A Proper Education for Girls (27 page)

“Does she write?” said Miss Forbes. “That can offer some comfort, at least.”

“No,” said Lilian. “She is … prevented from doing so. But I write to her. I write a letter to her every day, though I imagine she receives none of them.”

“I have no sisters,” interrupted Miss Bell, as though Lilian had held the floor for quite long enough. “Indeed, no family apart from Mr. and Mrs. Ravelston. Mrs. Ravelston is my mother's second cousin, by marriage. I suppose I have no one to go home to, should I even be able to get there.”

“You need to find a husband,” said Miss Forbes briskly.

“That'd get you away from Uncle Ravelston and his sheet lifting,” said Lilian.

Miss Bell looked confused.

“What about Mr. Vine?” continued Miss Forbes in a businesslike manner. “He's a good catch.”

“Oh.”

“Or Dr. Mossly. Or what about Captain Lewis? He's a handsome enough fellow. My brother speaks very highly of him.”

“I do like a man with a soldierly bearing,” said Miss Bell. “But I understand that Mrs. Birchwoode has set her mind on Captain Lewis for Fanny. As for Dr. Mossly, I think he has eyes for someone else.” She smiled knowingly at Lilian.

Lilian's teacup rattled onto its saucer.

“There is no place more illuminating to get to know a man's character than at the bedside of one's dying husband,” said Miss Bell, her head held high. “And to watch your tender ministrations, Mrs. Fraser, why, any man who witnessed such loving care could only fall in love with you. No, I was thinking more about your friend. About Mr. Hunter.” She blushed as red as a geranium. “He is so very tall and well proportioned, though the older ladies say he is quite a savage at heart. What do you know of him? Is he married? The ladies say he's not, but you never know—”

“He's not married,” said Lilian.

“Perhaps he's looking for a wife,” said Miss Bell. “They say he has been in Kushpur for months now, when he should really have left. I wonder what detains him.”

Miss Forbes stroked her chestnut ringlets. “Well, I must say he was most attentive to me last week. I was walking with my brother and Captain Wheeler when Mr. Hunter came over specifically to speak to me. Of course, he directed most of his remarks to my brother, but there was no mistaking it. He actually took my hand and welcomed me to Kushpur.” She smiled. “A wife is a comfort and a blessing. Mr. Hunter must surely be in need of one.”

“Perhaps he is too wild,” breathed Miss Bell.

“I believe you knew him back home, Mrs. Fraser,” said Miss Forbes.

“He was an acquaintance of my father's.”

“And what have you seen or heard of him that convinces you that he is less than gentlemanly?”

“Oh, this and that.”

“But what?” Miss Bell and Miss Forbes sat on the edge of the settee. Miss Bell's pale face grew paler; Miss Forbes pressed her lips together. Were they on the brink of discovering a scandal? Of carrying back to Mrs. Birchwoode a rumor that she had not already heard?

Lilian watched as curiosity craftiness—even jealousy—chased across their features. The girls' appetites for gossip, encouraged by the other European ladies and sharpened by boredom, smiled hungrily at her from two pairs of eager lips. Lilian tried to remember how she had felt all those months ago when she discovered that Mr. Hunter had left her father's house, when she realized that he had no intention of returning and had gone off plant hunting without even saying good-bye. Rage and humiliation had been her foremost sentiments, though she found that she could muster no such emotions now. She tried to recall the distress and shock of finding that she was carrying Mr. Hunter's child, the horror of Dr. Cattermole's fingers against her skin and the cold jaws of the speculum inside her, the pain and awfulness of those moments when the child had been expelled from her womb. And then the desolation of seeing her dead baby wrapped so tightly in her cotton sheet, her tiny face bruised and contorted. Lilian had schooled herself never to think of these things, so that the memory of the infant seemed clouded and indistinct, as though she were viewing a photograph of her through a watery lens. She felt a sense of detachment from those sad and terrible times, and her misery had long since drained away, leaving only a faint desire for vengeance and something she might perhaps have described as relief.

Lilian lowered her voice as she leaned forward.

