Patricia Mountbatten dropped into the sofa beside him, the springs creaking sharply under her weight — the sort of sound Alan hadn't heard since his childhood.So London still had these old-fashioned spring sofas… charming, in its way.
"I worry Pamela won't adjust to life in India," Patricia said.
Alan chose his words with care. "Asia's war is still unsettled. Your father is… busy. As for Pamela, she's comfortable enough. We're friends — and when she learned I was returning to London, she asked me to carry a letter. I suspect it's filled with her thoughts of you both."
Edwina Ashley — Lady Mountbatten — took the envelope, her face softening as she ran a thumb over the seal. "As her mother, I should be there to look after her. But… duty comes first."Her voice was low, carrying the weight of her command over Britain's wartime medical corps — sixty thousand strong, deployed wherever the fighting was worst.
Alan inclined his head. "Ma'am, I disembarked to news of a decisive victory in Europe. If fortune holds, the Empire's citizens may soon celebrate peace. Then perhaps you'll find yourself less burdened."
"I hope you're right," she said, her smile faint but genuine. The letter seemed to have lifted her mood — enough for her to ask, "You've served in India for some time. What sort of place is it?"
Alan was briefly taken aback. She genuinely didn't know. Perhaps she hadn't even heard Nehru's name. That suited him perfectly.
He cleared his throat, eyes narrowing just enough to hint at something unsaid. "The truth, Lady Mountbatten? India is… nothing like the cables describe. Delhi's British enclave is orderly. The local elites are polite. But beyond that? It's a society split in two — unimaginable poverty beside untouchable privilege. Religion sparks riots. The so-called gentry avert their eyes from the misery beneath them."
Patricia leaned forward, brows knitting. "Is it really that bad?"
Alan didn't stop there."In Delhi's Indian quarter, chaos is normal. In the provinces? Worse. The Bengal governor once told me the people breed like cockroaches — even when they don't know where their next meal is coming from."
That was enough to draw a sharp breath from both women. Edwina, visibly unsettled, murmured, "I never imagined… I thought it was rather a fine posting."
"'Fine' only in the strategic sense," Alan said, folding his hands. "For the Empire, India is valuable — cheap labor, vast markets. But imagine: ten times Britain's population, yielding only half the tax revenue. Life at the bottom is… not something I enjoy describing."
Edwina exhaled slowly. "Now I'm truly worried for my husband and daughter."
Alan smiled faintly. "They're safe enough in the British compound. My concern is for women outside it. Indian men stare at pale-skinned women as if they were curiosities. Many are arrogant, theatrically expressive, and far too forward in speech. Crimes against women are far too common. Pamela wouldn't see it — she's sheltered. But I've warned her."
That landed exactly as intended. Both women stiffened, exchanging a glance. Disgust. Disdain. A quiet resolve to stay behind the walls.
And that was the point. Before Edwina ever set foot in India — before she could meet her husband in Delhi — Alan was framing the picture for her. When she did arrive, she'd see through the lens he'd crafted.
As he rose to take his leave, he caught himself smiling. Not the warm, affable smile he'd used all afternoon — something sharper.If Nehru could send him back to London, Alan could still fight his little war from here.