Tea and Spices (An Erotic Novel of Colonial India) (32 page)

Devora gazed at him for a long moment. He looked horrible, as if he hadn’t slept or shaved in the last two days since his discovery of her betrayal.

 
“I’m sorry,” Devora finally said, aware of distinct pangs of regret. “I know that means nothing to you, but I am. I didn’t want you to find out like that.”

 
“Oh, but you did want me to find out,” Gerald replied bitterly. “Goddamn it, Devora. I thought you loved me.”

 
Mr. Thompson, who sat in an overstuffed chair puffing on his pipe, reached out and put his hand on Gerald’s shoulder. “There’s no doubt, my boy, that she’s deceived you. But cursing her out will solve nothing.”

 
“I did love you,” Devora said. “I wouldn’t have married you if I hadn’t.”

 
“Then why in the hell did you have to go off and fuck…sorry, Mrs. Thompson…have an affair with a damn Indian?”

 
“You did as well, I believe.”

 
Mrs. Thompson set her teacup down on the table and stood.

 
“I think it would be best if Reginald and I left you to your discussion,” she said. “This is between you. Come along, dear.”

 
“We’ll just be out on the veranda,” Mr. Thompson said, as he followed his wife outside.

 
Gerald ran a hand through his hair and gave a tired sigh. “All right, Devora, look. It’s common enough for British men to have Indian mistresses. The number of schools for Eurasian children is proof enough of that. But you know things are different for women! My god, Devora, everyone is already talking about you! They’re calling you a whore and a slut, not to mention a traitor.”

 
“They can say what they like,” Devora said, realizing she wasn’t particularly disturbed by his words. She had never really cared what the British community thought of her. That, no doubt, would be her undoing.

 
“Listen to me, Devora,” Gerald said. “I’ve given this some thought. I think we can work this out. If we claim Rohan attacked you and that you didn’t consent to an affair with him, we might be able to get through this. The only people who know the true story are the Thompsons. I’m sure they will help us cover it up.”

 
“Oh, Gerald.” A rush of sadness swept over Devora. “I’m not going to claim that Rohan attacked me. He did nothing of the kind.”

 
“Dammit, Devora, you have your reputation to consider!” Gerald snapped. “Not to mention mine! You’ll at least have a chance of salvaging it if you claim you were a victim. Everyone will believe you over an Indian man, regardless of how rebellious you are.”

“Gerald, I’m not going to concoct a lie to cover up the truth,” Devora said. The mere idea of Rohan’s previous experience with a false rape accusation still made her nauseous whenever she thought of it. “I had a consensual affair with him. I refuse to accuse him of such a hideous act.”

 
Gerald leveled a long look on her. “You realize this is the only chance you have of saving our marriage,” he informed her. “If you agree to do this, I will stick by you and let everyone know you have my support. If not, I have no choice but to divorce you.”

 
“Then you have no choice,” Devora replied. “I’m sorry. I won’t lie like that.”

 
With a mutter of frustration, Gerald stood up and began pacing furiously across the room.

 
“What the hell are you going to do without me?” he snapped. “What, Devora? Where are you going to go? You’re nothing without me, you know that, don’t you? You can’t stay in Calipore, and you certainly don’t have the money for passage back to England.”

 
“I don’t know what I’ll do,” Devora admitted. The thought was both terrifying and slightly thrilling. There had never been a time in Devora’s life when she didn’t know what the future held.

 
“Devora, I think you need to seriously consider my offer,” Gerald said, his voice cold. “If you do, then you have a slight chance of salvaging both your reputation and our marriage. But if you let the truth get out, everything will be in shambles.”

 
“Gerald, don’t ask me this again,” Devora said. “I will not accuse Rohan of anything, least of all rape.”

 
Gerald eyed her suspiciously. “Are you trying to hide something? I can’t even believe you would willingly have an affair with an Indian. He hasn’t threatened you or anything, has he?”

 
“Of course not. I simply won’t lie about the fact that I had an affair with him. If that makes me the disgrace of the British community, then so be it.”

 
“You, hell,” Gerald said bitterly. “What about me? What happens to my reputation when people realize you decided to fuck a bloody servant?”

 
“I’m sure everyone will be very sympathetic towards you,” Devora told him, struggling not to be irritated by his constant demeaning of Rohan. “As you said, I’m the one who is considered the whore and the slut. The British
memsahibs
will pity you greatly for having married me in the first place.”

 
Gerald shoved his hands into his pockets, his shoulders sagging as he appeared to realize this was the end.

 
“Devora, you know I loved you,” he said. His voice cracked. “If you’d just cooperate, I think we can get through this.”

 
Guilt lanced through Devora like a thousand needles, but she knew there was only one outcome to this situation. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Gerald. There’s nothing else I can do. I betrayed you, and I admit it.”

 
“But we had a good marriage!”

 
To Devora’s surprise, Gerald approached and went down on his knees in front of her chair. He stared at her with blood-shot, tired eyes that nearly broke her heart.

 
“Didn’t we?” he asked plaintively.

 
“Yes, of course we did.”

 
“Then what happened?”

 
“It’s not you, Gerald,” Devora said. She wrapped her hands around his and clutched them. “It’s my fault. You’ve always been good to me.”

 
“Was it Kalindi? Was that when you decided to get revenge, after you’d realized the truth about her?”

“No, it wasn’t for revenge. Kalindi had nothing to do with it.”

