9308-3953

The Khajuraho Temple
11:05 AM
“It is tea,” Miss Hoffman was saying, holding out a cup. “Cured locally and thus
perhaps not entirely as you expect it to taste, but tea nonetheless.”
Geraldine accepted the offering, noting that while the china on the tray was fine – and the
tray itself was silver and surprisingly well polished – none of the cups matched. The orphanage is
full of casts offs, she thought. Things as well as people. Mrs. Tucker had explained to her that travel
in India was so difficult that when a family received a post to a new station they would generally
leave everything they owned behind them and purchase new items when they arrived. The result was
presumably an abandoned trail of furniture, clothing, and niceties left all over India, some of which
had apparently ended up piecemeal at the girls’ school.
“And do put your feet on this stool, my dear,” Miss Hoffman added, as she handed a cup
to Emma. They had all four reconvened on the portico for their refreshment, which had been served
by a silent young girl with honey-colored skin and blue eyes.
“I know,” Emma murmured. “Scorpions and snakes. The twin curse of the
subcontinent. They venture even here, into the temple?”
“Especially here in the temple,” said Miss Hoffman. “They crave the coolness of the
tiles, just as we do.” She looked archly at Trevor as she passed him the last teacup. “I saw you
making note of our Catherine’s unique coloring, Detective. Quite striking, is she not?”
“Lovely,” Trevor said.
Miss Hoffman settled back in her seat. “Half breeds often are. One of the reasons I
shied at Miss Bainbridge’s use of the word ‘orphanage’ is that the majority of our girls are not
orphans, at least not in the literal sense of the word. In most cases one of their parents, or sometimes
both, is still alive. The unfortunate truth is that many British officers take Indian wives for the
duration of their service here. A handful of paperwork is produced and sometimes there is even a
ceremony which the women do not understand. But the men generally never intended to bring their
dark-skinned, barefooted consorts back to England, and when their tour of duty is over they simply
abandon them. I have heard of cases of women and children literally left wailing on the dock as the
men they depended on sailed out of sight. It is a problem the Raj is loathe to admit. The women are
disgraced, sometimes to the point where they take their own lives, the native culture being peculiarly
unsympathetic toward females who have lost their men. The offspring of these sham unions, if they
are lucky, end up in a place like this.”
“And what becomes of these children as they grow?” Geraldine asked.
Miss Hoffman shrugged and placed her teacup on a bright tile table. “It depends on the
particulars of the girl. Catherine, as you noticed, is quite fair, which bodes well for her chances. We
introduce them about, sometimes manage to marry them off to the junior officers. The younger,
randier men who might be willing to ignore a bit of Indian blood if the girl has been raised to British
standards. For others, we try to educate them well enough that they might become nannies, nurses,
that sort of thing. It is a source of status among the Raj to have light-skinned servants.”
`
“You say ‘we try,’” Geraldine said. “Who is this ‘we’?”
“I suppose it is more accurate to say that I try,” admitted Miss Hoffman. “The school
enjoys a few regular patrons, monies which come in anonymously. We are not a fashionable cause,
but I daresay there are some in Bombay who are prompted by conscience to keep a roof over our
heads.”