Meg’s husband arrived that weekend, a young, good-looking man with a black eyepatch over his left eye, which somehow added to his air of dashing attractiveness. He and Meg left, full of talk of their upcoming adventures. As we waved good-bye, I knew how I would miss her. And how I envied her. I knew that there would have to be other British women in India who were individuals, who didn’t follow the lead of all the others. It just appeared that they were few and far between.
WE HAD BEEN IN INDIA a full month and I had yet to experience anything of what I thought would be the real India. I was living a British life, eating many-course meals of meat and gravy and vegetables and heavy cakes for dessert, being spoken to in English voices, seeing only that which was carefully controlled. I knew that, even with the little I had been allowed to see of it, I could love India. And yet I had begun to despair. When would the time come, and under what circumstances would I be able to venture further into Calcutta, or perhaps the country? I understood now that this was simply not the introduction; this was the whole game, and the rules were that I was more of a prisoner in Calcutta than I had ever been in Liverpool or even in Everton. I was good at game playing, and at waiting, but the troubling sense of captivity grew daily.
Shortly before Meg left I had asked her whether she found it difficult to wait for her husband, to spend such quiet, passive time at the home of the Watertons before she could begin her life. Her true life, as Chinese Sally had said so long ago in Liverpool, and I thought that this was what Meg was waiting for as well. “I have learned patience, living in India,” she told me. “Something that has helped me is a Pashtu proverb: ‘Patience is bitter, but the fruit of it is sweet.’”
Now I repeated the proverb many times a day.
Faith did not seem in need of a proverb. She appeared outwardly content with all of this—the staid visits to the Maidan, helping Mrs. Waterton plan the meals, writing out responses to invitations we received, or sitting in the garden. Or, of course, attending the never-ending circus of social events, where we were introduced to eligible bachelors. Faith had been right; there were more than three men to every woman.
More and more I thought about Faith’s behavior. At first I thought she was simply worn out by the long journey and that she would regain her cheekiness after a short while. But instead, as the weeks went by, it was obvious to me that she had chosen—here in Calcutta—to embrace the tight reins of respectability that she had so strained against in Liverpool. She was snappish with me the one and only time I questioned her complete acquiescence to the frivolous and what I saw as shallow lifestyle of our life on Garden Reach.
“One does not come to India for one’s health, Linny,” she reprimanded. “I thought that was clear to you. It is all about the social season.” She pushed back a strand of hair that had come loose. “And I simply will not suffer the indignity of being sent back to England as a Returned Empty.”
She was doing her best. I often heard her bright, high laughter from across the room, although it was only I who heard the undertone of desperation. She regularly appeared to be surrounded by men. On our return from each party, she came into my room and sat on my bed, telling me about each young man and what he had said to her. She had a favorite, a dark and shy gentleman named Mr. Snow—Charles, she confided to me—who said little, but seemed mesmerized by her chatter and the lustrous color of her hair.
I personally found it tiresome, the troops of appraising young men, none of whom held the slightest interest for me. I did try, but found fault easily. Some appeared tight-lipped and priggish, although more of them struck me as vain. Strutting about, full of themselves, they reminded me of the peacocks on the lawns, their tails in full display for any peahen about.
I wondered if it was because, unlike the other young women here, I had once known men too well.
IT WAS AT ONE of these parties, the week before Christmas, that I met Somers Ingram.
He was tall and quite handsome in a rather traditional sense, with thick, wavy dark hair and a well-trimmed mustache. He had deep brown eyes and even features—a slightly aquiline nose, full-lipped mouth, and strong chin. His complexion was burnished by the sun. The first time we were introduced he bowed over my hand, holding it just a moment longer than necessary, and gave me a slow smile. How well I knew his type, but perhaps there was something else, some carefully controlled danger under the brilliant smile and guileless expression. I smiled back, murmuring my pleasure at making his acquaintance.
“You arrived on the November ship, then?” he asked.
