Chapter 17 #2
How unusual, I thought, to inquire about a person that way.
How perceptive and curious. And that was how the first interview began, his words cracking open a dam I’d been holding up for so long.
I detailed all that had enthralled me for the past few months, from the death of Queen Victoria and the ascension of King Edward to the throne, to the architecture and art on display at the Glasgow International Exhibition and everything in between.
I hadn’t let anyone close enough to me to speak freely in years, and yet this stranger had excavated what I’d hidden away with a simple question imbued with tenderness.
The conversation flowed as the crowd streamed around us. No sooner had I told him of my work with the repatriated to Africa than he followed up with a question about the clashes among the different ethnic groups who made their home in Sierra Leone.
His intellect was astonishing.
“You’ve seen so much of the world for such a young, beautiful lady,” he observed.
“I’ve found there is always more left to see.”
“And you have been in some dangerous places,” he added. “Were you not afraid?”
I’d been born into danger. Death had given not only an escape but a guarantee that I couldn’t die, even if I could still be hurt. Still, I wanted to answer as honestly as I could. “At times . . .”
“‘Thus fear of danger is ten thousand times more terrifying than danger itself when apparent to the eyes; and we find the burden of anxiety greater, by much, than the evil which we are anxious about . . .’”
My eyes widened. “Robinson Crusoe . . .”
“You know it?”
“Of course.”
My curiosity kindled from a tiny candle flame to a roaring fire.
Soon, only Rohan and I were left by the seats, deep in a conversation about our travels and studies.
He quoted more books we’d both read and discussed the latest headlines in the newspaper about England’s pursuits abroad.
He seemed to love when I disagreed with him.
Barbara made her way back to us. “Arden, would you like me to have some refreshments wrapped up for you both?”
Rohan looked about us, startled, surprised at how much time had passed.
He stepped back. “I should let you get back to your evening. Though, if I may be so bold, there’s another talk tomorrow afternoon with more representatives from the East India Association.
Perhaps afterward, we could share more, possibly a meal? ”
It took only a moment to think it through. I would not take an interest in Rohan’s heart. My own was too broken. But his mind . . . that was something else. “I’d be delighted to—in a professional way, of course.”
He smiled, teeth strong and white. “Then I shall look forward to it,” he said before giving me the address.
I said my goodbyes and departed into the deepening night. Though the chill and dense fog crept in, the flame of a new connection kept me warm on the short trip home. Maybe a true friend was what I needed to pass the time.
The atmosphere of the meeting was miles different from the lecture I’d attended the night before, the diversity notable from the start: Men and women of all hues, ethnicities, and dress made up the audience.
They spoke on themes similar to those from the previous day’s program, espousing the ideals of opportunity and freedom.
A petite woman dressed in a yellow sari spoke of the need to educate young girls, while another man spoke of the need to move the civil service tests to India rather than London, thus decentralizing power.
Each person spoke eloquently about the world and what action was needed to make change possible.
Rohan presided over it all with aplomb. He called the speakers up and then, after about an hour and a half, opened the floor for questions.
He called on folks from the audience. “Ah! Mr. Boudreaux. Good to see you again. What’s your question.”
My head snapped up at the name. Boudreaux? I thought of Jacques, though it had been decades since he’d last entered my mind. So much time had passed, and we were so far from the American South. Surely this man was no relation. I craned my neck to see.
A young man with blond hair and broad shoulders stood.
“With cotton production still down in the US, what opportunities can you see for American investment?”
It was a fine question, but I couldn’t even hear the answer; I was more focused on the speaker. Likely in his late teens or early twenties, he spoke in a firm and smooth voice, his accent distinctly American. If he was related to Jacques, he appeared young enough to be his great-great-grandson.
I was stunned, thrown into both the past and denial. Boudreaux was a common enough name. Wasn’t it? Jacques’s family plantation produced sugarcane, not cotton. Surely this was merely a coincidence.
And yet, what were the chances he’d be here if he was related to Jacques?
Was the world really that small?
At the end of my long life, would it all lead me back to the very beginning?
