I gasped.
Somers stood in the doorway, his blocky frame filling the entrance. “Hello, Linny.” He was very still.
I backed away, bumping into Malti, who dropped the reticule. Somers stared at it.
“Just on your way out, were you, Linny?” He still hadn’t crossed the threshold.
“No . . . well, yes, Malti and I were just going to take a turn around the Maidan . . . we often do, at this time, don’t we, Malti?” I turned to her. She stood with her mouth open.
Somers stepped in, leaving the door open behind him. “You were going for a stroll, at the hottest time of day, without your solar topee, or sun parasol—and in this apparel?” He had two hectic spots on his cheeks.
I looked down at the wrinkled cotton of my limp frock, seeing the spattering of grease along one cuff, a button missing at the waist. “What—what are you doing home?”
“Fever,” he said tersely. His old enemy, malaria, poking his spine with its cold, bony finger. “I’m going to bed. Malti, you’re not to allow your mistress out of the house. Do you understand?”
I grabbed his sleeve. “But Somers, I just want—”
He threw up his arm to shake off my hand, catching me across the bridge of the nose. Bright lights burst behind my eyes. “I forbid it. You’ll not make a fool of me, parading around in public like a harridan. Like the whore that you are.”
I heard the sharp intake of Malti’s breath, and the rustle of the chuprassi’s clothes.
“In fact, I’m sick of the sight of you. Dirty whore.”
I wanted to spit in his face, to put up my chin and tell him that yes, yes, I was still a whore. It was tempting, so tempting to scream at him that David wasn’t his at all, that I was indeed what he always accused me of, that I had joined with a man joyfully, for my own pleasure, and that David was a child of love, and not of his brutal rape. But of course I wouldn’t tell him this, for what I had kept hidden for these five years was my trump card. I shook with the effort to keep my lips sealed. I tried to push past him.
He grabbed at the front of my dress and as I moved forward, he pulled at the fabric with all his force. There was a terrible ripping sound, and I stopped, shocked. Somers looked down at the clutch of poplin and cambric—he’d even torn away my chemise—then back to me, and his eyes riveted on my exposed chest. The blood drained from his face, leaving him parchment white. He stumbled back, and the chuprassi caught him.
Malti stepped in front of me, trying to hold her own head scarf over my nakedness.
Somers dropped the fabrics and pointed, his finger shaking, at me.
“What’s the matter, Somers?” I hissed his name, in a low, shaky voice, pushing Malti away, standing in front of him so that my scar was fully visible. “Don’t like what you see? Thought you knew all there was to know about me?”
“Mem Linny, Mem Linny,” Malti cried, “please. Do not make him angry. Please.” She covered her own face and wept.
Somers shook off the chuprassi and straightened, his face still bleached, his forehead beaded with perspiration. “What is that?” he whispered, his finger trembling.
“What does it look like? The touch of an old lover?” I didn’t care any longer how I sounded, what I said. The pure hatred I had for him at this moment flooded all my senses.
But before he could respond Somers groaned loudly and doubled over, and the chuprassi helped him down the hall to his room. And at that I lurched through the open doorway. I ran, as best as I could, down the drive, my boots crunching in the crushed shells. I heard the gasp of my own breath, loud in my head, felt the tightening of my chest at the accelerated and unaccumstomed pace. I had not yet reached the end of the drive before large, gloved hands gripped my arms from behind.
It was the chuprassi, sent, surely, by Somers to fetch me back. I struggled against his hold, twisting and straining. “Let me go,” I muttered. “You must do as I say.” But the hold remained firm, and his face, as I looked over my shoulder at him, showed nothing as I squirmed like a helpless kitten. Malti was beside us, still crying, reaching up to wipe the spittle from my chin with her fingers, pulling at my dress to cover me, trying to soothe me as I was swept up and carried back to the house in the arms of the chuprassi.
The small flurry of activity had weakened me; I could no longer fight, and leaned, defeated, against him until he deposited me on my bed.
LATER, IN MY BEDROOM, I dismissed the punkah wallah and Malti.
