THE UNWANTED SUITOR
Amala had a strange dream that night, in which her hazy memories of India mingled with the things Henry had told her of his own impressions of the country. She could hear the noise of vendors in the street and feel the soft fabric of her mother’s sari that she clung to as they pushed through the crowds with a particular destination in mind, although she had no idea where they were going. Their clamoring through the crowds seemed to go on and on, as if they might never arrive. The throng of people became so thick—all moving in the opposite direction—that Amala began to feel frightened and clung more tightly to her mother.
Amala awoke with a quickened heart, as if the fear she’d felt in the dream had been real. It took minutes for her heartbeat to return to normal, but her thoughts remained with the dream—and almost against her own will, she couldn’t keep herself from thinking about Henry. She reminded herself that he was charming and they had something in common, but she absolutely knew it could never be more than that, and she carefully put her frame of mind in place to keep her thoughts within proper parameters. They could be friends and nothing more; she could not lose sight of that. No other possibility could even be considered. She’d already considered carefully—over the course of many years—the possibilities of marriage and children for herself. And it simply would not, and could not, happen within this society. She had accepted it, and she was content to be grateful for the good life she had been given; she would not waste time mourning over what she could not have. The fact that Henry was coming to tea with his friend later today was of no relevance beyond their common interests and the possibility of conversation about shared interests.
Amala proceeded as normal with her day while she did well at remaining convinced that her inability to get Henry Beckenridge out of her head was simply a result of her anticipation of experiencing more of the stimulating conversation she’d enjoyed sharing with him the previous evening. If she had actually met Mr. Howard Roderick and had been given a chance to speak with him, it would have surely had the same effect on her. But for all the logic she was strictly imposing on herself, she couldn’t find any justifiable reason for her nervousness in anticipating the visit of these two gentlemen. She considered the possibility that she might feel less nervous if she didn’t feel as if her parents were attempting to match her with a possible suitor. In Kat’s case, such efforts were completely appropriate, but Amala didn’t understand why her parents couldn’t see the obvious in regard to herself. No gentleman would align himself with a woman like Amala, and her parents seemed to think that the problems associated with such a possibility might magically go away. Amala made up her mind that she needed to speak with her parents and clear up the matter so there would be no further room for misunderstanding. But by the time Amala figured out she needed to have that conversation, lunch was over and there was no time for broaching such a delicate matter when company would soon be arriving.
At the time their guests were due to arrive, Amala was sitting in Kat’s room, waiting for her sister to make certain her appearance was perfect. Kat speculated over what these two gentlemen callers might be like, as if every gentleman who entered their social circle might be considered a potential husband. Amala mostly listened, only commenting enough to be polite and let Kat know that she was paying attention. For a long moment Amala watched her sister primping and envied her fair skin and golden hair, only because they allowed her to hope for a normal life here in a country where Kat’s appearance alone made it evident she belonged. At the moment, while Kat had good reason to anticipate any opportunity to get to know available English gentlemen, for Amala it was only a temporary distraction, and she knew it could never be anything more. She felt some anticipation in knowing that Henry would be here, but as much as she craved his company and conversation, her attraction to him caused far more unrest and confusion than any of the pleasant delight Kat was going on about.
Amala hurried Kat along, if only so she could stop dreading the official introduction to these gentlemen—which would inevitably bring up the fact that she’d become acquainted with Henry the previous evening. Amala followed Kat through the doorway of the drawing room and caught a glimpse of her parents visiting with their guests. It only took a second to see that Howard Roderick was not nearly as conventionally handsome as Henry, although Amala firmly held to what her parents had taught her—not to judge others by their appearance. She only wished that others might offer her the same courtesy.
At that very moment, Mr. Roderick was telling her parents something that was making them laugh a great deal, but Amala’s focus was on Henry Beckenridge. She wished he wasn’t so handsome, that the waves of his blond hair didn’t seem to fall perfectly into place, that his features weren’t so perfectly proportioned. But just seeing him brought back every feeling she’d been battling and more, rushing over her with such force that she almost felt a little unsteady on her feet for a moment.
“Oh, there they are!” her father said, noticing the girls near the door. He stood, which prompted the other two men to do the same. Oliver motioned the girls closer while he said, “Here are my lovely daughters. I told you, Howard, about my daughters.”
“Indeed, you did,” Howard said and stepped forward, holding out his hand. “This must be Katarina,” he added, and Kat slipped her hand into his. He kissed it quickly and let go, smiling at her as he said, “You’re every bit as lovely as your father described. It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you,” Kat said graciously.
“And this must be the lovely Amala,” Howard said, turning toward her to kiss her hand as well. “Your father has told me so much about you. It is indeed a pleasure.”
