The Linnet Bird: A Novel

by Linda Holeman

  He immediately removed my arms and held me at length. “Why would you do that?” he asked, his voice tight, the usual voice he reserved for me.

  “I don’t know,” I replied honestly. “I felt—well, was it wrong of me?” Was I so repulsive to him that he couldn’t bear my touch?

  But he didn’t answer, leaving me in the entrance, while behind me began the discreet sounds of the table being cleared.

  FAITH MARRIED CHARLES SNOW six weeks after my own wedding. And while hers was a hurried affair, as was mine, it was far less auspicious, a simple exchange of vows at the Registry Office. Poor Mrs. Waterton—she must have regretted the day she opened her home to guests. Within less than a year she had to calm the flames that the untameable Mrs. Liston had fanned, arrange my wedding, and then deal with the terrible social implications that befell her due to the scandal caused by Faith and Charles.

  When Faith’s father arrived in Calcutta, three weeks after I was married, it was said that Mr. Snow had already proposed, and Faith accepted. I heard all of this news secondhand, as Faith still had not answered any of my invitations to call. Daily my thoughts went to her, missing her, wanting to share my life with her as I had once done. I refused to give up on her, refused to believe she would abandon our friendship so completely. I sometimes found myself thinking how she would laugh over some small incident, or would enjoy hearing about a book I was reading. I had conversations with her in my head at times.

  When he arrived, Faith’s father forbade her to marry Mr. Snow. Nobody knew why at first, but then the rumor spread like a river flooding its banks throughout the cloistered English enclave. It was somehow disclosed that Charles Snow was Eurasian, although he had managed to hide it until he and Faith announced their betrothal. He had already disclosed his heritage to her, she confided to me eventually, when we had begun to speak again, but she wasn’t aware of the backlash of gossip and discrimination it would herald. It’s impossible to know who began to speak of it, and Charles, being an honorable man, did not deny the fact, once confronted. Apart from gleaming black hair, there was nothing in Charles’s appearance to suggest that his mother, who died in childbed, had been Indian. Mr. Vespry was enraged at the slur he felt his daughter was threatening to cast upon his family’s good name by her union with a half-caste. It was reported that he had shouted at her, on the very steps of the Calcutta Club, that if she chose to marry this man he would disown her.

  And that is when Faith came back to me. Without even a prior calling card she stood in my hall, gloveless, picking at her nails, asking what she should do, her eyes tear-filled. Without speaking I opened my arms, and she came into them. It was as if I had been missing a part of myself as I hugged her, and she returned the pressure. I felt an immediate lightening sensation, a heaviness lifted from me, and although I sorrowed for her tears and her trouble, I also inwardly rejoiced.

  Once we were seated in the drawing room, and I had sent out the servants and closed the doors, I felt I could speak to her candidly, as we had once been able to.

  “Do you really love him, Faith?”

  “Linny, I do. I never thought I could feel this way. Of course no one—absolutely no one—supports me in this. And although I so want you to, I will understand if you don’t, either.” Her bottom lip was flaky and she continually bit at the loose skin with her small teeth. “But somehow I sensed you would understand, and so took a chance on calling on you, hoping you would admit me if you found me at your door. I was afraid to send a calling card and be rejected.”

  “I will support you, Faith,” I said quietly. I knew better than most of the need to follow one’s own instinct. “If a marriage with Charles is what you want, then of course,” I told her, and her face crumpled with relief.

