EQUALLY INDIAN
Wiltshire, England—1867
Amala sat on a particularly uncomfortable chair at the edge of the crowded and stuffy ballroom. While trying to keep her back straight—as a lady was expected to do—she fanned her face with the hand-painted lace fan that had been a Christmas gift from her father. He wasn’t really her father, and everyone knew it. In fact, no one outside of the family ever referred to him as her father. But that was how she thought of him and felt about him, and the fan was something she treasured. In that moment she also appreciated the way it offered just enough movement of air in front of her face to keep her from feeling faint. The music was too loud, the room was too hot, and her corset was too tight. Her back ached nearly as much as her feet, and she longed to be at home in her own room, wearing a nightgown and getting lost in a good novel. But a glance at the clock told her it could be hours before that happened, and then she’d surely be too exhausted to read. She wished she hadn’t been required to be here at all, but that was part of the price she paid for being given the gift of such a privileged life—especially when she knew that what her fate could have been otherwise was too unbearable to even think about.
Amala became distracted from her own misery when she noticed that one of the servants carrying a tray of champagne glasses was Indian. He was middle-aged and nice looking, and was wearing typical Indian dress rather than the conventional English suit that was worn by most manservants. She watched him discreetly, intrigued by what his background might be and what his reasons might be for being here. And why wouldn’t she be curious? He was the first person she’d seen in years who had the same dark skin and hair as herself. He’d clearly come from the country of her birth. How could she not be fascinated? She wanted to talk to him but knew that having a real conversation with one of the servants would be considered entirely inappropriate.
A few minutes later Amala noticed another Indian servant in the massive ballroom, and then a third—except this one was a woman. They were all wearing traditional Indian dress. She felt intrigued with the woman’s clothing especially, and thought that it looked far more comfortable than the chemise, corset, petticoats, and gown that were constricting her own body and making her sweat.
Katarina sat down next to Amala, sounding out of breath. “Oh, I could dance all night,” her sister said with delight.
“I couldn’t,” Amala said. “My feet are screaming.”
“We must get you some better slippers for such events,” Kat declared.
“Little good it would do. You don’t see any men lined up wanting to dance with me, do you?”
“They just don’t know you,” Kat said with her usual optimism.
“And they never will,” Amala said, stating an obvious truth. Since Kat was English and not her blood sister, she could never fully understand either. But she tried, and Amala loved her for it. “It’s just as it’s always been, Kat. The color of my skin keeps people from even trying to get to know me. Therefore, you are my one and only true friend for life.”
“Well, it’s not fair,” Kat said as if she’d never said it before. Amala couldn’t count how many times she’d said it throughout the years they’d shared. “It shouldn’t make any difference, whatsoever.”
“It shouldn’t but it does, and it’s a fact of the world we live in. It’s not fair but that's the way it is. There’s no point making a fuss over something that can’t be changed.” Amala concluded the same speech she’d made countless times over the years, but Kat likely hadn’t heard the last few words because a gentleman had asked her to dance and she was off again having a marvelous time. Kat certainly did love to dance. Perhaps it was a good thing that Amala wasn’t terribly fond of dancing; perhaps that helped ease her disappointment somewhat. Perhaps it was better if she wore shoes that hurt her feet and kept her from wanting to be on the dance floor, caught up in the movement and color of the main purpose of this event. She told herself all of that was true, but in some tiny, secret place deep inside herself, this was one of those moments when she truly wished she wasn’t different. At home with her family she wasn’t treated as if she was different, but they only had to step outside of the house for her to become an oddity. The local people tolerated her at their social events because her father was a powerful and influential man, and no one would dare tell him that the orphan Indian girl he’d raised as a companion to his daughter was not welcome to attend their balls and picnics and bazaars. And so Amala went dutifully wherever her family went, but she most often remained on the outskirts of whatever was taking place.
“Are you thirsty?” she heard a male voice ask and felt a little startled.
“What was that?” she asked, pretending she hadn’t heard him due to the noise in the room—which was perfectly believable. In truth, she just wanted to be certain he was talking to her.
“I asked if you’re thirsty,” he said, holding a cup of punch out toward her.
