13

After spending a day on the train, Bimla took over travel arrangements in Chittor, securing an excellent price on passage to Udaipur. From the ancient victoria, the landscape passed in a lazy river of quaint villages, clumps of date palms, and towering banyans. Gussie committed to memory all she saw on the road. The groups of camels whose long, spindly legs seemed hardly fit to carry such bulky loads. The mail carrier who sported a lacquered stick that dangled with his bags of letters and a cluster of bells. The colorful little shrines that appeared out of nowhere, boasting burning incense, garlands of flowers, and gilt-edged icons. And the laughter of her friends—old and new—tripping around their growing familiarity and reconnection.

From the tiffin packed by the Chittor-station baboo, they ate an assortment of breads, potatoes, chopped chicken, pickles, and lentils. Gussie couldn’t say it was a comfortable ride, wedged into the back seat, but it was a lovely one and no more awkward than riding a horse through the Badlands with the fretful Miss Clutterbuck.

The sleeping arrangement was a definite improvement over camping in a tent. They spent the night in what Catherine called a dak bungalow—an inexpensive and basic lodging originally meant for Raj officials and mail carriers but now rented to travelers.

Just as the sun was setting on the second day, they arrived at a gate set into a wall.

“Where is it?” Gussie asked, peering at the thick ring of trees. Ahead, she could see temple spires poking through the canopy but little else.

“It will be a while yet,” Bimla answered, waving them forward.

A while yet ended up meaning another two hours along a wide tree-lined street. But eventually, as they neared the city and cleared the trees, Udaipur greeted them. Like a bride at the altar, painted in white and studded with lakes that reflected the moonlight, she sat tucked into the hills.

The night had turned chilly, and Gussie wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders as she leaned toward Catherine, who had nodded off, her head bouncing against the side of the vehicle.

“Catherine, we’re here,” she whispered, her limbs heavy with the sense of having entered someplace holy.

Catherine jerked and glanced around, her eyes widening at the beauty of it all. “Are you certain we’ll be well-received?” She shivered and rubbed her arms. “I know nobody in this city.”

“I have a letter of reference, and Lillian assured me the Resident of Mewar will welcome us. I don’t see that two additional people will make a difference. Besides, I sent a telegram before we left Poona. They know I’m not traveling alone.”

A moment later, the driver eased his horses down a street lined with grand mansions, all whitewashed and gleaming. They passed an armed guard and went through another gate that spilled onto a long drive. Up a small hill, the Residency, which combined the neoclassical style of Italy—tall columns and a portico—and India—domed chatris—made a welcome sight.

Servants slipped from the front door, and Gussie allowed a footman to help her down. As she waited for Catherine and Bimla, she took in the long verandah, striped rugs thrown over the tiled floor, and purple bougainvillea crawling up every available surface and perfuming the air. Around them, she could just make out the shadows of hills and, far in the distance, a palace glimmering in the moonlight.

Her breath, swirling from her throat in a silvery sigh, felt like a comma in the journey. A rest. A wait-and-see moment bound up in relief and anticipation.

How she loved India. It had invaded her thoughts and captured her heart. She could travel the width and breadth of it and still not have seen enough.

When the other two joined her, they followed the scarlet-liveried servants beneath the portico and through the door into a world that nearly replaced that comma with an exclamation point.

She stared with wide eyes at the splendor. Nothing in her privileged background had prepared her for this opulence. The large entry was set off by a series of arches that framed alcoves and tiled fountains. A black-and-white checkered floor flanked by walls the color of honey led directly to sets of glass doors on the other end of the house. Through these, Gussie could see a tangle of vines.

“That is the conservatory, memsahib,” one of the servants said. “It is lovely any time of day, but Udaipur is called the City of Sunrise, and come morning, it will provide one of the most beautiful views in all of India.”

“City of Sunrise. What a poetic name,” Gussie said.

The servant dipped his head, and the movement—elegant and rustling, the gaslights turning the crimson of his turban and livery as luminous as her mother’s rubies—combined with the sweep-hush of the punkah wallah’s fan, lulled Gussie into a kind of enchantment.

“The Resident is unable to greet you but has had rooms prepared. Dinner has been laid, and I am at your service.” He led them to a set of rooms connected by a small parlor, a table already set. Gussie’s stomach rumbled at the scents creeping past the domed silver trays.

She fell upon the food, lifting lids and taking healthy sniffs of every dish. Ginger, ajwain, cumin, chilies . . . “Oh, this is divine.” Catherine sat beside her, and Gussie drew her brows together. “Bimla, aren’t you hungry? Why aren’t you eating?”

“I . . .” Bimla’s sidelong glance landed on the man who had taken care of their needs. She approached on quiet steps and bent. “Surely they believe I am a servant. I will eat when you have finished.”

“But you’re not a servant.” Gussie looked at Catherine, who shrugged. “Eat with us. Please.”

Bimla moved around the table with a quiet elegance that would be the envy of any woman back home, but it was draped in fragile unease. She stood behind one of the chairs, her fingers kneading the wooden seatback.

