Somehow, he did. One hand gripping the branch, she towed him toward her, then crawled backward while he followed her, pulling herself hand over hand toward the safety of the bank.

They sat, panting, among the willow roots and rushes. Their clothes were sodden and filthy, but Mariana felt giddy with accomplishment. She had saved his life. How proud Papa would be, when she told him.

After her mother had astonished Mariana by bursting into great gulping sobs of relief when she arrived home, bedraggled and chilled, her father called her into his study.

"Early this evening," he said gravely, shutting the door, "while walking along the river, one of my parishioners thought he heard someone drowning. He rushed to help, but found that the rescue had already taken place. The victim, a laborer in dripping clothes, was on his knees, being sick into the river. You were sitting beside him."

"Mariana," her father said, when she had poured out her story, "you are sixteen, and coming out into society. It is most unsuitable for you to be seen with young laborers. We shall not tell your mother of this," he added. "We shall say only that you fell in while retrieving your bonnet. But you must promise me that you will never see Harfield again."

Never see him again? "But Papa," she begged, "Jeremy is my see him again? "But Papa," she begged, "Jeremy is my friend friend. Please Please don't make me give him up." don't make me give him up."

He sighed. "You have a natural curiosity, Mariana, and a quick sympathy for others, but you act too rashly. You should have known that a friendship like this one would only end in loss.

"From what you have told me," her father went on, "it was your own heedlessness in getting out of the boat that nearly killed the lad. But I must say that you showed quick thinking in a crisis." He smiled wistfully. "I should not mind having you beside me in battle."

Mariana made her promise, and did not return to the riverbank. A few months later she came upon Jeremy on his knees, rebuilding a stone wall in the village. She nodded carefully; he returned her nod.

It had not occurred to her, then, to break her word, but by the time she reached home, Mariana was so angry with herself that she barely spoke to anyone for the rest of the day.

In bed that night she had vowed she would never again turn her back on someone she cared for.

SHE spanked dust from her riding skirt as her mare plodded past an empty well hole. Three years after the incident with Jeremy, she had leaned on the rail of the Marchioness of Ely Marchioness of Ely, watching the English coast glide past, wondering how she would survive the dreary invalid lady who was to chaperon her on the voyage out. After more than three months of listening to Mrs. Sumter describe her migraines, she had been hugely relieved to get off the ship and throw herself into Aunt Claire's arms....

After Suss.e.x, Calcutta had seemed tantalizing, worldly, and exciting. In spite of the increasingly hot weather and the absence of Lord Auckland and his camp, there had been no slowing of the city's customary social round. As one of a dozen newly arrived English girls, Mariana found herself invited to everything.

"It is your skin, my dear," Aunt Claire explained as she inspected Mariana's appearance before a ball. "Fresh, rosy skin is admired here more than anything else. Our skin turns yellow in this climate, you see. A few good agues and pouf, you are primrose! Mrs. Warrenton next door has survived here for fifty years. That is why the poor woman is orange." She pursed her lips. "We must get you one or two new gowns. People will talk if you repeat too often."

Determined to supply her father with interesting letters, Mariana had thrown herself into investigating India. Her imagination afire, she had questioned everyone she met about the natives and their customs, but had found to her astonishment that no one wanted to tell her anything.

Calcutta, she quickly discovered, was as rigid as Weddington village. Her new life was to be exactly the same as before, only it was to take place in the heat and humidity of the East.

"It's no use, Aunt Claire," she said crossly a month later, before the third dinner in four days. "I hate hate Calcutta parties. I have met every eligible man for miles. Not one of them knows a thing about India. All they talk of is their horses and their promotions. The thought of marrying any one of them gives me a headache." Calcutta parties. I have met every eligible man for miles. Not one of them knows a thing about India. All they talk of is their horses and their promotions. The thought of marrying any one of them gives me a headache."

"Don't be silly, Mariana. The other young ladies like them well enough." Aunt Claire frowned. "Do you think you should wear the blue tonight? You've worn the rose already this week."

"-And the ladies do nothing but gossip."