“I am, actually,” she said, taking it after she’d set her fan in her lap. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.” She took a sip, and he sat in the chair where Kat had been sitting.
“Forgive me if I’m intruding,” he said. “But you looked rather . . . bored.”
“I must try harder to be a better actress,” Amala said and took another sip of the punch, realizing she was much thirstier than she’d realized.
“Not at all,” the man said. “I don’t believe in pretending. We should convey exactly who we are and how we feel.”
“Perhaps,” Amala said, feeling a little awkward in spite of his kindness. She noted that he was tall and as well built as he was well dressed. His hair was dark blond with a distinct wave to it that she suspected would be curlier if it hadn’t been forced into submission for an event such as this.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I haven’t properly introduced myself. I am Henry Beckenridge. And you are?”
“Amala,” she said and laughed softly to cover feelings of mild embarrassment, as she usually did when people asked her name. “I won’t bother telling you the rest because you won’t be able to pronounce it and you won’t remember it. Unofficially I belong to the Hepworth family, but I was never actually adopted. I have always been considered a companion to their daughter Katarina. We are near the same age, and very close in every way. It works out nicely at home, but on occasions such as this, I . . .” Amala stopped herself. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this. We’re complete strangers, Mr. Beckenridge.”
“We’re becoming acquainted . . . Amala. And I know of the Hepworth family—of Willenbrock House—even though I confess I am barely acquainted. Dare I guess you were going to say that on such occasions you don’t really feel like you fit in?”
“It’s not a matter of what I feel, sir; it is a fact. I have lived in England since I was a child. Although it’s impossible for me to speak—as much as I’ve tried—without betraying a hint in my accent that I am not English. I will never be able to look English, or sound English, and therefore I will never be English.”
“And so you sit here and watch everyone else dancing and having a good time? Is this how you generally handle social events?”
“If you must know, yes.”
He set his punch down on a little table and stood up. “Then you must dance with me.”
Amala felt astonished. She could count on her fingers the number of times she’d actually been asked to dance, and never by a man so handsome. It was generally the homely men who felt out of place themselves who behaved as if they were doing her a great favor to dance with her. But this man genuinely seemed to want to dance with her.
Amala had to admit. “Truthfully, my feet are killing me, and . . .”
“Slip off your shoes,” he whispered. “Push them under the chair and no one will ever notice. Come along. Dance with me.”
“I must warn you,” Amala said, liking this man more by the minute, “dancing with me could create a scandal. Consorting with a woman like me is not looked upon favorably.”
“And I’ve never looked favorably upon the ridiculous notions of society that make absolutely no sense whatsoever.” He held out his hand. “So, let’s cause a stir, shall we?”
A waltz had just begun and Henry was quick to catch her up in the lively rhythm of the dance. His efficiency made it evident he’d had plenty of practice, but it helped make up for Amala’s lack of practice. He swept her effortlessly around the dance floor while Amala was aware of her full taffeta skirt swirling around her and brushing against that of other ladies, who were all wearing skirts far too full to be practical for any purpose except this.
When the dance was finished everyone applauded, although the lace, fingerless gloves Amala wore prevented her hands from making any sound whatsoever. Unwilling to make any presumptions—or even the appearance of them—in regard to the attention Henry had so kindly offered, she hurried back to where she’d been seated and picked up her fan from the chair in order to sit down. But she was barely seated when she heard Henry say, “Did I frighten you? I must confess I was hoping for more than one dance.”
“Perhaps later,” Amala said, fanning her face. She truthfully stated, “I must confess that it’s terribly hot in here.” She didn’t add that she thought it would be far better if he wasn’t seen spending too much time with her. A vast collection of difficult memories supported her concern. “But . . . thank you, Mr. Beckenridge,” she added in order to be polite. “You have been most kind.”
“Please call me Henry,” he said and again sat beside her. Amala felt concerned but couldn’t force him to go away. In truth she was enjoying his company and couldn’t help feeling pleased—however foolhardy his spending too much time in her presence might be. “And let me call you Amala . . . since you’ve not given me a proper surname I might use.”
“Most people call me Miss Hepworth . . . even if it’s only a formality.”
“That all sounds very well and proper,” he said, “but I prefer to call you Amala, and I would very much like to have a conversation with you.”
