Tea and Spices (An Erotic Novel of Colonial India)

TEA AND SPICES

An Erotic Novel

Nina Lane

Kindle Edition

Copyright 2012 Nina Lane

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

*****

PROLOGUE

 
The woman opened the tattered scrapbook. The pages, as thin and dry as autumn leaves, contrasted sharply with the photographs of fresh, succulent youth. The black-and-white photographs, some yellowing at the edges, depicted an array of characters who had formed the core of the woman’s younger days. Not even the faded quality of the photos could lessen the healthy aura exuded by the subjects.

 
Men and women, dressed in the crisp suits and dresses of the British Raj, sat within sprawling bungalows, either smiling with the promise of their new positions or assuming a more regal stance. Indians often stood stoically in the background, bearing tea trays and bamboo fans. Some of the scenes were set in the outdoors—the varied plains of Uttar Pradesh, a man perched precariously atop an elephant, a cricket game held in green gardens amidst gazebos and potted flowers. A scenario intended to be a slice of England within the vast, incomprehensible land of India.

 
The woman smiled as she turned the pages. What life she had felt in those days, what zeal radiated in her veins. As far as she had been concerned, convention and propriety were rules made to be broken. And even though time had returned her to London, her desires continued to burn like a candle flame. Desires that had been kindled in the dust and scorching heat of India. She would not have changed her decisions for anything.

***

CHAPTER ONE

 
Eight servants stood on the steps of the bungalow, lined up like a row of tin soldiers. From behind the protective glass window, Devora Hawthorne looked at them and realized they were in her charge. She glanced at her husband, who sat beside her in the stifling interior of the car.

 
“Are they all ours?” she asked.

 
Gerald Hawthorne nodded. “Yes, darling, you’ll have to learn how to address them. Some of them speak English, but the dishwashers and the
dhobis
all live in nearby villages. They know only the most rudimentary English phrases.”

 
Devora sat back as the driver guided the car up the dusty road to the plant-filled driveway in front of the bungalow. A trickle of perspiration dripped between Devora’s shoulder blades. She longed for a cool bath. She’d been warned of India’s oppressive heat, but after what seemed like days of traveling, she also felt grimy and exhausted. She brushed dust off her dress, hoping that she looked authoritative and presentable for the servants. The last thing she wanted was to get started on the wrong foot with them.

 
The car jerked to a halt at the base of the steps. Gerald helped Devora descend from the vehicle. The flatness of Uttar Pradesh seemed to stretch around them endlessly, but a number of trees lined the enclave of British bungalows, providing welcome relief from the sun. Three horses were tied to posts in the driveway, snorting and kicking up dust with their hooves.

 
Devora approached the servants, painfully conscious of eight pairs of eyes staring at her with curiosity. She tightened her grip on Gerald’s hand. He had been in India long enough to attain some degree of comfort with customs and propriety, but everything was new to Devora. She felt both out of place and overwhelmed by the multitude of differences, the wide, dusty hills, the broken shacks by the sides of the road, the women balancing waterpots on their heads, the cows and goats meandering the streets so freely.
Extraordinary
was the word that came to the mind of a woman who had been picking rain-dampened, English roses from her garden a fortnight ago.

 
Glad that her wide-brimmed hat concealed her face somewhat, Devora nodded in greeting as Gerald introduced each servant by name. Their names flew past like lilting, exotic music—Rohan, Kalindi, Sanjit. The one name Devora remembered was Rohan, the head servant. He was a tall man with a thicket of black hair and strong, sculpted features that appeared completely expressionless. He wore a crisp, white, knee-length jacket and trousers with a wide, black sash around his waist. He greeted Devora deferentially, murmuring, “Welcome,
memsahib
.” Devora nodded in response, aware of an apprehensive feeling in the pit of her stomach.

 
Trying to ignore the sensation, she followed Gerald into the bungalow. Her unease slipped away like water off polished marble as she took in the surroundings. Although small, the bungalow was decorated with imported, English furniture, along with framed watercolors on the walls and even a mahogany sideboard. Fan rotated overheard, stirring the heavy air scented with Indian spices. Bamboo plants and flower pots stood in strategic locations and gave the place an atmosphere of elegance. There was even a grand piano near a doorway leading to the veranda. The windows all stood open, allowing for a cooling cross-breeze.

 
“Like it, darling?” Gerald asked, looking rather eager for her response.

 
Devora smiled and nodded. “I love it. It’s just beautiful.”

 
“It used to belong to the Calipore district’s doctor, but he and his wife returned to England a few months ago. His wife did have a very English touch.”

 
“And such a tasteful one.”

 
“The Thompsons just down the road are having a garden party tomorrow night so that you can meet the neighbors,” Gerald went on. “Mrs. Thompson is delighted to have another English woman to show around. She’s been here for nine years, so she’ll take good care of you.”

 
“Aren’t you going to be here?” Devora asked.

