." He looked back at John, as though to confirm his identity. "While not quite brothers, we are, I hope, good friends. Please greet him warmly and make him feel welcome."
He was in no way prepared for her response, one slim hand outstretched in greeting, and a musical, cultivated English voice saying gently, "Mr. Eden. I'm grateful for your fellowship with Reverend Jennings, and I'm certain that you were a source of spiritual strength in his grief."
John gaped. Grief? What grief? He'd witnessed many moods in Jennings, but grief had not been among them. Then he remembered the dead wife, May.
Jennings said almost brusquely, "Well, come. As you can see, Dhari, we're both in sore need of a hot tub. Tonight at dinner we will fill your pretty head with tales beyond your imagination. Won't we, John?"
John did well to nod, and picked up his knapsack and trailed behind as Jennings gave the young woman a spate of instructions having to do with dinner and the children, a brief discussion of menu, and finally, "Take Mr. Eden to May's room, would you, please? See to his needs. I can see to my own."
From where John stood, he thought he saw an objection on her face, but at that moment the little boy, ignored for long enough, made his presence known by a sharp tug on her skirt. Smiling, she caressed the child's head. "This is my son, Mr. Eden. His name is Aslam. He's six and is trying very hard to master your beautiful language."
His mind still splintered by the confusing circumstances, John nodded to the little boy. "Aslam." He smiled and extended his hand to the child. Mother and son! Where and who was the father?
"Go with Dhari, John," Jennings insisted, climbing the steps to the bungalow, for the first time displaying a weariness of both step and mind. John watched until the man had disappeared from sight. What had happened to his incredible endurance? There hadn't been a day on the road when he hadn't outwalked and outtalked John.
"If you're ready, Mr. Eden, I'll take you to Mrs. Jennings' room."
He hurried after her, his eyes struggling to adjust to the shadowy interior after the brightness of sun. As they passed the kitchen, he looked in and saw several of the native staff filling two large copper tubs with steaming water.
"This way, Mr. Eden. Here it is."
And there it was, the dead wife's room, small, though comfortably arranged, with an inviting feather bed covered neatly with a flowered coverlet, one bureau with a well-worn Bible resting atop, one wardrobe, one straight-backed chair beside a small table with a wicker sewing basket, and two large color reproductions, one of Christ at Gethsemane, and the other a likeness of Queen Victoria at her plump stern worst
While John was briefly inspecting the room, he saw the young woman place his knapsack on the bare floor, then lovingly smooth the coverlet, her eyes filled with mourning.
"If it's any comfort, Dhari," John said, "I won't be here long. If there's any other room in which I can simply wash and—"
"Oh, no," she said hurriedly. "Reverend Jennings wants you here, and here you shall stay."
He watched as she continued to move about the room. "Did . . . you know her well? Mrs. Jennings, I mean."
She looked up, her slight frame seemingly inadequate to support her grief. "She saved my life," she said, and could not finish and turned away to the small window which gave a view of the rear courtyard and rows of long clotheslines adorned with what appeared to be hundreds of small white shirts.
John focused on the drying clothes, not certain what kind of comfort he should offer the young woman.
She turned back to him with a smile. "I'm sorry. I've tried for months to prepare myself. She was so ill when they left here. I knew then that I would never see her again." She shook her head, one hand smoothing back a strand of ebony hair. "I am grateful to you for accompanying Reverend Jennings. Rosa said he would not come back if Mrs. Jennings died. Thank you for returning him to us."
Again he had the uneasy feeling that they were talking about two different men. In spite of his fatigue, he longed to change the subject, to make inquiry about where she came from, and how she had mastered English so beautifully, and what precisely was her role in this mission school. But he felt the questions would be inappropriate, and at that moment two Indians appeared in the doorway carrying an enormous copper tub of steaming water between them, and following behind was a woman bearing a stack of linens.
Dhari was transformed into a blur of efficiency, instructing them in native tongue where to place the tub, taking the linens from the woman and turning at last to John with a startling order. "Take off
your clothes. Rosa will wash them and have them pressed in time for dinner."
He hesitated, thinking of the pound notes sewn inside his trousers. "These are beyond restoration." He smiled, indicating the clothes on his back. He handed her the knapsack and a weak explanation. "There's a soiled change in there which could do with some attention, though."
She took the knapsack and handed it to Rosa. Alone, she again ordered, "Take off your clothes," and at the same time drew open the top drawer of the dresser and took out a long-handled scrub brush and a dish of soap.
John counseled himself to be calm. "I've taken up quite enough of your time, Dhari. I'm certain you have other—"
"Don't you want me to scrub your back?" she asked, surprised. "Reverend Jennings would be angry with me if—"
"No," John said as gently as possible, part of his mind censoring the old buzzard for placing such temptation in his path.
"Then there's nothing more I can do to make you comfortable?" she asked from the door.
"You've done enough." He smiled. "A bath, a rest, and I promise to be better company at dinner."
Again she gave him the gift of that remarkable smile. "And I, too," she said. "We'll make it a fete and put all death and grief behind us." The smile faded. "Mrs. Jennings would have wanted it that way."
