Zemindar (24 page)

‘How long are you to have the dubious pleasure of sharing the Avery roof, Miss Hewitt?’ he asked after a time.

‘I’m not sure. I think it was to have been for a couple of months, and then it was planned that we should move on to Delhi and Agra and go up to the hills for the summer.’

‘So Hassanganj was not included in the itinerary?’

‘How could it be—since Hassanganj issued no invitation?’

‘Curious, that—when I have been told in a long and disingenuous letter from my mother that Charles’s main reason for visiting India was to see Hassanganj! I took it to be a matter of course. But you speak as if your plans have now been changed. Is this because of Mrs Avery’s—er—indisposition?’

‘No, not at all! But I think we will have to remain in Lucknow longer than we had thought—at least until we can go up to the hills in April. You see, Emily …’ And I trailed off, realizing suddenly that I had brought up a matter not generally discussed between the sexes at first acquaintance.

‘I see, Emily is to become a mother! How inconvenient for you all, and how remarkable that no one should have foreseen such a contingency when you set out. But that’s by the way. All the same, and in spite of my mother’s hints of suitable fraternal affection, I got the impression tonight that my brother Charles has decided to disapprove of me. There is no real reason why he shouldn’t, particularly if he has a ready ear for local gossip.’

This was true, though I could not admit it, and so, not knowing what to say, I said nothing. There was a moment’s silence and then Mr Erskine chuckled and looked at me. ‘Thank you, Miss Hewitt,’ he grinned, ‘I always appreciate frankness. But I will have to make him alter his opinion of me if you are to see the “real” India, will I not? And I believe that, whatever the drawbacks of my way of life in Hassanganj, you would all be more happily placed in my house than you are in the Averys’ at the moment. I see that I must do what I can to ingratiate myself with my brother.’

Then you must start with his wife, I thought to myself.

Mr Erskine raised his voice and called over his shoulder to the little man on the postillion’s step, whom, I suddenly realized must have overheard all that was said: ‘What do you say to that, Tod? How are you going to like having our masculine fastness invaded by the ladies?’

‘Not above ’alf, Guv’nor,’ replied the little man in a strong Cockney accent, and very forcefully.

‘No, I’m sure you won’t. But still we must make the best of it, I suppose.’

‘Thank you,’ I said with dignity, but Mr Erskine just laughed again and a voice came through the hood, hopefully, ‘The ladies won’t like it. Too lonely, like. All them blackies and no dancing! Won’t do, guv’nor—leastways not for young ladies. Not for more’n a couple o’ weeks at the most.’

‘Perhaps you’re right, Tod. Perhaps you’re right. We will have to wait and see.’

The day that followed the ball was a trying one for all of us.

Emily and Charles were still on bad terms, a fact communicated to the rest of us by a certain defiant impertinence in Emily’s manner and a silent sulkiness in Charles’s. Connie remained unseen in her room all day, and Wallace, when he appeared at
tiffin
, was pale, abstracted and quieter than I had ever known him. He had quite forgotten that I was to have come home with him and Connie after the ball, and the Floods were too immersed in their marital wrangle to give the matter a thought, so I said nothing about my ride in Mr Erskine’s gig, nor did I mention Connie’s unfortunate exhibition at the end of the night. In fact it was not a day that favoured conversation, and was spent for the most part in exhausted, self-absorbed quiet, while four members of the household licked their respective wounds, and I tried to keep out of the way of all of them.

After dinner, the evening being fine and mild, we took our tea on the verandah. Emily had chosen to wear one of her most becoming gowns, a muslin printed with a scattering of small green leaves and trimmed with green ribbons and pleated silk. Settling herself in a large cane chair, with a small worktable before her and a piece of needlework (of many years’ standing) in her hands, she composed herself into a beguiling picture of industrious femininity. Nor was it difficult to guess who was to be charmed by this gracious tableau; every time the clop of hooves approached the gate, she looked up expectantly, and each time they continued along the road without turning in, she returned to her embroidery with ill-concealed disappointment. I thought it unlikely that Mr Erskine would stir himself sufficiently to call so soon after the ball, but could say nothing to allay her vexation. When, therefore, a familiar equipage did turn in at the gate as the
khitmagar
was clearing away the cups, I was more surprised than Emily.

