Flowers in the Blood (67 page)

“Probably. What about after? How would he have explained having the capital?”

“With lies about the size of his loans, I suppose,” I added. “Flushed with his success, he would have taken the reins at Clive Street, reorganizing his account books and the other evidence.”

“Don't forget your uncle continues to think nobody knows what he's going to do.” Edwin stood up. “Secrecy is essential.”

“I wish your Grandfather Moses could be here now.” Raphael pushed his bulk up with a groan. “Or your Uncle Saul.” He turned to Edwin.

“Write out those figures for me and I'll see what I can do.”

After that meeting, I had not returned to Raphael's house. Edwin had seen him again to organize the details. My husband came back from the last encounter with a startling suggestion.

“Raphael wants you to attend the auction.”

“Why? Women never do.”

“Not true. Apparently some of the English ladies have been finding it entertaining. He told me that even Bellore went once. Nobody thought too much of it because she likes to do whatever is fashionable, and if Olivia Davidson finds some place new to parade about in her latest Parisian confection, your aunt is not to be outdone.”

“But why me?”

“Give the old man some credit. He's thought of some angles we neglected. Eventually the merchants will figure out that a run is on. Of course, almost everyone—except the independent agents and a few of the smallest houses who cannot be in on the plot because of secrecy— will know what is happening. Everyone except Samuel's coterie, of course.”

“I don't understand. What good will it do for him to see me when he knows that he is the one, not me?”

“What if he thinks that we might be trying to play the same game? He knows you have a fortune to invest. Raphael has a few independent agents who will bid a portion of his shares at a higher price early in the day so it will
appear
as though someone besides your uncle is trying to take over. If your uncle sees you there, you will be the prime suspect. Remember, he doesn't know that we surmise him guilty of anything. Our interference should escalate the bidding more rapidly and, more important, destroy his equilibrium. The sooner Samuel backs down, the cheaper the later chests will be, minimizing our risks.”

I had been thrilled by this latest addition to the scheme. Earlier qualms about the nature of what we were bidding for diminished with the larger goal of using the lots and rupees to rout Uncle Samuel. And when this was over, Edwin and I would be able to wash our hands of the opium business forever.

Yes, everything was almost perfect, like an ungilded dome with the promise of golden foil about to be pressed in place. My mind turned back to the children, who were running ahead as we left Wellington Square and made our way back to Free School Street. I liked this time of day best. After tea I was refreshed, filled with a balance of energy and patience. The children's vitality infused me. Now that the twins were able to converse, I had taken to supervising their nursery suppers while the ayahs had their own meal.

A short while later we sat at the table together. Aaron entertained with a song he had heard me sing only once. His memory showed every sign of being as exceptional as his father's. Zachariah fussed about having too much rice on his plate. Jeremiah could not eat fast enough. Aaron used his implements with the precision of a little old man. The differences amused me. I idly wondered what a daughter might be like.

“Ow!” Aaron cried as I wiped Jeremiah's mouth. I turned to see blood dribbling down his chin.

“What happened?” I asked in alarm.

Aaron was grinning, not crying. In his hand he held up a little pearl of a tooth. He stuck his tongue through the gap between his lower front teeth. “First one!” he said triumphantly.

I clapped my hands in appreciation for the threshold he had crossed.

“Papa! I want to show Papa.”

I went out into the hall and called for Hanif. “Is the sahib home yet?”

“Yes, memsahib, he came in while you were out. Shall I call him for you?”

“No,” I said, because Edwin might be lying down, something he often did before dinner, since he liked to stay up and work in the coolness of the late evening. “Ask Yali to watch the little ones.” After I wiped Aaron's lip, he pulled the bloody napkin away and waved it around like a banner. I placed the tiny tooth in the other hand. “Hold this tightly and we'll show it to Papa.” I urged him upstairs, and in so doing opened a door that led not to a happy family celebration, but to a black shaft of despair.

