Why was it so dim? Where was the light and why was she lying down, down here on … on the floor? She couldn’t see properly, her eyes wouldn’t open but she knew she’d been carrying a lamp. She remembered that … so why was it dark? And … oh dear Lord, please God, no. Her hand crept along the wooden floorboards, fingers pricking on fine splinters of glass and into a sticky pool of … something moist. Fingers snatched back, an involuntary revolted reaction. She forced her hand to reach out again, an inch further. There. A clump of cloth. Her stomach lurched, heaved, and an acrid liquid soured her mouth. Something, someone else, lay on the floor beside her. She had seen … it was … men … that man, the dreadful neighbour yelling but … oh, her head … something happened … something … happened. Tentatively she touched the back of her skull. Pain exploded, radiating through her head as her eyelids squeezed shut, she failed to … she couldn’t … couldn’t remember anything as she dipped and swooped in a terrifying descent into looming blackness.

“Melisande.”

A voice … she knew that voice.

“Melisande.”

***

That’s where it started. With a name. Melisande. Poor Melisande. How ridiculous a name for someone like her. She’d disliked it so much she begged for another, but her parents, who were, in all other things, an indulgent mama and a kindly papa, stood firm. They were romantics, loved to read the poetry of Keats and Shelley, adored the paintings of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, Holman Hunt and Burne-Jones being their favourites. They had a book of glossy reproductions of the group’s paintings and sighed over what Melisande privately thought of as the faux mediaeval worlds those painters created. Faux mediaeval worlds with faux mediaeval names, hence the preposterous Melisande. Her poor brother, christened Jervais Shirley (he barely escaped Claudio Valentine), at school in England, managed to adopt the more acceptable Jeri, but what could she do with Melisande? She might have felt happier if she looked like a Melisande: tall, slender, fair of face, fair haired and willowy delicate, like the women in those paintings, but she was simply medium in everything – figure, height, hair, and eyes. A medium brown girl.

***

“Keep calling her, it’s a head injury, she must stay awake.” A man’s voice, she knew that voice. She’d heard it before. But why was it so dark and difficult to see? And oh how she hurt, her back, her arm. What had she done?

“Melisande, Melisande.”

***

How she hated that name.

“Stop complaining and call yourself something else,” her brother told her on her fifteenth birthday.

“But I can’t,” Melisande protested. “You could make something useable from your names. What can I make from mine?”

Jeri gave her a brotherly grin. “Mel? Melli?”

She eyed him suspiciously, gave him her warning Look. He winked. “As in smelly Melli?” she asked sweetly.

Her brother backed away, putting the chaise longue between them. “There’s always Sand or Sandi.”

“As in sand on a beach? I think not.”

“Well …” Jeri paused and his grin expanded into a thoroughly wicked smile. “Now how about Jane, there’s a nice plain name?”

Melisande grabbed a cushion and hurled it at him. “As in plain Jane, you rude, unkind …” She grabbed another cushion. Jeri fled, laughing.

***

“Keep calling. Keep her awake. Good Christ! It’s a right mess.”

“Melisande, Melisande.”

Voices, kind voices, but she was still afraid. She knew that man’s voice, but it was not her man’s voice. Richard, he was her man … not Richard’s voice. She knew … his voice, his face, Richard …

***

It was Mr Holyman, Richard, who solved the naming problem. He’d become one of the family ever since he’d arrived at their home delivering a collection of Arts and Crafts furniture and ornaments Papa had bought from Richard’s senior supervisor, who was returning home to England. Papa could never have afforded to ship from home the William Morris or Charles Rennie Mackintosh pieces he and Mama so admired, but when the more affluent English families, their tour of duty done, left India to return home they would sell most of their goods and chattels rather than ship them back. Melisande felt sure every auctioneer in their part of India knew that Papa would buy the weird Arts and Crafts stuff and sent it to him. Certainly collections came downriver or upriver every time an auctioneer fancied he could sell something to Papa. She did like her William Morris chest, but this plain and angular furniture neither fitted in nor looked right in their house, which was so traditionally Indian in most ways. It gave her the artistic shudders.

It was Richard who brought her chest, and when introduced to her as “Miss Allmark, our daughter, Melisande,” had not even raised an eyebrow. But he had smiled a most gentle and understanding smile at her rueful expression.

“Dreadful isn’t it? Do I look like a Melisande? I’m trying to change it,” she’d said.

“Melisande is a beautiful name,” Richard had said, as Mama and Papa exchanged pleased smiles. “But I can understand why you aren’t happy with it.” His face had expressed such kindness and sympathy.