The strange little Cockney was driving, and on the step that he had occupied the night before there now stood a huge Pathan dressed in baggy white pyjamas, long white shirt, crimson velvet waistcoat crossed by loaded bandoliers of cartridges, and with a fan of starched and pleated muslin surmounting his high white turban. He had a fine black beard and his moustachios were waxed and curled back fiercely towards his nose. In his cummerbund was stuck a
tulwar
, a curved, broad-bladed sword. When the gig came to a halt, he hopped down from the step and opened the door for his master with a flourish.

Charles, who had recognized his brother’s driver, got to his feet with an exclamation of annoyance, Wallace remained in his chair for a moment goggling incredulously at the vehicle and its occupants, so it was left to Emily—Connie was still invisible—to welcome Mr Erskine, which she did very prettily indeed. He did not stay long because he was on his way to another engagement in the city, but it was arranged that he should dine with us on the following night and, said Wallace, ‘We’ll finish the evening with a quiet game or two. We are expecting some other friends, good chaps all of them, and I am sure you cannot object to a little flutter, sir. Be a change for you after your quiet life in the
mofussil
.’

Mr Erskine bowed his acquiescence, but without enthusiasm, and left soon after.

It was the first I had heard of the ‘other friends’ who were expected to dine, but it was kind of Wallace to wish to entertain Mr Erskine in form, even though I realized I would have the bulk of the work in arranging the meal. I hoped that Mr Erskine would not find the cards too tedious, but at least Emily and I would be spared the trouble of having to make conversation with a total stranger all evening—not, I recollected, that he was difficult to talk to. The friends whom Wallace had in mind were Captain Fanning and two other officers of his own regiment, with whom he and Charles spent most of their evenings. At my suggestion, a note was also despatched hurriedly to the Barrys requesting their presence on the grounds of their previous acquaintance with the guest of honour.

All were delighted to accept, so the next morning was a busy one as I ordered the meal for eleven people, looked out and hastily mended an assortment of tired linen, and superintended a thorough cleaning of the reception rooms. Emily contented herself with arranging the flowers, and Connie, recovered now as much as she ever would be, drifted about commenting without rancour on my management of what were really her affairs. ‘You
are
clever to make it all look so nice, Laura,’ she said, fingering the edge of her best tablecloth which I had presumed to use. ‘I don’t know how you get them to work so hard—the servants, y’know. They’ll never do a thing I tell them to.’

‘I’m delighted to be of some help to you, Connie, and I’m glad it all suits you. It is so good of you and Wallace to want to make Mr Erskine feel welcome.’

‘Oh, it’s not me, Laura. It’s all Wally’s idea. He’s so fond of entertaining, but I’m not often well enough to put my mind to it. And then he is so fond of cards too. I expect they’ll start playing directly after the port, and so Mr Erskine won’t object if I go to bed, will he?’

‘No, I’m sure he won’t,’ I assured her, relieved to know her plan. ‘He knows you are a little—er—delicate.’

‘That’s good,’ she returned complacently, and went away to get dressed.

The dinner party went well. Mr Erskine, accompanied by his oddly assorted retainers, arrived promptly and we sat down to the meal at half-past four. Connie smiled silently on the company from one end of the table, and Wallace did the honours boisterously from the other. The cook had excelled himself; the shabby appointments were as clean and neat as hands could make them; the silver was eked out by sundry sauceboats and
entrée
dishes borrowed from the Barrys—a common practice in India—and two of the Barrys’ servants helped to serve at the table. With the assistance of a respectable wine, tongues were loosened and tempers relaxed, and when the ladies left the room I could congratulate myself that my efforts on behalf of Charles and his brother had been successful.

