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Authors: Deanna Raybourn
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extraordinary.”
Jane shrugged. “It was common in the early years of the English presence in India for bachelor gentlemen to sometimes go native. It seldom happens now, of course—not since they all started importing wives from England and establishing their little outposts of Britannia across the country. But there was a time when it was quite a widespread practise to adopt Indian ways. This fellow wears a turban and jewels and speaks perfect Hindustani and Bengali and plays the sitar. He is quite a character.”
She tossed another handful of jewel-bright fruit to the peacock. “He must have been in India forever, although he is something of a newcomer to this valley. He simply rode in one day and took up residence in the monastery, treating the whole thing like a great, wrecked palace. He never stirs a foot from the place, but the gentlemen in the valley go up, naturally, and Iunderstand he is a most genial host. I called upon him myself out of the grossest sort of curiosity.”
“Curiosity?” I eyed the peacock as it crept ever nearer my shoes.
Jane shrugged. “Oh, you know how stories get started. He is a rather mysterious person, clearly a gentleman and possessing some wealth but no one knows much about him. Everyone wants to discover the truth, so they put about stories of a great tragic love affair or a cursed inheritance. It’s nonsense, of course. He is most likely a younger son of a good family sent out to make his fortune in India and fallen into the habits of secrecy and eccentricity.”
“You have enough experience with that particular failing to know it at a distance, I should think,” I said ruefully. Feuilly began to peck at the toe of my shoe.
Jane dropped a few more cherries in his path and he abandoned me for sweeter prospects.
“I think eccentricity is a virtue much undervalued,” Jane said. “Our world would be a drab and uninteresting place if everyone in it were the same.”
I knew she was thinking of Portia then, and I wondered if she had regrets in breaking off their domestic arrangement to pursue marriage and convention. But then her hand dropped absently to her belly, and I knew that whatever regrets she bore, they could never outweigh the child she carried.
“Have you considered names?”
She shook her head. “I do not care, so long as it is healthy and strong.”
“And a boy?” I hazarded.
Jane wrapped her shawl more tightly about her shoulders. “I wonder. A boy would inherit the place, you know. My understanding is the estate is entailed in the male line. I could give him a future, something to build upon. But a girl, a girl would be my own. And I could leave,” she finished, her voice breaking.
I put my hand out, but she stepped aside, offering me a brave and artificial smile. “I am tired now. I ought to go and rest.”
She left me then and I puzzled over her capricious moods. Portia had been right to worry over Jane’s state of mind. Her moods could be the result of her condition. Heaven knew I had seen enough rampant hysteria in my sisters to last a lifetime. And the ordeal of breaking with Portia and moving to India only to lose Freddie must have been unspeakably hard for her. Adding to that the physical difficulties of expecting a child and the atmosphere in the house, she must have been pushed beyond endurance.
But what atmosphere, I wondered suddenly. Portia had spoken of Jane being afraid, almost as if she feared someone in the household. Yet nothing we had seen would account for such a fear. Miss Cavendish had been occasionally brusque, but one could meet a thousand such Englishwomen any day of the week. Her type was always to be found organising church bazaars and village fêtes, hardworking and unimaginative, but upright and harmless. And as for Harry Cavendish, he had been thoroughly charming.
Unless that charm was a façade for something more sinister, I reflected. He had known from birth he was not the heir. Destined to be passed over for the
Jane shrugged. “It was common in the early years of the English presence in India for bachelor gentlemen to sometimes go native. It seldom happens now, of course—not since they all started importing wives from England and establishing their little outposts of Britannia across the country. But there was a time when it was quite a widespread practise to adopt Indian ways. This fellow wears a turban and jewels and speaks perfect Hindustani and Bengali and plays the sitar. He is quite a character.”
She tossed another handful of jewel-bright fruit to the peacock. “He must have been in India forever, although he is something of a newcomer to this valley. He simply rode in one day and took up residence in the monastery, treating the whole thing like a great, wrecked palace. He never stirs a foot from the place, but the gentlemen in the valley go up, naturally, and Iunderstand he is a most genial host. I called upon him myself out of the grossest sort of curiosity.”
“Curiosity?” I eyed the peacock as it crept ever nearer my shoes.
Jane shrugged. “Oh, you know how stories get started. He is a rather mysterious person, clearly a gentleman and possessing some wealth but no one knows much about him. Everyone wants to discover the truth, so they put about stories of a great tragic love affair or a cursed inheritance. It’s nonsense, of course. He is most likely a younger son of a good family sent out to make his fortune in India and fallen into the habits of secrecy and eccentricity.”
“You have enough experience with that particular failing to know it at a distance, I should think,” I said ruefully. Feuilly began to peck at the toe of my shoe.
Jane dropped a few more cherries in his path and he abandoned me for sweeter prospects.
“I think eccentricity is a virtue much undervalued,” Jane said. “Our world would be a drab and uninteresting place if everyone in it were the same.”
I knew she was thinking of Portia then, and I wondered if she had regrets in breaking off their domestic arrangement to pursue marriage and convention. But then her hand dropped absently to her belly, and I knew that whatever regrets she bore, they could never outweigh the child she carried.
“Have you considered names?”
She shook her head. “I do not care, so long as it is healthy and strong.”
“And a boy?” I hazarded.
Jane wrapped her shawl more tightly about her shoulders. “I wonder. A boy would inherit the place, you know. My understanding is the estate is entailed in the male line. I could give him a future, something to build upon. But a girl, a girl would be my own. And I could leave,” she finished, her voice breaking.
I put my hand out, but she stepped aside, offering me a brave and artificial smile. “I am tired now. I ought to go and rest.”
She left me then and I puzzled over her capricious moods. Portia had been right to worry over Jane’s state of mind. Her moods could be the result of her condition. Heaven knew I had seen enough rampant hysteria in my sisters to last a lifetime. And the ordeal of breaking with Portia and moving to India only to lose Freddie must have been unspeakably hard for her. Adding to that the physical difficulties of expecting a child and the atmosphere in the house, she must have been pushed beyond endurance.
But what atmosphere, I wondered suddenly. Portia had spoken of Jane being afraid, almost as if she feared someone in the household. Yet nothing we had seen would account for such a fear. Miss Cavendish had been occasionally brusque, but one could meet a thousand such Englishwomen any day of the week. Her type was always to be found organising church bazaars and village fêtes, hardworking and unimaginative, but upright and harmless. And as for Harry Cavendish, he had been thoroughly charming.
Unless that charm was a façade for something more sinister, I reflected. He had known from birth he was not the heir. Destined to be passed over for the
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