The man looked up at Henry and stopped whittling. “Sit down, young man, before you fall over. You don’t look like you feel too good.” Henry sat down, unable to argue with him on that count. The man set his work on the ground beside him and folded his arms over his chest. “If Amala was crying because you’d been cruel to her, I doubt very much you’d look the way you look right now. I’m thinking it’s more likely that she broke your heart.”

Henry took a sharp breath, uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was taking. He tried not to sound defensive when he asked, “How is it possible for a woman to break my heart when I’ve not yet known her for twenty-four hours?”

“Who am I to judge matters of the heart?” the man countered.

“And who exactly are you?” Henry asked. “I’m sitting here talking to you of personal matters and I don’t even know your name. Perhaps we should be properly introduced.”

“Perhaps we should. You’re Henry Beckenridge. You don’t have to tell me that. And there’s no need for you to act surprised that the servants of such a household freely discuss what’s going on—as much as they’re privy to. I can’t get a cup of coffee around here without being told everything I don’t necessarily want to know.”

“So, you know who I am, and why I’m here, and that I’ve traveled to India. I know nothing about you, but you obviously know Amala very well.”

“I’m known as Everett around here; been here all my life. Took over my father’s job when he got too old; now he’s long gone to our Maker. I take care of the carriages and everything else here that’s got wheels on it. Sometimes I drive them, although they do employ a driver, but he has other tasks too, so we spread the work around different from day to day.”

He sighed and took on a somewhat nostalgic expression.