Zemindar (47 page)

He was smiling as he spoke, but this was no jesting matter.

‘You’re talking nonsense!’ I got up to go.

‘No, I’m not. I just want a little fair play. But now, last night I did you something of a favour, didn’t I?’

‘A favour?’

‘In bringing you … Moti?’

‘I would hardly call it a favour. Least of all to me. If it was a favour, and I see it as no more than your Christian duty, it was to Emily. However, I had meant to thank you.’

‘Spare me your thanks—for that! What you should be thanking me for is realizing that you would have the good sense … the … the intelligence to accept her services. That is what I meant by my favour to you; that I trusted you to behave like a human being rather than like an English, er … maiden lady.’

‘And you accuse me of preconceived ideas!’

‘Oh, come now! Let’s not spar. However you may consider it, I paid you a compliment, don’t you see that? So, as a result, don’t you think I could go up a step in your estimation, just as poor old Charles, for getting drunk, has gone down one?’

‘But you behaved no better than I expected,’ I assured him. He regarded me suspiciously for a moment, but before he could speak, I went on: ‘You behaved just as I knew you would. I was sure you would do all you could for Emily, and me, in spite of your growls.’

‘Did you indeed?’

‘Yes, and though you may be right in thinking me too critical and too fond of my own opinions, I am capable of changing them, and I hope I am honest enough to do so whenever I see that I am wrong.’

‘Well, I’m damned! The woman is admitting that she can be wrong!’

‘Don’t be caustic. I’m doing my best, and it was
you
who just said we should be friends.’

‘I certainly did not! God forbid!’

‘Well there you are, you see. We don’t even speak the same language.’ I shrugged and turned to the door. ‘I must go and find something for this child to sleep in.’

‘Oh, but we do!’ he said with decision, his eyes on my face. ‘We speak just the same language—but, however, for the moment, you choose not to understand me. Very well, then. But would you be good enough to find Toddy and tell him to come and help me to put our hero here to bed?’

‘Certainly, and I suppose I should congratulate you on remaining sober yourself?’

‘No need at all. I was under no strain. After all, it was not my baby!’

When I got back to Emily’s room, she was sleeping soundly. The
ayahs
had washed and changed her and put fresh linen on the bed, but she looked as frail as a crushed rosebud, with deep shadows under her eyes, and cheeks and lips still drained of colour. The
ayahs
, tired but willing, moved about putting the room to rights, but of Moti there was no sign. At their suggestion I constructed a makeshift cradle from the bottom drawer of a tallboy, fitted with a pillow and the tiny sheets and shawls Emily and I had sewn. I placed the baby in it with some ceremony, but she, instead of settling to sleep, elected to open her unfocused eyes and bawl. I wanted to wake Emily to perform her maternal function but, when I asked her
ayah
, the woman smiled pityingly at my ignorance, then dipped the corner of a clean handkerchief into a mixture of tepid water and sugar she had been preparing, and popped it into the infant’s mouth. Within seconds, she was sucking contentedly, and within minutes she was asleep.

‘Consider how much more pain

is brought on us by the anger

and vexation caused by ill acts

than by the acts themselves …’

Marcus Aurelius

The small girl survived her unorthodox arrival and flourished under the ministrations of the two old
ayahs
and a third employed solely for her benefit.

Her mother responded less quickly to the attention with which she was surrounded, and for a week or so I knew great anxiety on Emily’s behalf. She seemed unable to rally her energies, but lay quietly all day, her eyes closed, uninterested in anything, even the infant in its absurd drawer-bed beside her.

Charles remained invisible throughout the day of his daughter’s birth, the 14th of April. Emily never asked for him, and I was grateful that I did not have to lie to explain his absence. When that night he entered her bedroom as I was spoon-feeding her with chicken broth, he looked both shamefaced and ill. His eyes met mine briefly as he approached and I saw in them not only awareness of the condition in which I had found him at dawn, but a memory of what had passed between us on the previous night. He stood at the end of the bed looking down at his wife and child.

‘Emily? Emmie? How are you?’

‘All right,’ she replied in a whisper.

‘The baby? I have not seen it yet.’

‘Over here, it’s a girl.’ Emily opened her mouth for another spoonful of soup and refused to look as her husband came around the bed and bent over the drawer.

