The Nabob’s Daughter

Prologue and Chapters One to Three

Prologue

Madras 1799

Fear clutched the Honourable Benedict Tremayne, fifth son of Lord Hector and Lady Ariadne Tremayne, Earl, and Countess of Tresellion, while he waited for his wife to deliver their baby. His black hair dishevelled, his neckcloth disarranged, yet again he looked at the clock. Jane’s groaning in travail continued for thirty-six hours. Could she and their babe survive? He dreaded the worst outcome. Benedict struggled to dismiss the memory of his first wife, who died within hours of Sylvester, their son’s birth. Would God, fate, or even karma, a logical Hindu belief which interested him, be merciful and spare the lives of his second wife and their babe?

An oblong wooden frame attached to a rope, pulled by a servant from the outside of the wall, moved backward and forward. It did little to cool the unbearable heat of this season by day and by night, prior to sheets of monsoon rain poured from a dark blue-black sky. Benedict flung himself onto a chair, reached for the glass of claret on a table and gulped the contents. About to order a servant to refill it, he changed his mind. Overindulgence might lead to falling into a drunken stupor. Exhausted by anxiety, he leant back. His eyes closed. Memories drifted through his mind. He thought about his birthplace, Castle Tresellion, his family’s ancestral property built in Cornwall during William the Conqueror’s reign.

Benedict sighed. Should he have sent Jane to be cared for by his parents while he remained in Madras to manage his import-export business? She would have been comfortable in the granite castle situated above cliffs sloping down to the sandy bay, fringed by fisherman’s cottages at a safe distance from high tides whipped into frenzies by gale-force winds in winter. Benedict stiffened his spine. He never submitted to fear of death, even at sea during his perilous voyages to and from England. He must meet whatever lay ahead courageously. Only a fool believed death could be cheated. It occurred at the appointed time, regardless of the place.

He and Mrs de Lancy, Jane’s dear friend, who was staying with them to support his wife during labour, were reluctant to send the seven-year-olds Sylvester and Mrs. de Lancy’s son, Vivian, to England to be educated. Concerned friends advised them to because they believed life in India neither suited English children’s constitutions nor offered suitable education. “The boys,” they said, “should have been sent to England when they were five years old.” He sighed. Madras had a reputation for being healthy, but graveyards were crowded with the remains of the deceased.

Stalwart men, women and children could be struck down by a fever and die between breakfast and supper. Benedict’s chest heaved. He dreaded the day Sylvester, the proverbial apple of his eye, must go to England and study at Eton and Oxford. He shuddered at the thought of his cherished heir’s premature death here, at sea or in England. If the unthinkable happened, he needed another direct successor.

At fifteen, his father sent him to Madras to be employed as one of the East India Company’s writers. Neither of them anticipated his success. Grateful for the yield from a small but welcome private income, Benedict spent five years with scant remuneration for entering accounts in ledgers. Afterward, free to trade, he blossomed like a flame tree for ten years while he grasped every opportunity in the melting pot of trade, nationalities, cultures, and religions.

Benedict linked his hands across his flat stomach. Proud of his achievements, he looked around the large drawing room. He bought his first house in Fort St George, named to honour England’s patron saint. The property contained small rooms on the ground floor and large ones on the second. Beneath them were godowns, where he kept his stock for export and imported wares to be sold. Yet despite strong walls around the fort and cannons to protect residents, he owned an impressive mansion built to the west of St George, away from noisy, dusty streets. He had superintended the construction of Tremayne House, a classic three-storey mansion with a portico and twenty tall columns at the front. In fierce tropical sunshine, the building dazzled Benedict’s eyes whenever he returned home from business ventures. Whenever he saw the walls of his home covered with white plaster resembling marble, he could swear his heart swelled with pride. On the hottest days, he enjoyed sitting on one of three verandas shaded by roofs as he admired the extensive gardens. During unbearable heat, he retreated to cooler underground rooms.

In the large drawing room, Benedict tried to distract himself from his apprehension concerning his wife’s travail. He looked appreciatively at the Venetian blinds, wallpaper imported from China, mirrors, engravings, and paintings of the Madras Presidency. Proud of marquetry card tables and teak armchairs made by skilled Indian craftsmen, he tried to relax and banish his fear. Visitors admired the dining room, which contained polished teakwood furniture, silverware, and crystal. He had created a beautiful, comfortable home with teak floors and furniture instead of mahogany, which prevented voracious white ants from destroying everything in their path.

His guests praised the well-appointed bedchambers with mosquito nets lowered over the bedsteads at night. “And,” Mrs de Lancy had remarked, “the boys’ rooms are perfect.”

“Sylvester enjoys sharing them with Vivian,” Benedict commented. “But please tell me if you approve of the day and night nurseries for the baby? My unfortunate wife has been too sickly to be interested in them. Have I forgotten any necessities?”

“No. My compliments, Mr Tremayne. Nothing is lacking,” she assured him.

Benedict shifted on his chair. For how much longer must Jane endure torment? Would she survive? After such a long struggle, could she give birth to a live son or daughter?

Bates, his butler, a former soldier who limped due to a wound during his service in the East India Company’s army, knocked the door and opened it. “Mrs de Lancy,” he announced.

Marianne de Lancy trudged across the floor. Wisps of damp, fair curls clung around her forehead and face with dark circles beneath her eloquent grey eyes. Benedict stared at her. Unable to ask her for news for fear of it being disastrous, his breath caught in his throat.

“Congratulations. Jane is weak, but the baby is healthy.” With her hand pressed against the small of her back, she swayed.

Benedict sprang up. “Please sit down, Madam. Some Madeira wine to revive you?”

Marianne sank onto a chair. “Yes, please.”

Jane and the baby lived. Relief flooded him For the first time in his life, his knees buckled. He supported himself with his hands on the back of a chair.

Bates served wine. Marianne sipped some

“Mr Tremayne, there is something I must tell you in private,” she said.

Bates did not wait for instructions to leave the room.

Marianne moistened her tongue. “Mr Tremayne, your wife is very feeble,” she began hesitantly. She looked down at the wine in her crystal glass. “The baby’s head, which is very large, was the reason for the birth taking so long.”

Why did she tell him that? Women were usually coy about what happened in the privacy of the lying-in chamber. “I must see them.”

Colour filled Marianne’s pale cheeks. “There is something else I must tell you.”

One hand on the door handle, he paused. “What is it?” he asked, afraid the child was deformed.

Her hand shook. A few drops of wine fell onto her bloodstained apron. “I apologise for the indelicate message the midwife asked me to deliver.”

“What is it?” he repeated, impatient to leave.”

“Mrs Tremayne should…er…never quicken with another child.” Marianne’s hands trembled with obvious embarrassment and spilled more wine. “If she did, due to an injury sustained during her travail, it would be a miracle if she survived.”

Benedict pushed the implication out of his mind. “I beg your leave. I must congratulate my wife and meet our son.”

Gentlemen always want sons, Marianne thought.

Always interested in diverse cultures, Benedict had consulted Hindu and Muslim astrologers, who assured him he would have another son. Without waiting to hear what Mrs de Lancy would say, he shoved open the door and raced up the marble stairs to the second floor, where Sylvester and Vivian sat on a low divan.

His son’s blue eyes glittered. “Papa! Punj Ayah said if we are quiet, Mama Jane will give me a baby brother or sister.”The question why Sylvester always called his stepmother Mama Jane not Mama flitted through Benedict’s mind.

Vivian rumpled his curly black hair. “It’s taking a very long time,” he grumbled.