 
“Devora, please, let’s work this out,” Gerald begged. He gripped her hands hard, looking completely defeated. “We’ll think of a story and call in the police commissioner right away. What does it matter if Rohan is arrested? He’s nothing, Devora, he’s just a servant. India has thousands of servants.”

 
Devora pulled her hands away from his and shook her head again. She knew she was hardly a model of morality, but the thought of falsely accusing a man of assault was abhorrent to her. Particularly when that man was Rohan. An image of him flashed in her mind, his tall figure and piercing eyes. Her body reacted with a sharp pang of longing.

 
“No, Gerald,” she said sadly. “I won’t do that. And I dislike you for even suggesting that I accuse an innocent man of a crime simply to save our reputations.”

 
“Devora, it’s the only way to fix this mess!”

 
“Then, this mess will have to remain broken, I’m afraid.”

 
Gerald stared at her for a long minute. His mouth tightened into a thin, hard line as he pulled away from her. He nodded, standing up and brushing off his trousers.

 
“All right, then,” he said. “This is your last chance, Devora. I will file for a divorce as soon as possible unless you change your mind.”

 
“I won’t change my mind.” She couldn’t believe this was the end of her relationship with Gerald, that she was nailing the coffin shut, but she knew with everything in her things would never be the same again. That
she
would never be the same again.

 
“Then our relationship is over.” Gerald picked up his hat, giving her one final look. And then he turned and strode out the door.

 
“I simply don’t understand you.” Mrs. Thompson shook her head and began to butter a piece of toast. “You’re a very odd girl, Devora.”

 
“Very odd, indeed,” Mr. Thompson agreed. “You’re what my mother would call a bad seed.”

 
Devora bit her tongue to prevent herself from retorting. The Thompsons were being very accommodating about allowing her to stay with them, even if she did have to tolerate their constant contempt. She cracked open her soft-boiled egg and focused her attention on picking at the shell.

 
“He’s just an Indian man,” Mrs. Thompson went on. “I mean, really, Devora, they are dispensable. It isn’t as if this country doesn’t have a million of them.”

 
“You’re ruined now, you know that, don’t you?” Mr. Thompson sipped his tea and patted his mustache. “Corrupted. No decent British man will want you now.”

“Good,” Devora replied, unable to help herself. “I don’t want a British man anyhow.”

 
“Well, what on earth do you intend to do?” Mrs. Thompson asked. “I’m sorry, but you can’t stay here forever.”

 
“I don’t know yet.” Over the past few days, Devora had begun to realize that her tenuous situation was cause for unease. She honestly had no idea what to do.

 
However, a thought had been brewing in her mind since the previous night. She suspected it wouldn’t work, but she wanted to at least try. “Would you mind terribly if I borrowed your carriage for the morning? I need to run an errand.”

 
“You shouldn’t go out, Devora,” Mr. Thompson said. “Everyone is utterly appalled by what you have done.”

 
“This will only take a few hours,” Devora said. “I want to visit a friend who might be able to help me.”

 
“Not that horrible servant, surely?”

 
Devora bit her tongue to keep herself from snapping at them. “No, not Rohan.”

 
Mr. and Mrs. Thompson exchanged exasperated looks. Then Mr. Thompson threw his napkin on the table and pushed his chair back.

 
“Oh, all right, Devora. I expect there’s little else you can do that will damage your reputation any more than it already is.”

 
Devora murmured her thanks and excused herself from the breakfast table. She went back to her room and fixed her hair, then powdered her nose and applied lipstick. After donning a flowered hat and gloves, she picked up her pocketbook and went outside.

 
A servant waited at the carriage for her. He helped her inside, then swung up to the driver’s seat. “Where,
memsahib
?”

 
Devora took a breath, trying to quell a sudden onslaught of nerves. “To the maharaja’s palace, please.”

 
He gave her a strange look, but shrugged and urged the horse forward. Devora sat back and watched the British bungalows pass by. She did regret the way things had turned out, but she was also glad she would no longer have to define herself by proprieties constructed by a group of very narrow-minded individuals. She passed several British women, who were either walking or riding in their own carriages. In each case, their expressions changed to shocked horror as they recognized her. Then they turned away and whispered to each other behind their hands.

 
Devora let her thoughts drift to Rohan. She wondered what had happened to him in the few days since his encounter with Gerald. Had he found a place to stay, or was he being shunned by the Indian community for his intimacy with a British woman? Perhaps such an association was considered to be consorting with the enemy. Her hands tightened on her pocketbook. She hoped above everything that Rohan’s life hadn’t been that badly damaged by their relationship.

 
The carriage driver passed through the village and onto the road leading towards the palace. Devora looked at the flowing Ganges River parallel to the road, remembering when Rohan had told her she possessed an “old soul.” If that was indeed the case, then her soul was not cooperating to reveal her understanding of life’s mysteries. Instead she was beginning to feel both afraid and very alone.

 
“It’s your own fault,” she muttered to herself.

 
The driver pulled up to the entrance of the palace and glanced back at Devora. “You wish me to announce you,
memsahib
?”

 
“Yes, please. My name is Devora Hawthorne.”

 
The driver hopped off the carriage and went to talk to one of the palace guards. He looked at Devora, nodded, and then disappeared into the palace. After a moment, he returned.

 
“The maharaja says you may enter.”

 
“Thank you.” Devora followed him inside, her nervousness increasing as she realized that she was willingly entering the lion’s den. She had no escape here, but she also had no other choice than to talk to the maharaja.