A Proper Education for Girls (8 page)

Soon, she knew, back in England it would be time to wheel the tree into the cooler air of the temperate house. And yet, even between the two of them the peach tree had become almost impossible to move, its huge brass wheels catching on roots, its branches scraping
and bending as they forced it through the hothouse doors. How on earth would Alice manage now that she was alone? Lilian could not bear to think of it.

She opened her eyes to find that Selwyn and Mr. Rutherford were looking at her with expressions of perplexity on their faces. She blinked back her tears and put the peach back into the bowl. “Well?” she said, more sharply than she intended. “Mr. Rutherford?”

“I'm afraid not,” said Mr. Rutherford. “But then it's not unusual for items to take many months to get here. And sometimes things don't arrive at all. They fall into the river, or get caught in a flood, or simply get lost or stolen.” He shrugged. “And then sometimes months of post all arrives at once. I hope you weren't waiting for something important?”

“Oh no,” said Lilian. “Not really.” She was disappointed to have received nothing from Alice. She wondered how far on their journey back to England her own letters were. Perhaps they would pass Alice's as they made their way out to India … Then again, perhaps both sisters’ letters were bobbing down the Ganges, or blowing, lost, across the wide and dusty plains of Bengal.

“Was there anything else?” repeated Mr. Rutherford, backing toward the doorway. “No? Well then, I shall leave you to settle in. The
khansaman
I took the liberty of engaging for you will be in shortly to speak to you about your dining requirements and any other aspects of household management you might wish to discuss.” His voice echoed in from the veranda. “Don't hesitate to ask if I can be of further assistance.”

I
T WAS NOT
long before Selwyn and Lilian made the acquaintance of other Europeans in the cantonment, among them Mr. Vine, the magistrate; Mr. Ravelston, a clerk in the Company and a replacement for the absent Mr. Gilmour; Mr. Toomey, a civil engineer who specialized in bridges; Mr. Birchwoode, the Company official in charge of ice manufacture; Dr. Mossly, from the medical mission,
and various officers from the garrison. A number of these men were accompanied by their bored but garrulous wives, and Lilian did as she was required in her role as Selwyn's wife, spending hours sitting indoors with Mrs. Ravelston, Mrs. Toomey, and Mrs. Birchwoode, drinking tea and being informed which servants were good and which were bad, which fashions were in and which were out, what perils the climate held for the complexion, for the digestive system, and for the maintenance of silks and crinolines. But whenever she got the chance—when she awoke early in the morning before the sun had even streaked the sky, when Selwyn retired for a nap and the Europeans' bungalows lay in an exhausted silence beneath the blazing arc of the afternoon—she would pull on her husband's trousers beneath her skirt, don her
topi
, and head out into the surrounding countryside with her easel.

It was only a matter of time before the news spread of her behavior.

“My dear Mrs. Fraser,” said Mrs. Birchwoode, “you will exhaust yourself.”

“Captain Forbes from the garrison has offered me the use of one of his horses,” said Lilian.

“It cannot possibly be safe,” said Mrs. Ravelston.

“I take the rifle.”

But rather than assuage the fears of Mrs. Birchwoode, Mrs. Ravelston, and Mrs. Toomey, this intelligence served only to alarm them further. “Whatever next!” cried Mrs. Toomey.

“Are you mad?” Selwyn hissed when he heard. “People are asking what sort of a man I am that I let my wife roam at will about the countryside. You are making a fool of me. We shall lose all our friends.”

“But we're leaving soon,” said Lilian. “You said so yourself.”

“Just as well,” said Selwyn. “Everyone is talking. Even Dr. Mossly wonders about you. Perhaps you've taken leave of your senses like that fellow Gilmour. All that wandering about in the blazing sun. Perhaps I should speak to him.”

“Dr. Mossly is a physician,” said Lilian. “Not an alienist.”

“He's a doctor, that's all that matters. Besides, he sees a lot of Europeans not quite in their right minds out here, you know. He told me so himself.”

Lilian shrugged. She reached for her
topi
.

“Where are you going now?” cried Selwyn. “After everything I have just said!”

