"Then he is not . . .
English?"
"Good
Lord, no!" Estelle looked horrified. "He's Eurasian. If he were English he'd
have a good bit more sense." She picked up a second biscuit and, with a
sly glance at the door, lowered her voice further. "What did you talk
about with him? Anything interesting?"
However
fond Olivia had become of her cousin, she certainly wasn't fool enough to
answer that truthfully! With her penchant for avid gossip, Estelle kept nothing
to herself for more than five seconds. "Oh, this and that. Nothing very
much. Tell me, what is his background? I mean, what is it that he does in
business?"
Estelle
shrugged. "No one knows much about his background, not even Mrs.
Drummond—and there's precious little that misses her!" She looked briefly
envious. "He has this tea business, like Papa. And he has his own ships,
which are better than everyone else's tea wagons. That's one reason for
hating him."
Well,
that made sense considering the fierce rivalries in the city. What didn't make
sense was why, not being a European, he chose to live in the White Town, especially
in view of his avowed contempt for the English. "And the other
reasons?"
Pleased
at suddenly being considered the repository of useful information, Estelle
preened herself. "Well, Mrs. Drummond says he grows his own teas in Assam
and, you see, we can't. We
have to get ours all the way from China to send to England. He sends his to
America, which is what sticks in everyone's craw."
For
a moment Olivia wondered if Estelle was making all this up. Surely, no one had
yet grown tea in India successfully enough to send it anywhere. Then something
stirred in her memory. "Is he the man they refer to as Kala . . .
something?" she inquired slowly.
"Yes,
Kala Kanta." Estelle looked surprised. "Did he tell you
that?"
"No,
of course not! Uncle Josh and Mr. Ransome were talking about him the other
night." Which made the matter more perplexing: If the men could discuss
him freely, then why should her aunt's reaction have been so extreme?
"Does Kala Kanta mean anything in Hindustani?"
"Yes, kala is
black and kanta is
a thorn—clever, isn't it? Black like a raven and because he's a thorn in—"
"Yes,
I do get the import, Estelle," Olivia said, impatient to learn more.
"I accept that the man is a villain and universally hated, but that still
doesn't explain why Aunt Bridget had to swoon at the mere mention of his name!
Can you think why?"
Estelle
clucked. "No one can understand the way Mama's mind works; certainly I can't. Look at the pet she gets into about Polly Drummond and her mother. I
mean, what's wrong with having gentlemen friends if one is a widow? And why
shouldn't Polly use cosmetics and wear lace underwear if her mother lets her?
Clive Smithers says—or so Charlotte told me—he's even kissed her once
when—"
"The
English hate him but they still maintain business relations with him?"
Olivia cut in firmly, not interested at the moment in listening to Estelle's
familiar list of grievances. "Isn't that odd?"
With
an effort, her cousin pulled away her thoughts from problems she considered far
more pertinent. "They have to," she sighed, consoling herself with
the last biscuit in the tin. "Those clippers of his are so fast that the
holds are always full of cargo. And he has warehouses that people hire to store
their teas and indigo and all that. They can't afford to ignore him."
"But
then if he is a business colleague, whether liked or not, why is he never seen
at burra
khanas? Surely
he's invited to them."
"Oh,
he's invited all
right," Estelle said with a short laugh and a knowing gleam in her eyes,
which were alive with sudden interest. "It's he who maintains
that he wouldn't be seen dead in an Englishman's drawing-room. Everyone knows
there isn't a pukka mem about who wouldn't give her best wig and whalebones for
J— this man's favours. Polly says he has a native mistress who actually lives
in his house with him,
and Dave Crichton told Mrs.
English?"
"Good
Lord, no!" Estelle looked horrified. "He's Eurasian. If he were English he'd
have a good bit more sense." She picked up a second biscuit and, with a
sly glance at the door, lowered her voice further. "What did you talk
about with him? Anything interesting?"
However
fond Olivia had become of her cousin, she certainly wasn't fool enough to
answer that truthfully! With her penchant for avid gossip, Estelle kept nothing
to herself for more than five seconds. "Oh, this and that. Nothing very
much. Tell me, what is his background? I mean, what is it that he does in
business?"
Estelle
shrugged. "No one knows much about his background, not even Mrs.
Drummond—and there's precious little that misses her!" She looked briefly
envious. "He has this tea business, like Papa. And he has his own ships,
which are better than everyone else's tea wagons. That's one reason for
hating him."
Well,
that made sense considering the fierce rivalries in the city. What didn't make
sense was why, not being a European, he chose to live in the White Town, especially
in view of his avowed contempt for the English. "And the other
reasons?"
Pleased
at suddenly being considered the repository of useful information, Estelle
preened herself. "Well, Mrs. Drummond says he grows his own teas in Assam
and, you see, we can't. We
have to get ours all the way from China to send to England. He sends his to
America, which is what sticks in everyone's craw."
For
a moment Olivia wondered if Estelle was making all this up. Surely, no one had
yet grown tea in India successfully enough to send it anywhere. Then something
stirred in her memory. "Is he the man they refer to as Kala . . .
something?" she inquired slowly.
"Yes,
Kala Kanta." Estelle looked surprised. "Did he tell you
that?"
"No,
of course not! Uncle Josh and Mr. Ransome were talking about him the other
night." Which made the matter more perplexing: If the men could discuss
him freely, then why should her aunt's reaction have been so extreme?
"Does Kala Kanta mean anything in Hindustani?"
"Yes, kala is
black and kanta is
a thorn—clever, isn't it? Black like a raven and because he's a thorn in—"
"Yes,
I do get the import, Estelle," Olivia said, impatient to learn more.
"I accept that the man is a villain and universally hated, but that still
doesn't explain why Aunt Bridget had to swoon at the mere mention of his name!
Can you think why?"
Estelle
clucked. "No one can understand the way Mama's mind works; certainly I can't. Look at the pet she gets into about Polly Drummond and her mother. I
mean, what's wrong with having gentlemen friends if one is a widow? And why
shouldn't Polly use cosmetics and wear lace underwear if her mother lets her?
Clive Smithers says—or so Charlotte told me—he's even kissed her once
when—"
"The
English hate him but they still maintain business relations with him?"
Olivia cut in firmly, not interested at the moment in listening to Estelle's
familiar list of grievances. "Isn't that odd?"
With
an effort, her cousin pulled away her thoughts from problems she considered far
more pertinent. "They have to," she sighed, consoling herself with
the last biscuit in the tin. "Those clippers of his are so fast that the
holds are always full of cargo. And he has warehouses that people hire to store
their teas and indigo and all that. They can't afford to ignore him."
"But
then if he is a business colleague, whether liked or not, why is he never seen
at burra
khanas? Surely
he's invited to them."
"Oh,
he's invited all
right," Estelle said with a short laugh and a knowing gleam in her eyes,
which were alive with sudden interest. "It's he who maintains
that he wouldn't be seen dead in an Englishman's drawing-room. Everyone knows
there isn't a pukka mem about who wouldn't give her best wig and whalebones for
J— this man's favours. Polly says he has a native mistress who actually lives
in his house with him,
and Dave Crichton told Mrs.
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