Tea and Spices (An Erotic Novel of Colonial India) (16 page)

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CHAPTER EIGHT

 
Devora clipped the stems of the roses and arranged them in a glass vase on a sidetable. The flowers weren’t as full or dewy as English roses, but they still carried a nice scent. She opened two of the windows to allow a cross-breeze to enter the room.

The sky was heavy with thick, dripping clouds that looked as if they would break open any minute with a torrent of rain. At least that might cool the air a little, Devora thought as she went to dispose of the stem cuttings in the kitchen. She paused at the sight of Kalindi rolling out bread dough on the counter.

 
Kalindi looked up at the sound of Devora’s entrance. “
Memsahib
, you require something?”

 
“No.” Devora tossed the stems into the rubbish bin and leaned against the counter. She watched Kalindi pounding and kneading the dough with practiced movements, sending puffs of flour flying in every direction. “What kind of bread are you making?”

 
“It’s called
poori
. You will like very much.”

 
“I’m sure I will.” Devora’s gaze tracked over the younger woman’s delicate features and creamy skin. “Are you engaged to be married, Kalindi?”

 
“Oh, no,
memsahib
.” Kalindi wagged her head from left to right in that peculiar movement all Indians seemed to possess. “You know we have arranged marriages in India. I fear my parents are having difficulty finding me a husband.”

 
“Really?” Devora took few walnuts from a jar on the countertop and began chewing on them. “Why is that?”

 
“Too dark skin.” Kalindi held up her arm to demonstrate. “Men are preferring women with fair skin.”

 
“I’ve heard that about Indians.”

 
“English women too, is it not?” Kalindi asked. “That is why you all wear hats and carry…what is the word?”

 
“Parasols,” Devora replied. “Yes, that’s true, I suppose. We want to protect our skin from the sun.”

 
“When one is born with dark skin, even a parasol cannot help.” Kalindi ripped a piece of dough off and began rolling it into a small ball.

 
“Well, surely there must be someone who wishes to marry you,” Devora said. “You’re very pretty.”

 
Kalindi flashed her a smile. “Really? You are kind to say so.”

 
“What will you do if your parents can’t find you a husband?”

 
Kalindi looked startled, as if she hadn’t even considered that possibility. “Oh, I think I will be working.” She waved her hand in the air, sending a cloud of flour onto the floor. “But, every woman marries. That is our duty.”

 
“Yes, I see.” Devora popped another walnut into her mouth. “Do you live with your parents?”

“No,
memsahib
. I did, but I have four younger brothers and sisters. There is no room.”

 
“So where do you live now?”

 
“I have a small room in the village. It is quite sufficient.”

 
“You live there alone?”

 
Kalindi became very busy rolling the dough into balls. “Yes. Alone.”

 
“How can you afford it?”

 
“I am managing.”

 
Devora suspected that Gerald had something to do with paying for Kalindi’s room, but she didn’t press the issue. She dusted off her hands and headed for the door. “Make sure you sweep the floors thoroughly today, do you hear? Yesterday they were still rather dirty.”

“Yes,
memsahib
.” Kalindi dropped the dough balls into a metal bowl. “I also must go into the village to pick up vegetables.”

 
“All right. You can sweep when you get back.”

 
Devora went out onto the back veranda and sank down into a chair, picking up an English novel she had been reading. Yet as much as she loved reading, she couldn’t concentrate on the book. She hadn’t heard from the maharaja since their last lunch together, although she decided it was better that way. He probably knew Gerald was back in town and was playing it safe. As she should be.

 
Devora leaned her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes. Ah, well, it wasn’t as if she had any feelings for the prince. She simply liked what he could do to her, not to mention the fact that he was an exotic adventure. She harbored no romantic notions that he would carry her off to live in his palace with him.

Besides, she’d never seen the allure of such fairy-tale dreams. Palace life seemed to be a rather boring existence overall. She would merely become very fat and spend most of her time dressing up lavishly in silk and jewels. No, that wasn’t the route she wanted her life to take.

 
Not that she knew what that route was. Devora let out her breath in a long sigh. She would figure that out soon enough. If there was any place in the world where she would come face to face with herself, it was India.

 
A delicate piano music began to invade her dreamy state of mind. Mozart. She recognized the lively passage almost immediately. Mozart’s Concerto in A major, number 23. The way the third movement began, with such a simple declaration and then an excited response, never failed to elicit a warm smile from her.

Her eyes opened slowly and focused on the garden. Where was the music coming from?

She turned her head towards the sitting room, frowning at the sight of a male figure at the piano bench. His body swayed as the music spilled effortlessly from his fingertips. Devora stood and moved to the doorway.

 
Her heart leapt as she realized that Rohan sat at the piano bench, playing Mozart as if it were second nature. Devora stifled a gasp and pressed a hand against her chest. What on earth was he doing? And where did he ever learn how to play the piano at all, let alone with such fluent beauty? She could have watched him play for hours, but then Rohan looked up and saw her there.

 
He froze, standing so quickly that the piano bench almost tipped over. For the first time, surprise flared in his expression. “
Memsahib
, I apologize. I didn’t realize you were home. I thought you went to the village with Kalindi.”

