Free Mist of Midnight by Sandra Byrd Page A

land is beautiful, of course, bluest of seas, and in the south, palm trees and fruitful soil that grows a veritable cornucopia. Even this”—I indicated my tea—“and coffee. We became inclined toward and grew fond of the people.” I closed my eyes for but a second. “The scent of chickpeas being­harvested—it smells of home to me.” Was it possible to smell something that was not present? I smelled them, even now, as much as I smelled the bitter bite of the tea right in front of me, but I dared not share that. She’d think me mad.
    â€œChickpeas?” she asked. “Is that some foreign vegetable?”
    â€œIt is a legume common in India,” I said. Miss Dainley sniffed and sipped her tea and Annie refilled it. I’d noticed Annie hovering in the background, close enough to listen. I could hear the footsteps of several other servants in the hallway just beyond, busying themselves with tasks that allowed them to eavesdrop.
    â€œMy mother suffered extreme melancholy. The day my father baptized his first convert, my mother, brother, and I remained in our small house with our ayahs whilst my mother wept.”
    Miss Dainley’s eyes grew large and she signaled for Annie to bring cake to her after all. “But she recovered?”
    â€œAfter some years, yes,” I said. “She made her peace with it, and with my father, who was a good man at heart. Truly, what else could she do? And many, many Indians converted to Christianity after that. Tens of thousands in various places. Eventually my mother founded the first schools for girls in southern India. She made certain that girls of all castes, including slave castes and outcastes, had access to education. And she taught them to make lace. Salvation for both body and soul. I was her closest friend and assisted her ministry in every way.”
    â€œLace! Why ever would that be of help?” Miss Dainley’s nose wrinkled. A nickname came to me. I should have to be careful in future not to refer to her as Miss Disdain.
    I smiled. “Ah, but it was. Great numbers of lower-caste women became skilled lace makers and made an income for the first time, ever. Their husbands became educated and were able to make money on the coffee plantations of Englishmen, as managers.”
    â€œWhat did they do with the earnings?” Delia leaned forward and now I sensed no reserve, just interest. I weathered the rush of homesickness and imagined my Indian sisters, smiling, chattering, sitting with me, bobbins and pillows on laps on the wide bamboo veranda, its corners concealing lime-green lizards. “They were able to pay their taxes, taxes imposed for things such as men’s facial hair. Worse, lower-caste women were not allowed to wear clothing above their waists, denying them dignity.”
    Annie gasped and I could hear Mrs. Blackwood draw in her breath from somewhere out of sight, in the main hallway.
    â€œThey were . . . naked? Their bosoms? For all to see?” From the tone Miss Dainley used, I suspected she may have been more concerned for her future husband’s view than for the humiliating plight of the Sudra women.
    â€œYes. My parents spoke to the rajah and the resident on their behalf. My mother loved Tamil proverbs. One was ‘The word of the destitute does not reach the assembly.’ So someone in power must speak on their behalf. The missionaries helped them win the right to clothe themselves, above the waist, too, and then gave them clothes and the skills to earn money to buy their clothes in the future.”
    I stopped, mortified. Why had I been rushing along like a poorly brought up girl, a verbal runaway cart on a first social call? Landreth would most certainly not approve.
    â€œI’m terribly sorry. I apologize. Perhaps I have been a little homesick and have carried on overly long about myself.” I took a deep breath and affixed a courteous smile on my face.