  “I can’t bear not to have you as my friend any longer, Linny, even though I will accept your decision if you don’t want me back, after the way I’ve treated you.” She wept, and I took my handkerchief from my sleeve and handed it to her, as she appeared not even to have brought a reticule. “I realize how ridiculous I must have seemed when you announced your marriage plans. I was so afraid—” She stopped, as if unsure if she should continue, then took a breath and plunged on. “It was fear, my darling Linny, fear that I would be sent home. I had hoped and hoped that Charles would propose, and was a bundle of nerves, waiting, and then you came along and announced, so unexpectedly, that you would marry, and . . . and I’m sorry, Linny. Please forgive me. Since Charles has asked me to be his wife, and I recognize the true depth of his feelings for me, I feel as if I am a new person. I’m happy, Linny, happier than I’ve been for—well, I don’t remember. I don’t care about my father’s threats. And I don’t care that Charles has been lowered to the uncovenanted ranks, and that our manner of living will be much reduced. I realize, as I look upon his dear face, that I don’t give a fig about all of that. I love him, and he loves me.” She gave a great shuddering sigh.

  I took her hands. “Then you must marry Charles, Faith. How many times, after all, does one feel love, and have it returned, within a lifetime?”

  She attempted a shaky smile. “I knew I was right to talk to you about this. I know I’ve been impossible since we left Liverpool, Linny. I own up to that. It’s you who have been so brave, and so strong. And no matter what I might have said to you, in anger, please know that there is no one I would rather have had on this journey. So you do forgive me?”

  I smiled, nodding. “I am so very happy for you, Faith,” I told her. “And we shall always, always be friends.”

  “But you are a senior lady now, and Charles . . . well, I will no longer be of your standing,” Faith said.

  “I won’t allow us to be pushed apart because of that.” I snapped my fingers. “That’s what I care about what anyone might say of our friendship.”

  She hugged me, quite spontaneously. “Isn’t it absolutely marvelous, Linny, to be loved so deeply and so truly? Just think. Soon we will both be memsahibs in Calcutta. Would you have ever dreamed of this life?”

  “No,” I told her, honestly. “No, Faith. I wouldn’t.”

  AND SO FAITH CHOSE Charles over her allowance and inheritance and returning to her old life in Liverpool.

  I liked Charles. He was unassuming and had a quiet appeal. He had been employed as a commissioner in one of the Company’s smaller offices, but immediately after the disclosure of his heritage he had been reduced to a member of the uncovenanted ranks, his salary only a fraction of what he had formerly commanded. As soon as they were wed, most of the English community snubbed Faith, and cards requesting her presence at the finer events stopped. Social rank and the invitations it brought had been terribly important to Faith, but I hoped she could get over that, buoyed by the strength she must now draw from Charles. With him I saw her blossom, although I later realized it was to be a brief season.

  I MADE A HORRENDOUS mistake in trying to include Faith and Charles in our own circle. Somers and I had been married four months, and Somers often let me draw up the invitation list, choosing from a roster of names he supplied. Tonight I chose two former Fishing Fleet girls whom Faith and I knew well. They were now betrothed to young men Somers approved of, and who had worked with Charles before his recent fall from grace. There was also an older couple known by Somers for most of his time in India who would act as chaperones for the engaged couples. I selected Charles and Faith without mentioning it to Somers.

  As Mr. and Mrs. Charles Snow were announced in the drawing room, where the rest of our party stood with drinks in hand, a hush fell over the room. I hurried to greet them. Faith looked particularly fetching in a flowered poplin dress, the underskirt a deep, rich brown red, which of course emphasized her hair. But her eyes were wide and uncertain; Charles stood, poker-straight, at her side.

  “Please, please come in,” I said, smiling, turning to look back into the room, and saw that there were no welcoming smiles, no murmurs of greeting. And then Somers turned his back, speaking loudly to one of the other gentlemen o
f an inconsequential matter, completely snubbing Faith and Charles, and setting the tone for the evening.

  It was completely miserable; I struggled to include Faith and Charles in the conversation at the table, but they, too, aware of the atmosphere their presence had created, were stilted and uncommunicative. I saw Charles’s dark, intelligent stare across the table, and I was deeply ashamed that I had put him and Faith in this position.

