Page 59 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
Eighteen
As promised, Rohan arranged for us to meet the following Saturday. A cornflower-blue morning stretched overhead into infinity, the last warmth of September clinging on and brimming with the possibility of adventure.
“This is one of our processing plants,” he said over the noise, the machines pounding as bits of cotton fiber floated in the air. He led a tour through the spinning room as the cotton was twisted into thread and bound in great sheets. I had, of course, seen the bolts of fabric in the shops, but I had yet to learn the scale of industrialization that had machines turning and twisting fibers into great sheets of cloth.
Men worked the machines as they spun at a roar, making it hard to hear. They fed the insatiable beasts, sweat dripping from their thin limbs. It was a welcome respite when we escaped to the storehouse, which held the bolts of finished fabric. The work was hard, but it was as honorable as any other work, not demeaning like my experience at home.
As we walked farther from the din, Rohan explained: “With the American Civil War, Britain could not get the cotton it needed. While my grandfather was very much in favor of your North winning the war, many cotton growers in India wished it would have gone on longer. The war and the end of slavery raised the price of cotton, and the British tried to keep a stranglehold on the cotton mill industry. The British buy Indian cotton, pence for the pound, only to sell it back to us once it’srefined. They prevent our creation of mills, driving down competition and keeping the lion’s share for themselves. So that is why we are here—attempting to do it ourselves.”
“That’s admirable. Having control over the process.”
He nodded and then hesitated. “You must forgive me if I’m rude, but are your interests in cotton production personal?”
I understood the implication. It was his way of asking,Have you, or any member of your family, ever worked in the fields?
“I’ve ... engaged ... with cotton production in the past. It was a painful period. I’m glad to be free of it and that others back home are also free. Your business is nothing like that.”
He gazed over the tall machinery and the workers bending over the mechanical rows as the bobbins spun. “These people are paid, and we do our best to care for them. That doesn’t make the work less hard, or the overall systems fairer. We also do not employ children.”
The truth burned: The work needed to be done, and profits needed to be made. Rohan was doing the best he could. At least, his people were looked after. Likely at a cost to his bottom line.
“Well, if you’ve gathered what you needed, should I take you back?”
“The time went too quickly,” I admitted.
Rohan seemed delighted by my admission, even if a bit flustered. “If you’re not otherwise engaged, there’s a gathering tonight. My uncle is having a function as they finalize a new deal with the Americans. Would you like to come as my guest? There’ll be many people there, including friends of the association, professors from the university, and some merchant families.” He hesitated. “I think it would be lovely if you came.”
“But I—I’ve only known you for a few days,” I said, despite the flattery I felt from his invitation.
“What does that matter?” Rohan asked, his hand brushing alongside mine. “If I’m having a celebration, it could only be better if you werethere.” His rich brown eyes were shrewd, with a charming sparkle we both knew was irresistible.
“If that’s the case, we must leave soon so I can prepare. I’ll have to wear something dazzling for such an event.”
He drew me closer, his words only loud enough for me to hear. “You should have no concern there. You dazzle me just as you are.”
Nineteen
At the party, professors and administration folk buzzed around tables of food bursting with savory meat, decadent vegetables, and a plethora of colorful sweets. I plucked a skewer spiced with coriander, cumin, and turmeric, then piled severalgulab jamun—balls filled with milk solids and soaked in rosewater syrup until they swelled—into a tiny pyramid on my plate. A jubilant, festive mood ran through the party as the musicians played and the guests formed a circle, taking turns dancing through the middle. Others clapped in time to the music.
I recognized a few people and made light conversation but mostly hung back and observed. Rohan’s uncle Dadabhai reigned over it all, greeting guests and encouraging them to eat as they lined up to pay homage to him. He looked stately, like a raj from one of the Indian provinces, with his well-oiled beard and vibrant vest beneath his tailored coat.
I spotted Benjamin first, half a head taller than the man who must have been his father, the resemblance uncanny. Bartholomew, a man in his forties, a touch of gray at his temples, stood before his son, surveying the party, his suit impeccable. Benjamin had his father’s looks, but both lacked Jacques’s warm charm. There was a tightness in his father’s mouth, and his dark-blue eyes glinted like ice. It was like being in a hall of mirrors, the familiar distorted into the unrecognizable. The ghostsof my previous lives had never shown up like this, and I wondered if Death was playing some ultimate trick on me.
I faded behind a wooden lattice as they passed, taking a place far from the main group. It was silly to hide. There was no way they could know who I was or recognize me. Jacques would have had no cause to bring me up. I would have become a relic from his past. Still, I stayed in place as they stopped on the opposite side of the trellis, clapping along with everyone else.
“How much longer, Father? The food and music are horrible.”
“One day, I hope you’ll get the idea of discretion through that fool head of yours.” Bartholomew glanced about.
Benjamin shrank back as he picked up agulab jamunand stuffed it in his mouth. Only I was close enough to see him wince before he forced a smile and swallowed it down.
I skirted the pillar and waded through the crowd while searching for Rohan. He was in a circle of friends, holding court and in the middle of a joke. It must have landed, since raucous laughter broke out, and they clapped each other on the back. He caught my eye and excused himself.
“Enjoying the party?” he asked.
“Quite. I don’t remember the last time I enjoyed myself this much. And you?”
“It’s been difficult.” He smoothed his beautiful fingers along his facial hair.
