It seemed not.
The package wasn’t from England at all. There wasn’t even a stamp on it.
She looked up at Ahmed. ‘Where did this come from?’ she asked.
‘A boy is bringing from the station,’ he said.
‘The train station?’
Another head wobble.
‘Bombay train station?’ she asked. ‘The terminus?’
‘The very same, memsahib.’
Even more intrigued, she pulled the paper apart.
Then she felt a laugh break from her, just at the surprise of it. Because her box of matches was inside, a well-worn copy of A Guide to Bombay too, a piece of paper on top.
The first letter he ever sent her.
I overheard your non-resolution for 1914. It’s a very good one. I don’t like to think of you being homesick. Hopefully this guide will help you enjoy your time in Bombay a little more, as it helped me when I used to live here.
It’s a loan, Miss Bright. I shall be back to reclaim it.
And I saw you mislay these matches. I thought you might need them, perhaps they will help with the homesickness too.
Luke Devereaux
She laughed more, reading his words over, looking from them to the book and matches, then back to the paper.
Luke, she thought, tracing her thumb over his writing. Luke Devereaux.
I like it.
She liked that he knew her name too. That he’d found it out, found out where she lived. Heat spread through her skin as she realised that he must have asked someone – Peter, probably – even before he’d waved at her on the promenade. That he’d noticed her drop her matches, cared enough to collect them.
Seen her right from the very start.
Hand trembling, she turned the note over, wanting to see if there was an address, any clue as to where he’d gone.
There was nothing.
I shall be back, he’d said.
‘When?’ she said. ‘When will you be back?’
Ahmed looked at her warily, as though she was running mad.
She didn’t care. All she could think of was that his name was Luke Devereaux. That he’d surprised her. Done this.
That he hadn’t just disappeared.
He’d been thinking about her too.
Chapter Three
She became even more desperate to speak to Peter, of course. There was so much now that she wanted to know: how Peter knew Luke Devereaux, where Luke Devereaux was from, what train he’d taken … the list went on, multiplying. She’d see Peter that afternoon, she was sure. There was an officers’ cricket match between the Hussars and the Gurkhas at the oval: a large, very British expanse of green surrounded by poinciana, palm and banyan trees, adjacent to the university. She hadn’t been particularly excited about the match, or a long afternoon in the middle of town shielded from the cooling sea breezes, but now couldn’t wait to get there. She could talk to Peter then.
He wasn’t there.
Everyone else from the party had come, lethargic on the rattan loungers lining the boundary, parasols propped on shoulders, flannelled legs crossed, clapping lazily at each four and six, but not him.
‘Sick as a dog,’ said Della.
‘The curry puffs?’ said Maddy.
‘The champagne, I suspect,’ said Della, who looked quite pale herself. ‘What do you need him for, anyway?’
‘Nothing important,’ said Maddy. A lie, but, much as part of her yearned to confide, talk about it all, another, bigger, part held her back, even with Della, afraid that if she started picking over everything, it would ruin it. Besides, what was there really to tell? Just a wave, a parcel …
She thought about that parcel all through the sun-baked afternoon. She sat at Della’s side in a deckchair, slowly cooking in her tea dress, and pictured it on her bedside table, rereading Luke Devereaux’s note in her mind; she already knew it by heart. The cricketers played on, knocking the ball around the yellowing grass field, but she wouldn’t have been able to say who, of the Gurkhas or Hussars, were batting at any one time. She barely remembered to speak when Guy Bowen, dapper in a cream suit and boater, stopped by to say hello, cool lime sodas for her and Della in hand, and asked if they’d both had fun the night before.
‘A little too much,’ said Della.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t get a dance,’ he said to Maddy, grey eyes crinkling.
‘Next time,’ she said.
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ he called over his shoulder as he returned to where he’d been sitting, beneath the swaying cloth punkahs on the pavilion. ‘Already looking forward to it.’
‘Just like an uncle,’ said Della, stifling a yawn.
‘Drink your drink,’ said Maddy.
For once, Della did as she was told. Luckily, she was too preoccupied with her own tiredness to go on, or expect much in the way of conversation for the rest of the match.
‘Early nights all round, I think,’ said Richard, when it at last came to an end (who had won? Maddy hadn’t the faintest; all she could think about was that she was within touching distance of returning to her room).
She collapsed on her bed as soon as she got there, not even stopping to remove her hat, kick off her boots, before she started on Luke Devereaux’s book. She had to put it down again for a bath, to dress for an early supper, but read it cover to cover that night, her head on the soft pillow, the shutters open, dragonflies fluttering invisibly in the darkness beyond. She turned the pages slowly, lingering over the tantalising descriptions of temples and markets, seeing them in her mind’s eye. She thought how strange it was that he must have done the same once. That she now had his book, and knew nothing about him, hadn’t even met him.
Not yet.
She finished the final page and let the book fall shut on her chest. Eyelids heavy, she told herself that it didn’t matter that she hadn’t managed to speak to Peter. She was always seeing him, she wouldn’t have to wait long. Her eyes closed. She could talk to Peter soon.
But the very next morning, before she was even fully dressed, her father stopped by her room to tell her that he’d had word from the Viceroy: he was needed for business in Delhi, from there for a goodwill tour of the independent princely states. ‘There’s been a lot of change with our residents lately,’ he said, ‘we need to smooth things over, keep “the kings” on side. I’m taking Peter too. I’ve just been to see him. He’s meeting me at the terminus. We’ll be gone a couple of months.’
Maddy stared, hairpin halfway to her head. Was he joking?
He didn’t look like he was joking. In fact, he was looking at her like it was all about to get worse.
‘Della’s going to tag along,’ he said.
‘What?’ said Maddy.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re all going?’
‘We’ll be back before you know it.’
‘No you won’t.’ She dropped her hairpin on the bureau, the full enormity of two months ahead, just her and her mother, sinking in. There’d be no prospect of her father coming home each evening to look forward to, no Della … ‘Can’t I go as well?’ she asked, slightly desperately.
‘Your mama would prefer you stay here.’
‘Why?’ Maddy asked, baffled.