That fifteen-year-old Melisande sensed his empathy, his understanding, like an explosion of joy. Someone who understood without teasing or denials. “The problem is finding the right name, a simple one. My family refuse to call me Patience or Prudence, and they don’t like Ruth.”

“All too plain for our daughter, and too Puritan,” Papa had said.

Mama had nodded. “Melisande is a lovely name, my dear.”

Richard had inclined a gracious bow to Mama, and turned to Melisande, “With your permission, Miss Allmark,” he’d said, with a little bow to her, “if you prefer it I shall call you Lisa.”

And Lisa it was. Such a relief to an awkward, still growing girl.

***

That man’s voice, agitated, distressed. “We’ve to move her out of this. We’ve got to move her and clean up.”

“But should we lift her?”

That was a friend’s voice, her name was … was … was … but her head disintegrated into waves of pain beyond pain. Explosions of dark and light as someone moved her arm. She tried to protest, but her voice faltered in her throat which would not open, as a tight collar of agony enclosed it. She began to be afraid.

“We can’t wait for the doctor. We’ve to make all right here before he arrives. He’ll not get here for at least an hour.”

“Oh, poor Lisa.”

More voices, safe voices. Now why did she want safe voices? What was it she’d seen? Her eyelids remained glued together. She could not lift her head, moaned as someone touched her temple. Arms slid round her shoulders, her waist, grasped her tightly, raising her. She wanted to scream, “Leave me on the floor!” but her voice remained trapped inside her mouth, her throat sealed by that collar of pain.

“Oh her head, her poor head, look.”

“Sweet Jesus, he smashed her skull. We need that doctor now. Let’s carry her to her room. We’ve got to get this sorted.”

Too much pain and a red roaring behind her eyes and in her ears. Then the pillowed, padded downiness of a bed … it felt like her Indian bed …. Where was she? Scents she ought to know, soft little hands wiping her face and brow, the nostril-tickling odour of that herbal mixture … her ayah … she used that same silk cloth across her eyes. Usha, her ayah, India, she must be home in India.

***

India. Home. Mama and Papa. Afternoon tea on the verandah of that lovely large brick house beside the Ganges, surrounded by its formal Indian garden, walled off from their farmland as it rolled down towards the river. A perfect place to sit with invited visitors for their peaceful daily afternoon tea ceremony. “A way,” Mama said, “to introduce you, my dear Melisande, into society in forgiving surroundings.” And a way for Mama to remind her gently not to be so quick with retorts to her elders.

It rounded off each family member’s day, set them up for dinner and the evening social activities, in a setting Melisande had so often tried and failed to paint. The brilliance of the light and the vivid depth of colours were not in her paint box and hard to mix. Only once did she succeed, in one tiny painting her mother had framed to treasure.

“We are the most fortunate of families,” Mama would say, smiling at them all as she accepted her cup of tea from Advik, their sircar, a man who combined the role of butler and steward with much aplomb. He always supervised afternoon tea himself. With white gloves, red turban, and a brass-buttoned tunic smelling faintly of starch, he might have been a British Club steward. He certainly treated afternoon tea as a British custom even though some of the comestibles were their Indian favourites. He would make the main biwarchi, their senior cook, bake ginger biscuits and tiny sponge cakes for English visitors, and wondrous cakes for birthdays were an Advik speciality.

Melisande accepted her cup of tea in the delicate bone-china cup with a grateful smile. She was very fond of Advik, and she loved afternoon tea on the shaded verandah, with its spectacular view of the Ganges, the delicate scent from the honeysuckle climbing the nearest pillar, and today, a rare treat, no visitors, just the family, to enjoy the spring weather and a collection of savoury Indian snacks, and to talk. Melisande agreed with her mother, they were indeed a fortunate family and she the most fortunate of them.

Papa discreetly pulled a face as Mama extolled the joys of their simple Indian life, but Melisande spotted it, and so did Mama, although he had smoothed his expression into an agreeable one as she turned to face him fully.

“Money,” Mama said, sweet in tone and honey of voice, “money does not bring happiness.” She’d caught him out and would tease him for it.

Papa’s eyes brightened. Now he had her. Melisande hid her smile, waiting for his reply. “Ah, but it does bring good fortune,” he riposted, beaming. He’d tripped her and had managed to make a pun at the same time.

Melisande laughed. Jeri and Mr Holyman, Richard, tried not to. Papa didn’t really mind being the younger son and having to earn his privileges, rather than inherit them; he liked India and his work here was of great use to scientists and doctors. He only wanted extra money for printing his books, for more botanising trips in the far north, and for paying more researchers to bring him more plants. She and Richard would do that for him when they married and could travel around India on Company duties, for Richard worked for the Calcutta Trading Company, and she would be a valued Company wife. A future she looked forward to.