“To the bazaar.”

“Can't you send one of the bearers instead? Why do you always have to be wandering about?”

“I need some fresh air. But I shall take a bearer, if that makes you happy.”

T
HE MOMENT SHE
left the shade of the bungalow Lilian felt the weight of the sun pressing down upon her. Selwyn was right: despite the lateness of the afternoon it was still far too hot to be outside. Even the bearer had looked at her in disbelief when she summoned him, as though wondering why his mistress could not simply stay indoors beneath the
punkah
like all the other European ladies. But rather than turn back, Lilian lengthened her stride. Each one took her farther away from Selwyn, and each one raised her spirits more. She eyed the flowing
sari
of a woman walking toward her. How practical such a garment was. How cool and comfortable. Why, she, Lilian, with her spindly crepe-sheathed arms and her tightly buttoned bodice, looked like a big black spider.

As usual, the bazaar was teeming. The reek of ordure, sweat, smoke, and rotting vegetable matter mingled thickly with the smell of melted butter, grilling kebabs, spices, and attar of roses, unfolding to meet her in a silent, invisible wave. At first, the presence of a
memsahib
in the bazaar had attracted a great deal of attention. Children, beggars, inquisitive faces of all shapes and sizes, had thronged around her, pulling at her clothes and touching her hair and jabbering in her face in so many languages and voices that she could make no sense of any of them. She had firmly pushed her way through the crowds, telling everyone—in English, Hindi, and Urdu—to go
away. The crowds had parted in silence before her. After a few weeks Lilian was a familiar sight, and no one bothered her at all.

Now, she plunged through the crowd, stopping only to remove her
topi
for a moment and wipe a sticky tendril of hair off her forehead. Her intention was to make her way to the
dak
, to see if any letters had come from England. The postal service arrived every two weeks and Lilian was there, waiting for it, every time. In the weeks they had now spent in Kushpur, however, she had received nothing. She found herself wondering whether Alice was still angry with her and was punishing her by refusing to write. But she knew this was unlikely. More probable was the interference of their father. And yet, she and Alice had always been able to get the better of him when they were together.

A chicken, carried aloft in a wicker basket on someone's shoulders, squawked in her face and released a cloud of feathers. Lilian started. Lost in thought she had missed her turning and was now deep into the bazaar. The bearer knew she had been heading to the
dak
, she thought irritably. Why had he not called to her? She turned to tick him off about it, but he was nowhere to be seen. Where
had
the man got to? Lilian stood on tiptoe and scanned the crowd for him.

Suddenly, “Miss Talbot? Surely it can't be you …” A voice spoke, almost in her ear.

She jumped and looked about. The voice had been English, but she could see no other European. The only person looking at her was a tall bearded Indian man. The man leered at her and began to rummage earnestly in the pocket of
his pyjama
trousers.

Lilian frowned, hoping to deflect his gaze with her best
memsahib
glare. “No thank you,” she said firmly, assuming he was about to delve into some secret recess of his clothing and produce his wares for sale. “Please leave me alone,” and she turned away.

“My dear Lilian—,” said the voice.

Lilian blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Miss Talbot. Lilian, if I may—”

Lilian stared at him. “It's Mrs. Fraser,” she corrected him. “And no, you may not!”

“Of course.” The man eyed the ungloved fingers of her left hand.

“I'm sorry sir, but I have no idea who you are,” said Lilian.

“You don't remember me? How could you forget?”

Lilian took a step backward. Passersby had stopped to stare at the
badmash
who had dared to detain a European
memsahib
, and she found she was now surrounded by a ring of curious faces. “How could I forget what?” she said angrily. “I have nothing to remember.”

Before the man could speak again, another voice cried out urgently from the crowd. “Mrs. Fraser? Mrs. Fraser!” and to Lilian's added surprise, Mr. Vine, the magistrate, emerged before her. “Leave this lady alone, sir!” he shouted. “Do you need any assistance?” he spoke to Lilian in anxious tones. “Do you know this fellow?”

“No,” said Lilian.

“Yes,” said the Indian.

