“Then you boys had better go,” said Aunt Harriet. “You mustn’t be late for Colonel Lomond.”
“We’re off,” said Charlie.
—
It was time to have a man-to-man talk. And since they had ten minutes alone in the cab, Charlie decided to do it now.
“Do you know what’s wrong with you, Trader?”
“Tell me.” Trader managed a half-smile.
“You’re a good friend. I’d trust you with my life. But you’re a moody fellow. Look at you today. All you have to do is observe and enjoy.”
“I know.”
“But it’s deeper than that. Your trouble is that you’re never satisfied. Whatever you’ve got, you always dream of more.”
“This may be true.”
“I mean, you were orphaned, which was damn bad luck. But not the end of the world. You went to a decent school. You were left a tidy bit of money. You’ve got me for a friend. We’re in Rattrays, which is one of the best agency houses in India. And though you don’t seem to believe it, you’re a handsome devil, and half the women in Calcutta are in love with you. What more do you want?”
“I don’t know, Charlie,” his friend confessed. “Tell me about this Colonel Lomond we’re to meet. He has a family?”
“A wife. I call on her occasionally. You know, politeness and all that. Gracious lady. His son’s in the army, bit older than us. He has a daughter. Met her once or twice at the house. Quite handsome.” Charlie smiled. “But I keep a distance. The colonel wouldn’t like it if I got too pally.”
“Because he’s an aristocrat.”
“Old Scottish family. Older brother in the ancestral castle—you know the sort of thing.”
“And we’re merchants, Charlie. Tradesmen, dirt beneath his feet.”
“He treats me all right.”
“That’s because your father went to school with him.” The dark-haired young man paused, and when his friend didn’t reply, he continued: “You know what annoys me, Charlie?”
“What?”
“Men like Lomond look down on us because we’re in business. But what’s the British Empire? A huge trading enterprise. Always has been. Who runs India? The East India Company. Who owns the army here? The East India Company. All right, the company nowadays is the British government in all but name, and much of the trade’s in the hands of independent merchants like us. But the fact remains, the purpose of the army, in which Colonel Lomond and his class are officers, the reason for its existence, is to protect the trade. You and me. No merchants, no army.”
“You’re not going to say that to him, are you?” Charlie asked nervously.
“I might.” Trader looked at him grimly, then smiled. “Don’t worry.”
Charlie pursed his lips, shook his head, and returned to his theme. “Why can’t you just play the game, John? The way things are, you and I have been dealt a pretty good hand. My father spent his life working for the East India Company and retired with a decent fortune, you know. He’s got a big house in Bath. Our next-door neighbor’s a major-general. Jolly old boy. Plays cards with my father. See what I mean? It’ll do for me.”
“It’s not to be sneezed at, Charlie.”
“But if I wanted more, here’s how the game works. I may get lucky at Rattrays, finish up with enough to buy an estate, set myself up as a landed gentleman. Happens all the time. My son might get into a good regiment and find himself a brother officer of one of the Lomonds.” Farley looked at his friend seriously. “That’s the game of the social classes, Trader, if you want to play it.”
“It takes a long time.”
“Couple of generations, that’s all. But you know what they say?” Charlie Farley leaned back and smiled. “Respectability…is just a matter of dates.”
—
As he entered the stern portals of the Bengal Military Club, John Trader felt all his gloom return. For a start, his black frock coat, suitable only for the cooler British climate—yet which the club’s dress code demanded that they wear—made him uncomfortably hot. And then, of course, there was the club itself.
The British were not yet rulers of all India, but they were masters of Bengal. And in Bengal’s great city of Calcutta, the evidence was everywhere. At the racetrack. At the golf links. And nowhere more surely than on the esplanade, where the great classical facade of the Bengal Military Club gazed down, in colonial splendor, at those who passed before its doors.
Who were these passersby? Why, Indians and Anglo-Indians, of course, but British persons, too: merchants, tradesmen, the middle classes and below—all those, that is, who did not rule, but worked.
For the members of the Bengal Military Club were rulers. Army officers, judges, administrators of the British Empire, successors to imperial Rome—or so they saw themselves. Like the Roman senators they emulated, these warriors and landowners despised both the professions and, above all, tradesmen.
Colonel Lomond was already awaiting them in the big, airy lobby, from whose walls pictures of statesmen and generals stared down upon John, crushingly. He found himself marched into the dining room immediately.
—
The white linen tablecloth was starched, stiff as a board. Georgian silver, Wedgwood plates, heavy crystal glasses. Sherry served with the soup, to begin. French food might be in fashion, but the colonel disliked it, so honest beef was served with cabbage and potatoes, grown locally in British-run market gardens. The wine was excellent. In short, they might have been at a club in the heart of London.
As for Colonel Lomond himself, he was in uniform that day, a handsome scarlet tunic and black trousers. He was tall, slim; his thinning hair was still dark. His eyebrows turned up at the ends so that he looked like a noble hawk. He was every inch the Scottish chief.
It was clear that he was quite determined to be friendly to young Farley, whom he addressed as “my boy,” referring to Mr. Farley senior, now residing in Bath, as “your dear father.”
“I had a letter from your dear father. He says