“About what?” she asked as if he’d proposed something scandalous.
He chuckled with a sparkle in his eyes that made her stomach flutter, and she increased the speed of her fan.
Henry leaned slightly closer, as if he meant to tell her a secret, although he could have likely shouted and no one would have been able to hear what he said due to the din of music and laughter in the room. “I’m hoping you would do me a very big favor,” he said, and for a moment she wondered if he was proposing something scandalous. “You see . . . I’m feeling a little . . . disoriented, and I do believe there is no one here I could talk to about it but you.”
“Why?” she asked, hearing an abruptness in her voice that she knew wasn’t customary for her.
Instead of answering the question, Henry relaxed in his chair and looked toward the crowded ballroom. “I saw you watching the Indian servants. Curiosity? Intrigue? You’re probably wondering why they’re here. I’m guessing you’ve been to a social in this home before, but these particular servants weren’t here and you’re wondering why. Well, I can tell you. The eldest son of the Roderick family just returned from India last week.”
Amala looked sharply toward Henry but he didn’t seem to notice as he continued. “The servants you see wearing their native dress are very dear to him, and given the choice, they wished to remain with him and come to England.”
“And you know this because . . .” She purposely left the sentence unfinished.
“Howard Roderick has been my closest and dearest friend since we were children.” He turned to look at Amala. “I went to India with him, and I too returned just six days ago.”
Amala’s vision blurred from the moisture that filled her eyes before she could even think to try to hold it back. The fragments of her heart that were forever tied to her homeland suddenly hung on every word that might come out of this man’s mouth. The silence between them grew, but she couldn’t speak without betraying how overcome she felt, and she didn’t want to risk embarrassing herself.
Henry saved her when he said, “You told me you left India when you were a child. How much do you remember? I saw colors there like I’ve never seen in England—the flowers, the clothing, the decor. The streets of the cities were so noisy, but it wasn’t at all the same kind of noise as the noise in the streets of London. The hills and valleys have a beauty there unlike anything that can be seen in this part of the world. And the—”
Amala was suddenly so overcome with emotion that she had only one thought. She had to get out of the room before she burst into childish sobbing. She didn’t fully understand the source of the emotion roiling inside her, but its intensity was frightening, and she ran as if it might run after her like a wild animal in the woods. She ran through the huge open doors that led out onto an enormous veranda, and she kept running until she felt cool grass on her stockinged feet and realized she’d left her shoes beneath the chair. She slowed her pace and soon found a bench situated against some artistically trimmed shrubbery. She sat down and tried to catch her breath, all the while fighting to swallow back the emotion that had caught her off guard. This was neither the time nor the place to contend with such feelings.
“I seem to keep frightening you,” Henry said, and she let out a breathy scream that verified the truth of his statement. Amala took a deep, sustaining breath, glad at least that it was dark. She was seated with the lanterns on the veranda behind her, which kept her face in the shadows, hopefully concealing any evidence of her emotion.
“Forgive me,” she said, unable to think of a single word of explanation.
“I assume that something I said upset you,” he said and sat down next to her. He held up her shoes, which were hanging from his fingers. “You forgot these.”
“Oh, thank you,” she said, taking them quickly to set them on the ground near her feet. “How silly you must have looked walking out of the ballroom carrying a pair of ladies’ shoes.”
He chuckled. “I doubt anyone noticed, but even if they did, what does it matter? Do you think I’ll be the subject of gossip over tea tomorrow?” He raised his voice comically to mimic a woman. “‘Oh, did you see the way he was carrying those shoes?’” He changed his tone only slightly to offer the other side of the imagined conversation. “‘What on earth was he thinking to engage in such unseemly behavior? It’s scandalous, I tell you. Utterly scandalous.’”
Amala couldn’t help laughing, which eased her nerves and offered some perspective over her concerns. Following their laughter, a silence fell that threatened to become awkward until Henry asked, “How old were you when you came to England?”
“I was nine,” she said. “And now I have spent more than half of my life in England.”
“But still you don’t feel English?” he guessed.
