and that he had become engaged to me under false pretences. I could tell he was upset, but hesaid that if I was really unhappy and wanted to go Home he would not prevent me, although it is too late to change our arrangements now. When we reach Cawnpore he will arrange my passage to England if I still wish to go.
Since then he has slept in his dressing room, and I lie awake all night unable to stop thinking about it. The worst thing is that over the past few weeks I have truly grown to love and trust him. I know you will say that it is my duty to forgive him, but I cannot stop imagining them together and I know that every time he touches me now I shall think of him touching her that way, and I cannot bear it. I have not yet decided what to do, but I do not think I can continue living with him.
Try not to think too harshly of me, Mina. I know in my place you would have acted differently, but I have never been as strong or good as you are.
Your Cecily
Lila
At fifteen, although I was not beautiful, as she was, I was starting to see something of Mother in the bones of my face, the set of my mouth. I began to dream of her, too. In the dreams I was back on the ship, leaning over the rail and watching the phosphorescence, when she swam up from the depths, one half of her face silvered by moonlight, the other in darkness. I recoiled and saw her do the same. Only when I woke did I realise that her movements had mirrored mine in every detail. I was her, and she was me.
I would wake gasping for breath and lie there in the moonlight, remembering how, when I was small, she was the princess in the fairytales Father read me: pale, beautiful and distant. I used to stand in the doorway to her room as she sat at the dressing table, at first hiding behind the doorframe; but then the fascination would draw me out to watch as the two women talked, the one facing the mirror pleading and sad, the one in the mirror harsh and cruel, spitting out her words. It was always the mirror face who saw me: her mouth twisted, her eyes darkened, one more than the other, as she spat out ‘ Jao ! Go!’ the way she did to the servants, even to Ayah, who was closest to her.
I could still make out the faint scar on my forehead just below the hairline, a reminder of the day I had followed herrustling silk skirts from room to room, trying to catch her, thinking we were playing a game. I must have been three or four. I could hear her whimpering behind her bedroom door and when I pushed it open her voice rose to a scream: ‘Please God, don’t let her come in! Please God, keep her away from me! ’ The room was dark – her curtains were always drawn – but sunlight was streaming through a narrow gap and refracting through something in her raised hand. Dazzled, I blinked and did not see her throw it, only felt the blow and then the warm wet on my face and saw the red spattering on to the white Kashmiri rug, and the chunks of cut glass that lay scattered round my feet. Afterwards Ayah told me it had been an accident and that I shouldn’t tell Father or he would be angry with her.
I did not want to think about Mother, but it was becoming harder not to as my body began to change, outwardly and inwardly. Hair began to grow in places that had been smooth; my chest developed painful knobs of hardness, yet felt tender. I ached to be touched, and behind it all was a longing for something I could not name. It was no longer homesickness for my old life, for, although I still thought of Father, my memories of him had become fixed: pictures in an old album that had replaced the living images. The pain was no longer raw but distant, nostalgic. I missed it; in a strange way it had been comforting, keeping me connected to Father, and reminding me of who I was and where I had come from.
When I stood at my window now I still heard that rhythmic vibration – the soundless voice that seemed to be telling me something I had always known – but it was fainter now and I feared
Since then he has slept in his dressing room, and I lie awake all night unable to stop thinking about it. The worst thing is that over the past few weeks I have truly grown to love and trust him. I know you will say that it is my duty to forgive him, but I cannot stop imagining them together and I know that every time he touches me now I shall think of him touching her that way, and I cannot bear it. I have not yet decided what to do, but I do not think I can continue living with him.
Try not to think too harshly of me, Mina. I know in my place you would have acted differently, but I have never been as strong or good as you are.
Your Cecily
Lila
At fifteen, although I was not beautiful, as she was, I was starting to see something of Mother in the bones of my face, the set of my mouth. I began to dream of her, too. In the dreams I was back on the ship, leaning over the rail and watching the phosphorescence, when she swam up from the depths, one half of her face silvered by moonlight, the other in darkness. I recoiled and saw her do the same. Only when I woke did I realise that her movements had mirrored mine in every detail. I was her, and she was me.
I would wake gasping for breath and lie there in the moonlight, remembering how, when I was small, she was the princess in the fairytales Father read me: pale, beautiful and distant. I used to stand in the doorway to her room as she sat at the dressing table, at first hiding behind the doorframe; but then the fascination would draw me out to watch as the two women talked, the one facing the mirror pleading and sad, the one in the mirror harsh and cruel, spitting out her words. It was always the mirror face who saw me: her mouth twisted, her eyes darkened, one more than the other, as she spat out ‘ Jao ! Go!’ the way she did to the servants, even to Ayah, who was closest to her.
I could still make out the faint scar on my forehead just below the hairline, a reminder of the day I had followed herrustling silk skirts from room to room, trying to catch her, thinking we were playing a game. I must have been three or four. I could hear her whimpering behind her bedroom door and when I pushed it open her voice rose to a scream: ‘Please God, don’t let her come in! Please God, keep her away from me! ’ The room was dark – her curtains were always drawn – but sunlight was streaming through a narrow gap and refracting through something in her raised hand. Dazzled, I blinked and did not see her throw it, only felt the blow and then the warm wet on my face and saw the red spattering on to the white Kashmiri rug, and the chunks of cut glass that lay scattered round my feet. Afterwards Ayah told me it had been an accident and that I shouldn’t tell Father or he would be angry with her.
I did not want to think about Mother, but it was becoming harder not to as my body began to change, outwardly and inwardly. Hair began to grow in places that had been smooth; my chest developed painful knobs of hardness, yet felt tender. I ached to be touched, and behind it all was a longing for something I could not name. It was no longer homesickness for my old life, for, although I still thought of Father, my memories of him had become fixed: pictures in an old album that had replaced the living images. The pain was no longer raw but distant, nostalgic. I missed it; in a strange way it had been comforting, keeping me connected to Father, and reminding me of who I was and where I had come from.
When I stood at my window now I still heard that rhythmic vibration – the soundless voice that seemed to be telling me something I had always known – but it was fainter now and I feared
Similar Books
