“Oh,” he drawled, “that’s . . . very difficult to describe. I’d heard things, of course. Others who had been there offered a variety of descriptions—which varied mostly in relation to whether or not they’d liked it there. Some said it was a horrible, barbaric place. Others said it was beautiful and exotic and remarkable. I found it to be both. But . . . when I first arrived, not really knowing what to expect, I think I was mostly just . . . shocked. Yes, I was shocked. It was so dramatically different from anything I had ever seen that it had simply been beyond my ability to imagine. I felt as if I was sleepwalking somehow for the first several days I was there, looking at everything through some kind of daze. And I remember a day—it was more than a year later—when I realized that I’d become so accustomed to everything about India that it was difficult to remember what it had been like to live in England.”

“And how did you feel when you returned?” she asked. “Shock again?”

“In some ways, yes. But at least I’d been here before, I’d grown up here; I had memories of this place. It has been a very big adjustment, but it feels like home to me.” Instinctively he tightened his arm around her and pressed another kiss into the softness of her hair. “Now more than ever.”

Another stretch of silence made Henry realize he was getting tired, and the way that Amala was relaxed against his side let him know that she was as well.

“I think it’s time we both got some sleep,” he said, reluctantly removing his arm from around her. “I have a very important invitation to tea tomorrow.” He felt delighted at the prospect of being able to return so soon to spend time with Amala and her family.

“How lovely,” she said, letting him know she was pleased as well.

On their way out of the carriage house, Amala doused the lanterns as she’d promised Everett she would do. Henry walked her to a side door of the house, wanting to see that she got there safely. She turned to face him, and he felt the impending separation already saddening him, but he felt something else too and was quick to express it. “Thank you,” he said, “for . . . being willing to see me . . . for giving me a chance.”

“I pray you do not regret it,” she said, putting a hand to his face.

“My greatest regret would be spending my life wondering if I could have tried harder.”

He wondered if it would be improper to kiss her again, but she lifted her lips to his and he gratefully accepted her simple offering of affection.

“Good night, Henry,” she whispered. “Travel safely.”

“Not to worry,” he said. “The horse knows the way home in the dark.”

“Until tomorrow, then,” she said and went inside.