‘Look, Emily, she is just like you—though I don’t expect she’ll grow up half as beautiful. But now, well, she’s lovely, isn’t she?’
‘Yes! … Yes! She is nice, isn’t she? A nice little thing, really.’ And she pushed away his large hand the better to see the tiny face.
‘Very nice. It’s just as well Charles can’t be shamed by her looking so like her mother, because there’s not a trace of her father in her that I can see.’
‘No?’ Emily’s interest grew to avidity.
‘Not a trace. Not a feature that is Flood. She is all Hewitt, my girl. Pure Hewitt!’
‘Yes, I believe you’re right. And, oh, Oliver, do look at her little hands; see the minute fingernails, all so perfect!’
Oliver drew back, smiling, and watched as Emily rather hesitantly kissed one small hand, then examined it again for further evidence of perfection. He drew in a deep breath and gave me a glance that was scarcely less than triumphant.
‘Oliver, what about … do you think her toes can be as perfect?’
‘Have a look.’
‘Oh, but she’s all wrapped up …’
‘Unwrap her, then. She’s your baby, isn’t she?’
‘Yes! Yes, she’s my baby!’ And Emily swiftly unwrapped the shawl to reach the problematical toes.
I don’t believe she noticed when we left her. She was too busy gloating, doting and crooning over her newfound treasure.
I shut the door behind me and walked downstairs with Oliver in companionable, and, for once, easy silence.
‘You know,’ I said judiciously as we gained the drawing-room, ‘that was a very nice thing you did.’
‘I did? What did I do, apart from congratulate a mother on her child, which, I believe, is fairly customary?’
‘And also apart from lying like a trooper and stretching your luck to the winds! I was afraid you were not going to get away with it, particularly when you pointed out how little the infant resembles its papa.’
‘Well, that’s true enough, in all conscience.’
‘And the marked, astonishing, resemblance to its mama?’
‘Well, that only needed pointing out. The rest was just … well, maternal instinct, I suppose.’
I laughed and then we stood smiling at each other amiably in the light of the chandelier.
‘You’re a fraud, Oliver Erskine,’ I said; ‘an absolute fraud. All the trouble you take to get yourself disliked and condemned, and beneath your cynicism and hardness you’re very nearly as sentimental and … and squashy … as a new mother yourself.’
‘Oh, come now. That’s a bit hard …’
‘And you handled that infant as to the manner born; yet I can remember being told, and on good authority, that you “couldn’t abide nippers”.’
‘No more can I! Most unreliable objects—at both ends. I was mighty glad to hand over that parcel of incipient squalls I can assure you.’
‘I wonder whether I’ll ever understand you.’
‘And yet, I’m such a simple man, Laura.’
‘You are not,’ I said vehemently.
‘But I am. That poor girl upstairs, all she really wants, you know, is something of her own, something to love. Isn’t it better for her to grow into a foolish mama rather than a bitter wife? And the brat’s going to need a loving mother, after all; there’s nothing extraordinary in divining that much.’
‘I wonder. And I wonder if Emily will ever realize how much you have done for her tonight?’
‘Certainly not. She’s much too silly. Anyway, it would all have come in time. I just hastened the process a little perhaps.’
‘You did much more than that. She was determined not to love the baby because … because it is Charles’s.’
‘I had gathered as much. Which was why I played on the Hewitt features. Poor devil. He’ll probably be made to feel out of things for the rest of his life. But he could have managed his own affairs with a little more … er, finesse, don’t you think?’
Knowing what I now knew of those affairs, I had to agree. ‘Oh, absolutely!’ I said, never realizing how far I had travelled from my original estimate of Charles. Or, indeed, of his brother.
‘Possibly. As to that, little imagination was needed by me. You cannot know it, I suppose, but I was abandoned by my mother. My father died when I was four.’
‘Oh, Oliver.’
