Chapter 17

The next morning I was still in high spirits. I believed that I had acquitted myself well on the hunting field and the aches and pains I felt after my exertions were almost welcome as they reminded me of the excitement of the chase and the joy in living I had felt that day.

I tutored Thomas for an hour both before and after luncheon. I had devised a short play in French in which we both played the parts of villagers who had met in the street and were conversing. We began by exchanging greetings, then after he had pointed out to me that Mme. Dubois was at the butchers, I retorted that M. Leroy was in the bakery. Finally, commenting on the sky which was of the colour grey rather than blue, we agreed that we would hurry home to avoid the rain. I had decided that we would enact this at regular intervals so that Thomas would learn useful basic words and phrases. In view of his quick progress, I also spent some time revising what I had planned for his education in future weeks.

Despite this, my determination to leave Southwell Hall was unchanged: no exhilaration could mask the lurking fear I felt of further manifestations or worst of all of being the unwilling slave of an invisible urging. But on the other hand, Captain Holman’s frank admiration of me had given me real hopes that in a fairly short time I might be in a position to quit Southwell Hall with more honour and with a most satisfactory change to my life.

When we met for dinner that evening Mr Uttridge announced that he had a surprise for me - we were to sample dishes from the Indian cuisine, which he had been able to prepare using the spices we had purchased at the Docks.

“I have been compelled to spend some time in the kitchen personally,” he confided ruefully. “It is one thing to train an Englishwoman in the art of French cookery, and quite another in that of the Indian subcontinent. I had the maids grind the spices, while I mixed everything in proper proportion. Finally I instructed Cook in the preparation of the ingredients and the procedures to follow. I have to tell you that she always complains that the colour of the turmeric will not come out of skin nor clothes.”

I complimented him on his resource as the footman brought in what appeared to be a sort of stew of meat and green leaves. The servant piled rice onto my plate, topping it with a ladle of the stew.

“This is a dish of lamb infused with the spices and cooked with spinach,” explained Mr Uttridge. “In India it would be made with goat’s meat, but I find that lamb is a close succedaneum.”

I tested the food a little gingerly and found it quite beyond my experience. Spinach has never been a favourite of mine, however health-giving it is by repute, but in this form with the spices and meat it made a delicious meal although one of which I could never compare or describe the taste to one who has not tried it.

My employer explained the procedures further, saying, “It is made with what is called in the Hindoo tongue a masala, or mixture. The capsicum peppers are what gives it its burning flavour. I am told that the origin of this cuisine is that coating meat in spices gives a preserving effect, so that even in the great heat of that country the food will not spoil for some days.”

Accompanying the lamb was a dish of familiar green beans but as they had been fried with cumin seeds and onion the taste was quite different from the usual, and again most tasty and interesting. We drank only water with the meal, Mr Uttridge saying that the strong tastes of the food would destroy the subtle flavours of wine, but promising that we would take some wine after the meal.

During our conversation he enquired politely about my and Thomas’ experience of hunting. I gave him a rapturous description of the day’s sport and did not omit to speak at some length about Thomas’ exploits in the care of Harry. He listened to all with interest and complimented me on my adventurousness.

When we finally rose from the table I found myself a little unsteady as if I had indeed imbibed an excessive quantity of wine. Mr Uttridge seemed to note this, as he offered to take my arm, something he did not customarily do.

“Allow me to assist you, madam,” he said, “I am most gratified with your interest in India and your appreciation of the ways of that land. Perhaps, if you have no pressing matters to attend to at present, you would like to see some mementoes of my sojourn?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, a trifle bemusedly, “most certainly I would.”

“Come then.”

We ascended the stairs and he guided me to his study. I found that some changes had been made to the arrangements since I had briefly visited it on my arrival at Southwell Hall. Around the statue of the goddess Kali had been placed candles on tall stands and before it stood a small brazier of charcoal. The room was very close and warm and the glow of the coals reflecting from the polished brass of the idol made it seem almost as if it were alive. I was mesmerised as it stared at me, seeming to mock me with its protruding tongue and multitude of gesturing arms. The floor was carpeted with Persian rugs and their arabesque designs in rich colours of red and purple added to the strange otherness of the scene. It came to me as if from some distance that preparations had been made for an act of worship.

“How strange!” I whispered.

“Come, Miss Greencliffe,” said my employer bluffly, “I hope you do not share the prejudices of so many of our countrymen of the inferiority of all customs but the British? The ceremonies and the beliefs of the Hindoo pre-date the English civilisation by centuries. Hundreds of years before the Romans invaded these islands to find a primitive folk with no conception of art or literature, the Indians were creating sculptures and buildings to rival those of Greece. Please be at ease; may I offer you some refreshment?”

