And she swept from the verandah, leaving me with the boy and his peacock fan, the languid rhythm never missing a beat.
POOR MRS. WATERTON. Still recovering from the shock of my leaving, she reclined on a sofa in her bedroom, a wet cloth on her forehead. I now had to go and tell her the same thing I had told Faith.
She was predictably amazed, sitting bolt upright and tossing the cloth to the floor. She kept repeating, “Mr. Ingram? Mr. Ingram, well. Well, Mr. Ingram,” making it clear that she thought it an impossibility that a gentleman such as he could have even noticed one such as myself.
“But why so quickly? Why must the wedding be so immediate?” she asked, when I told her the date. “There’s a great deal to go into planning a wedding; why, to enjoy it fully it must be drawn out for months. The end of February is terribly inconvenient. In fact, it is impossible.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Waterton, but it is at Mr. Ingram’s insistence.”
“Is there no way you can convince him to extend the engagement, Linny, and be married in the first glorious sweep of the cool season next fall?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Waterton.”
Mrs. Waterton was silent for a moment, and I saw a veil of suspicion fall over her face. And then she took a deep breath and stood, opening her arms. “Well, no matter what I feel, I suppose congratulations are in order, my dear. I’m sure you’ll be very happy,” she said, coming to embrace me. Her hug was stiff.
I was grateful to her; I knew how difficult this was, but she was trying her best to be pleased.
She stepped away, her face now composed. Ever true to her class, I knew she would say no more to me about the strangeness of the situation, although I also knew that within hours there would be much tongue-wagging throughout Calcutta society. “There’s not even any time to make up proper invitations,” she sighed. “Well, I suppose the first thing we must do is have a dress made,” she said, opening the drawing room door to shout her usual “Koi-hai?”—is anyone there?—and send a servant running for the durzi.
FACED WITH THE MAMMOTH TASK of creating a wedding gown, the durzi, swaying back and forth in distress, called in a small contingent of his fellows, and they managed, in just over a week of round-the-clock work, to create a wedding dress for me. Mrs. Waterton oversaw the production, not really asking what I would prefer but telling me what would be most appropriate. It was as if she were informing me, with this action, that I was not to be trusted, and since I was her guest, and a most troublesome one at that, I would do her bidding. And of course I was more relieved than she would ever know to let her take over the complete planning of the dress and wedding. Instead of punishing me, as she must have imagined she was doing, she was making it possible for me to continue to carry out my charade, for I had absolutely no knowledge of what a wedding would entail. I had never even attended a wedding. The closest I’d come to a bride and groom was passing by a church in Liverpool as they descended the steps.
The dress was of the most delicate ivory silk with wide-blown gigot sleeves. Because the highly fashionable dress could be nothing but low cut, Mrs. Waterton came close to swooning when I first tried on the dress and she laid eyes on my scarred chest. I had always gone to great lengths to hide the scar with collars and lace and scarves and fichus, right from my first days in Everton with Shaker, and not even Faith had ever seen the horrid mess. The only people who knew of its existence in India were my ayah and the durzi.
“Oh, my dear, I didn’t know—I don’t quite know how we’ll . . .” Mrs. Waterton was terribly flustered at the obvious harm I’d once come to, although of course she wouldn’t ask, and I didn’t offer any information. As I stood in the middle of Mrs. Waterton’s spacious bedroom, three durzis kneeling around me, Mrs. Waterton fanned herself rapidly as she sank into a chair in front of me. I saw a glimmer of pity in her expression, and hoped this would lessen her anger at me.
Then she conferred at length with the head durzi, and between them a bouffant bow was devised for the neckline, which effectively hid most of my scar. Transparently sympathetic now, she raved over the shape and creaminess of my shoulders, telling me that the small evidence of my “trouble” that still showed could be layered with a thick disguise of powder.
She then admired the tight belt and the inverted triangle of the skirt that emphasized the curve of my waist, while the wicker cage tied with straps around my hips held the dress out in what she said was a glorious example of the style in London.
WHAT CAN BE SAID of that loveless wedding? We had been able to forgo the banns, and there appeared no need for any legal papers of birth to be in evidence here in India. The word of Mr. and Mrs. Waterton to my character seemed all that was necessary, and Mrs. Wateron had, in her usual way, taken care of the details. The simple service took place in St. John’s Church. When the minister pronounced my name during the ceremony, Miss Linnet Smallpiece, I was aware of Somers’s eyes shifting in my direction. He hadn’t even known my full Christian name. I thought of my mother many times through that day, and felt ashamed for the falseness of it all.
The social gathering that followed, held in the ballroom of Government House, was in the finest taste, and attended by the closest friends of the Watertons, friends of Somers, and the other girls from the Fishing Fleet. Mrs. Waterton was constantly surrounded by the bevy of matrons who rather grimly swooped in to help her arrange this shockingly sudden event. More than one of those ladies, possibly with hopes for a match with Mr. Somers Ingram for her own daughter or for one of her houseguests, treated me quite coolly, some verging on rudeness.
