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  I turned my mind away from such dangerous channels, knowing in my inmost heart that I found some twisted satisfaction in realizing that she had never been capable of giving Charles what I would so willingly have given him myself. To assuage my guilt, I stroked the tangled masses of her golden hair, murmuring endearments, trying to encourage her to pull herself together.

  I did not hear Connie enter the room and was startled when she spoke.

  ‘Poor Emily,’ she sighed. ‘Poor Emily, I guessed it was a baby, but nothing I say signifies, you know, so I kept it to myself. Only I was always ill too, so I know, and just like you, just in the mornings. Poor Emily.’

  She stood at the foot of the bed, a tall wraith-like figure, her ginger locks straggling round her face, and the hem of her dress dipping unevenly where the hoops beneath the skirt were broken or bent.

  ‘I hope it won’t die, poor little thing. Mine would die so, you know, though I tried so hard to keep them.’ She dabbed her eyes with a ball of grey handkerchief, and hiccoughed politely behind her hand.

  ‘Tell you what, though,’ she went on. ‘You should get Charles to take you home right away. You’ve money enough, you see; you don’t have to go on and on waiting until you have saved up the passage money. And then perhaps it won’t die. If I had been in England, I would have had six children—not only Johnny—four boys and two girls.’

  She hiccoughed again, while Emily and I watched in silence as she swayed gently on her feet, twisting her handkerchief in her fingers. Seeing us watching her, she put out a hand to the footboard of the bed to steady herself, then continued unperturbed: ‘It’s the climate, y’know, that kills them. That and the dysentery. And they put them in such tiny little coffins, white ones, with silk inside—but they cost almost as much as the big ones, Wally says. Wally says it’s more economical for them to die grown up, but I expect he was joking. He has to think about money such a lot, poor fellow, and still we never have any. My medicine too, I suppose, but I can’t do without it, though Wally says when I get to England I will have to learn to do without it because there’ll be no one to buy it for me, and it’s not delicate for ladies to buy it for themselves.’ She frowned to herself, looking suspiciously from my face to Emily’s.

  ‘Do you never buy it?’ she asked peremptorily.

  Belatedly, I was beginning to understand why our hostess had to spend so much of her time in her own room, but Emily, who had never seen an inebriated woman before (neither had I if it came to that), was watching her aghast. ‘What does she mean?’ she whispered to me, her recent trouble for the moment forgotten.

  ‘Hush,’ I whispered back, for Mrs Avery was waiting for a reply.

  ‘Have you really never bought it then?’ she asked again angrily.

  ‘Bought what, Connie?’ I asked, standing up.

  ‘Why, gin, of course. That’s my medicine, you know. Gin with quinine in it. The doctor made me take it years ago—for the ague—and it’s done wonders for me. I … I sometimes think I would really die if I didn’t have it, only not with the quinine of course. I don’t need that any more because I don’t often get the ague now, but the gin is very strengthening. And when you’ve been out here as long as I have, you need something to strengthen you and make you forget the bad things. Of course sometimes … sometimes it makes me confused, and then Wally is apt to get angry and shout at me in front of the ayah. And that makes me cry always, so when he goes away I have to take a little glass to get my strength back. But he says I won’t be able to have it in England because he won’t be there to buy it for me.’

  Suddenly she slumped down on the bed, her feet planted wide apart on the frayed drugget, and regarded her broken and unpolished slippers with great concentration. I believe she had quite forgotten us.

  ‘You won’t need it in England,’ I suggested hesitantly. ‘You’ll be happy in England, and Johnny will grow strong and well and so will you.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed politely. ‘Perhaps. And then, you see, I’ll have servants in England, proper ones in aprons and caps, and I haven’t told Wally this—oh! You mustn’t tell him either, promise?’ I promised hurriedly, wanting to induce her to leave the room, ‘But, you see, if I have proper servants, I can always make them buy it. That would be quite unex … unex … all right, and no one could object. If I have any money, of course,’ she added in sudden dejection.

