Challenge 7
Genre: Romance
Rating: G-T
Likes: Historical society-influenced romance. (i.e. Jane Austen's Novel concerning the British society)
Dislikes: Any questionable scenes and too "good" personalities in characters.
3 Quotes/Phrases: "If I have done anything improper, please refrain from telling me." "Red Roses are the true sign of love" "Never say I can't do something, because you will be proven wrong."

one.

There were several things George did not like about India.

One of the things that bothered him the worst was the smell.

India did not have merely one smell. It was a mad assortment of smells- curry, cow, cow dung, body odor, urine, feces, incense, roses, marigolds, jasmine, tea and hot.

It always smelled like hot.

George pondered this statement and briefly noted that his education had gone to the dogs ever since he had joined the merchants in the East India Trading Company.

An education at Eaton- among the Queen’s sons for Christ’s sake- had apparently not left any lasting impression on his mind if he was going to use an adjective in place of a noun.

Pity. And he had always thought grammar was his strong suit.

George sighed and wrinkling his nose at the emaciated Indian man grinning at him from beside his family cow, pushed through the throng of people to try and find his way back to the bungalow which served as headquarters.

Carpet makers and opium dealers shouted at him in Sanskrit to buy their goods. George ignored them, knowing that if he even glanced at them, they would take it as an opening and cling on to him desperately, hoping for a gullible Englishman to rip off, providing a week’s worth food for their family.

Dark brown faces with large red dots in the center of their foreheads were all around him. There’s wasn’t a white face as far as his eye could see, which was odd considering he was at Goa, a docking port for the Company. Maybe there was a meeting which he was missing. Typical. None of the other sailors or merchants ever bothered to tell him the important stuff.

A man-driven cart flew past him at an incredible pace. George marveled at the speed at which the Indian man’s legs kicked up the dust, to the disgruntlement of many of the people in the market. Yellow now joined the assortment of colors that accosted George’s eyesight, and stale earth now joined the smells bombarding his nose.

Uh-oh.

He tried to hide his face in his shirt, but it was useless. The dust had entered his nose.

He sneezed, and although the noise of the marketplace muffled the noise, the people around him noticed.

“Oh, Englishman, I have remedy for you! You sneeze no more! Come come, I have special tea! Good medicine!”

“No, no, Englishman, you no health sick! You love sick! Someone is thinking of you!”

They grabbed at his shirt, hauling him this way and that. And those were the only two men in the market that were speaking any English.

The rest were yelling in Hindi and Sanskrit, tugging at his shirt, gesturing with their hands, yellow teeth and fetid curry breath barraging poor George’s nose.

His voice came out squeaky. “No, no thank you, I’m quite fine, quite fine!”

The men who spoke English laughed loudly.

“No, you no fine English sahib.You sneeze! This means you ill! You need tea!”

“No, no, you need love potion! Come, come, I give you love potion!”

The people in the market began to look over at the commotion and laugh. George tugged himself out of the firm grips of the market goers and retreated as quickly as possible.

He found himself wandering out of the market and onto the streets that led to the houses. George recognize one of the houses and realized that he was taking the right path to the headquarters. He sighed gratefully and quickened his steps, glancing over his shoulder to make sure nobody was following him.

Seeing that nobody was, he turned his forward once more and ran straight into a honeysuckle bush and sneezed once more.

He hastily extracted himself, propriety solidly forgotten, streaming curses and flailing at the angry bees that swarmed around his hands and arms, eager for a different tasting human.

Oh God. How he hated India.

-

There were also several things that George did not like about the sea.

One of them was the monotony of the tumultuous blue waves crashing against the wood of the ship. One could occasionally see dark grey fins pop out ominously above the water, or strange animal eyes peering curiously and ominously up at a human face.

But really, that kind of thing got old.

George sighed several times out loud on his way back to England.

One of the angrier sailors on board (a grimy, stout fellow with an eye patch and a stump for a leg) growled at him.

“What’re ye sighin’ abou’ nancy boy?”

The sailor, who’s name was Don, flailed around his one stump threateningly. George raised an eyebrow before remembering that etiquette demanded that he not mock the incapacitated. He then covered his facial slip with a cough and said, “Nothing, not a thing. I’m so sorry to bother you with my sighing.”

Don growled at him.

