Free The Letter by Sylvia Atkinson Page B

could see from the uppermost balcony of the mansion, twenty one villages, wells, flour mills, property in Moradabad, Lucknow, Delhi and Calcutta. This extensive description of his wealth was wasted on Margaret who was searching the skyline for signs of British residents. There were labourers in the fields and the villages that housed them. This was Ghandi’s India.
    “The trees make me think of Edinburgh and the Botanical gardens” Margaret said, but she didn’t say how she longed to be there. The nearer they got to the mansion’s huge gates the more her apprehension increased.
    Ben picked up on her mood, “Why so sad, my dear one? See what a rich husband you have and how much I love you. The English House is sheltered within these walls. I wanted to bring you here when it was worthy of you,” but Margaret saw no shelter behind the mansion’s solid walls trimmed with a tangle of spent jasmine and roses.
    India bloomed endlessly, its sensuous nature unrelenting, heightening emotions. Margaret was acutely aware of her husband. She had given him everything but yet some vestige of her soul remained untouched by his influence. Would it last in Aakesh?
    The car drew into a leafy courtyard where ornamental fountains played into raised pools. Almost five months into her pregnancy Margaret found it difficult to alight in a ladylike manner. She needn’t have worried. There was no one to greet them.
    Ben strode ahead. Margaret followed him into a long room with high windows where pankah-wallahs, seated cross-legged on the tiled floor, pulled the hanging cords of suspended fans. After the savage sun the constant breeze and thick stone room were refreshingly cool.
    An imposing woman dressed in white, seated on a throne-like chair inlaid with ivory disdainfully regarded Margaret. Two graceful young women dripping with gold and jewels were seated beside her. The vulgar intrusion of noisy footsteps and a pregnant British woman in a crushed cotton dress didn’t belong here. Ben bowed low and touched his mother’s feet. She laid her hands on him in blessing but there were no reassuring hands when Margaret attempted to do the same.
    Ben introduced his eldest sister Vartika and her husband Hiten. Margaret bent to perform the foot touching ritual but Ben forced them to bow to his wife. Maintaining an aspect of civility Vartika said maliciously in Hindi, “My brother, you treat your wife like her British Queen. Beware! Even she may yet be forced give up the claim to our India…”
    A crying child put an end to any further remarks. The mother, scarcely more than a girl, and the ayah failed to pacify the little one. They must have crept in at the back of the room.
    Margaret expected Ben to call them forward but he went to them. The tilt of his head and raised voice indicated his anger. A stifled sob and swish of kingfisher silk signalled the trio’s departure. Vartika’s sly smile was not lost on Margaret but it vanished with a blistering look from Ben.
    His family excluded her by speaking Hindi. If they had spoken more slowly Margaret would have stood a chance of understanding and joining in the conversation. Ben had said that his sisters and brother-in-law were fluent in English, his mother less so. Margaret asked Ben for permission to summon Muni to translate, but he refused. The maid hadn’t travelled in the car with them; without her Margaret was trapped with no where to hide.
    “Perhaps I can help? These formal welcomes are so tedious… made worse in this heat. I am Suleka, the youngest sister. Do take my fan.”
    The straw plaited fan resembled an axe head but, when wafted, cooled her face.
    “My brother has told me all about you…” Suleka said sympathetically. “It is his wish we become friends,” but Margaret was losing faith in her husband’s wishes.
    Pavia, bored with being confined by the ayah, began running up and down the room. Ben caught his daughter and threw her in the air “Go to your dadi” he said,