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but clear.
    “Will you tell
her?” It was Lady Molesey speaking. Isabella’s attention still
wandered over the portrait in front of her.
    “No, I
couldn’t possibly. I promised Colonel Hearthogg.” Mrs Trotter’s
voice sounded tight and breathless. Mention of the colonel’s name
caught and focused Isabella’s attention.
    Lady Molesey’s
voice was low.
    “It does seem
a little harsh. What happens when she is sixteen and demands her
money? Anyone can see she fully expects to return to India, after
all she is more Indian than English, as one would expect from
someone with her unfortunate upbringing. How will she pay for her
passage if there is to be no money at the end of her service?”
    Mrs Trotter
was starting to sniffle.
    “I don’t know.
The colonel just said the regiment had fallen on hard times and all
their monies had gone on arming the soldiers against Russia.
He…he…” Here Mrs Trotter hiccupped. “He said the orphans from now
on would just have to make do as best they could. The regiment
could provide a position, but that was all.”
    “I’m not sure
I approve of this.” There was a pause. “Compose yourself, Matilda,
the child will be down in a minute.” There was a click and the door
closed.
    Isabella sat
down on a carpeted step.
    It was funny.
Of all the things that could have gone wrong, this was the one
thing she would never have expected; not of her father’s regiment,
the one in which she had been raised. An honourable and brave
regiment, who she regarded as family. She felt as if a bucket of
freezing water had been poured over her head.
    How could she
have been so naïve? Of course there wasn’t any money. She’d been an
inconvenience and they’d had to get rid of, so they’d sent her back
to England, not even having the decency to let her starve in her
own country. But that would have been bad form, and the regiment
couldn’t have that, something even Lady Molesey knew. She was a
worthless nuisance, nothing more.
    There was a
pain in her chest, a tightening and a hardening, and she stood up,
struggling for a moment to catch her breath. Forcing her feet down
the stairs to Mrs Trotter’s apartments, Isabella had the feeling
she was leaving something behind. Turning, she caught sight of the
portrait of London she had so admired, but now, on closer
inspection, she saw the colours were dull and the paint work flat
and what she’d assumed was a wheeling flock of birds over the
steeple of St Paul’s was, in fact, tiny holes made by woodworm.
    Dinner was
brief. Isabella forced herself to eat every mouthful, though it
tasted like sand.
    “Are your
rooms comfortable dear?” enquired Mrs Trotter.
    “Yes, quite
thank you.” There was a pause. “And yours?”
    “Oh yes, very.
I still feel as if I am on a ship, however. The room moves to and
fro at times, but I am so happy to be on land, I really do not
mind.” She took another mouthful of chicken broth. Isabella
wondered if disgust were showing on her face.
    “What time
will we leave tomorrow?”
    Mrs Trotter
patted her mouth with a napkin, not quite meeting Isabella’s
eye.
    “Well, when we
are ready. Mid-morning perhaps? It being Friday, the roads may be
busy and I must meet my coach at three o’clock, though I can’t
imagine our business taking too long. India House is very
organised.”
    “Have you had
many dealings with them?” Isabella asked, opening her eyes
wide.
    Mrs Trotter
blushed.
    “Well a
few.”
    “So I am not
the first orphan you’ve escorted into service?”
    “No, but I
prefer to think of my being their friend rather than an
escort.”
    Isabella
nodded.
    “You’ve kept
in touch then?”
    Mrs Trotter
flushed again.
    “Well, no,
but… they often moved position and it proved too difficult to track
them down.” She looked apprehensive. In the past Isabella would
have poured scorn on Mrs Trotter’s feebleness, but now she found
she didn’t care. She lifted a silver breadbasket lined with a white
linen