“Indeed it is,” Amala said.
Howard then introduced his friend, Henry, who also kissed Kat’s hand and expressed his delight in meeting her. He then turned to Amala, and she wondered if they were meant to pretend they’d not met previously. But he offered a smile that brightened his countenance and took her hand, saying with enthusiasm, “Amala and I had the pleasure of meeting last night. She was kind enough to take pity on me and share a dance.” He kissed her hand, then held on to it a few seconds longer than necessary.
While Henry gracefully guided Amala to a chair and when everyone was once again seated, he told the others how she had been kind enough to share some conversation with him at the ball and how much he’d enjoyed being able to talk about India, since he was still feeling rather disoriented after his recent return.
Everyone was apparently thrilled at the delightful serendipity—as Viola called it—of Amala and Henry having already gotten to know each other. Amala couldn’t deny being glad to see Henry again, and when he smiled at her, it was impossible not to smile back. She thought of how comfortably they’d conversed the previous evening in the garden, and she couldn’t deny that she already thought of him as a friend. The problem was that in seeing him now, what she felt went far beyond friendship—and she wasn’t certain what to do about it. Concluding that this was only one afternoon and that for now she could do absolutely nothing, she relaxed and determined that she would simply enjoy the company of their visitors while it lasted.
Amala quickly liked Howard and could see why these two men were such good friends. They were both kind, thoughtful, and polite. And they were both rather amusing. They had a particular way of bantering between themselves that always made the others laugh, and she could understand why—when Howard had made the decision to go to India more than nine years ago—Henry had quickly been talked into going along. The two men seemed as inseparable as were Amala and Kat.
The subject of Howard’s nickname came up quickly when Henry referred to him as Chit. When Viola asked about it, Henry explained that Howard’s middle name was Chitworth and he’d been called Chit practically from his infancy. Since Howard and Henry had known each other nearly that long, Henry never called him anything but Chit except in the case of formal introductions. Oliver then clarified that he far preferred a lack of formality—especially at such informal gatherings. The visitors agreed, and Amala recognized her father’s customary way of giving permission for given names to be used in his home. Amala had seen people respond to his declaration with varying degrees of shock and disgust; it seemed that for some people anything less than formality in all matters was practically criminal. Amala had realized years ago that such people were rarely invited back into their home. Her parents far preferred the company of people around whom they could all be more relaxed and comfortable. It was evident these two men fit easily into that category.
Amala and Kat mostly listened while the others talked of India, sharing their memories and discussing their reasons for going there and enthusing over the strangeness and beauty of the place. Amala felt deeply fascinated with the conversation, since she’d never heard her homeland discussed in such detail before. She even heard things from her parents she’d never before heard them say about their reasons for living there and the things they’d loved about it.
Amala sensed that Kat was mostly bored. Kat’s memories of India were not favorable; she’d apparently never liked it there, and she had no interest in talking about it. Amala had often wondered if Kat’s memories included difficult things she didn’t wish to be reminded of. She’d once asked Kat if that was the case, wanting to understand why she felt the way she did. Kat insisted otherwise, declaring that she simply hadn’t liked it there. But Amala wondered to this day if Kat had some hidden reason for disliking India. Either way, India was a topic that had become taboo in conversation between the two sisters. They could talk about anything and everything—except India. Amala respected Kat’s wishes to avoid the subject, except that she doubted Kat had any idea of how Amala sometimes felt the need to talk about it, to explore her memories, to indulge in the reality that for all that she was devoted to fitting into English life each and every day, she only had to look in the mirror to be reminded that she was and forever would be Indian.
Amala wasn’t at all surprised when Kat declared that she was feeling a little under the weather and made her apologies before gracefully bidding their guests farewell and leaving the room. Amala knew very well that Kat was simply bored and unable to bear the conversation any further. Amala couldn’t fault her sister when she knew that she might likely do the same if such a gathering had the same effect on her. Truthfully, once Kat had left, Amala ceased to be distracted by the subtle signs of Kat’s discomfort and she was able to relax even more and enjoy the stories these men were telling of their years spent on the other side of the world. Some of their adventures had been very exciting—even frightening. And some had been marred by sadness at the evidence of poverty and political difficulties. But Amala hung on every word and was surprised when it was actually time for tea to be served; she couldn’t believe how the time had flown.
When tea was winding down, Amala dreaded the departure of Henry and Chit, certain they would soon express the need to leave. But Oliver mentioned a collection of Indian artifacts that he kept in his personal study. Chit enthusiastically said that he’d love to see them, but Henry said to Oliver, “Forgive me, but . . . I confess I noticed what a lovely rose garden you have, and I was rather hoping to get a closer look.” He paused and stole a barely detectable glance toward Amala before he added, “Perhaps Amala would do me the honor of giving me a tour.”