“Yes. How long have you lived in India?”
“Five years.”
“My. You must have had some very memorable experiences.”
It was just a game. The same questions, the same answers. Was he as bored as I?
“Yes. And what are your impressions of India?”
I had been asked this question by every young man I had spoken to. I had a small, memorized speech that I’d heard Faith and other women use, about the wonder and strangeness of it all, the exotic difference between India and England, and so on. All lies, in my opinion, since I hadn’t been allowed any impressions of India. So far, they were all of England—the endless pressure of proper behavior, the snobbery that showed itself in the ranking of the gentlemen within the civil service, the attempts to dine strictly on English food, the disdain shown to the servants within the household—picked up and set down in another country that was still a tantalizing mystery.
I was weary this evening, and in general bad humor. I sighed, not bothering to launch into my rehearsed speech.
“I wish I could speak to the servants properly,” I said. “You must speak Hindi very well after all this time here, Mr. Ingram.”
“Only what’s necessary. Command and rebuke, mainly.”
A moment of silence passed. Mr. Ingram waited for my reply. Should I do the proper thing and agree with him? No. I looked straight into his eyes and thought I saw something of substance then, in spite of our rather quotidian introductory conversation. I deemed that his was not a nature to trifle with. He might even react with interest if I spoke my mind. “Well, I would like more than that. I’m studying the language in some depth, but it’s difficult. I try to practice with the servants at the Watertons’, but they seem reluctant to respond. I don’t know if I’m not pronouncing the words right, or they’re frightened to answer.”
“Probably neither,” Mr. Ingram said, his eyes narrowing just the tiniest bit. “They’re not comfortable, you coming to their level. Confuses them. I don’t know why you bother; all you need is a smattering, just enough to get them moving. They’re like children, really. Best to treat them with a firm hand. And consistency. Their own worlds are so tumultuous, so undisciplined, that it’s a comfort to them to be told what to do, and to know what to expect if they don’t obey.”
I didn’t answer. He was definitely like so many of the rest, then, with his plummy voice and arrogance. I tried to think of an answer Meg might have to his prejudiced announcement, and yet knew I must not make my disappointment too obvious. I had briefly thought I recognized something in Mr. Ingram that might have made him different.
My annoyance grew as we stood in the crush of silk and fine wool, the laughter and chatter all around us. I had no further wish to talk with him, and Mr. Ingram quite obviously felt the same way; his eyes briefly roamed the room. But there was no polite way for either of us to escape.
“Have you family in England, Mr. Ingram?”
He shook his head. “There is no one. My mother died when I was a child. I lived in London until five years ago. But after my father’s death I decided to venture here. Are you from London as well, Miss Smallpiece?” he asked, his eyes suddenly looking into mine with intensity.
“Liverpool.”
“Liverpool? I’ve never had call to visit Liverpool. Your family is there, then?”
“My parents are no longer living either,” I said. “I had been staying with an aunt and cousin.” It was e
asier to give simple answers. Back to boring, safe territory.
“I suppose they live up in Mount Pleasant.”
“Actually north of the city, in Everton. I thought you said you hadn’t been to Liverpool, Mr. Ingram.”
His expression didn’t change, but he blinked, and then raised one knuckle and touched his mustache, just under his nose, and in that split second before he responded, I knew he was lying. A good liar usually recognizes another. “Well, one does hear of places, even if one hasn’t actually been there.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” I said.
He cleared his throat, and raised his chin over my shoulder, and in the next moment an elderly gentleman appeared at my side. Mr. Ingram introduced us, then politely took his leave.
Later that evening, as I was preparing to depart with my party, I saw Mr. Ingram in conversation with another young man, glass in his hand, listening intently. As I watched him, he glanced up, and our eyes met. We held each other’s gaze for just a second too long before looking away. Neither of us smiled.
