Zemindar

by Valerie Fitzgerald

  The governess cart was duly delivered and Emily was duly pleased.

  ‘Beast’s too big for it really, ma’am. Ought to ’ave one of them little Shetlers, the shaggy ones, but they don’t do so good out ’ere—too ’ot!’ said Toddy-Bob as we examined the neat little white-painted equipage.

  ‘Oh, not at all! She’s a dear little mare. She’ll do just perfectly. Bring it around this evening, Toddy. I’ll try it then. It’s too hot to be out just now.’

  ‘Yes’m,’ said Toddy without emotion, and led the mare away.

  ‘He couldn’t be more thoughtful and kind,’ Emily said softly, a faraway expression in her eyes. ‘He must have realized walking has become too much of an effort for me now, especially in the heat. He said nothing, just did something. That’s so like him!’

  After that, each morning after breakfast and again in the late afternoon Emily took a drive in her new toy. She named the mare Olive. I looked forward to my host’s expression on his learning this.

  The following three days were difficult ones for me, thrown together with Emily and alone with her in the vast, silent house. Apart from Mount Bellew and our family, there was almost no topic of conversation we could touch on that did not endanger the inner comfort of one or the other. The heat exhausted Emily and she slept a lot, while I wandered between the verandah and the library looking for a book that would keep my mind engaged. It was not boredom I suffered from so much as restlessness, a thorough dissatisfaction with my own company, an unformed but insistent need for something I could not name. It was a mood new to me. I put it down to the heat and the silence in the house, and did my best not to give in to it, but I was relieved when the afternoon of the third day at last arrived.

  When we had taken our tea, Emily went off in her governess cart with Toddy-Bob walking sedately beside her. I fetched my sketching block and pencils and set out to walk to a distant part of the park where stood a fine group of trees which I wanted to ‘catch’ wearing their long evening shadows.

  My way led me behind the house, past the stables and servants’ quarters and to the east of the walled vegetable garden. Here the park opened out and, because of its comparative distance from the house, was rather more unkept than other parts of the grounds. I had not often come this way before—other reaches afforded pleasanter prospects and easier walking—but had once observed a tall building just visible among the trees that formed the boundary of the park. I had mentioned it to Oliver, asking him what it was. ‘That,’ he had answered briefly, ‘oh, that’s all that is left of the old hunting lodge, the Nawab’s hunting lodge. Probably used it as a watchtower, though they might have kept their hawks in it.’

  Now, glimpsing it in the distance, I decided to have a closer look at the place and then return to my trees, by which time the light would be just what I needed. To my left, as I walked on through the unscythed grass, stood the icehouses in their grove of sheltering shade trees. Actually they were three deep pits, thickly thatched, where ice, formed in shallow earthenware saucers during the cold months of the year, was stored for use in the hot weather. It was an ingenious and remarkably efficient system, and I thought admiringly of the Moguls, those slant-eyed sons of the high plateaux of Central Asia, who relieved the rigours of the land they conquered by planting gardens where the play of water rivalled the beauty of the flowers, and devised this method of cooling the sherbet they were so fond of drinking. Now, more than two hundred years later, when the abdar poured our wine from a frosted, napkin-wrapped bottle, we never paused to comment.

  As I sauntered past the hive-like structures, a small figure detached itself from the trees and came boldly towards me. It was little Yasmina, whom I was now accustomed to meeting in the park, though never in the gardens. She was a sociable mite and, though communication was limited, we had managed to establish a sort of friendship. She took my free hand and together we wandered on towards the tall building. She was in the habit of talking when with me, and I enjoyed listening to her and trying to make out what she was saying. Now, as we approached our objective, I was surprised to hear her repeat several times, in a proprietorial tone, the words ‘Mehra ghar,’ or ‘My house,’ and I wondered what fanciful playworld she lived in that made this curious edifice seem desirable as a home.