“What a grand idea!” Oliver said with a pleased expression, much like the one that appeared on her mother’s face. She mentally noted the need to have that conversation with her parents, and soon, if only so they would stop implying that she might be courted by some proper English gentleman. But for now, nothing sounded more appealing than the idea of having some time alone with Henry to share conversation akin to what they’d shared the previous evening.
“If that’s all right with you, of course,” Henry said directly to Amala, and she appreciated the way he considered asking her opinion rather than assuming that the men could decide what a woman might want to do with her time.
“I’d be happy to show you the gardens,” she said. “They are especially lovely right now with the roses all in bloom.”
“Perfect,” Oliver said and headed out of the room with Viola on his arm and Chit right behind them.
Henry turned to Amala and offered one of those broad smiles that consumed his face. “I feared it was too much to hope for,” he said, “that I might actually have some time alone with you.” Amala looked down, feeling unusually shy, and he added, “I’m glad your parents aren’t the sort who think we would need a chaperone to walk through the gardens in broad daylight.”
“No, they aren’t that sort,” Amala said, looking at him again. “They know I am capable of causing you great bodily harm should you attempt anything untoward.”
He looked momentarily astonished, then laughed when he realized she was joking. She didn’t bother telling him that she was capable; there was no need, given the fact that she already knew him well enough to know he was a true gentleman and that she felt completely safe with him.
“Shall we?” he asked and offered his arm.
Amala put her hand over his arm and guided him out of the drawing room and down a long hall to a door that exited onto the garden terrace. They walked across the terrace and onto the lawn toward a cluster of artistically arranged rose bushes in a variety of colors, all pruned to perfection and covered with blooms that filled the air with their fragrance. Amala stopped and closed her eyes while she inhaled the sweet aroma that to her was like the smell of summer. She opened her eyes and looked around, trying not to feel distracted by how much she enjoyed the opportunity to hold Henry’s arm.
“It’s very beautiful,” she commented, focusing her gaze on a flourishing bush of yellow roses that was one of her favorites.
“It is very beautiful,” he said.
Amala stole a glance at his face, surprised to find him staring at her. “You’re not even looking at the roses,” she said in a scolding tone.
“Oh, I looked at them,” he said, completely unabashed over his attention to her. “They are very beautiful too.”
Amala’s heart quickened and she turned her back to him, letting go of his arm. “Henry, you mustn’t,” she insisted, feeling like a hypocrite.
“I mustn’t what?” he asked. “Look at you? Tell you that you’re beautiful?”
“No,” she said without conviction, “you mustn’t.”
“How can I not when I have thought of nothing but you since you ran away from me last night?”
Amala resisted the urge to turn and face him, knowing it would be easier to say what needed to be said if she weren’t looking at him. “You’re very kind, sir, but you also have a very short memory.”
Henry chuckled and moved around her so that she had no choice but to face him. “I think you just insulted me,” he said.
“That was not my intention,” she insisted. “Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Amala. I’m just trying to understand why you have such an aversion to my company . . . or you seem to . . . part of the time. It didn’t seem to be a problem when we were sitting in the garden last night.”
“No one could see us together there,” she said. “But . . . I explained all of this to you. There is no good in our being seen together. It will only cause problems.” Again she turned her back to him. “You should have gone with Chit and my father to look at the—”
“All due respect to your father, Amala, I don’t want to see his mementoes of India. I doubt it’s anything I haven’t seen before. Chit likes that sort of thing. I, on the other hand, wanted to be with you. And I don’t care what anyone thinks or says. It’s just a walk in the garden. And this is your home, Amala. Surely here of all places you are not subjected to such ridiculous prejudice and—”
“Here in my home I am treated as an equal to my family members, but it’s not my reputation that concerns me. The talk of servants travels quickly through the villages and from house to house.”
“You speak as if our spending time together will taint me with leprosy or something.”
“In regard to social matters,” she said, “your analogy is quite accurate, Mr. Beckenridge.”
“And now I’m Mr. Beckenridge?” He sounded vaguely angry. “We can’t admire the rose garden together without regressing to such formality?”
“If you were only admiring the roses,” she said firmly, “perhaps I would have no reason to be concerned.”
Amala walked away, deeper into the garden and around the corner of a long hedge. She knew he would follow her, but she needed a moment to try to make sense of the turmoil rumbling inside of her. This isn’t supposed to happen, she kept hearing inside her mind, but just the thought of what he’d said to her, and the way he’d looked at her made her knees feel weak and her stomach flutter. How could she keep having this argument with him when she wanted nothing more than to just soak in every morsel of his attention?
