Silk and Secrets – Part 2: The River Wind

The monsoon broke over Calcutta in June, all at once, with a roar of thunder and rain that turned the streets into rivers. Edmund stood at the top-floor window of the house on Ballygunge Circular Road and watched the storm roll in over the river, the sky going from grey to bruised violet.

Leela came up behind him, her bare feet silent on the boards. She set a cup of tea on the sill beside him.

"The portrait is finished," she said.

"It is."

"Will they like it?"

"They'll hate it," said Edmund. "They'll hang it in the hall anyway, because it's the best painting they've ever owned, and they'll never understand why it makes them uneasy."

She laughed, low and warm. "Then it's perfect."

The portrait was downstairs in the drawing room, unveiled that morning for the family's approval. It showed Leela seated by the river window, her face half turned, a sketchbook open in her lap, the first drops of rain sliding down the glass behind her. There were no pearls, no silver, no grateful expression. Only a woman listening to the storm.

The family's agent had been silent for a long time when he saw it. Then he had asked, stiffly, whether there might be a more suitable subject for the new office. Leela had smiled, very politely, and said that her husband's family had never once asked her opinion of anything, and she did not intend to start with a portrait.

They had sent him away with his hat in his hand.

"I'm not sure we'll have any clients after that," said Edmund, now.

"You have me," said Leela. "And Claire, who has written to say she'll come to Calcutta to see the painting herself. She says it's the only honest picture she's seen from an Englishman."

"Claire sounds terrifying."

"She is," said Leela, and her eyes were soft. "I want you to meet her."

He turned from the window. "Leela, can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"What happens now? When the ministers and the aunts and the gossiping neighbours find out we've been painting each other in secret for four months?"

She set her tea down and faced him, the storm lighting her face in silver flashes.

"Then we tell them the truth," she said. "That I'm a widow who doesn't want to be hung in a hall. That you're an English painter who isn't afraid of the rain. And that we're going to walk out the front door together, without asking permission from anyone."

"That's a dangerous plan."

"It's the first plan I've ever made for myself," said Leela. "I'd like to see how it goes."

Edmund laughed, and then he stepped closer, careful and slow, and took her hand.

"Can I ask you something else?" he said.

"Yes."

"Would you let me paint you again, tomorrow, in the courtyard, with the rain on your face? Not for the family. For us."

Her fingers tightened around his. "Yes," she said. "And can I ask you something, too?"

"Anything."

"Would you kiss me now, in the storm light, before the servants come up to ask about dinner?"

"Yes," said Edmund. "And if you want me to stop, I'll stop, and we'll pretend the servants never came."

"Good," said Leela, and rose on her toes to meet him.

He kissed her slowly, while the rain drummed on the glass and the river roared beneath the window. She tasted of tea and salt, and her hands slid up to his shoulders, sure and steady. It was not a secret any more, not in that room, not in that storm.

When they parted, both of them were breathing unevenly and smiling.

"Green?" he asked softly.

"Green," said Leela. "Very green. Now go and tell the cook we'll be having dinner in the courtyard, where everyone can see us eat it."

"Scandalous," said Edmund.

"Yes," said Leela, laughing. "And entirely ours."