7

When Charlotte awoke she felt wretched. As she opened her eyes, Takouhi rose from the chair next to the bed and came to her, wiping her sweating face with a cool cloth. Charlotte tried to get up but felt waves of nausea sweep over her, and Takouhi, seeing the whiteness of her face and lips, called the maid for a bowl. Charlotte leaned over the edge of the bed and vomited again and again until nothing was left. Yet still the waves of nausea came, engulfing and shaking her body. When at last they subsided, she fell back, exhausted.

“Alamak, Charlotte. Too much excitement last night. No more wine for a while,” Takouhi said, smiling, for she knew Charlotte would be well now that her body had cleared itself. She and Tigran had worried, though, and a watch had been set over her all night.

“You pregnant, must be careful.”

As she said this, the maid raised Charlotte from the pillows and put a cup of warm liquid to her mouth. It tasted of honey and ginger, but there was a bitterness and sourness in it, too. It was not unpleasant, and Charlotte, her throat parched, drank it down willingly. Within a few minutes she began to feel better.

“Today you rest. We go to the river. Drink tea, ginger, lemon, nettle. Eat little bit, fish and vegetables. This evening you be fit as fiddle.”

Charlotte smiled at this English expression, which Takouhi had clearly learned from George. Then her mind suddenly turned to the night before. It had been an exhilarating evening, and then in the coach, something had happened. She had vague memories of the wind, of her body next to Tigran’s, then nothing.

“Takouhi, did I do something silly last night at the dinner or … later? Where is Tigran?”

Takouhi handed her another drink and helped her sit up. “Tigran has gone to Buitenzorg. It is tea plantation up in the hills. He has business there. We go there later, after the wedding. Soon hot season begin. Cool in the hills.”

Charlotte felt an irrational disappointment. She would not see Tigran today. Gone? For how long? Until the wedding, which was two weeks away? It felt like a long time.

Takouhi opened the windows wide on both sides of the bedroom. A breeze billowed the gauzy curtains. Tigran had told Takouhi about last night, her calling of the Chinese man’s name. He wanted to get away for a while, leave Charlotte to her thoughts; perhaps she would begin to miss him.

Takouhi could see in Charlotte’s face that in some measure she missed him already. Charlotte had grown used to weeks of constant and affectionate attention from him; now it was time for her to feel its loss. Tigran was a wise man, and she smiled to herself. She knew he had a village girl in the hills, though she had no intention of mentioning this. He needed to relieve the tension. Also, Charlotte needed less upheaval and violent emotion. A period of calm was good for her and the baby. She was, Takouhi calculated, just over two months pregnant. An important time for rest.

“Tigran come back before wedding. We take visit to town. I show you my house. We go to Harmonie Club and go to theatre. You like this. French company always do good play at the Shouwberg. Forget about man for little while.”

Charlotte lay back, slightly uneasy. She knew something had happened last night in the coach but could not quite think what. What had she done to make Tigran leave? She felt sure that was why he had disappeared without even a good-bye.

A thought had wormed its way into her mind. She did not want to lose Tigran; she needed this marriage. Did she want him or need the marriage? Which one mattered more? A week before, she would not have cared, but now she had a sudden realisation of what she would lose if she lost him. He had not left her a note. Saya cintamu, she remembered, but he had not left her a word.

“Takouhi, have I hurt him? Is he angry with me?”

Takouhi took her friend’s hand. “Not angry, cannot be angry with you. Look at time, afternoon. You sleep very late, and he go early. Long ride to Buitenzorg. No worry. He come back.”

Takouhi was now concerned that Charlotte would be anxious, fall back on her old memories. Perhaps Tigran should not have gone after all. She sighed.

“Alamak, all well. We go to river and bathe, feel much better.”

Charlotte relaxed as Takouhi left to make preparations. She drank the honey drink and revived.

Within the hour, they had taken the pony trap down to the river. The bathing pavilion was set among tall trees with deeply buttressed trunks of whitish bark. The drooping branches of long, delicate leaves swept down in a cascade, throwing the river into deep shade. The wooden path from the road to the river ran between and around these giant trees.