Amala was glad to make it to a bench before the weakness in her knees got any worse. She gripped the cold stone with both hands and lowered her head to try to draw a deep breath, but she found it practically impossible to pull air into her lungs. The same moment she realized she was crying, she looked up to see him standing nearby and knew there was no point in trying to hide her tears from him. Still, she turned her face away, and when he sat down beside her, she gripped the bench more tightly, as if doing so might save her from the effect he had on her.
“I’ve upset you,” he said gently. “Forgive me. That was not my intention.”
“It was not my intention to become upset,” she said.
Henry held his breath until he had to remind himself to breathe. He felt as if he’d lost his mind—or maybe it was his heart. Or perhaps one malady was a result of the other. His mind had been consumed with thoughts of Amala ever since he’d laid eyes on her, and he’d hardly slept due to his attempts to reason away all of her logical and proper decorum over why they shouldn’t pursue what he felt. But one element of the situation had completely eluded him. Until now. And now his heart felt as if it would explode out of his chest. He wondered what to do, what to say. He had no obvious answers either way, so he just took a deep breath and ventured to put a hand on her arm while he softly spoke her name. “Please look at me,” he added. When she didn’t, he said, “We haven’t known each other long, but I believe we know each other well. You are a wise and practical woman, Amala. But I believe you are also as sensitive as you are sensible. We are two mature adults; I believe we’ve shared sufficient conversation to prove that we can talk about whatever it is that’s upsetting you now. I hope you can believe me when I promise I would never be judgmental toward anything you share with me, and I would always hold everything you tell me in the strictest confidence.”
“I do believe that,” she said and sniffled.
“Please look at me,” he repeated.
She turned slowly toward him, her eyes downward, tears streaking her face. Henry took out his handkerchief and couldn’t resist the opportunity to wipe away her tears before he gave the hankie to her and she pressed it beneath her nose, muttering a quiet “Thank you.” But she kept her eyes turned down, which made it impossible for him to even attempt gauging her thoughts.
“Until yesterday,” he began with trepidation, hoping he wouldn’t regret what he wanted to say, “I never would have believed it was possible—in a matter of hours—to grow to love someone.”
At the mention of the word love, her eyes finally turned upward. He saw astonishment there. But he also saw something else— something she was trying to hide but couldn’t—the very thing he’d been desperately hoping to see there. He couldn’t hold back a smile as he stated the truth that was clearly visible. “You feel it, too.”
He predicted that she might attempt to leave, and he took hold of her lower arm just before she tried to stand. “Don’t run away from me, Amala,” he said. “Just . . . talk to me.”
Again she avoided looking at him. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she said and pressed the handkerchief beneath her nose again. “This cannot happen.”
“This has happened,” he said, “and you can’t run away from it because I won’t let you.”
“To even consider acting upon . . . this thing that we feel—whatever it might be—is nothing short of madness. Nothing good could come of this. Nothing.”
“Then we’re not talking about the same thing,” he insisted.
She sighed loudly and closed her eyes, and he could imagine her trying to think clearly and be rational. At the moment he felt anything but rational. He’d always struggled with being impulsive, and more than once in his life he’d made an utter fool of himself. But he’d never felt so strongly about anything—ever.
“Listen to me, Amala,” he said, still keeping a firm hold on her arm—both because he wanted an excuse to touch her and because he feared she might try to leave. “I’m not suggesting anything irrational. I realize we only just met. I simply intend to ask for your father’s blessing in courting you officially, then we can give the matter some time and—”
Amala shot to her feet so quickly it startled him, but he didn’t let go of her. “You are completely and utterly out of your mind!” she snapped.
“I appreciate your faith in me,” he said with sarcasm. “Please sit down and talk to me.”
She did sit down, and it took no urging to get her to speak her mind. “Your interest toward me and your desires are an honor to me, Henry, but . . . there is no world in which what you are proposing is even remotely possible. For you to even consider courting an Indian woman tells me that you have not properly thought through the possible ramifications.”
“I don’t care about any of that,” he insisted.
“You are speaking of things you simply don’t understand!” she said, sounding angry. “Being an Englishman, you cannot have the slightest notion of what it’s like for someone like me to exist in this society. The fact that you have not even lived in England for many years has perhaps distorted your perception of such things, although I’m well aware that such a relationship would be no more acceptable in India than it is here.”