I found the handsome Mr. Ingram somehow intriguing. And yet the intrigue was a strange hold, an uncomfortableness that made my heart beat faster, as if I should be ready to flee. At the time there was no way I could understand this combination of attraction and repulsion. It would come back to haunt me in a double circle.
But now I am getting ahead of myself.
Chapter Nineteen
THE MORNING AFTER I HAD MET SOMERS INGRAM I ASKED FAITH if she knew of him; she admitted she had met him and found him to be utterly charming. “And he has a most officious position in the Company, I’ve heard,” she said. “He’s quite the talk, to have risen so far for one so young. And apparently there’s quite a bit of family wealth. Some have rudely commented that it was his family’s influence that allowed him such an expeditious move forward in his career. But one can’t believe all one hears.”
I nodded.
“Why do you ask, Linny?”
“I had the opportunity to meet him last night,” I told her. “He appeared slightly arrogant, I thought.”
“Arrogant? He’s nothing of the sort, Linny. Now, if we speak of arrogance, it must be in reference to Mr. Whittington. Have you been forced to spend any time with him?” she asked, and then chattered on about other bachelors. I stopped listening, wondering what it was that Mr. Ingram had to hide, and when our paths would next meet.
THE OPPORTUNITY AROSE at an elaborate ball put on at the Calcutta Club to celebrate the ringing in of 1831. Much of Calcutta’s elite was in attendance; it appeared to me that the number was over three hundred. My dance card had been filled for two weeks. I wore the ball gown I had had made—at Faith’s insistence—before we left Liverpool; it was golden brocade and parchment silk, with a lacy fichu to cover the low neckline. I must admit, as I turned to view myself in the full-length pier glass, candlight shimmering on the skirts of the dress, that I felt it lent me a look that I dared to call splendor.
I saw how I had changed since I had stared, aghast, into the mirror in Shaker’s home after the terrible night he’d rescued me. The constrast was striking; my hair was now thick and lustrous, my eyes bright, and my cheeks a becoming shade.
As the ayah fussed with the last few curls of my hair, I knew Somers Ingram would be there. I found myself watching for him as soon as we arrived. Although I didn’t see him at the reception, or as we were seated for dinner, as soon as the dancing began he appeared, bowing before me. “Miss Smallpiece,” he said, and again I was struck by his posture, the smoothness of his skin, his full lips. “May I have the pleasure of escorting Miss Smallpiece around the floor, Mrs. Waterton?” He held out his gloved hand to me.
Mrs. Waterton trilled giddily, holding my dance card at a distance as she peered at it. “Why, Mr. Ingram, I don’t see your name on Miss Smallpiece’s card.”
“Come now, Mrs. Waterton,” he cajoled. “Depending, of course, on whether Miss Smallpiece will grant me the pleasure.” He held out his arm to me.
“Mrs. Waterton?” I asked, looking at her. I realized how badly I did want to dance with him.
“But of course, my dear. I will extend apologies to your disappointed partner when he arrives.”
We moved smoothly around the dance floor in a waltz. Initially, Mr. Ingram’s patter required little of me. He spoke of the fine organization of the ball, of a problem with his khansana, of a sporting event he had recently attended.
“You are an excellent dancer, sir,” I told him when the moment was right, my gloved hand on his shoulder, the other held firmly within his own gloved hand.
“Thank you, Miss Smallpiece,” he said, smiling down at me, and drew me just the slightest bit closer. I was aware of the feeling of his thigh against mine as we turned. No other bachelor had been this bold with me; when I thought about it, most held me at more than a respectable distance. “But I’m aware of a certain hesitancy in your step. Does dancing bore you, or are you just not terribly accomplished at it?”
I was shocked at his less than complimentary statement, that he might actually speak of my dancing ability—or lack of it, according to him. I stopped in the middle of a turn.