“I don’t want to leave you, Mem Linny,” she said. “You should not be alone. You are very troubled.”
But eventually I convinced her I was only going to sleep, and she left, leaving my door ajar. I knew she would remain in the hallway, listening to my every move through the half-open door. I sat at my mirrored dressing table, looking at my hands on my lap, curled into each other, still and white as dead doves.
Was it really Daoud, here, in Calcutta, looking for me? I had to know. I would go to the Maidan, no matter what Somers said or did to me. I would somehow sneak out, and walk all the way there, if necessary. I took a deep breath and looked into the mirror.
Long strands of dull hair fell around my shoulders. I saw how thin my face was, the bridge of my nose purple and swollen from the knock Somers’s arm had given it. The skin over my bones was translucent and taut, as if there were hardly enough to cover my nostrils. I had a sudden horrifying impression of my skull beneath the flesh. My lips had grown thin, and lumpy discolored pouches stood out beneath my eyes. I thought of my image in Shaker’s mirror, nine long years ago. If I had been shocked then, it was doubly worse now. What had I been thinking? Of course it wasn’t Daoud. What was I dreaming of? That Daoud would pull me up on his horse, and we would ride away together? I was a fool, a complete fool. David was here, my child, my life. My fantasies about Daoud were nothing more than that—fantasies. I had known him, almost six years ago, for less than a month. He was, as I had told Nani Meera, of another world, a world that could never be mine.
I looked at myself in the mirror again. I had lost all sight of the bright hope that had brought me to India. I had lost sight of the woman who called herself Linny Gow.
I prepared my pipe and smoked it until I could smoke no more.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
THE MALARIA THAT HAD PERIODICALLY HELD SOMERS IN ITS terrible grip had indeed returned, and this was the worst episode of the string of his recurrent paroxysms. He had terrible headaches accompanied by nausea and vomiting, followed by chills that were more violent than ever before. The fevers were raging, leaving his skin hot and dry, and sometimes there was delirium. And then suddenly the sweating began; his body was drenched and his temperature fell. Weakened, he sank into deep, deep sleeps that lasted hour after hour. Dr. Haverlock visited every day to check his progress. I was not allowed to leave the house; although Somers might not be aware of where I was, the servants he had paid handsomely to mind me were watching at all times. Even as I passed the front door the chuprassi would step in front of it, arms crossed over his chest, and when I walked in the back garden Somers’s khansana followed me closely, stopping when I stopped, walking when I walked.
On the fourth evening of his illness Somers sent for me. He was propped up on pillows, alone in the room. He had lost his fevered color, and his skin had a sticky look in the glow of the lamps lit in his bedroom. The smell of sickness lingered, its stale miasma almost overpowering, but I knew Somers was through the worst, and his eyes glared at me with clear disgust. I felt that he was destined to rise from each attack with renewed strength and venom.
“As soon as this bout is completely past I shall put together preparations for you to leave here,” he said.
“Leave?”
He flapped a hand, weakly. “You’ve become too much of a burden. That last episode, with you ready to run out into the streets of Calcutta behaving like a madwoman, ready to do who knows what, made up my mind. Do you really think anyone would be surprised—or even care—if you simply disappeared? Who wou
ld even notice, Linny, apart from the servants?”
I tried to swallow, but I had no saliva. I knew my future depended on the next few minutes. “Will you send us back to England, then?”
He stared blankly. When he didn’t answer, I thought it was due to his illness. Then he spoke and his voice was clear and firm. “Do you realize you’re using Hindi, Linny? Are you even aware that you’re no longer speaking English?”
“I’m sorry.” I repeated my question. “I asked if you would send us back to England.”
“Us? What do you mean by us?”
I spoke slowly, carefully. “Why, David and myself, of course. As you said not long ago, soon it will be time for him to begin his education. I could live with him wherever you choose—in London, perhaps. He could attend your old school.”
He gave a dry cough, then attempted a smile. “You really think I’d trust you to bring up my son? You’re an addict, Linny. Among other things, of course.”
