Her fears were confirmed when Mrs Goodwright arrived by ekka which she drove herself, just as soon as the rain ceased. The temperature had dropped a few degrees, but the little garden steamed, so that the trees, shrubs and outbuildings were seen through a haze with no clear outlines. A palm frond near the door dripped on to the wooden steps of the verandah.
‘You must come and stay with us,’ she said briskly, removing her gloves and lifting her veil. Emma wondered why she persisted in dressing as if she were still in Europe, which must have made her unbearably hot. ‘We will have to find you a husband. I’ve no doubt there will be several eligibles coming out from home to replace the men we have lost.’
‘It is very kind of you, ma’am,’ Emma said, wondering if the woman would be quite so cold-blooded if her husband had been among those who had perished, instead of staying behind a desk at headquarters. ‘But I am not ready to think of such things yet…’
‘Oh, surely you are not still grieving for John, child? That was four years ago—it is foolish to go on mourning.’
It wasn’t mourning, it was prudence. She had met John when she was eighteen and he had just arrived from England. He had swept her off her feet and in no time they became engaged. And though she was sure she loved him dearly, she had soon realised he adhered to the widely held view that the British in India were a blessing for which the natives ought to give thanks.
‘We are not here as conquerors,’ he had said. ‘We came to trade, but how can trade be properly carried out if the kings and princes are always warring with each other over who should succeed whom and who pay tribute to whom? It has been necessary to preserve law and order and that means having a military presence. You are a soldier’s daughter, you must surely understand that. Besides, the natives are no more than children, needing education and guidance.’
She had hoped that when he had been in India a little longer, he might come to know and love the country and its inhabitants, as she, her father and brother did. Whether he would have done she was never to know, for he had died of sandfly fever during his first summer. When his parents came out from England to visit his grave, they had not bothered to hide their disapproval of her; she was too free and easy and did not behave like a lady, which had made her laugh, in spite of her grief.
She realised she would never have broken down their antagonism. She and John would probably have regretted marrying if he had lived and taken her back to England. She had mourned him sincerely, but she was determined that if she ever fell in love again, she would be careful that it would be with someone who understood her love of all things Indian.
Such a man had not materialised and now, though still slim, exceedingly healthy and independent, she was almost an old maid.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I meant I would not marry for expediency’s sake.’
‘Then I strongly suggest you go home to England. There is nothing like family when you have a bereavement. I am sure Viscount Mountforest will be delighted to receive you.’
Emma doubted it. There had been bad blood between her father and his older brother and they had never corresponded in all the years Papa had been in India. As far as she was aware, her uncle did not even know of the existence of his niece and nephew.
She had asked her papa once why that was. She remembered it clearly because it was just after her mother died. He had returned from the Poona campaign in 1802 too late to see Mama alive and the effect on him of her untimely death had been distressing to watch. He blamed the climate; he blamed the way they were always being separated by campaigns which he felt were due to British expansionism and nothing to do with defending The Company’s people and property which was what he was paid for. But most of all he blamed himself.
‘I should have taken her home, no matter what,’ he had said, when he came out of his anguish sufficiently to speak of his wife at all. ‘The doctor said the climate would kill her…’
Emma, then eight years old and grief-stricken for her beloved mama, had not tried to placate him, she had simply demanded, ‘Why didn’t you? Take her back to England, I mean.’
He had looked at his little daughter and sighed. ‘It is not so easy, sweetheart, I am an exile, your mother understood that. She knew the whole story.’
‘What does exile mean?’
‘It means I was sent away and cannot go back.’
‘Not ever?’
‘I do not think so. Not unless certain people are prepared publicly to admit the wrong they did me and I do not think they will ever do that.’
‘Why not?’
He had smiled and taken her on to his knee, rubbing his chin across her hair, which had not yet taken on the auburn tones it now had and was a soft light brown. ‘Why all the questions? Do you wish to go to England?’
‘Not without you, but I think I might like to go on a visit, just to see what it is like.’
‘One day, perhaps, you will, when you are grown up and very rich, then it will not matter what the gossips say.’
‘What do they say?’
He had said nothing for a whole minute and she had begun to think he did not intend to answer her; when he did, his voice was so low she could hardly hear him. ‘They say that I have besmirched the name of a noble family, that I am responsible for a man’s death, that I am a coward, that I have no honour.’ He paused and then added softly, ‘But it was honour which bound me as surely as chains.’
She hadn’t understood then, nor even now when she was old enough to comprehend the meaning of the words. Her answer, spoken from the heart of a child, had pleased him. ‘Papa, you are the bravest man I know.’
His eyes had taken on a faraway look as if he were in another place at another time. Then he had hugged her and set her down. ‘Don’t worry, child, it was all for the best. I met and married your mother, here in Calcutta, and not for a single second have I ever regretted that. India has become home and I would have it no other way. I shall die here and no one in England will mourn me.’ He had put on a cheerful voice, but she had detected the note of sadness and knew he would brood over it until the end of his days.
‘Have your servant pack a bag and come with me now,’ Mrs Goodwright said. ‘You can stay with us until you leave.’
‘Thank you, ma’am, but I would rather stay here. There is so much to do, arrangements to make.’
‘Of course. But if you change your mind, you know you are welcome.’
Emma hadn’t contemplated leaving Calcutta, not even then. It had taken another shock to force her to consider it. She had gone to see Mr Chapman, who looked after her father’s legal and financial affairs. Papa had never spoken of money to them and, as they had never been stinted, she imagined they would be comfortable.
She realised how wrong she was before she had been in his office five minutes. Apart from small bequests to the servants, her father’s will left everything to her and Teddy equally. This was no surprise, but what took her aback was the tiny amount involved.
‘Your father was always generous and never saw the need to husband his resources,’ Mr Chapman said. ‘He was indifferent to money and never bothered to collect his debts, though he was always scrupulous in paying his own.’
‘But surely he must have done some trading?’ she queried, knowing that it was common practice for Company employees and soldiers to supplement their pay with private trade. Some of them had become very wealthy by it. ‘Everyone does that in India,