Aunt Claire raised her eyebrows. "And why not? What else is there to do? Of course you must go to parties. There will be other men. How are you to meet them if you stay at home? And stop fidgeting, Mariana, or I shall stab you with this brooch."

Two days later, when Mariana asked to be taken to the native part of the city, Aunt Claire's hand fiew to her breast. "You are not to go there, my child!" she cried. "Mrs. Warrenton's niece insisted on seeing the native city. She was next seen being carried on board a ship for home, swathed in bandages!"

Kind, balding Uncle Adrian took out a map of Bangalore and showed Mariana the route he had traveled as a young district officer in the South, journeying from village to village with a tent and a writing table, settling disputes, but he would not upset his wife by taking Mariana to see the natives.

Her diligent efforts to learn about the Black Hole of Calcutta also failed. When she asked an elderly general to describe the tactical errors leading to the disaster, he reacted with horror. "He treated me," she complained to her uncle Adrian, "as if I had committed murder."

"A hundred and twenty-three people suffocated that night in that awful little room," her uncle replied. "It happened a long time ago, and we should have recovered by now, but we have not. If I were you, I should not mention it again."

"But," Mariana had almost shouted, "if we insist upon forgetting them, how can we learn from our mistakes?"

AT the outskirts of the army camp, she stopped near a row of ninepound cannon and shaded her eyes, studying the heavy guns. For all she knew they might be Fitzgerald's.

A troop of native cavalry had stopped to rest in the shade of the gun carriages, their mounts tied to the spoked wheels. Their hairy, bucktoothed officer stared at Mariana as if she were a mirage.

The officer's hungry gaze made her more uncomfortable than the curious stares of the native cavalrymen. She tugged on the reins and turned back toward the horse lines of her own camp.

She reached up under her wisp of veil and wiped her forehead. What an adventure this was, and all because of what had happened twelve hundred miles away in Calcutta, one summer afternoon.

SITTING idly in her window at her uncle's house one stifiing morning, Mariana had noticed a piece of cloth lying on the ground near the front gate. Being the exact color of the earth on which it lay, the cloth had been nearly invisible, but when it moved slightly, the motion caught her eye. She instantly went out to investigate.

When she reached it, she saw that the cloth was about the size of a bath towel. Lifting one corner, she found underneath it a creature that must once have been human. She could not determine if the thing was male or female. All she could see in that horrifying moment were contorted black limbs and a death's-head face, the lips drawn back in a toothless grimace.

Disturbed, the creature looked up at her through runny eyes and made one gesture, an unmistakable request for water.

She turned and raced into the house in search of a servant to send outside with something for it to drink, but no one was in the kitchen. Banging about in the pantry, she found a gla.s.s tumbler, filled it with water, and dashed back to the gate.

Mariana had not taken in the condition of the creature's hands. She saw as she offered the water that they were useless, bent double, the fingers twisted inward. Still, it sat up weakly and tried to grip the heavy gla.s.s between its wrists. The effort proved too great: with a little moan it fell helplessly back to the earth.

Having come this far, Mariana refused to give up. She held the gla.s.s out at arm's length and gestured for the creature to drink.

For what seemed an eternity, the creature gulped at the water, its neck extended. Then, water dribbling from its chin, it lay back on the dun-colored dirt and began to speak. It spoke for some time, incomprehensibly, in some native language, its voice a thin whine. Finally, satisfied, it stopped speaking and closed its eyes.

Mariana felt immobilized by the sound of its voice. Bent over as if still offering the creature its drink, she was overcome by a sudden desperate desire to know what it had said. She tore herself away and hurried, the gla.s.s still in her hand, to the servants' quarters behind her uncle's house, where she stood in the dust shouting for Shivji, the servant who spoke English, to come at once and help her.

By the time Shivji emerged from his quarters and followed her to the gate, there was no longer any sign of the cloth or the wretched thing that had lain under it. At her insistence Shivji made a halfhearted effort to find it on the road, but returned to report that there was no sign of the creature she had described.

