City of Bells (6 page)

             
The fact that Rose Everlee was married to the Secretary-General of the whole of the Bombay Presidency, made her without question the most valuable cargo on the ship.  But she was also an enormous pain in the arse and she chose this moment – just when tranquility and even a sort of enchantment was beginning to settle over the ship – to whisper that she was getting a headache.  Geraldine was not surprised.  Rose had announced one headache after another since they left London, the tedium only occasionally interrupted by announcements that Rose had a backache.  

             
So Geraldine had scooted over on her pallet, just enough to allow Rose to push to her feet and make her unsteady way across a deckful of dozing women.  To go back to the hell of the cabin and the heaven of the opium that awaited her there. Geraldine was relieved to have her gone.  She could now wiggle into Rose’s prime location on the deck and thus better hear the droning voice of the impromptu astronomer.  For Geraldine was a bit of a scientist in her way, the daughter of a botanist and the sister to a naturalist, and she knew that when she returned to England, her father and brother would expect to hear a full account of her experiences on the lower half of the globe.

             
But most of all Geraldine was relieved because with Rose out of the way she was for once alone within the privacy of her own thoughts.  She stretched out on her back, looking up at this foreign sky, reveling in the luxury of the doubled pallet, and running her fingertips along the gently undulating folds of the canvas wall.

             
There was a sudden movement on the other side. A hand, she believed.  A hand moving in response to her own.

             
Geraldine froze. Somehow, in the freedom of the setting - the cool breeze, the expansive sky, the deep drowsy sighs of the women around her - she had forgotten that a regiment of men lay so very close.

             
She pressed her hand.  Lightly. Tentatively.

             
The hand pressed back.

             
“Darling?” said a voice beneath the canvas.  No more than a whisper, but she heard it quite distinctly and recognized the speaker: Anthony Weaver. 

             
Geraldine had watched him every day since the voyage began.  It had been a challenging quest, for days upon end would pass without the female passengers coming into any sustained contact with the male.  Furthermore, Rose was a hawk, rarely giving Geraldine the freedom to mingle with those on the lesser decks, no matter what their gender.  That was, until the doldrums had seized the ship and all rules had seemed to go out the window.  Over the last three weeks Geraldine had conversed with Anthony daily.   At times, it had seemed he was flirting with her but Geraldine was inexperienced with men beyond her family circle and hard-pressed to tell the difference between socially-required politeness and genuine interest.  Anthony always seemed to be close by, this was true.  But perhaps it was more in service to his commander’s sickly wife than due to any true desire for congress with Geraldine.

             
There was not a single book in her father’s library that could help a woman at a time like this.

             
The hand again.  Not against the canvas wall now, but rather slipped below it, lifting back a fold of the heavy cloth.  Just enough to allow him to slide a palm underneath, to inch out his fingertips until they touched her bare arm.

             
“Darling?” he said again.  

             
How had he found her in the dark?  She remembered him standing on the deck as the sail was being lowered.  She had been among the ladies, of course, and he among the men.  But for a moment their eyes had met.  He had taken note of where she had been on the women’s side, and he must have aligned himself opposite her.

             
How bold of him, she thought.  And how mad to do this without knowing what her reaction might be.  She could easily have pulled away, screamed.  Alerted Rose, who would not have hesitated to bring the entire ship down around his ears.

             
But Geraldine did not scream.  Instead, she rolled toward him.

             
For she had come to India to change herself, you see.  She had known precisely what it meant for a woman to round the corner of thirty - as definitive a milestone as rounding the Cape of Good Hope - and to still have no matrimonial harbor in sight.  Back in the family estate in Leeds, she had thus determined months ago, perhaps even years, to be a different kind of woman – independent, adventurous, unheeding of the calls of society’s crows.  To do this she would have to leave her old self behind, to abandon pieces of her history with each step of her journey. 

             
This seemed as good a time as any to leave this particular part behind.

             
Geraldine knew she was not pretty.  Neither was she feminine nor graceful and she furthermore knew that the ardors of the long voyage had robbed her of whatever small delicacies she might once have claimed.   By the time Anthony Weaver groped beneath the canvas sail and found her hand, she was sunburned and windblown, her skin coarsened by the continual sting of salt, her eyelids heavy with the cumulative exhaustion of innumerable days and nights without sleep.

             
So even at the time she had wondered why he had chosen her.  The men would outnumber the women once they docked, but here, on the boat, females were the commodity in excess.  Anthony Weaver was the only man among them who was of a marriageable age and not a member of the crew.  These were not the sort of odds which normally favored a woman like Geraldine. 