 

The man I loved lay on his side, his back away from me, as Aaron and I entered the room at the end of the corridor on the top floor, which had become Edwin's study. He said he liked this corner room because it had shutters on two sides and good ventilation in the hottest months. Even on this mild evening, the moment the door opened, a breeze rippled through the room and lifted my skirt. My husband's books lined one wall. The bed was covered with a silk rug and dotted with cushions. “My reading nest,” Edwin called it. The children were never permitted to disturb him there. Even I respected his privacy, for I had wanted to encourage his intellectual pursuits, which were his relief from the pressures of his work. However, the loss of his first son's first tooth justified a special exception.

The room was darkened. Shafts of twilight spilled through the wide-open slats. One shutter that was not completely fastened creaked slightly. My instinct was either to latch it firmly or to lock it open. I decided on the latter course so Edwin would see his son's toothless grin better.

“What a funny smell,” Aaron said, wrinkling his nose.

“Shhh!” I hushed him. Turning to admire the husky curve of Edwin's back, I moved around to see if he was asleep.

His eyes were closed, but he was not asleep. Oblivious of our entrance, he was smoking a silver pipe.

An opium pipe.

“Edwin!”

“Dinah . . .” His mushy reply reminded me of Amar's awful speech.

“Papa, I lost my first tooth!” Aaron crowed, starting to climb onto the bed.

Grabbing his shirt, I pushed the child back roughly. “Go to Yali!”

“I must show Papa my tooth!”

“Do as I say!”

“Mama, no!”

“Aaron!”

The child burst into tears. Supporting himself on his elbow, Edwin sat up slightly. “Truth. He must show me the truth. Never too early for the truth . . .”

Aaron's tears stopped as he giggled. “No, Papa,
tooth.”

Was this the truth? Had everything else been imagined? How could I not have known? The ungilded dome shattered like a raw egg rapped with a spoon.

Mechanically I had Aaron give his father the tooth and a kiss on the cheek. Using enormous control, I steered him out the door and turned him over to the
dhobi
, who was stacking diapers on a table. “Go finish your supper, Aaron.” This time the child had the sense to do as told.

When I returned to my husband, he sat at his desk. The pipe was no longer in sight.

“How long?”

“What does it matter?”

“It matters to me. Is this something new?”

“No.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I knew you would never approve. Anyway, what difference does it make? A pipe of Patna's finest now and then has never affected me.”

“How can you say that? I have always abhorred opium users!”

“Then you must abhor me, for I have been fond of the essence of poppy since long before I met you.” There was a mocking quality in his expression I had never before heard, and it penetrated my heart.

“Tell me this is a mistake,” I begged. “I can understand you needing something on a day like today, a day when we are both on the brink. I too have been worried, wishing it would be over,” I continued in the hope that his response to one of my statements would ease the stabbing pain.

Edwin's voice was soft and faraway. I felt I was falling into an abyss. “I never wanted you to know . . . I have always been careful. I don't usually smoke at home, and when I do, it is up here with the windows open wide.”

“Do you use it every day?” I could barely speak above a whisper.

“It depends. A few puffs in the early evening is what I prefer, but if I cannot have it, I do not suffer. What is the difference between a brandy or a pipe or a cheroot—or a four-o'clock cup of bloody tea?” he added in a burst of anger.

“Opium is evil.”

“Then you are as corrupted as I am—and worse, you are a hypocrite. The profits from that flower have supported you your entire life. Tomorrow you will barter your future with the black balls of its sap.”

“It killed my mother.”

“No, it did not! Some jealous madman murdered your mother.”

“If my father had not been in China—”

“What difference did that make? He could have been selling saddles or bricks or silver bars, and he might still have been away from home. Nothing could have saved her.”

“If I had awakened earlier . . .” A sob enveloped me. Could I have saved her? Had I worried about this all these years without ever acknowledging it?