“In some ways I do,” she admitted. “I’ve grown to love much about England, and I love my family. I am grateful every day that these good people made me a part of their family and brought me here. Otherwise . . .” She cleared her throat and sought for different words. “As I understand it, my situation would have been extremely dreadful following my parents’ deaths.”
Amala looked directly away from Henry and let out a little laugh that stemmed more from embarrassment than any kind of humor. “And again I am talking too much.”
“I want to hear you talk,” he said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have asked. I find it ironic that I don’t really . . . well, I’m very glad to be back in England, and I don’t ever intend to leave again. But I feel as if I left a part of myself behind in India; I will never be the same. Would it make me sound inane to admit that—after the years I lived there—a part of me feels . . . Indian?”
Amala looked at him, hoping to be able to discern whether or not he really meant it. She was surprised that even in the shadows she could see—as much as she could feel—his sincerity.
“How long were you there?” she asked.
He chuckled and she wondered why he might find the question humorous. He leaned his forearms on his thighs and threaded his fingers together before he turned his face toward her and said, “Nine years.” Amala let out a little gasp even before he put words to her own thoughts. “So, does that make us equally Indian? I may seem crazy, but somehow I feel like it does. If not for the color of our skin, would we not be? I hope that doesn’t sound offensive; that’s not how I intended it.”
“Not at all,” she said, wishing she could find words to explain how she felt so strangely drawn to him—as if they were equally Indian. Beyond her own family—who had also lived in India for many years—she had never spoken to anyone who understood that part of her. She had an awareness of many British people going back and forth to India, but she was not at all acquainted with any of them and had therefore felt that her memories of her homeland and the occasional strange longings she felt were something that she could only hold in her heart. Kat’s memories of India were not favorable; she hadn’t liked it there, which meant she didn’t want to talk about it. Her parents had some fond memories of India, but they had also been aware of the depravity and injustice taking place on many fronts, and the topic couldn’t be brought up without conversation inevitably veering toward such things.
Sometimes Amala would allow her mind to wander to her childhood memories, sifting through them to hold only to the good ones—the beauty and wonder and strangeness. It was all so unlike England, that the older she got the more her memories had come to feel like dreams—elusive and unreal. She realized now that her conversation with Henry Beckenridge felt very much the same—dreamlike and difficult to grasp. She thought of a hundred questions she wanted to ask him but couldn’t settle on where to begin. Then the noise of other party guests talking and laughing grew very near and Amala’s mind went to her biggest concern.
“You shouldn’t be seen with me this way,” she muttered and grabbed her shoes and hurried away, deeper into the garden that was splotched with a vast array of flowering shrubberies and rose bushes in full bloom.
“I do wish you’d stop running away from me,” Henry said, showing up at her side while she walked briskly. “You forgot this,” he said, holding up her fan. “It’s apparent you need me to follow you around and keep track of your belongings.”
“Thank you,” she said, taking the fan from him.
“Why should I not be seen with you?” he asked. Amala looked around, seeing that they were alone and that a high wall of shrubberies blocked their view of the veranda.
“My presence at such events is only tolerated because no one would dare offend my father by excluding me. But no gentleman would ever be caught in my presence longer than to participate in an obligatory dance here and there or to be moderately polite. At dinners I am always seated between my family members so that no one else will be required to be in close proximity to me.” She heard him mutter a noise of disbelief, but she kept talking in order to say what she knew needed to be said. “If you have lived in India, then you should be well aware of the lines that are clearly maintained between your kind and mine. Those lines are the same here—if not even more vividly defined. My parents made a huge sacrifice to take me on when my mother and father were killed; they knew they would always be judged and criticized for it. Perhaps if they had me scrubbing floors and cleaning fireplaces, their caring for me would be considered acceptable. But they’ve told me that doing anything less than treating me as their own daughter would be dishonoring my parents. Yet, for all their kindness and efforts, they cannot change the society in which we live. I am different and I always will be, and you are a fool if you think that you can come back here and somehow magically change all of that. You’ve been very kind, but you must . . . seek conversation elsewhere.”
“Why?” he demanded, sounding mildly angry. “There’s no one else here tonight I have any desire to talk to. I want to talk to you, and I’ve already explained my reasons for that. Why can we not just . . . walk in the garden . . . and talk about our common passion for a faraway world that will always hold a portion of our hearts? Is that a crime?”