  The structure, I now saw, was a hexagonal tower, gracefully proportioned and built of the same pinkish sandstone as Hassanganj. It was, however, of a much earlier date, and the suggestion of strength and dignity in its lines made me think it a remnant of those old Mogul times I had so recently recalled. The window apertures were filled with delicate stone trelliswork, and from their positioning I surmised the building contained three floors. I had expected a ruin, but it was in reasonably good repair; from where we stood no door was visible, but Yasmina, tugging impatiently at my hand, led me round the base of the tower to an entrance, and then I found that it was indeed her home. Chattering in delighted excitement, she led me up a couple of shallow steps into a room doubly dark in contrast to the mellow late sunlight we had just abandoned.

  I stood still for a moment while my eyes adjusted to the dimness. The room was stone-paved and bare of furniture; only a few copper pots, burnished to a rosy glow, hung on one wall and stood piled in a corner.

  An elderly woman squatted on the floor before an iron brazier preparing the evening meal. The rhythmic slap of her palms shaping the dough into chapattis ceased abruptly as she looked up and saw me against the light of the doorway.

  ‘Baba!’ she exclaimed, scrambling to her feet and dropping the dough into a pan. ‘Aie! Aie! Yasmina!’

  I thought she was going to strike the child, but Yasmina faced her squarely, not flinching. I almost laughed at the defiance implicit in every line of her small body, though I could understand that the woman had probably been anxious for her errant charge, and relief had been expressed, as it often is, in wrath.

  ‘Thik hai,’ I said, glad that my Hindustani was at least adequate to this elementary reassurance. But the woman could not agree with me that things were now ‘All right’, for she began to wring her hands and called out: ‘Mem—Mem hai!’ in a high, disturbed voice.

  I had guessed from Yasmina’s manner that the woman was not her mother and now, as I wondered why my presence should cause such consternation, a figure glided swiftly down the unrailed stone staircase that followed the curve of the walls to the upper storeys, paused for a moment, and then came towards me. Yasmina dropped my hand and went to the newcomer. ‘Merha Ma’ she announced proudly by way of introduction.

  Her mother was about my age, but small, slim and graceful. She was dressed in the baggy pyjamas and shirt of Mohammedan womanhood, and her glistening black hair hung down her back in a long braid finished with cotton tassels. From a small face, whose features were delicate and regular, enormous velvet eyes, very like Yasmina’s, gazed at me with an expression so full of malevolence that instinctively I stepped back towards the open door.

  It was like a slap in the face.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked in bewilderment, as she stood and looked at me with unveiled hatred, and the other woman continued to mutter and wring her hands so that the glass bangles on her wrists jangled. ‘What is it? I have only brought Yasmina back to you!’ And I gestured towards the child.

  At this her mother picked the child up and thrust her into the servant’s arms, as if to save her from some awful danger. Then she turned on me, and what she said I could not know, but a torrent of words fell from her lips and she clasped her fists as though she would indeed like to strike me.

  Quite bewildered by this unduly warm reception, I shrugged my shoulders and was about to leave them to whatever mistaken impressions they laboured under, when a voice rang out from the upper room.

  It spoke in Hindustani, but the tone conveyed very adequately the sense of the words: ‘What the devil is that infernal din about?’

  His appearance on the stairs a second later was hardly necessary to make known to me the presence of Oliver Erskine. />
  For a moment we regarded each other in silence. The women too fell quiet and Yasmina hushed her crying.

  Then I understood.

  I felt the blood mounting to my face, and in a maelstrom of embarrassment and chagrin, I turned and fled into the evening sunlight. As I stumbled down the steps, my sketchbook dropped from under my arm, but I would not pause to retrieve it and, gathering up my skirts, I ran.