Gussie turned to the servant. “You may leave. Thank you.”

When he slid from the room, Gussie pushed at Bimla’s chair with her foot. “Have a seat and eat with us.” She scooped some rice and fish onto a plate and handed it over.

“Augusta, you have had advantages not offered to many.” Uncle James’s gentle reproof somersaulted into this gracious room, turning the food Gussie had swallowed into stone. Her world view shattered, its shards piercing the ignorant vanity she’d blithely wrapped herself in.

She set down her fork and rested her forearms heavily against the table. “I didn’t realize it might be uncomfortable for you to stay here, Bimla. I’m sorry. I’ve never considered I might not belong somewhere. Anywhere, really. I’ve always felt as though the world unfurls a carpet before my steps, and I’m suddenly very aware of the pride that walks before me.”

Catherine’s fork scraped against the china, but before she could speak, Bimla poured balm over Gussie’s shame. “We aren’t responsible for where we have come from. Only where we go.”

Gussie allowed that thought to settle into her spirit. Then, the conversation having grown entirely too serious, she cleared her throat and lifted her fork again. “Dr. Paul is a handsome man, is he not?”

“Gussie!” Catherine’s fingers flew to her lips, and a nervous giggle escaped between them.

Gussie shrugged. “Have you not noticed his fine smile?” She gave Bimla a pointed look. “And his eyes? I couldn’t come up with enough adjectives to properly describe them.”

Bimla stared at her plate as though it contained something far more interesting than the attractive doctor of Ganj Peth. “I have not noticed.”

A slow smile curved Gussie’s lips, and she patted her mouth with a napkin. “Well . . . he has certainly noticed you.”

Catherine gasped, and Bimla jerked her head up. Then Gussie waggled her brows, and both women dissolved into peals of laughter.

Gussie groaned and tossed her feet over the edge of the mattress the moment the sun crawled between the shutters she had left open in anticipation of that promised view from the conservatory.

A small grunt sounded beneath her feet.

“Oh, goodness. I’m so sorry.” She knelt beside Bimla and patted the woman’s arms, assuring herself she’d done no lasting damage. “I’ve been told I have rather large feet. What bad luck you had being put with me. Catherine has lovely small feet. And she wouldn’t have leapt up with so little warning and so much enthusiasm.” Gussie had offered the other side of the bed after dinner the night before, but Bimla had refused and unfurled a mat. “You should sleep in the bed with me tonight. There is no telling what will excite me at sunrise tomorrow. You’d best prepare for it by not staying down there.”

Bimla pulled her braid over her shoulder and laughed, a small one that barely stretched her lips. “Maybe I will. I do not want a broken bone.”

Gussie lifted her foot and held it up for Bimla’s inspection. “Wise choice.”

She washed up at the stand in the corner, then went to the wardrobe, where a servant had unpacked her clothes. After she chose a practical linen sunray skirt in chartreuse, coordinating mauve bolero, and white lace shirt, she shimmied out of her nightgown and into her undergarments and corset.

Humming, Gussie pranced across the room in stockinged feet and draped her clothing over the bed. “You will blend in with the buildings,” she said as she passed Bimla wrapping herself in a length of white cloth. She pleated and tucked and wound. Between her legs and over her shoulder and around her waist. Her own toilet forgotten, Gussie watched with wide eyes. “Why don’t you wear any color? Most of the women I see here wear so much of it.”

“Once a woman becomes a widow, she is no longer permitted to wear color, for there is no more joy or beauty in her life.”

Gussie’s lips parted, ready to offer a rebuttal to the notion that a woman could claim no pleasure after her husband’s death, but she shut them quickly. What did she know of such things? Life in India could prove joyless for a widow.

Bimla ran her hands down her midsection and stared at the thin fabric beneath her palms. Her eyes darted toward Gussie’s vivid outfit laid out on the bed. “Some of the widows I live with . . . they have chosen to wear color again. They say if they are now allowed by law to remarry, then they might be able to find joy again.”

Gussie lifted her skirt and let it fall over her head. She tightened the waistband and smoothed out the wrinkles. With practiced movements, she donned her shirtwaist, tucking and straightening. Something Bimla had said swirled to the front of her thoughts, and she cocked her head. “Bimla, I know I teased you last night at dinner about Dr. Paul—who is, indeed, very handsome—but why are widows unable to find joy outside of marriage? Do they need a husband, or even the law, to tell them they are worthy of happiness?”

Bimla’s perfectly arched brows came together over her nose. The scars on her cheeks puckered as she drew her lips together. “I . . . I don’t know. I never found happiness—even with a husband.” She shook her head and lifted the end of her sari up over her head. Hiding like the joy she couldn’t find. “And widows are mistreated everywhere they go.” She finished wrapping the sari around herself, draped the scarf over her shoulder, and slid her feet into leather slippers. “There is no place in India, except Amma’s Sharada Sadan, that is safe for us.”