             
And yet the wall between them lifted.  Slowly, steadily lifted.

             
Years later Geraldine would read a religious tract about the Mormons in America.   A singular group of people with many strange beliefs among them, not the least of which is that the souls of women are incapable of finding their way to paradise on their own.  They need a man to pull them there, a proper husband to reach through the veil which separates one realm from another and grab their hand. How her learned friends had laughed at these Mormons.  It was bad enough to declare a woman unequal on this earthly plane, they’d said.  But to further deem her incapable of entering heaven without a man….

             
It’s just the way they justify having so many wives, Geraldine’s friend Tess would chortle.  Don’t you think so, Gerry?

             
But Geraldine would be uncharacteristically silent.  She would remember this night.  The canvas wall, the hand inching beneath it, the struggle to lift the heavy sail which hung between them, the slow moving together in the dark.  And she would admit that in that moment, Anthony Weaver truly had pulled her through one world and into another. If not quite all the way to paradise, then at least to a mysterious new continent, one that no woman – no matter how clever – would ever have found on her own.

             
In time, the fuller truth would come to Geraldine as the truth so often does – unwelcome, and in pieces.  She would be forced to remember that she had been lying in Rose’s place on the deck when Anthony’s hand had found hers.  Anthony had watched the positioning of the women so carefully, had taken such pains to make sure he bedded down at a precise and certain spot on the other side of the canvas.  When he had called out his romantic – but, as it turns out, tragically vague - invitation of “Darling?” he must have been surprised indeed to hear Geraldine’s voice come back.  To hear her nervous, breathy whispers in place of the low-pitched, rather petulant tones he’d expected.  But he had rallied from the surprise almost immediately – the speed of his recovery perhaps a predictor of how well he would ultimately climb the ranks of the military, a precursor of his admirably agile career in politics.  For he had adjusted his plan in an instant and spent the starlit evening not in the familiar arms of Rose Everlee but rather forever changing the fate of Geraldine Bainbridge.

             
Precisely how long had the young officer been trysting with his superior’s wife?  Had their affair begun in India, or in England, during the months of leave?  What had made Anthony desperate enough to seek her out along the open expanse of the deck, where any man with a lantern might have found them?  And at exactly what point had he recognized his mistake - that it was Geraldine and not Rose who rolled toward him, who lifted the canvas and threw back her bedding?

             
This Geraldine could not answer.  She only knew that by the time the
Weeping Susan
at last arrived in Bombay harbor, she was in love with Anthony Weaver and that Rose Everlee had somehow, rather mysteriously, gotten over her headaches.

Chapter Six

Bombay Harbor

August 28
, 1889

9:42 AM

              Considering that it was the port of entry to an alarmingly foreign place, visitors rarely found their first view of Bombay alarming. Clustered on a series of islands, flanked by gentle hills, the approach to the harbor was so lovely that some travelers were moved to compare Bombay to Naples.  The western architectural style, at least in those buildings large enough to be visible from shipboard, did nothing to dissuade them from this initial reaction.  The houses lining the waterfront were reassuringly grand and in the distance even grander villa-style estates dotted the hills, implying wealth, comfort, and stability for those families fortunate enough to occupy them.

             
Welcome to India, it all seemed to say. We are very much like Europe, only with far better weather.

             
That was the first impression.  Then came the second.

             
As the ship grew closer, its passengers begin to catch glimpses of a tropical fecundity peeking out from the European façade: date trees in which large shadows moved, bright flowering shrubs offering sanctuary for even more brightly colored birds, unnamable produce piled high along the docks. Between the fine houses one could catch glimpses of the working class district which lay just beyond.  A jumble of half-standing shacks, each painted a more jarring hue than the next, and all of them jammed against each other in no immediately logical sequence.  It was as if a child had built a play city out of blocks and then kicked it.

             
Next, the sounds.  The bells, which seemed to ring constantly.  Not because they were marking the hour or announcing a visitor or the arrival of a train.  No, the noise of India appeared to have no purpose beyond its own existence.  The bells rang from prayer flags, clanged from cattle, tinkled from the fingertips of the dancers on the waterfront.  The natives even attached bells to their children.  Although the passengers of
The Fortitude
- arriving by steamer in the elevated year of 1889 as opposed to arriving by clipper in the barbaric year of 1856 – had enjoyed their brief and comfortable passage, they were about to step from a small familiar world into one that was huge and exotic.  And so loud, so very damned loud, that a man could hardly hear himself think.