“Amala,” he said with forced patience, wishing he could make her understand, “what can I say to make you believe that I don’t care what anyone thinks . . . or says? It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” she insisted, still sounding angry. “I feel completely comfortable at home and I am treated as an equal, but I cannot step beyond the borders of this estate without being treated as grossly inferior, and you cannot comprehend the things people have said about me—and sometimes to my face. You can say that it doesn’t matter, but this is the society in which we live. No human being can live a completely isolated life. You speak of courting me as if it were nothing out of the ordinary; I fear you would very quickly come to see it as an irreversible mistake. And then what? Courting implies the possibility of marriage. It’s impossible, Henry. Impossible!”
“Change never happens if someone doesn’t have the courage to do things differently. The fact that you are treated as less than equal to those who happen to be born British isn’t right.”
“It might not be fair or right,” she said, “but you and I do not have the power to make such great changes.”
“No, but we might make a little bit of difference for even a few people. However, this is not about making a change in the world, Amala; not to me. You’re right. Courting implies the possibility of marriage. I don’t know if it would come to that, but I hope it will.”
“And what of the children who would come from such a marriage?” she asked as if he were on trial. “Such children are evilly persecuted and cast out in India. Do you really think it would be any different here? And don’t tell me that the love of a good family could make up for whatever else they might face. Their entire lives would be different and filled with hardship because I would be their mother.”
Henry felt his heart sinking further and further down toward the growing knot in his stomach. She had obviously given the matter a great deal of thought, but she was also shedding tears that mingled poignantly with her anger. He sat in silence beside her, taking in everything she’d said while she wiped the tears off her cheeks. She finally said, “You can let go of my arm. I’m not going to run away.”
Henry did let go, but only so he could hold her hand. She seemed surprised but didn’t resist. “What are you saying, Amala?” he asked as it all began to fully sink in. “That you intend to live your life as some kind of nun?”
Henry was surprised by the conviction of her answer, as well as how quickly it came out of her mouth. “Not officially, of course. But unless I leave my family and go back to India—which I will not—then I simply have to accept that marriage and children are not a possibility for me.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” he said, sounding as astonished as he felt.
“Eventually you will have to believe it,” she said, “because that’s just the way it is. And in case it’s crossed your mind that perhaps I could find a suitable match among people like the servants who came back from India with your friend, allow me to point out that this too would be considered inappropriate. If I were to marry a servant I would be considered a part of the serving class. I’m not against having to work, but it would sever me from my family. And they are everything to me. They are all I have.” He heard her sniffle and realized she was crying again.
“You have me,” he said, still holding her hand. “At the very least we are friends.”
She turned to look at him—and he clearly saw his own thoughts mirrored in her eyes. She didn’t want to be only a friend to him any more than he wanted to simply be her friend. Looking at her beautiful face while everything she’d just said rumbled through his mind, he felt as if he were locked in some ancient torture device. He didn’t know how to talk her into changing her mind, and he couldn’t deny his own naiveté and ignorance, which made it impossible for him to offer any reasonable argument. In that moment he could only hope that with time she would change her mind and allow him to court her.
As if she’d read his mind, she said while she squeezed his hand, “You must promise me that you will not speak to my father—or to anyone else, for that matter. You must promise me. If you care for me at all, you must promise me.”
“I do care for you, Amala—more than I can say. But I heartily disagree, and my silence feels hypocritical.”
“Do it for me,” she said.
“I can’t do it without the hope that something will change.”
“You mustn’t hope,” she said with a conviction in her voice that was a complete contradiction to what he saw in her eyes. At least he didn’t feel alone in his confusion.
Suddenly frozen as if they’d both turned to stone statues there in the garden, Henry could only stare into her black eyes and wish for some reasonable solution to the strength of all he was feeling. She didn’t seem any more eager to look away than he did. It was as if they were trying to memorize each other, trying to hold on to this moment with the fear that it would be all they’d ever have.
Henry didn’t think about kissing her; he just did it. The moment their lips met he could think of a hundred reasons why he shouldn’t be doing this, but instead he chose to simply savor the experience, as meek and simple as it was. She offered no resistance, and her eyes were glistening with fresh moisture when she opened them to look at him. He couldn’t keep himself from kissing her again.
Henry finally forced himself to some measure of rational thinking and drew away, turning to look straight ahead. He cleared his throat much louder than necessary and said, “Forgive me. That was completely inappropriate, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
He felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he wondered if that would be the first and last time he would ever kiss her.
“Your apology is completely unconvincing,” she said. “I don’t believe a word of it.”
Henry looked at her abruptly, even though he knew that meant she would be able to see the tears in his eyes. “How well you read me,” he said. “I must confess . . . I’m not sorry at all. I can’t dispute that it was inappropriate, but how can I regret it?”