‘Now don’t waste your pity. I lacked nothing. From my grandparents I received more love, more cherishing, than any mother could have given me. I was spoilt … indulged, I suppose … in a way no boy should be. But still, I always knew I was not as other boys.’
That I could understand. Reared here in Hassanganj, heir to the estate, surrounded by servants and retainers, and used, from birth, to the deference and respect that that position gave him, he must have had a hard time of it among boys brought up in more prosaic circumstances. As if in answer to my thoughts, he went on: ‘Of course, I saw few children when I was a child; but at thirteen I was sent to school in France, and the young gentlemen of the academy favoured with my presence had the deuce of a good time reducing me to size. Can’t blame that on my mother, of course, but perhaps, had I had a mother at all, I would not have felt quite as… as out of things, as peculiar. My boyish sufferings might have been less acute,’ he ended, with a laugh.
‘What a lonely little boy you must have been.’
‘Probably. I was not aware of loneliness at the time; but, sometimes, of an enormous discontent, which was probably due to loneliness. And while I was certainly over-indulged, I was also made to learn my responsibilities at an early age, something else that set me apart from my contemporaries. I must have been an abominable little brute: self-important, too contained, precocious! An amalgam of all the least endearing qualities of youth.’
‘Yes, I expect you were,’ I agreed. ‘You’ve improved with age.’
‘Thank you.’ He laughed.
I had never before thought of Oliver as a child; it is not easy to envision a strong and assertive character in the days when it was still malleable, open to influence, immature. Now I saw him, very distinctly, trying to content himself with the companionship of the old, earnestly endeavouring the role assigned him, yet remaining, despite his efforts, a lonely and rather pathetic small boy. That my conclusion was accurate, and that the memory of that lost childhood had remained with him, was proved by his evening’s work with Emily and her baby.
For a space we enjoyed a ruminative and intimate silence; then he said, ‘You must get Emily back on her feet as soon as possible. I want you all out of here in a hurry.’
‘More news?’ I was too used to him to resent his phrasing.
‘Nothing explicit. I don’t want to run the risk of you being cut off here in Hassanganj. And you will all be better out of the heat.’
‘It will be some weeks before we can move. Emily had a very hard time, and she has not been strong for weeks. The heat, I suppose. I’m sorry we are such an anxiety. Another few days and we would have been gone.’
‘And the baby would have arrived on the road! No, better this, even though it means a delay.’
‘I’ll do my best. You have endured more through the presence of your guests than you had bargained for, unfortunately.’
‘Not at all. In fact, it’s a curious thing, but there have been moments when I have really felt the benefit of a woman’s presence in the house. No, don’t laugh, I’m serious. Things have been—well—better ordered; more comfortable, since Emily—or rather you, for I know it is you who have done the actual supervision since Kate left—had a hand in the housekeeping. Sometimes I’ve even had a fancy to see a woman of my own sitting at the head of my table, entertaining my guests, concerning herself with my well-being. I must be getting old. It’s a fancy I have never entertained before.’
‘But not unnatural, surely?’
I had seated myself and Oliver now stood before the empty hearth, leaning one arm along the high, marble mantelshelf.
‘Do you think it could work?’ he asked after a short pause.
‘What?’
‘Well—marriage. I suppose it would have to be marriage. For me, I mean?’
‘I doubt it,’ I replied seriously, for he seemed serious.
‘Why not?’
‘Well, you’re too old! Too set in your ways, at least. And you’ve had everything your own way too long. I don’t think you could adapt yourself to another personality. And of course you would have to.’
‘Hm, perhaps you are right.’
He put his hands in his pockets and stood frowning at the floor.
‘The thing would be, of course, if not much adaptation were needed. If I were to find my … my “complement”—I believe that is the term, is it not?—perhaps I would have a better chance?’
I made no comment.
‘You cannot agree?’
‘I cannot see you finding a “complement”.’
His frown grew more pronounced, but my suspicions awoke when I saw his lips twitch very slightly.