“And we are very hungry,” Sylvester complained.

Benedict looked at the disgruntled pair, annoyed because Punj Ayah deserted them. “Be patient. You can eat soon.”

He went to his wife’s bedchamber where the midwife faced him.

While Jane struggled to give birth, Benedict’s Hindu valet suggested he summon the old Tamil midwife famous for her skill. With a determined expression in her eyes, she pressed the palms of her hands together. “Memsahib must be sleeping.” she insisted.

The air tainted with the smell of blood, Benedict approached the large tent bed where Jane lay still as a dead woman, her face drained of colour. “My son?” he demanded in Tamil.

He looked at Punj Ayah, a widow who only spoke a little broken English, engaged to tend the baby, now seated on the floor beneath a window, her head modestly covered by the end of her white muslin sari. She pulled the thick rope attached to an oblong, ornately carved teak crib gently swinging backward and forward. After a few quick steps, he reached it and bent to gaze at the baby’s cherubic face with unblemished skin.

Someone tugged on the long sleeve of his comfortable, ankle-length cotton kurta with a small collar. He heard whispers, turned around, and saw his son and Vivian.

“Papa, will you love my brother more than you love me?” Sylvester asked.

He gazed at the child’s small, anxious face. “Love him more than you? Never.”

“Promise, Papa?”

“Yes, I am a gentleman, and gentlemen always keep their promises.”

Apprehension faded from Sylvester’s sapphire-blue eyes.

The midwife cackled. “Son? No! A daughter.”

A daughter!

Punj Ayah stood. The crib stilled. Since his son’s birth, he forgot how small newborn babies were. He peered at his daughter’s face, unmarked by her difficult birth. To him, her head looked tiny. The boys stood on the other side of the crib, staring at her. “Papa, she is very pretty.”

Something stirred in Benedict’s chest. My daughter is more than that. She is beautiful. He bent again and touched her hand. Her finger gripped his thumb. Gently, he uncoiled his precious babe’s finger and picked her up. Cradled in his arms, he forgot he had wanted another son.

“What is my sister’s name, Papa?”

“Call her Lily, sir. I like the name,” Vivian said.

Never did he imagine she would bring such joy. “I prefer Joyce because she brings joy. Sylvester and Vivian, you must always protect her.”

“Protect her, Papa?”

“Yes, look after her. Vow you will.”

Sylvester frowned. “Vow?”

“Promise,” Benedict explained.

Sylvester craned his neck to look down at Joyce. “I promise, Papa.”

And I vow to help him look after Joyce,” Vivian said, his dark eyes solemn, in a measured voice unusual for such a young boy.

* * *

Jane groaned and opened her eyes and saw Morwenna seated on a chair by her bed.

“Drink this, Memsahib,” the midwife said.

Thirsty, she gulped down the concoction of herbs to induce sleep.

She woke after eight hours aching from head to toe, and the pain where the midwife cut her to allow Joyce’s head to emerge was unbearable. “Make it stop!”

“What?” Morwenna asked.

“The servant’s baby who is crying. I have a headache. Tell her to take the wretched creature away,” Jane whimpered.

“Your daughter is crying,” Morwenna told her.

Jane winced and touched her stomach. “I don’t remember the birth.”

“You are confused because the midwife drugged you during her dreadful struggle to deliver your beautiful baby girl.”

Tears oozed down Jane’s ghost-white face. A daughter. Heaven help her! Benedict wanted another son. She could not bear the thought of again being with child and torment in labour.

“Do you want to see her?”

“No.”

“I know Mr Tremayne wanted a son, but he is delighted with your daughter. He named her Joyce.” Her smile fond, Marianne continued. “Sylvester and Vivian are entranced by her.”

Jane bit her lower lip so hard she drew blood. The midwife walked to the bed. Memsahib needing rest.”

“I’ll leave you for now, Jane. I shall return after I wash, change my clothes, and have something to eat and drink,” Marianne said.

Jane sobbed. She never wanted children and was glad her first marriage had been barren. When they were young, she and Benedict loved each other and wanted to marry but his father refused his consent. After her first husband and Benedict’s former wife died, during his only visit to England, he courted her, and their love burned more fiercely. Glad he already had a son, which meant he would not be disappointed because she did not conceive his child, on the day they married she was wreathed with roses and happiness.

She woke from another fitful sleep. Every part of her body still ached. Marianne sat on the chair by the bed, the baby in her arms. Jane shuddered and turned her head away.

“Congratulations. Your daughter is adorable. Shall I give her to you?”

The oldest of nine siblings, seven of them died in infancy leaving her unconsolable. Tears trickled down her cheeks. Death stalked babies and children. She would not, could not risk her heart. “No!” she exclaimed more forcibly than she intended.

“As you please.” Marianne smiled. “Your husband is impatient to see you. I shall tell him you are awake.”

The door opened. Her friend said something to Benedict, who strode to the bed. He bent over and clasped her hand. “Sylvester and Vivian have fallen as much in love with our daughter, Joyce , as I have. Thank you, sweetheart, for bringing me such happiness.”

Jane wanted all of Benedict’s love and devotion. Already jealous of her husband’s love for Sylvester, during the years after Joyce’s birth, she could not bear his deep love for his children and the attention he bestowed on them.

Chapter One

Madras, January 1802

Marianne de Lancy choked back her emotion as she gazed at Vivian in the drawing room at Tremayne House. The day she dreaded since her son’s birth nine years ago arrived. Today, he and his friend Sylvester would sail to England. Neither she nor Mr Tremayne could have borne parting with the children a younger age.

They received their education from a tutor, who prepared them to attend Eton College. He would take charge of them on the voyage to England and introduce them to Benedict’s parents.Vivian knelt in front of three-year-old Joyce. “Nearly time for me and your brother to say goodbye.”

Joyce’s eyes, bright blue like her father’s, gazed at him. “Will you come back?”

Marianne looked fondly at the little girl. If only Jane would soften toward her intelligent, young daughter whose command of the English language was impressive.

Vivian glanced from Sylvester to the thin child, small for her age. “Yes, we will.”

Tears rolled down Joyce’s cheeks. “No, no, no, don’t go.”

Bless the child. Marianne blinked to hold back her own tears.

“Joyce, stop your nonsense,” Jane ordered.

“You are too harsh,” Benedict said, a sharp edge to his voice. “Joyce loves the boys.”

Jane shrugged while Vivian spoke gently to her unwanted daughter.

Children should be cherished. Marianne could not understand why the woman, who she no longer considered a friend, was an unnatural mother.

Sylvester bent to wipe his half-sister’s tears away with his pocket kerchief. He shook his head in a silent pact to warn her not to annoy his stepmother.

“I have a present for you.” Vivian gave Joyce a silver heart suspended from a chain.

Her smile illuminated her lightly tanned face from which no trace of the lovely baby remained. She hugged him. “Thank you, it is beautiful.”

“I bought it from the shop you inherited from Papa,” Vivian explained to his mother.

Marrianne admired him. If her son had asked her, instead of paying for the gift with his small allowance, she would have given it to him. She blinked. Perchance, proud of their son, her late husband looked down from heaven. Her shoulders heaved. Yesterday evening, she heard Vivian’s bedtime prayers for the last time. On his return to Madras, he would be a young man responsible for his prayers.

“Mama.”

She looked down at her adored son’s face, with the last trace of infant chubbiness, and tousled his hair.

He squirmed and smoothed it with his hands. “Don’t be sad, Mama. I shall write to you every week.”

