The Linnet Bird: A Novel (72 page)

Eventually I switched to a pipe. It was much easier to smoke than a hookah.

June 24, 1837

With my love,
Linny

Chapter Thirty-Six

Hot Season, 1838

I
LOOKED DOWN AT
D
AVID, ASLEEP, AND CROONED TO HIM.
“Nini,
baba, nini.”
Sleep, baby, sleep.

He stirred restlessly, his golden hair plastered to his forehead. I smoothed it back, then wiped his face with a damp cloth and began again.
“Nini, baba, ni—”

“Linny! Stop that foolishness!”

Somers leaned heavily against the doorjamb. His own hair was damp with perspiration, his shirt soaked down the front. I rose and pulled the netting down over the cot and nodded at the punkah boy, who pulled more vigorously on the fan.

“Don’t wake him,” I whispered, once I was out in the hallway. “It’s hard to get him to sleep in this heat.”

Somers shook his head. “Singing those damn Indian baby songs to him, like he was still an infant. Bad enough that Malti coddles him.”

“All ayahs coddle their charges, Somers. That’s why they’re ayahs.”

“And that’s why it’s a damn good thing the children can’t be with them any longer than their first five or six years. It’s not good for him.”

I turned my head from Somers; the words sounded obscene coming from him.

“He’s a great strong lad, past five now, and should be treated as such. The best thing that can happen to that boy will be when he goes home within the year.”

I stopped breathing. I had refused to think about this fact. It was too overwhelming. What would happen? I could never bear to be parted from David, but I doubted Somers would allow me to accompany him back to England. He had made it clear, over and over, that I must always be under his supervision, and could have no freedom, implying I would immediately embarrass him.

“Yes,” Somers went on now, “he needs some decent schooling, and to learn how to behave in a proper manner. The way you let him run around barefoot with the servants’ children is deplorable. And allowing him to chatter in Hindi . . . the natives’ tongues are peppered with improper words and immoral ideas. I don’t know how much longer I can tolerate his errant behavior.”

How dare he call anyone immoral? Preaching about the servants and my own child when he himself was . . . the way he was. A brute who relished hurting young boys, who thought nothing of raising his hand to me.

“At least he’s healthy and strong,” I retorted. “Isn’t that what’s most important? The graveyards all over India are full of English children.”

I thought of Malti’s words, only yesterday, as we had stopped cutting flowers in the garden to watch David, babbling excitedly with the
mali
’s seven-year-old daughter.

“My David-
baba
is not like an English at all,” Malti said, following his every move.

David was darkened by the sun; he often forgot to wear his hated solar topee, yet his skin didn’t burn. He had a mass of shining blond curls and his black eyes sparkled as he chattered in Hindi about the huge toad he and the little girl had caught in the garden. She held the squirming creature firmly in both hands as David touched it.

“Yes, David-
baba
is more like a little native, strong and unafraid, is he not, Mem Linny? He does not fall prey to the usual illnesses of the English
babas
here, and is not listless and nervous as they are. Come, my
choti baba,
” she called, “come. Give your ayah a kiss.”

David frowned at us. “I’m
not
a little baby, Malti. Am I, Mother? I’m a warrior and I shall ride my horse to battle. The toad is our prisoner, the Emperor of China!” He and the girl ran off, and I thought, as I did each day now, how David was like his father, straight and proud and kind-hearted.

I blinked now, looking at Somers in the dim hall. He’d changed so much in the seven years I’d known him, his once good looks completely gone now. He had put on ever more weight from overeating rich foods, his face was bloated from constant drinking, and he had grown a full beard, which aged him. What would happen to David—and to me?

“M
EM
L
INNY
,” M
ALTI CALLED
quietly at the bedroom door. “Your ladies are come now.”

I opened the door. “Did you seat them in the drawing room?”

“Of course. You are looking very pretty today, Mem,” Malti added, eyeing my ruffled gown. “You must wear your fine clothes more often.”