“Some might see it that way,” she declared, even though she longed for such conversation.
“Well, no one is watching right now,” he said in a tone that implied he wouldn’t care if they were. He motioned toward a bench she hadn’t realized they’d happened upon. Then he reminded her, “My lifelong friend lives here; I know this garden like the back of my hand. Sit with me, Amala . . . just for a little while. Talk to me. We won’t be missed.”
Amala thought about it for a long moment, then sat down. “For a few minutes,” she said, and he sat beside her. She was glad when he began to talk about the things he’d loved about living in India, as opposed to asking her questions about her own memories. He also talked of the things he’d hated—most specifically the heat and the bugs. She enjoyed listening to every word that came out of his mouth, until the sense of how much time had passed shocked her to her feet.
“Oh, my goodness,” she said. “I must get back.” He stood beside her but didn’t get a chance to speak before she blurted, “Thank you, sir. You’ve been so kind. I very much enjoyed our conversation, and . . . I wish you a good evening.”
Amala ran back toward the house, making certain she had her shoes in one hand and her fan in the other so that Henry wouldn’t have any excuse to come and find her again. Just before she came to the veranda, Amala stopped for a moment to catch her breath and put her shoes on, if only for the sake of propriety. She knew her stockings were surely ruined but she didn’t care. Already the memory of the cool grass on her feet mingled in her mind with her secretive excursion into the garden with Henry Beckenridge, and the delightful conversation they’d shared.
Back in the ballroom everything appeared just the same as it had been when she’d left. It took only a moment of scanning the room to spot Kat having a wonderful time on the dance floor, and her parents were doing the same. Glad to know she’d not been missed, Amala was disappointed to find that the chair she’d been using earlier was now occupied by a rather large woman who was taking up a great deal of both chairs on either side of her. Amala walked discreetly in the other direction around the perimeter of the ballroom until she found a place to sit. She was glad to note how many people were caught up in the dancing; otherwise, there might not have been any vacant chairs.
The fresh air had felt good and had cooled her down somewhat, but it only took a minute before she flipped open her fan and began using it, rehearsing in her mind how Henry had told her he’d hated the heat and the bugs in India. She’d not remembered how much hotter it had been there in contrast to England, but it was one more reason to feel that—in spite of certain challenges—she was much more suited to England. If she could barely tolerate the heat of a crowded ballroom, surely the climate of India would undo her.
Recalling other bits and pieces of her conversation with Henry, she now wished she’d not rushed away so hastily. Now that she was here, sitting alone as she often did on such occasions, she missed his cordial company and the way they’d so quickly gained a comfortable rapport. She wondered then if she would ever see him again, and the thought saddened her. People came from all over for this sort of social gathering. She had no idea where he lived; for that matter she knew absolutely nothing about him—except that he’d spent nine years in India. And that Howard Roderick was his closest, lifelong friend. Henry couldn’t live too far away from here, she concluded. Although the Roderick home was nearly an hour’s drive by carriage from her own home.
Amala stopped herself from such silly speculations when the music ended and everyone applauded. A moment later her mother was seated next to her, patting her arm in her typical way.
“Oh, there you are, darling,” Viola Hepworth said. “I was trying to find you earlier. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, fine,” Amala said. “I only took a brief stroll in the garden to get away from the heat.”
“How very brilliant of you!” Viola said and exchanged a wink with her husband, Oliver, who was chatting nearby with a couple of other men near his age.
Amala’s unofficial parents were the most generous and loving people she had ever encountered, and she considered herself greatly blessed to have been taken into their home and their lives. Oliver was tall and thin with barely a hint of gray hair left on his balding head, but his lack of hair didn’t detract from his fine features that had—according to Viola—only grown more handsome with age. Viola was also tall—at least compared to most women. But still she was more than a few inches shorter than her husband. Her hair had also gone gray, but it was long and thick and always looked striking no matter how it was styled. Right now a portion of it was pinned up artistically at the back of her head while the rest hung down her back in an array of curls. Viola had the hair of a woman half her age, which made her age show less in her face than did the ages in the faces of most women of her generation. Ironically her hair was styled very much the same as Amala's and Kat's—which was likely due to the fact that the same maid had done all of their hair earlier this evening. Since the style was certainly flattering on all of them, it worked well.
