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safe.”
    And with those words, a summer jaunt to impertinent Spain—at someone else’s expense—suddenly seemed like the most glorious of adventures. The divorce could leak its way through the courts like cod liver oil through one’s system, nasty going down but quietly effective: one husband, purged. Neither Thomas nor I would likely be allowed to marry again—as if I would. That didn’t worry me in the least. No, I would learn Spanish dances, and then come back lithe as a panther, ready to take London by storm.
    A sobering thought hit me. “But what if I—? Should I decide to stay the course—?”
    â€œYou may keep the money, in that case, and spend it on something beautiful. Yourself.”
    Bliss! I thanked the earl in the ways he liked best, and he even spent the night, he was that exhausted.
    The next few days were a flurry of activity as I met with Señor Hernandez, obtained information for my travelling plans, and managed to convince Howard Harris to equip me with a few (crucial) new garments (two large trunks and several hat boxes full). There were day dresses and a gown for the evening, in the latest colours and fabrics: one demure dove grey, one a vibrant summer sky blue, one I wasn’t too keen about but that the earl liked in a soft pink with lots of frills and furbelows (which he certainly helped me rumple, the first time I tried it on for him). And my favourite of all, in a gaily patterned tartan above with stripes below, cunningly cut to emphasize my shape. Well, I needed to make a good impression when I met the mysterious “superior” in Paris. According to Hernandez, this man was named Juan de Grimaldi, an influential personwho had the ears of Spanish royalty as well as the French. He was also a former theatrical impresario. The stars were aligning, I whispered to myself. I was moving on, seeing the world again, on my own and with full independence!
    And though travel requires an enormous duration of time that many people consider to be lost from one’s real, striving life, I knew that, in the space between what is expected of you when leaving at one end and before arriving at the other, there can be enormous change, both within and without. You can emerge an almost completely different person.
    Two previous voyages have taught me that, most distinctly. On the way back to my beloved India after marrying Thomas, I was no longer an innocent young girl, grateful to be married at any price to escape the fate my mother had decreed. Aboard the ship, Thomas had grown moody, and then one night he’d struck me. Not hard, but it had shocked us both, and I’d realized things could get ugly. Problems in the bedroom had quickly become chronic, the main one being that he had a very tight foreskin, and whenever he put it up me, it hurt him. The injustice of blaming me for this inconvenience never seemed to occur to him. We spent so much time coaxing his small, inflamed member that I began to lose all interest in the business. I came to understand that runaway matches, like runaway horses, are almost sure to end in a smash-up.
    However! My next travel adventure was quite heavenly. That time, my stepfather and now-estranged husband were saving their honours and mine. Looking over the side as Thomas finally descended the gangway and I saw the top of his head for the last time, I’d felt my heart rise and the air grow light around me.
    That’s when I discovered that time out of time can be glorious. I was free again, I could breathe; a whole voyage stretched ahead between me and my return to the Scottish relatives. The winds were hot, and I loosened my stays, shedding at least two layers of undergarments. As we drew in to Madras, I was idly observing those coming aboard when my pulse quickened at the sight of a long-legged young man with wavy blond hair. That evening at dinner, I learned that his name was George Lennox (bounder!). He was both the