She looked at him long and hard, as if she were desperately searching for something to say that might help assuage the wave of grief rushing over him. He was surprised by the way she put her free hand to the side of his face while she kissed his other cheek. She looked at him again and her voice cracked as she said, “Good-bye, Henry. If our paths cross again, it must be merely as friends . . . acquaintances. This must be the last time we speak of such things. I will never forget you.”
She stood up and walked away, and he found himself completely incapable of going after her. There was nothing he could think of to say that might change her mind. The helplessness he felt had left him stunned and immobile. Knowing that he was completely alone and no one could possibly see him, he hung his head and pressed his face into his hands, weeping as if he’d just received news of the death of a loved one.
* * * *
Amala ran toward the house with the intention of hopefully getting to her room unnoticed so that she could follow Kat’s example of claiming to not feel well, undress down to her chemise, and crawl into bed. Quickly assessing that she wasn’t likely to get to her room without encountering someone, and also realizing that she couldn’t get out of the dress, corset, and enormous petticoats without assistance, Amala impulsively took a different path and sneaked into the carriage house, where she knew there was only one person she might encounter there, and he would not fuss over her need to find a place to be alone and just think—or even cry if she needed to. The burning in her eyes and throat lured her to the likelihood that it would be the latter.
Amala was relieved to see Everett there, repairing one of the carriage wheels that he’d just removed. From his father, he had inherited the job of caring for the family’s wheeled vehicles and thus had been born and raised on this estate. It was more home to him than to her. He was near her father’s age, and rather nice looking with his graying dark hair. He wore a white shirt and dark breeches and boots—as he always did. In spite of having work to do to keep the carriages maintained, Everett knew he could be called upon to hitch up the carriages and sometimes drive them, which would require buttoning the cuffs of his rolled-up sleeves and donning a proper waistcoat and jacket. Right now he was at his most casual, and he only had to glance at Amala for her to know that he’d noticed her distress. He immediately let go of what he was working on and put his hands on his hips.
“What’s wrong, child?” he asked in a way that she knew meant he hoped she would talk to him, but he wouldn’t insist upon it. She’d been running to the carriage house to find respite and privacy for as long as she’d lived here, and Everett had become one of her truest friends. As close as she was to Kat, there were things they just couldn’t talk about. But Everett had great wisdom and insight, and he never got upset or defensive about certain topics of conversation the way Kat did. Amala had come to see him as something akin to an uncle, and she knew that Everett saw their relationship much the same way. He’d been married in his younger days but had lost his wife and young son to disease, and he’d been alone ever since. He mingled comfortably among the other servants and was highly respected by them—as well as by the family. But he’d readily admitted that he’d grown to especially care for Amala and to feel some responsibility for her.
Everett’s familiar expression of concern provoked Amala’s tears to come forth. She’d learned long ago that the safety and trust she felt with him often had that effect. She could hold grief or sorrow inside for hours—or even days—until she spoke with Everett, and then it would just come bursting out of her.
Amala searched for words to try to explain, but they all felt too complicated. She settled for simply saying, “It’s finally happened . . . just as you said it would.” She knew he would understand exactly what she meant, so she left it at that and rushed to the deepest part of the carriage house and into an older vehicle that hadn’t been used for years, where she settled into the cushioned seat in order to vent her tears privately. But a moment later Everett stepped into the carriage and sat beside her, putting a fatherly arm around her shoulders to offer silent support while she spent the tears of her sorrow.
* * * *
Henry entered the stable to see a man sitting with his back up against one of the stalls, whittling with a knife at what appeared to be the spoke of a wagon wheel. He glanced up at Henry for only a second before he said, “Stable hands are taking a break, but I can help ready your horse for you if you’re needing it.”
“No . . . thank you,” Henry said. “I . . . should wait to leave until my friend has finished his visit with Mr. Hepworth.”
“But?” the man asked with a boldness that most servants wouldn’t dare assert with their employer’s guests, although it actually made Henry feel more comfortable with him.
“But?” Henry echoed.
“But you’re wandering around the stables?”
“I . . . wondered about leaving . . . but I really should wait . . . and I don’t particularly want to go back into the house right now.” Henry didn’t add that he and Chit had a long-standing agreement that whenever a social engagement separated them—which it usually did—they would meet up at the stables if they’d come by horse, or in the carriage if they’d arrived in one, which only happened for more formal events. This prevented them from having to try to hunt each other down in large, unfamiliar homes or among crowds of people. “I’ll just wait for my friend here,” he said, “unless I would be intruding.”
The man stopped his whittling and gave Henry a hard look, while Henry wondered if he should be ashamed by the likely evidence on his face that he’d been crying like a child.
“Might you be the man who reduced our sweet Amala to tears?” he asked, and Henry was so taken aback that it took him a good half minute to even blink.