The floor tilted, and I put out one hand, holding on to the bedpost so I wouldn’t fall, lowering myself into a chair beside the bed.
“I would stop, Somers. I can stop if I choose.”
“Everybody knows you’re nothing but a wasted ruin. I sense that most think you quite mad already, you know. They don’t even ask about you or seem the least curious that you no longer accompany me to social events. So my plan is to find a pleasant place for you to . . . rest, shall we call it? Someplace—perhaps an isolated post in the Indian plains—where you would be cared for properly, and couldn’t hurt anybody—or yourself. Or maybe I could consider another option, if you would really like to go home.”
I nodded vigorously, standing, my head still light. “Yes, yes, Somers. That’s what I’d really like. To go home.” If I could only get back to England, I would find a way to be near David. Shaker would help me.
“Yes. I agree that’s the best plan. There are a number of places in London that could keep you restrained for—well, for an indefinite period of time.”
“Restrained?” It took thirty seconds for his meaning to become clear. “A . . . a lunatic asylum?”
“A lunatic asylum, my dear? Is it necessary to use such a harsh term?” He actually managed a smile this time. “Let’s just say you’ll be under care. Having a nice long rest. It’s well known that India has the ability to do this to some, you know. You wouldn’t be the first memsahib who proved unable to bear the strain. Everyone would understand, and not a soul would question my motives. In fact,” he went on, as if very pleased with himself now, “who, besides David and perhaps Malti, would even care what becomes of you? And David is a child; he’ll quickly forget. Malti will be dismissed. She’s of no importance anyway.”
My dizziness returned, and I felt behind me for the chair and sat on its edge. I needed my pipe. I shivered, and sweat rolled from my hairline down my face, onto my neck, giving the unpleasant sensation of minuscule insects scurrying under my skin. Without thinking, I pulled the gauzy scarf I wore tucked into the bodice of my frock, and swabbed at my cheeks and neck.
There was silence, and then an odd, strangled cry from the bed. Somers was sitting up, pointing a shaking finger at my chest as he had days earlier when he’d torn my dress.
I looked down at my scar. “Once again, I’m surprised at your reaction, husband dear,” I whispered with sarcasm. I cleared my throat, finding my voice. “Surely you aren’t concerned over an old injury. I didn’t think my body would be of any interest to you after all this time.”
He slumped back, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to breathe. “I know,” he croaked. “I know now. When I first saw that,” he said hoarsely, his eyes fixed on the scar, “there was something . . . something. I didn’t know what. But yes, I think . . .”
I hardly listened to his raving. I thought of never seeing my son again, of him growing up learning his mother lived out her life huddled on a pile of putrid straw in a darkened stone cell in some Bedlam. Of Somers distorting any memories of me David might retain from his childhood, and, worse than all of that, of trying to impart his own twisted values on him.
The fierce need to protect David from this future gave me a strength I hadn’t felt in a long time. I threw the scarf onto the ground, pulling my bodice lower as I leaned toward the bed, so that Somers would see the whole of the destruction. “Done by one of my old customers in Liverpool,” I said. “Quite the picture, isn’t it? And yet I survived. I survived a madman’s blade once, and I’ll survive whatever you think you can do to me, Somers. You will not win.”
He made a retching sound, putting his fist to his mouth.
“Will you be sick?” I asked, no concern in my voice. “Surely the sight of my ruined flesh would bring you pleasure, not discomfort. After all, my pain is the only thing that has brought you any joy in our miserable marriage.”
“I know,” he said again, speaking through his fist, that same strange agitation in his voice. “I know now why I recognized the fish.”
I sat back, letting go of the front of my dress, trying to understand. The fish? And then I remembered that time in his bachelor’s quarters, and how his seeing my birthmark had been the reason he knew me to be a whore.
He put his hand down, his fist still clenched. “I’d almost managed to forget my last sojourn to that black spot on the Mersey,” he said. He spoke slowly, as if thinking out loud. He struggled to sit up again. “And you’re right. You did survive. How, I can never guess. You should be nothing but softened bones by now, the crabs using your eye sockets as a home.”