 
“Of course, but I have to work, darling.” Gerald leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I can’t always be around to entertain you. However, you’ll find plenty to do, I’m sure. And when summer arrives, you can go with the other women up to Simla where it’s much cooler. All of the British officers’ wives go there during the hot season.”

 
Devora bit her bottom lip. She and Gerald had been married for over a year, but he’d been in India for the second half of their married life. She had been hoping that her arrival here would mean spending time with her husband. Ah, well, perhaps things would change once she was more settled.

 
“Do you think I could have a bath?” Devora asked. Her scalp was beginning to tighten with the approach of a headache. “I’m terribly hot.”

 
“Of course. All you have to do is ring for one of the servants and they’ll provide you with whatever you need.” He picked up a silver bell and rang it.

 
Within seconds, Rohan appeared at the door. “Yes,
sahib
?”

 
His voice was deep and rich, calibrated by his melodic Indian accent. Devora looked at him for a moment, rather intrigued by the regal, self-possessed way he carried himself in spite of his status as a servant.

 
“Mrs. Hawthorne would like a bath, please.”

 
“I’ll have Kalindi draw one for her.” Rohan turned and went to delegate his orders.

 
“We’ll have some tea after you have your bath,” Gerald told Devora. He sat in one of the cushioned, wicker chairs and propped his feet on a stool. “If there’s anything the Indians know how to do correctly, it’s make tea.”

 
“Are they bringing my valises in?” Devora asked.

 
Gerald flicked open his cigarette case. “Yes, they’ve brought them round the back. The bedroom’s just over there, and we also have one guest room.”

 
“
Memsahib
, your bath is ready.” The young woman Kalindi padded quietly into the room, her petite figure clad gracefully in a cotton
sari
. Her skin was the color of mocha, her large eyes as dark as a pool of ink. She gave Gerald a quick glance from beneath her eyelashes. “
Sahib
, you wish something?”

 
“Yes, go make us some tea.”

 
Devora found the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She stripped off her clothes and placed them on a stool to be washed later. A cracked mirror hung above the sink, and Devora winced when she caught sight of her fatigued expression. Nothing a bath and a nap won’t cure, she thought.

 
The instant she stepped into the cool water of the claw-footed bathtub, her limbs went weak with sheer pleasure. With a groan, she sank back against the side of the tub and closed her eyes, letting the water wash away the weariness and stress of being in such a foreign country.

 
Neither she nor Gerald had expected him to be posted to India so soon after their marriage, but they couldn’t deny that it was a step forward in his career. They had agreed that he would get established in India for six months and then apply for her to join him. In the letters he’d sent during those months, Gerald had said that he settled well into new life in India, finding it to be a complicated and often difficult country, but an intriguing one nonetheless. Even having been in the country for less than two days, Devora could well understand what he meant.

 
She sighed and wriggled her bare toes in the water. The damp greenness of England seemed very far away, almost as if it were part of another lifetime. Closing her fingers around a thick bar of soap, Devora began scrubbing away the grime of travel, working up a rich lather as she stroked her hands over her abdomen and legs. The scent of sandalwood filled the air. She slid the soap underneath her breasts and arms until her skin shone a clean, pinkish hue.

 
A sudden knock at the door made her look up in surprise. “Who is it?”

 
“It’s me, darling. Are you all right?”

 
“Yes, of course. I’m fine.”

 
The doorknob turned. Gerald stuck his head in the bathroom, his eyes glinting as he took in the sight of Devora’s submerged, naked body. Devora couldn’t help blushing; after all, she and Gerald hadn’t seen each other in six months. Before that, they’d only just started getting to know each other physically.

 
“Gerald, I’m awfully tired.”

 
“I know. Here, let me wash your hair.” He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.

 
Devora watched her husband as he scrounged around in a drawer for a hairbrush. She had been attracted to Gerald from the moment she first set eyes on him at a friend’s dinner party. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he had nice, broad shoulders and long legs. The Indian sun had streaked his blond hair with bleached highlights and colored his skin a deep tan. He looked good, Devora thought, healthy and strong.

 
She leaned against the side of the tub again as Gerald moved the stool behind her. He removed the pins from her hair, then began brushing the dust away with long, sweeping strokes. Devora murmured a sound of approval, her body reacting instinctively to the once-familiar touch of her husband’s hands. The hairbrush tugged gently at her scalp like a bristly, delicious massage.

 
“Mmm, I’ve missed you,” Devora said.

 
“Me too, darling.” Gerald picked up a small pitcher and poured water over Devora’s hair before lathering soap into the dark brown strands. His fingers worked firmly at her head, easing away the remnants of Devora’s headache. “You must be careful when I’m not here, though. Don’t walk about in your dressing gown or anything revealing, and above all don’t tell the servants anything that you don’t want repeated. Indian women are notorious gossips.”

 
A smile played around Devora’s lips as she rubbed her head against Gerald’s massaging fingers. “So are British women.”

 
“Devora, I’m serious.”

 
“I know. I’ll be careful.”

 
“And you can always go to the Thompsons’ if you have any trouble.”