Edwin tried to put his arms around me, but I pushed him away. He returned to his desk and shuffled a few papers. “It is true that a few people use opium to their detriment. The world is filled with failures who drink too much or smoke too much, but that shouldn't ruin the substance for the rest. A modern physician cannot cope without opium.” He read from the paper in his hand, his dark pupils wide and shiny in the dim light: “ 'In Great Britain, the chief manufacture of these salts of opium for medicinal purposes is carried on in Edinburgh by two firms, Mssrs. T. and H. Smith, and J. F. Macfaran and Co. Opium is undoubtedly the most valuable remedy for the whole
materia medica.
For other medicines, we have one or more substitutes; but for opium none—at least in the large majority of cases in which its peculiar and beneficial influence is required.' “

“I have no objection to medicinal preparations.”

“Stop deceiving yourself. In your book, it is perfectly acceptable for a Chinese coolie to support your sumptuous life, yet not your own husband.”

“No! I have never felt it was right for anyone—at least not since I learned more about opium and the harm it could do. You know full well I have always resisted the family trade and often questioned my father. If you remember, I never wanted you to work for the Sassoons and have been encouraging you to find another line. I thought that with the Luddy inheritance, we would free ourselves of it—once we had settled the situation with the Lanyados. But now I see you have never agreed with me about any of this. The whole while you have lied to me!”

“No, I have kept a secret. Nobody can know everything about the next person. You have secrets from me.”

“That is not true. I have no secrets from you.” My voice became strident. “What else don't I know?” I shouted. Then, more menacingly: “How can I ever trust you again?” The ooze of the broken egg could not be restrained.

“When will you learn you can never control everything?” he said, as though that followed logically.

“What are you talking about? I have never tried to control you.”

“Haven't you? Then how did we end up back in Calcutta, where you wanted to be from the beginning?”

A great force churned inside me. There was no release but words— awful words, horrid words, that should never have been spoken aloud. “Who insisted we go to Travancore? Who was dazzled by the princely offering? Who wanted to use that connection to make a quick fortune? Not me. I was happiest in the seaside cottage in Cochin. Why didn't you see Amar's design from the first, when you knew he had perverted tastes? Or were your own perverted by the same poison? Who selected the ship and said it was ready to sail? Who lost my dowry? Who?”

“Yes.
Your
dowry.
Your
inheritance. Yours. Everything has always been yours. When you talked to Raphael you said: 'I do not want to mingle
my
money . . . pay
me
with the last of the
sycee . . . I
can afford to wait.' “

Blackness swirled around me as I sat down hard on the bed. I no longer could see Edwin. If he was still speaking, I could not hear him. An hour earlier I had thought I was on the brink of having everything. Would a moral victory over Uncle Samuel and Aunt Bellore now cost me my happiness?
Me! My
happiness! Edwin was right! I was thinking only of myself. What about
us?
What about
our
children,
our
marriage?

“Edwin . . . darling . . .”I managed as I swam up past the blinding pain to the light. “Edwin, you are right. I am sorry. If s not the opium, it's—”

Where was he? “Edwin?”

The door was open. “Edwin!”

He was gone.

46

 

H
e would be back in time for supper. He would be back in time for bed. To avoid a confrontation, he would slip in beside me in the night. . . .

I was up most of the night waiting, and when I drifted off, it was for but a few moments. Each time I opened my eyes, I was startled anew to find myself alone.

At dawn I lay in bed unable to move. Any twist of my body drove the stake that impaled me deeper.

He would arrive in the morning to dress for the auction. . . .

When Yah came to wake me, I had to force myself to stand.

“You are ill?” she asked, worried.

“No.” I sent her away. If I took shallow breaths, the sharp twinges could be mastered. I could not drink or eat. Swallowing was impossible. The clock was a demon ticking away. I had to dress. I had to walk downstairs. I had to call for a carriage.

He would meet me there. . . .

