Amala felt like snapping at them; she wanted to say what should have been obvious—that the very idea of marrying, or even courting, an Englishman was absurd. They all knew it, and she wondered why they’d never talked about it. Did her family have some secret hope that all of the social disdain of such a prospect might magically go away? In her mind she committed to initiating that conversation with her family at a more appropriate time, if only so they would all stop expecting—and talking about—something that would never happen. For the moment she simply said, “No one.”

“I saw you dancing more than once,” Oliver said, as if that fact might help convince her of the magical transformation that had been implied a moment ago.

“Yes,” Amala said. “It was delightful.” Her stomach fluttered again at the memory of dancing with Henry. She hurried to add—as if it might soothe her family’s concern over the fact that she hadn’t danced nearly as much as Kat, “But my feet were hurting far too much to—”

“We must acquire more comfortable shoes for Amala,” Kat said to their parents. “She shouldn’t be kept from dancing simply because of poorly made shoes.”

Amala thought about how she hadn’t been wearing her shoes when she’d danced with Henry, and her skirts were plenty long so no one would have noticed. But she didn’t comment.

“No, you’re absolutely right,” Viola said as if Amala’s shoes were surely the entire source of the problem. “Before we attend another ball, we will get you some proper shoes.”

Amala offered her mother an appreciative smile but said nothing. A bridge of silence lured Amala’s thoughts to Henry’s descriptions of the brilliant colors of fabric worn by the women in India and of the unique scent of spices in the air. His words made her childhood memories more vivid, and she held them close. She longed for more such conversation with Henry Beckenridge, but doubted it would ever happen.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Oliver said, interrupting her reverie. He was looking more at his wife, but his comment was obviously meant for all of them. “I invited someone over for tea tomorrow. Howard Roderick.”

“Why, he’s as old and crippled as any man could ever be,” Viola said, astonished. “I thought he never left his house. It was his wife who hosted this evening’s ball. I don’t think Howard could have made it down the stairs or—”

“No, not that Howard Roderick,” Oliver said. “His son; the younger Howard—although he has some strange nickname, something to do with his middle name. I don’t recall it now. But I had a nice, long chat with the fellow. Very gentlemanly, he was.”