There was a week before the fall term began at Miss Mumford’s. “Let me show Rosalind about the city,” Aunt Louise begged.

Reluctantly, Aunt Ethyl gave her permission. Aunt Louise asked in an embarrassed voice if she could have a little spending money. “We might stop for a cup of tea, and there will be taxis.”

“There is plenty to see within walking distance of our home, Louise, and as for tea, you can have all the tea you wish right here.” No money exchanged hands. I considered it very degrading that a grown woman should have to beg for a shilling, and I understood the sacrifice Aunt Louise had made in sending me my Christmas shilling.

We set out right after breakfast. “There is a sign of autumn,” Aunt Louise said, pointing to the swaths of bark shed by the plane trees. “And I have noticed the martins are flocking. I do hate to see winter come. My walks are so cold, and they are my one amusement.” I had a vision of her shivering in the cold and snow of a winter day to escape Aunt Ethyl, and I thought I would make the same choice.

In a sad voice Aunt Louise said, “Many years ago, Rosy, I took your brother, Edward, on a tour of London. Of course, he was just a small boy, so our trip was a short one, but how he enjoyed it all. The sadness of his death is with me every day, as I know it is with your dear mother. I cannot help but feel responsible, for he was under our care. One day I will take you to little Edward’s grave and we will do our mourning there, but for today I mustn’t let unhappy memories spoil what I hope will be a pleasant adventure.

Of course I had seen my mother and father’s unhappiness over Edward’s death, but now I realized that Aunt Louise and Aunt Ethyl would have sad memories as well, for Edward had been with them when he died. I wondered why Aunt Louise would say she felt responsible, and I resolved one day when I knew my aunts better to ask about the circumstances of Edward’s death. Now, I saw, was not the time. Aunt Louise was determined to make this day a happy one for me.

We walked first to Westminster Abbey. I had seen a print of the Abbey on the wall of the club, so I knew it was very grand, but I was not prepared for its size and splendor. Aunt Louise, in her role as tour leader, said, “Originally, it was the church of the Benedictine monks who lived here in 600 B.C. It is where the kings and queens of England are crowned and many of them buried.” After we had wandered among the marble columns and stained-glass windows and bent our necks to look up at the soaring ceiling, Aunt Louise led me to the sepulchre of Queen Elizabeth. “Not one of my favorites,” she said. “So demanding, so controlling.” She moved on to the sepulchre of Queen Mary of Scots. “Elizabeth kept her cousin, Mary, imprisoned for eighteen years and then had her beheaded.”

We wandered through Poets’ Corner, where there were names I recognized: Thackeray, Chaucer, Tennyson, Milton, Scott, and the Brownings. “You know the story, I am sure,” she said, “of how Elizabeth Barrett escaped her domineering father to marry Robert Browning.” Aunt Louise moved on, pausing at the grave of a name I did not recognize, William Wilberforce. “A man to be admired,” she said. “He led the battle against slavery.”

With a shy smile she said, “You must not tell Ethyl, but I have this fantasy of the kings and queens and poets and famous men all coming alive at night and mingling. What a sight that would be.”

As we left the Abbey we passed St. Margaret’s Church, and I remembered Mother telling me how Aunt Louise had engaged that very church for her wedding before Aunt Ethyl had put an end to it. I glanced at my aunt, but she was staring straight ahead.

“Next we will visit the Houses of Parliament,” she said, “so that you can see where the men we saw last night were headed. The building started out as a palace. Although it is thousands of miles away, India is ruled from here. The flag flies when Parliament is sitting.” Aunt Louise pointed to one of the towers. “That is the Victoria Tower, and that’s the Clock Tower with Big Ben.”

“Is that the clock we hear chiming the hours?”

“Yes. It has been chiming since 1859. There is an inscription in Latin on the clock that says, ‘O Lord, save our Queen Victoria the First.’ Isn’t that lovely?” She pointed to a place on the roof. “Legend has it that Oliver Cromwell’s body was dug up from its grave and hung right there in chains for twenty-five years until it was blown down in a storm and the head knocked loose. The head was passed from person to person until it was lost and then found again. I believe some gentleman has it now.”

“Poor Mr. Cromwell.”

“Not at all. He was a very strict Puritan, always telling people what to do. Old Ironsides, he was called. He had poor King Charles I executed, and he killed ever so many of the Irish.”

We went down Birdcage Walk, along St. James Park, where we stopped by a pond and Aunt Louise extracted some toast she had saved from breakfast to feed the ducks. Again she said, “Don’t tell Ethyl.” It seemed the rule of her life. Yet I sensed an extra pleasure in the feeding of the ducks, as if she took an especial pleasure in doing what her sister forbade.

At the end of the park was Buckingham Palace, where George V lived. I wanted to show that I knew something of British history and said, “He came to India, Aunt Louise, and people said he wanted a better life for the Indian people.”

“That may be, but some say he is a very strict parent.”

Aunt Louise could talk of nothing but despots. There was Queen Elizabeth, who had imprisoned and executed Queen Mary. There was Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who escaped her domineering father. Even King George was accused of being a strict parent. I guessed she was thinking of the way she was bullied by Aunt Ethyl. The only hero had been the man who abolished slavery. I decided I would be that person for Aunt Louise, so when she said, “Perhaps we should be getting back. Ethyl will wonder where we are,” I pleaded to walk a little farther, and she was quick to agree. We strolled up Constitution Hill to the entrance of Hyde Park. Traffic surged around us, and I noticed a crowd had gathered.

“Speaker’s Corner,” Aunt Louise said when I asked about the crowd. “They come every day to hear speakers who stand upon a box and exhort the people about some cause or other. It’s a tradition here that people may say what they like at the Corner.”