“Tha’ be righ’ nancy boy. I’m awatching ye. Best stop sighin’ aroun’ and get yer arse ter work. Arrr.”

George really thought the last comment a bit unnecessary.

Nodding meekly to Don he set off for the other side of the ship where he hoped he cough sigh at the dullness of the sea in peace, and dream of the warm, hearty meals his mother would prepare for him when he got home.

He was disappointed. A couple of sailors closer to his own age and Rajeep, the Indian youth who was coming with them to England (“For ed-u-ca-shun, sahib, ed-u-ca-shun”) stood around, laughing merrily, ignoring their duties.

Rajeep, who had taken a special liking to George, lit up when he saw him approach.

“Oh, Thackeray sahib! Come to join us, please come to join us. We tell funny, funny jokes about funny, funny women.”

George forced a smile and nodded in acknowledgement to Rajeep and the sailors.

Deciding that he had absolutely nothing else better to do with his time, George stood by MacFadden, one of the more educated sailors whom George got along with more easily than the rest.

Horace, a particularly unsavory character, leered at Rajeep. “Your turn, Raju. Tell us about’em Indian broods.”

Rajeep rubbed his hands together excitedly. George pitied him. The sailors were not particularly blunt with stating what their tales about women were about. He was quite sure Rajeep hadn’t understood “the hidden messages.”

“Okay, English sahib, I will tell you a story about my sister.”

There was a roar of raucous laughter from everyone, George not included.

Rajeep nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes, yes, she very funny girl, very funny. One day, she making curry in the kitchen with the servants. Always, always, very important for lady of house to know how to make curry in the kitchen with the servants. Very, very important. So, she goes to kitchen to make curry, but then, when the curry come out, it so gross! Not even the cows could eat it!”

Rajeep clapped his hands together and laughed joyously. All the other men were stone silent, staring at him in bored disbelief.

Judging by his culinary-related selection, the sailors had probably chosen to cover select vulgar terms with those associated with food instead.

He gave Rajeep a small smile of pity when Rajeep finally realized that nobody else was laughing.

Horace turned boredly to George.

“Alright then Thackeray, your turn.”

George blushed, stupidly. He wasn’t a particularly adventurous man when it came to that subject. He liked women of virtue like Penelope, Juliet or Isolde. He didn’t go out at night like these men looking for an easy prostitute.

George shook his head, trying to regain his honor in the face of the sailors.

“Oh, I haven’t got any, I’m afraid.”

The sailors laughed at him, frighteningly, in perfect unison. MacFadden, from beside him, nudged his arm.

“Sure you haven’t got anything to tell us Thackeray?”

George shook his head, suddenly dwarfed and intimidated by the greasy sailors, all leering at him, eager for an obscene story.

“No. None.”

The sailors all looked at him and then laughed harder, again in unison. A virgin was a lot funnier than the most lascivious man to them.

George looked at his shoes, ashamed for a reason he shouldn’t have been.

He then sighed again, realizing that his shoes were blue.

-

Despite the fact that George would never hesitate to admit his wholehearted fealty to his motherland of England, there were still several things that he did not like about London.

One of these things happened to be the smell.

When he got off the ship with the stench of the sea in his hair, clothes and sweat, it did not mask the smell of the dirtier, less affluent dwellers of his favorite city.

At least, George sighed to himself, it did not smell like cow.

When he was in the carriage by himself, riding to his home, sweet home, and when he was quite sure that no passerby would happen to see his lack of propriety, he stuck his head outside the carriage window, hoping to savor the fresh smells of the countryside.

He was sadly disappointed when a horse grazing nearby looked him straight in the eye and dropped its morning oats.

George wrinkled his nose and sighed, reeling his head back in to smell the stifling, stale scent of the sea still upon his clothes.

But when he finally reached his home, sweet home, George smelled something wonderful.

George smelled roast beef. By God, he hadn’t smelled a dead cow in over two years. His nose delighted, tears coming to his eyes, the hungers in his heart and in his stomach fully awakened, he rushed up the steps to his house, propriety forgotten.

“Master George!” cried Francis the chief of servants.

“Francis!” George cried back, delighted. “How have you been old boy?”

“We’ve been fine here at home, all cozy in warm, safe on land in merry old England! But you my boy, out in India! How are you?!”

George grinned. “I am ever so happy to be home. Ever so.”

Francis smiled his kind, time-etched smile at him. “And home is happy to have you.”