But in spite of the strange pall that hung over that day, to all outward appearances it was a lovely celebration. The room was resplendent with mirrors and glass chandeliers, and handsome sofas of blue satin damask sat between the rows of shining white chunam pillars. An elaborate white cake on a stand was surrounded by a display of presents— vases, cruets, silver serving pieces of every description, clocks, and all manner of home decoration to help set up a young couple. Did it appear strange to anyone that the groom and his bride rarely spoke after the service? While trays of dainty sandwiches and liqueurs were passed by immaculate servers, my new husband was taken off to the smoking room by a crowd of friends. I was surrounded by the other girls, who repeated endlessly how lovely my dress was, what a sparkling array of gifts we had received, and how lucky I must consider myself. All this was spoken in loud and cheerful social voices that barely concealed true feelings, which I knew must run from disbelief that I, the odd Miss Smallpiece, had married the most eligible bachelor in Calcutta, to bitter jealousy that they had not yet had the good fortune to start planning weddings of their own.
Faith did attend, in spite of her vow, but I sensed she came simply to avoid any gossip that her absence might create. She had treated me with a careful distance for the last two weeks at the Watertons’, staying in her room while Mrs. Waterton fussed over me, giving excuses that she was resting or had a headache when I knocked on her door. During that long wedding afternoon, her face remained tightly pulled by a smile that never left. Her peck on my cheek after the ceremony reminded me of the harmless nip of a creature who only reacts out of distracted habit.
I felt as if I were somehow floating above the whole scene, smiling and accepting compliments, nodding. Eventually Mr. Ingram was deposited at my side by his cronies. His demeanor indicated that copious amounts of port and brandy had been poured down his throat for the last few hours. He put his arm around my shoulders in what I knew was an inappropriate public display, even at our own wedding, and gave my cheek a rather wet kiss.
“Mr. Ingram,” I trilled, for the sake of the others watching. “Please, darling. I believe it’s time we were on our way.” I cupped my hand coquettishly around my mouth as I spoke into his ear, as if I were whispering something very personal and loving. “Don’t overdo the display, Somers,” was what I whispered, using his Christian name for the first time since we’d met. “I do have a reputation to kee
p up.”
He laughed gaily at that, and the crowd joined in, uncertain of what they had just witnessed, but assuming it to be a very sweet and touching moment between two people who were utterly in love with each other.
I LOOKED FOR FAITH as Somers and I made our good-byes, but she had disappeared. I had so hoped she might have softened enough to at least wish me well before I set off for my new life as a married woman, but there was no sight of her.
Just before we left, Mrs. Waterton hugged me, pressing her cheek against mine and whispering, “Be strong, Linny. Pray to the Lord for deliverance tonight, and know I shall also be praying for your ordeal to be bearable.”
I pulled back and looked into her tear-filled eyes. Did she weep with true concern, or was it fatigue, and relief that such a bothersome houseguest was to no longer be her worry? “Thank you, Mrs. Waterton,” I said. “For all of this, and for your prayers. I am sure to need them.” Then, because I really did owe her a great deal, I said what I knew she would want to hear. “You have been like a mother to me, and I shall never forget your kindness.” She wept openly then, hugging me to her again, patting my hair, and said softly, so no one else could hear, “If you do feel that way, then permit me to speak as your own mother might. Do mind to keep your . . . you know, your . . .” Here she discreetly touched the bow at my neckline. “Covered by your nightdress. It may be distressing for your new husband to view it immediately. Let some time pass, and prepare him, so that it isn’t so shocking.”
“Yes, Mrs. Waterton, I surely will,” I agreed. As if Somers Ingram would be shocked by anything about me now. He would never see it anyway. “That is a very wise suggestion.”
And then Somers and I stepped into the opulent, ceremonial silk-curtained palanquin with its curved pole covered in silver, and we drove back to Alipur, to Somers’s bachelor quarters—the other young men having moved elsewhere—where we would reside temporarily, until he was able to find us our own home.
I was exhausted, my head pounding from the stressful day, from the ordeal of acting like the excited and demure young bride I must portray. Somers was, actually, very drunk, although managing to retain some dignity in spite of it. As we were ushered into the house by the chuprassi, both his khansana and a small woman came forward, obviously waiting for us. The woman kneeled at my feet, salaaming. She wore a simple white sari threaded with blue.
“Your ayah, Linny,” Somers said, his words running together. “Let me know how she works out. Came with quite a good reference.”
The woman rose and stood in front of me, her head still lowered.
“I’m off to bed,” Somers said now. “The girl will show you your room. Your trunks were delivered earlier, I believe.” His eyes weren’t quite focusing on me. They blinked heavily.
I nodded. Although I knew full well that Somers had no physical interest in me, I felt curiously empty. And in that brief moment I think I would have preferred a meaningless encounter to this disconcerting sense of loneliness, if only to be close to another body.