  ‘Of course you’ll have some money,’ I said mendaciously. ‘Wally will make sure of that when he sees how much you need your medicine.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She sighed deeply. ‘There are so many other things that Wally has to buy. And then soon there will be Johnny’s schooling and Wally says he doesn’t know how he is going to manage that along with everything else. It’s very hard, isn’t it? I wish I were like Emily and didn’t have to think so much of money; it must be nice to …’ Her mind wandered away and she lapsed into silence, again examining her slippers.

  This then was the explanation of many things that had puzzled me in the Avery household: from the carelessness in domestic arrangements, the impudence of the servants, to the aura of peppermint that accompanied all Connie’s movements. It explained, too, the relief and frequency with which Wallace left his home, and the shabbiness not only of the furnishings but of Connie’s attire as well.

  I went to her, and put my hand on her shoulder. ‘Connie, I think Emily would like to sleep a little now. Shall we leave her?’

  She looked up, blinking her pale eyes in puzzlement, then got to her feet and stalked out of the room without a word.

  Emily pulled the coverlet up to her and turned her face away from me. Then she put out her hand and reached for mine, without looking at me.

  ‘I’m sorry, Laura.’ Her voice was muffled and I could tell that she was still close to tears. ‘I meant what I said, you know. It’s not only because I’m sick. I suppose I am very wicked to feel as I do, but it’s no use pretending. Please help me, Laura, even if you don’t understand. Please help me!’

  ‘Of course I will.’ I pressed the small hand in mine. ‘Of course I will, Emmie. That’s what I’m here for after all, aren’t I? We’ll see it through together, Emmie, and in the end everything will work out more happily. You’ll see.’

  She shook her head but said nothing, and after a moment I went out and left her alone.

  CHAPTER 10

  During the next few days I became aware of a gradual shifting in the bias of my personal relationships, first with Emily and Charles, and then, to a lesser extent, with Wallace and Connie Avery. In recognizing the change that was taking place, and endeavouring to appreciate the reasons, I felt a development in my own struggle towards maturity.

  Regarding Emily, I felt guilt as well as a renewal of the old affection and indulgence; guilt not on account of my own feelings for her husband, but because I had failed her in not guessing something of what her distress had been during her first months of marriage. Remembering the resentment I had felt at her seeming condescension and arrogant little airs, the irritation induced in me by her silly affectations, I could not altogether blame myself for my blindness, but all the same I should have realized there was more behind these annoyances than a childish desire to exert her new-found importance. It was, in fact, her feeling of helplessness, her lack of proper self-esteem, that had found a vent in her attitude towards me—not unjustifiable pride. Somehow Charles had bereft her of importance in her own mind, and in treating me as she had done she was only trying to redress the balance of her shaken self-confidence. Poor Emily—and indeed, poor Charles, for he too must have suffered from her unwillingness and lack of affection. Honesty prevailing, I had to admit that, so far, I had been aligned sympathetically with Charles and against Emily, though I had taken great care that neither should be aware of this. Now I too had a balance to redress, in justice to Emily. I found myself relieved to realize that Charles no longer had the power to upset my judgements—either of him, of his wife, or of anything else. That, at least, was a step in the
right direction.

  Where Wallace and Connie were concerned, my mind was easier, since I had not presumed to judge either on so short an acquaintance. Having got to the root of the trouble in the house, however, I went out of my way to be helpful to Connie, and, seeing this, Wallace was embarrassingly grateful and was soon discussing his wife’s trouble with a frankness that could only be considered complimentary. His devotion to the poor creature was real and deep, and he taught me to see her through his eyes—as an unhappy woman once capable of love, still worthy of love, but whom now no love could really reach. Left to myself, I might have condemned her as a drunkard and left her to her own devices, but Wallace’s confidence in my concern for her made that concern real, and I was soon enmeshed in the toils of the Averys’ domestic problems as I was in those of the Floods, but in a more practical fashion.

