Wandering on through the sunny park I tried to analyse my mind and my motives, and realized with absolute clarity that the most disturbing memory of all was the amused and knowing expression in Oliver Erskine’s eyes as I turned away from the mirror.
So, striving to escape the turmoil of my thoughts, I walked further from the house than any of my previous expeditions had taken me. The eccentric towers of Hassanganj were distant among the trees. Feeling warm and thirsty, I looked around for some pleasant spot in which to rest myself before returning.
Before me was what I took to be a shady grove of trees, but approaching nearer I found that it was in fact a banyan, one of those strange Indian trees that drops tendrils from its spreading branches, which on touching the ground take root and form new trees, separate but conjoined with the parent bole by common branches. Increasing in this manner, horizontally as well as vertically, one seed may in time produce a forest of stalwart trunks and heavy foliage. But this banyan was even stranger. Here most of the dependant suckers had been cut away, leaving only a dozen or so young boles growing at the perimeter of a circle around the original trunk. Other tendrils had but just taken root, or hung loosely, rootlets touching the ground, from the tips of branches, and it was clear that the ultimate objective was to form an umbrella-like tent of foliage with the main bole at the centre and the lesser ones forming supports for the walls. For walls there were to be. One section, rather more than half the circle, had already been enclosed with bamboo trellises, up which clambered a variety of creepers and climbing plants. Within this bosky shelter was a pool on which floated the flat green pads of waterlilies, and around this flourished a profusion of ferns and every kind of shade-loving lily. Best of all, beside the pool stood a white iron bench.
I sat down gratefully, relishing the cool damp air of the place, the musty smell of wet earth and rotting leaves, and the pungent scent of a dozen large white lilies glowing in the semi-gloom by the seat. When it was complete—in a generation? In two?—what an elysium this would be, wrought half by God and half by man, cool, refreshing and beautiful. Had Old Adam thought of it, I wondered? Or Danielle?
For some time I sat in the fernery thinking my sad thoughts, but seduced from them frequently by the charm and originality of my surroundings. As at length I rose to leave, my eye was caught by a small figure walking composedly along the path I had traversed. I got up and followed. Hearing me approach, the child turned and eyed me in silence. Very solemn she was, but quite unafraid. Her diminutive white pyjamas were topped by a shirt of blue satin, and a wisp of veiling hung over one shoulder. Her hair was a lustrous brown with reddish tints, her complexion fair and smooth, and the kohl-ringed eyes that regarded me so seriously were as soft and dark as the centre of a pansy.
‘Good morning,’ I said, and then, greatly daring, essayed a few words of Hindustani. ‘Nam? Kya nam hai?’
She looked at me without replying for a moment, I think weighing me up, then lisped, ‘Yasmina.’
This was the limit of our conversation, but she took my proffered hand and set off with me contentedly. I was glad to have her company to deflect my thoughts from Charles, Emily and myself. Perhaps she was lost, and I wondered who her parents were and how she had managed to escape them. Her features were too delicate, and her clothing too luxurious for her to be a servant’s child. Occasionally she said something in her own language, gesturing at the peacocks on the grass or the squirrels frisking their tails from the trees, and when I responded in my own tongue, she regarded me from under her level brows with faint disapproval. I gained the impression that I was wanting in manners to pursue my own course in this way, and wished my Urdu lessons had been more productive of small talk with three-year-olds.
Eventually, as we neared the house, she was rescued and identified by Toddy-Bob.
‘Wandered off she has from her mother,’ he said, picking her up and putting her astride his shoulders. ‘She’s always doin’ that, ain’t you, love?’ He said something in her own tongue and she clapped both small hands to her cheeks and went off into peals of laughter. Toddy-Bob grinned his equine grin and winked at me. ‘Real rum ’un this—nothin’ won’t keep her where she belongs. You’ll get used to seeing her around the place, but see she keeps out of the Guv’nor’s way. ’E can’t abide nippers! There, I think I ’ear ’im now, so I’ll away with ’Er ’Ighness! Mornin’, miss,’ and Toddy touched his high hat to which the child was now clinging and disappeared around the house.
