She left guiltily, then paused at the corner of the road, Luke Devereaux’s guidebook in hand. She squinted down at the directions to the bazaar, wiping sweat from her forehead, then carried on, around the vaulted side walls of the station. Wheels screeched on the tracks within as a train creaked to a halt; steam billowed out. Through the haze, she glimpsed a young man in a topee hat, on the platform just inside the archway. She cursed inwardly, recognising him as one of her father’s junior secretaries. His eyes widened as he spotted her, clearly recognising her too. He took his hat off; he looked like he might be about to call out to her. Not wanting to have to explain what she was doing there, she hastened away, losing herself in the hordes of others walking towards the markets.
The wheels screeched, the delayed train from Poona shuddering to a halt. Luke, who’d been working in the otherwise empty first-class carriage, preparing for the meeting he was already late for, packed away his papers: the lists of the presidency’s battalions, the ranks and skill levels, outstanding training requirements, his guidance on mobilising the Indian troops for war in Europe, should mobilisation ever be required. (He hoped it wouldn’t, obviously, but after the past decade of rearmament, it felt depressingly likely; half the continent wanted to build their empire, the other half to block them, and if anyone tried to do either, the web of treaties in place could drag everyone into battle.) He stood, flexing his neck, his back, beyond relieved to have returned, at last. It had been a relentless three months. He’d only been commissioned to be in India for two, but General Staff in England were jumpy; they’d kept wiring, adding to the regions they wanted him to report on. Most grateful for your service and patience STOP He’d lost count of the ghats he’d stayed in, the visits to cantonments, interviews with commanding officers, hours spent observing the local troops, the sepoys, most of whom had never heard of the Balkans, let alone thought twice about which parts of Europe belonged to whom. The more men he’d talked to, polishing his rusty Hindustani, the less easy he’d felt about potentially dragging any of them from their families, their villages, thousands of miles across the sea. He had no idea how the practicalities would even work. Many of the COs he’d met had shared his concerns: how the men would manage if it came to them being led by officers untrained in their language, their religion, customs and caste system; how they’d cope, after a lifetime of the Indian climate, with warfare in northern Europe. Luke had been tempted, several times, to wire General Staff telling them to leave the sepoys well alone. Most grateful for your understanding STOP He would have, if he’d believed for a moment it would have done any good.
For now, he shut the fastening on his attaché and ducked, peering through the carriage’s murky window, scanning the shaded, steam-filled terminus for the man Peter had written to say he’d send to meet him. Fresh off the boat, but spectacularly keen, and useful enough. The platform was packed; all the passengers flooding from the train’s other carriages, their belongings in battered suitcases, sacks heaved under their arms. His eyes moved over them all, then settled on a sun-scorched man in a topee hat, just near the arches, bouncing awkwardly on the spot. Deciding he was a likely suspect, Luke reached up, pulled his case from the overhead racks, and, wrenching the door open, stepped into the crowds. Pausing only to pay a porter to take care of his things, he set off towards his impatient escort.
‘Fraser Keaton, I presume,’ he called, voice raised above the furore.
Keaton spun, exhaling so visibly, earnestly flustered, that it was hard not to smile. ‘Mr Devereaux,’ he said, ‘thank goodness.’
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,’ said Luke.
‘No, no, it’s not that. I’m happy to wait, of course. I hope I didn’t offend … ’
‘Not at all.’
‘It’s just … ’ Keaton darted a look towards the sunlight outside, then back to Luke. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry,’ he said, ‘but might I leave you to go on to the office without me?’
‘Without you?’
‘I hate to ask.’
Luke could see that he did.
‘It’s just,’ Keaton went on. ‘Well, I saw someone … I feel I should check. I mean to say … ’ He broke off, as though it was all too much.
Luke advised him to breathe.
Keaton did.
‘Right,’ said Luke, losing his battle against the urge to smile. ‘Now, what is it you mean to say?’
Another deep breath. ‘It’s Richard Bright’s daughter.’ Keaton widened his eyes. ‘I think she’s out there. All alone.’
The light in the stall-packed alleyways was muted, coloured by the awnings which spread out from the terraced buildings either side. The air, hot and thick, was filled with the scent of sizzling onion and garlic: pakoras frying in vendors’ pans. Maddy’s stomach grumbled beneath her tight, sweaty corset. She was half-tempted to throw caution to the wind and buy one. She probably would have, had she not been chasing a man some distance ahead of her, a bolt of pink silk on his bare shoulder. She’d seen him within seconds of entering the bazaar, and her unfinished letter to Aunt Edie had popped into her mind. Deciding to parcel up a gift to post with it – a shawl to make Aunt Edie smile, distract her from Uncle Fitz and his new life for a little while (if anything could) – she’d set off after the man. He was moving so fast though, it was all she could do to keep up; she walked faster herself, dodging piles of manure, half-eaten fruit and discarded rubbish, growing sweatier the quicker she went, perspiration slickening her skin, pooling in her collarbone.
‘Try,’ the vendor at a bangle stall called to her, waving a red one in her direction. ‘Perfect fit. Perfect colour.’
‘Later,’ she said, not stopping, ‘maybe later.’
She carried on, through the clamouring crowds, round a corner, and another, then halted, finding herself in an alley even more packed than the last, bursting with stalls, almost all of them selling fabric: cottons, silks and muslin, thousands of different shades reflecting the dim light. She stood on her tiptoes, straining to see the man she’d been following. It was impossible. There were simply too many people crammed into the tight space. The shopkeepers all spotted her though. She had hardly paused for breath before a chorus of ‘Memsahib, memsahib,’ broke out. They rushed out from behind their stalls, swatches held up to her face. ‘You look, memsahib. Look.’
‘Beautiful,’ she said, weaving forwards, ‘very lovely.’
‘I have best in city,’ the man at the nearest table called, ‘you buy from me. Best in Bombay. Best in India.’
‘Memsahib,’ shouted his neighbour, ‘you come this way. This way.’
Hearing the desperation in his tone, she turned. His black eyes sparked with hope, and he waved at the cloths laid on the trestle before him, then stepped back to reveal more rolled up against the crumbling building behind.
She looked closer. There was a colour there like none she’d seen before. A deep lemon, richer than her dress, with luminous thread woven through. It looked almost like sunshine itself, and was quite perfect for Edie and those grey Scottish climes.
‘You buy,’ said the man. ‘I have many children, big family. Need to eat.’ He mimed food going into his mouth. ‘I give you good price. Full power good price.’