Viola had a well-rounded figure but by no means carried any superfluous weight. Together, Oliver and Viola Hepworth were a handsome couple, and any stranger only had to observe them together for a minute or two in order to conclude that they loved and respected each other. Amala felt sure that the love they felt for each other was so great that it had spilled over and made it possible for them to love her as much as they loved their own daughter. Whatever the reasons, she praised God every day for the way she felt such a place of belonging, love, and acceptance among them. For it was only among the Hepworth family that she felt that way. But if she ever took to feeling sorry for herself, she only had to imagine an orphaned Indian girl with no family, begging in the streets for her survival. While it hadn’t been spoken of often, Amala knew from all she’d been told of her situation that it surely would have been that way. Some of her memories of India were vague and cloudy, but she had very clear memories of holding to her mother’s skirts while they pushed their way through crowds of people on a narrow city street—memories of the beggars with their ragged clothes, their sunken faces, and their outstretched hands.
“I saw you dancing earlier,” Viola said, bringing Amala out of her unsavory thoughts. “Given that it was a very lively waltz, I didn’t get a good look at him, but from what I could see, he looked rather handsome.”
“Yes,” was all Amala could say, unable to deny the truth in Viola’s statement. But Amala felt unnerved by the subtle fluttering in her stomach at the thought of Henry. She’d made up her mind a long time ago about the course her life would have to take. She’d accepted that the good life she’d been given came with sacrifices that simply had to be, given the society in which they lived. Feeling attracted to any man did not fit into her plans. She quickly convinced herself that Henry’s appeal was based entirely in their common interest in her native country.
Fearing that Viola might speculate over the identity of the mysterious dance partner, Amala was relieved when one of Viola’s friends sat down on the other side of her and they began to chat. Amala couldn’t help noticing that the woman offered her neither greeting nor acknowledgment; she wasn’t at all surprised, since it happened all the time. She only wished she could somehow become immune to the sting she felt every time she was left feeling invisible. She suddenly felt very tired and wondered how much longer they would be staying. Thankfully, her parents often left such events at a reasonable hour, in contrast to many who would stay on into the early hours of the morning. Still, since she couldn’t see a clock from where she was seated, Amala had no idea what time it was, and she just wanted to go. She couldn’t deny that her fear of encountering Henry Beckenridge again added incentive to her desire to leave.
Scarcely a few minutes later, Oliver approached and announced that he was ready to leave. He went to find Kat, who would surely be disappointed at having to give up on her continual opportunity to dance with one partner after another. By the time he returned with Kat, Viola had finished her conversation with her friend, and within minutes they were in the carriage on their way home.
As always, Oliver and Viola wanted to know if the girls had had a good time, and Amala was always glad to allow Kat to dominate the conversation with her talk about all the latest fashions the ladies had been wearing and all the men she’d danced with. She revealed which of those men she would prefer to never socialize with and which of them she would enjoy getting to know better.
“And what about you, my dear?” Oliver asked Amala. “Any young prospective beaus that sparked your interest?”
Amala felt like snapping at them; she wanted to say what should have been obvious—that the very idea of marrying, or even courting, an Englishman was absurd. They all knew it, and she wondered why they’d never talked about it. Did her family have some secret hope that all of the social disdain of such a prospect might magically go away? In her mind she committed to initiating that conversation with her family at a more appropriate time, if only so they would all stop expecting—and talking about—something that would never happen. For the moment she simply said, “No one.”
“I saw you dancing more than once,” Oliver said, as if that fact might help convince her of the magical transformation that had been implied a moment ago.
“Yes,” Amala said. “It was delightful.” Her stomach fluttered again at the memory of dancing with Henry. She hurried to add—as if it might soothe her family’s concern over the fact that she hadn’t danced nearly as much as Kat, “But my feet were hurting far too much to—”
“We must acquire more comfortable shoes for Amala,” Kat said to their parents. “She shouldn’t be kept from dancing simply because of poorly made shoes.”
