The Sandalwood Tree (6 page)

F
elicity watched them cast off the ropes and felt the
Cambria
move off. As the great ship slipped away from the wharf, the cheering crowd surged forward, Adela and Kaitlin with them, drowning out the singing missionaries with hearty hurrahs. Soon the figures on the wharf dwindled to specks and barefooted lascars in red turbans climbed among the ropes like a circus act.

She wandered into the dining saloon and sat down in a revolving chair where she watched a fat ayah singing a baby to sleep on the floor. She thought of Yasmin and the sorrow she had once felt at leaving her and India, yet now she was ambivalent about leaving England. It was really Adela she regretted leaving, but in any case there was, once again, a sense of loss. She watched the baby pat the ayah’s face and play with the gold hoops in her ears as the ship throbbed down the river to the sea.

In Gibraltar, she rode in the rattletrap conveyances of the place through its twisted high-walled streets, out past the Spanish market, where everyone bought figs and pomegranates. Then she trotted
through the sand and the short grass round the mighty gray foot of the Rock to look up and marvel. Afterward, she strolled through the roses and verbenas of the Alameda Gardens and drank strong black coffee on the boulevard. Here she posted her first letter.

Gibraltar, 1854

Dearest Adela
,

My cabinmate, Miss Stitch, is going out to India to marry a military man she’s met once. There is nothing wrong with her apart from her unrelenting virtue & obsessive neatness. She asked, in a pained voice, whether I might take care to keep my things to my own side of the cabin, & whether she might have the room to herself for an hour every morning for her private devotions. One feels someone should warn her fiancé
.

Then, of course, we have the Fishing Fleet—anxious, not-so-young things imagining a sandy land fringed with coconut palms & filled with eligible men. Poor dears. There is also a dashing young Maharaja—very handsome—with a posh accent & rumoured to have, somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship, an army of servants, starching his collars, & preparing his favourite dishes. None in the Fishing Fleet give him more than a polite nod, but I would think the life of a Maharanee would be more interesting than that of a memsahib like my mother, who expends all her energy keeping India at bay
.

The most imposing passenger is a military wife known as the burra mem, meaning that she is married to the most senior officer in her set; the wives of lesser rank revere her. She is a tall, thickset woman with crinkly steel-coloured hair & the bearing of a commandant. Wherever she sits, she creates a hallowed space, & the other military wives hover around her like court ladies round the queen. The imperious burra mem takes it as her due
.

One day, in the antechamber of the bath, she made to step in front of me as I waited my turn at the door, expecting me to say, “After you, madam.” But I neatly blocked her with a quick side step and a sweet smile. When the door opened & a freshly bathed woman stepped out, I gave the burra mem a cordial nod as I closed the door in her formidable if surprised face. I saw my assertion
as a duty to myself, like Fanny, & it made the cold saltwater shower ever more pleasant
.

It promises to be an amusing voyage. I will write again from Alexandria & Colombo. I wish you were here
.

Your sister in joy
,

Felicity

Alexandria, 1854

Dearest Adela
,

I’ve been under the weather because I took the advice of some philanthropic lunatics who go about giving information they don’t have to people who don’t want it. Old Hands, they call themselves. They advised I eat plenty of meat to fortify myself for the voyage, & I did, even though I suspected it had gone off. Foolish of me, but they have a worldly way of expressing themselves that makes one think they know what they’re talking about. At one point, I felt so sick, & the weather became so oppressive I lay in my hammock in nothing but a chemise, wondering whether I would walk off the ship in Calcutta or be carried
.

On a voyage such as this, whose purpose is only to get from here to there alive, there are only two things to write about: the people on board & the weather. I have already mentioned the Fishing Fleet, Miss Stitch & the burra mem, but the weather is far more interesting. The passengers can only affect our sanity, but the weather can kill us. It can do so in many ways, but it really only comes down to this: too much weather, or too little. We have had both
.

Last week I survived a gale that frightened & thrilled me. It took us by surprise, one afternoon whilst all who were not green with seasickness strolled the deck, grateful to be out of our cramped quarters. At first, the sea swelled in glorious white-crested peaks & a refreshingly cold spray spattered the deck. Then the sky slowly darkened & it began to rain. At that point, most passengers went below, but I opened my parasol, knowing it would do no good in the slanting rain but enjoying the feel of fresh water on my face. I was a free woman now; I could stand in the rain if I pleased
.

My first pang of fear came when the benign waves rose up like sea monsters, each one bigger than the last, until they virtually blocked the sky. My parasol was whipped from my hands, & I watched it spin away in the grey rain. I climbed into a giant coil of rope & held on as we rode up the side of a mountainous wave. When we dove down the other side I screamed, half in terror & half in a sort of wild joy. A deckhand hauling a thick rope saw me & shouted, “Get below!” I paused, only for a second, marvelling at the courage one must possess to undertake this voyage over & over, knowing the dangers full well. He shot me an angry look & shouted again, but his voice was carried off on the screaming wind
.

As I made my way below, the ship tossed me to & fro & I have a fearsome bruise on my left shoulder. I found Miss Stitch, wide-eyed with fear, pulling the sides of her hammock around her as if to wrap up in a protective cocoon. After a few lurching attempts, I managed to climb into my hammock & the two of us swung violently back & forth, crashing first against each other & then against the walls. We could not talk above the ferocious din of the sea, bashing the ship as if trying to crush it. I wondered whether cold water might begin to seep in through the walls or drip from the ceiling—how horrible to watch one’s death approaching drop by drop—or perhaps a merciful torrent would break down the door & the sea would swallow us whole
.