“I find you quite thoughtless, sir,” I said, putting as much indignation into my voice as I could. Other couples floated around us. I didn’t care what he thought of my dancing, but didn’t like the implication that I may not have had many years of dancing in fine salons and ballrooms. I thought of Meg Liston, and her admittance of her lack of interest in dancing. “Not all of us are as talented as you, Mr. Ingram,” I said now, and my voice held a saucy note. “There are those of us who may have spent time pursuing more intellectual and cultural interests than the movement of feet against the floor.” I watched his eyes widen slightly. “In fact, by your expertise on the dance floor, I’m certain your talents run to the more mechanical, and that you have little interest in things intellectual whatsoever.”
He laughed, an open, delighted laugh. “Well spoken, Miss Smallpiece, and I am humbly chastised. And rightfully so. Of course, you dance lightly and well. I only spoke so boldly because I did sense you were bored by all of this, and wondered how you would react to a statement that was not as safe as the usual niceties we are all forced to utter, dance after dance.”
I was charged with a bolt of surprise that he was seeing in me precisely what I’d felt. And that he had the affrontery—no, I decided, the courage—to speak of it to me. It meant he actually had picked up on what I thought I carefully concealed in my words and tone.
As one, we moved into the dance again. “You were testing me, then. Is that it? To see if I would rise to the challenge of your poor manners?”
He smiled. “You might put it that way. And, Miss Smallpiece, I’m delighted to report that you have passed my test. You obviously have nerve, something badly lacking in many young women I meet here. Nerve and spirit, judging by the way your eyes are flashing so indignantly right now. I must compliment you on those golden arrows you send my way.”
Now he was flirting openly. He had gone from insult to compliment in seconds. I didn’t know how to deal with a man like Somers Ingram.
“What is it you do for the Company, Mr. Ingram?” I asked, breathing deeply, unable to come up with anything else at that moment. I didn’t have to think about my body. He truly was a marvelous dancer and led me expertly.
“I am the chief auditor,” he said.
I had no idea what that was. “How marvelous.”
“Do you think so? Why? I’m interested to know what you would find marvelous about my post.”
Was he again reading my mind? How dare he put me in this uncomfortable position? Most other men would accept the compliment with a proud acknowledgment and talk about the position, so I would know what it was. They wouldn’t question me on my reaction. As I tried to think of something logical to say, he laughed again.
“You really don’t know what a chief auditor does, do you?”
I clicked my tongue and smiled naug
htily. I realized I could be as capable of flirting as he. “Really, Mr. Ingram, you are impossible.”
“Oh, come now, Miss Smallpiece. It doesn’t suit you.”
“What doesn’t?”
“This false air of injury. Why would you say my position is marvelous when you don’t know what it is, and, furthermore, don’t really care?”
Before I was forced to answer, the dance ended, and he led me back to Mrs. Waterton.
“Would you be so kind as to consent to allowing Miss Smallpiece a future dance this evening?” he asked her.
“Miss Smallpiece has many young men requesting her company,” Mrs. Waterton said, fanning the air with my dance card. “She must not appear rude.”
“Of course,” Mr. Ingram said, and bowed again. Strangely, I felt a surge of disappointment at not having the opportunity to talk with him again, and at the same time relief that he wouldn’t confuse me with his unpredictable and unsettling behavior.
“Although,” Mrs. Waterton added, “she may have an opening toward the end of the evening.”
Now Mr. Ingram bent over my hand, which he still held, pressing his lips against my glove. “I shall look forward to it,” he said, and then left.
But he didn’t come back again, and I didn’t see him in the crowds. And at that I felt something that was almost akin to loss. No. Not loss. That would make it appear that I missed something. Perhaps the feeling I experienced when Mr. Ingram did not return for a final dance was more of the same frustration that I felt, imprisoned with Faith and the Watertons on Garden Reach, with India just at my fingertips.
I couldn’t quite put a name to it.
I found myself wondering when I would see Somers Ingram next—and again, it wasn’t longing to be close to this man. It was more something that bothered me about him.
The Linnet Bird: A Novel Page 23