  CHAPTER 9

  Safe in my room, I locked the door and threw myself face down on the high brass bedstead. I had to produce some order in the tumult of my mind before I could face my relatives or Oliver Erskine. I had to determine what course to take, what attitude to adopt, how to conduct myself now that I was party to this secret side of Mr Erskine’s life. I had also to face the fact that I was more shocked, indeed alarmed, by my discovery than any young woman of four-and-twenty had the right to be. After all, such ‘arrangements’, as I knew from Kate, were not uncommon in India. Or elsewhere, for that matter, I reminded myself honestly. Happily Mount Bellew never knew it, but after my mother’s death, a succession of plump and pretty young ‘aunts’ resided in our rambling Genoese villa, invited, so Father said, to make ‘us’ comfortable; and had not our Italian neighbours danced at my father’s wedding just three months before the birth of my short-lived little half-brother? I, of all people, had no right to behave like an outraged schoolgirl.

  But what was I to do? Tell Charles of my discovery and ask him to take us away? How could I? It was too delicate a matter to broach with a gentleman, and there was also a hint of tale-telling that I did not like. And if I told him and he did decide to leave, it would be the end of all his hopes (imaginary though they might be) of inheriting Hassanganj. There was also the indubitable fact that men take a much more lenient view of such matters than women. He might even refuse to believe my suspicions regarding his brother. Not that it was a mere suspicion in my mind. I had discovered Oliver Erskine practically in the arms of his native mistress, and he must now know that I realized all the implications of his presence in that secluded tower with the beautiful Mohammedan girl and Yasmina. Recalling the expression on his face as he had looked down at me in the dim room, I blushed anew. No shame! No embarrassment! Merely irritation followed by a look of quizzical enquiry, and I was almost sure I heard him laugh as I ran down the steps and the sketchbook fell from my hand.

  Then again, if I were to divulge my knowledge to Charles and he decided not to leave Hassanganj my position would be doubly difficult. Better to hold my tongue. Much better.

  My windows overlooked the back of the house and below me now I could hear the minor babel of noise that always breaks out when a group of Indians are engaged in a common task. They must be unloading the bullock-carts, I thought, and putting away the camping equipment. Charles must have returned earlier with Oliver, or had Mr Erskine, starved for the embrace of his paramour after only three days’ absence, hastened back alone? This thought was not one I chose to entertain, so again I turned my mind to my own problems: what now should be my attitude to my host when next I met him?

  I would have liked to show outrage; enjoyed being indignant. But common sense indicated that if I could not disclose the matter to my relatives any marked change in my manner towards Mr Erskine would need explanation. In any case, I was sure that he himself would be quite unperturbed by my disapproval. Lying hot and sticky in the unlit room, I devised furious schemes for his discomfiture; only after some time spent in this fruitless pursuit did I ask myself why it was so necessary for me to wound him? Because he had hurt me? I discarded the suggestion. He was in no position to hurt me. I cared nothing for him and had known of his reputation with women before ever I had met him. Because he had embarrassed me, then? Yes, that was it! He had embarrassed me and I had not even managed to disconcert him!

  To find I was still capable of honesty with myself restored me to a measure of equanimity. The crux of the matter lay in the ridiculous fashion in which I had bolted out of the tower—like a scared rabbit—and I still could not think of any less precipitate alternative. One does not attempt small-talk on such occasions. However, I acknowledged to myself that I was ashamed of my undignified retreat, annoyed that my embarrassment had been so obvious, and above all angry that any man’s behaviour could make me look a fool even in my own eyes. But such, I assured myself sternly, was the case. Now it behoved me to recover my self-respect by showing Oliver Erskine that I possessed sufficient sang froid to behave as though nothing untoward had happened!

  So, after much inner turmoil, I came to the simple determination to act towards him as I had always done, with, of course, private and stringent reservations regarding his character.

  I unlocked my door, and allowed Bhunjni to summon the bhisti with my bathwater. By the time the gong sounded for dinner, I was refreshed and ready for the rigours of the evening.