I put my own fist to my mouth as Somers had done seconds before. In the quiet that followed his strange statement, a terrible, shocking sense of knowledge began to form. An understanding too horrific, too unbelievable, dawning slowly at his words. I shivered uncontrollably in the stifling room, my teeth clenched so tightly that my jaw ached.
“Didn’t I instruct my man to dump your body in the Mersey?” Somers had regained some of his composure; his voice was low but strong as he stared at me. “And didn’t Pompey swear to me that he did it, and assure me there was no one left to speak of what happened that night on Rodney Street?”
And suddenly I heard it, the same cold, rational voice that had ordered my death as I lay, a thirteen-year-old girl made blind and helpless, on a thick rug in front of a trunk of glass jars filled with floating hair. The hair of dead girls. The old man with the shears planted in his eye beside me. The stench of rot coming from him, and then that of burning hair. I gagged, my mouth filling with acrid saliva.
This was not what I had expected. Ever. Rodney Street. The old nightmare came to life, reared up huge and even more terrifying when fed by the light of the glowing lamps in this room. I felt a spinning, a flying apart; the fearful old vision flooded back: my body, with its broken neck, tossed into the murderers’ pit of quicklime. I leaned forward, choking as I spat out what my stomach heaved. It splattered the toes of my slippers. I lowered my head to my knees.
Young Master, Pompey had called him.
“I had to relieve Pompey of his services not too long after the incident in Liverpool. Too many slipups. But I suppose it can’t all be blamed on Pompey. I saw you, too, that night, and believed you to be dead. You were torn open, right down your left breast. I saw muscle; I swear I even saw your heart, lying unbeating, but of course that couldn’t be.”
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I raised my head and looked at him.
He licked his lips, then smiled, as if reliving a fond memory. And that smile chilled me even more than his calm words. “If I remember correctly you were little more than a child, your hair gone. Totally unlike the self-possessed woman I first met in Calcutta—but for that telling fish on your arm. No wonder I couldn’t remember where I’d seen it. I put that night and its troublesome mess out of my head as quickly as I could.”
I kept my mouth open now, sucking in the muggy air, trying to draw it into my lungs, envisioning the illustrations from Shaker’s medical books
, all those years ago, Albinus’s drawings of the two sacks situated behind the breastbone. I knew my lungs weren’t plump and full but flat and deflated, shriveled. They wouldn’t pump, wouldn’t fill with the drenched air. My mouth gaped as a fish out of water. I knew I was drowning. The image of that ravaged face, the horror of the flickering tongue, the senseless eyes, stood in the front of my mind as if lit by rows of candles.
Somers was the son of the man I had killed.
“It’s too late,” I whispered, finally finding the strength to speak. “You could never prove it. It’s too late to have me tried for murder.” I must protect David from a future with Somers, and from the knowledge of my past.
A sound like laughter came from Somers’s throat, a ghastly crackling noise. “Tried? For murder? I hardly think so. There was no record of murder, after all. Simply the death of a man riddled with syphilis and driven to insanity. It seemed he would never die; I imagined him living on for years and years. In fact, you did the job I wish I’d had the nerve to do much, much earlier. Even before he grew so ill he was a bastard, a cruel, heartless bastard. I left England shortly after you killed him, Linny. I wanted to leave it all behind, to forget.”
Silence grew in the room. I took short, shallow breaths as if just learning to breathe.
“Nobody was happier than I to see him buried at long last,” Somers finally continued, when I knew we had both gone through the details in our minds—the ones each of us knew—of that night, “where the worms could do their final job on what was left of his stinking body. As for his soul—I don’t believe he had one.
“From the time I was twelve—”
“No. I don’t want to hear any more,” I whispered, but he ignored me.
“—he took me with him on his prowls. At first he just had me watch while he mounted each bitch. He had a penchant for lower-class women. Like you, Linny. After a while I came to enjoy watching the humiliations to which he subjected them.”
The Linnet Bird: A Novel Page 46