Aunt Claire ordered the tumbler to be smashed. "It terrifies me to think," she quavered from her pillow, after collapsing in the drawing room and being helped to bed, "that native lips-and most especially those of a native in the condition you describe-have touched one of my own English tumblers. The thought of that particular one becoming confused with the others and my actually drinking from it has made me quite ill. How could could you, Mariana?" you, Mariana?"

Even Uncle Adrian tried to sound cross. "I know you only did it to be kind," he told Mariana uncomfortably, "but you must understand the danger of getting too close to the natives. There are those whom one may allow to come near, such as our own servants, but a halfdead wretch like that one might easily have given you unmentionable diseases. Promise me you will never do such a heedless thing again."

That evening, Mariana stood on the stairs listening to Aunt Claire and Uncle Adrian in the drawing room discussing taking her away from the "bad air" of Calcutta.

"Yes, to Simla Simla," Aunt Claire repeated, her voice so like Mama's carrying easily to all corners of the house. "You can always do your work in the hills, Adrian. You know how I loathe travel, especially such a great distance, but we cannot remain one more day in Calcutta in this heat. It does not suit the girl. You know what she is like at the best of times, and now she has begun to behave even more oddly. I will never forgive myself if she does something mad and ruins her chances."

Even more oddly? Ruin her chances? Mariana climbed the stairs and shut her door with a bang.

FOUR little girls walked in file beside the rough path, heavy-looking bundles balanced on their heads. Mariana watched them from her mare, envying their grace.

How could she have guessed, when she and her uncle and aunt set out seven months ago for Simla, that their summer in the hills would bear such interesting fruit?

One afternoon a few days after their arrival, as Mariana and Aunt Claire sat drinking tea in their pleasant little garden overlooking a deep valley, Uncle Adrian had stepped from the veranda, pink-faced with pleasure, rubbing his hands together.

"The most extraordinary thing has happened," he announced, pulling up a folding chair. "I have rediscovered the old man who taught me my native languages when I was a young man in Bangalore. He was pa.s.sing in front of the church. I recognized him at once. He looks exactly the same, although it is nearly twenty years since I saw him last. He is a good man. I should never have mastered my languages without him." He blinked and cleared his throat. "Mariana," he said, a little frown between his eyes, "would you like to study Indian languages with my old teacher while we are here?"

The creature from Uncle Adrian's garden appeared before Mariana's eyes, water dribbling from its mouth, telling her something she could not comprehend. She caught her breath.

"But, my dear Adrian," Aunt Claire protested, turning from her husband to Mariana and back again, her upright lace parasol clutched in one hand, "the girl is not interested in studying any subject at all, far less native languages, are you, my darling?"

Mariana dared not look at Aunt Claire. "Yes, oh, yes, please please," she breathed.

Uncle Adrian smiled at his wife. "Here is an opportunity, my dear," he said, "for the girl to gain real knowledge instead of the silly nonsense one hears everywhere." He leaned forward and put a hand on Mariana's sleeve. "The old man will teach you more than languages," he said earnestly. "He will teach you poetry. He will give you some understanding of how the best natives think. I know that no one believes it any longer, but one can, and should, learn a great deal from the best of the natives."

Mariana nodded, unable to speak. Her uncle stared at the view. "Things have changed since I first came out," he added. "I don't like this new, sn.o.bbish att.i.tude toward the natives. They should not automatically be treated as inferiors, regardless of their station or their learning."

He pushed himself out of his chair. "I must tell you one thing more. The Urdu word for teacher teacher is ' is 'munshi'. You must always call your teacher Munshi Sahib. He is not, and must not be treated as, a servant."

He marched off, leaving Aunt Claire quivering and indignant in one basket chair, and Mariana beaming in the other.

The following morning as she sat in the drawing room, Mariana heard her uncle greet someone, and realized that her new teacher had entered by the front, not the kitchen, door.

A moment later, her uncle entered the room smiling delightedly, followed by a wispy old man.

"Mariana, my dear, this is your munshi, Sahib," Uncle Adrian said grandly, then stepped aside.

