An Absent Wife (3 page)

Lysander had no idea where to go, but just followed the men carrying his trunk.
They led him to an Indian man dressed in European garb, who looked up from a desk, where he was writing with a brass stylus into a large book. Standing up, he nodded.

“I need to go to Calcutta,” Lysander said
, trying to hide his exasperation.

“There is a mail train that leaves in a few hours,” the man said in perfect English to Lysander’s surprise.
“I will see if there are any first-class compartments available. I am assuming you wish to travel first class.”

“Naturally
.”

“Can I suggest that you wait in the lounge in the meantime?” the man said
, indicating to a set of marble stairs leading to the second story. “I will let you know if a compartment is available. You can leave your trunk here, I will see to it.” Lysander thanked the man while praying that a greater power would be merciful and let him have a compartment. He didn’t want to stay a night in this city, or longer depending on the next run of the mail train.

Following
the stairs up, he was greeted by a spacious room with high ceilings and large blades moving around to encourage the circulation of air. Lysander sighed at the mere absence of people and noise. There were tables and chairs along one side where large windows lined the wall. A large bar lay against the back wall and there was a uniformed man with white gloves welcoming him and urging him to take a seat.

There were gentlemen and ladies sitting at some of the
tables and Lysander sat down at a vacant table as the server took his order of gin and tonic. When he sat down, he could see nothing but blue sky and the calming greenery that had been installed in this room. Sitting down, he started to relax for the first time in hours. The tension in his shoulders wouldn’t give, but he felt his mind relax somewhat. A large glass with a slice of lemon floating on the top had appeared on his table when he opened his eyes again.

This might be heaven, he thought as he took a sip of the refreshing liquid in the cool, calm and quiet space.
There was nothing but gentle chatter from the other parties further down the room. This he could manage.

He knew time had likely passed when he felt ready to think about his situation.
Looking around the building, he noted its recent construction. He had read that the train service he was to board had only started a few months earlier. The world was reforming itself and he was watching the cusp of it. The old ways were abandoned and the new were forming. He was seeing first-hand some spectacular achievements bringing in the new world and he was quite excited about it. The newness of everything was provocative and intriguing. He felt he was living witness to an evolution. The Underground Railway had just been completed and extended in London. It felt like the whole city was under construction, transitioning into the new world. He felt pride in his own people and the achievements they had made. Their influence had extended all over the world, as had the enthusiasm for improvement and progress. He knew that while the things he was experiencing were overwhelming, he would be glad he had seen them, in hindsight.

A man came and told him that his travel had been organised and he would be collected when the time was near.
He appreciated the clear efficiency of the organisation in the midst of the chaos outside this little tranquil haven.

He was
escorted to his compartment when it was time to leave. There was chaos even on the platform, but as soon as he stepped into the first carriage of the train and sat down in his allocated compartment, he was encased in a little bubble of serene calm and luxury. The heat was still pervasive and he hoped that the movement of the train would generate a bit of a draft, or he would swelter before he ever reached Calcutta.

Sitting patiently, he
watched the madness outside his window until he heard the whistle and felt the steam engine strain as it slowly pulled them away, providing him with a view of the madness of the city. The perception of utter chaos didn’t desist until they left the city and they were traveling through the open countryside. It was beautiful and exotic—nothing like the English countryside. Buffalos were used to plow fields. He even saw the odd camel along the way as they passed small mud-brick villages. The color and the light were completely different as well, softer and more golden.

The food was excellent, which pleased him.
He gave into his exhaustion as soon as dusk set in and had the train butler prepare his compartment for the night as soon as his supper was cleared away. The only unfortunate thing was the lack of a dining cart, which meant that this service had limited options for socializing or even moving about the train.

He
grew used to the constant movement of the train, but the stops woke him. The noise of people loading mail and goods on and off the train throughout the night interrupted his sleep, but those same stops gave him a few moments to walk around and smoke during the daytime. It was a good chance to meet and talk to the other passengers in the first-class carriage. The stations away from the cities weren’t as crowded and it was pleasant to take a turn around the platform.

Lysander wasn’t surprised by the madness of Calcutta when he arrived
, being no different from Bombay, maybe even warmer, but he wasn’t sure. He had himself transported to the offices of the Colonial Office to meet the man, a Mr Parsons, who had initially sent him the telegraph informing him of his wife’s death.

They greeted each other and Mr
Parsons informed him that sadly her remains had been incinerated and Lysander confirmed that he had expected it.

“Her effects are still being held at the hotel she was staying at, awaiting instructions from her family.”

“I have come to collect them.”

“Of course,
” Mr Parsons said somberly. “I will run you over there.”

T
hey were met outside by a horse-drawn carriage carrying the British Royal seal. It was a more stable ride than the rickshaws, but also more cumbersome on the narrow streets.

It was clear that Mr
Parsons was uncomfortable with the task of assisting him in retrieving his wife’s effects from the place where she had been living with her lover. The whole concept made him feel uncomfortable as well, if more for the unspoken things.

They arrived at the hotel and it was a large structure with a
sizeable stairway leading up to the main lobby. The floor was tiled black and white in the open and cool space of the lobby, where a large dark wood desk was manned by a British man who Mr Parsons seemed to be familiar with. They spoke quietly amongst themselves before the man smiled at Lysander.

