Yet, strangely, contrition was not enough to expunge the night from Zachary’s memory. Even as his head was aching with apprehension other parts of his body would stir and tingle as they exhumed, from their own storehouses of memory, recollections of the explosive pleasures that he had experienced. Then his self-reproach would turn to regret and he would curse himself for not having made the night last longer; involuntarily his head would fill with imaginings of what he would do if he could but relive that night, just one more time.
But that was impossible of course. Hadn’t she said, with absolute finality, ‘this is the last and only time’? He often repeated those words to himself, for they offered a kind of comfort when his burden of guilt and fear weighed most heavily on him. But there were times also when the sound of the words would change, even as they echoed through his head, and he would wonder whether they had been said with as much conviction as he had imagined. Sometimes one thought would lead to another and he would begin to dream of receiving another message from the boudoir, heralding another assignation and another sprint across the garden.
But that message, at once dreaded and hoped-for, never came. Week after week went by, and not only was there no note or chitty, he did not even properly set eyes on Mrs Burnham — all he saw of her was a shadow on the purdahs of her buggy, as it rattled down the driveway, ferrying her to some levée, lecture or burra-khana.
Her silence, as it lengthened, grew increasingly frightening. He could imagine that having repented of her adultery, she might now seek to absolve herself of all guilt by making up a story about him; back in Baltimore he had heard tales of great ladies who had seduced their slaves and then accused them of unspeakable things.
And then one night he was seized by a paroxysm of shivers as a thought flashed through his mind. Could it be that she was avoiding him because their night together had resulted in a pregnancy?
This possibility ripped apart the last shreds of his peace of mind. He had been working on the budgerow’s stem-cheeks that day but now he put down his tools and began to brood, trying to think of some way in which he might contrive to meet Mrs Burnham, in private. It occurred to him that he might be able to break into her boudoir by picking the lock on the door that led to the servants’ staircase. But he could not summon the courage to go ahead with it — his fevered mind kept returning to her pistol, conjuring up reasons why she might elect to shoot him.
One day, as he was agonizing over what to do next, Mr Doughty dropped by. It turned out that he had come to invite Zachary to a tiffin the following week.
In his present state of mind Zachary had no inclination to go to a nuncheon at the Doughties’: but so disordered were his emotions that he could not summon the wit to make a convincing excuse. ‘Oh thank you, Mr Doughty,’ he stammered, ‘but I don’t think I have the proper rig …’
Mr Doughty gave a hearty laugh. ‘Well then, my dear young chuckeroo, you can always tog yourself up in a toga again. I’m sure Mrs Burnham would be most diverted — she had a grand old cackle about it the last time. Said you looked like the rummest Rum-johnny she’d ever seen.’
At the mention of Mrs Burnham’s name, Zachary’s mind began to race. He scratched his chin and said, with an off-handed air: ‘Oh? So, Mrs Burnham will be there too?’
‘Yes — and a few other mems, missies and larkins as well. But we’re a little short of launders and chuckeroos which is why Mrs Doughty sent me over to puckrow you.’
‘I’ll be there,’ said Zachary. ‘Thank you, Mr Doughty.’
‘Good. And if you’re looking to tog yourself out on the cheap you couldn’t do better than to visit the auction houses on Sunday. They often sell off the estates of the recently deceased — you’ll get all you need for a copper or two.’
Zachary decided to heed Mr Doughty’s advice, and when Sunday came he reached under his mattress and pulled out his purse. The coins in it were miserably few: counting them out one by one, it seemed to Zachary that all his other travails would have been bearable if only he had not been so damned poor.
His eyes strayed to the gilded sconces that lined the interior of the budgerow and it occurred to him that it would be easy to sell a couple of them in the market: nobody would notice. He rose to his feet and went to take a closer look. Prying them off would be simple enough, just a matter of extracting a few nails.
He fetched an awl and was about to dig into the wood when a sudden qualm made him withdraw his hand. Behind that gilded sconce he could see a tunnel that led to some mysterious unknown — thievery — and he could not bring himself to go in. He put aside the awl and stuffed his meagre few coins into the pocket of his breeches.
A long walk brought Zachary to the centre of Calcutta from where he asked his way to the doors of one of the auction houses on Russell Street. At the cost of almost empyting his pocket, he was able to acquire a suit that had belonged to a recently deceased apothecary by the name of Quinn.
Not till the morning of the Doughties’ tiffin did it occur to him that the suit had a strange smell — of mildew and sweat mingled with the odour of something medicinal — but of course it was too late to do anything about it. He put it on, hoping that no one would notice — in vain, for the khidmatgar who opened the door for him, at the Doughties’ residence, recognized the suit immediately and gave a shriek, as if he’d seen a ghost: Quinn-sahib? Arré dekho — Quinn-sahb ka bhoot aa giya!
The noise brought Mr Doughty to the door and he too uttered a cry of surprise: ‘Good God, Reid! Those aren’t old Quinn’s togs you’re wearing, are you? He had only one suit, you know, and his shop was around the corner so we saw him in it every day. Mrs Doughty and every other memsahib in the city bought their laudanum from him.’
Zachary spluttered in protest: ‘Well, it was you, Mr Doughty, who said to go to the auctions. How was I to know?’
‘Oh well, never mind. You can hardly take it off now. Come into the bettuck-connuh and put your bottom to anchor.’
Zachary had taken only a few steps into the receiving room when he caught sight of Mrs Burnham. She was on the far side of the room, seated on a settee, wearing an airy gown of pink tulle, with trimmings the colour of rich, red wine; her face, with its tumbling halo of curls, was framed by the rim of a heart-shaped bonnet. The feather on the bonnet’s crown was swaying gently under the punkah that was swinging overhead, stirring the sultry air.
Although Zachary was well within Mrs Burnham’s field of vision she seemed to be oblivious to his presence: she was chatting to two severe-looking memsahibs with her usual air of languid indifference.
Almost at once Zachary’s eyes dropped to her midriff. Seven weeks had passed since that night and it was conceivable that if it had led to the outcome that he most feared — a pregnancy — some sign of it would already be visible. He saw nothing to confirm his fears — but he could not wrench his gaze away. And then his eyes played a cruel trick on him: they stripped away the frothing pink fabric of her dress to reveal what lay beneath. He beheld once again the slope of her belly, curving steeply down towards a forest of soft, downy curls. He remembered the ease with which he had slipped through that silken canopy and how the warmth of his welcome had led him to plunge deeper and deeper until he reached what seemed to be an unattainable extremity; he remembered how joyfully he had been received in that haven and how this had created the illusion that he had been accepted into an empire where he had never thought he would belong; and as that fantasy faded, and his nose caught, once again, the musty smell of his threadbare suit, he wondered how it was possible that the most secret parts of himself could have been given so warm a welcome by someone who would not grant the least gesture of recognition to his clothed body.