The munshi, who had removed his shoes outside the door, came forward and stood in his stocking feet. His eyes, fixed on hers, seemed benign. A worn woolen shawl thrown about his narrow shoulders covered the top half of a snowy shirt that fell below his knees over a pair of carefully ironed pajamas. The white stubble of his beard might have looked seedy on another face, but she thought it gave him a bookish air. His face, an even shade of brown, exactly matched his hands.

"Peace be upon you, Bibi," he said in English. "I understand that you wish to learn some languages of India."

Mariana let out a great sigh of grat.i.tude.

FROM that day, Munshi Sahib called on Mariana twice daily, once after breakfast, and once in the afternoon. Driven by a pa.s.sionate desire to learn, she studied day and night, practicing the sounds of Urdu whenever she was alone. As helpless as an infant at first, she gained a measure of fiuency within three months, astonishing her uncle.

"We must," he decreed one day at lunch, "find a way to make use of this talent of yours."

And they did. In early November, the need had arisen suddenly for a lady translator for Lord Auckland's two sisters. The next day, after being handed over to the care of Miss Emily and Miss f.a.n.n.y Eden by a proud uncle and a tearful aunt, Mariana left the Simla hills, accompanied by Munshi Sahib and her servant Dittoo, for the great British camp on the plains below.

HER mount shied abruptly on the muddy path. Keeping her seat on the trembling mare, Mariana looked for danger but saw none. Was it a snake? Jackals? She leaned forward to stroke the animal's neck, then started with a cry as a scarecrow of a man erupted from a large thorn tree, barring her way.

His hair was matted, his stare hot and otherworldly. He clutched a heavy wooden staff in one hand, and with the other he stabbed a knotted finger in her direction. "You, Memsahib," he quavered, his body swaying, "listen to what I am telling you!"

Mariana glanced desperately about her. Was there no one to help? Why had she left her grooms behind? Where were bucktoothed of?cers when they were wanted?

Very well, then, she would have to escape on her own. Her heart pounding, she bent forward in the sidesaddle, preparing to dig her spurred heel into the mare's side.

With a howl, the man dropped his staff. He raked the air above him with his hands, causing the frightened mare to jerk sideways. "The path you will take requires courage," he shouted hoa.r.s.ely, "but it will bring you peace. Be careful, careful! That is all."

Before Mariana could move or speak, he scooped up his staff, and without another word, strode swiftly away and vanished into the tangle of thorns.

Light-headed with fright, she stared into the silent trees, then breathing hard, spurred her mare.

"India is full of soothsayers and magicians," Uncle Adrian had warned her once. "Everyone who comes out here is exposed to them at one time or another."

Afraid to look behind her, she cantered past dusty trees and ruins, past an abandoned well, hearing only the pounding of the mare's hooves which matched the quick beat of her heart.

After reaching the safety of the horse lines, she signaled to her waiting groom to follow her to her tent.

"The natives are a superst.i.tious race," Uncle Adrian had added. "Most of them believe that nonsense. But you, Mariana, must always remember who you are. Do not listen to native fortune-tellers. If you do, you will never be the same again."

The White Rabbit from last evening bowed eagerly as she pa.s.sed him on the avenue. Deep in thought, she scarcely nodded in reply. What path path had the madman meant? Why should she take such a path if all she would find there was peace? And why should a path to peace require courage? She dismounted in front of her tent and handed the reins to the groom. She wanted all sorts of things: her father's happiness, excitement and adventure, knowledge of India, and an English husband. But she most definitely did not want peace. had the madman meant? Why should she take such a path if all she would find there was peace? And why should a path to peace require courage? She dismounted in front of her tent and handed the reins to the groom. She wanted all sorts of things: her father's happiness, excitement and adventure, knowledge of India, and an English husband. But she most definitely did not want peace.

"MEMSAHIB, your munshi sahib approaches."

Dittoo's voice broke into Mariana's thoughts twenty minutes later as she sat at her table in the light of the open doorway. Now that she was safely in her tent, her encounter with the madman seemed more dreamlike than real. How mysterious the natives were, appearing and disappearing without warning, offering bewildering advice in strange languages! Had the misshapen creature under the towel been a soothsayer too?

