Page 62 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
The honesty of his words lay between us. He wanted time free of duty, and I wanted time to be known, fully known, by someone existing on this earth. Would it be so terrible if we were to comfort each other for a little while?
I said slowly, “Could we do simply that, then? Enjoy time together? Without promises or expectations?”
“You wouldn’t think me callous?”
“I’d think you are brave enough to ask for what you want and strong enough to share your feelings with me.” I traced the fine stitching on his chest with my fingertip. “You are also one of the most brilliant minds I have ever known.”
I shut the door behind him, then led him upstairs. That night we did more than lie together, enjoying each other’s warmth and company—forgetting our duty to the world and focusing on only each other.
Twenty
Our time together stretched for years as we made a life in Whitechapel, supporting others and their independence movements, helping with time and money.
Rohan took on more and more leadership within the association and trading house. His uncle was aware of me, and while he didn’t approve, he didn’t ask Rohan to change our relationship either.
I spent the time writing, documenting, and preparing for a meeting with Death. The population of the city continued to explode, and immigrants from Africa, the Caribbean, India, and all the British colonies trickled into London seeking jobs and opportunities. I’d been able to put my money to good use, funding aid for the new arrivals, and our home for orphans was almost ready.
I recorded the stories of their lives and migration to London, all hopeful, all seeking a better life. I interviewed lascars as they awaited return ships from England, detailing their hard work in steam engine rooms of blistering heat. I interviewed Black maids and ayahs, Indian nannies who cared for the children of the rich. Their lives found their way into what was rapidly growing into a book. It was a time of invention and advancement, technology accelerating the reach of commerce and comfort for the first time down to not just the noble class, but the working person.
I was content in Rohan’s companionship, his intellect tethering us to each other. Each day I wrote pieces forThe Daily TelegraphandThe Times, hoping they would be enough for Death. Each night, in the soft cocoon of our room, Rohan read to me, interpreting some of the important texts of Hinduism—books and stories I hadn’t known existed. They opened my mind to a new way of viewing the universe and my place in it. A way I would never otherwise have experienced.
One rainy evening, lost in a sea of bedsheets, our room alight with candle flame, he read from the Ramayana: “‘Ever since I have been separated from you, Sita, everything to me has become its very reverse. The fresh and tender leaves on the trees look like tongues of fire; nights appear as dreadful as the night of final dissolution and the moon scorches like the sun. Beds of lotuses are like so many spears planted on the ground, while rain-clouds pour boiling oil as it were. Those that were friendly before, have now become tormenting; the cool, soft and fragrant breezes are now like the hissing serpent. One’s agony is assuaged to some extent even by speaking of it, but to whom shall I speak about it? For there is no one who will understand. The reality about the chord of love that binds you and me, dear, is known to my heart alone; and my heart ever abides with you. Know this to be the essence of my love.’”
He caressed my face with each word and took my breath away. What beauty, what wonder we are capable of when we consider our lives in relation to others, in relation to the divine. Because of Rohan, my mind was alight with possibilities; new pathways opened in my soul.
We kissed then, intertwining our bodies and our souls in a way I had never known before.
Rohan came to me at Christmas in 1914 with the latest news. The winds of World War I that had begun to blow across Europe in July were steadily becoming stronger.
And I had unexpected news of my own.
He sat across from me, the bed creaking under him, and sighed. “My uncle says he wants to shut down the trading house.”
“Shut it down?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “After all you’ve done? Why?”
“He is scared of the day the war reaches here. He wants to return home to Bombay.”
The silence hung between us.
I’d read in the papers about the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand over the summer and the cascade it had set off in continental Europe. No one thought it would touch England at the time. I hadn’t ever considered leaving London in preparation.
“And what do you want?” I pressed a hand against my stomach, now anxious about my own news. I already knew his feelings on family and duty. I didn’t want to force his decision. If he wanted to go to India, I would not stop him.
“I want to stay with you and continue our work. I want to honor my family and do what is right.” He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. “I want both. But it is impossible.”
I took his hand in mine. “You have to follow your heart. There’s no other way.”
“We would not fit there,” he said, “but I can’t leave you, Arden. I will go and settle my uncle, then I will return to you. It will be three months in total. A month’s journey on either end. I’ll leave in one week.” He put his head in my lap. “Will you wait for me?”
Part of his words stung. We would not fit in Bombay. One would think I’d get used to notfittingsomewhere.
“You’ll be back in plenty of time to open the orphanage,” I assured him. “I’ll miss you, but I know this is temporary.”
He exhaled, a look of relief on his face. “You are an angel. Somehow I will manage it. I will give us the best of both worlds.”
I bent forward to kiss his temple.
Us.We.I wanted to believe that existed. Never more so than earlier that day, when I’d received word that that exclusive group would soon include one more person.