  Disorder and slovenliness were ever my chiefest hates, and the Avery bungalow was notable for both. My Aunt Hewitt often remarked that I had a ‘managing temperament’, and because of this ingrained and perhaps meddling habit of setting things to rights around me, I began to give Connie some assistance in her household affairs. As she was more than willing to relinquish the reins of her household, I soon found myself ordering meals, supervising the laying of the table, doing the flowers, suggesting new dishes to the cook and generally superintending the housework. I was glad to have something to do, and found the necessity to communicate with the servants excellent for my study of their language. Wallace was openly grateful for the improved condition of his home, Connie happily, if vaguely, acquiescent, and Emily and Charles relieved to sit down to meals that were both wholesome and edible. For a time I had occasion to be complacent about the order I had brought into other people’s lives.

  Occupied as I thus was with affairs which I had chosen to make my own, I gave small thought to anything but the people and problems most immediate to me. But one morning late in November, a morning of pure, pale skies and glancing sunlight, of dove call in the garden and the scent of freshly watered flowerbeds under the restless shade of the neems, I set out with Mrs Barry, Charles and Wallace on an expedition to the bazaar, where Charles intended to buy a length of silk as a gift for his mother. Such an expedition was something of a novelty even to Kate Barry, as the ladies of the cantonments preferred to shop on their own verandahs, the local tradesmen being willing to transport their wares any distance for the inspection of their customers.

  I had received several warnings against visiting the native city; disease was rampant, I was told, and the more nervous ladies hinted at other evils as well, so I was doubly pleased at being included in the expedition and at having Mrs Barry’s company. Because of Emily’s condition, now verified by the doctor, Charles had decided against her accompanying us. Surprisingly, she had made no protest. I was relieved, as her curiosity was small and I knew she would have tired of the sights and wished to return home long before I was satisfied with my impressions. Wallace and Charles were on horseback, and Mrs Barry and I rode in the Averys’ rather battered buggy. We had settled ourselves and were about to move off, when the postboy ran up to Wallace with two or three letters.

  ‘Bills, nothing but bills,’ Wallace said cheerfully as he looked through them. ‘Oh, and here’s one that looks more interesting for you, Charles.’ He pocketed his own mail, and we waited while Charles tore through the seal on a thick white cover and read the letter it contained.

  ‘Well!’ he exclaimed. ‘If it isn’t my long-lost brother, at last!’

  ‘From Oliver Erskine?’ called Emily from the verandah where she was waiting to see us off.

  ‘No less.’

  ‘What does he say? Oh, Charles, do tell me, you can’t leave me in suspense all morning.’

  ‘It’s no more than a note, my dear, and forwarded from Calcutta too, I see. It congratulates me on my marriage, and trusts that he will see us in the near future. He will, he says “make it his pleasurable duty” to visit us in Lucknow. No invitation to Hassanganj, of course, nor any indication of when he will be here. Still it’s something, I suppose.’ Charles laughed and thrust the letter into his pocket. ‘Scarcely an affectionate and concerned brother, but at least we are in communication.’

  Kate Barry was a comfortable person to be with. I had discovered that one question, judiciously phrased, could open up the floodgates of her experience and leave me free to listen, almost without comment, for an hour at a stretch. I decided that this ride was just the occasion for some questions regarding Mr Erskine, and, as I had hoped, Kate knew none of Mr Roberts’s reticence in discussing him.

  ‘Is it long since you last saw Mr Erskine?’ I enquired decorously as we passed through the Avery gate.

  ‘Oh, let me think. Now I believe it would have been some time in the spring.’

  ‘This last spring?’ I asked, surprised, as I somehow had the impression that Mr Erskine had not been seen in Lucknow for years.

  ‘Yes, March, I believe. He was with Henry Cussens, down at the Constantia Lake one evening, and I had a few words with him. He comes into Lucknow every two or three months, y’know, on business. Banking, ordering supplies, that sort of thing. Occasionally he looks us up, but he never stays more than a couple of days, and it must be a couple of years now since he even had a meal with us. Of course we are old fogies to him, but he seems to enjoy talking about his grandmother and the old days, and he knows that I am fond of him, and don’t care a button about his reputation either.’

