The Linnet Bird: A Novel (42 page)

“What I’m saying, Linny, is that you and I are both in a bit of a tight spot. Wouldn’t you agree? And the simplest solution is for us to marry. You’ll get to stay in India. And I, too, like this country, in spite of its confusion and filth and idolatry. I don’t know what you find attractive, but I like it because here I can live in the manner I prefer—every need cared for, with an embarrassment of servants to jump at my slightest whim. To say nothing of the endless wealth of eager and fresh young boys, throwing themselves at the chance to be the paramour of what they see as a pukka sahib.

“India is a wonderful place for someone like me. Had I come of age half a century ago I might have been a freewheeling trader or soldier of fortune. But those days—the ones of straightforward trading concerns—are gone. Now we are responsible for ruling the Indians. No. Not just ruling them—trying to help them. India is a stagnant country.” He paused. “My position as chief auditor for John Company gives me a respect I could never acquire in London. And by marrying you, Linny, I’ll become wealthy enough to do more or less what I like, and appear exactly as I should. A hot-blooded young man with a wife to do for him, a wife to join the English team in India, cheer it on. It’s becoming a bit embarrassing, my staying single as the fifth Fishing Fleet in so many years has come in to shore since I’ve been here. People may well be wondering why not one of these lovely young ladies has been to my fancy, in spite of all the well-meaning matchmaking set up by overanxious matrons wanting to ensure my domestic happiness.”

The
khitmutgar
came toward Somers again, tray raised, but Mr. Ingram waved him away with an impatient flick of his hand. “You will admit that you would be getting the better part of the bargain, Linny. You’d have your wish of remaining in India, while all I would get, in actuality, is a dependent. But one that will allow me the money and freedom to satisfy my needs exactly as I please. And of course you realize there would be no children. I have absolutely no interest in ever touching you. The assumption would, of course, be that you are barren. You will garner great sympathy from the other women on this.”

“And if I say no, and do find my own means to stay here? I may find someone else, after all, who is interested in a marriage.” I was clutching at frail straws on the wind. He knew it and I knew it.

Mr. Ingram set his empty glass on the polished table beside the settee. He chose a cheroot from the humidor there, sniffing it. “If you say no, why then, my dear Miss Smallpiece, you will be on the next ship home. And everyone who is anyone in Calcutta, and actually much further beyond, since there is nothing more loved here than gossip—will have learned about Miss Linny Smallpiece. Somehow, by some insidiously creeping tittle-tattle whose origin will never be remembered, everyone will hear that you are not what you appear. That you are a whore of the lowest quarter. Imagine the state Miss Vespry will get herself into! The Watertons will be mortified, as well. And the men will nod to each other, realizing what they’d been smelling when they sniffed around you. Why, it would soon be heard that you’d even propositioned one or two of the chaps down at the Club.” He put the end of the cheroot in his mouth and rolled it, making a small satisfied sound. “And the women would appear horrified, but even they would admit to each other that there was always something not quite right about Linny Smallpiece, that they’d known there was something odd all along.” He shook his head. “And of course the news would arrive home, straight to Liverpool. It might be hard on your family—a cousin and aunt, was it?—or is that a fabrication too? Whatever the case, whatever you came from there would no longer be open to you.

“You’ve done well, haven’t you, Linny, at fooling people?” He didn’t expect an answer. “What a long way you’ve come; I can’t imagine the route that’s brought you to this level. What you must have done to get here.” He shook his head. “Most admirable, I must admit. I think I almost like you for it.”

I walked to the wide windows and looked at the darkness beyond. Suddenly the country was threatening, dark and watching. “Even if I were to agree to this ridiculous proposal, how would we keep our true relationship hidden? For there could be no pretending that we could ever care, even the slightest, about each other.”

“Quite simple, really. We’re both experts at living lies. We’ll live as man and wife under the same roof, but spend as little time together as possible. We don’t even have to share dinner, unless we have company. My job here”—he smiled, snapping his fingers at the
khitmutgar,
who stepped forward, lighting a flint match—“keeps me very busy. I’m often away for weeks. And I like to go off to the jungle, hunting. So we won’t have to see each other for much of the time. When we are forced together while in public, or in the presence of guests in our own home, your life will appear to be that of the proper bride. You’ll want for nothing.

“I ask only two things of you,” he continued. “Firstly, you must never breathe a word about whatever it is I might do, or with whom. Of course that’s understood. And secondly, should you ever,
ever,
revert to your ways, even once, and disgrace me with your whoring, you shall be out of my home in less time than it will take for me to smoke this cheroot. Out with nothing but the clothes on your back. I’ll not be cuckolded.”

He sucked deeply on the cheroot as the
khitmutgar
held the match to its tip. I watched his handsome face in the brief glow of the match, and in that sudden flare of light I wondered what it would be like to rise to this daring challenge. In the next instant I shuddered involuntarily, imagining what hell he would make my life, and how I would forever be made to dance to his tune. I turned away from him.

“Linny? Do you understand completely?”

“Oh yes. Yes, Mr. Ingram, I do.”

“And you’re in agreement with the plan?”

When I didn’t answer, Somers came to stand behind me. “There’s a ship, the
Bengal Merchant,
sailing for home in three days. You could be on it, in disgrace, if you don’t answer carefully.”

I
TOLD
M
R.
I
NGRAM
I’d need time to weigh my decision carefully. And in the early morning of the third day I packed my trunks and sent my ayah to wake Mrs. Waterton and tell her I was leaving. Then I went to Faith’s room and woke her, sitting on the edge of the bed as I told her of my decision.