“Arjuna trees,” said Takouhi as they looked up into their great height. “Tigran’s mother, Valentijna, was born in Jaffnapatnum, in Ceylon. Her mother half-Indian woman. First husband was VOC man, bring her here. She love this tree, which she say is Sita’s favourite tree. You know, Sita suffer a lot, like many women. So she plant many tree here and pray to gods for son. When Tigran come, she call him Arjuna, the white prince. This is our name for him when he is little boy. This place is Tigran’s special place. Everybody in Batavia know this story. Many children come here to play with Tigran when he is boy.”

Takouhi pulled a little of the fibrous bark from the trunk.

“This make medicine for fever. Good for heart when heart is sick.”

As she said this she smiled and passed the bark to Charlotte. Charlotte understood Takouhi’s meaning.

The bathing pavilion turned out to be the ideal proposition for improving spirits. Takouhi knew that in the steamy heat of the day a stream of cold water healed a thousand things. It washed away not merely the dust and heat but weariness too, and vexatious thought. A wooden verandah stood over the riverbank, with steps which led to the small, sandy beach. Here were bamboo and rattan chairs, small tables and divans covered in cloths and cushions.

With the Javanese maids surrounding them, they stepped into the river in their sarongs. The water was shallow, but there were deeper pools in which it was possible to sit and feel the cool water moving gently around them. From here they could gaze down the river towards the Japanese bridge, watching the water grow stronger, rushing and spilling in foamy waves down to the town. The maids had brought some baskets to the small beach, and Charlotte watched from her watery seat as they cut open long, spiky plants and squeezed the sap into a dish. Takouhi let her hair down, and the maids began to massage this sap into her scalp.

“Charlotte, this is aloe vera. George told me name of this plant. We call lidah buaya, ‘crocodile tongue’. Please, you rest and let maids take care of hair. Feel very good.”

The maids rinsed her hair and massaged her scalp, bringing a sudden feeling of relaxation. The sap was cooling and tingling. Her mind drifted to Zhen’s hands, running through her hair, massaging the herbs into it, combing it. She closed her eyes, willing tears not to come. Would every single thing always remind her of him?

When the maid had finished, she took a pin and deftly tied up Charlotte’s hair into a roll. Charlotte looked at Takouhi.

“Now leave little bit. Then wash with kemiri oil and tuaru leaves. Rinse with lime water. I use ginseng and merang also, but you no need. Use to stop white hair. I use but still have some. Alamak, big problem.”

Charlotte smiled at Takouhi’s annoyed expression, as if grey hair had been sent to aggravate her good temper.

Charlotte watched the sunlight play a melody on the shifting rills and the eddying sands of the river bottom. When the heat began to leave the air, Takouhi called the maids, for she liked to leave the riverside long before dusk.

In her room later, Charlotte felt as fresh as a naiad in a shimmering stream. River bathing was a ridiculous proposition in Singapore, even more so in Scotland. But here it seemed so natural. All the villagers used the river to bathe.

She looked in the mirror. The maid had brushed her hair and it shone. She now understood why Tigran and Takouhi had such youthful appearances. She was dressed in a loose silk gold-and-black batik robe which Tigran had given her. It felt like liquid on her skin. She had never worn so much silk as here, for Tigran spoiled her with shawls and exquisite garments.

The sun was setting on the rim of the trees, casting long shadows into the golden light across the lawn and into her room. In half an hour, the maid would come and help her dress. This evening she had chosen to dress Java style: a plain, dull blue bodice and an exquisite sarong, her favourite of all those she had. It featured a muted blue background covered in dark blue and rust-red flowers—large peonies and small blooms—surrounding spread-winged phoenixes. It was a Chinese motif, she knew, so different to the austere Javanese batiks, which had their own restrained beauty. Cirebon batiks were exuberant.

