Free The Letter by Sylvia Atkinson

the servants and the deplorable lack of standards before one of them pried “You didn’t say what company your husband was in?”
    “Oh he’s not in the army.”
    “Sorry, I thought from your speech and retinue that you were the wife of a British Officer and we hadn’t come across you in the military cantonment.”
    “You must be the new missionaries?” deduced her companion.
    “Well no”, Margaret replied, “My husband belongs here.”
    “You surely don’t mean he’s a native, an Indian?”
    “Why yes. My husband is doctor Atrey.”
    The more forceful of the two women replied, “In that case we will not be expecting you to call.”
    Margaret’s face flushed deeper. She turned from the retreating figures and returned to the hotel. In the evening she recounted the incident to Ben who assured her he would take measures to prevent it happening again.
    He questioned Muni and the bearers about the insulting behaviour of the British women towards his wife. Enquiries among the garrison’s servants easily identified them and their husbands’ rank. The slight would not pass unpunished.
    The next thing Margaret knew was that they were moving to a splendid bungalow, in landscaped grounds belonging to a wealthy relative of the Nawab. The same man had arranged the exotic train carriage to bring Margaret to Bareilly. He had been educated in England so the building reflected this. The spacious rooms were a fusion of chintz-covered couches, ornate mirrors, ivory carvings and embroidered panels and wall hangings. Margaret had admired such things when visiting the homes of wealthy students in Edinburgh but didn’t expect to live amidst such treasures.
    Stung into action, Ben arranged for a tutor to teach Margaret Hindi and a smattering of Urdu . It was important his wife developed the appropriate accent and mannerisms of his caste.
    A quick student, Margaret welcomed the challenge, trying out her linguistic skill on Muni, mastering enough phrases to begin to instruct the other servants.
     
    *  *  *  *  *
     
    Satisfied with Margaret’s rapid fluency in Hindi and increased confidence in managing the household Ben organized a drinks party. Invitations were hand delivered to British officers, high-ranking civil servants, their wives and prominent district society. The two officers whose wives had dared to publicly cut Margaret were not on the guest list. The army would deal with them.
    Muni found an excellent dressmaker who made clothes for the wives of senior British officials. Margaret ordered a flattering eau-de-nil dress for the party. Servants decorated the garden with hanging lanterns. Informal clusters of intricate wrought iron tables were arranged on one of the lawns and a carpet of scented flower petals led from the main entrance.
    The turbaned house boy announced each guest and, with gloved hands, collected their proffered cards on a silver tray. Everyone who was anyone came. Whiskey and gin flowed freely, with sherbet, soda and refreshing lime drinks for the more abstemious.
    Neat understated British wives, adept at small talk clucked “My dear what a splendid evening…”
    “Can’t imagine why I’ve not bumped into you before…”
    “You have a child? Sorry, I didn’t think… Of course you have. I have two and that’s quite enough in this climate… boarding school can’t come too soon for me.”
    Margaret smiled graciously easing her way through the conventional chitchat of her countrywomen knowing that their true opinions would be discussed elsewhere, probably at the numerous tea parties from which, so far, she had been excluded.
    Talking with the strikingly bejewelled Indian wives was more testing. Margaret overheard them talking about Aakesh, Ben’s family home but the subject was dropped when she joined them. Instead Margaret was profusely congratulated on her grasp of Hindi and, charmed by her modesty and intelligence, invited to call.
    Honour was satisfied. Ben had ensured that his wife