Rain

Another Invitation?

"Another invitation, Mama?" I inquired, incredulous. "In the eight years we have resided in English society, you have been invited to dine at the great house more in one fortnight than ever before. What could interest them so to take notice of you now?" I sat at the breakfast table in the kitchen, fingering my mug of chocolate (a delicacy unknown to me in India) as my mother stood at the window. It was no secret that Mama was quite an heiress, but so unaccustomed to the finery and frippery bestowed upon us, Mama and I chose to dine in the servants' kitchen-- ironically the warmest and most inviting chamber in the house. Our table stood close to the fire, warding off the chill of Britain Mama had quite forgotten. The wooden, worn down paneling, the dented sideboard; the flowery curtains that topped simple glass windows... Pastoral, minimalist charm emanated from this room. It always smelled of bread and sugar; roasting chicken or steeping tea. Mama and I found little to agree on, but in this room we both felt the assurance of safety.

"You will be coming out in society next month, Liliane, " Mother spoke softly, perhaps wistfully. "They do us a grand compliment, recognizing me as a member of the esteemed society, in turn recognizing you."

"I think you have forgotten our families' relations, Mama. The Ramseys almost murdered Raj, feeding him to the ti--"

"Hush, Liliane!" Mama spun from her place at the window and fiercely clapped a hand on my mouth. "If word escapes about the Ramsey's Indian estate--"

I pushed her hand away; standing and jutting my chin out defiantly. "So what, Mama? Ramsey's reputation lies in the gutter of society and we emerge truthful and just." It seemed clear to me.

Mama's eyes widened. "How many times must I tell you England is not like India?" she shouted, looking down on me. She registered the hurt in my eyes. Lowering her tone, Mama spoke. "Good and bad are not black and white in English society, Liliane. Ramsey is an even more powerful man in England. Here, people will listen to him. He could spread rumors about us and create malice towards us. We would have nary a friend in Britain if he did not invite us into his innermost circles."

I could not comprehend what Mama said. How could Lord Ramsey be powerful if he wasn't kind? But words to phrase this question arrived too late; choked by my anger at being shouted at.

"I know that it feels like betrayal, Liliane," Mama moved towards the kitchen table to lay a hand on my arm. She was gentle. Compassionate, even; but I could only see her hesitancy to give me affection in the midst of our desperation to find a fellow who knew our circumstances. "But Papa is not here. Women are entirely dependent on society for their livelihood. We must try to please everyone as best we can."

I softened; trying to accept what she meant as comfort. "Life is not as it used to be, Mama. No longer careless or free," I sighed. "But I will try my best to make us well-liked."

"Good girl," Mama nodded one of her rare approvals. "Tomorrow I dine at Raleigh Park. I shall tell Grandmama." She passed me, patting my cheek as she departed from the kitchen. I returned to my cup of chocolate, wondering at this life in Britain. Serene and unoccupying as it was, Mama and I quibbled at each other day and night only to give up fighting and change the subject. It was almost as if we were reminded of the promise I'd made to Papa that we would take care of each other-- that it made us feel guilty and brought on the desire to withdraw.

It had been eight years since we had seen Papa. Eight years of insufficient contact from the place my true home was. News reached us two months late, but as word of rebellion spread, the Bengal army had banded together two years after Mama and I left with Sir and Lady Beddington. In 1857, the Bengals stormed Dehli, a city in the North where English military outposts had been established. Papa described the rumors of the battle, the blood, the knives, the stolen weapons. Mama could not read it, but I took in every word. Capture of English women and children appeared in the newspapers in London, but there was no mention of casualties on the Indian side. The people had lost their patience with the British government-- the north lay in shambles for the following six years. Calcutta lay virtually unscathed, however, so Mama and I had little cause for worry on behalf of Evan and my Papa. In his letters there was a renewed inspiration that Papa drew from the estate's tenants, friends of Raj and other servants, who had heard of the Northern struggle and possessed the same frustration with British occupation. The bloodshed seemed irrelevant in the face of revolution. Freedom had a price. I anxiously waited for another letter-- news was surely to come soon that it was time to return home. Evan had never written, but Papa spoke of him a great deal in his letters. I found myself holding onto every mention of his name. I'd doubted I would ever find a friend in England anything like him. But I supposed to be happy, one must pick up good things that one is not looking for-- like my friend Louise. She understood not my background, but took me in anyway. Her friendship made Britain seem a little less cruel and indifferent. Acceptance had finally proved to be not too much to ask for.