The auction rooms were in a hall near Dalhousie Square. Pools of limpid light poured through the arched windows two stories in height and illuminated the polished benches where the agents and merchants sat. Six times every year these modestly attired gentlemen gathered to bid a price for a commodity that controlled the empire's balance of trade in China.

From the number of office jauns and phaetons waiting in front of the building, I ascertained that most of the people had already arrived. If I hadn't been waiting for Edwin, I would have been earlier myself. At the last possible minute I had left without him. Now I had to muster the courage to enter the room alone—except for Gulliver. Dressed in a long white jacket and shiny boots, he was an imposing companion, but he would hardly deflect questions on my husband's whereabouts.

I had chosen my own garments with care. Vacillating between a utilitarian walking dress and a more frivolous creation, I had selected something in the height of fashion to counter my usual practical image. Here I was: the new heiress ready to flaunt her good fortune to everyone from the Jardines to the Lanyados. Some would speculate whether I was there just to be seen or if my new streak of daring had extended from my wardrobe to trying for a stake in the opium business. I especially hoped that my plum gown with the high officer stand-fall collar, wide satin revers, and the matching bonnet crowned with ostrich feathers would agitate Aunt Bellore.

Heads turned when I entered the room. The men's glances were brief, the women's more intrigued. Just as they must have appraised me, I was equally interested in them. Olivia Davidson was wearing a sailor-style jacket with a jaunty white linen collar. Her friend Natalie Matheson was in a pink gown with a close-fitting bodice and frilled
jabot.
I did not recognize some of the younger women, but Sultana and her sister Lulu sported jackets with wide leg-o'-mutton sleeves. In front of them—sitting with the wives of the several smaller bidders— their mother was bedecked in black cotton with white lace collar and cuffs. Feeling satisfied I had not underestimated what to wear, I went over to the short trellised barrier that separated the ladies' and visitors' gallery on the right side of the room from the trading floor.

“How nice to see you again,” Olivia fussed. “Do sit next to me, Mrs. Salem, for I must hear about your recent trip.”

I took the seat that was offered to me between Olivia Davidson and Sultana Judah. “To Darjeeling?” I asked in a syrupy voice. Before I had inherited the Luddy estate, Olivia had barely looked in my direction. Nor had I ever taken an interest in the society in which Bellore and her kin had longed to become accepted. The British ladies would suppose my appearance as nothing more than a desire to establish myself at the pinnacle at last. I hoped Aunt Bellore's thoughts might range beyond the obvious.

“The earthquake's ravages are not apparent, at least not on the surface, but some of the homes will have to be refurbished. Many need new roofs.”

“Such a pity,” Olivia clucked. “Well, it is good to have you back. We must have you both over for supper.”

“Thank you.” I forced myself to smile past my pain. From the corner of my eye I watched as Gulliver stationed himself behind me. A punkah-wallah on his right looked at the imposing Gurkha in awe and stopped pulling on the rope. Gulliver gave the skinny boy a discreet kick. He stirred the air twice as fast.

Reluctantly Cousin Sultana acknowledged my presence. “This is my first auction,” she began sweetly.

“Mine too,” I said as I eyed my mother's pearl bracelet on her wrist. “I have come to see what the fuss is about.”

Olivia leaned over. “If s not often one gets to see so much money exchanging hands,” she said in her charmingly husky voice. “You must watch the expressions on the men's faces. There is one other time they ever look so intense.” She smiled slyly.

“I don't see Edwin,” Cousin Sultana said with her face screwed in a perplexed expression. Everyone knew that we were rarely apart.

“He doesn't usually come to the auction.” Aunt Bellore turned about and looked at me suspiciously. “Will he be here today?”

The words twisted the spike that continued to pierce my heart, but I refused to wince. “I don't know,” I said with forced nonchalance. “I was curious to find out what people have been finding amusing. He probably has more important business to attend to in Clive Street.”

Three men dressed in gray lounge suits appeared from a side door. The tallest one mounted a small platform and stood in front of a lectern under a brass chandelier. The others carried leather cases. Each went to a table on either side of the lectern and began to remove stacks of documents.

