Holder of the World - Bharati Mukherjee [59]
“He seems a most formidable adversary,” said Gabriel.
“Then I hope you were listening, Mr. Legge,” the Chief Factor announced with practiced emphasis, “for the dwelling in White Town that Pedda Timanna stopped at last night was none other than your own.”
“I believe my wife was entertaining Mrs. Ruxton and Mrs. Higginbottham. I shall inquire as to the nature of his visit. If such occurred.”
“I was taking tea on my terrace last evening. The moon was full. Quite full enough, Mr. Legge.”
And so saying, bowing courteously to one and all, the Chief Factor took his leave.
HANNAH SLEPT ALONE; Gabriel was on one of his walks, to clear his head after drinking. He and his drinking companion, the Marquis, had stumbled home in the dark—a familiar pattern these last few nights—wakening first Bhagmati, who slept on the terrace outside her mistress’s door on a rolled-out mat. She slept in her working clothes and was up at once, rolling her floor-length hair in a loose braid, then pinning it on top of her head in the few moments it took Gabriel to climb the stairs. Then she managed to disappear, leaving the terrace and the opened bedroom door to Gabriel and Hannah, with the Marquis standing at a distance behind.
Hannah had been cautioned by Martha and Sarah to avoid the Marquis. He was a man of sinister plans, a mercenary who had fought for fat fees on behalf of any Muslim nawab or Hindu raja who had enough jewels to hire him. The querulous subcontinent had made the baker’s son immensely wealthy. As a hand-me-down, a belated wedding gift, the Marquis had passed on to Gabriel a huqqa of solid gold enameled with garnet-dark poppies and azure-winged butterflies, an amber-embedded alabaster carpet weight as tall as the cook’s toddling child, a leaf-shaped mirror of jade and rock crystal, a sword inscribed in a curly alien script with an invocation to fight or die.
“Wife!” She knew not to answer.
“I say, my good Christian Massachusetts Bay Puritan wife. Have you missed me?”
“Of course, my husband.”
“Have you entertained yourself in my absence?”
“Only with my sewing.”
“Your sewing! You hear that, monsieur le Marquis? Every night more sewing, more embroidery.”
“A most fortunate man, M’sieur Legge.”
“A black man named Pedda Timanna did not visit?”
She knew the uselessness of lying. But she had nothing to hide. “He had business with Mrs. Ruxton. I believe he sells her diamonds.”
“In my house?”
“He is not permitted in Dr. Ruxton’s house. I believe they must arrange their meetings thusly.”
She answered in a clear, forthright voice. Gabriel Legge knew from the example of the unfortunate Hubert and of doctors in Stepney that men were attracted to his wife, and, furthermore, her power of attraction was no matter of shame or embarrassment to her. In the mood of the time, which is barely changed, she bore watching. And Gabriel was possessed of more than a jealous streak; unfaithfulness he might have accepted before deception. His wife had presented him with the occasion of the former—though never acted—but never a hint of the latter.
“And Mr. Cephus Prynne—has he visited as well?”
“Never after the first day. And I do believe he regards himself as unwelcome here.”
And with that, Hannah had returned to her bed, leaving the door open should Gabriel, even in his drunken state, choose to visit. Bhagmati stood at the far end of the terrace, waiting either to scurry to distant quarters, should Gabriel claim the marriage bed, or to again unroll her mat as a sentry outside her mistress’s door.
SHE AWAKES with the first streak of dawn, the twittering of the first birds. The house seems full of noises, but not of voices or movement. The echoes, it seems, of great events. Bhagmati’s mat is still unrolled, but the girl is gone. Gabriel’s boots are lined up on the terrace at the top of the stairs. Gabriel is asleep, loudly and drunkenly, in his room, still dressed but for his shoes and belt. He has fallen across the width of the bed, the very picture of exhaustion. Hannah knows from the snoring he will sleep the Sabbath away, another small demerit