novels by Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters. They had served to fire her belief that ‘true love’ would one day be found.
In the next few months, she was to do the Season in London, where she would be introduced to suitable young men. And from them, she fervently hoped, she would find her own Mr Darcy.
It was the only bright spark in a haze of bleakness. And, Olivia thought brutally, unlikely. The young British chaps she had met so far did not fill her with confidence for the future. Their pasty complexions, immaturity and apparent lack of interest in anything other than shooting pheasant had not endeared any of them to her. Perhaps it was because she had spent so much of her life to date amidst adults, unluckily being one of only a very few young ladies and gentlemen in Poona’s social circle. She had mostly grown up with her parents’ friends, attending dinners and parties, riding and playing tennis. And her education had been unusual too, although Olivia saw this as a bonus. Her parents had employed the tutorial services of Mr Christian, an ex-Cambridge graduate who had been wounded out of the army in the First World War, but had decided to settle in Poona. Mr Christian had taken philosophy as his degree at Trinity and, finding a willing young mind, had taken the opportunity to fill it with a breadth of knowledge Olivia would not have found in an all-girls’ English boarding school. He had also taught her how to play chess to a near-professional standard and cheat at bridge.
However, in the past few weeks Olivia had come to realise her cultural sophistication would be no help to her here in England. Her wardrobe, which had seemed modern in India, was hopelessly out of date. She had insisted her mother’s dressmaker take up her hems, allowing them to fall nearer her knee rather than her ankles, as all the young ladies she had seen recently in London were doing. And when she had taken a shopping trip to Derry and Toms with her mother, she had secretly purchased a bright red lipstick.
The shortening of her skirts and the lipstick were not because Olivia was particularly vain, but rather because she didn’t want to stand out from the crowd more than she already did.
And now here they were, in another freezing, damp mausoleum of a house for the weekend. Papa had apparently been at school with Lord Christopher Crawford, their host for the weekend. As usual, Papa would spend the days shooting and Mama, or Mummy , as she was learning to call her, would sit in the drawing room drinking tea and engaging her hostess in polite conversation. Olivia would sit by her, feeling like a spare part.
There was a light knock on her door.
‘Come,’ she said.
A sweet, freckled face containing a pair of sparkling brown eyes appeared around it. The girl was dressed in an old-fashioned maid’s outfit, which looked rather too big for her.
‘ ’Scuse me, m’um, my name’s Elsie and I’m to help you whilst you’re here. Can I unpack your suitcase for you?’
‘Of course.’
Elsie stepped over the threshold and hovered nervously. ‘ ’Scuse me, m’um, it’s a little dark in here. Can I put on some light? I can hardly see you over there.’ She giggled shyly.
‘Yes, please do,’ Olivia replied.
The girl scuttled over to the lamp by the bed and switched it on. ‘There we are,’ she said. ‘That’s better now, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Olivia stood up from the bed and turned to the girl. ‘It gets dark so early here.’ She felt the maid’s eyes boring into her. Finally she said, ‘Is there something wrong?’
The maid jumped. ‘Sorry, m’um, I was just thinking how beautiful you was. I’ve never seen a girl as beautiful as you. You look like one of them actresses from the flicks.’
Olivia was rather taken aback. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s awfully kind of you to say so, but I’m quite sure I don’t.’
‘Well, I think you do,’ confirmed Elsie. ‘And, m’um, you must forgive me if I
In the next few months, she was to do the Season in London, where she would be introduced to suitable young men. And from them, she fervently hoped, she would find her own Mr Darcy.
It was the only bright spark in a haze of bleakness. And, Olivia thought brutally, unlikely. The young British chaps she had met so far did not fill her with confidence for the future. Their pasty complexions, immaturity and apparent lack of interest in anything other than shooting pheasant had not endeared any of them to her. Perhaps it was because she had spent so much of her life to date amidst adults, unluckily being one of only a very few young ladies and gentlemen in Poona’s social circle. She had mostly grown up with her parents’ friends, attending dinners and parties, riding and playing tennis. And her education had been unusual too, although Olivia saw this as a bonus. Her parents had employed the tutorial services of Mr Christian, an ex-Cambridge graduate who had been wounded out of the army in the First World War, but had decided to settle in Poona. Mr Christian had taken philosophy as his degree at Trinity and, finding a willing young mind, had taken the opportunity to fill it with a breadth of knowledge Olivia would not have found in an all-girls’ English boarding school. He had also taught her how to play chess to a near-professional standard and cheat at bridge.
However, in the past few weeks Olivia had come to realise her cultural sophistication would be no help to her here in England. Her wardrobe, which had seemed modern in India, was hopelessly out of date. She had insisted her mother’s dressmaker take up her hems, allowing them to fall nearer her knee rather than her ankles, as all the young ladies she had seen recently in London were doing. And when she had taken a shopping trip to Derry and Toms with her mother, she had secretly purchased a bright red lipstick.
The shortening of her skirts and the lipstick were not because Olivia was particularly vain, but rather because she didn’t want to stand out from the crowd more than she already did.
And now here they were, in another freezing, damp mausoleum of a house for the weekend. Papa had apparently been at school with Lord Christopher Crawford, their host for the weekend. As usual, Papa would spend the days shooting and Mama, or Mummy , as she was learning to call her, would sit in the drawing room drinking tea and engaging her hostess in polite conversation. Olivia would sit by her, feeling like a spare part.
There was a light knock on her door.
‘Come,’ she said.
A sweet, freckled face containing a pair of sparkling brown eyes appeared around it. The girl was dressed in an old-fashioned maid’s outfit, which looked rather too big for her.
‘ ’Scuse me, m’um, my name’s Elsie and I’m to help you whilst you’re here. Can I unpack your suitcase for you?’
‘Of course.’
Elsie stepped over the threshold and hovered nervously. ‘ ’Scuse me, m’um, it’s a little dark in here. Can I put on some light? I can hardly see you over there.’ She giggled shyly.
‘Yes, please do,’ Olivia replied.
The girl scuttled over to the lamp by the bed and switched it on. ‘There we are,’ she said. ‘That’s better now, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Olivia stood up from the bed and turned to the girl. ‘It gets dark so early here.’ She felt the maid’s eyes boring into her. Finally she said, ‘Is there something wrong?’
The maid jumped. ‘Sorry, m’um, I was just thinking how beautiful you was. I’ve never seen a girl as beautiful as you. You look like one of them actresses from the flicks.’
Olivia was rather taken aback. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s awfully kind of you to say so, but I’m quite sure I don’t.’
‘Well, I think you do,’ confirmed Elsie. ‘And, m’um, you must forgive me if I
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