“There was a rumor, I really have no idea how true it is, that Mr. Hunter seduced a young lady. That he abandoned her without further thought for her well-being. Of course, this may simply be gossip. You should perhaps not repeat the story to anyone else, not least in case the name of this unfortunate young lady becomes known.”

“Where did you hear this?” whispered Miss Bell. “And when?”

“Just before I was married. In England. It was well known in certain circles at the time.”

“He seduced her?”

“Oh yes. Though I understand that she was not a reluctant participant.”

“And he ran off?”

“He had taken his pleasure. What more did he need from her?”

Miss Bell and Miss Forbes exchanged a glance.

“And where is the lady now? What happened to her?” said Miss Bell.

“Her baby died, and—”

“There was a baby!”

“I believe so.”

“The scoundrel!” breathed Miss Forbes.

“And the lady?” insisted Miss Bell. “What about the lady?”

“Her fate is uncertain.”

“The poor soul. Perhaps she drowned herself.”

“Oh, I doubt it,” said Lilian.

A
T FIRST,
L
ILIAN HAD FOUND IT ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE TO
engage in conversation with any of her team of servants—even when she addressed them in their native Hindi. But persistence revealed that the
sircar
she had taken on shortly after Selwyn's death—a tall fellow with a knowledgeable smile who went about his tasks as superintendent of the household with noisy efficiency—had once worked for the mysteriously absent Mr. Gilmour.

Harshad appeared to be unsurprised by Lilian's interest in Indian culture. He was pleased to buy the very finest tobacco for her hookah. He was happy to recommend a
dharzi
who might make her
cholis
, the tight-fitting bodice worn beneath her
sari
, and as many petticoats as she might desire. Harshad explained in detail the ins and outs of the caste system (which he feared she had misunderstood), and revealed to her the mysteries of
dasturi
, that unfathomable payment that had to be made over and above the servants' wages for practically anything bought from the
boxwallahs
on Lilian's behalf.

“Dasturi
a very bloody tax,
memsahib,”
said Harshad patiently. “From two to four
pice
in the
rupee
. One
anna
, or one-sixteenth of the
rupee
is correct. Unless Harshad himself purchase confounded item. But other servants, they are bloody well not to be trusted. For a
memsahib
, it can be hard, fearfully, fearfully hard, to find honest servants, damn them.”

Lilian smiled. “Where did you learn your English?” she said.

“Mr. Gilmour, a very talkative
sahib
. He try to learn Hindi but also teach Harshad English—all his most beloved, his most bloody English words. Now, I alone among all servants speak Queen's damnable English.” Harshad laughed heartily at the memory of his previous employer. “Mr. Gilmour
sahib
a happy, happy man. Especially he enjoyed the gin and the hookah. Ah, yes. Often he would laugh and laugh when Harshad spoke those most confounded English words, damn and blast the bastard. But now”—he shook his head sadly—“Mr. Gilmour is taken ill. A bloody sad time for Harshad.” A slow smile replaced the dolorous expression Harshad had assumed to accompany this sorrowful revelation. “Still,” he said.
“Memsahib
Fraser now takes his place. A damned happy event.”

“Indeed,” Lilian said, relieved that she had not engaged Harshad while her husband had been alive. “Damned happy.”

In the evenings, sometimes Harshad would tell Lilian about his Hindu gods and goddesses. How the dip in the land where Kushpur was situated was made by the imprint of Shiva's foot as he strode across the land. How Ganesh had been born as an ordinary boy but had been decapitated in war, his head replaced by that of a baby elephant on the orders of Shiva. Lilian already knew much of this from her time in her father's house, but it was pleasant to hear the stories spoken in Hindi, as they should be.

“What lovely fairy tales,” she said one evening without thinking. “I don't know why everyone objects to them. What harm can there be in such fanciful legends?”

Harshad drew himself up, excused himself, and strode from the room. Lilian sought him out to beg his forgiveness. Of course they were not fairy tales, she insisted. She was thoughtless and foolish to have said they were. Would he accept her apologies?

At last, Harshad was mollified. The gift of a couple of chickens to take home to his wife did something to soothe his ruffled feelings.