Amala thought about how she hadn’t been wearing her shoes when she’d danced with Henry, and her skirts were plenty long so no one would have noticed. But she didn’t comment.
“No, you’re absolutely right,” Viola said as if Amala’s shoes were surely the entire source of the problem. “Before we attend another ball, we will get you some proper shoes.”
Amala offered her mother an appreciative smile but said nothing. A bridge of silence lured Amala’s thoughts to Henry’s descriptions of the brilliant colors of fabric worn by the women in India and of the unique scent of spices in the air. His words made her childhood memories more vivid, and she held them close. She longed for more such conversation with Henry Beckenridge, but doubted it would ever happen.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Oliver said, interrupting her reverie. He was looking more at his wife, but his comment was obviously meant for all of them. “I invited someone over for tea tomorrow. Howard Roderick.”
“Why, he’s as old and crippled as any man could ever be,” Viola said, astonished. “I thought he never left his house. It was his wife who hosted this evening’s ball. I don’t think Howard could have made it down the stairs or—”
“No, not that Howard Roderick,” Oliver said. “His son; the younger Howard—although he has some strange nickname, something to do with his middle name. I don’t recall it now. But I had a nice, long chat with the fellow. Very gentlemanly, he was.”
“Oh, of course,” Viola said with exuberance. “Tonight’s gala was in his honor; he’s just returned home after many years away, has he not?”
“That’s right,” Oliver said. “He’s lived in India for years.”
Amala’s heart quickened as her mind made the connection. Howard Roderick, the lifelong friend of Henry Beckenridge. They had traveled to India together.
“We had a jolly good time talking of India,” Oliver continued, “and so I invited him to tea, thinking we could go at it a great deal longer. I hope you don’t mind, my dear.”
“Oh, not at all!” Viola said. “It sounds delightful!”
“And I was thinking,” Oliver said, and Amala realized he was looking at her, “that you might enjoy such a conversation, as well—to hear more about your homeland. I wonder sometimes if we shouldn’t talk about it more. I’m not even certain what you remember.”
Rather than try to discuss her memories or encourage any discussion on the topic itself, Amala simply said, “Tea with Mr. Roderick sounds lovely.”
Amala felt a secret wish that it might be tea with Mr. Beckenridge instead—who had also just returned from India—but she immediately knew it was likely better if she never saw Henry again. She had no sooner thought it when Oliver said, “Oh, and he’s bringing a friend; been friends forever, he tells me. They traveled there and back together. Did some kind of work for the viceroy, I believe.”
“Oh, that would be Henry Beckenridge,” Viola said, and Amala’s heart quickened at the very mention of his name. “I’ve known his mother . . . well . . . since I first came here as a bride, I suppose. Although she’s not one whose company I’ve ever enjoyed much. Cranky, I’d call her.”
“And what of his father?” Kat asked.
“Oh, he died very young, when Henry was still a child, from what I recall.”
“I believe that’s right,” Oliver interjected. “Which means that Henry owns the whole of the Beckenridge estate, which is no small birthright by any account.”
“Then why do you suppose he went to India?” Viola asked.
“Perhaps to get away from his cranky mother,” Kat said with a giggle.
“Indeed,” Viola said and laughed with her.
“I suppose we can find out tomorrow,” Oliver said. “It should be a delightful afternoon.”
“Indeed,” Viola said again, but Amala didn’t know whether to feel thrilled or terrified.
* * * *
Henry sat alone in the garden long after Amala had rushed away, resisting the urge to track her down one more time. He tried and tried to find some plausible reason for his undeniable fascination with this woman. It couldn’t simply be the fact that she was Indian; he’d been living in India for years and he’d had personal interaction with hundreds of Indian people. He couldn’t deny that he’d always felt intrigued with the dark skin and black hair of the Indian women. Their exotic appearance in contrast to English women had fascinated him, but no more or less than the men and children of the Indian race. And his fascination with the people had always been much like his fascination with the culture and the landscape, the colors and smells, the very fact that so many things there had often seemed exactly opposite to so many things in England. He concluded that his intrigue with Amala was not simply the fact that she was Indian or that he was feeling somehow nostalgic for the country he’d just left behind where he’d grown to feel comfortable and at home. No, it was much more than that.