On a nearby side-table stood various items, including a bottle of wine and glasses. He took up one of the latter and poured into it a wine of a deep ruby colour.

I accepted the goblet automatically and saw that it was the finest Venetian ware, of very thin glass decorated with an intricate foliage pattern in gold. I raised it to my lips and took a cautious sip: the vintage was dry and seemed very strong.

I thought it advisable to turn the conversation a little. “This wine is unfamiliar to me, sir,” I said. “Where is it from?”

“It is an Italian wine,” he replied, “of the style known as amarone. The grapes are not crushed immediately after picking but rather piled onto straw mats in the sun to dry and shrivel, after which they are pressed into a wine of a peculiarly rich character.”

“You are most experienced in the ways of the world, Mr Uttridge,” I said.

“It is true that I have travelled widely. In my youth I must confess that I was something of a rake. That ended when I was required to enter the service of the Company or perhaps I should rather say transmuted, because we clerks had much freedom, more indeed that would have been conceivable in the well-policed shores of England. The native officials we could laugh at, much as we did the constables and watchmen of Norwich, but with even more impunity because all were aware that the Company would always take our side. Further, our pay, while very low by the standards of this country, was accounted a small fortune in those lands.

“Often in the evenings we would hire a group of musicians and nautch girls. Rather than sarees, which would have hampered the movement of their limbs, they wore trousers of light and brightly coloured silks of a very fine weave: almost transparent indeed. They would sway and swirl in their dance - so slim and graceful. They danced in bare feet and around their ankles they wore little silver bells.”

His glance went far away. “I greatly regret the passing of those days. May I ask if you dance Miss Greencliffe?”

“I have very little skill in that art,” I faltered. “In our quiet society dances are rarely held.”

“A pity.”

He stood in silence for a few moments, then left my side and walked over to the south-facing wall of the study and pulled back the curtains. The crescent moon gazed down on us.

“The moon is new: it is the first day of the month Kartik in the Hindoo calendar,” he said. “At this time on this night the processions are taking place in Orissa in honour of the goddess Kali, mother of us all.”

His voice thickened. “I believe I described something of those processions to you, but I did not tell you that I joined the dancing. Clad like the others in white linen breeches and calling down praises on the head of our goddess.”

He returned to my side and took the goblet of wine from me, replacing it on the table. Taking my hand and looking up at the idol he began to speak words that were incomprehensible until I realised that he was chanting.

“Come, come in haste oh goddess with thy locks unbound.

Thou whose skin is dark;

Who hast bloodshot eyes;

Whose clothes are stained with blood;

Who hast rings in thine ears;

Who hast a thousand hands;

And ridest upon a monster and wieldest in thy hands tridents, clubs, lances and shields.

Who dances on corpses.

Thou who art wrathful;

Who causes madness;

Who art merciless;

The terrible one.”

I quailed with fear and bafflement. He noted this and moderated his voice. “My dear Miss Greencliffe, I trust I am not frightening you? Those lands and customs are very far away from our own peaceful England. Allow me to demonstrate an ancient ritual of the Hindoos, the twelfth of the sixteen steps of their worship, which is most soothing to the spirit.” He took from a bowl a handful of dried leaves and cast them onto the glowing embers of the brazier. Smoke arose at once, white and thick. It had a pungently sweet fragrance, quite different from the smell of incense I was familiar with in church.

“Breathe deeply, Miss Greencliffe,” I heard him say, as from a distance.

I obeyed him and as the fumes entered my lungs I felt myself sway. I looked fearfully up into the face of the idol; it seemed to wear a smile of cruel triumphant.

Suddenly my gorge rose. The strange, spiced food, followed by the rich wine and now the deprivation of air had made my stomach rebel. My belly heaved as it tried to expel its contents. I wrenched my hand away from Uttridge’s grasp and reared back, desperate not to disgrace myself. I staggered away from the brazier, tearing at my hair and mumbling something incoherent. I could think only of quitting the room. I stumbled to the door and opened it, desperately repeating to myself that I only had to walk forward and at the end of the passageway I would be at my chamber; my haven.

I forced myself on, taking lungfuls of clean air as I went. Step after step, I went, thinking always to hear Mr Uttridge behind me. I broke into a clumsy run and finally was at my own door. I tore it open, swung myself through the opening and slammed it. With a last effort I turned the key in the lock and collapsed on the floor.