As I went inside, I reflected on the natural duplicity of my host. He ‘couldn’t abide nippers’, but no one could have guessed it from seeing him among his tenants’ children the previous day. There was no fathoming the man. If only I could be as sure that he had not fathomed me!
CHAPTER 4
The festivities, decorous and largely masculine in character as they were, continued well into the new year of 1857. On New Year’s Eve we sat up late to see the young year in, but it was a dull party. The gentlemen, who would have been much happier gaming and drinking on their own, were polite enough to consider the ladies’ want of company and insisted on remaining in the drawing-room, yawning their heads off and counting the hours until they could decently escape, having quaffed the necessary champagne and sung the customary ‘Auld Lang Syne’. The elder Mr McCracken and Mr Baird sat together, talking of indigo, soil and the unreliability of the natives, and made no attempt to promote the enjoyment of the party. Young Lewis McCracken hovered at Emily’s side with adoring eyes, as he had been doing since his arrival. Kate, Emily and I did our best to relieve the tedium, but no wiles of ours could really rival the delights of cards and brandy in a room thick with tobacco smoke. Mr Erskine seemed particularly conscious of the dismal character of the evening and passed among his guests with the decanter more often than was quite necessary. At one point he did manage to bring a little animation into the gathering by suggesting that Emily should sing.
‘Come, Emily,’ he said, taking her by the hand and leading her to the fine old instrument in a corner of the room, ‘I remember what a charming little concert you gave us in Lucknow one evening. Laura, you will accompany Emily for us, will you not?’
I thought of that evening as I crossed the room and sat down at the piano; the evening of poor Wallace’s downfall. And I remembered, too, the evident appreciation with which Mr Erskine had watched my cousin.
He lifted the lid of the piano and whisked his handkerchief along the keys, while Emily looked through some yellowed sheet music in a cabinet nearby. ‘Probably dusty,’ he said. ‘Hasn’t been used for I don’t know how many years.’
I ran my fingers down the keys, expecting the instrument to be out of tune, but what was my astonishment when no single note sounded. I tried again, laughing, but only produced a series of clicks from the old ivories, as Emily watched, her mouth open with astonishment.
‘It hasn’t been touched or tuned for fifteen years,’ said Oliver with chagrin, as he lifted the top and investigated. ‘White ants!’ he announced in a moment to the others who had crowded round to watch. ‘White ants, blast ’em!’ And he showed us that the hammers and felts, the whole interior of the instrument, had been reduced to a fine white powder, and all that remained intact was the rosewood case and the ivory keys.
‘It’s my fault,’ said our host as we resumed our places. ‘It never occurred to me to tell the servants to clean around inside occasionally. They have kept it polished, I suppose, but wouldn’t dream of opening up the lid. I’m sorry, Emily—Laura. We would all have enjoyed some music. Does it not, after all, soothe the savage beast?’
‘What a pity!’ Emily said, running her hand over the piano. ‘Such a beautiful instrument. I had meant to practise a little each day once the holidays were over. If you had not minded, that is, Oliver? My piano is one of the things I have missed most since coming to India. Never mind. It can’t be helped, I suppose. But I do hope you can have that lovely instrument rebuilt?’
‘Oh, don’t fret, Emily,’ Cha
rles put in impatiently. ‘I don’t believe you have given a thought to your piano since leaving home; you certainly never wanted to practise in Lucknow on the Avery piano!’
‘I have more time here, and more inclination than I had in Lucknow. But, as I say, it does not matter, and I am not fretting!’
I gave the matter no more thought, and I am sure neither did Emily. But a week later an upright piano arrived at Hassanganj, wrapped in sacking and transported on a bullock-cart, with Toddy-Bob riding beside it. I had not seen him around the place for some days, but knew he often went into Lucknow to make purchases and attend to minor business matters for Oliver. The old instrument was removed and the new put in its place, while Emily, Kate and I exclaimed and wondered.