Trying to be calm, I reminded myself that hundreds, if not thousands of Englishwomen had made this voyage before me, & then, baring my secret pagan soul, I invoked the protection of Neptune. When it was over I felt that the sea gods had baptised us & that they would now watch over us for the remainder of the voyage. Trounced & shaken but feeling almost unbearably alive, I washed my face & hoped for another storm
.

A fortnight later we suffered the other weather disaster—no wind. The ship sat in water smooth as glass, the sails limp & useless in the still air, with the crew passing each other nervous glances as they went about their work. They gave the passengers ugly looks, as if we had brought them this bad luck. Miss Stitch prayed, the Fishing Fleet sat in tight clusters, whispering, & the burra mem stared fiercely at the sky as if to demand a good strong gust
.

On our fifth motionless night, I fell asleep wondering whether the
Cambria
& all of us on it would become another tale of mysterious loss at sea. But the next morning, I awoke to a familiar rocking & swaying of my hammock. Miss Stitch & I exchanged a cautious smile & we crept up to the deck to see the sails billowing in a high wind. We laughed & clapped our hands at the happy sight, & even the most hardened deckhand joined his mates in cheerful sea shanty. Everyone remained in high spirits until the sea once again became too choppy & all but the Old Hands retired to their cabins to suffer in privacy
.

One peaceful evening, I stepped out on deck to see Alexandria, looking very gay, the Egyptian bazaar flaming with lights & lively music coming from the gambling houses. But I stayed on board to nurse my stomach with Jamaican gingerroot. I believe I may have lost as much as a stone & my dresses simply hang on my bones. Old Hands!

Next we will travel by land to pick up another ship that will take us to Calcutta. The Old Hands have told me the warm waters of the Indian Ocean are full of fantastic creatures—I imagine King Neptune’s court—& they have described silver fish darting & streaking near the surface whilst whales & porpoises gambol alongside the ship as if to escort us. I cannot wait to see it!

I will post this letter by way of the Old Hands going ashore to drink and gamble. Why do they never get sick?

Your sister in joy
,

Felicity

Calcutta, 1855

Dearest Adela
,

After almost three months at sea seagulls were sighted, an indication of land, & within a day villages & coconut palms appeared along the coast of Ceylon. At Colombo, bumboat men rowed out to sell coconuts & bananas & a deckhand shouted, “Look at them come! Like bees to the honey pot!” The crew lowered baskets bearing money, & then pulled them back up laden with tropical fruits. Little brown boys dived for the gold coins we tossed overboard & came up holding them in their teeth
.

The smell of India is in the air & I am come alive. I find myself dragging steamer chairs about for old ladies & borrowing chubby white babies from their brown ayahs to dance up & down the deck whilst I sing “Camptown Ladies.” Do dah, do dah …

Sometime after Madras we slipped, finally, into the wide brown mouth of the Hooghly River, which takes us into India. On the Hooghly, the ship slowed to a shuddering stop & word went round in the cool of the evening that we would lie there till the tide came in with morning. There in the darkness, we listened to the gurgling river whilst a heavy tropical wind blew in from jungles. I heard stories of the famous quicksand of the Hooghly that has dragged down more than one ship, & I had the queer idea that spiteful genii that opposed the Raj sat like spiders in a web, waiting for any Britons who came too near
.

But the morning tide took us away & eventually we came to Calcutta. On the wharf, a rainbow-coloured crowd greeted us, a few staid Europeans in their pith helmets scattered here & there like common mushrooms in a field of exotic flowers. The vibrancy of India makes England look like a faded watercolor, & my first glimpse of it made my heart leap, its gorgeousness & its great seething masses. I remembered the distinctive smell, a mixture of spices & burning cow dung & decay. Perhaps it is a smell that only one born to it can love
.

When I first set foot on land my knees buckled as though I were still balancing on the rolling deck. I staggered around for a while, quite disoriented, until I found Mother, who had come with a palanquin to take me home. I climbed in whilst mangy yellow dogs slunk around my skirts, barking & whining. I had forgotten about the pariah dogs in India; a proper hound is a rarity here
.

As soon as I settled into the palanquin, Mother closed the curtains & buttoned them down. The Calcutta I will inhabit is English & cloistered, all grand, Palladian villas, palm-shaded gardens, & a multitude of turbaned domestics. I will live secluded in a replicated piece of England until we escape to the hills. I truly wish you were here
.

Your sister in joy
,

Felicity

Adela put down Felicity’s letter and looked at Kaitlin. “Doesn’t it sound exciting? I’ve written to Calcutta, and when Felicity settles in she’ll find my letters waiting for her, not that I have anything half so wonderful to report.”

“Wonderful?” Kaitlin raised her eyebrows. “It sounds a bit frightenin’, if you ask me.”

“Yes, actually, I suppose it does. Still …” Adela sighed. “Perhaps it’s just easier to leave than to be left behind.”

Kaitlin busied herself, laying out Adela’s clothes. “You should be gettin’ dressed to meet the young gentleman your mother has comin’ to dinner.”

Adela stared at the dress Kaitlin held up for her approval—russet silk with gigot sleeves. She said, “I’m sick to death of this pointless charade.”

Kaitlin spread the dress on the bed and laid a whalebone corset next to it. “Budge up now, darlin’. There are worse things than a lovely dinner, even if you don’t think so.” She warmed a cotton chemise in front of the fire. “The sooner we get you dressed, the sooner you can have it over with.” She walked toward Adela, waving the chemise.

Adela sat on her dressing chair and crossed her arms. “I will refuse them all, you know. In the end you and I will grow old together in some cobwebby town house in London, a dotty old spinster and her Irish maid. I’ll write little books that no one reads, and we’ll drink weak tea and eat blancmange. Perhaps we’ll even have cats.”