Rosemary Rogers - Surrender To Love

What a strange and almost startling thought. It must have been that and the chimes of the clock on top of the mahogany bookcase that made Alexa start upright in bed. Twelve. Somehow, she knew without counting how many times the same note had repeated itself. She was wide awake, all of a sudden, and she was hot and thirsty as well. The unfortunate young maid who started up almost as soon as the “English missy” did had no way of knowing at that moment, of course, that Alexa was also used to having her own way. Or that she had learned to speak both Tamil and Sinhalese, the major languages of the country, and was accustomed to getting into heated arguments with some of the young English officers who grinned and made comments like, “Alex has a way with the natives, all right. Can’t understand it.”

“Natives?” she would say, flaring up. “I suppose that’s how the Romans and the Danes and the Saxons and the French who invaded England referred to our ancestors! This is their country and we’re just visitors here—uninvited, I might add. And the civilization of the ‘natives’ of this island dates back to a time before Christ was born! You—we—all of us should be learning instead of trying to tear down in order to substitute…well look at us! Look at our clothes, look at…Have you ever wondered how primitive we must seem? As primitive, perhaps, as the barbarians who overran Rome, in the end.”

“Can’t stop Alexa when she gets on her soap box!” How it infuriated her when they wouldn’t listen, or did not want to listen perhaps, and would sometimes deliberately incite her into “laying down the law” as they called it.

But on the other hand, when it suited her Alexa could not only act but sound as imperious as any haughty English madam.

“I’m thirsty. I’ll have a very little of the wine, thank you. No fruit—I’m not hungry. And then I’d like a bath.”

“A…a bath now, Missy? With hot water brought up?”

Even in the dim light shed by two candles, Alexa could see the dismay on the girl’s face, making her relent slightly.

‘No, I don’t want hot water by any means; not in this heat. But isn’t there a bathing place here? Where do you go to bathe? In the hill country…”

The Sinhalese people made it a point to bathe at least once every day and sometimes more often if it was exceptionally hot. At a well, or a stream, or under a waterfall. Alexa looked questioningly at the pretty young woman who had to be close to her own age, and repeated her question in Sinhalese.

Understanding, the girl shook her head as she tried to explain. “Not here, Missy. There are only bath tubs and the Governor’s pool. But it has water from the sea, not fresh water. And this Governor and lady never use the Governor’s pool.”

Alexa flung aside the sheet that was supposed to cover her and swung her legs off the bed, stretching as she rose to her feet and pretending not to notice the amazement on the face of the young maid, who had obviously never seen an “English missy” naked before. “It sounds very inviting to me, at least,” she said pleasantly. “And while I drink some wine you must tell me about the pool. Is it quite private? Is it very close to the house? How long would it take for us to get there?”

Menika had been newly promoted from her hitherto lowly position of helping to make beds and fold linens, and her mother, who had served several former governors, had instructed her strictly as to what her duties were. She must obey orders, and she must never let her tongue chatter until she sounded like a mynah bird; also, she must remember that anything she heard or witnessed was never to be repeated. Did she understand? Never!

The girl understood well enough, as she always had. She knew very well too why her skin happened to be a much lighter shade of brown than her mother’s skin was—and why her eyes were hazel instead of being black. And also why her “father” was supposed to be dead. Sometimes she would wonder which Governor was her real father, and then push the thought away. Most likely he had been a guest. This Governor and his lady made sure that Menika attended only their women guests; but before there had been times when she had been obliged to lie with some drunken, bad-smelling Englishman who would use her body without any consideration before sending her away with a slap on her bottom and perhaps a few rupees, if he was sober enough to think of it. For as long as she could remember, Menika had always understood what life was and had accepted both its cruelties and its rewards. In her heart she was a Buddhist, although like her mother and the rest of the servants who served the English Governors who came and went at Queen’s House, she had to pretend she was a Christian convert in order to keep her position. It did not matter—the ritual she had learned to repeat parrot-fashion held no meaning for her. It was what people thought and believed inside themselves and how they lived their lives—never consciously harming any living being—that was all that really counted.

Usually, when she attended the Governor’s guests, Menika merely obeyed orders and answered questions as briefly as she could. She had never encountered a guest before who could speak her own language, or who was not ashamed of standing naked before a servant while she sipped wine and asked to be told more about the Governor’s pool.

“Oh, did you unpack for me? Thank you! I must find something cool to wear…” From one of the sandalwood-scented drawers Alexa took out her most comfortable costume—the camboy and brief, low-cut bodice of the Sinhalese peasant women. She could detect no change of expression in the face of the young servant woman who stood waiting respectfully for her next command. Menika. Yes, that was her name; she had heard Aunt Harry say it. A pretty name that meant “precious gem.” And Menika herself was pretty, and deserved more than a life of waiting on other people. But what other alternatives did she have either? I wish I could talk to her and find out how she feels and what she thinks, Alexa thought; but there was a barrier between them that had been put there by circumstances and a rigorously enforced system of etiquette and convention that bristled with rules and reminders of what was done and “simply not done.”

So instead of saying what she really wanted to say, Alexa walked to the opened windows and looked out, asking over her shoulder, “Is tonight the night of the full moon?”

“It is the night after the Poya, as the Buddhists call the night of a full moon.” Menika corrected herself quickly, hoping her slip had not been noticed. She had stolen a few minutes to visit a temple yesterday—Poya Day to the Buddhists—and even her mother knew nothing about it.

“My ayah is a Buddhist and I’ve gone with her to temple on Poya Day a few times,” Alexa said mildly. “Our temple has a pet cobra who likes milk, of all things! He’s really quite affectionate after you get to know him.” And then, so unexpectedly that she reminded a confused Menika of a striking cobra herself, Alexa went on to say brightly: “But of course an almost-full moon on such a clear night as this means that we should find our way to this bathing pool quite easily, don’t you think?” She added patiently, noticing the look of shock on Menika’s hitherto expressionless face, “The Governor’s pool that you were telling me about.”

“The missy is joking, surely?”

“I most certainly am not! I want to swim in the moonlight without any clothes on, like a pagan! And I can swim—very well indeed—so you need not be afraid that I will drown and they’ll blame you. Also…” Alexa sighed, “do you think as long as we are alone you could stop calling me missy and call me Alex, or Alexa instead? In any event, I must tell you that I am determined to go anyway, with or without your help, now that my mind is made up. Although I promise I’ll be very discreet and not get you into any trouble. Well?” And then: “Please?”