CHAPTER NINE

India, January 1854

The small mainland cathedral was poorly lit by one east-facing rose window, whose tinted glass had been smashed in spots by aggressive birds, or boys with rocks. Despite the brilliant January sky outside, shadows, spooky as sleepwalkers, pooled behind the altar.

Lillian felt that she'd been sitting on the hard cane chair next to Olympia for hours. The funeral service and thoughts of her father drifted in and out of her mind. One thing bothered her terribly; she couldn't remember her father's hands. It had only been seven days since he died, but every time she tried to picture them she would see Rajan's hands, or her uncle's, or Henry's. Hands of the men she had known waved themselves across the altar screen and down the vacant miserere seats of the choir.

A closed-mouth yawn flared her nostrils. It was from exhaustion, not boredom. She and Olympia were now staying in the mainland city with Olympia's brother, the cardamom merchant. In the strange surroundings and damp, poorly aired bed linen, Lillian had slept badly and had waked long before dawn. She stayed in bed until the morning came, listening to Olympia's heavy breathing in the other bed.

Just as she had decided to get up, a surprise summons came for her and Olympia, from her uncle, asking them to come to the drawing room as soon as they could. She knew Olympia would take forever to rise and dress, so she headed out to the garden by herself for a few minutes.

A high stone wall separated the house from the hectic wharf, but in working hours it couldn't block out the earth-shaking thumps of huge bales as they fell from the loading cranes, or the yells of the foremen. Now only an occasional rooster broke through the quiet.

Once, when the grandmother whom she had never met died in England, her father told her that death wasn't as complicated as it was made out to be. She had wondered then if he meant for the person who died or for everybody else. This morning, in the garden, she decided he must have meant for the dead.

Voices floated to her from an open window in her uncles study. His tone was unmistakable, hoarse from years of cigars. The other voice she didn't know.

"We thought you would want to be told as soon as possible, sir. In the bay."

"Yes, quite. And you say there's no chance of a mistake?"

"Well, the body was badly decomposed. He'd been caught in the tree roots around the other side of the island. I know it was only three days, at most, but with this heat. . . And the vultures had been at the part of him that was out of the water." They mentioned no name, but she found herself thinking, Henry's face. Pushpa's name for him in Telagu had been "He Who Loves Mirrors."

Lillian hurried inside, to find Olympia in the drawing room, with her uncle and a military doctor. From over the wall came a metallic crash and some shouts, the first of the day.

Her uncle looked over at the two women, and then asked, "But the identification is certain?"

Outside, a pile of crates fell over.

"Oh, no doubt there. All his papers were still in the pockets." The dock noise fell for a moment and there was a sodden thud as the doctor laid a bundle of papers on the table. "Something about a discharge?"

Her uncle had cleared his throat. "Yes, we won't go into that now."

"And a notice of withdrawal of a thousand pounds on account. No bank notes, though. They must have washed away."

Lillian and Olympia caught each others eye. Its not Henry, Lillian thought. She couldn't think why, but an inner voice told her Henry was not dead. She suspected Olympia was thinking exactly the same thing.

"And it was cholera, of course?" asked Olympia. Her voice was flat. It could have been grief.

"Pretty sure. I'm so sorry, ma'am."

Olympia swallowed and looked once more at Lillian, then said, "Thank you. You're very kind."

The cathedral organ started up, whistling and creaking in four-part harmony, bringing Lillian back to the funeral. It was time to sing another hymn. She thought of Henry. It was possible, no, quite probable actually, that the man in Henry's clothes was a man Henry had killed for some purpose. She once again tried to understand why she didn't feel shocked or frightened. It seemed that anything was possible now. All the old rules had been broken.

The short trip on the mail boat from the island to the mainland was the last time she had felt relaxed or relieved. It was a brief rest, when she could allow herself to believe in a life without cholera, and it ended the moment she stepped off the boat with a staggering Olympia.

Cholera was everywhere in Cochin. The Indian part of the city was completely in quarantine by now.

Though Europeans could come and go as they pleased, less than half a dozen people occupied cathedral chairs, and everyone but Lillian and Olympia breathed through handkerchiefs. The bishops wife had died the day before, yet he read the funeral service all the same.

"Lillian," whispered Olympia, "you don't think it was Henry, do you?" She lifted her black-bordered handkerchief to dab at her upper lip.

