Chapter 2
They arrive at Mrs. Chadwick’s two-story mansion in Belgravia. The rain has finally abated. A doorman opens the coach, helping Mrs. Chadwick to exit first. She stumbles slightly and he steadies her.
“I’ve grown a little tired,” she explains as the others step from the coach. “I’m going to nap for a while. Gibson will show you to your rooms. We’ll have dinner promptly at eight.”
Ollie’s room overlooks a groomed lawn thinly forested with thick trees and ringed with a tall, clipped hedge.
So much green
, he thinks.
He inspects the furniture, opens all the drawers in an enormous rosewood chest, sits on the bed, trying to understand the need for all the clutter. Then he pulls the bedcovers onto the floor and lies down on them. Within seconds he is asleep, dreaming of Bushruyih, and does not awaken even when Gibson enters with his bags.
A knock on the door startles him. It is very dark. Confused, Ollie sits up and tries to reconstruct the past day to determine where he is. Another rap on the door, this one louder. And a disembodied voice: “Oliver, sir, dinner is served in the dining room.”
Ollie manages a squeaky “Yes!”—an English word over which he has gained complete command. He stands and stretches. Moving to the window he can see that the clouds have disappeared. Now that his eyes have adjusted to the dark, the room is illuminated by streaks of moonlight.
The open door reveals a dark candle-lit hallway. Ollie can hear faint voices at the end of it. A number of other doors line this corridor and he touches them with his fingers as he walks toward the voices. At the end of the hallway is a spiral staircase that he recalls climbing on the way to his room. Now he descends, still following the voices, which grow louder and echo through the marble-floored vestibule on the main floor. He turns in the direction of the voices and enters a warmly-lit dining room with a long mahogany table and a dozen brocaded chairs. The table is temporary home to an immense crystal bowl filled with fruit, gleaming dishes and sparkling silverware, long-stemmed wine glasses filled with port, and five people. At the end is Mrs. Chadwick in a flowing white gown. Three rows of pearls are coiled around her neck and a gold bracelet hangs delicately from her wrist. Gordon sits at her left in a waistcoat and checkered vest.
Across from Gordon are two other gentlemen. The first is Reginald Pennick, an Anglican priest. He is a blustery balloon of a man of seventy or so with badly dyed hair, a bushy moustache, and a pompous air. To his right is the grinning Herbert Eaton, a pale and wiry contemporary of Gordon. Ollie’s mother is absent.
“Ah, it’s Ollie!” announces Gordon when he sees the boy appear in the doorway. “Come and sit, lad. Your mother will be present shortly.” He pats the seat of the chair next to him. Reginald and Herbert rise as Ollie enters the room and silently takes his seat.
“Ollie, did you rest well?” Mrs. Chadwick asks.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You may call me great grandmamma.”
“Yes, great… grand… mamma.” Ollie’s tongue stumbles over the word.
“Very good,” Herbert says. “I understand you’ve only been speaking the mother tongue for a short time.”
Ollie glances at Gordon for help.
Mother tongue?
“He means the English language,” Gordon explains.
Herbert laughs. “Yes, the mother tongue… English. Of course, for you the mother tongue is something else I suppose. Persian?”
“Farsi,” Gordon interjects. “But Ollie also speaks Arabic, and his English is more proper than that of many Englishmen.”
“Impressive,” the rotund Reginald Pennick says, fingering his moustache. “And do you speak Latin, young man?” Gordon begins to insert a comment but Reginald holds up a beefy hand to stop him. “A multilingual lad like Ollie can speak for himself, I’m sure. What do you say, boy? Do you know Latin?”
Ollie looks at the old man for a moment then haltingly says, “I do not know this language… of which… you speak.”
Reginald sits back in his chair, satisfied that the boy is no prodigy. “He has a rather odd accent, doesn’t he?”
The remark cuts Ollie to the bone. He lacks confidence in English, and now his enunciation is also under attack. He vows to eradicate the Farsi from his English.
“My dear Mrs. Chadwick, if you are going to raise him to be a gentleman he must certainly learn Latin.”
“My dear Mr. Pennick,” the lady replies, “he most certainly will become a gentleman, and learn Latin, and many other things he has not had the privilege of studying in his native land. He has only been in England for five hours. I think we can allow him another day or two to master the lessons of a civilized world.”