I took a deep breath, then fixed a smile on my face and walked to the drawing room. “Hilda. And Jessica. How lovely to see you.”

My visitors rose, taking turns pecking my cheek. They were wives of men in Somers’s office; it was a wearying game of polite visits back and forth simply because our husbands worked together.

“Are you feeling better now, dear?” Hilda asked, her mouth a concerned moue
.
“Somers said you were poorly last week. We did so miss you at the Sawyers’ musical evening. It was quite a jolly affair, although of course the upper registers of Frederick Jewitt’s viola are still frightfully squeaky.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” I said, trying to remember when the Sawyers’ party had been, or if I had even heard about it. Somers didn’t tell me about events anymore, preferring to go alone. I knew he would pop in and then hurry away on the pretense of my being ill, although of course he rarely came home directly.

“I must say, Linny, if falling ill would keep my weight down, I wouldn’t mind. How do you keep your waist so small? No amount of corseting can do that.”

“She’s only had one baby, that’s what does it, Hilda,” Jessica retorted. “Believe me, there’s no such thing as a tiny waist after six confinements.” She looked down at her massive bulk, a rueful expression on her face, then immediately helped herself to a cream bun from the tray beside her.

“Well, you must get busy, Linny, and give David a little brother or sister,” Hilda said, tapping my knee with her closed fan. Then she took a tiny hinged mirror from her handbag and inspected the frizzled fringe of orange hair that rose from her high forehead. “He’s, what—five now?—and before you know it he’ll be sent home, and you’ll need more children to keep you from being too lonely.” She snapped the mirror shut and returned it to her bag. “With my Sarah and Florence gone, I’d go mad without little Lucy. And by the time she leaves, Sarah should be finished school and hopefully returning to us.”

“Yes,” I agreed, shaking my head as the
khitmutgar
offered me a glass of lemonade.

“Did you hear what happened in the Maidan yesterday?” Jessica asked.

Grateful for the change of subject, I leaned forward.

“It was the oddest thing,” she continued, licking thick white cream from her thumb. “This . . . dark man, not an Indian, mind you, but dark, was on a huge horse and circling the Maidan. Some say he was peering at English women. I didn’t observe that, but can you imagine? The cheek. Quite upsetting.”

Hilda took over. “I was there,” she said, triumphantly, as if she had performed a heroic deed. “None of us had any idea what he was looking for. Can you imagine? A big ruffian, having the audacity to take an interest in us. Guess he’s seen enough of his own sort, and was—what shall we say?—titillated by the look of white women. I tell you, I was quite shaken when he looked in my direction.” She touched her faded hair coquettishly. “Of course, he was driven away quickly, but—oh, what is it, Linny?”

I stood, clutching my abdomen with trembling hands. “I suppose I haven’t quite recovered from whatever it is that’s been bothering me recently.”

“Sit down, Linny. Breathe deeply. Hilda, finish the story.”

“Well, he was bold as brass, not at all a gentleman. Of course, he couldn’t be. After all, he was one of those foreign breeds. And sitting on his horse as if he owned the square.” They both looked at me.

“I’m sure you’ll excuse me.” I hurried out of the room. Faintness overtook me just outside the door, and I leaned against the wall, wishing to extract even a fraction of coolness from the plaster.

“She’ll not last here much longer,” I heard Hilda say. “That frail, nervous sort never do. She’s worn to fiddlesticks. And there’s something odd about her eyes, don’t you think? Very dark. Too dark.”

“I tell you, it’s her husband I pity. She must not be any sort of company for him at all, always so poorly. It’s no wonder there are no more children. He probably knows another one would kill her. Poor man.”

I steadied myself and went to my bedroom.
When had I become one of India’s casualties, one of the frail, nervous sort? They could have been describing Faith. Or the woman Meg was now.

A
FTER
I
HAD TUCKED
David into bed that evening, I walked out into the front garden. I slowly approached the acacia tree beside the gate, running my fingers over its bumpy bark. In the air I thought there might be a mild suggestion of rain. Could the monsoons be coming early?