‘Strange? Is that all?’ He frowned. ‘You don’t mind the polygamy? The concubines? As a woman I would have thought you’d find it abhorrent.’
‘I try not to think of it, and the concubines are friendly.’
‘What about the idolatry?’ he continued doggedly.
‘Laxmi explained it to me. It all sounded quite sensible.’ She knew she could never bear to speak to him about the widow-burning.
He raised his brows. ‘Not turning native, I hope? You really would have trouble on your hands then.’
If only he knew how far from that she was. ‘Really, Clifford, hardly,’ was all she said.
He squinted at her behind his spectacles. ‘Be careful, Eliza.’
‘As I said, I’m fine.’ She looked up and held his gaze, hoping that it was true.
‘Well, Anish isn’t fit to rule. We’re constantly crushing civil disobedience and potential rebellions he barely seems to notice. The British Crown is supreme in India and this fellow sometimes forgets it. We’d like to get him out, if I’m honest, and you may be able to help.’
‘How?’
‘Not sure yet. Just a thought. His old man was a good fellow, open to making the changes we suggested, but this one wants only to dress up in his finery or play polo, though now he’s getting too fat to even do that. If we can’t keep the princely states on board, the rebels will have rich pickings.’
‘The rebels?’
‘Those who favour an independent India. We can’t have any further mutinies. As it is, civil disobedience is on the increase.’
There was a short silence.
‘Clifford, are you religious? Do you believe in fate?’
‘Fate as a predetermined course of events beyond human control?’
‘I suppose.’
He shook his head. ‘That’s just fatalism. If we can’t change destiny, then why even try?’
‘Quite.’
‘In any case, I’m not a religious man.’
‘I don’t think the Hindus quite see destiny as we do,’ Eliza said.
‘No. You’d have to ask one of them, but I believe it’s all connected with their idea of karma. Destiny as we define it simply means something that was meant to happen. They think it can be affected by past and present deeds. I sometimes wonder if the misunderstandings between our cultures are down to the interpretation of language.’
Back at the castle Eliza went straight to her rooms, where she was horrified to see that the padlock on her darkroom wasn’t properly locked. She could have sworn she’d locked it after picking up the contact prints and the plates for Clifford, but perhaps in her haste she had not done so fully. She rang the bell for some masala chai, then sat at the desk to read her mother’s letter.
When she had finished she let it fall to the floor and buried her head in her hands. It simply could not be true. Her mother was lying. She had to be lying. A long-repressed memory came back. She must have been about eight and it had been a lovely sunny day. Eliza had been delighted to accompany her ayah, who needed to buy some lace in Chandni Chowk. While the ayah was paying, Eliza had glanced out of the shop window and spotted her father in the street, holding a huge bouquet of flowers. When she’d got home she’d excitedly asked her mother where the flowers were that he’d brought home. There were no flowers. In fact her mother hadn’t seen him for two days. Eliza had been so little but, despite that, something about it had chilled her.
She picked the letter up and read it again, her heart sinking further with every word.
My dear Eliza
This is a letter I have been intending to write for many years. I wanted to tell you when you married Oliver, but the words just would not come and I could never bear to speak of your father’s despicable behaviour face to face. I know you idolized him, but everything I am about to tell is, I swear, God’s honest truth. Now that my health is beginning to suffer I must speak while I still can. Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to come home, at least not yet.
It all began when I was carrying you, some months before you were born. I hadn’t suspected a thing until one of my friends told me she had seen David kissing a dancing girl in one of Delhi’s gardens. I loved him and refused to believe her, then I put it to the back of my mind. After that I preferred not to consider her a friend. I trusted David. We were happy and I could only suppose she was jealous. I had a dashing young husband, while she was a spinster reliant on her brother’s largesse.
But the damage had been done and gradually I noticed little things. The way your father came home smelling faintly of jasmine, his collar a little awry. The occasional unexplained late nights that gradually turned into days. When I found out he had hefty gambling debts I actually felt relieved. Imagine that. At least he hadn’t taken a mistress, that’s what I thought, that’s what I told myself over and over. But I’m afraid I was wrong. Soon I was to understand the full extent of his betrayal, not only of me but of you too.
It all came out even before his death. Not only had he ruined us financially with his incessant gambling, he had also squandered almost everything we had and incurred other debts, because for years he had been keeping a dancing girl in a small apartment near Chandni Chowk. Debts which, after his death, I was somehow expected to make good. There is more, much more, but I can’t bring myself to speak of it.