             
When the ship was fully within the harbor, they were at last accosted by the smells. The faint acrid whiffs they had noticed miles out to sea but dismissed as imagination, were back upon them, but now with a strength that could almost knock a strong man off his feet.  Tobacco, which was familiar, and garlic, which was for most of the passengers somewhat less so.  Other spices which defied definition.  Sweat, it almost went without saying, and feces, both animal and human.  Beneath the generalized stench a well-trained nose might also detect that strangely sweet aroma that signals the ultimate form of decay.  Some passengers approaching Indian ports claimed to have seen dead bodies bobbing in the harbor, attracting no attention whatsoever from either the locals or the sailors. 

             
But despite all this, the city was the dream of every servant of the Raj. 

             
Anywhere the British were settled in India was called a station, from the smallest and most remote outpost to Bombay, which boasted 12,000 English citizens.  A drop in the proverbial bucket given the city’s general population of nearly two million, but certainly enough to make their presence known.  Largely because of this thriving British station lodged within its gates, Bombay had become an energetic and modern city, with a reasonable selection of western shops and clubs.  The city had pianos, midwives, dentists, umbrellas, photographers, magazines.  Mutton in tins and beer in bottles.  Even more important, it offered opportunities for civilized companionship.  Conversation.  Flirting.  Debate.  Gossip.  The ocean breezes even made the heat tolerable.  In short, any civil servant with any wit or ambition strove hard to get himself stationed in Bombay, the pearl of the western coast.

             
The Raj had a definite pecking order for its men, and thus for the women attached to them as wives or daughters.  The highest were the Viceroy and the Viceroy’s council, followed by military officers and local government officials.  Next came professionals of various ilks, then soldiers, and finally general laborers, of which there were not many.  Servants in India were so cheap and plentiful that it made little sense to import British workers to perform mundane tasks.   Last of all came the missionaries, who seemed to annoy the English and the Indian alike. 

             
Therefore, one might say that Bombay was overrun with politicians and officers who had finagled their way into one of the most desirable cities in India, and then promptly set about replicating everything they missed from England.  It was not easy – comfort in India would always be a relative term – and the snakes, scorpions, and microbes were unimpressed by the glory of the Raj and made their way into this exalted city just as quickly as all the others. But a shell of privilege covered the British in Bombay.  They traveled in certain compartments on trains, directed their carriages exclusively down the least distressing streets when navigating the slums, and lived only in designated districts.  They did not bother learning any of the numerous native languages – perhaps beyond a few words of “kitchen Hindustani” so that they could communicate with their servants – nor did they concern themselves with the equally incomprehensible currency.  No British citizen in India need ever carry cash.  Credit was extended automatically, based on the color of his skin. 

             
There was another India out there, close at hand.  They knew it, of course they did.  They could see it, if they looked, and they could hardly help smelling and hearing it, some senses being innately more democratic than others.  But the British in India sought to limit their exposure to the land they ruled.  And they tried not to remember the sort of things that could happen if the thin shell of privilege ever cracked.

***

Bombay Harbor

10:45 AM

             
The minute the debarkation process was complete, the men opted to go directly to the police station where Anthony Weaver was being held.   A porter managed to fetch them a public cab, which in truth looked more like a cart with a ragged canopy suspended overhead.  The four wedged themselves miserably in, with Davy crouched on the floorboards, Tom and Rayley sharing a rickety seat, and Trevor’s ample backside hanging half over his own shaky perch.  Tom saluted to the ladies as they jostled away.

             
It was a sight that would have amused Emma if she didn’t have so many troubles of her own.  The departure of the men meant that she was single-handedly left to contend with Geraldine and the eleven pieces of luggage, but, just when she was beginning to despair of finding any assistance at all, the throng at the dock suddenly seemed to part like a Biblical sea and she saw, to her great surprise, a well-appointed carriage not unlike the one Geraldine owned back in London.  A woman was waving to them from the window with a gloved hand.

             
“That must be our Mrs. Tucker,” Geraldine said with palpable relief. 

             
Emma was not entirely certain who their hostess was, or what connection she held to Gerry, but she found herself waving back with wild enthusiasm.  The temperature on the dock was already sickening and both she and Gerry were bathed in sweat.  The whole harbor was a sort of scarcely-contained bedlam, with dogs snarling, carts rattling, coolies shouting, children extending their palms for coins and pointing pitifully at their mouths as they did so.  And then there was the matter of that old man, standing just before her, who had reached within the folds of his loosely wrapped garment and extracted something.  Something which Emma had failed to recognize until the man proceeded to make water, nonchalantly and right there on the street.  They needed shade, and transport, and a breeze bought of movement and it seemed that this Mrs. Tucker, whoever she was, had the power to provide it all.  If the wagon so closely following her carriage was meant to hold their bags, then Emma would fall at the woman’s feet in gratitude.