The meeting ended, and everyone rose to their feet, the chatter in the room rising.
As I peered closer at the young Mr. Boudreaux, I couldn’t help but notice the similarities to Jacques—the way he held himself and moved across the room felt familiar.
There was no question when I saw him from the front: His face and storm-blue eyes matched my long-ago lover’s.
I hovered closer, not brave enough to approach, for what would I say? Hello, young man! Do you have a great-grandfather named Jacques? Madness.
The smart move would be to stay back and away, not allowing a past life to collide with this one. Rohan stood near the lectern, speaking with the man about the civil service test. I could’ve waited for him, pretending to have never seen the boy, and been on my way.
But a feeling held me in place, a ping of intuition I couldn’t ignore.
When young Mr. Boudreaux glanced about the room, his smile slipped as if he were wearing a mask—something was off. He stood near an alcove with another short, young white-skinned man, a cluster of acne marching up the smaller boy’s cheeks, his hair thick with pomade, eyes scanning the crowd.
I moved closer as if drawn forward, their conversation floating back to me. I feigned interest in a pamphlet, ears on high alert.
“So, tell me about the plan.”
Plan? I stopped, careful to stay several steps back, then sat behind them, eavesdropping. My curiosity quickly evolved from interest into alarm.
The Boudreaux boy laughed, his manner shockingly familiar. He leaned closer, flicking his friend playfully on the shoulder. “My father says it will be simple. No one has business sense like us Americans, right? The savages will never see it coming.”
Savages? My stomach wobbled at the smirk on his face. Who wouldn’t see what coming?
“Are you all right?”
I jumped.
Rohan gazed down at me, concerned.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I said, fanning myself with the pamphlet. I glanced back, but the Boudreaux boy was already making his way down the hall, friend in tow.
“I wanted to ask—that boy there, who asked the question about Americans and cotton. Do you know him?”
“That’s Benjamin Boudreaux, an American here for schooling. His father, Bartholomew, is working on a deal with my uncle’s trading house. Why?”
“I . . . um . . . believe I knew some of his family . . . once upon a time.”
Rohan brightened. “What a coincidence. Shall we make introductions?”
“No!” I said, my gut queasy. How would I even go about explaining? “I mean—it’s not necessary. He’s halfway out the door, and it is such a small world, you know. I’m sure I’ll run across him at some point. We should get going before it’s dark out.”
“Let’s be off, then,” Rohan said, extending his arm. I took it, and we headed in the opposite direction, but my mind was still thinking of the blond boy with links to my past.
“What is that?” I asked as he spooned powder into a cup.
“We call it chai, while you may call it tea.” He filled the cup, the steaming liquid swirling, specks of spices throughout, and handed it to me.
We were in a quaint Indian tea shop on Brick Lane, not far from where he lived, the atmosphere cozy in a way that I didn’t know I longed for, the patrons of all hues.
We blended in, taking a table in the corner.
It was a relief not to stick out for once.
The feeling reminded me of Freetown and Constantinople.
“So, tell me about yourself.” I leaned back comfortably and blew on the hot cup, the scents of cinnamon, cloves, and honey in the chai rising.
“I daresay there isn’t much to share,” he said. “I work in my uncle’s trading company. I support the East India Association with talks and advocate for new arrivals. My father died when I was young, and his brother took me in, giving me a role in the business.”
I sipped the fragrant, delicious liquid. “It must be a powerful feeling, having a family to support you. I’ve been on my own since I was young.” That bit of truth felt safe to share.
“I am lucky. My uncle’s been a great mentor. He has enough ambition for himself and all of India. He talks of running for Parliament here and also back home. He travels between the two often. I enjoy the work and supporting the cause, so my life is now the business.”
“And what exactly is your business?” Knowing he worked with Jacques’s family piqued my interest. Living as long as I had, I was beginning to understand the threads of my former lives were bound to cross at some point.
Could the plan Benjamin referred to have something to do with Rohan and his family business?
It was too early to ask those sorts of questions.
“Agriculture and some industry. Our main export is cotton, with other crops from Gujarat shipped here for processing.”