Flowers in the Blood (64 page)

 

My father was asleep, Zilpah was out, and Edwin had not yet arrived as I took Gulliver directly to my old room, now used for guests.

The Clive desk looked as magnificent as ever. The rosewood gleamed a burnished bronze. The intricate ivory inlay of leaves and flowers and swirls glinted in the sun. I remembered how respectfully. Silas had described the Vizagapatam workmanship. Rubbing my hand across the. silver encrustations, I thought about the desk surviving a hundred and fifty years, outliving it's creator; Clive, its plunderer; and now Silas, its latest, but not last admirer.

Gulliver also seemed to heed a few moments to contemplate the desk, which must have brought him his own flood of memories. At last he spoke. “The bottom drawer, memsahib.” His voice was deep and hollow.

“I don't recall anything there,” I protested, but Gulliver seemed confident in his mission, so I asked, “Which one?” The desk had thirteen drawers: one top drawer that extended across the width, four smaller ones down each side, and four in the center, which curved like crescents to allow knees to fit under the writing surface.

“The center one on the bottom.”

I opened the top drawer, which I kept unlocked. The key for the other drawers was at the back tucked in an envelope with the note that had accompanied the desk to Calcutta. My heart leapt at the first sight of Silas' elegant handwriting. I again read the quotation from Wordsworth:

Every gift of noble origin

Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.

What had Silas meant? What did it mean now that he had breathed his own last mortal breath? With a surefooted expectation of impending discovery, I turned back to the desk. Nothing of value was stored in it, just some of my school papers, old letters, and a few books I had not taken to either Cochin or Free School Street. I unlocked the bottom drawer. Since it was deeper than the rest, this is where I had stacked the most items. I removed two bundles of letters, including the last ones I had received from Silas that contained his responses to my moral queries about Opium as well as his encouragement to ask my father for a salary. How long ago that seemed! I turned to Gulliver for direction. “There is nothing here except my books and papers.”

“Please lift them out.”

I made a neat stack of the letters. Underneath were the Dickens books I had never returned, including
The Mystery of Edwin Drood.
Below that was a wrapped volume tied with faded ribbons:
The Kama Sutra!
I had not looked at it in years. Now the drawer was empty.

“Can you pull the drawer out any farther?” Gulliver asked.

It slid halfway, then resisted my tug. “It doesn't come out.”

“It does.”

I gave a firmer yank, but could budge it only another inch.

Gulliver fell to his knees. “May I?” Even under his muscular grasp the drawer refused to budge. Frowning, he removed his kukri from its scabbard and, using the curved sharp tip to push back the wood that had swollen in the humidity, he was able to wriggle it forward, first on one side, then on the other. With a radiant smile of triumph he lifted the drawer out and turned it upside down.

“What now?” I asked, perplexed, for the drawer was obviously empty.

With one hand he supported the bottom of the drawer frame. With the other he coaxed what had seemed to be the bottom panel forward. Once its front edge was exposed, I reached over and pulled it farther. Out fell a pristine vellum envelope with the thunderbolt crest. My name was on it.

11 December 1890

My dearest Dinah
,

This is being written the day after the writing of our divorce papers, but will be seen by you someday far in the future, if ever. If you are reading this, something will have happened to me. If Gulliver outlasts me, he shall be at your side when this is found. I have given the matters that shall be addressed in this and subsequent documents deep consideration. The legal papers will more completely describe the nature of how the transactions will be undertaken. Here let me explain that the intent of my last will and testament is to leave all my worldly goods, including Xanadu, any other real estate I may own, my shares in the Luddy Tea Company, and other business interests in your hands.

I cannot know what time and place in your life this finds you. Possibly, this may be an additional burden you have no desire to undertake. In that case you have the freedom to sell any portion of these holdings to the benefit of yourself, your family, or anyone else you may assign. Most probably you have been well-provided for by your father, and if you have remarried, your spouse and his family. Perhaps my goods will be a small but pleasant addition to your wealth. Or, if luck would have it, and you might truly benefit from this bequest, use it to your advantage.

But, you are asking, why me? Why indeed! You know the reasons as well as I do, but I will state them as a reminder.

First, I married you with the full expectation that I would share my fortune with you. But I married you under false pretenses and did not bring a single benefit to you. In fact, I may have harmed your chances of finding a companion for life. You would not accept my help afterward, and I could not force you to. These documents are irrevocable and cannot be voided, thus I know that my last wishes to right a wrong will be met.

Second, I cannot leave my interests to Euclid or another man who may have taken his place, for this would remove their considerable value from a chain of inheritance through a Jewish family line. If you yourself do not have children, I would hope you might (although this entails no legal obligation) leave these interests to a member of your family with heirs.

Third, you may be wondering why I have overlooked the most obvious answer and not left my shares to other members of my own family. Because of my circumstance, I have been deeply hurt by them, and although this may be my fault, I have never been able to change my nature, any more than my sisters could make their eyes blue. Also, there was wisdom in my father's structure giving control to me. The Luddy Tea Company would not have survived without this division, and it may not survive past my death. You have a basic understanding of the business and a strong mind that will certainly become more astute with age. I have confidence you either will manage the business yourself or find intelligent lieutenants
. . .

Tears flooded my eyes. I could not read any further for a few minutes. When I was able to continue, I shuffled the many pages of explanations and instructions until Gulliver's name caught my eye.