Marianne composed herself while Joyce tugged the hem of Vivian’s coat and held out his present. “Please put it around my neck.”

He stooped to oblige the little girl.

Marianne’s thoughts raced through her mind. With exceptional good luck, Vivian might reach England in four months, but most voyages took between six and eight. Depending on the conditions at sea, Vivian’s letters might not arrive for a year or more.

Bates approached her. “A chair, Madam?” He drew one forward.

“Thank you,” she replied, appreciative of the butler’s gentle indicating sympathy.

“If you will pardon me for saying so, the young gentlemen will be missed,” Bates said.

She sat, her head inclined toward the floor. Vivian, Sylvester, and their tutor would be in danger from pirates, storms, shipwrecks and fire on Mr Tremayne’s merchant ship, Sea Sprite. Marianne pressed a hand over her heart and struggled to be calm.

Even Mr Tremayne’s assurance about thirty-eight eighteen pounders on his ship to ward off attacks and that it would sail in convoy with the East India Company’s ships did not alleviate her fear.

Mr Tremayne, who persuaded her not to accompany them in a frail craft through tumultuous surf to the tall ship, would take Vivian and Sylvester on board and wish them a safe voyage.

“Mama.” Vivian stood in front of her and executed a perfect bow.

She must not embarrass him with an emotional farewell. “God bless you, my son,” she said, a hand on his head, although she longed to hug him.

“Mrs de Lancy.” Sylvester bowed. His vivid blue eyes like his father’s and his face bright with eager anticipation of the adventure ahead, he went outside with Vivian to the carriage behind which an oxcart was loaded with luggage.

Joyce broke free from her mother’s grasp and ran after them to the door. “Syl, Viv, come back. Please, please don’t go.”

The sound of the front door closing reached the drawing room. Jane caught hold of Joyce. “You are making my headache worse. If you don’t stop caterwauling, I’ll give you something to really cry about. Stop it! Sylvester is only your half-brother, and Vivian is merely his friend.”

Joyce tried to pull away from her and cried louder. Her mother raised her arm and slapped her hard across the right side of her face. Joyce screamed as a large diamond embedded in a gold ring cut her. Blood trickled down her cheek.

Shocked into silence, Joyce touched the wound while her mother gripped her shoulder.

“A glass of wine to mark the occasion of the young gentlemen’s departure, Mrs Tremayne?” Bates asked, his face impassive, pre-empting, Marianne who intended to intervene and comfort Joyce.

Jane nodded. He poured a glass of Madeira wine and gave her the crystal glass. She gulped the contents but still held onto her daughter.

“Mrs Tremayne, may I take Miss Joyce to her nursery where you won’t hear her crying?” Bates asked.

“An excellent suggestion,” Marianne said to the butler, who often found time to amuse Joyce and the boys. Several days ago, she watched him help them fly kites he helped them make, with Joyce clapping her hands, watching them soar high into the sky.

Shocked into silence, the little girl touched her face.

Bates stooped to pick her up.

Appalled by Jane’s cruelty, Marianne handed him her cambric kerchief with which he gently wiped the child’s face.

“Blow your nose, Miss Joyce.” Bates held the kerchief to it.

Joyce fingered her painful cheek and glared at her mother. “Papa told you not to hit me. When I tell him, he will be angry.”

Jane gasped. Bates hurried out of the room with Joyce’s head against his shoulder.

“Don’t frown at me, Marianne. I suppose you disapprove of me chastising my child for her own good,” Jane said. “At her age, my mother told me it is never too early for a little lady to understand excessive displays of sensibility are unacceptable. If I wailed like my wretched daughter, Mother would have beaten me with a cane. My husband overindulges her.”

“Yes, I disapprove. Who would not? There is no justification for the way you treat Joyce, or for your indifference to Sylvester. Previously, you were gentle and affectionate. Time has showed me it was a façade. You are cold, cruel and –”

“You don’t understand,” Jane broke in.

“I do. You are jealous of Mr Tremayne’s love of his children because you want all of it. You are a fool not to appreciate your situation. You have an admirable husband who gives you everything you ask for and a sweet daughter I love as if she were my own. No, don’t say another word,” she concluded and marched out of the room.

If it were not for her situation, Marianne would have boarded the ship with the boys. She stayed in Madras to conserve her inheritance, one of the largest emporiums in Fort St George which Mr Tremayne, her late husband’s close friend, helped her to manage. On her way to her bedchamber, she contemplated selling it and returning to England. Marianne shook her head. No, it would decrease the size of the inheritance, God willing, her son would benefit from. Another alternative was to leave Tremayne House. However, Joyce needed her love. How could she desert her? Besides, an English widow residing alone in India except for servants would lose her good name.

* * *

In the nursery, Bates sat Joyce on the floor beside the ayah. “Her mother slapped her because she cried when Sylvester and Vivian left,” he explained in hesitant Tamil.

“Memsahib Tremayne is a witch!” the elderly woman muttered in her own language and continued. ‘Missy Memsahib, be brave. I’ll clean your face.”

Joyce relished the description of her mama. While ayah’s gentle hands washed away the rest of the blood, Joyce thought about witches in fairy stories Papa told her and demonesses in Punj Ayah’s tales in which they were punished. She pressed a hand over her painful cheek. Perhaps the holy man could punish Mama. “Take me to Govinda Sadhu,” she ordered Punj Ayah.

Bates’s eyebrows rose. “To the man who lives beneath a tamarind tree near the river?”

“Yes,” Joyce said firmly, determined to visit the sadhu.” Mama resented his presence on the estate. She claimed he was dirty, although he bathed three times a day in a stream fed by a spring. Joyce was glad Papa refused to evict Govinda Sadhu. She liked the old man who did not go from house to house like other holy mendicants, his bowl in his hand, to beg for food. People respected him and took food to him. So did Punj Ayah, who sometimes allowed her to add to it.

“Wait patiently until your father returns after the boat sails for me to tell him you are…er…waiting for him.” Bates patted her on the head.

Alone with her ayah, Joyce watched her finger her necklace made from tiny wooden beads made from a tulasi bush Hindus considered sacred . “Take me to Govinda Sadhu,” Joyce repeated. The woman did not respond. Joyce screwed up her face and stamped her foot.

“No, no, Missy Memsahib, be good. Don’t have a temper tantrum. I’ll put balm on your poor cheek.” Her eyes widened. “I’ll take you to see him, but our visits must be secret. If Memsahib found out, she would send me away. We would never see each other again,” she said in Tamil.

Joyce, who spoke and understood the language flung herself into her dear ayah’s arms. What would she do without her?

* * *

Benedict waited on shore for the good ship Sea Sprite, its sails billowing, cross the horizon. He stepped into his carriage. Morose, he returned home. No one would fill the void left by Sylvester. Not even Joyce, regardless of her unique place in his heart. He wished his wife were not indifferent to her. Why, he asked himself yet again, does she lack the milk of human kindness Mrs de Lancy has in abundance? He appreciated the widow who treated Joyce like a beloved daughter. The lady was a very welcome addition to his household, and he was fond of her son. Benedict smiled, remembering Vivian’s farewell words. ‘I shall return to India one day and keep my promise to protect Joyce. While I am away, I will write to her.’