 
“No, I’ve just…I was sitting on the veranda.” Suddenly flustered, Devora gestured outside as if Rohan didn’t know where the veranda was. “I…I’m sorry for interrupting you.”

 
He shook his head. “No, I am at fault. I should be working.”

He turned to leave the room, but Devora stopped him.

 
“Wait.” She approached him with rapid steps, irrationally feeling like he would disappear forever if she didn’t stop him now. “Where did you learn to play the piano so beautifully?”

 
Rohan glanced at her, seeming uncomfortable. “I took lessons when I was a boy.”

 
“Lessons? Where?” Devora had been under the impression that the servants came from villages and poverty-stricken homes in which mere literacy was considered unusual. Certainly piano lessons must be unthinkable.

Rohan didn’t speak for a moment, but then his shoulders lifted in a shrug.

 
“My father was a city magistrate in Delhi, where I grew up,” he said. “I took piano lessons when I returned home from school in the afternoons.”

 
Devora stared at him, trying to reconcile his position now with the boy he had once been. “Your father was a magistrate? Wha…how did…” Her voice trailed off.

 
A slight smile curved Rohan’s lips. “How did I become a servant, you mean?”

 
Devora nodded.

 
“My father died when I was thirteen. I had no mother, as she died when I was less than one year old. My sister and I were sent to separate orphanages after the death of my father. There, they found me work as a
dhobi
. I have been working for the British ever since.”

 
Devora couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But…but, surely you continued your education?”

 
“In a sense. For five years, I worked at the household of a family who allowed me to use their library. On occasion, the
memsahib
also allowed me to use their piano. She sometimes found it amusing to ask me to play for her friends.”

 
“You never went to school again?”

 
Rohan shook his head. “No.”

 
Not an ounce of self-pity threaded his words. He simply appeared to be very complacent about the route his life had taken.

 
“What about your sister?” Devora asked.

 
“As I said, she is married and living in Jaipur. Her husband is a shopkeeper. I believe the orphanage arranged the marriage.”

 
“Have you seen her at all?”

 
“Two, perhaps three times over the years.”

 
Devora shook her head and tried to absorb the entirety of what he had just revealed to her. She had barely even considered the idea that the impassive Rohan had a past at all, let alone one filled with tragedy and incongruities.

“I apologize again for using the piano.”

 
“No, no. Don’t apologize. Have you used it often?”

 
He hesitated, but then nodded. “Over the months when the master has been away, I have used it frequently.”

 
“You may continue to do so.”

 
Rohan looked at her for a very long moment, his dark eyes seeming to see right through her and into her very soul. Then he nodded again and bowed slightly in her direction.

 
“My thanks,
memsahib
.” He turned and headed for the servants’ quarters.

 
Devora watched him leave, remembering the sound of the concerto that still seemed to reverberate in the air like an echo.

 
“No,” she murmured to the empty room. “My thanks.”

 
“Yes, he came to me the other night.” Kalindi ran her hand down Lota’s body, pausing to dip her finger playfully into the other woman’s navel. “I told you that he would.”

 
Lota gave a mild snort. “How long did he stay?”

 
Kalindi didn’t reply, not wanting to admit that the
sahib
had stayed with her for less than twenty minutes, if even that. Instead, she pressed her lips against Lota’s shoulder.

 
“I don’t expect him to marry me or anything,” she said. “I know why he wants me.”

 
Lota shifted onto her side and gazed at Kalindi. “And you like it that way?”

 
Kalindi shrugged. “It’s not the same as us, of course, but it’s something.”

 
“Does the
memsahib
know about you?”

 
“I think she suspects, but she hasn’t ever come right out and asked me.”

 
“How does she treat you?”

 
“Fine. Better than most
memsahibs
, anyway.” Kalindi recalled her earlier conversation with Devora Hawthorne. “She told me that I’m very pretty.”

 
Lota ran her fingers through Kalindi’s dark hair. “You are. Although I’m surprised she would have told you that. The British women never think Indian women are attractive. Maybe she’s interested in you the way that the sahib is.”

 
“Oh, Lota, don’t be silly.” Even as she denied it, Kalindi couldn’t help being more than a little intrigued by the thought. She wondered what Devora Hawthorne would look like naked, if her slender body would be as pleasing to the touch as Lota’s fuller figure was. Kalindi cupped one of Lota’s breasts in her hand, rubbing her thumb over the thick nipple. “Besides, even if she did like women, I suspect she would be attracted to British women.”

 
“Well, I’m not,” Lota declared. “I think they’re all too skinny, and they have practically no breasts. That is probably why the sahib prefers you.”

 
Kalindi smiled. “Well, I do enjoy his visits, although if I had to choose between him and you, I would choose you.”

 
“You would?”

 
“Of course.” Kalindi bent to kiss the other woman, stroking her tongue gently over Lota’s lower lip. Lota tasted delicious, like honey and spices. And she was so warm and accommodating.

 
“I like men,” Kalindi murmured. “But they can also be rather brutish, don’t you think? Women like you are always so soft.”

 
“Women also know each other’s bodies much better than men do,” Lota agreed. She encircled Kalindi’s waist with her hands, her fingertips stroking lightly. “Men so often want their own pleasure, while women enjoy the act of giving pleasure.”