I often spoke her name aloud. "Lavinia ... Lavinia, why would you not come with me when I begged you to? Why did you delay? Could you really have believed that the Khansamah was your devoted slave, that no harm would come to you while he was there?" Oh, poor deluded Lavinia!

Fabian had been deeply shocked by what had occurred, but he was a realist. She was dead. Nothing could bring her back. Her death was in a way due to her folly. What we had to do now was think of the children.

The coming of the new year saw the end of rebellion in Bengal, and in most of Central India. Bahadur Shah, the last of the Moguls, had been tried and convicted of treason and sent to Burmah. Order was slowly being restored. I still thought a good deal about Dougal, Alice and Tom. It seemed they must still be in Lucknow, for we had heard no news of them. I was desperately afraid of what might have happened.

Life was more tolerable. We were still living at Salar's house, but we were freer now and there was no need for us to keep our identity secret. Our own people were back in command in Delhi. We had nothing to fear from the Sikhs, who had always been loyal to British rule and had realized the benefits it brought to them.

I did not take the children to the house, for I feared it would bring back memories and start them asking questions about their mother; but Fabian came to Salar's house. They were pleased to see him and showed some rather restrained affection towards him, for they were still a little in awe of him.

He had changed somewhat. He was more serious now. What had happened to Lavinia had affected him more deeply than I realized. Moreover, he had lost several friends and colleagues in the debacle. I supposed no one who had lived through all that could ever be the same carefree person again.

One must take life seriously when one could never be sure when one could be plunged into horror.

Our conversation was very sober now and we talked a great deal about what was happening in this country. Those verbal battles between us were no more. I felt that our relationship—however deep it was now—must change when we returned to more normal circumstances. Perhaps we had been drawn together closely but superficially. I had a sense of transience.

I thought often: I shall never be the same person again. I told myself often that I must not attach too much importance to my new relationship with Fabian, for neither of us was living a normal life.

The year was advancing. At any moment I was prepared to hear that I must make ready to go.

Then it came. I was to prepare to set out for Bombay in two days' time, taking the children with me. The ayah would remain behind in her brother's household. I would travel in the company of a party of women and children. For a long time plans had been in progress to get them home.

"So," I said blankly, "I shall travel alone."

"I shall accompany you as far as Bombay," said Fabian. "I cannot contemplate your making that journey, which may be highly dangerous ... without me."

I felt my heart leap with joy while I chided myself for my folly.

How sad it was to say goodbye to the ayah. Salar was triumphant. He had successfully paid his debt. Ayah was calm; the children were quiet. It was a great wrench for them—perhaps their first real sorrow.

I said, "Dear Ayah, it may be that we shall meet again."

She gave me that infinitely sad smile of hers, and told me of her deep unhappiness, but that she must accept her fate.

That journey to Bombay seems unreal to me even now.

We set out in a dak-ghari type of vehicle, in which I had travelled before. I knew that in those rough carts drawn by one unkempt-looking horse we must prepare for a somewhat uncomfortable journey. The children, sad as they were to leave Ayah, were glad to escape from the confinement of Salar's house. They were going home, Louise told Alan, and the little boy so far forgot his sorrow at parting with his beloved ayah as to jump up and down and sing "Home, home."

There was a magic in that word.

We had set out from the house very early in the morning, I riding in the cart with the children, and Fabian on horseback beside us with half a dozen armed men. We did not have to wait long before more joined the party, and by the time we left Delhi our numbers had increased considerably. There were women and children in dak-gharis like ours. More soldiers joined us. And the long trek began.

We knew that the Mutiny was by no means over and that it was possible that we could be attacked by hostile natives. The fact that we were women and children and elderly people would not save us. This was a war against a race, not against individual people. It was moving to see how everyone wanted to help each other. If anyone was sick or some minor accident occurred, everyone, without exception, wanted to give whatever possible. It amazed me how the sense of impending danger could have that effect on people.

Most of us had seen death in some form over the last months; we knew that its shadow still hung over us and that any moment could be our last: but for some reason we had lost our fear and awe of death. It had become an everyday occurrence. We had learned that life was transient. Perhaps we had become more spiritual, less materialistic. I did not know. But, looking back, I see that it was a strange and elevating experience to have lived through.

We stopped now and then at the dak-bungalows for food and to rest or change horses. We did not sleep there. There was a sense of urgency among the company. Everyone knew that we must get on the ship before we would be safe.

The stops were a relief. It meant that we escaped for a spell the violent jolting of the dak-gharis. We snatched a few hours sleep here and there. The children usually closed their eyes when the sun set and slept through the nights.

I was always aware of Fabian's presence and it comforted me. While he was there I felt assured that we should come safely through. In one way I did not want the journey to end, because I knew it would mean saying goodbye to him, and in spite of the discomfort I found his presence exhilarating.

When we reached Bombay, he would return to Delhi and we would sail away. We might be safe, but he would be going back into danger. Often I wondered what was happening to Tom, Alice and Dougal.

During our little halts Fabian and I would talk together. We would wander a little distance from the others.

He said, "Once you are on the ship all should be well. You will have the journey across land, of course, from Suez to Alexandria ... but you know of the pitfalls now. You will be with a great number of people and you are not likely to get taken in by handsome strangers of the Lasseur breed."

"No," I answered. "I know better now."

"When you get home you will stay with the children."

"Lady Harriet will want to have them with her."

"Of course. But you will be there, too. You can't desert them. Think what that would mean to them. They have lost their mother and the ayah. They cling to you, I notice. You represent security to them. You must stay with them at Framling. I have written to my mother to tell her this."

"You think a letter will reach her?"

"I have already given it to one of our people who left two weeks ago. I have told her that you will be arriving with the children and I shall want you to remain with them until I come home."

"When will that be?"

He lifted his shoulders. "Who can say? But you must be with them. My mother might be a little ... formidable ... just at first. They will need you there to help them understand her. Poor children, they have suffered enough through their experiences."

"It does not seem to have affected them adversely. I believe children soon come to accept everything as normal. They are used now to this hole-and-corner existence. They had all those weeks at Salar's."

"And their mother?"

"They accept her death. They think she has gone to Heaven."

"They will still be wondering."

"So much has happened and Lavinia did not see very much of them. She was a rather remote person to them."

"Perhaps that is as well."

"They miss the ayah, of course."

"That has made them turn more to you. So, you see, Drusilla, you must not leave them. I've explained that to my mother."

"You want me to remain at Framling ... as a sort of governess."

"You are a friend of the family. When I come home we can make arrangements. Until then, I want you to make sure they are all right. Promise me."

I promised.

"There is something else," he went on. "I have told my mother about ... the other child."

"You mean Fleur?"

"Yes. I thought she should know."

"But Polly and her sister ..."

"I know. They have looked after her ... and very well, too. But what if anything should happen to them? It is right that Fleur should be with her family."

"So Lady Harriet knows at last."

"Well, she had to know sometime. I could not break it to her gently. Who knows what is going to happen here?"

"What do you think she will do?"

"She will probably try to get the child."

"Oh no!"

I could imagine the confrontation, with Polly and Eff on one side and Lady Harriet on the other. It would be the meeting of two formidable contingents. I wondered who would be the stronger.

"I do hope ..." I began.

"My mother will make up her mind what should be done about the child. And in any case, whatever happens, we know that Fleur will have a home."