Henry wondered if it was the contrast of seeing an Indian woman in English dress, along with seeing her in the surroundings of a typical English social gathering. Still, that wasn’t the reason either. While her dark skin and eyes and her silky black hair had certainly made her stand out among the crowd, it was Amala herself that made it impossible for Henry to stop thinking about her.
Henry finally returned to the ballroom, debating whether or not to try to find Amala and beg for one more dance before the evening ended. He imagined how she would protest and insist that he was a fool, but the thought only made him smile. She was far from the first person to call him a fool; he’d been a fool for far lesser things.
Henry felt a little skip in his heartbeat when he caught a glimpse of Amala across the room, but disappointment settled in when he realized she was with her family and they were leaving. He sighed and watched her from a distance until she was gone, then he looked around the room and couldn’t think of a single reason why he wanted to stay any longer. On the other hand, he couldn’t think of any reason why he wanted to go home. Certain he would find his friend Chit somewhere playing cards, he sought out the most obvious location, and, sure enough, he found a parlor containing a small gathering of men who obviously preferred a friendly game of poker over dancing or trying to impress the ladies.
Howard Chitworth Roderick—or Chit, as he’d always been called by close friends and family—was in the middle of a heated game, and Henry slumped into a comfortable chair nearby to wait for the outcome. It was only heated because of the way the men were playfully bantering in a way that mimicked a serious row. And since the bets being made were only small numbers of coins, there were certainly no stakes involved.
Chit was by far one of the finest men Henry had ever known, and he considered their friendship one of the greatest blessings of his life. Henry’s own father had died when he was very young, his mother was barely tolerable company in only small doses, and his sister clung to every opinion that was exactly opposite to his own. Consequently, Henry had found comfort and security in Chit’s home and with his family. Chit had always been of a portly build and had lost most of his hair in his early twenties; he wasn’t known as being fair to look at, but his smile was infectious, and his charm was in his warm personality and his impeccable integrity. Everyone who knew him loved him. But Henry had the privilege of being Chit’s oldest and dearest friend.
Henry laughed when Chit lost the game terribly. He slapped his friend on the shoulder and said, “This is why gambling with anything more than ha’pennies is not good for your health.”
As he came to his feet, Chit laughed and declared he was bowing out of the next game. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said to Henry, easing him away from the crowd where they wouldn’t be overheard. “I was afraid you might have run off before I had a chance to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” Henry asked, already skeptical. Chit was known for making plans that included the both of them without first consulting Henry.
“We’re invited to tea tomorrow,” Chit said.
“Oh, you cannot be serious!” Henry declared. “What is this? You’ve got a fancy for some pretty young lass and you get us invited to tea? And of course you have to drag me along so you don’t make yourself too obvious! And what if I’m busy? Or what if I don’t want to go?”
“Oh, come on, old boy,” Chit said. “It’ll be grand! And it’s nothing like that. There you go again, thinking you’ve got me all figured out. It was a kind old chap who invited us; used to live in India. We had a fine visit and he thought it would be grand to have more time to compare notes, and all that. He came back here not long after we left; says he misses it sometimes—although he doesn’t want to go back.”
“I can agree with that,” Henry said, not daring to hope that Chit could be talking about Amala’s father. It was not at all uncommon for Britishers to go back and forth to India; there could have been a number of people present this evening who had traveled there and enjoyed talking about it.
“And just who are these people whom I have agreed to have tea with entirely against my will?” Henry asked, almost holding his breath.
“Oliver Hepworth,” Chit said, and Henry almost laughed aloud. It was far too amazing to be a coincidence—at least as far as he saw it. “You know him?’
“Know of him,” Henry said.
“Oh, and . . . he has daughters; perhaps they’ll be lovely, eh? One of them is Indian, he tells me. Took her on when her parents were killed. I don’t know about you, but it sounds like the perfect family for us to lounge about with for an afternoon. Oh, gotta go. Just saw someone I need to speak with. I’ll be around to get you after lunch, old boy.”
“I’ll be ready,” Henry said and briefly glanced heavenward, as if to acknowledge the sudden feeling he had that Providence had smiled upon him.