“Yo
u have my deepest condolences, My Lord.  She was a lovely woman and she deserved a better fate than dying of cholera. It was not an easy death, but she had the best medical treatment available—the Surgeon General’s office saw to her directly, but sadly they were unable to save her. Where would you like to send her things?” he asked discreetly.

“To my room if you have one available.”
It looked like a nice enough place and he decided that he would much prefer to stay here than fight his way through the streets again. The restaurant over to the left looked inviting, as did the bar.

Waiting
while the room was prepared, he said goodbye to Mr Parson who had to return to his duties after offering his services for anything further he should need.

Lysander was shown to a room on the second story
—a large, spacious room with dark wooden floors and white walls. Large slatted shutters kept the sun out while letting air circulate. The shutters opened onto a large lush garden below. His wife’s lover hadn’t chosen a bad hotel, he noted. This would be a good place for lovers, a tranquil reprieve in the chaos of India. He wondered if her room had been like his and what they did here other than… Sharply dismissing the thought, he turned to the large canopied bed covered with a gauzy looking material meant to keep out the mosquitos at night. An uninvited image of his wife riding a man flashed into his head before a knock on the door made it dissipate like mist. Opening the door revealed the proprietor holding a box, which Lysander guessed was the remains of his wife’s life. The man carried the box inside, placing it on a table.

“What should I do with Mr
Ellingwood’s effects?” the man said quietly, not much louder than a whisper.

Lysander considered it for a moment,
then straightened his spine. “Bring them here. I will take them back and have them forwarded to his family.” He felt the sting of having to deal with her lover’s issues as well, but he was a gentleman and he would see to a fellow Englishman’s needs in a foreign country on behalf of his family—irrespective of any personal injuries that person would have caused him.

Another box was delivered a short time later by a young Indian boy.

Lysander ignored the boxes for the rest of the day. He had dinner, drank in the garden with the other guests and slept until dawn when the heat returned, robbing him of further sleep. Lying in bed, he considered how long he would stay. He wasn’t ready to start heading back as he hadn’t even begun to recover from his trip here.

There was still something very uncomfortable about being in this place where his wife had been
, and had claimed a life away from the one he provided. He still didn’t understand what it was that had made her do it; it was an illogical decision as this man she was with could truly offer her very little. He wondered about the man who had urged a woman to give up her respectability, her station and her security. He eyed the box with Ellingwood written on one side—his pride battling with his curiosity, but he left the box alone until the time he returned from breakfast down in the restaurant. Finally opening the box, he found the typical things—clothing, toiletries, his watch engraved with a message of devotion for someone named Charles Ellingwood. There was nothing out of the ordinary amongst his possessions. He looked amongst the man’s possessions and wondered if his wife had given him anything here. He didn’t know her well enough to hazard a guess.

He the
n moved to his wife’s box. Its contents were roughly the same, but everything was finer in nature—silks, brushes and a small bottle of French perfume. Opening it, he tried to place the scent, but it didn’t register as familiar to him. He wondered if he should know his wife’s perfume. It seemed strange that he was married to this woman and didn’t know the scent she preferred.

There was no journal and he was relieved.
He didn’t want to know her thoughts or what she’d been thinking when she’d deserted her home and her husband, or the feelings she’d had for the man she’d shared a room with, likely very similar to this one.

He received a message a few days later informing him th
at Mr Parson was in the lobby, and he went downstairs to met the man, who again gave him the Colonial Office’s deepest condolences for his loss. Mr Parsons had been charged with delivering an invitation to dine with the Viceroy at the end of the week.

Lysander graciously accepted the invitation
, saying that it would be an honor and a delight.

“Mr
Parsons, there is one thing I would like to ask of you,” Lysander said before Mr Parsons left. “I would like to see where my wife and...Mr Ellingwood’s remains are.”

“Of course,” Mr
Parsons said. “You understand there will be no sign of them.” Lysander nodded and Mr Parsons went to speak to the manager.

They rode out int
o the madness of the city in Mr Parsons’ carriage. Lysander couldn’t orientate himself in this city at all, but Mr Parsons seemed to know where he was going and they arrived along a muddy looking river, where uneven stairs went down to terraces by the river.

“This is where...” Mr
Parsons said uncomfortably, “where cadavers are burnt and disposed of. The Indians spread the ashes in the river. It is a great honor in their religion. We don’t usually follow this custom with British citizens, but in the case of infectious disease, it is the best thing.”

The various confronting smell
s gave way to another. It wasn’t a smell he knew well, but he knew without a doubt what it was. A pyre was burning not far away from where they were standing. Lysander pulled out his handkerchief and covered his nose, but it did nothing to deter the pervasive stink.

“This is where she...?”

“Yes,” Mr Parsons said. “Unfortunately there was no one from our office here at the time. Due to the nature of her illness...” he drifted off. “The outbreak has abated, but we do get them coming through from time to time. Damned unlucky in this case.” Mr Parsons called to someone, speaking the local language. A man came forward. He wore nothing other than a cloth wrapped around his private area and another on his head. “This is the man who saw to the victims from the hotel.”

The man spoke animatedly, moving his head
oddly sideways as he did so, turning his palm over as he spoke.

“He said the man
’s ashes were spread in the river,” Mr Parsons conveyed.

Lysander sighed at the lack of a proper
Christian ritual. “Wait, what about the woman?”