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his cases downstairs; he took the other. They crossed the polished hall together. She closed the door behind him and it was only when she was sitting in the taxi and they were halfway to the station that she realized that nobody—no boy, no maid, no servant, no master—had come to the door to say good-bye to him.
    When their taxi drove through the iron gates at the end of the drive, he turned in his seat and looked back toward the school. “Bastards,” he whispered, and then, with a bright insincere smile, “I’m sorry, did you think I said something?”
    And her thought was: The sensible thing now would be to ask the taxi driver to turn round and drive him straight back to school. She would say, “I’m very sorry, but I don’t think this will work.” But that would mean no ticket and no India, so she ignored her feelings and told the driver to take them to the railway station in Bath.

Chapter Six
    Tilbury Docks, October 17, 1928
    T he Kaisar-i-Hind was a swarming hive of activity by the time Tor and Rose arrived. Red-turbaned lascars flew around with luggage; crates of fruit and boxes of food were being hauled up the gangplank; bells were ringing; and on the quay, a pensioner band was wheezing its way through “Will Ye No’ Come Back Again?” And all Tor could do was smile and try not to stare too openly at all the men walking up the gangplanks: sunburned men in naval uniforms; old colonels bundled up against the cold; clever, pale men, young civil servants; and one heavenly looking man, who looked half-Indian, in the most beautiful cashmere coat, who turned and gave her what she was sure was a meaningful look.
    Oh, it was almost unbearable to feel this excited.
    Close to the gangplank, Rose’s parents stood conversing quietly with Miss Viva Holloway, who had been joined by a tall pale boy in a long dark coat, her other charge. Tor saw him glance at her mother, who was making a noisy hand-wavingfuss about boarding passes and trunks, but today she hardly gave a damn.
    All of them had flown around for most of the morning exploring the ship, which was astoundingly spacious and opulent. “Quite like a first-class hotel,” her mother kept saying. “I mean, very like the Meurice .” Its gleaming wooden floors smelled of fresh polish; it had deep armchairs in smoking rooms, lushly painted murals in the dining room, Persian carpets, fresh flowers, and when they walked in to look at the dining salon, a buffet was already being laid out with huge turkeys and hams and a sweet trolley, quivering with blancmanges, and neiges au crème, fruit salads, and—Tor’s favorite—lemon meringue pie.
    Her mother had gasped with admiration and then spoiled it by stage-whispering, “ Somebody will be in their element.” And then, “Darling, please do try not to overdo it, there is no more money for any frocks.”
    And for once, Tor’s silent father had taken her side. “Leave her alone, Jonti,” he’d said, his voice throbbing with emotion. “Don’t go on at her today.”
    At the clang of a loud bell, the pulse of the ship had quickened; feet scampered above their heads, orders were shouted, the music on the quayside swelled to a sobbing pitch, and her parents had been sent ashore.
    Tor’s last view of her mother had been of her standing on the quay, a few feet away from her father, tiny and determined, a colored streamer caught in her fur tippet. When Tor looked down, her mother looked up, lifted her bosom and gave her a significant look. “ Posture, ” her mother mouthed and Tor had immediately straightened up. Her performing seal, she’d thought bitterly, right up until the end.
    Then the band had played a rousing farewell and suddenly she’d felt this lurch, like a giant heartbeat, and they were off.And while other passengers had wept and waved and strained their eyes toward the shore until their people were dots, Tor’s heart had floated upwards and outwards in an ecstasy of flight. She was free.
     
    An hour