Sylvester had laughed. “Protect her from what? Papa will take good care of her.” He did not mention Jane, with whom he lived in a state of silent but armed neutrality while waiting for her to propel metaphorical cannon fire. Benedict sighed. Jane was still beautiful as she was on their wedding day. His hands tightened. On their wedding night he experienced her passion. He knew she resented their daughter’s birth because he no longer slept with her to avoid putting her life in jeopardy if she quickened with child. He pitied her and hoped she would never find out he fulfilled his needs with his mistress, who doted on him, and Lionel, their son. His upper lip curled. The astrologer’s prediction he would have another son after Sylvester’s birth was correct, but he had assumed the baby’s mother would be his wife. Did the many gods Hindus believed in enjoy tricking him?

A footman lowered the step and opened the carriage door. Perspiring in formal attire, he traced the line between his intricately arranged muslin neckcloth and high starched shirt collar. His cream, heavy silk waistcoat, a blue superfine coat, tight-fitting cream pantaloons, a beaver hat and kid gloves, he wore to escort his son and Vivian to the ship added to his discomfort. He would go straight to his dressing room and change into cool cotton garments.

Comfortable in a loose-fitting kurta and trousers, he entered the drawing room where Marianne stood, hands on her hips, in front of his ashen-faced wife seated on a chair. He cleared his throat. “Such gloom. Are you mourning Sylvester and Vivian’s departure to England or has someone died?” he asked trying tried to sound jocular as he gazed around the spacious room. “Have you nothing to say, Mrs Tremayne?”

The colour in his wife’s cheeks heightened. She looked from him to Marianne and back at him. She moistened her lips with her tongue. An action which always revealed she was frightened or nervous.

Bates entered the room. “Sir, I apologise for neglecting my duty. I should have waited by the front door to open it for you.”

His butler seemed flustered. “Where were you?” Benedict asked, his voice level.

Bates cleared his throat and looked up at the ceiling as though he hunted for an answer.

“Well?” Benedict exclaimed.

“With Miss Joyce, sir.”

Jane moaned.

His senses alert, Benedict spoke. “Why?”

Bates shifted his glance away from his mistress, who twisted her gold ring set with a large diamond around and around her finger. “With the utmost respect, sir, it is not for me to say.”

Terror seized Benedict. Since he took the boys and their tutor to board Sea Sprite, had Joyce been struck down by a deadly fever? No, if she were, Mrs de Lancy would be with her. “Bates, where is my daughter?”

“With her ayah in the nursery, sir.”

For the first time Benedict saw the former soldier ill at ease. He mopped the sweat caused by heat and sudden fear from his forehead as he hurried to see his daughter.

Where was Joyce? Where was her ayah? With a hollow sensation in his stomach, he gazed at a bloodstained cloth on the washstand beside a bowl and jug painted with foxgloves he imported from England. “Bates,” he shouted from the nursery threshold. The man climbed the stairs as fast as his limp allowed. “Where are Joyce and her nurse?”

“I think they are outdoors, sir.”

“Order the servants to search the grounds for them and bring them to me when they are found. And Bates.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Request my wife and Mrs de Lancy to wait in the drawing room until Joyce and her ayah join us.”

* * *

Bates carried tear-stained Joyce into the drawing room, Bendict stared at her crumpled gown and untidy hair. “Why are you so…grubby? Where were you? Lost?

“No, Papa, I went to see Govinda Sadhu.”

“Who lives under the tree?”

She nodded.

“Why?

“He is kind. I know he would never hurt me. I feel good with him.”

He stared at her face. “What cut your cheek?” he asked in a calm voice more deadly than a raised one. Afraid of her answer, his stomach lurched. As God is my witness, if she has been assaulted, I’ll kill the criminal.

His wife moaned as Joyce pointed at her. “Mama slapped me. The jewel in her ring cut me.”

He glared at his wife, who shrank against the back of her chair. “What! Why?”

“Because–” his wife began.

“I did not ask you. I asked Joyce.” As though struck by a sudden bolt of lightning his wife’s beauty repelled him. Shocked, he understood ever since their meeting years ago he mistook lust for love. He picked Joyce up. “Don’t be frightened, Puss. Tell me why your mother hit you?”

Tears filled her eyes and trickled down her face. “I was crying because I want Syl and Viv to stay here, Papa.”

Rage consumed him. “Is it true, Mrs de Lancy?” he asked, almost unable to believe what Joyce said.” In response to the lady’s nod, he shook with anger and added. “Mrs de Lancy, please be good enough to take Joyce to Punj Ayah.”

“I don’t tell lies,” Joyce said in a small voice. “You told me it is naughty, and you told Mama not to hit me, but she did.”

“I promise your mother will never do so again. Now, be a good child. Go to your ayah with Mrs de Lancy.”

Alone with her husband, Jane fidgeted. She looked down at her hands tightly clasped together on her lap. “Mr Tremayne, please allow me to explain. I–”

“Nothing you could say would justify what you did. As your husband, I have the right to thrash you,” he said, his back stiff as a ramrod. “I will not, although you are a cruel, unnatural mother. Your indifference to Sylvester and your brutal treatment of Joyce has forfeited my love…no… not love – any affection I had for you.”

Jane heaved herself onto her feet. “But I love you.” Her hands reached toward him.

“Sit,” he ordered as he would a disobedient dog. “You deserve to be banished to my house in Fort St George.”

She sank onto the chair and stared at him wide-eyed, her mouth opening and shutting like a fish out of water.

“In public, I will offer you the courtesy you don’t deserve as my wife to avoid speculation.” He glared at her. “In future, if you ever mistreat Joyce, you will not be mistress here. The only reason I shall tolerate your presence in my house is to avoid a scandal which would affect my children’s reputation if I sent you away.”

His wife burst into tears. He ignored them. His fists clenched he swept out of the drawing room.

Chapter Two

Madras. November 1807

Bored and restless after the seven-month voyage to India, seventeen-year-old Vivian and Sylvester waited to disembark. Delighted because his exile in England ended after almost six years, Vivian glanced at his friend whose hands gripped the side of the ship. His greenish complexion bore its own testimony. ‘I will never board a ship again,’ Sylvester, a victim of acute seasickness, frequently swore during the voyage.

Vivian stared at the Coromandel Coast from Sea Sprite one of a fleet with a Royal Navy escort. Madras did not have a harbour or a river inlet, so the ships anchored a mile or more offshore. Eager to be reunited with his mother, he screwed up his eyes and stared toward the surf pounding on the shore.

“Ugh. Not again,” Sylvester winced, clutched his throat, bent over the side of the ship, and vomited.

Flags flashed up and down in the strong breeze as the first mate exchanged signals with other ships. Sylvester groaned in response to about a hundred ships and Fort St George exchanging gun salutes. He spat into the swell and pointed at catamarans paddling across turbulent waves. “Is there no other way to reach land?” he moaned.

“Not unless you want to stay on board,” Sylvester.

Vivian gazed at each small one made from three lightweight anjali tree planks tied together with coconut fibre, paddled to shore by two men. He sympathised with Sylvester, who lost so much weight that his clothes hung off him as though he were a scarecrow. “The worst will soon be over. By now your father will know we have arrived and be waiting to greet us and take us home.”

A few freckles seemed even more prominent than usual on his friend’s pallid face, in shocking contrast to his mop of auburn hair, the same colour as his deceased mother’s hair in her portrait. Vivian’s mouth tightened. His own dark hair and eyes resembled his late father’s, who died when he was three years old.

Sylvester pointed to a rope ladder. “I am too weak to climb down it,” he said staring at a catamaran and two boatmen, naked except for their loincloths from whom ladies averted their eyes.

“Yes, you can, Sylvester. Hold on tight, put one foot after the other and think how relieved you will be when you recover. Don’t be afraid. We learned to swim in the sea during our visits to your grandparents in Cornwall. If you fall in, you won’t drown.”