Then she was gone. Never had he seen such exotic beauty. What were the rules here, he wondered, and should he take them seriously? And why was Mrs. Jennings' bedroom on one side of the bungalow and Reverend Jennings' on the other? And how often had the old man allowed Dhari to scrub his back?
Struggling against his fatigue, he stripped off his foul-smelling clothes, grabbed the brush and soap where she'd left them on the table and sank slowly into the water, his eyes closed in enjoyment.
With his knees raised, he leaned back against the copper tub.
Dhari. A pretty name. Damn the rules! Was it too late to call her back? Even now she might have been wielding the scrub brush.
He was halfway out of the tub, water dripping, when suddenly his eyes lifted to the opposite wall, to the suffering face of Christ.
But it wasn't that. He could deal with that face. It was the other,
the one next to it, the stern flat eyes and fleshy jowls of Queen Victoria that sent him sinking
backward into the tub. Oh, God, he was too tired anyway.
The dining room was small, with Spartan furnishings, reminding him of farm cottages at Eden. But that was the only point of recognition. For the rest of it, he felt bewildered and groggy from his heavy nap.
As the woman named Rosa served his plate with a rich red pungent mixture of chicken and vegetables, he looked about the table and thought how helpful it would be if everyone could just manage a degree of consistency.
For instance, there was Dhari seated opposite him at table, her Western dress gone, adorned beautifully in a pale blue silk sari, one shoulder bared, the fabric so fine as to reveal her breasts in perfect outline. Her hair was loosed in a black shimmering cascade which extended below her waist.
Then there was Reverend Jennings, conversely clad in a somber, tightly cut black frock coat, highly polished black boots, and resting beside him on the table, within easy reach, a well-worn dog-eared Bible. In addition to these obvious changes, there was something else as well, a subtle inner change, the light of childlike enthusiasm gone from his eyes. Now he looked old, his graying hair brushed rigidly back, something alarming in the zeal with which he stared ahead as though aware of besetting temptation on either side.
After all plates had been served, John heard Jennings command, "We will bow our heads in prayer."
And they did, Dhari's falling forward as though it had been snapped downward by a cord, and Jennings following suit. As the man intoned, "But when I looked for good, evil came, and when I waited for light, darkness came . . ." John lifted his head just enough to make an attempt to understand where he was.
Four servants, two male, two female, he noticed, were standing near the door with bowed heads. All in native dress, they seemed to be responding to the dismal voice reciting the dismal tale. Job, most likely.
"And we thank thee, O Lord," Jennings prayed, "for our safe return to our children, who need us, and for the companionship of John Murrey Eden. Be with this child of Yours during his stay in Delhi and assist him in finding what he is searching for, peace for his heart, and strength for his soul."
John felt a blush along the edge of his face.
There was a flurry of prayers for everyone; then he heard a muttered "Amen" and the ordeal was over. Rosa broke the silence by placing a basket of brown bread on the table. For the first time, Jennings smiled, reached for the bread and commenced eating.
Dhari followed suit, then John did likewise, and true to the nature of the room, they did nothing but eat for about twenty minutes. The clink of flatware against the china plates increased to deafening proportions, and finally John felt compelled to say, "It's very good," referring to the food on his plate.
But if anyone agreed with him, they kept it to themselves, and it was only as Rosa was filling Jennings' plate a second time that he looked up and ventured a word. "Did you sleep well, Eden?" he inquired, a stiffness to his voice.
"Very well, thank you. The bed is quite comfortable."
And that was that, at least for the second go-around, and during the silence, waves of melancholy beat upon John's brain along with the rising conviction that he was seated in the heart of a mystery. He wanted to ask questions of everyone, particularly Dhari, but that fine countenance had not looked up once during the entire meal.
At last, as Rosa was serving tea, Jennings asked, "Well, what now, Eden?"
While John had hungered for conversation, he was not prepared for so blunt a question. "I'll strike out on my own. I can't impose upon your hospitality—"
"Nonsense," Jennings interrupted. "There are only two safe places for an Englishman in Delhi now. One is the British Cantonment outside the walls, and the second is this mission school."
Dhari leaned forward. "He's right, Mr. Eden. Delhi is filled now with suspicious old men and plotting young ones."
"And what are they plotting?" he asked, feeding on the beauty opposite him.
But Dhari refused to say anything else. He saw her glance toward Jennings as though afraid she'd already said too much. The man reached out and covered her hand with his.
The quiet moment held, almost to the point of embarrassment, John entertaining a brief though unthinkable theory having to do with an old man, a young girl, and a dead wife.
Finally Jennings withdrew his hand, though he continued to focus on the girl as he spoke. "Dhari serves as our eyes and ears here,"
he said. "She has total access to the fortress palace and to her grand-father's ear as well."
In response to this remarkable information, John sat up. "Grandfather?" he repeated.