Despite Connie’s optimistic prognostications, the gentlemen joined us in the drawing-room when they had finished their port, and at Kate’s suggestion Emily was asked to sing. I accompanied her on Connie’s piano, one of the few Avery possessions still in almost pristine condition, and Captain Fanning gallantly turned the pages. Emily’s voice was light and sweet and had been excellently trained for ballads and the sentimental songs well within its capacity. She stood composedly, her fan clasped loosely in her hands, with the lamplight glowing gently on the rose of her dress and her golden hair, and sang without affectation—simply and with an enjoyment in singing that induced enjoyment in others. I can remember reflecting that perhaps it was at just such a moment, as she sang just such a song and made just such a graceful picture, that Charles had first fallen in love with her, in that faraway drawing-room at Mount Bellew. Air followed air, everyone requesting their own favourites, and when at last Emily herself cried a halt to the concert, I was not surprised to see Mr Erskine’s eyes fixed on my cousin with an expression of most marked approval. Immediately Emily had sat down, Wallace, who had been fidgety for some time, suggested that the gentlemen should withdraw to the dining-room where the tables had been set up. Our guests were not all eager to play, Mr Erskine less so than any, but as Charles seconded Wallace’s motion with enthusiasm, they had little option. Connie then seized the opportunity to retire to her room and her ‘night-cap’, and Kate, Emily and I were left to entertain ourselves for the rest of the evening.

At eleven o’clock the Barrys and Captains Jennings and Hunt made their departure. Wallace saw them off with many protestations against their leaving so early, and then with a hurried goodnight to us disappeared again into the dining-room, where I caught a glimpse of Charles, Mr Erskine and Captain Fanning lounging at ease in their chairs, with a couple of decanters between them and a cloud of cigar smoke mantling the lamp. Obviously, there was no point in Emily or I waiting up to say goodnight.

Usually I was the first up and about in the Avery household, but for little Johnny, who was also an early riser and spent the hours before his walk and breakfast sitting on his
ayah
’s lap on the verandah while she recounted endless and involved stories to him in Hindustani. Often I joined them, for the stories were told in infant terms, using a vocabulary that I found just within my grasp, and the
ayah
, a good-natured creature, was always prepared to stop and repeat what I did not understand, while Johnny, cradled like a little potentate in her vast white muslin lap, sucked his thumb and regarded me with his big eyes.

On that particular morning, I had just settled myself in a patch of sunlight to listen to the
ayah
’s tale when, to the surprise of us all, we were joined by Wallace Avery.

‘I didn’t think you would be up so early after the party,’ I said. ‘Have you an early parade?’

‘No—no parade.’

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t been to bed yet? I must say I did not hear your guests leave, but then I sleep so soundly.’ I had intended the remark as a joke, but as I spoke realized that Wallace certainly had not been to bed. The crumpled clothes were those he had worn the night before, but now his collar and cravat were both unfastened, and there was a wine stain down the front of his shirt. Neither had he shaved nor brushed his hair. His face was white and drawn, and the expression in his protruberant blue eyes was one of utmost misery.

‘No, I have not been to bed,’ he said, and sitting down on a sagging cane chair near mine, buried his face in his hands.

‘Wallace, are you ill? Is anything the matter?’

‘Not ill,’ he muttered through his hands. ‘But, God, I wish I were dead!’

‘Wallace!’

‘Well, I do, and that’s the plain truth. Finally—I have finally—managed to run myself into the muck. Right down, Laura, and there is no escape for me. I am ruined! Ruined!’

‘But how …?’

‘A long story. Oh, a long story indeed. Why should I bother you with it? You can probably guess most of it anyway.’

‘But—ruined! Surely it cannot be as bad as that. You are very tired … and depressed for the moment … but things will look better when you are rested.’

He shook his head in his, hands, then looked up at me and, seeing both the
ayah
and Johnny regarding him with open amazement, he swore at the woman and ordered her to take herself off. She got to her feet, picked up Johnny and vanished round the side of the house.

‘I was trying to help matters. I know, that’s what everyone says when they do this sort of thing, and I’ve always laughed at the man who expected to be believed. But really, I was trying to pull things together again. Give myself one last chance. Was sure my luck must eventually turn, d’you know?’

‘No, not really, Wallace. Do you mean you have lost too much at cards? Is that it?’

‘Too much! Good God, I’ve lost all I have! All I ever shall have.’

‘Last night?’ I was aghast.

‘Last night was just the final touch. But a very final one. What’s the good of trying to explain? I have nobody to blame but myself, but what’s a chap to do when he has no income of his own? No one can live on the sort of salary the Army gives me. Not decently anyway. And Connie …’