Mama tried to frown Papa down, but her face was not made for frowns. Instead she waved a finger at him and then, in warning, at Melisande.

“Take care, Melisande, or your father will marry you off to one of the Maharajah’s sons.”

“In exchange for a casket of rubies and emeralds, Mama? For me?”

“Why not,” came her fond Mama’s reply.

Richard shook his head. “Not nearly enough for this jewel of a lady.”

Melisande felt the blush steal up and pink her cheeks. Oh, it was not official, after all she was only eighteen and should see a little of the world, take the voyage home to England, tour Europe, before settling into married life, but Richard – slim, elegant Richard, with his hazel green eyes and wavy chestnut-brown hair – had been accepted by Papa and her family as her beloved, who would one day marry her.

“On her twenty-first birthday,” her father promised them. “If Richard can support you in the style you deserve.”

“That would prove impossible,” Richard replied, “but I promise I will be able to support her like a princess.”

Amidst affectionate laughter, and a hug from her brother, Melisande blessed the day her handsome Richard had arrived with the furniture. Secure, she thought, life in India, with a man she loved with every inch of her being. A man who respected and adored her, who didn’t mind her being a plain Jane, who called her his ‘Nut Brown Maid’, who said she was better than pretty.

“You are striking, elegant, unusual, talented and intelligent. What’s more,” he went on, “you have ideas in your head, and can hold a conversation. Who wants pretty when you, my lovely Lisa, offer all that?”

She could live with that. They all could. If only it could be forever.

***

The appalling ache wouldn’t cease. She couldn’t rest her head in any way which would ease it. She wanted a trap door in her skull to open and release the pressure caused by the pain. Opening her eyes seemed impossible, something sealed the lids, or a weight closed them, and where was the light? She couldn’t see, her throat and mouth, dry and parched, wouldn’t open either. She felt the fear rising again, someone held a damp cloth to the back of her skull and she surged on a wave of agony almost into unconsciousness.

“Melisande, the doctor’s here, Doctor Allinson from the hospital. Don’t try to talk, just let him examine your head.”

Hands, voices, then touching, poking, prodding, holding her skull, sliding over the bone. She tried to swallow and ah, thank God, someone dripped liquid into her mouth drop by drop. It had an oily bitter taste and numbed her tongue.

“Measure this amount of the medicine every seven hours. Drip it in slowly. Be careful, it’s strong and addictive. She needs fluids, lemon and barley water, beef tea, even a little black tea, drip it in as often as you can.” The voice took on a coaxing, persuasive tone. “Mrs Holyman, you must rest and sleep, do not try to move or sit up. Your head took a bad knock, it shook your brain, which is why you cannot see properly yet, or speak, but believe me, if you remain still, swallow the medicine, and sleep as much as you can the injury will heal. The medicine will put you to sleep, so please rest quietly.”

Melisande heard other voices, angry, demanding to speak to her. The doctor, voice sharp and commanding, tried to silence them.

”She must tell us what she knows. She must have seen …”

“Be silent. Do not disturb her. Questioning her now is not possible. Her head injury means quiet, rest and no anxiety.”

We must know who to arrest …” A scuffle? Loud men’s feet tramped away, hustled out by someone else, not the doctor, for he took her wrist.

“Are her family available to visit? A mother’s touch is often remembered and can soothe and help to restore the mind.”

Those friends again, their voices. “Her parents are dead. We’ll care for her. We’ll keep her safe and quiet. Thank you, doctor.”

“I will arrange with the police to have my father stay here. He specialised in brain and head injuries and can watch over her. Someone tried to throttle her and smashed her skull, but we must wait for her to tell us, and she may never remember.”

Never remember? Surely she could. Mama, Papa, could she remember them? She still couldn’t recall names for those voices she knew she ought to have names for, but the sleeping draught began to work, and even the pain faded under a smother of darkness. Could she remember her parents? Surely she might.

***

Melisande, carrying out Mama’s daily duties at the riverside, collecting the mail and ordering fruit, vegetables and fish required by the household from the market, found herself one of a crowd watching the unexpected arrival of a ship. The rather imposing river boat created much noise and fuss as it shuffled and sidled its way into the Merchants’ Wharf. She soon discovered that it had been hired for a tour along the Ganges by wealthy passengers, who had sailed into Calcutta from Asia on a much grander cruise ship, which waited for them at the port downriver.