‘How often have I said he is the kindest man alive?’ Emily demanded as, directed by Toddy-Bob, the instrument was set on its castors and given a quick polish by one of the servants. ‘Really, there is nothing he will not do to make us comfortable and happy. Oh, Charles, will you look here! Oliver has brought in another piano for Laura and me. Isn’t that good of him? Where is he? I must thank him right away, and before I play a note!’
Oliver, as it happened, was just behind her spouse. Emily rushed up to him and throwing her arms around him, kissed him on the cheek, very much, I must confess, as she was in the habit of kissing her father or brothers when they had won her approval. But Mr Erskine promptly clasped her round the waist and kissed her back—with every indication of enjoyment.
‘My dear Emily,’ he smiled, looking directly at Charles, ‘if a piano can guarantee me a kiss like this, why, you shall have a new piano every day!’
‘Oh, Oliver, you are a dear! So thoughtful of us all. Thank you again.’
‘Dashed good of you, Oliver,’ Charles said, ‘but really, it was not necessary to make such a large expenditure on our behalf. Emily will have her own piano at Dissham to look forward to. She could have done without for a few weeks without any harm.’
I could see that Charles was annoyed, and believed it was more on account of the kiss than the gift. Mr Erskine was also aware of the stuffiness in his brother’s tone, and its cause. ‘Not at all,’ he said politely, ‘it is my pleasure.’ There was an emphasis on the last word that could not be missed.
Emily sat down and tried the instrument for tone. Then she played a couple of the schoolgirl pieces she remembered, followed by a few ballads which we all sang with her, all that is, except Mr Erskine who had withdrawn to the verandah with his cheroot. While the singing continued, I walked quietly out to the verandah myself. Dusk was falling and it was chilly; soon the gong would send us to our rooms to change for dinner.
‘Will you allow me to thank you for your kindness to Emily?’ I enquired, very respectfully. Our relationship was now on a more familiar, if not a more friendly footing, but I was still uncertain of him. He might be irritated that I had disturbed his peace, for I realized he was a man who needed to be much alone.
He bowed deprecatingly, watching me with eyes narrowed against the smoke of his cheroot. ‘Why should you thank me?’ he said, but not unkindly. ‘The gift was for Emily, and she has already thanked me very suitably.’
‘Yes, of course. But Emily is really fond of her music, and I am grateful for anything that makes her happy.’
‘Are you, indeed?’ There was no mistaking the caustic note in his voice, and I vividly remembered catching his knowing eyes in the mirror on Christmas Day. I could feel my cheeks growing hot with vexation, and was glad that the dusk would hide this fact from him.
‘Emily is my cousin as well as my charge. We are almost like sisters; I owe everything I have or am to her parents. It’s true I am paid—and I need the money. But I came out here at her parents’ request; I would have come out with her anyway, and…’
‘I am sure you would,’ he put in quietly, his eyes never leaving my face.
I hesitated, knowing what he meant, then went on icily, ‘I merely wanted you to know that I appreciate what you have done for her—not only in this matter of the piano, but the other things as well. It was most thoughtful of you to give her something to do in the house, to keep her employed. She hasn’t many resouces, and the house takes her mind off …’
‘Off her unhappy situation?’
‘I did not say that. But … well, naturally she is anxious about the … the baby, being so far away from home, you know.’
‘Naturally.’
‘Yes, she … she is not happy—about the baby,’ I ended lamely.
‘You dumbfound me! I thought all women were happy about all babies.’
I could not tell whether he was serious since I would not look him in the face.
‘Not Emily—at the moment, anyway.’
‘Poor Emily!’
‘Yes. It is sad, though I suppose you are joking.’
‘And you thought I knew all this, and suggested that Emily should employ herself in my domestic matters to keep her mind off her unhappy state?’
‘No—not that. I was just glad that she had something to do. How could you know that she did not want the baby?’
