A Proper Education for Girls (30 page)

Mr. Hunter sighed and reached for the hookah pipe. What did it matter what these people thought of him now? He motioned to the bearer to light it. “You know, I do prefer the way they prepare the tobacco up-country. The tobacco in Calcutta is quite bland in comparison.” He put the pipe to his lips. The jar bubbled.

“The point is, Mr. Hunter,” said Mrs. Birchwoode. “The point is that one cannot
become
native. I'm not sure that Mrs. Fraser understands this. I'm not sure that
you
understand this. Have you not heard of the unrest at Barrackpore? Such insolence only occurs when the native thinks he can get away with it. When he thinks we are not his master. But we
are
their masters, Mr. Hunter. We are most certainly
not
their friends. Surely you, with your extensive experience of India, can see that, even if Mrs. Fraser, who has spent less than two years in the country and is thus little more than a griffin, cannot.”

“The unrest at Barrackpore will come to nothing,” said Mr. Vine. “Just a couple of
sepoys
inflamed with
bhang
, no more than that. The perpetrators were dealt with, I understand. That'll be an end to it.”

“What unrest?” said Miss Bell. Having been in Kushpur for less than a year, and thus more of a griffin than anyone else, she had
no idea what Mrs. Birchwoode or Mr. Vine were talking about. But she remembered stopping at Barrackpore on her way up-country from Calcutta. The place had seemed uneventful enough. “What happened?”

“A
sepoy
attacked a British sergeant,” said Captain Lewis. “The fellow was almost certainly intoxicated. They hanged the blighter, along with that insubordinate
jemadar
who refused to arrest him. The whole of the Bengal Native Infantry was sacked to punish the lot of 'em. Deserved all they got, if you ask me. They should just bite the cartridge like anyone else and have done with it.”

“‘Bite the cartridge?’” Miss Bell looked from Captain Lewis to Captain Forbes in bewilderment.

“We were issued with new rifles. Dashed fine mechanism, but you have to tear the cartridge with your teeth to open it,” said Captain Lewis, “to pour the powder in. Then you ram the ball and empty cartridge paper down on top. The paper has to be greased—beef or pig fat—to get it down the barrel.”

“There's more to this trouble than greased cartridges,” said Mr. Hunter. “Anyone who listens to what's being said in the bazaar or the barrack rooms would know that.”

“Native tittle-tattle,” said Mr. Toomey.

“The
sepoys
are dissatisfied,” said Mr. Hunter. “The military command shows no respect for caste. And as for the officers, I don't know what the Company is thinking, sending such a rabble of Whitechapel guttersnipes to lord it over high caste Hindu men, men whose buttons they are not fit to polish.”

Captains Wheeler and Lewis leaped to their feet, their faces red. But Captain Forbes was nodding gloomily. “He's right,” he said. “Some of those Company officers are quite the worst kind of men.”

“Good God, Forbes,” said Captain Lewis. “Who
have
you been listening to?”

“And have you heard what Rutherford is up to these days?” Captain Forbes shook his head. “It's a mistake.”

“Exactly,” cried Mr. Hunter. “Men like Rutherford insist on trying to convert everyone. No one's seen him for months. And why is
that? Because he's always at the barracks and the parade ground trying to save souls. Doesn't he see it? The Hindus don't want to be saved. Neither do the Moslems. They don't want to be Christians. Why not just leave them alone?”

“You infidel!” said Dr. Mossly “Why the Lord's work is
never
done—”

“But Hunter's
right”
cried Captain Forbes.

“What rot you're talking, Hunter!” interrupted Captain Lewis.

“But your own Captain Forbes agrees,” snapped Mr. Hunter. “It's a pity there aren't a few more who think like him. It might do your regiment some credit.” Captains Wheeler and Lewis glared at the visibly pale Captain Forbes. “The native infantry could ignite the whole country in two minutes, but Anson and his like down in Calcutta are too blind and ignorant, too arrogant, to see the trouble coming.”

“Trouble?” whispered Miss Bell. “Is it serious?”

“No!” shouted Captain Lewis and Captain Wheeler together. Captain Forbes shifted his feet uneasily.

Mr. Vine cleared his throat. “There's nothing to worry about at all, my dear.” He blinked at the bearer standing, unmoving, beside the door; at the
punkah wallah
sitting outside on the veranda, silently pulling his rope; at the meekly lowered eyes of the
ayah
Mrs. Birchwoode had brought with her to arrange her dress and operate her personal fan. Everything was in its place and as it ought to be. These incidents on the parade ground were nothing. The army command said so themselves. Surely they should know? And besides, Captain Forbes hadn't even
been
to Barrackpore …

“Stuff and nonsense,” said Mrs. Birchwoode briskly. With an irritated tug she removed the hem of her skirt from where it had become trapped beneath Mr. Toomey's boot heel. “One mustn't pay any attention to these tiffs among the natives. They're too lazy to have a real fight about anything. Why, Mr. Birchwoode has found the bearers to be more idle than ever these last few months. One of them even left some
chapatti
s on his desk yesterday. Just lying there in the middle of his salt reports.”

“I found some on the floor of the
kutcherry,”
said Mr. Vine. “Covered in ants.”

“What! Why didn't you say anything?” said Mr. Hunter, looking genuinely alarmed. “The passing of cakes signifies coming unrest.”

Mr. Vine exchanged glances with Mr. Ravelston and Dr. Mossly.

“How rude of Mrs. Fraser to leave us all waiting like this,” trumpeted Mrs. Birchwoode. “I've had quite enough. Mr. Vine, be sure to tell Mrs. Fraser plainly: she must become a
memsahib
or she must go home. Brook no argument!” Her hips heaved against the magistrate as she negotiated her way past a bronze statue of Shiva (a new addition to the room since Mrs. Birchwoode's last visit). The other ladies gathered themselves together to follow.

