The Sandalwood Tree Read Free Page A

packet out of its hiding place, blew the dust from its crevices, then laid it on the kitchen table and pulled the ribbon loose. When I opened the first sheet, the folds seemed almost to creak with age. Gently now, I smoothed the fragile paper out on the table and it crackled faintly. It was ancient and brittle, the edges wavy and water-stained. It was a letter written on thin, grainy parchment, and feminine handwriting rose and swooped across the page with sharp peaks and curling flourishes. The writing was in English, and the way it had been concealed in the wall hinted at Victorian intrigue.
    I slipped into a chair to read.

from … Adela Winfield …
… Yorkshire … Engl …
September 1855
    Dear Felicity
,
                       … wrenched my heart to say goodbye …
    … dangerous voyage …                           … storms at sea …
    … Mother persists in … … these men …                  … vile cretins all …
    … miss you terribly …
             sister … joy
             Adela
    D ecades of damp had ruined most of the page. I glanced at the date, thinking, my God, this thing is almost a hundred years old. And those names—Felicity and Adela—how charmingly Victorian. From the sound of it, Felicity lived in India (in this bungalow?) and Adela had written from England.
    I shot a quick glance over my shoulder then smiled at my ownsilliness. It would make no difference to Martin or anyone else if they found me reading an old letter. It was that hole in the brick wall and the way the letters had been hidden that made me feel like a pirate with illicit booty.
    But I was alone. Habib hadn’t yet arrived to start dinner and Rashmi was outside, gossiping with an itinerant box-wallah in the godowns. I listened, and only Billy’s innocent voice broke the house’s deep silence. Billy—five years old then, and full of ginger—was carting Spike around the verandah in his red Flyer wagon.
    Spike, a stuffed dog dressed in cowboy gear, had been a gift for Billy’s fifth birthday in lieu of the real puppy he’d wanted. Pets had been forbidden in our Chicago apartment and Spike was a compromise. Martin and I splurged on the finest toy dog we could find—a pert Yorkshire terrier with uncanny glass eyes and a black felt cowboy hat. He was snappily clad in a red plaid shirt and blue denim jeans, and he wore four pointy-toed boots of tooled leather. Billy adored him.
    But in Masoorla, the rootin’, tootin’ cowboy had come to represent the easy American life we’d taken Billy away from, and I couldn’t look at it without a twinge of guilt. India had turned out to be lonely—believe me, you don’t expect that in a country with almost half a billion people—and Spike was Billy’s only friend. He talked to the toy as if it was a real dog, and Martin worried whether that was entirely healthy. But I wouldn’t have taken Spike away, even if I’d known the trouble the toy was going to cause later.
    I unfolded another page rescued from the wall; it was a water-stained drawing of a woman in a split skirt and pith helmet astride a horse. Martin had told me that Englishwomen rode sidesaddle in the 1800s, and I wondered whether this was some sort of cartoon, or was this woman, perhaps, one of those outrageous few who flouted society? I studied the drawing. She had a young face, thin and plain, and she smiled as if she knew something the rest of us didn’t. She held the reins with easy confidence. The brim of hertopee shaded her eyes, and only her knowing smile, her lifted chin, and that bold costume hinted at her personality. I unfolded a few more pages, all letters bearing different degrees of damage, but I made out a phrase here and there.
    From … … Ad … Winfield
… shire … England
September 1855
    Dear Felicity
,
    … last night …                                    …a chinless little man