They stood there, awkwardly for a moment, smiling, content to know that all was well in their own little world on the border of London and Surrey.

Francis broke the amicable silence. “You best be going in Master George. Your mother’s been waiting too long for you.”

George gave Francis one last smile before taking the back route around the house, to visit the horses (Georgiana and Benjamin) and to visit his mother, most likely screaming at the cooks in the kitchen.

-

George’s mother was, in fact, in the kitchen like he had predicted. She was not, however, screaming at the cooks.

George’s mother was instead monitoring the new servant girl (who’s name was Elisabeth) from over her shoulder when George entered the kitchen, letting the door bang behind him a bit louder than necessary.

The effect was astonishing.

“Georgie!” his mother shrieked.

“Master George!” the old, familiar cooks screamed in delight.

Before George could move to embrace his mother, his vision was marred by the graying hair of three middle-aged women: his mother, the head cook Petunia and the head housekeeper Rosalind.

“Oh George, my darling, my light, my son…” the words of his mother trailed off into bliss as she hugged George so tight he could hardly breathe, despite his sweat, dirty clothes that smelt of the sea.

“Master George!” Rosalind kept on chanting, wiping tears from her eyes. “Oh Master George, how we’ve missed you so…”

Petunia merely stood back after the initial hubbub and smiled placidly at him, also wiping tears from her eyes.

George thought them a bit ridiculous for crying.

“Really now mother, I’m quite alright, save the fact that I can barely breathe at the moment, there’s no need for all of these tears here…”

His mother, finally regaining her sensibility, let George go and stood back, surveying her son.

“Oh George, I’ve missed you so much. We’ve all missed you so much. Your father, Edward and Rupert, your aunts and uncles and your cousin Lydia...it’s been too long, too long…”

She trailed off, but George just smiled at his mother, so content to be at home.

“I’m home now mother. And I will be for a very long time.”

His mother didn’t give him the smile that he had been hoping for immediately. It came after she surveyed him with her eyes, as if trying to tell him without speaking that there was something that he didn’t know, something he would dread.

But before this unsettling thought could really settle in, his mother gave him the smile he had been waiting for.

“Yes my son, yes. Have a bath, won’t you? And we’ll have dinner set in no time. You arrived earlier than expected, but as they say, the sooner the better.”

She gave him another smile, a genuine one, and then George waved to the cooks and the new maid and sped off to his room to scrub off the smells of the world no longer mysterious to him.

-

The rest of the evening was a complete blur of bliss, beef and wine. George felt so content he was tempted to take off his boots before he realized, with delight, that he wasn’t wearing any boots.

He was home. Safe and in civilized society, safe from curry spices and the color blue.

But then the table seemed to go silent and his parents smiled strangely at him.

“George my dearest…” his mother began.

“Yes, mother?”

“There’s a rather pressing matter at hand,” his father took over from him. “You see, the land that we do own is declining in value. The last drought devastated it and we haven’t yet quite recovered.”

George stopped chewing. His Eton education gave him an excellent premise for accurately guessing just where the conversation was going.

His mother spoke again. “I’m sure you remember Beatrice Waverly from the balls that you attended before you left for India?”

He remembered her vaguely. She was a dainty girl, who seemed to be constantly giggling. Her sister had a rather scandalous reputation and an ample figure, but none of her qualities seemed to have transferred to Beatrice. He remembered asking her for coffee once, at a ball held at her uncle’s estate.

He remembered because the coffee had made him ill the next day.

“Her family is going through a bit of a difficult spot, but Beatrice has a very handsome dowry for the man that marries her. Very handsome indeed…” his mother trailed off.

George trusted himself to speak, feeling cowardly, but not overpoweringly, for the way he could so easily give up the chance to find the love of his life.

“So you’d like me to…court Beatrice Waverly so that our family wealth may be assured?”

His father looked down at his plate for a moment.

“Well George, we’ve already done that for you. You are to publicly announce your engagement in three weeks time, but the matter has been settled between our two families.”

George stopped breathing for a moment.

Damn. He didn’t even get the chance to chase.

The spoiled, naïve, innocent part of him begged him to ask, quietly, “But what about love?”

His mother and father both burst out laughing.

“Oh darling!” his mother said. “Everyone knows love comes after marriage.”

True. Too true.

-

A belated entry. But hey, better late than never.