As a special favor to me, I would like you to keep Gulliver in your employ. A fund for his maintenance is a part, though not a condition, of this trust. You may not feel you need Gulliver, but he will be of service if you are ever in the Darjeeling region, for he knows much about how my business and home are run. If you should wish him to manage Xanadu while you live elsewhere, that would be acceptable. However, my advice is to keep him with you as your personal servant. From my experience, wealth breeds danger as a swamp breeds mosquitoes. I realize that I may have bequeathed you enemies as well as rupees. There will be many who will be displeased with what I have done. Gulliver is a simple man with excellent instincts. Trust him with anything: your money, your children, your life. This Gurkha is as brave as a lion and would not hesitate to sacrifice his life to protect yours. . . .

I looked over. Gulliver stood watching me with his dark, piercing eyes. He had brought me here and given me this letter. Had he known what it contained? He must have. What else did he know? I realized I could not handle the Luddy matters without him, nor did I want to. I thought about Silas' suggestion that he remain at Xanadu. Silas would never have expected that he and his house would have perished in unison.

“What is it? What are you doing here?” Edwin burst into the room. “Your father?”

“No, he is sleeping.”

“Then what. . . ?” Edwin caught sight of Gulliver, who was holding his kukri in front of him like a shield. “My God, who is that?”

I waved for Gulliver to stand back, and rose to greet my husband. “These papers were in the Clive bureau.” I shook them in the air. “They are from Silas Luddy of Darjeeling. He was killed in the earthquake.”

Edwin's eyes shifted warily as he wondered why I was in contact with my first husband. “I see,” he said slowly, “but who's the mountain man?”

“His name is Gulliver, at least that is what he has been called for many years. He's the Gurkha who was Mr. Luddy's bearer.”

Edwin glanced over his shoulder. The kukri dazzled in the midday sun.

“Gulliver, I must speak to my husband alone.”

When Gulliver had backed into the hall, Edwin said, “Dinah, you look terrible. Are you certain you are all right?”

“The news was dreadful. Silas' house slid down the mountainside and he must have plunged thousands of feet. He was a good man, Edwin. I never loved him, but I never disliked him either.”

“You don't have to explain about—”

“Yes, I do.” I showed him the drawer with the false bottom. “He gave me this desk as a wedding present. After the divorce he hid some papers here and sent the desk to Calcutta. I never would have known about them if Gulliver hadn't come.”

“What is this all about?”

“I do not fully understand it yet myself, but it seems as if Silas Luddy has left me all his worldly goods—including the controlling interest in the tea plantations and anything else he might have owned.”

“Why you?”

“The letter clarifies it somewhat, but it's an unexpected shock.”

“What does this mean?”

My knees trembled as I sat down at the desk chair. “I'm not certain.” I leafed through the papers. One contained an inventory that was at least seven years old. “When the desk was sent to me, there was a capital account held personally for five hundred and seventy-five thousand rupees, another account in London worth sixty-five thousand pounds sterling—that's a total of almost one hundred thousand pounds! When we were together, Silas was taking more than five thousand rupees a month from the tea business. Xanadu, his home, is gone, but he was to inherit his father's house, and his father has died. There are the tea-processing machines—his father's inventions—a great deal of land . . .”

“And this is yours free and clear?”

“I don't know exactly. He mentions solicitors . . . everything here is outdated . . . but . . .” I looked up and saw he was as perplexed as I was.

Then he beamed. “But we don't need the Sassoons anymore!” “No . . . we don't,” I said in a quavering voice. “We are independent at last.” I looked up with a frown. “A week ago we could have walked away from the company. But how can we do that now . . . with what we know?”

“We don't need them,” Edwin repeated with a snort. He grinned as a fresh realization lit his face. “They need us.”

 

The Luddy Tea Company had prospered. Silas had implemented his plan to concentrate on producing what he had called a “brisk tea” for the British working-class markets, and a very brisk business had followed. In order to popularize his Luddy brand, he had set aside far more funds for promotion than his predecessors. Considering the enormous quantities of Luddy's Finest Orange Pekoe that were shipped to England each month, the concept had been a huge success.

All this I learned in the offices of Mason, O'Malley, and Woodruff, the Luddys' Calcutta solicitors. Fifty percent of the Luddy family's combined holdings were mine free and clear. Maurice Luddy's two daughters and their husbands had inherited twenty-five percent each, but only of the tea-company shares. The land itself was mine, as was the homestead on the tea plantation. The parcels near Tiger Hill were mine, as were any effects that could be salvaged from the landslide. Silas' income and capital from other sources were mine, including the portion that had come to him on his father's death. Gala and Gracia had not shared in their father's personal estate. Although much of the value of the inheritance was tied up in real estate and company assets, the cash more than quadrupled the original inventory. In all, the bequest made me one of the richest women in the community.

My father was delighted with the news. In fact, the excitement surrounding the legal work rallied him for a week, for he insisted on examining every document.

“He's looking for the fatal flaw,” Edwin said, not unkindly. “He thinks there must be some detail that has been overlooked.”

“I feel the same way. I fully expect Gracia or Gala to charge in waving a new will in their favor or to contest this one.”

“Mr. Woodruff assured us your original was in accordance with Silas' latest directives.”

“I know, but my father pointed out that the most recent updates were at the time of Maurice's death. There could have been something—”

“We must go to Darjeeling,” Edwin stated.

I agreed that we should see Silas' sisters and make arrangements for the management of the tea company. Less than a month after the earthquake, we made the journey, accompanied by Mr. Woodruff and Gulliver, our trusty Gurkha, who never left my side voluntarily, sometimes to Edwin's dismay.