  When the last of the guests finally departed, Somers turned on me. “How dare you do that to me,” he growled. “Of all the asinine, inappropriate—”

  “Don’t tell me that you go along with the rest of them, Somers,” I said wearily. “You told me yourself you had even considered courting Faith when we first arrived. And it was she who brought me here, who—”

  But he cut me off. “Those bloody half-castes. They’re all alike, you know, with that damn chee-chee accent, bowing and scraping and stabbing you in the back whenever they get a chance. Mixed blood,” he sneered. “If you’ve been touched by the tar brush, you can’t hide it. It will come out in one way or another.”

  “You had no difficulty accepting Charles before you knew,” I said. “And he speaks no differently from you.”

  “I always suspected there was something off about him,” Somers said. “Just as I knew there was something hidden about you when I first met you. I’ve got a nose for deceit. You must know that about me by now.” He turned to go to his room, but stopped, looking back at me. “Don’t you ever, ever humiliate me like that again. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, I understand,” I answered, refusing to acquiesce to his demand.

  He stood there a moment longer, staring at me, and then, with long, angry strides, went to his room, slamming the door.

  I SENT A CHIT to Faith the next day, asking her to call in the early afternoon, after lunch, when Somers would have returned to work. She sent back the chit with a large yes written across it.

  When she arrived, I took her hands in mine. “I’m so, so sorry for last night, Faith. Please forgive me. I could not have imagined you would be so shabbily treated.”

  Faith squeezed my hands. “It’s all right. Charles didn’t want to come, but I convinced him, pouting and putting on an act to make him guilty, telling him you were my only real friend in Calcutta, and how I would never forgive him if we didn’t attend. Now I so wish I hadn’t. Like you, I had no idea that our presence would be so inappropriate.”

  We sat down beside each other on the settee, still holding hands. And at that moment there seemed little more to say.

  June 15, 1831

  Dear Shaker,

  Thank you, thank you, thank you! When I received your letter I cannot tell you how my heart tumbled and raced. I immediately recognized Mr. Worth’s distinctive hand. It is kind of him to scribe for you. Does he still do all the lettering for the announcements?

  I was deeply saddened to hear of the death of your mother. I can well understand how difficult this last year must have been for you, with her needing constant attention. How kind that Celina Brunswick and her mother paid a condolence call. Faith has often spoken highly of Celina, citing her many good qualities and her musical abilities.

  I have been a married woman—a memsahib—for all of four months. My husband, Somers, has family wealth that allowed him to purchase a home for us in Chowringhee within two months of our marriage. The area is one of the spaciously planned districts of Calcutta, one that attempts to catch the cooling effect of the wind off the river and shade from natural vegetation. It is set in a verdant garden compound, and the house is a stucco villa.

  The house is really quite lovely, but too large and echoing. Somers takes great delight in an ongoing decoration, smothering the rooms in an English scheme of furniture and rugs and artifacts which, frankly, hold less appeal for me.

  The thing I love the most about the house is the wide verandahs, front and back. They have proved essential in the hot season, which is full upon us. There are occasional small, blistering winds now, the precursor, I’ve been warned, to the monsoons that will arrive within the month. The sun, which I welcomed on my arrival in India, has now become a threatening and brutal master. The air is bright, brilliant, and washes out the color from the trees, the roads, the gardens, the rocks, even our faces. Surfaces are impossible to touch; the hurtful edge of the sun is everywhere. I can feel its sharpness against my own skin. There is debilitating humidity. I am covered with heat rash. There are insects that defy explanation. Even my words, when I have the energy to speak, seem to melt as they leave my mouth, dissolving as if made of sugar, and carrying little meaning.

  But in spite of this cruel god in the sky, the more intense the heat, the sweeter the fruits, the heavier and more fragrant the blossoms.

  I stay inside my lair with all manner of devices to try and stay cool. There are the everpresent overhead fans—the punkahs—although they do little but churn the thick, hot air. The tatties—reed screens over all the windows and doorways—are constantly spashed with water in the hope of cooling the hot air that blows through. And I also have a thermantidote—a horribly noisy contraption that is intended to dispense cooled air through the room. For all its deafening roar, it helps little.