Lilian stared closely at the man's face. It was tanned a deep nut brown, its lower half decorated with a long black beard in the midst of which a pair of betel-stained lips blazed fiendishly.

“I insist that I do not,” she said. And yet, the voice was familiar … She looked again. Surely it couldn't be … She felt her stomach lurch.

“My dear Mrs. Fraser,” Mr. Vine whispered, dragging on Lilian's sleeve. “What
were
you thinking of coming into this part of the bazaar?”

“Remember the orchids,” persisted the Indian. “Salmon-pink orchids.”

Lilian felt the blood drain from her face. Her head swam and she swayed where she stood like a reed caught in a current. A voice spoke from a great distance.
“Mrs. Fraser,”
it said.
“Mrs. Fraser, take my arm, please!
” But Lilian did not heed it. Instead, she drew back her right hand and swung her fist as hard as she could into those
smiling crimson teeth. The Indian staggered backward, his hand to his mouth. One foot plunged, knee deep, into a large bowl of beans that stood beside a stall. A thin stream of cherry-colored liquid issued from between his fingers, though whether this was blood, or simply betel-stained saliva, it was impossible to say.

T
HANKS TO
M
R.
V
INE, THE NEWS OF THE SCENE IN THE
bazaar was soon widespread intelligence. Immediately, a buzz of speculation surrounded the man whom Mr. Vine had variously described as “a veritable savage,” “dressed like a cutthroat,” and “with teeth as red as the devil's.” Ever tastier news followed: it turned out that Mrs. Fraser had invited the savage to call on her for tiffin the next day.

“And she punched him, you say!” asked Mrs. Birchwoode, her thick fingers toying with the pearls at her throat.

“Oh yes. She said she thought he was after her purse.”

“How terribly shocking,” cried Mrs. Toomey.

“And yet she
knows
him?” said Mrs. Birchwoode. “She
knows
a ruffian from the bazaar?”

“A friend of her father's,” said the magistrate. “It turns out that the fellow is English.”

Mrs. Ravelston looked aghast. “An Englishman dressed as a savage?”

“One can only hope that mixing with thugs and robbers in the Punjab has not diminished his table manners,” Mr. Vine said in an undertone to Mrs. Birchwoode. “No doubt the man will be unable to balance a cup of tea on a saucer without spilling it.”

“Perhaps he won't want tea,” Mr. Birchwoode remarked. “He might simply take his refreshment by swigging from a goatskin!” He had laughed as the ladies, Mrs. Birchwoode, Mrs. Ravelston, and
Mrs. Toomey, wrinkled their noses in distaste and raised their own cups delicately to their lips, as if to show one another how it was really done.

B
Y FOUR O'CLOCK
the following afternoon the Frasers' drawing room was crowded with visitors. Mrs. Toomey, Mrs. Birchwoode, and Mrs. Ravelston had invited themselves to the Frasers' bungalow, along with their husbands, as well as Mrs. Birchwoode's youngest daughter, sixteen-year-old Frances, Mr. Vine, Dr. Mossly, and Captain Wheeler and Captain Forbes from the barracks. Mr. Rutherford, who had come to see Selwyn on an altogether different matter, was also there and found himself unable and unwilling (though he did not like to admit this to himself) to extricate himself from the assembled company. By the time everyone had found a seat, or a convenient place to stand without looking too expectant, there was scarcely any room for the caller.

Lilian was more amused than irritated by this sudden influx of people. She could feel the excitement of the ladies rising in tandem with the rising heat of the crowded room, as they sat and waited for the arrival of her heathen
badmash
visitor. Overhead, the giant wing of the
punkah
swept calmly back and forth stirring the broiling atmosphere into ineffectual eddies. The conversation circled around and around the usual topics—the likely winner of that year's Bengal Cup, the transformation the railway would make if it ever reached this far up country, whether the dwindling supply of ice would last for much longer … No one mentioned the real reason they had come. But as the clock on the mantel chimed the hour the conversation stopped and all eyes turned to the door. Was he coming? Would they be able to hear the sound of his goatskin boots tramping across the veranda?