In a few moments only Mr. Vine, Dr. Mossly, and Mr. Hunter remained. Mr. Hunter subsided onto the settee vacated by Mrs. Ravelston and put the hookah pipe to his lips. He looked at the door. Where on earth was Lilian? He stared at Mr. Vine and Dr. Mossly. If only these ridiculous fellows would go away.

“I think it only fair to tell you that I intend to ask Mrs. Fraser to be my wife,” said Dr. Mossly suddenly.

“What?” exploded Mr. Hunter. He sat forward. He stared in disbelief at the small, tubby man standing beside the mantelpiece. Then he laughed and sat back again. He stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles. “Do you really?”

“Yes,” said Dr. Mossly. His face had turned scarlet. “My work among the native poor has greatly endeared me to her, I am sure.”

“But I intend to take her back to England,” interjected the magistrate. “Her berth is secured. I myself will take her to Calcutta and ensure her safe passage. I had hoped that I might take that opportunity to make her
my
wife. There is something of an understanding between us—”

“An understanding?” spluttered Mr. Hunter. “Are you out of your mind?”

“My dear Mr. Hunter. I know you consider yourself to have a special friendship with Mrs. Fraser, occasioned by the fact that you
and she were acquainted back home, but I can assure you that her affection for you is that of a friend and well-wisher, and no more. She has assured me of this on more than one occasion.”

“Mr. Vine, you cannot return to England. You are needed here,” cried Dr. Mossly “Mrs. Fraser need not return home, unless she wishes it, and in which case she can return with me. I have no doubt that she would rather stay in India, offering succor in the hospital with me by her side.”

“But you said yourself that she should return home, for the sake of her health,” cried the magistrate.

“It is a possibility, yes. But only if my petition fails. And only if she wishes it.”

“I'm sure it will fail,” boomed Mr. Vine. “She understands my intentions fully.”

“I know what we can do,” said Mr. Hunter. “Something you seem not to have thought about, but which will be sure to resolve the matter. Let's ask her, shall we? Let's ask her who she would like to marry. Will she return to England with you, Vine? Will she work with you in the hospital, Dr. Mossly? Or will she come north with me on horseback as
my
wife? Let's see what her answer is.” He rose to his feet. He didn't have to look in the mirror over the fireplace to see how his swarthy good looks and tall muscular bearing outshone these two men, one fat and pale, the other lean and wolfish.
“Sircar? Sircar
! Tell Mrs. Fraser we are waiting for her. Tell her Mr. Hunter is here. With Mr. Vine and Dr. Mossly. Tell her to stop hiding in her room and come through at once. We have something important to ask her.”

M
R.
T
ALBOT STORMED DOWN THE MAIN HALLWAY OF
the great house, the eye of a stuffed beaver glinting hungrily in the light of his candle as he passed. In his haste, he stumbled over some unseen obstruction, banging his thigh on a display case filled with nautical instruments and grazing his knuckles on a model of the harbor on the Isle of Wight made entirely out of seashells. He muttered blackly, cursing the domestic economy he championed now that the lack of lighting in the house was causing him inconvenience. Had he passed the stairs yet? Disoriented for a moment by the crowded darkness, his route illuminated only by a dim bubble of candlelight, he could not be sure. Mr. Talbot cursed once more and retraced his steps.

At length he found a flight of stairs. The thick glass face of a brass diving helmet winked knowledgeably at him and he knew he was in the right place. He climbed briskly, his face livid, his cheeks puffing like bellows. Alice's room was up here somewhere, though which door was hers he had no idea. He crept forward, his bulky frame crouched bizarrely and balanced on the tips of his toes. At each door he stopped and listened. The whole of this hallway was occupied by his female family members (he had relocated his own chambers to the other side of the great house years ago, choosing manly isolation in a distant wing over the company of his elderly relatives) and he had no wish to find himself standing in his mother's chamber or, worse, his aunt Lambert's. But it was no use.
He had no idea behind which door his daughter might be found. His face, in the candlelight, turned crimson with irritation. How undignified to be creeping about one's own house listening at doors.

“Alice!” he bellowed suddenly. “Where are you? I know you aren't sleeping. Alice?
ALICE
!” He waited. There was a rustling sound, and a door opened on his left.

F
ROM INSIDE HER
bedchamber, Alice had heard her father's whistling breath and heavy tread, despite the fact that he had tried to make his advance along the aunts' hallway as noiseless as possible. Through the keyhole she had seen him stop and listen. Now she threw a shawl over her nightgown and opened her door.

“What is it, Father?” she whispered. “You'll wake everyone up if you shout like that.” She looked him up and down. Even in the feeble light of his shaking candle she could see that he was furious—his hair standing up like a chimney sweep's brush, his face black with rage. She had not seen him so incensed since Lilian left. Her scalp prickled with alarm. She tried to keep her voice calm when she spoke.

“Is something the matter?” She noticed that he seemed to be carrying a heavy item in his right hand, but she could not quite see what it was.

“Yes,” he cried. Mr. Talbot waved his candle aggressively toward her. Its flame wavered, struggling to stay alight against the rhythmic gusts of his breathing. “You shame me. You and your sister. You shame me and you shame this house. You shame your mother, God rest her soul, and I thank him that she is not here to see her daughter's ignominy.” With a flourish, he thrust into Alice's face the item he had been carrying. Alice found herself staring down at her father's newly acquired brass and ivory binoculars. Her mouth felt as dry as a glove.