She brought Papa and Mama, at a leisurely stroll, to their jetty beside the ghat, to watch respectfully as the river boat tooted and huffed its way into berth. Melisande admired its trim white and blue paint, the smart decking, rails and portholes, and the shining brass. It was a toy boat magnified to full size, amusing and harmless, a novel distraction. She would always remember how harmless it seemed.

There was to be a two-day stop for visits to a ruined temple, a shrine and the local markets, as well as the buying in of provisions for the boat from the local farmers. It only took half a day for the guests to learn of the British family nearby, and of her papa’s books with her mama’s illustrations. Cards and invitations were exchanged.

One elderly gentleman claimed acquaintance of distant kin and Melisande, collecting letters and parcels for Papa from the mail boat the following morning, also collected a message from the gentleman.

Melisande’s ayah, Usha, and the syce, Vinay, their groom, tutted and frowned, indignation at a rude sailor’s whistling and calling to Melisande and even crosser at her laughing at him. Such behaviour from their charge made them cease their usual bickering to unite in telling Melisande her demeanour was not fitting for a memsahib.

Vinay smacked the reins on the donkey’s rump to set the cart moving away at a quick trot, much to the little jenny’s surprise. She twitched both long ears and sneezed.

Melisande’s ayah scolded all the way home. “What would Mr Holyman, the Richard-sahib think? Such shocking behaviour to encourage!”

Melisande closed her ears, smiled at Usha, and poked the parcels. Surely one held the silver wire she required? And did this one hold the gems, semi-precious beads she needed for the earrings she wanted to make? It rattled as she shook it. Thank goodness the driveway wasn’t any longer or she might be cross with Usha. She wasn’t a little girl any more, but Usha wouldn’t see that.

She sprang from the cart in a flutter of petticoats. “There’s a message from the ship, Papa,” she called, running up the steps, across the verandah and into the hallway. She hovered as he checked and distributed letters and parcels to Advik. At last, he finished. He’d held back her parcels and now exchanged those packets for the sealed message.

“Come along, Melisande, I’ll tell the tale just once. Your mama is in the library.”

The library, on the cool side of the house, had latticework shutters which allowed good light to filter through, enough for Mama to work without too much sun and its heat. It was the least Indian of the rooms in their house, with its English library tables, glass-fronted bookcases, and her square piano, but it smelt Indian, of hot dry air, cooking spices, cedar, sandalwood, jasmine and marigolds.

Jeri stood beside Mama, discussing her latest illustration. He looked up and spoke before Papa could. “I’ve done the rounds, Papa.” Oh, he knew how to avoid a fatherly scolding for not being out on the estate. “The storehouse roof is being rethatched even now, and I’m here to find out where that order of roof ties and wires is.”

Melisande, clutching her parcels, tried to see Mama’s new work. Papa and Jeri blocked her access to the library table. She wriggled and squeezed between them to see what Mama had done. She had been working at this page for some time and had been rather secretive about it. Usually Mama painted the flowers and plants Papa’s books, but sometimes, when she could get it, she used fine rice paper which she coloured, cut into petals and leaves and then glued together on the page. It made for a textured and vividly lifelike appearance, but was difficult work. This time she had created two perfect camellia blossoms.

Melisande drew in a quick breath of pleasure. “That is exquisite, Mama.” The message remained unread as Papa examined the work. In fact it would have been forgotten if she hadn’t reminded him. “What is in the message, the note from the ship, Papa?”

It turned out to be a query about one of Papa’s books and an invitation to dinner on the ship. Melisande watched her parents’ faces, knowing that they were thinking about the inconvenience of wearing tight, hot, uncomfortable European evening dress, and eating European food, weighing it against the pleasures of possible book sales and news from home.

Her roly-poly parents wore comfortable clothes, European adaptations of Indian clothes for, as Mama said: “Only an Indian lady can wear a sari with the correct grace and elegance.” But she and Mama could wear the soft kurtas, long-sleeved tunics, over loose skirts, so much cooler than the heavy materials of the stiff European styles.

Melisande knew what they would do. Jeri flicked her a quick glance, a smile lurking round his mouth. She smiled back.

“I think we should accept, Christabel, my dear. Sales of our books, you know, and we might hear more news about this African trouble and the government’s decisions.”

“Oh dear, yes, it will be a hot and uncomfortable evening, but you’re quite correct, I agree and I too think we should go.”

And they went.

Melisande waved them off in the dusk, watching the carriage lamps bob and sway as the two large jack donkeys picked their way round the lumps and bumps in the driveway. The evening air felt silky-soft and the birds had settled from piercing calls into silence. The river gave off its night scents, warmer and richer than the day’s, and the night crickets creaked and chirred. She loved India most on soft-scented nights like this, and always would.