“All right then. Good night,” he said, and walked, rather unsteadily, down the hallway. His khansana followed closely, arms slightly outstretched as if to catch Somers if he fell.
The ayah and I stood in silence until I realized she was waiting for me to instruct her. “Could you show me to my room, please?”
She turned and padded softly along the hall on bare feet, in the opposite direction of Somers. She opened a door to a bedroom lit dimly by a few candles, and, still without a word, helped me out of my wedding finery, into my nightdress, and took down my hair. She fetched scented water and bathed my face and hands and feet. She turned down the sheet of the bed, and when I got in, she pulled it, very gently, over me, and let down the netting. If she thought it strange that a bride spend her wedding night alone, her face betrayed nothing.
“Do you speak any English?” I asked, finally.
For the first time, she met my eyes through the fine mesh. I saw her hesitate. “Yes, some English,” she finally said. Her voice was low and melodic. From the darkness outside came the distant scream of a jackal, followed by the baying of a pariah dog. “Does memsahib wish me to remain?”
I blinked at my new title. “Yes,” I told her, turning my head away as my eyes suddenly burned. I wondered, as I had done constantly in the last few weeks, if the choice I had made was the right one. “Yes, please stay,” I repeated, keeping my face averted and my voice firm.
As she blew out the candles, I thought that this would be the first time, since I had left Back Phoebe Anne, that I was not sleeping in close proximity to another woman whom I called friend—whether Dorie or Helen or Annabelle or Chinese Sally or any of the others on Jack Street, or Faith on Garden Reach. Thinking of these women, I felt the gaping loneliness increase.
The ayah settled, almost noiselessly, on a mat in a corner of the room.
“What is your name?” I called.
“Malti.”
“Does it have a meaning in English?”
There was a moment of silence, and then she said, very quietly, “Its meaning is a small flower. Very small and very fine.”
“Oh.”
Silence. And then I said, “Although I’m called Linny, my name is Linnet. A bird. Also small.”
“Very good, memsahib.”
And so we lay in the darkness, a small Indian flower and a small British bird.
Chapter Twenty-Three
THE MARRIAGE STARTED OFF QUIETLY. RIGHT FROM THE FIRST, Somers told me I was to entertain twice a week, and to accept all invitations that came our way. The couples we had for dinner seemed eager to be included on the invitation list—after all, Mr. Somers Ingram did hold a senior position, and of course now that he was married and could entertain properly, many wished to bask in the glow of that small celebrity.
Somers’s position was unimportant to me; I cared as little about how he spent his days as he cared about mine, although occasionally the weariness on his face some evenings made it clear that his responsibility was great.
I found it a simple matter to plan the menu and confer with the cook about it; it required no stamina of any sort. The actual evenings did, however, require Somers and I to act like a blissfully married couple. We were both quite magnificent at acting, I must admit. There were times, when I smiled at Somers across an acre of blinding white damask, the silver winking in the candlelight, hearing the laughter of our guests, that I almost believed, for those brief, make-believe moments, that we were what we pretended to be. He could be absolutely charming in company, and I also felt embraced in the bright rays he so easily emitted. But at the final closing of the front door he turned off his charm and took a bottle to his room, and I retired to my own room, suddenly aware of how stiff my neck was, how my face ached from the tight fit of the mask I must wear.
Occasionally, were I particularly hot or tired, I knew the mask slipped. And Somers was the first to notice, and reprimand me for it later. Eventually I believe others saw it, as well, and there were many times when I sat at my end of the table with all heads turned to Somers, at the opposite end, as if I were no longer there.
After one especially trying evening, as the last of our guests were ushered out, Somers turnd to me, and I tensed, waiting for his reprimand.
“Were you particularly weary tonight, Linny?” he asked, surprising me with the quiet tone of his voice.
I nodded. “I was. Did it show?” Because he had spoken almost respectfully to me, I was willing to meet him halfway. “I did try, Somers. But that insufferable Major Cowton, well, really, he talked so much that it was quite difficult to pay attention after a while.”
“I must admit I found tonight difficult as well,” he said, sighing, and I felt a rush of something toward him that he and I would agree on this simple fact. I put my hand on his sleeve.
“Must we see so many people, so often?”
“I’m afraid there’s no other way. We would be viewed oddly if we didn’t follow what is expected.
” His eyes rose to my hair. “I find your hairstyle tonight attractive.”
“It’s something new Malti tried,” I said, flustered. What was happening? Where was his arrogance, the usual verbal sparring in which we tried to outdo each other?
“Well, good night then,” Somers said, but his voice held a slight hesitation, something that I could almost—almost—interpret as loneliness. And I knew, too, how lonely I was, in the midst of the endless stream of events with people who cared nothing for me except my position in the community, and in my moment of unexpected emotion, I put my arms around him and laid my head against his chest.
The Linnet Bird: A Novel Page 28