“Who are they?” I asked Olivia brightly.

“The auctioneer is Jack Chappell,” she said as the man on the left handed the one in the middle a set of papers. “The other two are the government agents. The one with the black hair is Christopher Haythornthwaite. Isn't that the most adorable name? He's a cousin of the viceroy's wife. The other one, with the blond mustache, is Michael MacGregor, recently out from England and quite green.”

To me the three looked like ordinary gentlemen, but in Calcutta's small European world they were intriguing morsels to the Olivias and Natalies, who were bored with their routine friends. The auctioneer pounded a silver gavel, and the ringing sound silenced the room. The women settled their skirts. The few men who still mingled about took their places. Papers shuffled, throats cleared. Six burly Indians carried in three mangowood chests and placed them on benches in front of the room. The lids were opened to reveal two levels of twenty opium balls.

“Lot one hundred and one,” the auctioneer began, “comprising twenty-four chests of Malwa opium, grade double-A, processed in Nimach. Thirty thousand to open.”

“Why don't they start with number one?”

“Tradition, I suppose,” Olivia replied airily.

Although I did not notice a flicker in the crowd, someone must have indicated a bid, for the auctioneer had moved on rapidly. “Thirty-two, thirty-two-five, thirty-four, thirty-four-five, thirty-four-five . . . and forty . . . and fifty and sixty.” The gavel fell. “Thirty-four thousand, five hundred and sixty for the lot.”

“Who bought it?” I asked, perplexed that I had seen so little take place.

“Probably Jardine, Matheson,” Olivia replied. “By custom, they always take the first lot. Not that it matters—they will share it later.”

“Is that a good price?” I wondered aloud, even though I knew the fourteen-forty per chest I calculated was considerably better than the thirteen-fifty rupee reserve that we had estimated for the paste of Malwa flowers.

Olivia tossed her honey curls. “Who knows? Who cares? But look, do you see that divine man behind my brother Thomas? He's from our Hong Kong office. If only my husband would consider transferring him here.” She giggled.

Where was Edwin? Had he spent last night with his friend Howard Farrell? And if he had, could Olivia know about that already? No, there had not been time. . . .

The auction had droned on while my mind wandered to the whereabouts of my husband. Several more lots were bought, yet they could not have disposed of even a hundred chests. With over nine thousand slated to be sold that day, I realized this could be a tedious business indeed. Thus far hardly a muscle had moved among the merchants scribbling figures on their bid sheets, and I had no idea to whom the lots had gone. If I were going to follow the auction, it would require my full attention. Better concentrate, I admonished myself as I straightened my back and turned away from Olivia's animated whispers.

Uncle Samuel sat on the far left side of the third row with a weary expression frozen on his pinched face. Throughout the room I picked out the other members from Sassoon and Company. In the second row I saw Reuben's son Nathaniel, our company's designated bidder. With a pang I realized he was not privy to our plans, and hoped when everything came to light he would not be furious. Gabriel Judah sat at the end of the third row closest to us. Uncle Reuben and Uncle Ezra were side by side in the fifth row. The next generation was also represented, by Mir, Adam, and Noah, who were scattered randomly around the chamber. None of these people knew what was planned. Representatives from Jardine, Matheson held most of the prestigious front-row seats that were theirs for seniority.

In the center of the front row was an empty chair. “Who sits there?” I asked my cousin curiously.

“That was Uncle Saul's place and our grandfather's before him. I think it is shameful to leave it empty, for everyone thinks we do not have a leader worthy to head the company.”

I tested the water. “Perhaps when my father has recovered . . .”

Sultana shrugged and turned to say something to her sister. At least Uncle Samuel had not had the audacity to take it for himself—yet.

I wondered if he was eyeing it covetously at that very moment. But no, his full attention was on the sheet of paper in front of him. His pen ticked the squares as the auctioneer continued his singsong soliloquy, punctuated by gavel drops that gave me no hint of who had won the round.

