The Red Thread Read Online Free PDF

and Charlotte had curtsied to each in turn. She took in only a blur of green and gold robes, white organza, pretty eyes with a pink sarong , sallow skin, red hair and freckles, black curls on a bulky frame, and fragile paleness.
    The room was relatively cool, the shutters of the windows thrown open to catch the breeze. It was a high-ceilinged room of elegant proportions, entirely white, with pale yellow silk curtains. An unusual, low black table stood before the sofa; it had a shiny lacquered surface and stocky legs in square geometric shapes. A large round bowl of pure translucent white stood in the middle, filled with greenish–white jasmine flowers which imparted their faint sweet scent to the air. The sofa itself was a shape unlike anything Charlotte had seen, the back a series of undulating curves that scrolled outward at the arms. A long sideboard of glowing teak, carved with floral and vine motifs, stood against a wall. An English Georgian silver tea service stood on a side table with the pale green porcelain tea cups and saucers. Chased silver platters held small pastries. Two pretty young Javanese boys dressed in white cotton sarongs and short green jackets served. They wore green and white batik head scarves and had long, feathery eyelashes.
    Charlotte marvelled at the unexpected elegance of her surroundings and the extraordinary group of women seated around her.
    No more remarkable assembly than this could surely be gathered in any other drawing room in the world, Charlotte thought. She was glad she had come. Sipping her tea, she began to pay attention to the women gathered around her. Fair-haired and porcelain-skinned Charlotte Keaseberry was from Boston. She had met and married her English missionary husband in America. At first she had been excited by the prospect of serving God in heathen climes, but the heat had worn at her and, although by nature resolute, she secretly longed for the bracing air of New England. There were no children; she had miscarried twice.
    â€˜It is a common story in the tropics, my deah,’ she said laconically in her nasal Bostonian drawl, the slow deliberateness of which Charlotte liked. ‘One must live with it, the will of God but I admit, at times I question the purpose of these mysterious ways.’
    The older women nodded, but some of the younger ones looked startled and a little embarrassed. Mrs Keaseberry, whom they met infrequently, if at all, was a person of open and frank opinions.
    Dark and curly-haired Mrs Johannes van Heyde was of Dutch extraction, with liberal doses of Indian and Malay through her maternal grandparents. Mrs van Heyde always used her husband’s name. Her own first name was a mystery to everyone but her beloved. She spoke only broken English. She was more at home in Malay or Hindustani, she said through Takouhi, who translated.
    â€˜Malay,’ she said forcefully in English directly to Charlotte, ‘bes’ one.’
    â€˜True,’ said Takouhi nodding her head slightly. ‘Malay best for here. You go munshi. I help.’
    Charlotte nodded in return, although she had no idea what or who was munshi. She had started to learn Malay on the ship from England. Robert had told her how important it was. ‘English is fairly useless here except between white men. Malay is the lingua franca of the South Seas. Without it, nothing gets done.’
    He had arranged for a copy of Marsden’s Grammar to be sent to her. She had, to her surprise, found it easy, even familiar. There were faint echoes of the native language she had spoken in Madagascar. Now, listening to the ladies, she began to hear those distant rhythms.
    The van Heyde house traded extensively with Takouhi’s brother, Tigran, in all the multifarious merchandises of the South Sea islands. Of her eight children, only three had survived. Mrs van Heyde’s eyes had softened when Mrs Keaseberry spoke of lost children.
    The white organza clothed the plain-faced,