  When Somers is home, we are kept busy with the endless rounds of unbearable social visits. There is a kind of forced jolliness in all this business of calling cards and daytime visits between eleven and two—when the sun is at its worst—that I find vapid. But when Somers is away—which he is, frequently, pig sticking in the jungle or visiting one of the other Company presidencies in Madras or Bombay—oh, Shaker, my Indian world opens, although I must keep my activities secret. And perhaps this is how I am, and how I feel the most comfortable. I see clearly now that much of my life has been a secret, and may always be so.

  With Somers gone I send my regrets to all invitations that come in and instead stay home, going barefoot, pushing aside the dhurrie rugs and savoring the coolness of the stone floor. I read endlessly—there is a small but adequate library at the Club, and I am a frequent visitor. I give no orders for meals, which sends the cook into deep sulks, and I know he is terribly offended. But I prefer to avoid the everpresent meat—venison, beef, mutton, pork, veal, and poultry—and the endless courses of rich English food that our poor biwarchi tries so desperately to create, often with strange results.

  The servants think me mad, I’m sure, except for my beloved ayah, Malti (her name means small, fragrant flower, and suits her perfectly), and they pretend they are not staring at me dancing about the house barefoot, in one of Malti’s saris, my hair down, living on rice and almonds and muskmelon and mangoes and an occasional curry. They have also grown bold enough to carry on—at my urging—very minor conversations in Hindi with me when the “burra sahib” is not at home, and my command of the language has grown remarkably.

  I have also learned to ride. Again, this activity had to be done in secret, for how could I explain to the fine British ladies of Calcutta that I had never ridden? Even the smallest English child here is set into a ring saddle and becomes competent at an early age. And so I sought out a stable away from the Club, with a patient Eurasian handler who doesn’t question my inexperience, and within a few months found myself managing quite ably in the saddle. I have not yet tackled jumps or anything more ambitious than a trot or canter or gallop, but I can ride passably enough to not draw attention to myself.

  At other times I creep about Calcutta on the pretext of shopping. What do I care of shopping, Shaker? You know me well enough to understand that this pastime, so precious to the English memsahib, holds no interest for me. Instead, I give Malti, my confidante, who seems to adore me for no other reason than that she has been given the task of caring for me, a shopping list, a large basket, and a chit. She rides off to the Hogg Market and collects what is needed for the next few meals, or else goes to Taylor’s Emporium, with its wide clean aisles of gleaming silverware and sparkling china and crystal and jewelry and all manner of thing
s English. She feels important and happy with these chores, and tells me she is the envy of her counterparts, whose memsahibs would never entrust to them such decisions.

  And while Malti does the shopping, Shaker, I explore. I go to the open bazaars. The main one is Bow Bazaar, with its cheerful, although squalid, profusion of stalls, and oh—I have seen items I didn’t know existed, items never found in all the books I studied before arriving. There are curious idols and strange fabrics, pungent, aromatic spices, rich gums, and large glass bottles of oil and rosewater encased in wicker. There is pure ivory from Ceylon and there are rhinoceros hides from Zanzibar. I am perfectly safe; there is an unspoken and, I suspect, false respect for all memsahibs here. False because the Indians have no choice. It is not a respect born of admiration, but one that simply is, for no reason other than the color of our skins. This, to me, is deeply disturbing, and yet I have come to understand that India is a country that links worth with the level at which one is born.

  Much as life is in England. In this one respect only there is a similarity.

  I am assuming that you are aware that Faith married not long after I did. I know that Faith wrote of this wonderful fact to Celina, and I hope she may have passed the news on to you. I do see Faith as much as possible. Her health appears rather fragile, I’m afraid. Her husband, Mr. Snow, is a kind, serious yet thoughtful man, and obviously adores her. In spite of this happiness within her marriage, Faith finds the chaos of the Indian world difficult to manage. She talks about making the journey home for a visit next year, which I think would be a wise choice, although she would have to build up her physical stamina to face that challenge.