The sample crates were being carried in and out rapidly. The lots varied in size from twenty-four to sixty chests each. Even so, I calculated that at this rate the auction would take five to six hours to complete. How was I ever going to follow the action? If I asked for papers, I would be suspect. Oh, but I had forgotten the scheme. I was supposed to be suspect! Ever since I had walked into the room and had not seen Edwin, I had been disoriented. It was fortunate the execution of the plan had not been left to me, because I would have muddled it already.

I turned around and signaled for Gulliver.

“Yes, memsahib.”

I whispered my request for some sheets of paper like the ones the men had. Gulliver nodded and left the room. A few minutes later he handed me a sealed packet.

“Sold. Lot one hundred fifty-three!” called the auctioneer.

I shuffled the pages until I turned to where we were. Nudging Natalie, Olivia bent over and muttered, “Aren't you the serious one?”

“I will fall asleep if I don't have something to look at,” I said with a laugh that sounded forced. Natalie rolled her eyes in a gesture I recalled from my school days, when a friend thought me too studious for my own good.

“Lot one hundred fifty-four.” Chappell was at the top of the third of sixteen pages. “Patna, grade double-B, from Ghazipur.” A prickling sensation shot up my back. The ryots in that area had always had close ties with the Sassoons. Long ago I had been in Ghazipur with my father. This was Edwin's domain. “Thirty-six chests.”

What was the reserve that Abner Raphael had set for lower-grade Patna? Edwin had taken down the figures, but he was nowhere in sight. Less than thirteen hundred, I recalled. I did a quick multiplication: forty-six thousand was the minimum.

“Forty-five . . . forty-six . . . forty-six and five hundred . . . forty-eight . . . fifty . . . fifty-one . . .” Was I imagining the slight catch of excitement in the auctioneer's voice? Was that a high price for double-B? Had Uncle Samuel begun his run?

“Fifty-one and five hundred and fifty!” was finalized by a gavel thump. I scribbled some figures. That was over fourteen hundred rupees per chest—a slight elevation, but not an absurd price. Who had made the purchase? My eyes, which had adjusted to the nuances in the men's frugal movements, had caught a slight wave of the fingers of an agent sitting behind my Uncle Ezra. And Uncle Samuel had shifted slightly in his seat, not turning around but twitching enough that I sensed he had garnered that group of chests. What was Gabriel doing? Making careful notations—after he nodded respectfully to Olivia Davidson, the woman closest to him. I was right! I had to be right! Before I could calm my rushing pulse, another bid was under way.

The next lot of twenty-four higher-graded crates of Patna went for 1,468 rupees. Had the same agent got both lots? I was not certain, but the climate in the room seemed changed. The men were more alert. The choicest grade of Patna was on the block: triple-A. Abner Raphael whispered something to the man one chair to his left, an Indian with a high forehead, who I presumed was either his manager or agent. A raise of this man's dark finger indicated he was opening the next round of bidding. Again the crates were sold to someone sitting behind my Uncle Ezra.

“Seventy-four and four!” I overheard Haythornthwaite say as he filled in his documents.

“Is that a great deal?” I asked Olivia innocently, even though I had already calculated this was over fifteen hundred rupees per chest.

“I suppose so, but the lots were large. Did he say thirty-six or forty-eight chests?” Olivia bent over and asked Sultana.

“I'm not sure,” Sultana replied nonchalantly.

My cousin always pretended to be dense when in fact she had a conniving streak that had presented difficulties when we were children. I had a feeling she knew almost as much as I did about what was going on.

“At least your friend from Hong Kong seems pleased,” I mumbled to Olivia.

“A pity. If he is cheerful, my husband is bound to be grumpy.” She babbled on about something that had happened at a previous auction, when the auctioneer had made a mistake and they had got a parcel under the reserve, while I tried to concentrate on who was bidding for the next lot.