Charlotte smiled, thinking of how quickly she had become the Indies maiden, how much some ladies in Singapore would have disapproved. But in the indolent heat it was so easy to relax into this undemanding way of life. She went to the balcony to watch the rapid fall of darkness. No sooner had the sun dropped below the horizon and dusk begun its dominion of the sky than, in an instant, it was gone. The shade of night was drawn, and the streaming jewels of the Milky Way flooded the sky. In this starry canopy, the brilliance of the great cross of the South appeared. The beauty and elegance of this constellation, the crux australis, that sailors steered by in the vast darkness of the southern ocean, had an aura of mystery and romance. For the Christian sailor, it was a symbol of faith in the sky, the divine manifest in the stars.

Charlotte recalled reading something about how these stars had been known to the ancient Greeks. The gradual procession of the equinoxes had lowered them below the skyline so that they were lost to Northern eyes and knowledge for a thousand years. The thought was, somehow, very moving.

Bowls of sandalwood and lemon-grass incense swirled smoke on the air to chase insects. A booming, croaking orchestra of frogs performed in the gloom. She looked along the verandah to Tigran’s door.

She took a candle and went into his room. She was curious to see his things, his bed. It was very dark, and she could see no lamp to light. His bed stood, like hers, near the windows, surrounded by a gauzy net. It felt stuffy and hot. She felt her skin pearl with sweat. She could see almost nothing and went back to her room. She had not felt him in there. She looked around her own room. This was the room he had slept in, she was sure of it. It was here he would make love to her, on their wedding night, with the breeze billowing the curtains.

Charlotte sat at her mirror. She was in a turmoil, uncertain of what she felt. Loyalty, love, curiosity, obligation were all mingled into a vast web of uncertainty. She looked into her reflected eyes. What was she doing? She shook her head and sighed. What choice did she have?

The following day, she felt better than she had for a long time. Today Takouhi had planned a visit to the town, a little shopping in the French “quartier”, lunch at Raffles’s old home, now the Hotel Royale, and a tour of Koningsplein.

They alighted first at the bakery and pâtisserie of Leroux & Fils on Rijswijkstraat. As they pulled up, Jacques Leroux himself opened the door of his emporium and rushed out to welcome them. Takouhi said a few words in French. M. Leroux beamed with pleasure and ushered them inside.

The smell of fresh bread and cakes assailed them. As they sat, Charlotte asked M. Leroux about his life in Batavia. He was delighted to chat with this lovely lady who spoke French. He told her he had arrived on a ship as a cook’s assistant in the fleet which brought Marshal Daendels to Batavia. “So long ago!” he exclaimed. He had served in Daendels’s household and later in Raffles’s, for excellent bakers were hard to find. When Raffles left, he decided to set up on his own account, for he had saved a great deal of money. Raffles had encouraged him to buy this piece of land, for he had been told the street would become one of the most fashionable in Batavia. And so it had turned out to be.

His two sons worked with him, and he had many other staff. Everyone came to buy here, for he was the finest pâtissier in all Java. He said this with a Gallic flourish, and Charlotte could not help but like this short, corpulent man with his beaming smile and obvious joie-de-vivre.

The two sons came from the back of the shop to bow. Then Takouhi, sipping the coffee and seated like a memsahib, whispered something to M. Leroux, and he clapped his hands.

Two young men came forward bearing large platters, which they presented to Charlotte and Takouhi. On each tray lay eight miniature, beautifully decorated cakes.

“Voilà, mademoiselle. A vous de choisir, s’il vous plait,” said M. Leroux.

Charlotte looked at Takouhi, who smiled with delight at her friend’s expression. “These are small cakes for you to choose the one you want. This will be your bride cake.”

Charlotte looked at the small masterpieces in flour and eggs, each a miniature marvel. Some were layered, and some were single, but all were decorated with a profusion of white icing roses or piped flowers, trailing leaves, small hearts. She had never seen such elaborate confectionery. It was impossible to choose, and Charlotte was having trouble keeping her emotions in check. She was getting married. Here were the arrangements before her eyes. Marrying, but not the man she wanted. She swallowed and gazed at the cakes.