“Damn you, I’m not frightened,” Sylvester lied.

Seated next to his nauseous friend, Vivian gazed ahead. He had forgotten the extent of the flat, sandy shore stretching for miles north and south backed by the few hills inland. The boatmen sang a lively song. Pleased because he remembered enough Tamil to understand most of the words, he stared ahead as he drew even closer to the country he still thought of as his homeland.

Surf struck the catamaran and rolled it to the shore. Vivian leapt onto the beach Sylvester retched. He helped his friend clamber out and supported him and paid the boatmen who haggled.

Vivian and looked around for Mr Tremayne among the crowd of busy people whose skin varied from European pale ones to much darker shades. He inhaled the scents of the sea, spices, and sweat while he looked at impressive multi-storey buildings in a row above the shore. A squadron of sepoys wearing dusty red coats marched toward the cantonment at St Thomas Mount, reputed to be the site of St Thomas’s martyrdom in A.D. seventy-two. The most recent letter from Mama, written five months ago, informed him beyond its gates, Lord Clive, the new Governor of the Madras Presidency, was overseeing improvements to Government House set in seventy-five acres of verdant parkland. Presumably without a thought of the saint.

Vivian ignored men clamouring for employment, hawkers selling savoury snacks, sweetmeats, and water from Hindus and or Muslims. He gazed at Fort St George, surrounded by bastions and vast stone walls around its perimeter. Above them steeples, temple domes, and minarets rose toward the dull grey sky that threatened more monsoon rain.

Impatience to greet his mother swelled. Six feet tall and strong, at first sight, would she recognise him?

Mr Tremayne joined them. “Sylvester, what happened? You are very thin! Almost skeletal.” He embraced his son, who sagged against him and gazed across Sylvester’s head at Vivian. “A pleasure to see you. Mrs de Lancy and Joyce are at Tremayne House, impatient to greet you.”

Vivian bowed. “I am delighted to see you, sir. Every day in England, I wanted to return. Now I have, I am eager to see Mama and Joyce.”

Stifled by his broadcloth coat and kerseymere pantaloons, he looked forward to changing into cool, cotton ones more suited to the climate he knew a small minority of Europeans preferred. He also knew some became vegetarians and were profoundly interested in Hindu religion and philosophy, and some converted to Islam, but the majority did not abandon their Christian religion, which they considered superior to all others.

He wiped his forehead, looking forward to eating curries, savouries, chutneys, pickles, and desserts again.

When he tottered, Mr Tremayne laughed. “You will soon find your land legs after so long at sea. Come to the carriage.”

English by birth, educated at Eton, Mr Tremayne’s hospitable family in Cornwall welcomed him but he revelled in his return to Madras, his home, a place of beauty, prosperity, and poverty.

At Tremayne House, he appreciated the grounds where tamarind and fragrant Queen of the Night trees cast shade and he listened to the familiar sounds of birdsong, myna birds chattering, and the incessant sound of distant surf breaking on the shore. One day, he promised himself, he would own a property magnificent as this one.

* * *

Bates, who stood at the head of a line of senior servants outside the house, some of whom Vivian recognised, greeted them first. “Good day Master Tremayne, good day Mr de Lancy, May I say welcome home?”

Master? Oh. Bates called Sylvester ‘master’ to distinguish him from his father but addressed him as Mr Vivian.

“The ladies are waiting for you in the drawing room,” Bates added.

“I am not,” Mama said as she hurried outside. “My dear, dear child.”

“No longer a child,” Vivian protested and strode forward to make his bow.

“You are not,” she said. “You are a tall, handsome gentleman, but not too young for me to embrace.” She put her arms around him. Tears in her eyes, she held him close. “Thank God for bringing you safely home!” She kissed his cheeks. “Are you well?”

He hugged her, kissed her breathing in the familiar scent of her jasmine perfume, which he never forgot during the years they were separated. “Yes, but please don’t cry. I am overjoyed to see you and am in the best of health, but Sylvester suffered from mal de mer from the beginning to the end of the voyage.”

His face creased with palpable anxiety Mr Tremayne spoke. “Straight to bed with him, he must rest to recuperate.”

Seven-year-old Joyce erupted from the front door, followed by her ayah. “Missy Baba, your mother will be angry. She told you to wait to see your brother and Memsahib’s son in the big room,” she scolded in Tamil.

Joyce ignored her and observed them. She frowned and pointed at Sylvester, heedless of her mother’s stricture should not to. “I remember you,” she said thoughtfully. “Do you remember me?”

“Of course, I remember you, Joyce,” her brother assured her, his tone flat. He gagged but did not cast up his accounts. Mr Tremayne gestured to two servants. “Sylvester, your room has been prepared. They will help you upstairs and into bed. Bates, summon the doctor.”

Vivian imagined Sylvester felt ill enough to prefer to be at the bottom of the sea. “And I remember you, Joyce,” he said. “You are the little lady I promised to protect on the day you were born.”

“Lady?” Joyce giggled. “No one else thinks I am.”

“You are dressed like one, so you must be.”

“Oh.” Joyce’s bright blue eyes glowed. Her sweet smile transformed her plain face. She touched her throat above the low neck of her white muslin gown. “Look at the silver heart you gave me.”

Vivian smiled. “Oh, you are still wearing it. I think you will like the presents I brought England for you from England.”

She danced up and down, her sun-streaked light brown ringlets bouncing on either side of her face “What are they?”

“Don’t be so impatient, Joyce. You will find out later,” his mother said. She looked at him. “Mrs Tremayne is waiting to greet you in the drawing room.”

Joyce’s Cupid’s bow mouth pursed. Her expression resembled a frightened creature’s threatened by a predator. Vivian scrutinised her face. He noticed a small white scar on her cheek and touched it with his forefinger. “What happened? Did you fall over?”

“N…no, my Mama slapped me. Her ring cut me,” Joyce explained, too young to dissemble.

Startled, his eyebrows raised, he looked at his mother, who took hold of Joyce’s hand and led her to the drawing room, followed by Mr Tremayne.

Mrs Tremayne remained seated on a chair, one of a group opposite the door. Furious with her for injuring Joyce Vivian walked forward and bowed.

“Mr de Lancy, I daresay you regret returning to India,” she said as though she could not believe anyone would unless it were to seek a fortune, or they were forced to.

“No, madam, while I was exiled to become an English gentleman, it seemed as if India was in my blood,” he said, furious. “I was eager to come back.” ‘But, not Sylvester’ he could have added. “In between bouts of seasickness, he complained about his father’s summons to return from England where he settled like a bird in a nest.

Mrs Tremayne’s amber eyes widened. “Extraordinary!” she exclaimed. “I wonder why you wanted to leave a civilised country for an uncivilised one?”

Mr Tremayne frowned. “Fortunately, not everyone shares your opinion,” he said tartly to her. “Vivian, now you have paid your respects to my wife, do you want to refresh yourself or eat first?” He smiled at Mrs de Lancy. “Since news of Sea Sprite’s arrival, your mother gave cook instructions to prepare a special meal for you.”

“Good. I will eat first. At Eton, my mouth watered as I remembered my favourite dishes while eating bland meals without even a pepper pot on the table to make them more palatable.”

Sylvester’s stepmother sniffed. “I prefer English food and, to judge by imports from England sold in De Lancy’s Emporium, so do many of our compatriots.”

“Vivian, I regret the growing tendency to reject all things Indian, endorsed by Richard Wellsley, the new Governor General, which is creeping into society,” Mr Tremayne said.