‘How indeed?’ He turned and threw away the butt of the cheroot. ‘However, I could see that she was not—well, shall we say “content”. My reason for wanting to keep her busy was both simpler and less noble than the one you ascribe to me. First, I believed a woman would know best what women need to keep them comfortable. In which I was correct, it seems. And secondly, my grandmother always said “An idle woman is a mischievous woman” and my bachelor state has given me an aversion to troublesome females. I thought it best to forestall any likely annoyance by keeping my young relative fully occupied. So you see, it was for my ease of mind and not hers that I asked her to keep the housekeeping keys. I took it for granted, of course, that your—er—companionable duties would be sufficient to keep you on the path of virtue.’
I preferred not to make a reply, but when I looked up found him regarding me with his usual quizzical smile.
‘And you, Laura?’ he asked, after a moment. ‘Are you happy here? I have not had time yet to show you much of the “real India” that you were so anxious to know. Perhaps what you have seen of it already—the few villages we have passed through—has been enough to turn you against knowing more?’
‘Not at all. I have found everything most interesting. I just wish I could understand things better, that I knew the origins of so much that is strange and unfamiliar.’
‘Well, once my guests have departed, I will make a point of showing you more. And Charles, of course. We mustn’t forget Charles’s thirst for information, must we? Though I fancy his motives are less admirable than yours.’ He chuckled, though whether at my discomfiture or his own thoughts would have been hard to say. But I was very relieved to hear Emily calling me into the drawing-room, thus enabling me to retreat in good order.
The McCrackens and Mr Baird left Hassanganj the day after the piano was delivered, and George Barry went back to Lucknow shortly thereafter. Kate was to remain on until George came back to collect her at the beginning of March, an arrangement that suited both since George was expecting to be away on manoeuvres for a considerable part of the winter, and Kate declared that she would be much happier in Hassanganj than alone in her dark little bungalow in Mariaon.
Our days settled down into a quiet, regular and fairly productive routine. Each morning Oliver, Charles and I rode together for an hour or so. Then, having breakfasted, Emily and Kate settled down to some housewifely chore, while the men set off on their various pursuits and I studied Urdu with Benarsi Das. Tiffin brought us together again briefly, and afterwards, while the young Floods rested and Kate defiantly snored, I often went out to sketch or write letters in the banyan fernery which had become a favourite haunt of mine. Sometimes, however, Oliver called me into his office to check accounts with him, or to copy out inventories or orders for articles he needed from England. I was always summoned, never requested. ‘You’ve a good clear fist,’ he had commented appr
ovingly the first day, ‘much more legible than mine.’
So I carried out the tasks he set me, always bearing in mind that ‘An idle woman is a mischievous woman’ and endeavouring by my industry to prove my virtue. But soon I became interested in what I began to learn in helping my host with these small matters. I knew Mr Erskine to be a man of both energy and industry, but hitherto had only hazarded a guess at how he actually employed his days. Now I caught glimpses of a timetable that included the management of the indigo plantation and factory, of sal timber stands and saw-mills, and of his own home farm. In addition, there were the dozen or so villages on the estate that had to be visited often and regularly by their sirkar. There was continual work to be done on the system of rough roadways that criss-crossed the estate and on the canals that connected the two rivers and irrigated some thousands of acres of fields and pasture land. There were wells to be bored, walls to be built and avenues of trees to be planted to keep the shallow alluvial soil from eroding during the monsoons. Then there was the kutcheri or court, over which Mr Erskine presided twice a week, and where he was empowered to try and decide all cases involving land disputes and crop settlements, the thieving of water and the breaching of walls, the non-payment of taxes or rent, and such family matters as overdue payment for a bride, or which son should inherit the plough when his father died. Little by little I discovered that my host was an able accountant, a decisive and impartial magistrate, a competent architect, an efficient engineer and an excellent draughtsman.
I learnt to respect him. More, I learnt to admire the many admirable qualities which were apparent in his administration of Hassanganj. Yet I found it difficult to like him. He was too lacking in that frankness, that amiability, that open-hearted enthusiasm which I admired in Charles and that I had come to consider indispensable to true manliness. Mr Erskine was generally curt and always reserved; he made it too plain that he cared little for the good regard of others. And his calm assumption of constant and consistent rightness would have been laughable had it not been so irritating.
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