His instincts told him he could be forthright with this man, so he tested the theory by confessing, “Might it be possible that it was the other way around?”
The man chuckled and turned his attention back to his work. “Yes,” he muttered, “that certainly might be possible.”
Henry didn’t know if he felt validated or skeptical. Needing more information before he came to any conclusions, he asked, “Is it common around here for Amala to leave men in tears?”
“Never happened before to my knowledge,” the man said, stealing a long glance at Henry before he again put his focus on the work at hand. He chuckled again, but Henry didn’t find anything about this the least bit amusing. “Let’s just say I suspected it would happen eventually. You can’t blame a man for being just a wee bit pleased with himself for realizing he’d been right about something.”
Henry didn’t know what to say, but he didn’t want to leave. If he couldn’t talk to Amala, he figured the next best thing was to talk to someone who knew her well. And what little this man had said already made it evident that he had some insight, and perhaps some personal connection, to Amala. He’d admitted right off that Amala was in tears, but it had not been twenty minutes since she’d left Henry sitting alone in the garden.
While Henry just stood there, the man said, “The situation here is not easy for our little Amala. Those of us who have tried to look out for her have known it would likely only become more difficult when she came of age.” He stole another quick glance at Henry. “Twas you and your friend just returned from India.” He stated it as a fact, which meant this man knew very well who Henry was and why he’d come here today.
“Yes,” Henry said.
“Which would have something to do with why you took a long walk with Amala in the garden.”
“Something to do with it,” Henry admitted.
“But apparently your conversation didn’t end well.”
“Apparently not,” Henry said and ventured to clarify, “You said she was in tears?”
“Yes, indeed,” the man stated. “At least she was when I left her to cry in peace. I came here to give her some privacy and sent the stable hands off. Don’t much care for their company.”
Henry surmised that this man had lived and worked here for a long time and held some authority among the servants. He clearly had some level of long-term relationship with Amala. But he felt confused on one point and asked, “If you help look out for Amala and you believe I’m the one who upset her, then why are you being so kind to me . . . and so forthright?”
The man looked up at Henry and stopped whittling. “Sit down, young man, before you fall over. You don’t look like you feel too good.” Henry sat down, unable to argue with him on that count. The man set his work on the ground beside him and folded his arms over his chest. “If Amala was crying because you’d been cruel to her, I doubt very much you’d look the way you look right now. I’m thinking it’s more likely that she broke your heart.”
Henry took a sharp breath, uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was taking. He tried not to sound defensive when he asked, “How is it possible for a woman to break my heart when I’ve not yet known her for twenty-four hours?”
“Who am I to judge matters of the heart?” the man countered.
“And who exactly are you?” Henry asked. “I’m sitting here talking to you of personal matters and I don’t even know your name. Perhaps we should be properly introduced.”
“Perhaps we should. You’re Henry Beckenridge. You don’t have to tell me that. And there’s no need for you to act surprised that the servants of such a household freely discuss what’s going on—as much as they’re privy to. I can’t get a cup of coffee around here without being told everything I don’t necessarily want to know.”
“So, you know who I am, and why I’m here, and that I’ve traveled to India. I know nothing about you, but you obviously know Amala very well.”
“I’m known as Everett around here; been here all my life. Took over my father’s job when he got too old; now he’s long gone to our Maker. I take care of the carriages and everything else here that’s got wheels on it. Sometimes I drive them, although they do employ a driver, but he has other tasks too, so we spread the work around different from day to day.”
He sighed and took on a somewhat nostalgic expression.
“Of course, I was here when the good folks I work for finally came back from India to live in this place that had been vacant except for the serving folk for several years. Amala was quite a shock to the household and especially to folks about the county. The mister and missus, being the good folks they are, didn’t pay any attention to what others thought or said, and they made it clear to those working here that any ill words toward Amala would see them dismissed immediately. They tried to keep Amala from knowing about any of that, but children are sharp, you know; and she was always sharper than most. She never wanted to hurt her parents by getting upset—her new parents, I mean; those that brought her into the world had gone to their Maker, of course. That’s why she came here. But she never wanted to hurt anyone, so she’d hide when she was upset. And I guess she’d not been here very many weeks when she figured out there were lots of places to hide in the carriage house, and no one but me was ever here. Sometimes I tried to give her some words of comfort. Mostly I just let her cry. People need to cry, you know. Men and women, both. I think we’d all be better off for crying more, but who am I to say? I’m just a simple man. But a sensitive little thing like Amala, she especially needs to cry. If she held all those tender feelings inside, she’d likely die from all the hurt eventually. It’s my thinking that all the crying when she’s alone helps her stay strong when she’s around others.”