The small party laughs politely, all except Ollie.
Mrs. Chadwick notices the boy’s sullen expression and addresses it with a wine glass. “I propose a toast to my great grandson, Oliver…
Chadwick
.” Until now she hadn’t considered the issue of a last name. “Oliver Chadwick, we are delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Glasses clink, but before the guests can sip their wine an apparition appears in the doorway. Standing there is Anisa, clad in her finest Persian robe, face mysteriously veiled. “Dear God!” Herbert exclaims, astonished at the sight. Reginald stares, then remarks, “It’s true, then. She was a harem girl.”
With a sense of drama, Anisa glides to the table, first moving behind Herbert and Reginald, tantalizingly close, her garments brushing against the backs of their heads like a Persian breeze, then to Mrs. Chadwick, taking her hand and kissing it. “Grandmother,” she says. A statement.
The two male guests are speechless as Anisa drops her veil. Never have they seen such a beautiful woman. “Gentlemen,” she says, addressing Herbert and Reginald. “I apologize for my tardiness.” The line is well-rehearsed but she delivers it well. The two men continue to stare, mouths agape.
Anisa proceeds to her chair next to Ollie. At last Herbert finds some words. “I would wager that you have some interesting tales to tell,” he says to Anisa.
“I don’t know if my tales would interest the English,” she replies. “My missionary parents were murdered in Persia. I was captured as a child, taken to Bokhara where I became a slave to many men, and was finally purchased by a Persian prince for his harem.”
Ali notices that his mother does not refer to the kelauntar as her husband and has elevated his status to
Persian prince
.
“I understand you were rescued by Mr. Cranston,” Reginald says.
“The
gallant
Mr. Cranston,” Anisa adds. “And now I am at home with my true family.”
“I am certain
The Times
will be very interested in your story, Mrs….uh…” Herbert has stumbled headfirst into quagmire.
How should he refer to this woman? Was she ever officially married?
“My Persian name was Anisa. My English name is Anne. You may call me Anne.” She glances at Mrs. Chadwick for approval, but the old lady’s eyes are on Ollie.
“Very good,” Herbert replies. “If I may be so bold, Anne, as to suggest myself as a most capable interviewer and writer of articles for that esteemed newspaper. I believe your story will captivate the nation.”
Ollie understands the purpose of this dinner. It is not a family occasion. It is business. London is not so different from Bushruyih, except that here the women are unveiled and speak openly to men.
“Perhaps later we can arrange a time for the interview,” Gordon suggests.
Mrs. Chadwick claps her hands loudly and shouts, “Clare, our dinner please.” Two English servants immediately enter with trays of food.
Over a dinner of pheasant and squash, Gordon peppers Reginald and Herbert with questions about happenings in England since he had left the country eighteen months earlier. An astonishing flow of chatter, incomprehensible to Ollie, pours across the table, marinating the platters of food with news about attempted reforms at Oxford, accusations of new developer intrusions in Kensington, gossip about the monarchy, complaints about the state of politics, and boasting about the growth and widening influence of Reginald’s parish. Gordon hungrily devours each morsel of news while Anne tries to look interested.
Ollie picks at his food. The pheasant is good but he longs for lamb kebab and rice. To keep entertained he tries to pluck familiar English words from the unceasing surge of the unfamiliar and then repeat each word in his mind, over and over,
thinking
the odd shape of its sound exactly the way it had been pronounced.
After dinner, Mrs. Chadwick suggests they retire to the drawing room. The men all pat themselves on their bellies to express their satisfaction with the meal, then compliment their hostess as if she had cooked dinner herself. Herbert joins Gordon and Anne for the short walk to the drawing room. Mrs. Chadwick takes Reginald’s arm as they follow. Ollie trails them all. He cannot hear the quiet conversation between Mrs. Chadwick and the Anglican priest.
“Reginald, I need a favor,” Mrs. Chadwick says. “I want Oliver at the Charterhouse.”
“My dear lady,” Reginald responds, “Charterhouse is certainly a fine school. I am most aware that your late husband graced that institution with his presence at one time. But its reputation, how should I put it… has been suffering of late. The students are mainly lower- and middle-class riff raff these days. Let me make arrangements for a tutor instead.”
