‘You’re not being difficult. I understand.’
But it was clear from the marginally aggrieved look on his face that he did not understand. Eliza kept her thoughts to herself and was not about to enlighten him, but she continued to follow her own train of thought, ignoring the look on his face. As a sumptuous meal was set before them she already knew she had no appetite and, while she played with her food, she hoped Clifford wasn’t expecting her to lie down in a tent with him.
‘By the way,’ he said and gave a small cough, ‘there are a few problems with funding the irrigation project.’
‘I thought you said the money would be there.’
He shook his head. ‘I hoped, Eliza, never promised.’
‘But Jay has to get the first stage finished by July, when the rains come, or all the work will have been for nothing. The rains will wash the banks away if the supports are not completed.’
‘I’m sorry. I did my best.’
‘So you’re saying there is no money.’
He shrugged again.
‘Clifford, that’s awful. It would mean so much to the village people.’
‘So much for the village people, or for you, Eliza?’ He was looking at her intently and she found it almost impossible to disguise her real feelings.
He leant towards her and spoke in a low voice. ‘Have you got yourself into trouble, Eliza? Developed feelings for a chap like him? It would be most irregular.’
She balked at his peremptory tone. ‘Of course not,’ she said, and drew back, trying for an affronted look.
‘Good. He’ll do you no favours, you know, and my offer still stands.’
‘Shimla or …’
‘Both, my dear. Both. You’ll find I don’t give up easily,’ he added in a persistent tone. ‘But if you make me happy, I’ll make you happy, if you get my drift, and, you never know,’ he paused as if thinking, ‘the funds for the irrigation project might yet come good after all.’
20
When Eliza arrived back at the castle it was almost night and she was in a furious mood. She had not failed to grasp the hints beneath Clifford’s words, and fumed at what he had said, but soon forgot that when she saw that the castle was in uproar. She let thoughts of Clifford go, at least for the time being, and watched as people bustled about, marching back and forth across the courtyards with grave expressions on their faces. Nobody paid her any attention. She was about to escape to her room to think about Shimla, but then spotted Indi standing under one of the colonnaded archways. The girl beckoned her across and Eliza went over.
‘What’s going on?’ she said.
‘Anish is sick.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘I think so. There are physicians and astrologers in attendance.’
‘Do you know what it is?’
The girl shook her head, but Eliza had the distinct impression something was troubling her.
‘But he’ll be all right?’
Indi again shook her head. ‘Nobody knows. The trouble is if anything happens to Anish, Jay will have to take over and Chatur will stop at nothing to prevent that.’
‘But why?’
‘Jay is a modernizer. Chatur is the exact opposite and will accept no other viewpoint. He can manipulate Anish to his own ends. He would not be able to manipulate Jay. I think Chatur has been worried about Anish’s health for some time now and has been hiding it from us.’
As Eliza turned away she felt a little unnerved by what Indi had said. But maybe this was just Laxmi’s talk of poisoning upsetting her and, while Anish’s illness could have nothing to do with her, she decided to keep out of the way for the rest of the evening and get on in her darkroom.
While working she couldn’t stop her thoughts revolving. She had tried to live up to expectations, first as a daughter and then as a wife, but she’d failed at both. She had done her best to love Oliver: cooked for him, kept their little apartment immaculate, and tried to respond to his advances, though it had usually ended in frustration for both of them. He was the only man Eliza had ever been with and, at first, inexperienced in the ways of lovemaking, she’d blamed herself, but she’d had one important ally. Books. She was a great reader and had spent much of her childhood with her nose in a book, so gradually, after reading about sex and growing more and more red-faced, she had realized that Oliver was not at all a tender lover or a tender person. He seemed to expect her to open her legs whenever he demanded and, with little input from him, to accept his body into hers. And when she didn’t, all the worse for her. She had hated it. It was as simple as that, and she had fought not to hate him too. It was on one of these occasions that he, in anger, had told her she was cold and asexual. In retaliation she had flung her wedding ring out of the window and told him she wanted a career. The next day she had tried to make it up to him, arranged flowers on their dining-room table, put on her prettiest dress, sprayed perfume behind her ears. It hadn’t worked, and her words had spilled out as she had told him she would be a photographer whatever he thought of it. He had slammed the door on his way out and that was the last time she’d seen him alive. And, although she realized now that she had never loved him, it saddened her that he had died in that senseless manner.