His wife clicked her teeth. “At least you don’t wear Indian clothes on formal occasions.”

“And am comfortable in them on informal ones,” her husband said.

Surprised by the sharp edge in their voices, which he did not remember from the past, Vivian glanced from husband to wife.

Bates returned and inclined his head. “I have summoned the doctor to attend to Master Tremayne with a message to tell him his patient is worn to the bone by seasickness,”

“A to do about nothing, Bates. Sylvester merely suffered from nausea. I daresay, he will recover without medical treatment,” Mrs Tremayne said.

“Much more than nausea, madam,” Vivian said, disliking her more than ever.

“Mrs Tremayne, do you wish the meal to be served indoors or on the veranda overlooking the gardens where it will be cooler?” Bates asked.

“The veranda, Bates,” she said.

Mr Tremayne walked toward the door. “I shall join all of you there after the doctor gives his verdict, and I have changed into more comfortable clothes. Vivian do you remember there are three seasons in the Madras Presidency: hot, hotter, and hottest. The only relief is during the monsoon with the drop in temperature.”

“I have forgotten little, sir.” Vivian stood. “Will you come outside with me Joyce?” he asked and waited for his mother and Mrs Tremayne to precede them.”

“Joyce’s meals are always served in the nursery,” Mrs Tremayne objected.

“Our daughter is old enough to join us,” her husband said. “My boy, you must be famished. I don’t expect either you or the ladies to wait for me to eat your meal.”

Vivian smiled. At seventeen, he did not think of himself as a boy, but he liked Mr Tremayne addressing him as one. He glanced at Joyce, whose cheeks reddened. Her lower lip caught between her teeth she looked nervously at her mother.

Vivian sensed Mr Tremayne and won a victory in an undeclared war not without metaphorical bloodshed. He glanced at his mother. Why did she live here? There would be time to ask her and discuss various matters, not the least of which was his future.

Outside candle sconces and lanterns hanging from the ceiling shone, so did the white floors and columns, which resembled marble. On a long table spread with a white tablecloth, crystal, and silver, including covers over glasses to keep insects out, sparkled. Flowers, the bright colours of gemstones, in pots contrasted with the bare-foot servants’ white uniforms banded with crimson on their sashes and turbans. The scent of spices pervaded his nose. His mouth watered. A servant behind his chair wafted a peacock feather fan to deter mosquitoes. In the past he took everything for granted. Now he understood it represented Mr Tremayne’s success as a wealthy nabob. He ate food from a priceless imported porcelain plate, side plate and bowl heaped with delicious curries, flat breads, rice, savouries, and sweetmeats, even more convinced he wanted to spend the rest of his life in India.

Halfway through the meal, Mr. Tremayne returned.

Vivian looked at his mother, who pressed a hand against her throat encircled by an opal necklace. “Sylvester?”

“Says he would never have guessed he could be so ill and survive,” Mr Tremayne replied.

The expression in her eyes revealed her anxiety. “What did the doctor say?”

“He prescribed rest and a diet of soup, easily digestible food, and medicine to settle his stomach.”

Mr Tremayne glanced at his wife, who ate without showing the slightest concern for her stepson.

“Of course, Sylvester protested, saying it was heaven being on dry land instead of on an abominable ship, and he demanded more substantial food,” he continued. “The doctor warned him not to go against his advice and left the medicine to be taken four times a day.”

“Some chicken pie, Vivian?” Mrs Tremayne asked.

“No thank you. In England, I dreamt of the food Prahlad das makes.”

“Vivian?” Mr Tremane commenced.

“Sir?”

“Will you be too tired to rise early and ride with us at dawn while it is cool?”

“No, I will not. I look forward to joining you.”

“Good. Mrs De Lancy and Joyce, an intrepid rider, will accompany us.” Mr Tremayne chuckled. “Her groom frequently has to restrain her from urging her pony over obstacles too large for him to clear, and I threaten her with a leading rein.”

Joyce opened her mouth, obviously about to protest, but her father waved her to silence.

“Vivian, you may try out the thoroughbred I bought for you,” his mother said.

“Thank you, Mama, I look forward to it.”

“I hope Sylvester will approve of the chestnut I bought for him. I anticipate him joining us in the mornings,” Mr Tremayne said. “And, Vivian, both of you will enjoy playing cricket on the new pitch.”

Vivian swallowed his mouthful of vegetable curry and chapati. One of the few things he really enjoyed in England was playing the game on a pleasant summer day.

Mama smiled at him. “After we have breakfast, I shall ask Sylvester if he needs anything from my emporium which we will go to after Vivian, and I go there to discuss business.”

Joyce caught hold of his sleeve. “Promise not to go without giving me my presents.”

He laughed about to tell the impatient seven-year-old he would give them to her after dinner.

Mrs Tremayne glared at her daughter. “You are greedy. Don’t pester Mr de Lancy. Go to the nursery,” she forestalled him.

Vivian stood. “Miss Joyce, I shall go with you to give you your gifts.” He did not regret declaring silent war against the disagreeable woman.

Chapter Three

Dressed in white, her black hair streaked with grey cut short according to Hindu custom for widows, plump Punj Ayah, who always refused to sit on a chair, squatted near the door in the day nursery.

Joyce sat opposite Vivian by the window, screened with a white lattice to stop mischievous monkeys from entering and creating havoc. Three servants brought a large box, parcels wrapped in cloth, and a small box covered in blue velvet, which they put on the table.

“For me?” Joyce asked breathlessly. Her eyes shone in the candlelight, and her hands hovered over her presents. “Yes,” Vivian replied, amused, and gratified by her excitement. “I did not bring them across the sea for anyone else.”

“May I open them?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t know whether to open the smallest or the largest one first.”

“Joyce, it is said good things come in small packages,” said Vivian’s mother, entering the room dressed in a pale green gown, her opal necklace, and earrings shimmering.

Proud to be her son, Vivian gazed at her. For the first time, he fully appreciated her beauty and elegance. “Have you seen Sylvester?” he asked her.

“Yes, I made sure he is comfortable, listened to his complaints about, in his words, ‘slop only fit for babes.’ I am here to say goodnight to Joyce.” She smiled and shook a finger at the child. “You should be in your nightgown. Open your presents quickly so you will not be too tired to ride with us in the morning.”

Joyce unwrapped an oblong box. Speechless, she stared at a doll, with a pretty, hand-painted porcelain face and hands and a cloth body dressed in fashionable silk and velvet clothes.

“Don’t you like it?” Vivian teased her because her delight was obvious.

“Not it, her,” Joyce reprimanded him. “I love her!” Her forehead wrinkled. “I must christen her. Her name is Amelie-Rose because she is a French girl. Thank you for giving her to me,” she cooed.

“I am glad you are pleased.” He glanced at his mother. “The present in the largest box and several others are from Joyce and Sylvester’s grandparents. The countess helped me to choose the gifts. Mother, you would like her. Unlike many aristocratic ladies, she is not arrogant.”

Joyce picked up the doll and examined her forget-me-not blue silk gown, worn over two petticoats, a white one and a red flannel one. “I’ll ask the dirzi, who sits sewing all day on the veranda, to make more clothes for her.”

“You could sew something,” Marianne suggested.

“I cannot,” stated Joyce because she did not enjoy needlework.

Vivian tapped a large, square parcel. “See what is inside this.”

One by one, Joyce took out the doll’s exquisite clothes, imitations of everything a well-dressed young girl of fashion would wear by day and night, including dainty red, yellow, and green Morocco leather shoes and jewellery. “Dear Amelie-Rose, you will be the best-dressed doll in Madras,” she murmured.

