A Proper Education for Girls (22 page)

“Good heavens!” cried Lilian, her hands fluttering to her mouth. “He will surely fly off!” She looked closely at the spectacle unfolding before her eyes. “How on earth is he held on?” And then all at once she realized. The man's body was supported by eight iron hooks—four of which passed through the flesh of his back, and four through the flesh of his chest. It was by these hooks alone that he was entirely supported as he was whirled around and around through the air above the screaming crowds. Blood streamed from his wounds and spattered onto the upturned faces of those below, who shouted and surged about the base of the pole, barely held back by the militia who were stationed around each of the swings to keep the crowd at bay.

“How dreadful!” she cried.

“Please, allow me to be of assistance,” cried Mr. Vine. He left his corner of the carriage and was suddenly by her side. “I have some salts with me. I should never have brought you here. The sight is indeed quite shocking and repulsive, especially to a lady, and one so new to India as yourself.”

But Lilian was not listening. There were now three men hanging from the three swinging poles. Lilian stared at them in disbelief and at the people who shouted and screamed and danced in a frenzy beneath them. “How disgusting, and yet, how fascinating,” she murmured. “I presume the men swinging are well supplied with
bhang
and opium before they start? This fellow here is really quite wild.”

The magistrate looked surprised. “Yes, I believe they are. Dr. Mossly attended one of them once, though they usually see to
themselves. The fellow was delirious, though whether this was from the pain or from the stimulants he had taken it was impossible to tell. Probably a mixture of the two.”

“And how long will they swing like this?”

“Oh, about half an hour.”

“And is this penance?”

“For their own sins or sometimes for those of others. Richer men pay for the services of these fellows, of course, and get rid of their sins by proxy. It was ever thus.”

Lilian gave the magistrate a smile. “You are very well informed, Mr. Vine.”

“I have seen it many times.” He stared out at the spectacle bleakly. “One learns these things, whether one wants to know them or not. It is quite interesting at first. I seem to recall being intrigued, at least. But now? Now I've been here long enough to know that we are the superior civilization.” He gestured at the screaming crowds. “What other conclusion can there possibly be?”

“Mr. Vine,” said Lilian gently. “Thank you for showing me this. But it is a most extreme and grotesque display. I think perhaps we should return now.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Vine hastily. “It is quite, quite unpleasant, I'm glad you agree. But you see, Mrs. Fraser, you have seen so little of the place, despite your … wanderings on Captain Forbes's horse and your visits to the bazaar. I thought it might be useful for you to see some of its … less appealing sights. I trust you understand that my purpose in bringing you here was, both educational and, well … to persuade you of the merits of being
European.”

A
LICE WATCHED AS EXPRESSIONS OF DESPAIR, SURPRISE
, disbelief, pleasure, and wariness made their way, one after the other, across the photographer's face.

“Marriage?” he said. “I'm not much of a catch.”

“Surely Mrs. Cattermole would disagree.”

“She's a devil,” muttered Mr. Blake. “She doesn't want to marry me. She just wants to satisfy her own pleasures.”

“Well, you can have two days to think about whether or not you wish to marry me. If you don't agree, of course, I shall be forced to tell my father everything.”

The photographer stood up. He took Alice's hands in his. “Dear Miss Talbot,” he said. “Alice. Of course I'll marry you.”

Alice had expected some sort of resistance at least. She cleared her throat and adopted a businesslike tone. “Good. We can settle the details later. But perhaps secrecy is best for now.”

Mr. Blake appeared not to be listening. He stepped closer. “So, may I kiss my future wife?”

“I suppose so,” she said. “But quickly now.”

Alice felt her cheeks turning crimson. She had not planned for this. She took a step back. Mr. Blake took a step forward. They were the same height, and his eyes were level with hers. Rather awkwardly, he put his arms round her. He smelled of smoke from her father's cigars, and as he squeezed her gently she also noticed a slightly musty, slightly sweaty, animal sort of smell, which she
decided must be his own particular manly scent. Behind it came the unmistakable whiff of ether and the aroma of photographic chemicals. And then, before she could draw back, his lips touched hers. Alice flinched. She screwed her eyes shut and forced herself to relax. After all, it didn't feel unpleasant, only rather strange and unusual.

“Don't be afraid,” murmured Mr. Blake against her cheek.

“I'm not,” retorted Alice.

“Of course not. You're not afraid of anything, are you?” Mr. Blake kissed her again. This time, Alice felt his lips part and his tongue touch hers. She suppressed a shudder. It was all very different from the robust kisses she had seen exchanged between Lilian and Mr. Hunter. Alice had entered the hothouse to turn off the sprinklers. As she passed through the dripping foliage the sounds of labored breathing had reached her ears. Rhythmic breathing, accompanied by gasps and murmurs and the sound of rustling leaves. Alice had hastened forward. Perhaps one of the aunts had fallen down and was struggling to right herself.

But these particular pantings had not been made by an aunt in distress; they had been made by Lilian and Mr. Hunter as they made love on the ferns beneath the warm sprinklers. Around them lay various items of hastily discarded clothing—Mr. Hunter's shirt, his boots, his breeches, his waistcoat; Lilian's chemise, her stockings, her shoes, her dress, her numerous petticoats abandoned on the rocks beside the ornamental pond like huge beached jellyfish and, beneath the pruning knife that had clearly been used to hack through its constraining laces, her corset. Even as Alice watched Mr. Hunter's naked buttocks rising and falling rhythmically between her sister's knees she had found herself wondering how on earth the two of them had managed to sustain their enthusiasm as they went through the laborious motions of removing so many layers of complicated clothing.