Henry lowered his head as Everett’s candid opinions—and his insights into Amala’s heart—tempted him to start crying again himself. Everett’s belief that crying was good for people only made it more difficult to hold back the temptation to do so. But he was afraid if he got started he wouldn’t be able to stop. There were a great many things in his life he’d never cried about, things that had nothing to do with Amala. And he feared that crying over the way he felt right now would eventually tap into a wellspring of unshed tears that had been accumulating for a lifetime.
“You know her well,” Henry managed to say with a fairly steady voice.
“I’d like to think so,” Everett said. “She’s as kind and good-hearted a person as anyone I’ve ever known. She brings her laughter and joy to the carriage house as much as her tears. We’ve had many a good talk.”
“And did she tell you why she felt the need to be alone and cry today?”
“She did,” Everett said with a hint of challenge in his voice as if he were weighing whether or not he would divulge that information to Henry.
Henry felt the need to clarify, “I’m glad she has someone she can talk to freely. I would never want you to break any confidence you share with her.”
“She didn’t ask me not to tell anyone. I’m no gossip; quite the opposite, in truth. I’ve only told you what I have so far because I sense you’re the kind of man who respects a person’s privacy, and you’re only concerned about Amala. I consider myself a good judge of character. I hope you won’t prove me wrong.”
“I’ll not repeat anything you’ve told me, of course,” Henry said. “I appreciate your candor more than I can say.”
“Dare I ask if you have anyone you can talk to?”
Henry chuckled, but not with any humor. “Not really; not like this. Chit is a dear friend and the best of men. But I suppose I have a more sentimental nature, while he tends to take a more practical view. Our years together in India made that readily evident to me.”
“How do you mean?” Everett asked, and Henry felt as if he’d known this man for years. Considering Everett's closeness to Amala and that he felt the same way about her, Henry couldn’t help wondering if that was somehow a validation of what he was feeling.
“There is so much beauty in India. I could see it everywhere and couldn’t help but comment on my observations. Chit always listened politely, but it was as if he couldn’t see it, or it simply didn’t affect him. By the same token, there was so much injustice and depravity—much of it caused by my own people. I would sometimes feel horrified or enraged, and Chit always allowed me to express my views to him without any judgment. But his response to such things was simply that life is what it is, and he considered it a waste of time and energy to be affected by such things. He could walk through a crowd of starving children on the streets, all begging for anything that might help them get through the day, and he didn’t seem to even see them. I not only saw them, I wanted to take them all home with me. I took on the habit of never going out without pockets full of coins, believing I could help in some small way. And maybe I did. But the years proved that I’m just one man and I couldn’t singlehandedly change the course of a mighty storm.”
Henry sighed and repositioned himself on the horribly uncomfortable wooden chair.
“I believe Chit will go back to India, but I never will. Perhaps I’m just too softhearted and sentimental to live in a place with such extremes of beauty and horror. I’m not sure I could even handle going to certain parts of London. I prefer to hide out here in the country. Does that make me weak?”
“If you’re asking my opinion—and it sounds like you are—I don’t think that knowing what kind of man you are and choosing a life that suits you would amount to hiding or being weak.”
“You’re very kind, Everett. It’s no wonder Amala has gravitated to the carriage house all these years.”
Henry’s compliment hovered in the air until it became mildly awkward, as if Everett didn’t know what to say, and Henry was left wondering how to continue their conversation. He desperately wanted to know what Amala might have said to him before he’d left her alone in the carriage house, and perhaps Everett might even help him find Amala so that he could speak with her again.
Henry was just formulating the words to attempt crossing that bridge when Chit entered the stable and declared, “There you are, Henry, old boy.”
Henry sprang to his feet, feeling as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He quickly checked himself with a reminder that only his sudden, overwhelming feelings for Amala might remotely fall into that category—or at least they did from Amala’s perspective. But Chit knew nothing about that.
Henry casually introduced Chit to Everett, and they exchanged a respectful nod and a few words of appropriate greetings that Henry barely heard. Henry thanked Everett for the conversation, glad that Chit had no idea just how candid and tender their conversation had been. Within minutes Henry and Chit were riding away from Willenbrock House, away from what had been intended to be a casual visit. But Henry felt as if an invisible cord had wrapped itself tightly around his heart, tying him irrevocably to all that he was leaving behind, threatening to pull him back beyond his own will. He felt as if this place had become more home to him than his own home ever had been, and leaving caused him pain. Unconsciously he pressed a hand over the center of his chest as he rode and glanced back over his shoulder more than once, thinking of Amala sitting alone in the carriage house. And he knew he would never be the same.