The Mountain of Light by Indu Sundaresan Page B

three years younger than Emily, George thirteen years older. And so they had muddled along now, for what, some twenty years almost, Emily thought with surprise—in this triangular marriage.
    Outside, a horse coughed. In a sick horse, this was a painful whine, a hoarse and labored drawing in of breath. Emily said, “What’s the matter with that animal?”
    â€œPneumonia, I think. He won’t last long; there’s no cure for it.”
    Emily sank her chin into her chest and whispered into the lace collar of her nightgown. “I hate it here.”
    George did not speak for a long time. They just listened to the tortured hacking of the horse and watched as the shadow of its neck and head flailed across the tent’s walls.
    â€œHow long have we been in India?” George’s voice was subdued.
    â€œTwo and a half years,” Emily said tiredly. “We arrived at Government House in Calcutta on March fourth, my birthday.”
    â€œThey weren’t expecting us,” George said, with a dash of unexpected humor.
    The then acting Governor-General of India, Sir Charles Metcalfe, had known that Lord Auckland and his sisters had arrived at the mouth of the Hooghly River, and had boarded a ferry on their way to Calcutta to relieve him of his duties. That by itself meant nothing—in India, a ferry ride of a few hours could become a journey of days, or the boat could capsize, or become stuck on the bank . . . or . . . So Metcalfe had gone on with his dinner party on the night of the fourth of March 1836. In the meantime, George, Emily, and Fanny had landed at the port at Calcutta to a small band playing an abbreviated and surprised welcome, and a convoy of horse-drawn buggies to rush them through the plummeting dusk of the crowded streets. After traveling through a vast park, they had confronted Government House, set on the banks of the river, with its Ionic pillars, its central dome, its twenty-seven acres . . . it was like a blessed piece of England, this mammoth house. Later, Emily would learn that it was England, more specifically, Kedleston Hall in Derbyshire, built accordingto the same plan at the turn of the century by an ambitious Governor-General. They had climbed the steep steps leading up to the front door of Government House, gone through the reception area and into the dining room.
    Metcalfe, caught at the head of the table with his wineglass rising to his mouth, had set it down carefully and hailed the travelers, who were still teetering on their land legs after so many months at sea. He had caught hold of George, Lord Auckland’s arm, dragged him to his place peremptorily, sworn him in as the new Governor-General of India, demanded that one of the waiters move his plate—with the remains of the fish he had been eating—to another setting down the table, and sat down to enjoy his meal again.
    â€œHappy birthday to me,” Emily said.
    George agreed. “It was a frightful introduction to India.” Disoriented, his mind filled with the flash-by images of the Calcutta docks, the sweating trumpeters of the band, the ramshackle slums of the native quarter, he had stared at the eighty-five guests his predecessor had amassed in the dining room for a casual night—as Metcalfe had said, nothing special. George loathed making speeches, and he’d wondered what kind of a crowd a formal event demanded if this was just a few friends to dinner. He had swallowed air, he’d stumbled through the words, he’d toasted the King, his voice had failed, he’d collapsed into his chair and been watched as each forkful of tough goat meat went to his mouth and he chewed.
    â€œPoor George,” Emily said softly, kissing the top of his head.
    Things didn’t get better, because the Governor-General of India was the representative of the Crown and the East India Company. He had to stand up to talk at every occasion, stiff and uneasy