It is very strange to walk into the unfamiliar front hall and see the coat rack and the side table with its accompanying mirror, the burgundy paper on the walls, the tasseled velvet drapes, as if I should find comfort in these strange things, as if this were a place I should know and love when I've never set foot in it. Though it is filled with cushioned chairs, a piano, a Christmas tree festooned with popcorn and ribbon, and though every room is warmed by a blazing fire, this does not feel like home. For me that place is India. I think of our housekeeper, Sarita, and see her lined face and gap-toothed smile. I see our house with the open porch and a bowl of dates sitting on a table draped in red silk. Mostly, I think of Mother's presence and Father's booming laugh, back when he did laugh.
As Grandmama is still out paying a call, the housekeeper, Mrs. Jones, is there to greet me. She asks if I've had a pleasant journey, and I answer yes, as is expected. We've nothing more to say to each other, so she leads me up two flights of stairs to my bedroom. It is a back room that looks out onto the carriage houses and stables of the mews, the small lane behind us where the coachmen and their families live. It is a dingy little place, and I wonder what it must be like mucking about in the hay with the horses, always staring up at the lights of these grand, towering white ladies where we have everything we could ask for.
When I have changed clothes for dinner, I make my way downstairs again. At the second-floor landing, I stop. Father and Tom are having an argument behind the closed doors of the library, and I move closer to listen.
"But, Father," Tom says. "Do you think it wise to hire a foreigner to be your driver? There are plenty of good Englishmen for the job, I daresay."
I peek through the sliver of light at the door. Father and Tom stand opposite each other, a couple of coiled springs. Some part of the old Father flares to life. "We had many loyal Indian servants in Bombay, may I remind you, Thomas."
"Yes, Father, but that was India. We're here now, amongst our peers, who all use English drivers."
"Are you questioning my decision, Thomas?"
"No, sir."
"Good man."
There is a moment of uncomfortable silence, and then Tom says carefully, "But you must admit that the Indians have habits that have led to trouble for you before, Father."
"That is enough, Thomas Henry!" Father barks. "There shall be no more discussion of it."
Tom barrels through the door, nearly knocking me over.
"Oh, dear," I say. When he doesn't respond, I add, "You might apologize."