‘She’s nice!’ said the infant’s father. Her mother did not disagree.

‘Very nice! Very small, though, don’t you think?’

‘They are always small.’

‘Oh, yes, I suppose so.’

There was a pause as the new father cast around for something to say, while Emily continued to sip stolidly at the soup.

‘Emmie, is there anything you want? Anything I can get you?’

‘No.’

‘Cannot I do anything for you? Would you like me to … to read to you?’ Obviously a sudden inspiration.

She shook her head.

‘Nothing at all I can do? Anything? I’d like…’

‘No, nothing!’ And she turned her head away as though the interview was at an end.

‘I’ll … I’ll come in again later, then.’

Charles tiptoed out of the room and Emily continued silently with her meal. My heart ached for her, and for him, but there was nothing I could do to right matters between them.

Dinner that night was a depressing affair of long silences punctuated by heavy sighs from Charles and brief bursts of pointless conversation between Oliver and myself. Once, after a particularly deep sigh, Oliver caught my eye and made a
moue
of mock despair. I frowned heavily to reduce him to order, whereupon he fetched a huge sigh from his boots, compelling me to smile hastily into my napkin. Charles excused himself directly he had eaten and went to his own room; Oliver settled down to his port and I went out and walked up and down the dark verandah to try to cool myself in the open air. I enjoyed the freedom of strolling in the warm darkness unencumbered by shawls and wraps. It reminded me of the sociable, comfortable Italian nights of my childhood, when the villagers promenaded the little square below our villa, laughing and gossiping by yellow lamplight, and the scent of camellias and orange blossom mingled with the salt sea air. Here it was great bushes of pale hibiscus that glimmered through the dark and the scent came from fronds of pink and white quisqualis cascading over the verandah rail. There were crickets in the grass, the sudden moo-like moaning of a conch shell and the inevitable pi-dog barking in the servants’ quarters. So different, but because of the warmth and the southern sense of freedom, so much the same.

‘So, Laura, it appears that his wife has not yet forgiven poor old Charles. I hope you have?’

‘Oh, she knows nothing of what happened last night.’ I turned to face Oliver as he joined me.

‘No? Then it must have been alcoholic remorse.’

‘Remorse of some sort, certainly. Must you be flippant?’

‘But why the sighing? What else has happened—or should I not know?’

‘You already know. As you have said yourself, they do not love each other.’

‘Ah, I see. Poor little creature.’

‘Whom do you mean—the baby?’

‘Emily. Isn’t she happy, then, at least about the infant?’

‘I don’t know. She has scarcely looked at her. And refused to look at Charles either.’

‘Poor little woman; that’s too bad. Can I see her?’

‘Why not?’

‘Come with me then—now!’ And he walked with his quick light stride into the house, followed by me.

Emily did not open her eyes when we entered her room, but I knew she was not asleep. The
ayah
, who had been fanning her, gave me the fan and I sat down on the bed.

‘Emmie, you’ve a visitor,’ I began softly. ‘Oliver has come to see how you are and inspect the baby. Isn’t that kind of him?’

‘Oliver?’ She opened her eyes and smiled at him where he stood, looking quite at home, at the end of the bed. ‘Oliver’s always kind,’ she whispered and put out her hand. He took it and sat down without ceremony on the opposite side of the bed to me.

‘Are you feeling better now?’

She nodded, still smiling.

‘Good. And the baby? I haven’t really seen her yet. Can I have a look?’

A shadow crossed Emily’s face, and she turned her head away from the drawer. ‘If you want,’ she said.

Oliver bent over the drawer and pulled open the shawl with one finger.

‘Good heavens, it’s tiny! Here, young woman, let’s have a closer look at you.’

Before I could stop him, he had scooped the baby out of the drawer and was holding her up to examine her. Her milky eyes fluttered open for a moment, then closed again tranquilly as Oliver cradled her in his arms and in a most professional manner. I almost expected him to say ‘Diddums!’, and watched with astonishment, the fan idle on my lap, as he continued his scrutiny.

