‘What troubles you?’

‘When we were at Sthambadree, before Chintal, I had word of Mrs Hervey’s miscarriage. I was minded to bring it to you at once, naturally, but was uncertain. I asked Garratt’s opinion. He said he would not tell you, for although he believed it would not divert you from duty, such a thing was bound to intrude at some time on the judgements of any man of feeling, and he couldn’t risk that intrusion being for the ill. The lives of too many men were at stake. He said that I must do what was proper as regards my profession, but also that as an officer I must have regard to the operation on which we were to embark. And so I chose not to inform you – until later, that is. I tell you this now, not to excuse myself by laying blame on Garratt, but so that you might judge for yourself.’

Hervey put a hand on the surgeon’s shoulder. ‘My dear Milne, your sensibility – nay, your integrity – does you proud. Your judgement likewise. Garratt spoke exactly as I’d have wished. And nor, I believe, would Kezia have wished it. Have not the slightest thought of the matter any more.’

Milne was quite visibly relieved. ‘Colonel.’

‘And you’ll stay and have some supper?’

‘Thank you, yes.’

In the circumstances it was hardly an invitation he could turn down. Besides, heat languor was a very speculative diagnosis – hopeful, perhaps even desperate. Observing Kezia at table (if she were able to rise from her bed) in the company of family would be of advantage.

Hervey cleared his throat. ‘The gauskot – naught but a boy, says Sammy. Will he live?’

‘Ah, the gauskot …’ It was as good a way of changing the subject as any, if with no more certain a prognosis than he could give for Kezia. ‘Kraits, Colonel: why does any man become a grass-cutter?’

But with his conscience now clear, Milne could take his leave, letting Hervey resume his thoughts – or rather, now, contemplation of the ladies. For it was a good turnout – even Dorothea Worsley, and so soon after giving birth, standing in admirably for Kezia and presenting the serjeants’ wives to the Somerviles. (It was good of Eyre to come too, he thought, for he knew there was much to do in his last few days here.) Georgiana was speaking animatedly with a clutch of cornets, while Annie was doing so with rather greater reserve to Captain Malet. Poor Annie, he said to himself: she’d first met Malet when a chambermaid at the Berkeley Arms. What a trial it must be for her to comport herself as a governess, a lady, when all and sundry knew she’d served at table – not that it seemed a trial for Malet. But, he hardly need remind himself, Annie wasn’t the chambermaid at the Berkeley Arms any more. She neither looked nor sounded the part. What a progress it had been. And if ever there could be doubt as to her goodness of heart, there were two dozen and more officers and dragoons who knew otherwise from the hospital at Chintalpore. And the bodyguard. Indeed, when Suneyla had bid him farewell, she’d made special mention of her, and given her a pigeon-blood ruby the size of a plumstone. If – God forbid – Kezia were to have any prolonged prostration, he’d have to rely on Annie more than ever. That is, if she’d want to stay in India now. Or if she did, that it wouldn’t be to take up an offer from one of the Company ensigns. She must, of course, at some time; and she was sure to be well received here in India. Indeed, even on returning home she’d be received well, for like the matriarchs of Ancient Rome who made a point of never inquiring into the origins of a wife if her husband had been long on the frontiers, the hostesses of London did not bar their drawing rooms to those who could conduct themselves decorously …