Miss Emily would insist that she pin up her loosening hair before her munshi arrived. Still feeling the madman's hot stare, Mariana reached up, then exhaled crossly at the sound of her favorite tartan gown giving way under her arm.

A discreet commotion outside her doorway told her it was too late to change her gown. If she kept her arms down, the old man would never notice. "Come in," she called.

A brown hand appeared, grasping a handful of canvas, and her teacher stepped with his usual care into the tent on stocking feet. The rug made a small, wet sound.

"Oh, Munshi Sahib," Mariana said quickly, "please be careful. The rug is very wet."

Her teacher seemed not to have heard. He came and stood beside her, long feet planted firmly. "As-Salaam-o-alaik.u.m, Bibi, peace be upon you," he intoned, as if she had not spoken.

"And upon you," she replied, returning his greeting. "I am so sorry, Munshi Sahib," she added in her best Urdu, or high Hindustani, as Uncle Adrian called it. How stupid to have begun her lesson with a mistake. No matter how severe the emergency, greetings always came first. "It was just that I-" Her munshi raised a hand. "It does not matter," he said mildly. Water had seeped through the striped rug. The English hose that covered his feet were already turning dark. "It does not matter."

She was not to mention his socks again.

He raised his chin and clasped his hands behind his back, signaling that the lesson had begun. "Today, Bibi, we will talk of Lah.o.r.e. As you may visit there, you should know something of the city."

Mariana brightened. "Oh, yes, Munshi Sahib. I am very anxious to see Lah.o.r.e!"

"Lah.o.r.e, of course, is the capital of the Punjab." The munshi leaned back, his hands still clasped behind him, and fixed his eyes on the curved ceiling of the tent. "What, Bibi, do you know of Lah.o.r.e?"

Mariana arranged her skirts. "The city of Lah.o.r.e is so old that no one knows when it was founded. It is surrounded by a thick wall, pierced by twelve gates. The Citadel, which is the Maharajah's palace and fort, and the Badshahi Mosque take up the northwest quarter of the walled area. The rest is occupied by the city itself."

The munshi rocked on his heels. "That is correct. Do you know that Lah.o.r.e once stretched far beyond its present boundaries? Two centuries ago, before invaders came through the northwestern pa.s.ses, Lah.o.r.e reached far beyond its fortified walls, with gardens, bazaars, and countless houses." He spread his hands. "The city which now has nine guzars guzars, or quarters, once had thirty-six. There was a great jewel bazaar outside its walls called the Palace of Pearls. Even today, small pieces of jewelry and gold can be picked up there in the mud after a heavy rain."

Rain. Water. Mariana looked again at her munshi's feet. His socks were now stained with water, all the way to his ankles.

This was unbearable. "Munshi Sahib, please forgive me," she wailed, clutching at her forehead, "but I have a sudden headache. I beg your leave to rest."

The old man's expression did not alter. "Bibi," he said, "I am sorry you are unwell. I will return when you are able to receive me. In the meanwhile," he added, his eyes on hers, "please remember that there is little time to waste. Your Governor-General's great meeting with the Maharajah will begin quite soon. You must be ready." He smiled.

He knew she had told an untruth about her aching head.

He reached into his clothes and produced a paper folded in four.

"Here is a poem for you to translate. Please prepare it for our next meeting."

Maintaining his usual distance, he laid the paper on the corner of her table, then took a step backward. She unfolded it and saw that it contained four lines of verse in his fiowing, right-to-left Urdu script.

Mariana practiced the salaam salaam, right hand to her forehead, as the munshi, his back to her, grasped the reed curtain and stepped from her tent into his shoes. She watched pensively as he strode away, without looking back, toward the guarded entrance.

Munshi Sahib knew Uncle Adrian well, although no two people could have been less alike. Not one of her teacher's gestures, no turn of his head, no hunching of his shoulders, was like that of an Englishman.