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sheafs in their skirts and petticoats. Charlotte herself felt like a heap of poufs and appreciated keenly the inappropriateness of their dress in these climes. Mrs van Heyde, though dressed sensibly, in similar fashion to Takouhi, with a blue and white sarong and loose white jacket, managed through her size to look hot and fussy, and she dabbed constantly at her brow with a handkerchief. Takouhi’s Javanese slenderness made her seem to waft like a zephyr through the room. Her high cheekbones gave her a regal air; her skin was light brown and perfectly smooth; her black eyes turned up slightly at the corners; her lips were full and sensuous. When she smiled, Charlotte could see that her eyeteeth came to a point, like a cat’s. No, not a cat, thought Charlotte, but something feline. Her gestures and speech were slow and purring. A lynx, yes, that was it. Like a tawny lynx. Charlotte thought her the most graceful and beguiling woman she could ever hope to see.
    Takouhi came from a wealthy family in Batavia. Her brother, Charlotte learned from Miss Aratoun, was the taipan of Batavia, the richest merchant in the Dutch East Indies. Robert had said she was Armenian, but Charlotte was not sure where that was and did not dare ask even Lilian Aratoun, although she was most curious. Takouhi’s father had married a Javanese princess. This information thrilled Charlotte. She had met George Coleman—Irishman, surveyor and architect—in Batavia and had moved to Singapore, where he had built her Tir Uaidhne, this house. She had pronounced the name ‘Teeroowain’ but did not elaborate on its meaning, to Charlotte’s disappointment.
    For their part, the assembly inspected their new arrival and would have been surprised to know that in some northerly drawing rooms Miss Macleod was not considered a beauty. For many Scottish ladies, her skin was not pale enough, her hair too black, her nose very slightly snub. Her eyes were her best feature, a violet blue, but there was something too direct in her gaze. Her figure was reckoned to be fair but somewhat too thin. And she had that impossible name. All those French bits. Not just plain Charlotte Macleod, but Charlotte Toussaint de la Salle Macleod. It was not seemly for a good Protestant Scottish girl. But then again, her background was unsavoury. What could you expect?
    In Miss Takouhi Manouk’s drawing room, however, the collective opinion was one of benign and affectionate approval. The rigorous and critical class system of Europe was, like the mail, a dangerous year away by sea.
    Mrs Keaseberry summed it up in her Bostonian drawl. ‘Singapore’s a man’s town, my deah, and we women so few that we must all get along as well as possible, no matter our skin colours or stations. All that matters very little here.’
    Indeed she had discovered the meagre extent of her possible acquaintance. Apart from the women in this room, there were few other European or Eurasian women with whom she could expect to have regular intercourse. The wives of the government officals and merchants numbered no more than fifteen, few of them young. The greatest number of young women were among the da Silva daughters, daughters-in-law and granddaughters. She realised that what Robert had said was true. Her sort—youthful, white, of acceptable social standing and of marriageable age—was rare. She was not sure how she felt about this.
    Returning from this remarkable visit to an empty house seemed an anticlimax. She had not known what Singapore would really be like, but this colourful and intimate kaleidoscope of people and languages was the furthest thing from her expectations. To know Takouhi Manouk alone was, she felt, worth the journey. She had received a swarm of invitations, and when finally she had stepped down from Takouhi’s carriage, she longed to tell Robbie. However, she soon was glad of the silence. She struggled out of her hot dress and rinsed quickly,