“These are from me,” Vivian said, handing her two parcels, which contained two jigsaw puzzles and a journal with a small key to lock it.

“You are very kind, Mr de Lancy. How did you know I wanted one?”

“I did not. Your grandmother said even little ladies confide secrets in them,” he said, very pleased because she liked it despite his doubt in response to the countess’ suggestion.”

Joyce unwrapped the fourth one. “What is this?” she asked, looking at a square wooden box inlaid with patterns of foliage in assorted colours.

“A carillon a musique, a music box.” He turned the key. “Listen. It plays My Love Is Like a Red Rose.”

Delighted Joyce listened to it. She turned the key to hear it again. “Amelie-Rose and I love it. Thank you for giving it to us, Mr de Lancy.”

“Don’t address me as Mr de Lancy, call me Vivian as you used to.”

He put another parcel in front of her.

Joyce took out a leather-bound book and read the gold-tooled title aloud. “Tales From Around the World.” She turned the pages and gazed at hand-tinted illustrations.

“What are you looking for?” Vivian asked.

“Stories which ayah and sadhu tell me.”

“Sadhu?”

“Yes, have you forgotten the nice holy man who lives under a tree. He tells me about Krishna, who stole butter from his mother’s pots and fed it to monkeys, and Rama, who rescued his wife, Sita, from the demon Ravana.”

His mother frowned.

Vivian remembered listening to those stories and many more with bated breath as a young boy from the same ascetic.”

“Joyce, your father allows him to live there, but you should not–” Marianne began.

“Don’t worry, Mother,” Vivian interrupted. “Listening to those fascinating tales neither harmed me nor prevented me from being a Christian although I am interested in other religions.”

“Good. Never doubt Lord Jesus Christ is our dear redeemer,” Marianne said.

“What is in the enormous wooden box?” Joyce asked.

“It is a present from your grandparents,” Vivian helped her to open it.

Wide-eyed, Joyce stared at a doll’s house. “It is beautiful,” she breathed.

He handed her the last boxes. Speechless, she opened them and examined the exquisite miniature furniture, a tiny hand-painted porcelain tea and dinner service, minute kitchen paraphernalia, and silver models of cutlery and other items.

“You must be tired, Vivian,” Marianne repeated. “Don’t say you are not. I can see you are,” she fussed as though she were a mother hen with one chick. She looked at Joyce. “Your ayah is yawning. She will prepare you to go to bed. I shall return to hear your prayers and kiss you goodnight.”

Vivian tensed. Surely Joyce’s mother, not his, should.

* * *

Snug beneath her mosquito net, Joyce opened her eyes at dawn. Happy, she peered through the lattice screen at the horizon, a blend of pale gold, pink and saffron. Someone knocked on the door. Punj Ayah rose from her padded mat on the floor, opened it, and took a small silver platter from a servant, and gave it to Joyce.

Every day, Joyce drank milk, ate fruit, dressed in her dark blue riding habit, joined her father, Mrs de Lancy, and, sometimes, Mama. She wriggled her toes eagerly, anticipating Vivian being well enough to accompany them. She ate fast and got out of bed. “Ayah, dress me quickly.”

Her hat firmly secured by ribbons knotted and tied in a bow under her chin, riding crop in her gloved hand, Joyce tip-toed into Sylvester’s bedroom, followed by Punj Ayah. What could she do for him? If she were feverish, her ayah bathed her forehead. She pulled off her leather riding gloves, put them on the bed. The palm of her hand on his burning hot brow she gave an order to Punj Ayah. “Bring me a wet cloth from the washstand.”

Her forehead puckered, her mouth pursed, despite her ayah’s protest, she wiped Sylvester’s brow.

“What! Don’t plague me like an insect, Monkey Face!” her brother exclaimed.

Time never dimmed the dreadful day on which Mama slapped her, and she sobbed. She knew even young ladies should not cry. If she did it was where Papa, Mama or Mrs de Lancy could not see her, and if Punj Ayah did, she scolded her, saying, “Missy Memsahibs don’t cry like servants’ children.”

Joyce waited impatiently to see her brother, whose face she almost forgot believing he would love her as much as dear Papa did. If he would neither have compared her to an insect buzzing around him nor called her Monkey Face.

“Joyce! Why are you crying,” he asked.

“You said I am an insect and called me monkey face,” she said between sobs.

Booted and spurred, Vivian had entered the room and heard what she said. “Sylvester!” Vivian protested. “Joyce is not like an insect and her face is not like a monkey’s.”

Her brother ignored him. He heaved himself up, took the cloth from her, reached over the side of the bed, and put an arm around her waist. With his free hand he fumbled under the pillow for a kerchief. “Sweetheart please stop crying and dry your eyes with this.”

She wiped her face and. Glazed eyes wide, stared at him. “I know I am not pretty, but I did not know I have a face like a…a–” More sobs escaped her.

“Sweetheart,” Sylvester repeated, “you don’t. I am sorry for oversetting you. My only excuse is you have forgotten sometimes I addressed you by that name. And you are wrong about yourself. You have pretty eyes and a beautiful smile.”

“Why did you call me one?”

“It was my special nickname for you. I loved you for being so lively and inquisitive, although Mother Jane was forever scolding you.”

“She still does,” Joyce said mournfully.

Her brother and Vivian gazed at each other as though an unspoken message passed between them.

Sylvester sank back against the heap of pillows, his breath shallow. “Am I forgiven, Joyce?”

“Yes, if you never call me monkey face again.”

“Your brother is tired,” Vivian said. “He needs rest. Come with me. I daresay your father is waiting for us with my mother.”

In the forecourt, her syce helped her mount beneath a dusky blue sky with dark clouds pierced by gold sunshine. “Thank you,” she said to him and patted Star, her black pony with a white blaze on its forehead.

The syce beside them, Star trotted after the others on their thoroughbred horses, Mama, an excellent horsewoman on Papa’s right and Vivian next to dear Mrs de Lancy.

She spurred her pony forward to keep up with them.

“Missy Memsahib,” the syce protested.

Joyce passed the grove of mango trees near the baobab tree beneath which Sadhu lived, and reached the river, bordered by rice fields on the opposite bank.

They reined in their horses and, from a small distance, gazed at the sheet of water shimmering in the sunshine, and white sand on the shore.

“No sign of a mugger’s imprints,” Papa said

Joyce shuddered at the thought of the predators which glided through the water, snatched their victims, animal, or human, in their powerful jaws and dragged them to their underwater lairs.

Papa scrutinized her. “You are quiet, Joyce. Does something trouble you?”

“Don’t waste your time with her. I daresay she is sulking about something,” Mama said.

Papa’s eyes flashed. “Our daughter does not sulk.”

“Are you unwell, Joyce?” Marianne asked.

“No, I am frightened of muggers.”

“So am I. It is sensible to be cautious, which is why we keep a safe distance between us and the shore. Don’t think about them. Ride home between me and Vivian,” Marianne said.

At the house, Papa visited Sylvester. Joyce went with the others to enjoy breakfast on the veranda where she peeped nervously at her mother.

A servant pulled back the chair at the foot of the table for Mama to sit.

“Mrs Tremayne, the cook, prepared tea, and toast for you. Do you require anything else?” Bates asked.

Mama only spoke to servants out of necessity. She looked down her straight nose with delicately shaped nostrils and shook her head.

