Bangkok, 1858
The hot sun glanced off the water of the khlongs, splitting into a myriad of rainbows beneath the crystalline flow. The river banks were awash with color as women did their washing and traders held market from their boats. Gemma sat quietly on the stiff, wooden seat of the boat as it rowed up the narrow canal. Her light summer dress felt heavy and damp from the humid air and her own nervous perspiration.
The great white bulk of the Royal Place overshadowed the city, drawing her eye to its elegant lines over the other buildings which dwindled by comparison. Gemma gaped at its splendor, so different from the cool English moors and hot Indian sands that she knew.
At last the boat glided to a stop outside a tall brick building. A profusion of tropical flowers rioted behind a demure wooden fence. Smaller, palm thatched buildings nestled behind and to the sides of their larger brick neighbor like humble ladies in waiting dancing attendance on a queen.
“Is this it?” Gemma asked nervously as the man handed her out of the boat. “Is this the British Consulate?”
The little bronzed sailor ducked his head nervously at her. “Yes, Miss.” Only straining slightly he heaved her wooden trunk up and onto the stony patch of land at her feet. “Is there anything else you’ll be needing, Miss?”
“Yes, I mean, no. No thank you,” Gemma said distractedly, her head spinning with worry.
He gave her a friendly smile, an assurance she was grateful for in her uncertain state. “I’ll be off then. And I’m sure the Consulate will do everything in his power to help you.”
Despite her best intentions, Gemma could feel her bottom lip quivering slightly as the small boat drew away, her last tie to home fading into the distance. One small, white hand reached up to the silver bird that hung on a chain around her neck, her fingers stroking the cold metal as she had often seen her mother do when deep in thought.
For a moment, the glimmer of tears hung in her eyes before she resolutely blinked them away, flinging back her head, chin held high, and knocked a smart beat against the warm, wooden door.
It was pulled open almost immediately by a small Siamese man impeccably dressed in an English morning suit. “May I help you, Mem?” he asked solicitously, his light Siamese accent stilting the words in a pleasant way.
Gathering her scattered wits and faded courage Gemma replied, “I’d like to see Mr. James Goedian.”
“I am afraid that Sir is very busy at the moment, but perhaps if you would care to wait or leave your card…”
At the man’s words, Gemma felt something inside of her begin to wilt. She would not cry, she promised herself fiercely. She would not. Her chin snapped up under the strength of her resolution. “He’ll see me,” she interrupted the poor man, pushing past him and through the closed office door.
The tall man inside looked up, startled, his tawny eyes narrowing with irritation as he reprimanded, “I thought I said I wasn’t to be disturbed, Ibrahim.”
His sentence cut off in surprise as Gemma threw her arms around his neck with a desperate cry of, “Uncle Jim,” and began sobbing into his neatly pressed lapel.
“Gemma?” James demanded startled. “What the devil are you doing here? Where are your parents?”
Gemma gave one last heartfelt sob before pulling herself together. Gratefully she sank into the chair he offered her, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the arms tightly. “You didn’t get my letter then?”
“I’ve heard nothing from you or your mother for the better part of a year,” James replied kindly, a puzzled frown on his face.
“Oh, oh,” Gemma exclaimed fitfully, “I hate not being able to use owl post!” Closing her eyes she drew a deep breath and continued. “You heard, I suppose, about the Mutiny in India?”
“Yes, your father wrote that he was sending you and your mother home to England for safety, that he had already sent you out of Delhi.”
“Yes,” Gemma agreed sadly. “That was the plan. But we never made it to England, we barely made it halfway to Bombay when… when mother… oh, Uncle Jim!”
His face drained white as she spoke, but the comforting hands he placed on her shoulders were gentle if a bit shaky. “It’s all right, dear. Just tell me what happened.” His voice constricted on the last words as he thought of his sister, lying cold and alone, deep in foreign ground.
“Cholera. One day she telling me all the wonderful things we would do when we got home to England, and the next she lay there, burning up, without even the strength to say a word or sip down water.”
They sat, side by side, sharing each other’s grief and taking comfort in it.
“But why did you not return to your father?” James queried at last, breaking the silence.
“He was killed at Delhi. I had no place to go, not even enough money to buy passage to England let alone anyplace to go when I reached there. I didn’t know what to do, so I came here, to you.”
“You did the right thing,” James replied at last, and Gemma could feel the relief coursing through her veins. “Although I must be honest with you, I’ve little notion of what to do with a young woman such as yourself.”
Gemma fell on her knees before his chair with a thump. “Please don’t send me away,” she begged. “I can’t bear to lose another member of my family.”
Pulling her to her feet, James smiled slightly, admiring how well the mother’s flair for the dramatic had transferred to her daughter. “I’ll not be sending you away,” he assured her. “But you must understand that Siam is not a colony like India. It may be a more difficult transition for you than you think.”
“It won’t,” Gemma declared firmly. “I won’t let it. I know it shall be perfectly wonderful here.”
“All right, but you must promise to listen to me when I tell you things. The customs here are very different. You are a Missie Sahib no longer. And how have your lesson come?”
“I’m excellent in Charms, my Ayah taught me ever so many, and had me practice them morning, noon, and night.”
James smiled and asked offhandedly, “a very useful accomplishment. But how are your Transfiguration, Arithmancy, History, and Runes?”
“Passable.” Gemma wilted under the knowing look he gave her. “Well, terrible really. I simply can’t make out Arithmancy at all.”
Walking over to his desk, James made several quick notes to himself. “School, then. There is a decent one in one of the old temples, which one was it… Ah, here we are. I’ll send a note down to the Head directly.”
“School in a temple?” Gemma laughed. “Isn’t that odd.”
“It is a peaceful place where you will not be disturbed,” James reprimanded. “The monks and temples of Buddhism are afforded great respect, and you would do well to remember it.”
“Yes, sir.”
James smiled at the demure look on her face; how similar it looked to the one that was now dead and gone, one he had not seen in over five years, one he had never had a chance to say goodbye to.
“I’ll have Ibrahim set your things up in the back bedroom; it can be yours for as long as you wish it.” He smiled wearily, his eyes traveling down the careworn, yet glowing face of his niece. One finger reached out to gently stroke the silver bird at her throat. “I remember when mother gave that to Cecelia,” his voice choked once more with grief and remembrance. “It was on the day she married George, your father. She was going to give it to you on your wedding day as well.”
Gemma nodded softly. “Giving it to me was the last thing she did before she died.”
Gently, tentatively, James bent over to place a tender kiss on her forehead. “Go wash up. I’ll have Ibrahim get us some fruit and curry for dinner. You must be hungry from your travels.”
“Yes, uncle.” With the slightest of curtsies, Gemma allowed herself to be led from the room.
As the door swung shut behind her, James sank into his chair, his bent head looking a little greyer under the hot Siamese sun, and his tearstained face buried into the palms of his hands.