  The others were already seated when I slipped into my chair at the long candlelit table, and I was conscious that, despite my resolution, I found it hard to meet the eyes of my host. Not that he suffered from a similar inhibition; he was giving Emily an account of the tour, while Charles, sunburnt and obviously tired, added a word of explanation from time to time. A fire, Mr Erskine said, had destroyed a prime stand of sal trees at his northern boundary; Rohilla raiders, he suspected. A gang of dacoits had murdered a bunnia in one of his villages and cut off the noses of his womenfolk, but since the man was a notorious moneylender, he had probably deserved his death. The eastern canal banks had been breached and water stolen by a neighbouring zemindar, and this last was the only matter which he was inclined to take seriously. He would have to place guards along the canal since, with the hot weather upon us, his villagers could not afford to lose their water.

  ‘So on the whole it was a successful tour?’ Emily congratulated him, using the matronly tone usual to her when sitting at the head of the Hassanganj table.

  ‘If success is measuring the extent of one’s misfortunes.’

  ‘But surely it is as well to know the worst, and there is nothing you cannot deal with after all?’

  ‘As to that, I am not so sure!’

  ‘Come now, Oliver,’ put in Charles. ‘What is there you cannot put to rights on this estate? From what I’ve seen, your powers are almost absolute, as are your resources and your knowledge!’

  ‘I can only smooth the smaller difficulties, believe me. I am impotent to deal with my real enemies. I cannot avert a famine, or stop the smallpox. I cannot outlaw cholera or do away with poverty.’ He spoke morosely, crumbling a slice of bread in his thin brown fingers. ‘But above and beyond these perennial disasters, I believe we are on the edge of another, a new one, and while I was away I had news of something that may well push us over the brink.’

  ‘Is it this trouble among the natives that everyone is discussing?’

  ‘Not so much the natives, Emily, as the native sepoys, and, since few families in my villages are not in some way dependent upon the earnings of the sepoys, I fear that we will be affected by any trouble coming.’

  ‘Is it those strange chapattis again?’

  ‘No, or not directly anyway. It’s this business of the new cartridges. You already know about them. I did not realize until this week how generally known the story is, nor how seriously it has been taken by the sepoys.’

  He fell silent and abstractedly balanced a knife on the edge of a glass.

  ‘As a race,’ he continued quietly, ‘we seem to be curiously intent on devising our own downfall in India.’

  ‘Everyone makes mistakes!’ objected Charles impatiently.

  ‘Yes, everyone makes mistakes, and the wise learn from them. The British in India have not done so. Look—no, please listen to me for a moment’—as Charles broke in again. ‘In less than ten years the Company has acquired territories in India equal to more than three times the area of England—by conquest, by chicanery, and latterly by annexation. Oh, of course it was always necessary! Aggrandizement, whether personal or nati
onal, can always be justified by necessity, can it not? We tell ourselves complacently that the provinces and principalities we have so acquired are now better administered, more justly ruled, more productively employed than they ever were under their native rulers. This is probably true. I hold no brief for the general run of native princelings and petty rajahs but, whatever their deficiencies, they belonged to the people, were of the people in a way no Company official or Resident can ever hope to be. In deposing these rulers we have not only created a vast discontent among the plain people, but among those we have dethroned are some who will be anxious and able to act as leaders when trouble comes. All that has been needed has been the spark to set the tinder blazing. And I think now we have provided just this spark—in this incident of the cartridges!’

  He paused again. Emily was all attention, but Charles played with his salt in boredom as we waited for the next course.

  ‘The irony is that the cartridges themselves have been withdrawn and I am told that only a limited number were issued, let alone used by the sepoys. None the less the damage has been done. I believe that we have managed to supply the aggrieved people of this country with the one thing that can unify them against us—an injury that affects all castes and creeds to the same extent and will inflame them equally. When one remembers the diversity of beliefs and loyalties existing in India, this is in itself quite an achievement. Almost, one might say, an inspiration!’

  ‘You have just said the Army are the ones concerned,’ pointed out Charles, ‘and now you are talking of the whole country.’

  ‘It has started in the Army and so far is confined to the Army. But will it stop there?’

  ‘What do you expect to happen?’ asked Charles resignedly. I could see it was not a subject that interested him much.