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"I-I didn't mean it like that."
"You English never do." He walks into the stables with me on his heels.
I'd never thought of how insulting that might sound. But now, too late, I realize that he is right, that in my heart I have taken for granted that I have been so frank with Kartik, so . . . myself. . . because he is Indian and so there could never be anything between us. Anything I could say now would be a lie. I've made such a mess of things.
Kartik is gathering his meager possessions into a rucksack.
"Where are you going?"
"To the Rakshana. It is time for me to claim my place. To begin my training and advance."
"Please don't go, Kartik. I don't want you to go." It is the truest thing I've said all day.
"For that I am sorry for you." The mews is coming awake. Servants have sprung into action like the tiny mechanized figures on a cuckoo clock.
"You'd best go in. Would you be so kind as to give this to Emily for me?" he says frostily. He hands me the other gift, which opens just enough to reveal The Odyssey. "Tell her I am sorry I cannot continue teaching her to read. She'll have to get someone else."
"Kartik," I start. I notice he's left my gift to him from months ago leaning against the wall. "Don't you want to take the cricket bat?"
"Cricket. Such an English game," he says. "Goodbye, Miss Doyle." He hoists the rucksack upon his back and walks away, heading into the weak first light of morning.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
BY NOON, THE STREETS OF LONDON ARE A CONCERT of bells calling one and all to church. Grandmama, Tom, and I sit on hard wooden pews, letting the reverend's words wash over us.
"Then Herod, when he had privily called the wise men, inquired of them diligently what time the star appeared. And he sent them to Bethlehem, and said, 'Go and search diligently for the young child; and when ye have found him, bring me word again, that I may come and worship him also . . . ""
I glance about the church. All around me, heads are bowed in prayer. People seem content. Happy. After all, it is Christmas.
A light-dappled stained-glass window shows an angel delivering the annunciation. At his feet, Mary kneels, trembling as she receives this fearful message from her celestial visitor. Her face shows the awe and fear of that news, of the gift she has not asked for but will carry nonetheless. And I wonder why there is no passage to describe her terrible doubt.
"Then Herod, when he saw that he was mocked of the wise men, was exceeding wroth, and sent forth his men, and slew all the children that were in Bethlehem, and in all the coasts thereof. . ."
Why is there no panel showing women saying, No, I'm sorry, I don't want this gift. You may have it back. I've sheep to look after and bread to bake, and I've no desire to be a holy messenger.
That is the window I long to see.
A ray of light breaks through the glass, and for a moment, the angel seems to flare like the sun.
I am allowed to spend the afternoon with Felicity and Ann, so that Grandmama and Tom may tend to Father. Mrs. Worthington is seeing to the outfitting of little Polly, which has put Felicity into a hateful mood to match my own. Only Ann is enjoying the day. It is the first Christmas she can remember in a real home with a ball to attend, and she's positively giddy about it, badgering us with questions.
"Should I wear flowers and pearls in my hair? Or is it too gauche?" she asks. "Gauche," Felicity responds. "I don't see why we have to take her in. There are plenty of relatives more suited, I should think."
I sit at Felicity's dressing table running a brush through my hair, counting the strokes, seeing the hurt in Kartik's eyes with each swipe of the brush. "Sixty-four, sixty-five, sixty-six . . ."
"They fawn and fret over her as if she's a visiting princess," Felicity grumbles.
"She's a very pretty little girl," Ann says thoughtlessly. "I was thinking of wearing perfume. Gemma, does Tom find girls who wear scent too bold?"
"He is attracted to the smell of manure," Felicity says. "You might wallow in the stables to bring out the full flower of his love."
"You are in quite a mood," Ann grumbles.
I shouldn't have danced with him. I shouldn't have let him kiss me. But I wanted him to kiss me. And then I insulted him.
"Oh, it's all such a bother," Felicity harrumphs as she makes her way to the bed, which is awash in discarded stockings, silk, and petticoats. The whole of Felicity's cupboards, it seems, are splayed out for the world to see. And yet she can't seem to find anything that suits.
"I'm not going," Felicity blurts out. She's sprawled petulantly on a chaise in her dressing gown, woolen stockings pooled about her ankles. All pretense of modesty has been abandoned.