‘She’s going to have very fair hair,’ he said after an appreciable pause. ‘Look, Emily, there’s a little yellow curl at the back of her neck.’ Without turning her head, Emily slid her eyes around and threw a resentful look at her daughter. ‘And her eyes—well, difficult to say as she won’t open ’em, but her eyelashes are as dark as yours already, so I’ll wager her eyes are going to be blue like yours too. What would you like them to be—blue or brown?’

‘Don’t care!’ returned Emily coldly.

‘They’ll be blue—not a doubt of it—and her nose is certainly yours. Not much of it yet, but what there is is yours. And, look, her chin too, and the way her eyebrows arch. Quite extraordinary! You must have noticed the resemblance yourself, Emily? There’s no mistaking it.’

‘No … she just looks like a baby to me. Any baby!’

‘But you’re wrong. Isn’t she, Laura? This infant is exactly what you must have been at the same age. Quite enchanting.’

I gritted my teeth and threw him a warning look. He was overplaying his hand. But Emily did not realize it. For the first time her expression betrayed a flicker of interest.

‘You’re joking,’ she said doubtfully. ‘She’s not really like me … is she?’

‘The image! I don’t see how you can have missed it. Here, have a closer look yourself.’ And he held the baby towards her mother. Emily hesitated, then pulled herself up against the pillows, and took the white bundle from him. Oliver watched her gravely as she settled the child in the crook of her arm and looked down on it.

I watched Oliver. I had begun to think I knew him well, but I had never seen his face so serious, so earnest, so understanding. Just in time I remembered what an excellent actor he was, or I might myself have melted. He bent over and placed his finger under the baby’s chin.

‘Look, Emily, she is just like you—though I don’t expect she’ll grow up half as beautiful. But now, well, she’s lovely, isn’t she?’

‘Yes! … Yes! She is nice, isn’t she? A nice little thing, really.’ And she pushed away his large hand the better to see the tiny face.

‘Very nice. It’s just as well Charles can’t be shamed by her looking so like her mother, because there’s not a trace of her father in her that I can see.’

‘No?’ Emily’s interest grew to avidity.

‘Not a trace. Not a feature that is Flood. She is all Hewitt, my girl. Pure Hewitt!’

‘Yes, I believe you’re right. And, oh, Oliver, do look at her little hands; see the minute fingernails, all so perfect!’

Oliver drew back, smiling, and watched as Emily rather hesitantly kissed one small hand, then examined it again for further evidence of perfection. He drew in a deep breath and gave me a glance that was scarcely less than triumphant.

‘Oliver, what about … do you think her toes can be as perfect?’

‘Have a look.’

‘Oh, but she’s all wrapped up …’

‘Unwrap her, then. She’s your baby, isn’t she?’

‘Yes! Yes, she’s
my
baby!’ And Emily swiftly unwrapped the shawl to reach the problematical toes.

I don’t believe she noticed when we left her. She was too busy gloating, doting and crooning over her newfound treasure.

I shut the door behind me and walked downstairs with Oliver in companionable, and, for once, easy silence.

‘You know,’ I said judiciously as we gained the drawing-room, ‘that was a very nice thing you did.’

‘I did? What did I do, apart from congratulate a mother on her child, which, I believe, is fairly customary?’

‘And also apart from lying like a trooper and stretching your luck to the winds! I was afraid you were not going to get away with it, particularly when you pointed out how little the infant resembles its papa.’

‘Well, that’s true enough, in all conscience.’

‘And the marked, astonishing, resemblance to its mama?’

‘Well, that only needed pointing out. The rest was just … well, maternal instinct, I suppose.’

I laughed and then we stood smiling at each other amiably in the light of the chandelier.

‘You’re a fraud, Oliver Erskine,’ I said; ‘an absolute fraud. All the trouble you take to get yourself disliked and condemned, and beneath your cynicism and hardness you’re very nearly as sentimental and … and squashy … as a new mother yourself.’

‘Oh, come now. That’s a bit hard …’

‘And you handled that infant as to the manner born; yet I can remember being told, and on good authority, that you “couldn’t abide nippers”.’

‘No more can I! Most unreliable objects—at both ends. I was mighty glad to hand over that parcel of incipient squalls I can assure you.’

‘I wonder whether I’ll ever understand you.’

‘And yet, I’m such a simple man, Laura.’

‘You are not,’ I said vehemently.