to one another, each bearing twenty place name cards and twenty sets of strictly ordered cutlery.
She found herself seated in yet another cane chair beside a man with a very large moustache. The cutlery bothered her but by dint of watching her fellow diners, she managed to acquit herself without incident. The first course was soup but a soup she had never before tasted. She glanced sideways to gauge her neighbour’s reaction. The soup seemed to catch in his side-whiskers and Daisy had to stop herself from watching in fascination as bubbles of the dark liquid slid slowly down his moustache.
‘As always, good mulligatawny,’ he said at last, when he’d emptied most of his bowl, ‘but God-awful bread, don’t you think, m’dear?’
The bread was the least of Daisy’s worries. The hot, spicy liquid was burning her throat and she had to force herself to finish what was in front of her.
‘Made with yeast from Bombay, you know. Comes in the post every month—no wonder it tastes like dung.’
She laboured painfully through the soup and then it was on to tough, curried chicken and another helping of hot spice. She filled and refilled her glass with water but nothing seemed to souse the flames.
‘Have you stayed on, then?’ was her companion’s next gambit.
‘Stayed on?’ That was a puzzle. ‘No, I’ve just arrived.’
‘Can’t have done, m’dear. Wrong time of the year.’
She was minded to contradict him but then recalled the various pieces of advice that had come her way. The man might be an eccentric but she must try to suit his humour. ‘Why is that?’ she asked, as though she genuinely wished to know.
‘It’s April. You couldn’t have arrived with the fishing fleet.’
‘I didn’t. I arrived with The Viceroy of India.’ And what on earth was the fishing fleet?
‘Bless your heart, the fishing fleet isn’t the name of a ship! It’s the girls. Girls just like you, husband hunting. They come out from home in the autumn and the young men go wild for them. Lots of ’em stay. Plenty of husbands to spare, you know. But come spring, those that haven’t made it, go back. Returned empties, we call them.’
‘I’ve not come to fish and I’m not a returned empty,’ Daisy said with dignity. ‘I came to India to marry. My husband is Gerald Mortimer.’
The man banged his spoon loudly on the table and laughed. ‘Sorry about the mix up. Young Mortimer’s gal then? Good! Difficult business but glad to see him hitched.’
She was unsure what he meant by a difficult business but he seemed well-meaning. And now that the dessert had arrived, it was taking all her attention. She eyed it hungrily. Two delicious woven toffee baskets, each filled with fresh mangoes and cream. It was the only part of the meal she’d managed without her eyes watering, and she had to stop her glance wandering enviously towards her neighbour’s plate. From several places along the table, she saw Gerald smiling. He was looking at her as though she had passed a test, though what that might have been, she had no idea.
Two decanters were placed in the middle of the two long tables, and she could just make out the writing on the silver labels which hung around each bottle neck: Marsala and Port. A duo of waiters made their solemn round of the guests, the women being offered the marsala and the men the port. When every schooner was filled, her neighbour stood with glass raised and all the men followed suit.
‘The King Emperor.’
There was a muffled rumble as everyone mouthed the words and held their glasses aloft. Daisy took a cautious sip. The wine was thick and sweet and clung to her tongue. The other women seemed to have no problem with it but she was delighted when she saw Mrs Forester rise from her seat at the head of the second table, and could stop pretending to drink.
‘Shall we, ladies?’
And then all the women stood up, with Daisy following uncertainly. Edith led the way through yet another polished oak door to a much smaller room and stood waiting on the threshold.
‘This is the snug, Daisy. We have our coffee here, and the men will join us after the port has finished doing the rounds. How are you enjoying this evening?’
She managed to murmur something that sounded like enjoyment, and then she was being taken by the hand and walked up to yet another young woman. ‘I would like you to meet my daughter,’ Edith was saying.
A smiling fair-haired girl was at her mother’s side. ‘This is Jocelyn. Jocelyn, this is Gerald’s new bride, Daisy.’
The girl’s red lips opened to an even broader smile, showing two rows of perfect, white teeth. Her deep blue eyes sparkled with pleasure as she dispensed with the hand Daisy had offered, and instead clasped her warmly around the shoulders. Immediately Daisy smelled it. The perfume. She knew that perfume—Shalimar. The very perfume Gerald had bought from her counter at Bridges. Could you get Shalimar in Jasirapur? Somehow she doubted it. So where had it come from? Gerald had said the perfume was for his aunt and she’d thought then that it was a strange choice for an older lady. Now it seemed she might have an explanation: it had not been for his aunt, if indeed he had one, but for this girl. And there could be one reason only for such an intimate gift, she decided, and that was courtship.
Jocelyn continued to talk cheerfully but Daisy hardly heard her. Her mind was too busy roving over remarks that had earlier made no sense. Was that what Rosemary Laughton had meant when she’d said Gerald’s marriage had come as a surprise, that the regiment had expected something else? Had they expected Jocelyn to be his bride? Surely not, for she was the Colonel’s daughter and from Daisy’s small experience of Jasirapur, the social hierarchy was even more rigid than in England. Jocelyn would be destined for a man of much higher rank than Gerald. She was allowing her imagination to run amok, she chided herself. Yet there was also Amelia Simmonds. She had been surprised by the marriage, so surprised that she’d been flustered into incoherence.
‘And what have you been doing since you arrived?’ Jocelyn was saying.
Daisy brought her mind back with a jerk and tried very hard not to show how bad she was feeling. ‘Not a great deal. I’m still getting used to the weather. But I did go to the bazaar today and bought material for new dresses. I find I don’t have sufficient lightweight clothing.’
‘No one ever has sufficient,’ the girl said, echoing Anish’s words. ‘Have you spoken to the durzi?’
‘I thought I might sew the dresses myself,’ she ventured, ‘but I didn’t think to bring patterns with me. Perhaps I can send for them.’
‘You don’t need patterns. All you need is a durzi, and I know the very man. I’ll bring him to you—tomorrow if you like.’
Her first reaction was to refuse, to make an excuse, say anything not to spend time with the woman she was beginning to think of as Gerald’s lover. But the girl was so pleasant and unaffected that rejecting her overture of friendship was difficult. She wondered if Jocelyn still cared for Gerald, and hoped it wasn’t the case. She might feel badly wounded, but she had no wish for the girl to be hurt too.
A second cup of bitter coffee was making the rounds before the men trooped through the door, some of them decidedly unsteady. Gerald was looking slightly flushed but came straight to her side.
‘You did well.’ She couldn’t imagine why, but if her husband was pleased, she was happy. ‘You were seated by the Colonel, you know,’ he whispered. ‘They must have thrown precedence out of the window tonight. Edith’s doing, I imagine. A great honour though. I guess it was because you’re fresh from England. It won’t happen again but the old boy seemed really interested in you.’
She was trying to think of a suitable reply when the room fell quiet. For some while it had been filled with loud chattering and the noise of chairs and stools being rearranged, until everyone was seated just where they wished. Then, breaking through the sudden hush that followed this burst of activity,