  ‘His reputation?’ I ventured disingenuously.

  ‘Oh, yes, m’dear. He has—or rather had, for nobody knows how he conducts himself nowadays—but he had a terrible reputation! Earned it too, I must confess, contrary divil that he is. But he was much younger then, of course. Very wild. Headstrong and uncaring, y’know. Divil a bit he minded what anyone said of him.’

  Kate sat back more comfortably against the worn padding of her seat, and I held my breath, praying that her attention would not be deflected from this interesting subject. I need not have worried; she was merely settling herself for a nice gossip.

  ‘Yes,’ she went on, ‘very wild. That was after his grandmother’s death of course. He was just feeling his oats, I expect. But for a time there was quite a succession of—well, dubious young females who visited him as guests. Of course he was all alone in Hassanganj at that time, so people jumped to conclusions. The right ones too, I have no doubt. There was a young French actress, I remember, and another girl who was supposed to be an opera singer, though where even Oliver Erskine could have found an opera singer in Oudh is beyond me. Oh, and several other less colourful ones. They never lasted long, and then they’d be seen all dressed up, with their bandboxes and trunks neatly roped, waiting in the hotel here to be taken back to wherever they had come from. Of course the local ladies were outraged; you can just imagine it, my dear, now that you know us. Before that, all the mamas with eligible daughters in the station were for ever inviting him to stay with them, or angling for invitations to Hassanganj for themselves. But once the lady friends started, he was dropped like a hot brick. Not that he cared a fig, I’m sure. The crop of insipid young misses we raise out here are certainly not for his culling! For one thing, he’s a very intelligent man. Far too intelligent to shut himself up for life, way out there in Hassanganj, with some empty-headed girl who’d lose her bloom by twenty. Not he!

  ‘I always say, or rather I think, for George would be scandalized if I said it, that he found an excellent solution to his problem in his succession of frivolous young ladies. They did him no harm, and I can’t believe he did them any. In fact they probably made a pretty good thing out of his generosity for—well, favours received. And he really did us no harm either, never brought them into society or tried to foist them on to us as relatives, or anything like that. Very proper about it all he was, in his own way. But the fact remains that he worked at earning himself a reputation for being “fast”, and, whatever the current state of his morals, “fast” he has remained to Luc
know. And more particularly to Mariaon. But, however, there has been no talk of that sort of thing for years. Now his crime is that his opinions, on annexation and this talukhdari settlement thing—handing over the land to the peasants—and so on, are extreme. The folk here think he has too much sympathy with the natives. Perhaps he has, indeed, and who could blame him? He’s spent his life among ’em in a way that none of the rest of us have. And he won’t hold his tongue, y’see. He will say what he thinks, and, since what he thinks is seldom in agreement with what we think, every time he opens his mouth he adds fuel to the flames. If you see what I mean.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do,’ I laughed, ‘and I must say your account of the gentleman leaves me quite intrigued to meet him. But for Heaven’s sake don’t breathe a word of any of this to Charles or I never shall. Charles would throw a fit and hustle us back to England immediately.’

  ‘And would he so? Well, I suppose he would have to think of Emily’s feelings. But I’m glad you’re too sensible to be shocked. This sort of thing happens everywhere, y’know; and as I say, Oliver conducted his little amours in a far more gentlemanly fashion than many I could mention. And then, of course, he’s settled down a lot in recent years. The thing that really bothers people with him, though, is that he can’t be ignored. Too rich, y’see, and too influential in his own way. The “Authorities” still continue to invite him to our jollifications—not that he often deigns to attend—and, well, it is impossible to cut a man who is introduced to you by the Resident or your C.O. or someone like that. So they content themselves with backbiting and resurrecting the old scandals.’

  ‘You mentioned once that there was some trouble surrounding Mr Erskine’s relations with his mother. I know Mrs Flood, and it does seem strange to me that anyone as dominating and possessive as she is should have had so little to do with the upbringing of her first child.’