Early Summer 1809
The next letter from Thomas Ashford took longer to arrive than either Madhav or Jemimah had hoped.
By the time it came, several more weeks had passed. The delay had been made more difficult by the fact that there was little either of them could do to hasten matters. Madhav continued with his work in Calcutta, while Jemimah maintained her usual visits to Basu Bari and her place within the Fairfax household. They had become practised at speaking of ordinary things, even when their thoughts were elsewhere.
When the letter finally arrived, Madhav read it twice before putting it aside. Ashford had answered his questions satisfactorily. He confirmed that he was willing to employ Madhav on the terms they had discussed, with responsibility for correspondence, accounts and the supervision of consignments. The remuneration would provide a respectable income, and there would be opportunities for additional earnings as the business developed.
Ashford also confirmed that he would arrange temporary accommodation for Madhav and his wife upon their arrival. He could not promise them a particular house in advance, but he knew of suitable lodgings and would make certain that someone met them when the Meridian reached Penang.
It was not a grand position, nor did it promise immediate prosperity. But it was work Madhav understood, with a man whose judgement he trusted, and it offered them a reasonable beginning.
He read the letter again, considering what acceptance would mean. Until now, Penang had remained a possibility, something they had discussed and gradually begun to imagine. Once he accepted Ashford’s offer, however, their plans would take a definite step forward.
He was not prepared to make that decision without speaking to Jemimah.
When she next visited Basu Bari, he told her about Ashford’s reply and explained the terms of the proposed employment.
“It seems a sound opportunity,” he said. “The work is suitable, the remuneration should be sufficient for us to begin modestly, and Mr Ashford is willing to help us find accommodation.”
Jemimah listened carefully.
“Then you believe it is a position you could accept?”
“I do. But before I write to him, there is something I want to ask you. If I accept, we must begin making arrangements to leave. We shall no longer be speaking of Penang as a possibility, but as the place where we intend to make our home. Are you quite certain that this is what you wish?”
She looked at him steadily.
“I have thought about it a great deal, Madhav. I know what we shall be leaving behind, and I do not pretend that it will be easy. But I am certain that I wish to make a life with you. I would rather face the uncertainties of a new country together than remain here knowing that we cannot be together as we wish.”
He took her hand.
“Then I shall write to Mr Ashford and accept.”
“So we may begin to make our preparations?” she asked.
“Yes. There are still matters of passage and accommodation to arrange, but I believe we can now do so with confidence.”
She was pleased, though the news brought with it a different kind of apprehension. Until now, their plans had depended upon letters and possibilities. They were beginning to take the form of something real.
Madhav noticed her thoughtful expression.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I was thinking that we have spoken a great deal about leaving Calcutta, but perhaps not quite enough about what will happen when we arrive.”
“That is a fair observation.”
“I know that Mr Ashford will help us find somewhere to stay, but we shall have to establish a home of our own. And there is something else we ought to discuss before we make any further arrangements.”
Madhav waited.
“It is how we shall travel,” she continued. “And how we shall live when we reach Penang.”
He understood at once.
“You mean that we shall travel as Mr and Mrs Basu.”
“Yes.”
They were sitting in one of the quieter rooms, away from the main courtyard. The sounds of the household reached them faintly: a servant crossing the veranda, voices from the inner part of the house, and the distant movement of people attending to the day’s work. Jemimah had always found the familiar sounds of Basu Bari comforting. Now she was conscious that she might not hear them again for a very long time.
She folded her hands in her lap before speaking.
“I have thought about this, Madhav. More than once. I know that we cannot expect to marry in the ordinary way here. Our families would not consent, and our faiths are different. I do not intend to abandon mine, and I would never ask you to abandon yours.”
“Nor would I ask you to.”
“But I cannot believe that the absence of a ceremony should mean that our commitment to one another is any less real.”
Madhav looked at her carefully. He had considered the question himself, but had been reluctant to press her towards an answer. He knew that she was leaving behind her family, her home and the life in which she had been raised. He did not want her to feel that she must accept anything simply because they had already gone so far.
“Jemimah,” he said, “I want you to be certain that this is what you wish. I would not have you come with me because you feel that there is no other choice.”