‘Well, but now, tell me honestly; just supposing I were lucky enough to find my true complement … my prospective helpmeet, do you think that my … er … well, the matter that you so summarily discovered in the old tower one afternoon, do you think such a departure from the conventional norms could be forgiven me?’
So this was what the easy intimacy of a few minutes ago could lead to. I stood up and readied myself to leave the room.
‘I have no idea,’ I said frigidly, ‘and it is not something I care to discuss!’
‘But, Laura, please don’t go … one moment! I’m only asking your advice, quite genuinely, I do assure you.’
I hesitated. Being asked for one’s advice is always flattering.
‘And admit it, now, you are the one person who knows sufficient of my—er—situation to advise me without prejudice, are you not? Do you think … could a well brought-up young woman overlook such a matter, do you suppose?’
‘I am sure I do not know. It would depend on the young woman.’
‘No? Well, but could you, for instance, any young lady of your background and upbringing … even your temperament and education … could you, let us say, forgive such a thing? Supposing you loved a man?’
‘Yes,’ I answered unwisely but without hesitation. ‘I suppose I could—if I loved the man very much, of course.’
‘Of course! Thank you. That is all I wanted to know.’
‘But,’ I added sternly, unable to resist the luxury of admonition, ‘if you intend to look for a wife, I would advise you to amend your ways. First!’ And I walked to the door.
‘That piece of advice, at least, is unnecessary,’ he said. ‘But thank you all the same.’
And opening the door he wished me a polite goodnight.
A couple of days after her birth, Emily and I decided the baby was ready for her first airing, and at sunset I carried her on to the verandah.
With their feet on the extending arms of their chairs, brandy-panis in their hands, Oliver and Charles took their masculine ease before dinner. Charles, who still had only the slightest acquaintance with his daughter, looked both pleased and alarmed when I placed the child in his arms, and Oliver watched sardonically as his brother attempted the role of nursemaid, rocking the baby rather feverishly in his arms.
‘Has it got a name yet?’ Oliver asked after twitting Charles for his lack of fatherly expertise.
‘Please don’t refer to her as “it”,’ I objected.
‘Well then, has she got a name yet?’ he amended with good humour.
‘Oh, I think I’ll leave that to Emily,’ Charles answered. ‘She’ll think of something suitable.’
‘More likely a whole string of names. Her mother, your mother, her grandmother and your god-mother, aunts without number and all her closest friends, they’ll all have to be included or risk giving offence. You’ll have to be firm, Charles. It could end up “Euphemia” …’
‘We don’t know any Euphemias,’ Charles pointed out.
‘… or “Eustacia”! Much better take it upon yourself to dub it Mary or Ann and leave it at that.’
‘Well, I don’t know that I can …’ Charles began to object, as I took the baby and allowed him to return to his brandy.
‘She already has a name—a very beautiful one,’ I broke in as I prepared to return indoors. ‘Emily has decided on “Pearl”.’
‘Oh! Well, it’s nice enough, I suppose, though I don’t believe it is a family name, is it?’ Charles said.
‘Well, Pearl she is to be,’ I assured him, and then retreated hurriedly as, the connection made, Oliver took the cigar from his mouth and burst into laughter, to the bewilderment of his brother.
For it was I who had told Emily that ‘Moti’ is translated by the English ‘Pearl’, and nothing would satisfy her but that her daughter should bear the name of the woman who had brought the child safely into the world.
CHAPTER 2
The mountains now were seldom visible.
All through the day, the sky was more bronze than blue: a gong of bronze trembling soundlessly under the onslaught of heat reflected from the parched plains of India. Distances disappeared in a stifling haze and in the evenings the horizon disintegrated into a long bruise, purple and livid, where the sun, which none had seen but all had felt, slipped into a night scarcely more bearable than the day. Only occasionally, when the moon rose, a suggestion of serrated silver to the north reminded me that the mountains were still there.