Joyce scrutinized the heaped plate on the table in front of her. Thin, ten-inch round soft dosas made from a paste of fermented black gram lentils and rice, served with coconut chutney, and spicy sambar made with lentils, vegetables, and tamarind. Her mouth watered while she listened to Mama say grace asking God to bless their food and thank Him for it.

Joyce wondered why, like Hindus, Mama did not first offer it to God for Him to enjoy. Her stomach rumbled. With her fingers, she popped dosa and sambar into her mouth.

“Delicious,” Vivian said between mouthfuls.

“I asked Cook to prepare this. Is it still one of your favourites?” Marianne asked him.

“Yes, Mother. Spices are exported to England, and curries are served sometimes, but they never taste the same as they do here.”

Joyce removed the silver cover from her crystal glass of lime water. The edge of her gold bangle latched onto the rim of the glass, which fell over. Apprehensive, she watched the contents spread over the spotless white tablecloth.

“Clumsy child!” Mama exclaimed. “You are not fit to eat with adults. Go to your nursery.”

“An unfortunate accident, Jane,” Marianne said. “I am certain the child is sorry.”

“Yes, I am,” Joyce said, humiliated and on the brink of tears. She trembled. “I am very sorry.”

“Jane, you made an ado about something unimportant. Your husband would not be angry with Joyce about the mishap. Let us put it out of our minds,” Marianne said too quietly to be overheard.

“Very well. Joyce. You may stay,” Mama said sharply.

* * *

The knuckle bones in in Vivian’s clenched fists gleamed white as ivory. Mrs Tremayne has a viper’s tongue. Does she know how frightened Joyce is of her? He sought for something to say to raise the child’s spirits.

“Did Amelie-Rose sleep well?” he asked, having learned a lot about children from Sylvester’s youngest cousins.

Though her eyes were moist, Joyce giggled. “I took her to bed with me. We did not wake up once during the night.”

If she is hungry, with your mother’s permission, you should fetch her,” he said.

“Amelie-Rose?” Mrs Tremayne questioned them.

“I bought the doll in England for Joyce,” Vivian said in a level tone. He stared into the woman’s eyes. “It will comfort her.”

“Indeed,” Marianne intervened. “Joyce, your mother will not object to you fetching it.”

Vivian took a deep breath. He would keep his vow to protect the child he loved since he saw her soon after her birth, regardless of the consequences.

While Joyce scurried away from the veranda, he believed in the logical Hindu belief some people were reborn as friends or enemies. Could Joyce and Mrs Tremayne have been foes in a previous life? Did the soul transmigrate from body to body, birth after birth? Were he and Joyce’s friends or relations in a previous life? He shook his head to rebuke himself for questioning Christian doctrine. “Mrs Tremayne,” he began.

“Yes, Vivian.” She spread butter on another piece of toast.

“You should be ashamed of yourself for bullying and mistreating your daughter.”

Her knife clattered onto the plate.

“If Joyce dropped her knife, would you admonish her for being clumsy?”

Colour flooded into the woman’s cheeks. “You are an impertinent jackanapes.”

Her words seemed to hang in the air while he sipped some lime water. “You are mistaken, madam. My mother told me my father was an honourable gentleman who always kept his word. I shall follow his example and protect Joyce.”

“How?” Jane picked up her knife. Fury blazed in her eyes. “Were it not for your mother, my dearest friend, I would order you to leave my house.”

Secretly amazed by his audacity, Vivian took another deep breath and glanced at his mother, who almost imperceptibly shook her head at him.

Joyce returned. “You are right, Vivian. Amelie-Rose is hungry.”

Mrs Tremayne sniffed derisively.

“I have put her apron on in case she spills anything on her beautiful silk gown.” She glanced furtively at her mother. “I don’t want Amelie-Rose to be as clumsy as I am.”

“You are not clumsy. When I saw you today for the first time after many years, I admired the way you walk. If your name were not Joyce, it should be Grace,” Vivian said.

“Well-spoken,” Benjamin remarked as he walked to his chair at the head of the table. “Joyce, who is Amelie-Rose, and why do you think you are clumsy?”

“She is the doll Vivian gave me. Papa, I knocked over my glass of lime water by mistake. Mama said I am clumsy.”

“Mrs Tremayne, a change of air at my house in Fort St George might be advisable.” Benjamin said to his wife in an icy tone. “You always treat our daughter too harshly.”

Vivian looked from one to the other unable to understand why the suggestion sounded like a veiled threat. Was it because of Mr Tremayne’s taut face and rigid demeanour?

“Papa.”

“Yes, Puss.”

“I like Vivian, but Mama doesn’t. She said if Mrs de Lancy were not her friend, she would tell him to leave here. And she called him…a jackanape.”

“How is Sylvester,” Marianne asked after a brief, awkward silence.

“Not as pale and unsteady as he was yesterday. He is looking forward to substantial meals, but like my wife, he prefers English cuisine to Indian cuisine.”

“What does cuisine mean, Papa?”

“The type of food.”

“Oh.” The child turned her attention to her doll. “Eat nicely, Amelie-Rose.”

“Vivian.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“If you have finished your breakfast, it is time to visit the emporium.” She dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Bates, please send to the stable for my carriage to wait for me in front of the house.”

* * *

“Mother, why are you friends with the detestable woman?” Vivian demanded as soon as they set out.

“I am not.”

Vivian raised his eyebrows. “If it is true—” She waved her finger at him. He broke off for a moment. “Please accept my apology. You taught me how important it is to be truthful. I know you would never lie to me.”

“Good. While Jane was with child, she changed into an angry, bitter woman who ignored her baby from birth. I have never understood why, as you told her, she bullies Joyce.” She smiled. “I am proud of your determination to keep the vow to protect Joyce you made when you and Sylvester were little boys, Sylvester asked Mr Tremayne ‘what is a vow.’ He explained to you and his son ‘a vow means a promise’.”

Embarrassed by her praise for something he considered his duty, Vivian looked out of the window at the lush green paddy fields of rice on either side of the road to town. “If you are not her friend, why do y0u live with her at Tremayne House?” he enquired while the carriage, pulled by a matched pair of chestnuts, overtook an oxcart. A group of women with one end of their saris pulled up over their heads to conceal their faces, balanced clay pots of water on their heads.

“Four years after your father died Jane was with child she was downhearted. Concerned about her melancholy, Mr Tremayne asked me to stay at their house. I agreed to stay there until after the birth.”

“Why are you still there?” Vivian turned his father’s signet ring, his most valued possession, around his finger.

“For three reasons you are old enough to understand. I wanted to avoid gossip, which would damage my reputation if I lived alone, and because Mr Tremayne is very kind. He has helped me manage the emporium you will inherit.”

“And the third?”

“Is because of Joyce. I loved your father too much ever to marry again, so I think of her as the beloved daughter I will never have.”

Vivian watched a group of barefoot men dressed in white cotton walk toward Fort St George. He considered his mother’s reasons: “Do you intend to live with the Tremaynes forever?”

“No, it is one of the things I intend to discuss with you. Joyce is taught by a governess who comes to the house five days a week. When she is nine, the child will be educated in England. If I engage a companion we can live in our own house without my reputation suffering.”

The carriage slowed as the horses drew it along the road crowded with carts and palanquins, rickshaws, horse and ox-drawn vehicles and masses of people. It halted outside De Lancy’s Emporium. “Come, Vivian, we have a lot to discuss.”

Impressed by the large three-storey building, he stepped out of the carriage and held out his arm. His mother rested her hand on it. “Come,” she repeated after she got out and led him into the build