“And the infirmary. You’ve found safety there, haven’t you?”

Bimla looked up from where she stood at the dressing table, shuffling through the vials that cluttered a teak tray. After a moment, her voice rose above the clinking and bustle. “Yes. The infirmary is safe. And I like my work there.”

“Then there must be other places, as well. We just need to find them.” Gussie shoved her arms through the sleeves of her bolero jacket, grabbed her camera bag from the trunk at the foot of the bed, and held out her hand. “My natural inclination to sleep as late as possible is always challenged when I awake early enough to experience the stillness of morning. I believe it is a most effective hour for bringing about joy.”

Bimla offered Gussie a shy smile, and their palms met. Then they crept down the hallway, quietly passed by Catherine’s door, and made their way toward the back of the house. Only a few servants scurried about, carrying baskets and brushing the floors with bundled twigs, the scraping noise oddly comforting.

Through the closed conservatory doors, Gussie could see a profusion of rainbow-hued blooms. Trailing vines and marble columns and pink sunlight. They pushed through and found themselves in the jungle, far removed from busy streets and ancient diseases. As near to heaven as Gussie had ever been.

She inhaled deeply, the air as spicy and thick as Christmas eggnog. Down a cobbled path hemmed in by palms and plants she couldn’t name, another set of doors opened onto a wide expanse of lawn. Beyond, a fairy-tale palace, more daydream than reality, sat atop one of Udaipur’s many hills.

Gussie unhooked her bag and lifted the Kodak from it. At the far end of the grounds stood a chest-high stone wall boasting urns filled with flowers. Her steps sounded heavy as she approached it, a discordant note against the chorus of trilling birds and buzzing insects. Against the very air itself that breathed like a folktale come to life.

Clouds obscured most of the sun, so she pulled the stop, setting it on the smallest one, and placed the camera atop the wall. After a moment of fiddling, she found her shot, depressed the time exposure lever, counted a second, and pulled it back into place.

“My readers will be taken far away, Bimla.” She turned to wave her friend forward. “Will you sit up here? I can get your photo. This makes a beautiful backdrop.”

Bimla’s eyes widened, and she shook her head, fingers clutching her shawl more tightly around her face.

“It can be for your eyes only, if you wish.”

“I wish even less than others to see myself.”

“What if you faced away from the camera?”

Bimla’s gaze fell to the ground, and she picked at the hem of her sari. Then her shoulders rose with a giant breath, and she nodded. Gussie saw the strength and courage stamped upon Bimla’s seemingly inconsequential decision and had never admired anyone more.

“Stand here, with your back toward me.”

Bimla did as she was told, her graceful, slim figure a striking contrast to the dark, solid wall. Gussie directed her to shift her hips, stretch out her arm, rest her hand beside an urn, lift her chin, until . . .

“Perfect. Don’t move.”

Gussie walked backward, keeping Bimla and the distant palace within the finder. The clouds had scuttled away, spilling light over the scene, and Gussie pulled the stop back to the correct setting. With a click, the image was captured.

She took a few more photographs of just the palace and wooded hills, and when she had exposed the last of her film, she joined Bimla at the wall, near enough that their arms brushed.

“I’m a landscape photographer. That is what my readers want, though they’re happy with architectural photos, as well, if it’s a particularly beautiful building.” Gussie turned and leaned her elbow against the top of the wall. She fiddled with her fingers, not knowing if she was stepping into a cultural or personal mire. “But I love taking portraits of people. Not the overly beautiful ones. I don’t care much for perfect or proper faces. Kodak has created the Kodak Girl. She is modern and wears a fashionable dress. Her curls are always shiny and her cheeks always pink. But I think she’s a little boring. I prefer interesting faces. I like the ones with wrinkles and scars best of all. They tell stories.”

They were quiet for a few minutes, looking out over the splendor that was India.

Then Bimla spoke into the silence. “I never wanted to be beautiful. I thought, when I was young, that my husband would not touch me if I were ugly. And when my cousin took me in, I thought his wife would not be jealous if only I could make myself less than her. I thought my cousin might leave me alone at night when he believed I was sleeping if I didn’t draw his attention. My beauty was a curse. But when it was gone, I missed it. Now I only see disgust and pity in others’ eyes. I had everything a person needs for survival, but when my husband died, I became worthless. And when my family abandoned me and my beauty was taken from me, I was left with nothing but scars.” Her accent had grown thicker the longer she spoke, her voice husky.

Gussie had never heard her say so many words in so short a time, and she held her breath, afraid that releasing it would blow away whatever magic had risen with the sunrise and that Bimla would turn back into a widow. Unnoticed. Without opinion.

Bimla touched the puckering skin on her cheek. “These are the visible ones. Those you cannot see reflect my true shame.” She rearranged her scarf so that her face was once again hidden within its folds. “I like the idea of you seeing me, though. So many people do not.”

She dipped her head in a little nod, then left Gussie standing there in the shadow of her spirit’s beauty.