I doubted now whether I should ever see them. The trouble forecast by a few, ignored except intermittently by the many, was no longer a matter for conjecture.
Remote as we were, inaccessible as I had thought we were, now Hassanganj was on the way to somewhere, Lucknow, and two or three times a week we shared our meals with travellers posting hurriedly to and from the capital of Oudh, giving news or seeking instructions: soldiers, civil administrators and merchants anxious for their future, all with stories to tell, opinions to give, alarms to share. I became conversant with the names of half a dozen small European communities within a few hours’ ride of Hassanganj, and realized for the first time how artificial our isolation had been, how much more due to Oliver Erskine’s character than the character of the terrain. For our host, the boundaries of Hassanganj were the limits of the acceptable world.
All who came to the house knew his name and situation; Hassanganj and its master were difficult to overlook. But often, as we ate our heavy meals in an atmosphere which advocated living on air, I became aware of the hostility and suspicion with which Mr Erskine was regarded by his neighbours, a hostility engendered more, I thought, by ignorance than animosity. Not that Mr Erskine exerted himself to dispel that ignorance.
Usually he sat at the head of his table, listening courteously enough to what was said, but in a silence that enraged the bold and intimidated the frail. But when he was aroused, and I will say that what roused him was usually stupidity, he did not hesitate to disagree or condemn with just that same sardonic bluntness he used with his intimates. His manner was a nice combination of arrogance and reserve, and I guessed he used it deliberately as a shield to foil the advances of his fellows.
‘A man with a lot of friends,’ he once said to Charles, who had ventured to criticize his lack of cordiality, ‘is like a dog with a lot of fleas—always restless and generally uncomfortable. Give me one or two fine ticks I can really work on.’
I smiled when I heard this and, little as I condoned his disdain for his fellows, I sympathized with his desire to channel his interests deeply rather than severally, for this was my own bent. Moreover, few of the men, and they were all men who called in at Hassanganj, had intellect, education or imagination enough to commend themselves even to me, much less to a man as critical as Mr Erskine. He seldom bothered to conceal his derision of the type of Englishman who tried to produce around himself in India the same atmosphere that he had enjoyed, or more probably wished he had enjoyed, a
t ‘Home’, and Charles and I suffered many uncomfortable moments trying to lead the conversation away from such matters as the impossibility of finding a good sausage, or sufficient gentlemen to make up a cricket eleven, or servants conversant with how afternoon tea was served in Chichester.
These reflections on past comforts were probably largely defensive; it took a hardened newcomer to wander through the vast Hassanganj rooms and submit to the ministrations of the Hassanganj servants without some betrayal of astonishment, while the luxury of the furnishings, and the splendid accoutrements of the dinner table often reduced the stranger to silence. It amused me to realize that no section of the Europeans who visited us in those days could altogether forgive Mr Erskine his wealth, his ability or his self-sufficiency. By tone and inflection, rather than any actual comment, it became clear that the military chose to see him as a sybarite, the planters as an amateur, and the officials as a meddler; I suppose because he combined something of all their trades with such unwarrantable success.
I believe he knew, and quite enjoyed, the opinion in which he was held. What he could not realize was that his most unforgivable characteristic was his self-sufficiency, for this was so much an integral part of him, and owed so little to deliberate cultivation, that he was unaware of it.
However, not all the gentlemen who passed through Hassanganj were deserving of Mr Erskine’s censure, and one morning, at the beginning of May, I found my shipboard friend Mr Roberts taking chota hazri on the verandah with my host. He had travelled through the night, and had decided to take advantage of the proximity of Hassanganj to rest in comfort during the day.
‘I had not hoped for the pleasure of finding you still here,’ he said, as we sat down.
‘We did not expect to be here ourselves, but the baby arrived rather less than opportunely, so here we are.’
‘So Mr Erskine has just told me. Mother and child are well, I trust?’
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