The silence lengthened, and M. Leroux frowned. Did she like none of the designs? “Mademoiselle,” he said gently in English. “If you do not like these, I make others for you.”

Charlotte came to her senses. “No, no, monsieur. Every one is so lovely it is difficult to choose.”

She examined the cakes carefully. One simple design caught her eye. The cake itself was a deep square covered in plain white icing, unadorned except for a wide ribbon of intricate Dutch lace tied around the cake into an elaborate raised bow. She put out her hand and was astonished to see that the ribbon was itself made of spun sugar. It looked incredibly real.

“This is lovely,” she said and looked at M. Leroux. Takouhi smiled, and M. Leroux himself beamed broadly.

“My son has made this design.” He called out, and a young man with his father’s prominent nose and, she guessed, his mother’s tawny skin, came forward to bow over Charlotte’s hand.

“Quelle artiste, monsieur; merci beaucoup,” she said. He bowed again and retreated somewhat awkwardly to the kitchen.

“Well, Mr Leroux,” said Takouhi rising. “This is the cake. I will send detail about guest number later today.”

As Charlotte and Takouhi climbed into the barouche, he bowed extravagantly.

Next they made a stop at Lapeyroux et Dudogne, the jewellers, where Takouhi urged Charlotte to look at some stones for a comb to hold her veil. Charlotte realised that she had no idea what she was to wear on her own wedding day. After a short examination of some pearls she said in a low voice, “Takouhi, What on earth shall I wear? Have you chosen a dress? Should I not see it?”

Takouhi was pleased. Her little ruse had worked. Charlotte was finally taking an interest in the details of the wedding.

Leaving the shop, they called next at the Maison de Rouffignac, who Takouhi assured her was the best tailor in Batavia. For men, Oger Frères, but for ladies Rouffignac. He showed the ladies some silks and satins, some plain, some figured. From a pattern book Charlotte selected a dress with a tight-fitting bodice and a deep V into the skirt, which was gathered and fell in smooth sweeps to her feet. She could not decide on the material and wondered aloud if M. de Rouffignac had oriental silks. Unexpectedly, he rose with a “Oui, oui” and presented a bolt of white silk crêpe, which carried the faintest design of waves. Japanese silk, he told her, and she felt its heavy delicacy. How fitting, she thought as her mind went to Reimsdijk’s wife. Seed pearls, he suggested, to be sewn along the neckline and into the waist.

“Now,” Takouhi said when measurements had been completed, “Tomorrow we shall choose the pearls for your hair, a string arranged Grecian style, à la Josephine, so nice I think. And for the shoes we go to Maison Seuffert.”

Charlotte said nothing. I shall be covered in pearls, she thought, but not the one I truly want to wear.

As they drew up at the Hotel Place Royale, Charlotte recalled that this had been Raffles’s own property, his residence when he was in Batavia. She knew that most of the time he stayed at the Palace at Buitenzorg in the cool hills, south of the city. Her thoughts strayed momentarily to Tigran.

Now it was an elegant hotel. As they crossed the threshold into the tiled inner hall, she imagined Olivia Raffles here, perhaps feeling as out of place as herself, though this house had been hers. It seemed odd to be walking through the halls of Olivia’s home. After proceeding down a long corridor, they emerged onto a verandah giving onto a vast garden, which Charlotte knew ran down to Koningsplein.

Charlotte had never before experienced such an elegant hotel. The mere idea was somewhat intriguing. In Singapore the only hotel she had entered was on Commercial Square; it was a rather plain and practical place, meant for the sailors who passed through the town. Here, Takouhi had told her, the chef was French, a student of Beauvilliers, the famous gastronome. Takouhi lowered her voice and confided to Charlotte the rumour that he had come to Batavia because of some scandal. He had been in service with Van der Cappellen and Du Bus de Gisignies, but, so the story went, quickly got tired of the Dutch palate of his employers and had been engaged by the Hotel Place Royale with the understanding that he would be in charge of the restaurant. Here food was served à la russe, one dish after the other. Charlotte had not heard of this man, but marvelled somewhat at the number of the French who seemed to so thoroughly dominate the couture, cuisine and arts of Batavia.