“My husband had a great affection for Charterhouse, Reginald. And if I may point out, our son, Augustus, also attended Charterhouse. My husband believed that English gentlemen could not be reared in the drawing rooms of the upper class. Can you make the arrangements?”
Reginald smiles. “So this delightful feast was a bribe, then.”
Mrs. Chadwick looks at him slyly. “Exactly.”
“Then I will do my best, Emily. And may I say the plum sauce was magnificent.”
They have reached the drawing room. From an ornate sterling tray, Gibson serves small glasses of sherry. Gordon and Anne sit next to each other on an overstuffed sofa. Ollie sits at his mother’s feet, more comfortable on the floor. Mrs. Chadwick offers Ollie large round chocolates from a ceramic bowl and he takes one but is not sure what to do with it.
“Go ahead, eat it!” Mrs. Chadwick says, smiling.
Ollie tentatively takes a bite and likes what he tastes.
“Mrs. Chadwick, I can’t recall ever hearing how your son ended up in Persia?” Herbert, the newspaperman, is holding the sherry glass just under his lips as he speaks. And then it occurs to him what an unfortunate choice of words he has made.
Ended up
in Persia? Perhaps the old woman will ignore his words and…
“He
ended up
dead, Mr. Eaton,” the old woman says flatly. Herbert gulps the remainder of his sherry and abruptly sets down the glass as Gordon tries to smooth over the awkward patch.
“I believe he meant…”
“I know what he meant,” Mrs. Chadwick continues. “He meant ‘what was he doing in Persia?’ Well, Mr. Eaton, my son Augustus was a brilliant man who was wholly dedicated to God. What caused him to leave the Anglican church and join the Presbyterians we will never know, but he served the same God as you and I, you can be assured of that.
“After his ordination, he was assigned as minister to a small Presbyterian church near Devonshire where he met and married a fine, upstanding young woman named Elizabeth. They had one child, a daughter they named Anne. But Augustus was not content to serve God in a country church. He petitioned for permission to undertake missionary work in India.
“When they left England, Anne was six years old. While serving in Bombay, Augustus met a trader from Isfahan, Persia, who had learned English in Bombay. The trader filled my son’s head with stories about the exotic land of Persia. This was a land in which the Good News of Christ had not been heard. It must have been an irresistible lure for my son. At any rate, he packed up his little family and went to Persia. Three months later I received a letter that he had sent from Bombay. I imagine he was already dead by that time, but we had no way of knowing.”
Ollie finds that he can comprehend a great deal of what Mrs. Chadwick says. He understands that this story is about his grandparents, Augustus and Elizabeth Chadwick. But he feels nothing for these people. It is far less interesting than listening to a tale from
The Arabian Nights
.
Mrs. Chadwick stands and walks to a wooden mantle, lifting two small paintings in gilded frames. She stares at them for a moment, hands trembling slightly, and then offers them to Herbert who looks at the faces and passes them on.
“This is a portrait of my son,” Mrs. Chadwick says, referring to a handsome, dark-eyed young man who bears a striking resemblance to Ollie. Each person in turn, upon seeing the portrait, glances at the child on the floor to confirm the uncanny likeness.
“And the other one, of course, is Anne’s mother,” Mrs. Chadwick continues. Young Elizabeth is a plain woman with a nose slightly too large for her face—attractive nevertheless, but with little of Anne’s smoldering beauty. “God knows how they died.”
“I know,” Anne interjects. “I was only seven, but I will never forget. Several weeks after our ship landed at a large port in Persia we joined a caravan. Where we were headed I do not know. I remember that one day we were slowly walking across a large desert when I heard shouting and yelling. The people in the caravan grew very frightened. They tried to form a circle with their animals. The men took out their muskets and started shooting. And then I saw the Turkoman. They were like demons descending on us! I was very afraid. In all the confusion I started running. Suddenly I found myself outside the circle.
“My father noticed that I was missing. I could hear him screaming my name. But I couldn’t see him. And then I turned and saw him running toward me. A man on horseback came between us. He raised a big, curved sword and swung it… cutting off my father’s head.”
Mrs. Chadwick gasps. Anne starts to weep, then says, “I’m so sorry. Forgive me.” Anne’s earlier displays of emotion had been forced and artificial, but this time Ollie senses genuine anguish. Gordon puts his arm around Anne’s shoulders and pulls her close.