Still, whatever the answer to that question was, they were too absorbed by what they were doing to notice Alice's curious face peering through the fern fronds. She watched as Lilian wound her
legs about Mr. Hunter's waist and her arms about his neck. Mr. Hunter groaned, grasping at a soft white buttock as a drowning man might grasp at a life buoy. He began to move faster and more vigorously, so that Alice was briefly reminded of the piston on her father's steam-driven traction engine. All the while a fine mist of warm water fell upon them so that their bodies gleamed like wet marble in the gloomy Eden of the hothouse.

Later, Lilian had come to Alice and told her what she had done, whispering to her sister how much she had enjoyed herself and how she was sure that Alice would relish such activities too. But Alice knew it was unlikely that any man would want to kiss her, let alone snip away her underclothes in his eagerness to get to her body.

Suddenly feeling foolish she disentangled herself from the photographer's embrace. “That's quite enough for now.”

Mr. Blake took her hand chastely. “Shall we tell your father?”

“We'll wait,” said Alice.

“You think he'll disapprove?”

“He'll lose his curator. Of course he'll disapprove.”

“Ah.” He sounded disappointed.

“Oh, there's no money in it, Mr. Blake, apart from what you have and the small amount my mother left for me.”

“Oh. Are you sure? I mean, perhaps your father will be pleased. He must have made some sort of provision for your marriage.”

“There is no ‘provision.’ And I have no intention of ending up like Lilian. I want a legal arrangement.”

“But what's mine will be yours—”

“That's not true and you know it, whatever you may say to the contrary at the moment. The law says that everything I have will be yours forever—money, property, children even—unless you agree before we are married that this will
not
be the case. But
your
money is always your own. Unless you die, of course.”

Mr. Blake eyed Alice's supple waist. He had not touched a woman for months, not since he had last been alone with Mrs. Cattermole. “To be a loving husband is all I wish for,” he said breathlessly, kissing Alice's fingers.

Alice snorted.

“Look here,” he said irritably, “can't you accept a compliment? And you don't have to threaten me to get me to agree to anything either. What are you so afraid of? Why can't you trust me? I'd have proposed to you myself, you know, only I didn't think you'd accept. I mean, you're quite aloof sometimes. I'd do anything for you, Miss Talbot. Alice. Go anywhere. You just have to say the word.”

“India,” said Alice. “That's the word. That's where we'll go. We're going to find Lilian.”

M
R.
B
LAKE LOCATED
the machete and returned it to Alice. He had no wish to spend what remained of the evening toiling like a coolie in the tropical jungle of the conservatory.

He walked slowly through ill-lit corridors, turning right at the suits of armor and left at the teak filing cabinet, until he reached the door to his room.

“There you are!” cried Mrs. Cattermole, jumping up from the edge of his bed. “I was just about to go. I can't stay for long. Not that Dr. Cattermole would notice, of course, but Mr. Talbot has been most attentive this evening and will be sure to ask where I've been.” She came toward him, her expression pettish. “A few months ago, you would not have hidden away from me in this way. Why, you would hardly have waited for me to finish my sentence before—” She gave him a coy look and then sighed heavily, as though remembering that her bosom was at its most irresistible when heaving against its fabric constraints.

Mr. Blake eyed the two mounds of soft white flesh that rose and fell above the neckline of Mrs. Cattermole's bodice. Had she always worn dresses with collars of such unseemly lowness? He could not remember. Once he would have leaped across the room and plunged a hand eagerly between those warm pillows of flesh, scooping them out as though levering loaves of unbaked bread from their tins. This time, however, he closed his eyes and turned away.

“Mrs. Cattermole, you really should return to your husband. He'll be wondering where you are.”

“He doesn't notice where I am.”

“I'm sure that's not true.”

Mrs. Cattermole tossed her golden curls so that they shone in the candlelight. “You're looking pale,” she observed. “And you have dark circles around your eyes.” She gave him a look. “I hope Miss Talbot isn't working you too hard in that darkroom of hers. Her father assures me that she is a most dedicated individual. As you were too, once upon a time.”

Mr. Blake felt his face turning red. It was in the darkroom that Mrs. Cattermole had first offered herself to him, squeezing in beside him when her husband was out, being overcome by “the fumes” and swooning deliberately into his arms, breathing into his ear that he must loosen her dress … just a little more … a little more so that she could breathe … Her bodice had parted beneath his hands like a mollusc opening to reveal the soft flesh within. Afterward he had wondered whether she had replaced the original buttons with smaller ones, so easily had they slipped through their fastenings.

“Mrs. Cattermole—”

“I was Sophia to you once!”

“You should go back to your husband.”

For a moment he thought she was going to strike him. She took a step forward, and he staggered against the washstand as he backed away. She watched him as a kingfisher might watch a fish in a pond, waiting for the right moment to spear it and gobble it down in one.

“My dear Mr. Blake, surely you are not afraid of me?” She moved closer, so that her skirts pressed against his legs like the push of an incoming tide.

Mr. Blake felt a hand tugging at the buttons of his breeches.