A shred of smoke wafted through the window, bringing a smell of cooking meat. For a moment it made Lillian remember her hunger; she hadn't eaten breakfast. Then, with a rise of nausea, she realized that it was another pyre from the Indian neighborhood. Or perhaps, in this scorching heat, a pyre had spread and set fire to some rooftops. Luckily, small canals flowed everywhere, between the neighborhoods.

Her black wool dress was unbearable. Sweat stung her forehead and trickled between her breasts.

"Do you know what I think?" Lillian whispered. "Not only was it not Henry, but Henry might have killed--"

"Lillian, think. Where should we go? We can't stay with my brother forever."

This whisper was so soft that she could pretend not to hear. But Olympia's hand found hers and held it, clinging like a limpet. She longed to pull it away but didn't.

"Don't worry," she finally answered. "You can go wherever you like. There's no hurry."

With a final hymn the service ended. Lillian stood and held the back of the chair to steady herself. Ever since fainting by the dock she had felt constantly light-headed, her knees uncertain. But nothing worse than that. In a moment she was all right.

The few mourners left at an artificially slow pace, as if trying to endow the moldy place with a Canterbury-sized nave. Two pale scorpions scuttled past Lillian's feet to hiding spots under fifteenth-century burial plaques.

The last time shed been here, for a church bazaar a year ago, she had glimpsed the Hindu caretakers sacred cobra coiled by its bowl of milk near the baptismal font. There was no sign of the creature now.

The group made their way to the burial plot in the churchyard. In deep shade cast by a huge fig tree and clustered palms, the coffin stood ready by the open grave. Flies clouded around it; seven days was too long to wait. During the bishops few words, Lillian's uncle stepped to her side and took her arm. His sudden sympathy moved her. He had never been the least bit affectionate before.

He leaned toward her to whisper something and she readied herself for the condolences. "A little bit of a surprise for you, dear."

Lillian dropped her polite, sad smile. "What are you talking about?"

"I had a chat with the solicitors. I thought you'd want to know right away. A substantial figure, much more than expected. And the bulk of it in your name alone. My sister will have to make do." His breath smelled of curry and garlic.

Lillian pulled her arm free. "Hadn't we better wait to talk of these things?"

"If you like. But fifty thousand pounds, at four percent, comes to over four shillings an hour in interest. You'll be needing advice very soon."

Despite herself, Lillian paid attention. Fifty thousand! She knew his fortune was large, but not that large. It should have gone to Olympia, not to her. And, ashamed, she did a quick mental calculation. Two thousand pounds a year. She could do anything she wanted.

"But -- what about my stepmother?"

"A small sum for my sister, enough to be comfortable. He left it entirely up to your judgment. 'To provide for my dear wife, and give her a home, as she sees fit, and as guided by her friends and family. I think that was how he worded it. But don't you worry. Well manage all that for you."

The burial verses were over. The coffin had been lowered, and Lillian realized that the long silence was because the bishop had been waiting for her to join Olympia and cast her handful of earth.

She gathered up a scoop of the red soil, thinking, is it enough? Is it too much? Am I doing it right? It hit the coffin with a dusty splatter. She stood, silently looking down and rubbing her gritty fingers.

As she left the cool churchyard and stepped through the gateway into the full city heat, she felt her father behind her, staying on in the shadows under the palms. And she finally remembered his hands; at least the right one. Large, with an old ungainly callous on the trigger side of the forefinger. The nails grooved. A slight tremor. A yellow snuff stain on the thumb.

It was the snuff stain that did it. A deep ache tightened her throat and her eyes spilled over. The tears blurred her view of the horde of inquisitive Indians grouped around the church gate. She could feel their survivors' curiosity boring into her, dissecting every detail of her appearance; the tears on her face, the grim black dress.

Olympia suddenly gripped Lillian's upper arm, so tightly that it hurt. "You're all I have left," she said, still whispering.

She hardly knows how right she is, thought Lillian. She knew if she spoke she would break into childish, squeaking sobs. Or even worse, begin to laugh. So she clenched her jaw even tighter and took shallow breaths.

With fifty thousand pounds they could go anywhere, couldn't they. Russia. Paris. The United States. London.

An image of London came into focus in her imagination, drawn mainly from newspaper prints and outdated fashion magazines. A picture of breezy, tree-lined cobblestoned streets and polished brass door knockers. Of smart carriages drawn by perfectly groomed horses and filled with ladies in bright silk dresses, heading for fascinating dinner parties. Opera houses, theaters, concerts of the latest music.

That's what they would do. They would go back to the home shed never seen, to a place without lizards, or cobras, or scorpions. To a place without cholera.