“I have a choice,” she replied. “It may not be an easy one, but it is mine to make.”
She paused, gathering her thoughts.
“I have considered what it would mean to live with you, not merely to travel with you. I know that we shall have to build a household together, and that we shall encounter customs and expectations which may be unfamiliar to me. I know, too, that there will be times when we shall have to make allowances for one another. I do not imagine that affection will make every difficulty disappear.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It will not.”
“But I have never thought that our life together should be an English life simply because I was born in England, any more than I should expect you to give up the life you have known. I want us to make a home which belongs to us both.”
He was silent for a moment.
“You have always understood that I cannot cease to be who I am,” he said.
“And you have never asked me to.”
“I would not wish you to become someone else for my sake.”
“Then we understand one another.”
She looked towards the open doorway. Beyond it, the courtyard was full of the familiar activity of the household. She thought of Annapurna, who had welcomed her with such kindness, and Kamala, whose friendship had become so dear to her. She thought of the many afternoons she had spent there, and of the conversations which had gradually brought her closer to Madhav.
“Do you think your father will forgive you?”
Madhav considered the question.
“I cannot say. He may come to understand my decision in time, or he may never agree with it. I know that I am disappointing him, and that he will regard my departure as a rejection of much that he has worked to preserve.”
“But it is not a rejection of your family.”
“No. I shall always be his son, and I shall always be a member of this family, wherever I live. But I cannot make the choice he wishes me to make.”
Jemimah nodded. She understood that his sacrifice was not simply a matter of leaving a house or a city. He was stepping away from an established place within a family and a business, and from the future his father had imagined for him.
“And when we arrive in Penang,” she said, “we shall have to make our own arrangements. We shall not have your father’s household around us, or my family, or the familiar people who have helped to shape our lives here.”
“We shall have one another,” Madhav replied. “But I do not want you to think that means we shall be alone in every respect. Penang is a trading settlement, and there are people from many different backgrounds living and working there. We shall have to find our place among them, as we have done here.”
“And I shall have much to learn.”
“As shall I. It will be a new beginning for both of us.”
She smiled faintly.
“I think I should like that. Though I may complain when I discover how much there is to learn.”
“I should be disappointed if you did not.”
They both smiled, and for a moment the seriousness of their conversation eased.
Then Jemimah returned to the matter of how they would travel to Penang.
“If we are to travel as Mr and Mrs Basu, I want us to be clear about what that means. I do not wish to feel that I am merely accompanying you under a name which is convenient to us.”
Madhav leaned forward slightly.
“Nor do I want that. If we travel as husband and wife, it must be because we have chosen to regard ourselves as such. I cannot offer you the conventional marriage which our families would have expected, and I will not pretend that our circumstances are the same as those of other couples. But I can promise you my loyalty, my respect and my commitment to our life together.”
“That is what I want,” she said. “I have no wish to pretend that our circumstances are ordinary. But I do want to think of myself as your wife, and of you as my husband. I want us to make that commitment to one another, not simply to adopt the appearance of it for the convenience of travelling.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
“Then that is what we shall do,” he said. “We shall make our commitment to one another, privately and freely. We need not pretend that it is something it is not, but neither should we allow other people’s expectations to determine what it means to us.”
Jemimah felt that something important had been settled between them. It was not a legal arrangement, nor a public declaration. It was a decision about the nature of the life they intended to share, made with a full understanding of the difficulties.
But she was not yet ready to leave the conversation there.
“There is something else I should like us to consider,” she said. “We have spoken about the life we might make, but perhaps we should be more particular about what we expect of one another.”
“I should like that too.”
“For example, I want to be able to continue reading and writing. I have no wish to give up the interests I have always had simply because I am married.”
“I should never ask you to. Your curiosity and your interests are part of what I love about you.”
“And I hope you will continue to tell me about your work. I may not understand every commercial difficulty, but I should like to know what occupies your days.”
“I should expect you to take an interest. I would not want us to live separate lives under the same roof.”
She smiled.
“Then we are agreed on that. And what of our household? I have been accustomed to a large family home, with many people to assist in its running. I imagine our arrangements in Penang will be rather different.”
