Their carriage was well padded and comfortable. Bobbled curtains hung at the windows, the luggage racks were tasselled. A cushion behind each head had a removable cover. Footrests could be pulled out from under the carriage seats of which there were four. Water-colour views of distant destinations hung on the partitions, a voice tube was connected to the steward.

The Cook’s agent settled them in, explaining the hour of arrival and informing them that luncheon would be served from twelve o’clock onwards and that the dining car was immediately adjoining. He spent an unnecessarily long time wishing them a good journey but Maud, fully conversant with the company’s advice to travellers that employees should be offered no ‘douceur’, made no move to reach into her bag. In a mood of increasing defiance and mischief, Alice, with flushed cheeks, extracted from her purse what she believed to be about a shilling’s worth of francs and pressed them into, the man’s hand. He bowed and withdrew.

‘I wonder,’ said Alice innocently, ’who’s going to have the other two seats? They are both reserved, you see. Perhaps it will be that nice French lady and her maid.’

‘I sincerely hope it will not!’ said Maud, scandalized. ‘At the very least, though she may have little sense of decorum, it is to be supposed her maid will travel second class.’

Hardly had Maud spoken before, to her dismay, the carriage door clashed open admitting a cacophony of station noises, a cloud of steam and Isabelle de Neuville. She turned, shut the carriage door, lowered the window and leaned out to where her maid, hostile and skittish, stood on the platform. She handed her an envelope. The maid tore it open and inspected the contents with indignation. Maud strained to hear what was being said, deploying her small store of French as best she could. Two or three times she caught the word ‘troisième’. Third! What could this mean? Evidently it caused much dissatisfaction on the part of the maid and icy and hostile resolution on the part of Isabelle. Third class! Of course! Isabelle had consigned her maid to third class.

Maud could understand the girl’s indignation. On their way down the platform they had passed the third class carriages. Wreathed in tobacco smoke of a particularly virulent French kind, noisy with loud conversation and shouts of laughter, crowded with large and doubtless garlic-scented men in bleu de travail. Not the place for an elegant personal maid from Paris. Second class would have been appropriate. But such it seemed was the case and the maid, with a final imprecation (Maud hoped that the word ‘merde’ did not enter Alice’s vocabulary), turned and marched away down the platform, heels clicking indignantly.

‘Florence! Elle s’offense pour un rien!’ said Isabelle by way of explanation. ‘Very touchy, you know.’

If Alice had met Maud’s eye she would have read the message, ‘There! I told you so!’

Isabelle de Neuville rallied and turned with polite interest to Alice. ‘You are going,’ she said, ‘to Bombay? For the first time? That is quite an adventure! May I ask what takes you to distant Bombay?’

Before Alice could reply, the door opened again to admit the fourth passenger to their carriage. He was a young man, perhaps in his late twenties, leaning heavily on a stick and wearing dark glasses. He needed the help of a porter to climb the step and find his seat. Any time in the last four years a wounded soldier was a common enough sight but of late there had been fewer as the hospitals discharged their last patients and, such few as there were, they once again received special attention.

The young man muttered an apology in English and repeated it in clumsy French then, obviously overcome by shyness, relapsed into silence and Alice was able to pick up Isabelle’s question and reply.

‘I’m going to Bombay,’ she said importantly, ‘because I have business there — ’

‘That’ll do, Alice,’ said Maud repressively.

‘In fact I have a business there.’

‘You make it sound very intriguing,’ said Isabelle, laughing.

‘Not really intriguing. There’s a family business and after my grandfather’s death it was left to me. To me and to a cousin, that is. My parents died of the influenza last year and though the business should have gone to my older brother, Lionel was killed in France. A month before the war ended.’ Alice sighed and for a moment, reminded of her loss, she looked forlorn and vulnerable and her eyes filled with tears.

Maud Benson thought, not for the first time, that Alice’s eyes were just a little too large, a little too expressive and far too blue for her own good.

Alice brightened. ‘This cousin of mine, well, second cousin really – I’m going out to meet him. I’ve never met him before!’

‘That sounds intriguing too!’

‘There are lots of second cousins in the business and I’ve never met them either.’ And Alice went on to describe as best she understood it herself the nature of the family business now, in part at least, hers. ‘I don’t really understand who they all are. But I’ve been sent a sort of “Who’s Who” telling me who are the – er – dramatis personae,’ (Alice was pleased with the phrase) ‘and who’ll meet me and where I’m supposed to go and where to buy clothes.’ She tapped a slim leather folder in her lap. ‘It’s all in here and I’m supposed to read all this. But, really! There’s just too much to look at!’ And then, naively, ‘I’m ever so excited!’

Isabelle received an impression of considerable opulence. She had never been to India but even she had heard of ICTC, the Imperial and Colonial Trading Corporation. She smiled at the excited and, she had to think, slightly inebriated English girl talking with such hope and enthusiasm of her future. So innocent. So vulnerable.

‘… and there’ll be elephants and rajahs, tigers and Bengal Lancers! Indian princes dripping with diamonds! Perhaps I might marry one of them!’ Alice chattered on.

Maud began to nod off and was unsure how many miles they had covered when she was awoken by a waiter passing through announcing that luncheon was served. The young soldier shook himself and remembering his manners managed to say shyly that he would be delighted to escort the ladies to the dining car if they wished to go. He was smiling to himself as though at a private joke. ‘Colin Simpson,’ he introduced himself, ‘Captain in the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry. Rejoining my regiment. For a month or so, prior to demobilization. Silly sort of business but if His Majesty’s Government are prepared to pay my fare out and back, I’m not going to complain!’ He smiled again. ‘My regiment’s in India at the moment actually. I too am bound for Bombay.’

Maud Benson could hardly remember a time when she had been so resentful. Her carriage companions had, quite unnecessarily, requested to be seated at the same table and had proceeded cheerfully in a babble of French and English to order every course on the menu. They had even insisted that she drink a glass of wine with the fish and another with the lamb. With predictable results. Two hours after they had sat down they were still at table talking fifty to the dozen while Maud could hardly keep her eyes open. Though unwilling to leave her protégée behind, Maud concluded that, though flushed and clearly over-stimulated, she was safe enough in the company of the rather dull and unglamorous young captain. And his presence would cancel out any attempt on Isabelle’s part to engage Alice in… what? Maud was not quite sure but thought it might amount at its imaginable worst to – gaming or drinking. And that was most unlikely in the circumstances. In a few hours Madame de Neuville would be out of their lives anyway. Satisfied, Maud made her apologies and reeled back to their carriage to take, as she put it, ‘her postprandial forty winks’.