Read Online Zemindar by Valerie Fitzgerald - Free Book Online Page B

Soon the garden had become a muddy brown lake, every pathway and patch of lawn awash in inches of water, every plant battered to the earth and every tree lashed and writhing beneath the onslaught.
    The gardeners ran for shelter as the first huge drops hit the ground throwing up a spray of dust like miniature cannonballs, and the noisy family of Seven Sisters hopped on to the verandah for shelter, where they remained fluffing out their bedraggled feathers in an aggrieved manner and grumbling to each other about their situation.
    Then in something less than an hour the rain abated and ceased almost as suddenly as it had started. I put on my rubber overshoes and went out into the garden to view the damage, convinced that everything must have been washed into the river. The poor bright flowers hung their heads in muddy shame, but the water was running off the paths and beds as I watched, led away by a complex system of little canals leading down to the river. Birds, revived by the deluge, had begun to twitter in the dripping trees; the gardeners came back to work impassively at the tasks they had so suddenly abandoned. And then the sun came out from behind a great bank of cloud, and with it the heat returned and made the wet earth steam like a boiling kettle and caused a dozen flowering shrubs and trees to release their perfumes which, mingling with the scent of damp, warm earth and scythed grass, delighted my senses. I splashed about, helping the zinnias to unload their burden of raindrops and, thus, with muddy skirts and wet hands, was discovered by Mr Roberts, who, true to his promise, and despite my doubts, had come to call.
    ‘How nice!’ I called, as his coachman unbuttoned the water-proof apron of his light gig. ‘How very nice of you to remember us.’
    ‘Could you doubt that I would, Miss Hewitt?’ He waited for me to cross the soaked lawn and then took my hand with every appearance of pleasure.
    ‘No, not really. But in this weather—and I am sorry that my cousins are themselves out calling and so you will have to do with only me.’
    ‘How nice!’ he said, echoing my words, and we went indoors.
    Mrs Chalmers had retired to her sitting-room and her novels, but she had to be informed of my visitor. Mr Roberts took out a card, bent down the top left-hand corner, and placed it on the silver salver with which the Chalmerses’ chief bearer had approached him. Much sooner than I had expected (since she had to dress), Mrs Chalmers was with us and I made the introductions. Her reception of Mr Roberts, though polite, was hardly cordial, but I put her coldness down to annoyance at having a caller at such an unseemly hour and having to don her gown so hastily. I tried to mend matters with Mr Roberts by showing a too-gushing interest in his doings, hanging on his every word as he talked of Calcutta and what we should see and do while residing in the capital. We confined ourselves to small-talk, but as he was preparing to leave, he said, ‘By the way, you will be interested to know that I found a communication from Mr Erskine awaiting me when I arrived.’
    ‘Well, that is more than Charles has done!’ I said. ‘We have received no word from him yet.’
    ‘No doubt you will—in Mr Erskine’s own time,’ he added with a twinkle. ‘He has invited me—summoned me, rather—to inspect his indigo plantation this coming winter.’
    ‘And will you go?’
    ‘Certainly. Few can afford to refuse an invitation from Mr Erskine.’
    ‘And which Erskine would that be, Mr Roberts?’ Mrs Chalmers asked curiously.
    ‘Of Oudh,’ replied my friend. ‘Is there any other?’
    ‘Oh, not Oliver Erskine? My gracious, fancy being invited to his place! I almost envy you, truly I do.’ For a moment she lost her distant manner. ‘Why, the Erskines live almost like rajahs or nawabs, they say, though come to think of it the old lady is dead, is she not? She must have been a great age too.’
    ‘Yes, she has been dead some years, I