“There’s nothing to forgive, Amala. I’m just trying to understand why you have such an aversion to my company . . . or you seem to . . . part of the time. It didn’t seem to be a problem when we were sitting in the garden last night.”

“No one could see us together there,” she said. “But . . . I explained all of this to you. There is no good in our being seen together. It will only cause problems.” Again she turned her back to him. “You should have gone with Chit and my father to look at the—”

“All due respect to your father, Amala, I don’t want to see his mementoes of India. I doubt it’s anything I haven’t seen before. Chit likes that sort of thing. I, on the other hand, wanted to be with you. And I don’t care what anyone thinks or says. It’s just a walk in the garden. And this is your home, Amala. Surely here of all places you are not subjected to such ridiculous prejudice and—”

“Here in my home I am treated as an equal to my family members, but it’s not my reputation that concerns me. The talk of servants travels quickly through the villages and from house to house.”

“You speak as if our spending time together will taint me with leprosy or something.”

“In regard to social matters,” she said, “your analogy is quite accurate, Mr. Beckenridge.”

“And now I’m Mr. Beckenridge?” He sounded vaguely angry. “We can’t admire the rose garden together without regressing to such formality?”

“If you were only admiring the roses,” she said firmly, “perhaps I would have no reason to be concerned.”

Amala walked away, deeper into the garden and around the corner of a long hedge. She knew he would follow her, but she needed a moment to try to make sense of the turmoil rumbling inside of her. This isn’t supposed to happen, she kept hearing inside her mind, but just the thought of what he’d said to her, and the way he’d looked at her made her knees feel weak and her stomach flutter. How could she keep having this argument with him when she wanted nothing more than to just soak in every morsel of his attention?

Amala was glad to make it to a bench before the weakness in her knees got any worse. She gripped the cold stone with both hands and lowered her head to try to draw a deep breath, but she found it practically impossible to pull air into her lungs. The same moment she realized she was crying, she looked up to see him standing nearby and knew there was no point in trying to hide her tears from him. Still, she turned her face away, and when he sat down beside her, she gripped the bench more tightly, as if doing so might save her from the effect he had on her.