Her face first registered complete disbelief, followed by confusion, then disappointment and sadness. “You’re leaving Calcutta? Now? But . . . but
why,
Linny? I don’t understand. And—well, I thought our spoken commitment was that you would be my companion, until . . . until either I went home or, more hopefully, had reason to stay. It’s only February; the season isn’t officially over until the beginning of April, and there’s even time after that.” She was still in her bed, now staring at the floor. “I thought you loved it here. You told me that you loved it, Linny, loved it. That you’d never felt so wonderful, and now—now you’re just up and leaving. Do you really want to go back to Everton and your cousin and aunt that badly? Is it that you miss them? You’re homesick?”

I clenched my back teeth, but before I had a chance to answer, Faith continued.

“No one, but absolutely no one starts the tiresome voyage home again after such a short time. It’s unheard of. You haven’t given it a chance, that’s it. And—and . . .” She looked around wildly, as if hoping to draw reasons for me to stay out of the air. “And my father will be ever so displeased. He’s on his way here right now, aboard a ship that is due to arrive sometime within the next few months. He only gave his consent to all of this—to me coming the season ahead of him—because I spoke so endlessly and highly of you. And now if he comes, and you’re not here . . . he shall report to Mr. Smallpiece, to your guardian, that you’ve broken your part of the bargain, and his embarrassment—your cousin’s—will be your burden to bear. So you can’t leave, Linny. You simply can’t.” She scrambled out of bed, grabbing my arms so that I was forced to stand too, facing her. “Please. Say you’ll stay. Just for me.”

I looked at her pretty face. How she had changed, starting the moment we had left the docks at Liverpool. I had kept waiting for her to adjust to the strangeness of all that was India. But it seemed she had fallen out of step, somehow, even with the atmosphere of England smothering us here in Calcutta. She had become ever more complacent, less outspoken, perhaps even fearful, while I had found my place in the world. Faith was out of her element, and I was in mine. Or had been.

“I can’t explain to you why I have to go.” I prayed that once I left, without telling Mr. Ingram, he would say nothing. But then again he might decide, simply out of spite—remembering his expression, that smug knowledge that he would get what he wanted—to go ahead and start the stories about me.

“But the season isn’t out for another six weeks. Two months or more, as I said. There’s still time.”

“For what?”

“For someone to show interest.”

“I know someone will, Faith. Aren’t you seeing Mr. Snow quite regularly?”

“I meant for you, Linny. Time for someone to ask you for your hand. You mustn’t despair.”

“That’s not it,” I said. “I came to be your companion. It wasn’t my intention to marry here. I told you that before we left. I just thought I might . . . stay . . .” Again, my reasoning was flimsy. I walked out of Faith’s room. Crying, she followed me out to the waiting palanquin, wearing her dressing gown. We were followed by Mrs. Waterton, her clothing obviously thrown on in a great hurry; it was clear she wasn’t wearing her stays. She wrung her hands, her face a crumpled mask of dismay. I saw Mr. Waterton poke his head out the door, looking mulish, and then he retreated back inside.

“This doesn’t look well on us, dear. It’s as if we haven’t made you happy here,” she said. “Mr. Vespry entrusted Faith—and you—to us. And now you’re leaving, with no traveling companion for the voyage home. I don’t know of any married women on the Bengal Merchant at this point. It’s not right, just not right at all. These things have to be planned, with all kinds of arrangements.”

“I sent the
chuprassi
to book my passage, and will use the return ticket bought by Mr. Vespry. I promise I can look after myself,” I told her, thanking her for her hospitality. The palanquin runners loaded up my luggage, and I left. I looked back at the two women standing outside the beautiful villa, gleaming whitely in the morning sun. Mrs. Waterton fluttered a handkerchief, while Faith covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking as she wept.

I left the curtains open as we rode through Calcutta. It was my first and last time to ride through the city, alone, and drink in India through all my senses.

Again, as at the dock that first day, it was the vividness of color that was so astounding. The light was yellow. I thought of the blue light of England, and how it made everything appear slightly worn. A soft, soporific light, creating a life that was standing still, accepting. Here, in this brilliant light, my eyelids felt burned away, making it impossible to close my eyes. We passed the last house on Garden Reach, then turned up a smaller street. Here the houses were still in the European fashion, but smaller and meaner. The roofs were thatched, the walls stained with mildew. These were the homes of the employees of the uncovenanted civil service, the men who were Eurasian, who were born here and tainted with Indian blood, no matter how distant the union had been. That bloodline ensured there could never be any hope to rise above the uncovenanted rank in the Company. Half-caste children ran about—grandchildren and great-grandchildren of the pairing of the native women and men from the John Company, before British women were allowed to come to this wild and dangerous country. Some of the children were startlingly European looking, others darker and more native.

Finally we were at the docks. They were teeming, swarming with life and noise as they had been when we arrived. I thought of the morning Faith and I left Liverpool, how the dull fog had swirled about us, dampening our clothes and skin and chilling us in the silence. I imagined arriving there again, in the same fog, trudging out to find a carriage, and then the ride to Whitefield Lane, past Paradise Street and then Bold Street and the Lyceum. I imagined the look on Shaker’s face, the light in his eyes when he saw me. And then I imagined myself years later, still living in Everton, a withered old woman in a black coat and bonnet turning green. I imagined my own face, my eyesight failing and my penmanship losing its firmness as I bent over the recording cards at the Lyceum, obediently hidden behind the stacks.