“They will. We shall have to decide what we can afford and what help we need. I should like our home to be comfortable, but I do not want us to establish a household which costs more than my income can reasonably support.”
“I agree. I should like to have some say in its arrangements, naturally.”
“Of course. I would expect you to manage the household with me, not simply to accept whatever I decide.”
“That is reassuring.”
He looked amused.
“Had you thought I might have other intentions?”
“I have learned that it is always wise to ask.”
He laughed, and she joined him.
Their conversation turned to the ways in which they would respect one another’s beliefs. Jemimah knew that Madhav’s religious observances were part of his life, and she had no wish to interfere with them. Equally, she would not abandon her own faith simply because they would be living far from the familiar Christian community in which she had been raised.
“I should like us to be able to speak freely about such things,” she said. “I would not wish either of us to feel that something important must be hidden.”
“Nor would I. We may not always understand one another’s customs, but we can make the effort to understand what they mean.”
“And if we disagree?”
“Then we must talk about it. I cannot promise that we shall never disagree, Jemimah.”
“I should be rather disappointed if we never did.”
He smiled.
“Then I shall not make that promise.”
They spoke, too, of the possibility of children. Neither had forgotten that marriage was not only a matter of companionship, but might bring responsibilities they had not yet experienced. They did not attempt to decide every question that might arise, but they agreed that any children would be raised with knowledge of both their family histories and the traditions that had shaped their parents.
“I should want them to know where I came from,” Jemimah said, “just as I should want them to understand your family and the country in which they were born.”
“And I should want them to know both their parents,” Madhav replied. “Not to feel that one must be hidden or made less important than the other.”
She looked at him with affection.
“I think that is something we can promise.”
“We can promise to try, at least. We cannot know what difficulties may arise, but we can agree that we shall face them together.”
Jemimah nodded. She knew that the future might bring questions for which neither of them had answers. They could not decide in advance how every difference would be resolved, nor could they be certain how people in Penang would regard their household. But they could begin with honesty and the willingness to listen to one another.
“I should like us to speak of these things again,” she said. “Not because I am uncertain, but because I think our commitment deserves more than one conversation.”
“Of course.”
“And you must tell me what you expect of me, too. I do not want our life together to be governed by assumptions which neither of us has examined.”
“I shall try to remember that,” he replied. “Though I suspect you will remind me if I forget.”
“I certainly shall.”
For a while they sat together without speaking. Jemimah felt neither the need to fill the silence nor the urge to hurry towards the next arrangement. The important thing had been said, and it had been said by them both.
At last she rose.
“When we leave,” she said, “I shall be sorry to leave this house. I shall miss your mother, and Kamala, and Anandamayi. I shall miss the ordinary things as much as anything else.”
“I shall miss them too.”
“And I hope that, in time, they may understand that leaving does not mean that we have ceased to love them.”
“I hope so. I cannot promise that they will see it in that way at first, but I shall never forget them.”
Madhav walked with her as far as the veranda. The familiar life of Basu Bari continued around them, apparently unchanged. Kamala was speaking to someone in the courtyard, and a servant crossed the far side carrying a tray. Jemimah paused for a moment, taking in the scene.
“We are beginning to make a life, Jemimah,” Madhav said.
“Yes,” she replied. “Not merely a plan to leave one.”
He watched as she went towards the courtyard, where Kamala was waiting to speak with her. Jemimah joined her, smiling at something she said, and for a moment it was possible to imagine that nothing had changed.
But both knew that it had.
They had not yet left Calcutta, nor had they settled every question that their circumstances might bring. Their commitment was private, and the formalities of their marriage remained unresolved. Yet they had spoken openly of what they intended to become to one another, and of the responsibilities as well as the freedoms they were choosing.
For Jemimah, that understanding was as important as any arrangement for the journey. She was not simply accompanying Madhav to a new country. She was choosing him as her husband, and choosing to make a home with him.
And Madhav, who had once returned to Calcutta believing that his future lay within the familiar expectations of his family, was now preparing to build a different one.
They had begun to define the marriage they intended to make.