Jennings nodded. "You are in the presence of the granddaughter of Bahadur Shah Zafar," he intoned, a mocking smile on his face that seemed to war with the nature of his words. "And Aslam, the little boy you met earlier, is his great-grandson." His eyes fixed on Dhari's bowed head. "The royal princess," he pronounced, "who owes her life and that of her son to Christ. Isn't that correct, Dhari?"
John watched intently. Was it his imagination, or was something cruel taking place at the table. "I. . . don't understand," he said.
"Tell him, Dhari," Jennings urged, "tell him all."
But either the young woman couldn't or wouldn't. She sat now with her hands clasped in her lap, head bowed. John noticed a trembling about her shoulders.
"Then I'll tell him." Jennings smiled, apparently unmindful of her discomfort. He adjusted himself in his chair, facing John now. "Suttee," he pronounced simply. "Have you ever heard of it, Eden?"
Yes, he had, from Alex Aldwell, back in Scutari, but with his attention torn between Dhari and Jennings, John did not answer.
"Widow-burning," Jennings went on. "Another aspect of Indian religion which we have almost destroyed."
John's eyes were still on Dhari. He saw her glance over her shoulder as though contemplating leaving the room. But Jennings reached for her hand, a restraining gesture.
"Dhari was living within the palace at that time," Jennings said, "though she'd been coming to the mission school since she was a girl. My wife was very fond of her, called her the daughter she'd never had. Then shortly after Aslam's birth, about six years ago, Dhari's husband, one of the royal princes, died."
The discomfort across the table was increasing. Twice she tried to pull free from Jennings' grip, but he simply moved his hand up about her wrist and held it fast.
"We didn't see Dhari for several days," Jennings went on. "May was worried sick, and one afternoon one of the native servants told her that suttee was planned."
The man's face clouded. "I told May to stay out of it, that there was nothing we could do, that gods, all gods, must be obeyed. But she wouldn't listen. And that night she took a small pistol that I
kept locked in my wardrobe and went to the palace, gained entrance at the point of a gun and spirited Dhari and the infant out."
One candle stood between John and the bowed young woman across the table, and at that moment the fire seemed to leap up under the duress of a breeze, encompassing the bowed head in flame. Briefly he closed his eyes and began to understand Dhari's devotion to the dead May.
But as always, what he didn't understand was Jennings. "And you took no part in it?" John questioned.
Broadly Jennings shook his head. "My relationship with Bahadur Shah Zafar was based on mutual trust. Wouldn't I have been wronged if he had said: No more communion at your mission school, no more baptisms." His voice was rising. "Then what right have I to interfere with his gods? None, none at all, and I tried to tell May that, but she wouldn't listen. And the very next day, the palace gates were closed to me forever. The royal wrath was not aimed at Dhari or at Mrs. Jennings, but at me. A man is expected to control his wife, and if not, then he is held accountable for her actions."
He leaned back in his chair as though puzzling an ancient dilemma. "Since that day, I have not once looked upon the Peacock Throne, or shared the splendor of the royal chambers, or enjoyed the serenity of the courtyard. We were so close, Bahadur and mys
elf . . *
His voice trailed off into a wistful tone. Dhari apparently saw the weakness and decided to take advantage of it, and once again tried to leave. But again, and with greater violence, he pulled her back down into her seat
John eased up to the edge of his chair. He was a guest, but if it went on much longer, he would be forced to act.
Then all at once, of his own volition, Jennings released her arm. "I'm . . . sorry," he muttered to no one in particular.
Across the table, John noticed Dhari still in her seat, as though in spite of her instinct to run, she knew she must stay.
"So Dhari and Aslam came to live with us," Jennings concluded. "And of course, nothing really changed for her. She now enjoys both worlds, again has total access to the palace. The priests have convinced her grandfather that she is leading a charmed life. Saved by the white goddess, they say. And May is enjoying the peace of her grave. I'm the only one left to suffer."
John heard the martyred quality in his voice and looked down at
his napkin and vowed silently to leave this place as soon as possible.
Suddenly Jennings stood, the self-pity gone from his face, replaced by weary efficiency. "It's late," he said, "and Fm certain you are as tired as I am. I must go over the books yet and see if chaos has descended in my absence."
On his way to the door he called back over his shoulder. "Sleep well, John. Tomorrow at breakfast we shall plot your future. I can always use an intelligent young man here. I weary of female company."
John started to protest everything, but decided this was not the time. Besides, Dhari was still at table, and he looked forward to time alone with her. Then he heard the flat monotone at the door. "You come with me, Dhari," Jennings ordered. "I need you to assist me with the books."
She was gone, following after Jennings down the long corridor which led to the rear of the bungalow, leaving John alone with the residue of old food odors and a sensation of unease.
Rosa came in to clear the table. John nodded to her and left by the opposite door. Midway across the entrance hall, he stopped. Beyond the front door he saw the quiet night. Perhaps now was as good a time as any. There was nothing waiting for him in Mrs. Jennings' room. And he had no desire to "plot his future" with Jennings come morning. And he certainly had no desire to pass the night in this house.
The Eden passion Page 47