             
It was.  A swarm of men, a toss of coins, an exchange of greetings, and they were off. At first the carriage made little progress, both due to the chaotic activity of the dock and the fact there didn’t appear to be anything in the area which could convincingly be called a street.  But then the driver found a bit of headway, and then a bit more.  He was inching toward an opening in the crowd when Mrs. Tucker wrapped her cane sharply against the floorboards and barked “Not that way.”

             
The dark-skinned man, evidently accustomed to following directions which made no sense, obligingly slowed the horses.  The second wagon likewise halted, a bit more abruptly, causing the luggage within it to bounce about unrestrained.  They sat for a moment, utterly still, and Emma was afraid the crowd would engulf them again.  She sank back against the dark red cushions, her damp shirt sticking to their ridiculously unsuitable velvet covers, and shut her eyes.  She could scarcely bear to think they might turn back toward the dock.  Not back toward those swarms of street children, all pointing so incessantly, and yet so hopelessly, toward their empty mouths.

             
“Thank you for coming yourself to the harbor,” Geraldine was saying to Mrs. Tucker, “and for your extraordinary hospitality.  Six houseguests descending upon you at once –“

             
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Tucker, tugging at a glove.  “Friends from home are always welcome.”

             
Now this was strange, Emma thought.  Based on the awkward formality, Gerry did not appear to know Mrs. Tucker at all.  Evidently in Bombay, “friends from home” was a vaguely-claimed status, applicable to anyone who had been foolish enough to undertake the journey from London.

             
The driver had the carriage more or less turned now and was headed away from the open street and toward one which was much narrower and more crowded.  The breeze Emma had so fervently hoped for was unlikely at this pace.

             
“Whyever did you ask him,” she blurted out to Mrs. Tucker, “to take another route? We were making better progress on the other, were we not?”

             
It was a presumptuous question, especially in light of the fact Mrs. Tucker had saved them from the pandemonium of the docks, but Emma didn’t care. 

             
The woman looked at her coolly.  Her expression, in fact, was the only cool thing in the carriage.

             
“The other road,” she said, “leads past the temple.”

             
“Ah,” said Emma.  “And this will slow our progress?  It is some sort of religious holiday?”

             
Mrs Tucker shook her head emphatically.  “The ladies of Bombay,” she said, “do not travel the road which leads past Khajuraho temple.”

             
“Whyevernot?  I should dearly like to see the sights of India.”

             
“Not this sight, I’d venture,” said Mrs. Tucker.

             
“It is a Hindu temple?”

             
“Of course.”

             
“Then I am quite curious,” said Emma, her energy returning as she leaned forward to better face her hostess.  Or landlady, or whatever the woman would ultimately prove to be.  She should have asked Gerry for more particulars before she had gotten on the boat.  Mrs. Tucker was a strange one, no doubt about it.  What would compel her to don a full bustle, plumed hat, and gloves in this appalling heat?

             
“I am quite curious about the local customs,” Emma continued, surprised Gerry was not jumping into the conversation as well.  But Gerry sat silently staring out the window.  “And I hope to experience as much of Bombay as I can while I’m here.”

             
“Are you a missionary, my dear?” said Mrs. Tucker.

             
“No,” said Emma, stung.  “Of course not.”

             
“I am glad to hear it,” said the woman, whom Emma was beginning to dislike more with each passing moment, carriage or not.  “For they are the only ones who go poking around the temple.”

             
“One doesn’t have to be a missionary,” Emma said, “in order to want to see the real India.”

             
“The real India?” said Mrs. Tucker, barking a laugh.  “Yes, visitors fresh off the boat always claim just this, that they have come to see the real India.”  She sat back in her seat, and fanned herself with one of her gloves. “I must tell you, my dear, that this ambition generally lasts about a day.  Sometimes two.”

***

Bombay Jail

11:14 AM

             
They had been deposited on the steps of the police station with little ceremony, but both Henry Seal and Hubert Morass were at least on hand to greet them.  After offers of refreshment and the privy – the first declined, the second accepted – the men from Scotland Yard were escorted back to a dreary little office for the debriefing.  Seal claimed the desk, and presumably any authority that went with it, while the chairs of the others were crammed in at such close quarters that the ten knees of the five men were nearly touching.