1850: Duchess of Mallard
Copy of a letter to her aunt, in her own hand
If this letter finds you surprised, I hope it finds you glad as well; for never in my life have I felt so light, so entirely my own creature, as I do now in this extraordinary corner of the world we were once taught to fear. It is best to say it plainly from the beginning so that no mystery clouds it: I have left the Duke.
I have taken leave of Mallard House, those draughty corridors of duty, and of the hollow glitter that once seemed the crown of our sex’s ambition. I have left the dinners that resembled coronations without joy, the endless talk of lineage, the smiles bought at such appalling expense. And most liberating of all, I have escaped the husband whose tenderness was reserved for beasts and boots in equal proportion. You may then understand why my past letters dwindled from politeness to silence. I write now only because the quiet of contentment at last permits words again.
Ah, but India!—the name itself seems to stir one’s pulse. I had heard it described as pestilent and strange, yet to me it is cleaner than Mayfair mornings. The sky expands like an answered question; the air smells of spice and rain and something I can only call permission. At dawn the mist glows as if backlit by some private divinity. With every breath, the weight of England drops away—the parlours, the muffled weather, the obedience. Everything here is awake.
You will smile to hear that my dearest Louisa is with me—yes, the clever milliner who once rescued my silly bonnets from mediocrity. It is she who taught me that invention and affection may share the same hand. Her gaiety has made all this possible. In our little house above the Mall, with its tangle of flowers and its balcony that looks out upon the green hills, there is an ease of spirit I had never believed could belong to flesh. We live simply, laugh often, and measure our days not by duty but by delight. I will not attempt moral defence of my happiness; happiness, once real, requires none.
As for the journey hither, it deserves a chapter all its own. From Southampton the voyage was one long baptism of air and salt. We dined among missionaries who spread their doctrine with as much starch as their linen, among clerks bound for Calcutta with dreams of empire, and one exquisite native merchant whose English owed more to Oxford than to trade. He amused the table by declaring that Britannia ruled the seas chiefly because she was afraid of dry land. For the first time I found I could speak freely, as a mind, not an accessory.
The train inland was a wonder. We rattled through jungles of impossible green, the windows wide, the dust alive, our clothes perfumed with distance. Along the way we met a noblewoman glittering in bangles, whose courtesy made my Mallard manners feel abrupt and provincial. Even the children at the halts shamed me with their quickness—laughing, bartering slices of guava, eyes bright as coins.
The final approach to Simla was pure theatre—steep cliffs, ponies huffing like old courtiers, and twilight settling in folds of silver. Women descended to the roadside, offering water with impeccable composure. There is in this land a grace unacquainted with artifice.
Do not think me fearless. There were moments of trembling—the first night at sea when the wind bullied the ship, a storm later that turned the plain into liquid light—but fear, I find, is the tuition for freedom. Each dawn here introduces a stranger who is yet myself. I am, at last, acquainted with her.
Set aside any talk of scandal. I have found not sin but sincerity, not danger but proportion. If solitude were all I sought, I might have hidden in some lesser place. Instead I have discovered immensity: sky enough to contain the past, and kindness enough to forgive it.
Tell those who inquire that I am safe, brown as a berry, happy as a leaf in full sun. For the rest, let their imaginations do what gossip never accomplished—make me interesting.
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