“Is something the matter, Major?” asked Mrs. Ali. “You seem upset.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine. Long day, though.”

“Your son rented the cottage, did he not?” she said. “He seemed so full of cheer.”

“Oh, yes, yes, all signed and sealed,” said the Major. “He’s very happy about it.”

“How lovely for you,” she said.

“It was all just a bit hasty,” said the Major, taking a fast right turn in front of a tractor to dive the car into the single-track shortcut back to Edgecombe St Mary. “Apparently they’re engaged.” He looked back at Grace, hoping she would not start groaning again. The sound made it so difficult to drive. “Feeling better?”

“Much better, thank you,” said Grace, whose face still looked gray and sunken. “I offer you my congratulations, Major.”

“I just hope they know what they’re getting into,” said the Major. “All this renting cottages together. It seems so premature.”

“It seems to be the way they all go on today, even in the best families,” said Grace. “You mustn’t let anyone make you feel bad about it.” He was immediately annoyed, both by the suggestion and by the way her handkerchief fluttered like a trapped dove in his rearview mirror as she fanned herself.

“They should be able to buy the place eventually,” said the Major. “Roger tells me it will be rather a smart investment.”

“When true love combines with clear financial motive,” said Mrs. Ali, “all objections must be swept away.”

“Is that a saying in your culture?” asked Grace. “It seems very apt.”

“No, I’m just teasing the Major,” said Mrs. Ali. “I think the circumstances may prove to be less important than the fact that life has made a turn and brought your son and a future daughter-in-law closer, Major. It is an opportunity to be seized, is it not, Miss DeVere?”

“Oh, certainly,” said Grace. “I wish I had children to come and live near me.” Her voice held a hint of a pain unconnected with digestive problems.

“I have tried to see my nephew’s presence in such a light,” said Mrs. Ali. “Though the young do not always make it easy.”

“I will follow your advice and try to seize on my son’s new proximity,” said the Major as he sped up to escape the outer limits of Little Puddleton. “And I live in hope that he will want more from the relationship than a good deal of my old furniture.”

“You must bring your son and his fiancée to the dance, Major,” said Grace. “Introduce them to everyone. Everyone is always so relaxed and approachable when they’re in costume, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but they often don’t remember you the next day, I find,” said the Major. Mrs. Ali laughed.

“I suppose I’ll wear my Victorian tea dress again,” said Grace. “Maybe I can borrow a pith helmet or something.”

“If you would be interested, I would be more than happy to lend you a sari or a tunic set and shawl,” said Mrs. Ali. “I have several very formal pieces, packed away in the attic somewhere, that I never use.”

“Do you really?” said Grace. “Why, that would surprise the ladies at the club, wouldn’t it—little me in full maharani splendor.”

“I think you would carry a sari very well with your height,” added Mrs. Ali. “I will look out a few things and drop them off for you to try.”

“You are very kind,” said Grace. “You must come and have tea with me and that way you can tell me what you think—I may look like a complete fool.”

“That would be lovely,” said Mrs. Ali. “I’m usually free on Tuesday or Sunday afternoons.” The Major felt his jaw compress again as the vision of another Sunday discussing Kipling faded. He told himself to be happy that Mrs. Ali was making other friends in the village, but in his heart, he cried out at the thought of her crossing someone else’s threshold.

Chapter 11

If there was one trait the Major despised in men, it was inconstancy. The habit of changing one’s mind on a whim, or at the faintest breath of opposition; the taking up and putting down of hobbies, with the attendant bags of unused golf clubs in the garage and rusting weed trimmers leaning against sheds; the maneuverings of politicians in ways that sent uneven ripples of bother through the country. Such flailing about was anathema to the Major’s sense of order. Yet in the days following his excursion with Mrs. Ali and Grace, he found himself tempted to switch directions himself. Not only had he allowed himself to be drawn into a ridiculous situation with regard to the dance, but perhaps he was behaving like a fool with regard to Mrs. Ali as well. He had thought of their friendship as being set apart from the rest of the village, and yet now here she was, plunging into the ordinary activities of the other village ladies. Of course, one tea did not signal a complete assimilation by the female social machine; but it made him depressed anyway.

As Sunday afternoon dragged its weary hours, he sat alone with Kipling’s masterpiece, Kim, unopened on his knee and tried not to imagine her laughing over her teacup as Grace twirled and paraded in a froth of sequined and embroidered costumes. On Tuesday, when he ran out of milk, he avoided the shop and drove instead to the filling station for petrol and bought his milk from the refrigerator next to a display of oil cans. When Alec called about golf on Thursday, he tried to beg off by complaining of a mild backache.

“If you sit about, it’ll only knot up worse,” said Alec. “A leisurely round is just the thing to get the kinks out. How about just nine holes and lunch?”

“Truth is, I’m not feeling very sociable,” said the Major. Alec gave a loud snort of laughter.

“If you’re worried about running into the ladies’ dance committee, I shouldn’t worry. Daisy has whisked Alma off to London to look at costumes. I told Alma if she gets me anything more than a pith helmet I’m calling in the solicitors.”

The Major allowed himself to be persuaded. To hell with women, anyway, he thought as he went to find his golf bag. How much better it was to focus on the manly friendships that were the foundation of a quiet life.

Preparations for “An Evening at the Mughal Court” were in full vulgar display as the Major arrived early for his game. In the annex beyond the Grill, where tea and coffee urns were usually set out for morning golfers, there was no urn in sight. Instead, all the tables had been pushed aside to create rehearsal space in front of the stage. The girls of the luncheon staff, their scowls deepened with concentration, were engaged in flinging scarves about with their arms and stamping their feet as if to crush earwigs. They wore anklets of tiny bells whose seamless jarring wash of sound gave away the fact that not a single dancer was moving in time with any other. Amina, the young woman from the Taj Mahal restaurant, seemed to be teaching the group. George was ensconced on top of a steep pile of chairs, drawing with a fat colored pencil in a thick sketchbook.

“Five, six, seven … hold the eight for two beats … stamp, stamp!” called Amina, leading with graceful steps from the front while the women lumbered behind her. The Major thought she might be better off turning around to watch them, but then perhaps it was too painful to look at the sweating faces and assorted large feet for an extended period. As he scanned the entire room in vain for a tea urn, trying to remain invisible, a cry went up from a large girl in the back row.

“I’m not doing this if people keep coming in looking at us. They told us it would be private.”

“Yeah, we’re in bare feet here,” said another girl. The entire troupe glared as if the Major had invaded the ladies’ locker room. George looked up from his book and waved. His stack of chairs wobbled.

“Sorry, just looking for some tea,” said the Major. The girls continued to glare. Having been relieved of their other duties in order to do whatever it was they were actually doing, they had no intention of helping a club member.

“Girls, we only have a couple of weeks to do this,” said Amina, clapping her hands together. “Let’s take a five-minute tea break and then we’ll talk about feeling the rhythm.” The Major had not expected to hear such a tone of authority coming from someone so scruffy and odd. Even more surprising was how the girls shuffled obediently through the swing doors to the kitchen with scarcely a mutter. The Major tried not to think of so many sweaty footprints on the kitchen floor.