They were shown to a table at the edge of the terrace by the maître d’hotel, a middle-aged Javanese dressed in a dark-patterned sarong, a white jacket and batik cap. Charlotte was somewhat amused to note that his feet were bare. The owner of the hotel, knowing that Charlotte would soon be married to one of the wealthiest men in Batavia, had immediately paid his respects to both ladies. He was a small man with an impeccable moustache and slightly yellowing teeth. He smelled of lavender water and had the disconcerting habit of sniffing at the end of every sentence. He offered to bring them some wine, with his compliments, but they declined. Charlotte did not wish to see a glass of wine for a long time to come.

The menu arrived, they made their choices, and Charlotte looked around her at this house of Olivia and Thomas Raffles. The other diners threw glances in their direction, and some of the men made no effort at all to contain their stares.

“Takouhi, did you know Olivia Raffles at all?” Charlotte asked as a basket of small hot rolls arrived, followed rapidly by their first course, a soupe à la purée de pois.

“Yes, not well. She spend most time at Buitenzorg or travelling with Thomas. Often sick. Sometimes she come here to this house and wives have to come to see her. I come too because Indies women scared of her. Thomas very kind man to me, very, umm, how to say, gracious.”

“What was she like?”

Takouhi finished her soup. “Quite beautiful, lovely skin, white and pink, like that. Eyes very lovely. Dark, thick hair. Good figure. She like to wear colourful clothes. She speak good Malay, clever. Kind, not bad person I think. We have, how you say, no same experience.”

“Nothing in common?” Charlotte offered.

“Yes, nothing in common, right. English want to change us. I not mind, I think some changes nice, but many hate this. She often with friend, Flora Nightingall, wife of second military commander. When she talk with Flora, very easy. My English not good like now but I see that.”

A grilled white fish arrived with a delicate sauce, and a dish of asparagus. A second waiter spread a quantity of small side dishes around the table. Sambal, chilli, fish sauce, small raw vegetables with peanut sauce, pembek, tempeh, tall cones of rice arranged in fresh green banana leaves, preserved fruit. The Indies table, it seemed, could never be abandoned, even in a French restaurant.

As they finished their meal, a man walked over and bowed.

Takouhi looked up and smiled. “Oh, Captain Palmer, hello.” she said.

Captain Palmer took her hand gallantly and raised it to his lips. “Miss Manouk, how lovely to see you.”

He turned his gaze to Charlotte. He was entirely charmed. There was no doubt, he thought to himself, the dusky maidens served their purpose, but the skin of a lovely young white woman was heaven to behold. Her creamy bosom was exposed just enough to excite admiration, and her hair was as black as midnight. But her eyes were her feature, blue as Boston skies. Sometimes he missed America, but not, of course, enough to go back. Besides, this creature was beyond anything he had ever seen in America or anywhere else. He felt a dangerous pull, even as she was introduced as Tigran Manouk’s fiancée.

After the presentations were made and the exchange of civilities completed, he took his leave with obvious reluctance. Takouhi watched him depart.

Palmer was a ruggedly good-looking man, tall with broad shoulders and grey eyes. Takouhi sensed something dangerous in him that she could not put her finger on. She knew little about him. He had been recommended to her as a tenant for her house in Nordwijk by Gillean Maclaine, with whom he was in business, provisioning the American ships which were often in port.

They departed, with compliments to the chef. He was one of a number, Takouhi told her, French, Chinese and Malay, who would prepare the food for the European reception at the Harmonie Club. Charlotte had begun to realise the stir that this wedding was having on the town.

The heat was now oppressive, and the skies growing heavy. Rain was in the air, and they turned for home, abandoning other plans. As they alighted from the barouche, a wind whipped up quickly. Within seconds, the trees were tossing their heads, and servants rushed around the house, closing windows and doors with rapid clacks. Charlotte knew that once the wind got up, it could whirl vegetation into the air and whisk papers in the house into a dance. Lashing rain would follow in minutes.