M
R.
H
UNTER WATCHED
Lilian's growing enthusiasm for India with approval. How enchanting to find a woman, a beautiful European
woman, who delighted in the food, clothing, and customs of the place; one who spoke Urdu and Hindi as best she could; who tried betel and
bhang
and visited the temples to pray, not simply to walk through the precincts talking loudly about heathens and infidels. And if, at times, she took her enthusiasm a little too far (it was rumored—he did not believe it—that she had been seen at the well washing her own betel-spattered clothes!), well, such exuberance simply made her all the more beguiling.

Inspired by these observations, and acknowledging that his brains were sadly depleted of traveling anecdotes and survival stories, Mr. Hunter sought now to attract Lilian through more material means. He bought a length of ocher-colored silk from a
boxwallah
who came to the
dak
bungalow.

“How beautiful!” cried Lilian when he presented it. She rewarded him with a kiss and allowed him to slide his hand against her leg as she sat beside him on the settee.

He bought her a pair of bejeweled sandals and some earrings set with topaz and sapphires. He sent over a box of her favorite almond sweetmeats from the bazaar and found her a pet monkey.

“How charming,” murmured Lilian. The monkey was dressed in a striped coat and wore a turban on his head, held in place by string. “He looks a bit like you, when you're dressed as a
badmash.”

Mr. Hunter smiled indulgently. “D'you like him?”

“Oh, yes. But I could not possibly keep him.” Lilian handed the monkey back. “I would tire of him and he would die of neglect. Perhaps you should give him to Fanny Birchwoode.” She busied herself among her paintings.

Mr. Hunter took the monkey away.

Captain Forbes gave Lilian a new
topi
, and asked if he might buy one of her watercolors. Lilian threw away her old
topi
and was seen wearing her new one as she rode across the
maidan
on Captain Forbes's horse. She asked which of her paintings the captain would like. Perhaps he should come to her bungalow and chose one?

Mr. Hunter offered to send Lilian's paintings to Kew at his own
expense. He purchased a new pony for her from a Marathi horse trader who had dealings with the Company and bought her a saddle and some panniers.

“How thoughtful,” said Lilian (who had been about to buy these essential items herself and was pleased to have been saved the bother and expense).

Mr. Hunter called in to see her every afternoon. By midday it was far too hot for her to be out with her easel and he knew she would be at home. And yet, to his frustration it seemed that there was always one or other of the Kushpur Europeans present: Miss Bell and Miss Forbes or, more annoyingly, Mr. Vine and Dr. Mossly Mr. Hunter stood gloomily by the fireplace, wishing Lilian would send these irksome people away. He knew she despised them. For reasons he could not understand, she seemed content to allow them to stay.

Eventually, Lilian had the fabric Mr. Hunter had bought for her made up into a
sari
, with a matching
choli
beneath. One afternoon, one of her bearers appeared at the
dak
bungalow and asked Mr. Hunter to call.

Mr. Hunter rode over immediately. He was ushered into the parlor by Harshad, to find Lilian reclining on her settee on a mass of cushions. Her hair was tumbled about her shoulders, and she was sheathed from neck to ankle in ocher-colored silk.

“Do sit down,” Lilian said. She smiled at him and put the hookah pipe to her lips. She closed her eyes and blew out a draft of smoke.

Mr. Hunter stared at her. She reminded him of a
nautch
girl, lolling on her
charpoy
as she awaited a customer. Lilian stretched herself languidly, arching her back like a cat in the sun. She put a hand behind her head and looked up at him through the smoke. “It's a beautiful
sari
, isn't it?” she said.

Mr. Hunter stepped closer. How lovely she was! Had she dressed so provocatively just for him? He was sure he could see the outline of a nipple beneath the silky fabric. Mr. Hunter could not stop himself from becoming immediately, immensely, aroused. He
tried to look away but found that he could not. He tried to think about something deflating—Mrs. Birchwoode's piano playing, Mrs. Toomey's decayed smile—but relief eluded him. Would she not, at least, ask him to sit down, so that his terrible animal urges might be concealed in his lap?