‘The father of the baby has many children in this village—far away from the manor where his wife cannot see.’

She looked at the girl and cleaned the curve of her bottom. She imagined the aubergine and did as Rajan had instructed her.

•

The ladies stood facing their easels as Master William Baptist inspected their work. They had been attending classes together for several months at Philomena de Silva’s house and their uniquely similar masterpieces were shaping up. Standing on the verandah of the stately house, the group looked over the tea estates that formed the subject of their artistic efforts. They mixed their palette as he instructed them, some more confidently than others.

Nala was ‘a natural talent’, according to the master. The others hid their smiles behind their easels while she blushed prettily, her fair skin revealing the rush of blood underneath. She knew what they were doing—and thinking. She didn’t mind their jealous whispers, she was used to it. It was hard being the envy of others, but she would rather be beautiful and envied than ugly and overlooked like Felicia Gunawardene, Judge Gunawardene’s wife. And she couldn’t paint.

The weekly classes gave her a chance to chatter endlessly to an eager and more responsive audience than her husband. She had recently announced her first pregnancy and much of each week’s conversation was devoted to whether she was carrying the son she desperately wanted. The ladies were full of questions and comments.

‘How did Rajan become a consultant at such a young age, Nala? He must be terribly clever. He’s very handsome for such a dark man.’ Before she could boast about his honours from the Royal College of Surgeons in London, they had moved on to the next question.

‘And, darling, how did you become so fair-skinned? Are all your relatives like you?’ they asked as they kissed her, leaving their waxy lipstick and Chanel perfume on her coveted skin.

On that day, Philomena was entertaining them with tales of the parliamentary debates that were taking place in Colombo.

‘The new constitution still hasn’t been finalised. That’s what happens when you let men negotiate.’ Everyone laughed, and Philomena continued, ‘I think the British should just give the United National Party what it wants. It did win the general election after all.

‘As you know, my father is a member of the UNP. We are close personal friends with the Senanayake clan,’ she reminded them. She stepped back to admire her painting. ‘DS Senanayake will become Prime Minister when the British finally go.’

‘Do you think the British will really leave?’ Felicia Gunawardene asked. ‘What would they do with all their properties? Their businesses and their big houses?’

‘They’ll sell them back to us, of course. Britain is tired of war and tired of freedom movements,’ Philomena declared, flourishing her paintbrush like a sword. ‘It’s an ageing master, feeling the weight of its years.’