I thought it would be a good lesson for Aunt Louise, and in my new role as liberator I took her arm and pulled her toward the crowd. A young man was standing upon a wooden box and giving an impassioned speech about freedom for India. It was Max.

I waved my arms at him, causing him to pause for a moment and grin at me, but then he went on with his speech.

“Surely you don’t know that young man!” Aunt Louise appeared distressed.

“Yes. It’s Max Nelson.”

“You must come away at once.” Yet she didn’t move, and I saw that her curiosity had been piqued.

“Max is perfectly respectable,” I assured her. “He was a lieutenant in my father’s regiment, and his parents are very wealthy and have a huge house. His mother, Mrs. Nelson, runs an orphanage where my baby, Nadi, is.”

“Your baby!”

“Well, not really my baby, but one I rescued from being sold.”

“Sold!”

“Yes. I’ll tell you all about it sometime when Aunt Ethyl is isn’t there. Anyhow, Max is going to Cambridge to study. Let’s listen to what he is saying, and then I’ll introduce you.”

“I really think we must leave at once. What would Ethyl say?” And yet she did not leave, and I saw that she was pleased to be doing something a little daring, something of which her sister would never approve.

“She’ll never know. Please, Aunt Louise, I couldn’t bear not to talk to him.”

My aunt looked about as if Aunt Ethyl might be watching, and then with an almost wicked gleam in her eye she moved closer, the better to hear.

Max was finishing his speech. “And so in conclusion I insist that you look into your own hearts and ask yourself if you would consent to live as Indians must, under the heel of an occupying power. Hundreds of thousands of Indian men have fought and died in battle for England. How can we reward their bravery by telling them they are not good enough to rule their own country? That is a disgrace!”

There were several cries of “Hear! Hear!” and a shout of “Bolshie!”

Max stepped down from the box and made his way toward us. “Rosalind! And this must be one of your aunts.”

“It’s Aunt Louise, Max. When are you off to school?”

“In a few days. The sooner I go, the sooner I will be finished. The only way I can endure a year in this cold country is to promise myself that at the end of that time I will be sailing for India. Now, you must promise to come and hear Sarojini speak. She is here from India. She’s a good friend of Gandhi’s, and she’s a poet as well. She’ll be speaking day after tomorrow night at London Hall on Victoria Street, and you can bring your aunts. You mustn’t miss her. I’ll look for you. Now I must bash off. I’m helping to make arrangements for her talk, tickets, chairs, and all that. You will come.”

At once Aunt Louise said, “Impossible,” and I said, “Of course.”

Max laughed. “If I know Rosalind, she’ll be there.” He hurried away, and Aunt Louise pulled me in the direction of home. “Promise me you won’t tell Ethyl about this.”

“Yes, of course I promise, but I don’t see the harm.” I thought that if I was not going to learn history at the inferior school Aunt Ethyl was sending me to, I must learn it where I could find it.

But I did see the harm that evening, when at supper, with no mention of what had happened that afternoon, I asked Aunt Ethyl if I might go to a lecture the night after next.

“At night? What is the subject of the lecture?”

“A famous Indian woman, Sarojini, is giving a talk on freedom for India.”

“I wouldn’t hear of you going to London Hall and mingling with hundreds of people you don’t know, and I can’t believe you would sit still for a woman who proposes to give freedom to natives who are as helpless to care for themselves as a room full of infants.”

“Aunt, that’s not true. The Indian people run the trains and are in the civil service, and their civilization existed a thousand years before England took it over.”

“Hundreds of thousands of Indian soldiers fought with British soldiers in the war,” Aunt Louise said.

Aunt Ethyl turned on her. “Where did you hear that? You know nothing of such things, and I am appalled that you should utter such treasonous talk as that in front of Rosalind. I want no more words on the subject from either of you.”

The evening went by slowly. Aunt Ethyl read aloud to us in a plodding voice Tennyson’s “The Lady of Shalott,” which is about a woman who has been cursed and can’t look directly out at the world but rather sees the world as shadows in a mirror.

“Or when the moon was overhead,

Came two young lovers lately wed;

‘I am half sick of shadows,’ said

The Lady of Shalott.”

I saw Aunt Louise brush a tear from her eye. When finally I escaped to my room, I was awake until the early hours planning how I should get to the lecture.

In the morning the three of us set out to buy clothes for me. We did not go to Liberty of London, which Mother often spoke of as her favorite shop, or any of the stores on Regent or Oxford streets, which I had heard spoken of by women in the club. Instead, Aunt Ethyl led us down a narrow road to a little dressmaking shop. Aunt Louise protested. “Rosalind’s father sent a very large sum of money, Ethyl. Surely she should have something nicer than anything Mrs. Stringly might make.”

“If Rosalind’s father wishes to waste money unnecessarily, that is his business. I see no reason to encourage it.”

Mrs. Stringly was formed like a sofa cushion. She had a tape measure draped around her neck and a pincushion fastened to her wrist. Scissors peeked out of the pocket of her dress. “Ah, the Miss Hartleys,” she said, “and this must be the young niece you spoke of. Are we to fit her out for the London season?”

Aunt Ethyl was all business. “Two worsted dresses for school and a warm coat will do.”

“I have some Scottish wool twill that just came in. You can feel it yourself, and it has lovely drape to it.”

“How much?”

Upon hearing the price, Aunt Ethyl said, “The girl is probably growing, and there is no need to spend that kind of money on clothes that have to be replaced. What is this?” She was looking at a ghastly gray material of a thin weave.

Mrs. Stringly shrugged. “That is just fabric left over from some uniforms I was engaged to make for Snares-brook, the infant orphan asylum.”

“That will do. And make the hems deep. Now for a coat.”

“I have a nice thick fleece. It would protect against the strongest winds.”

“There is no need to be too concerned about the weather. The walk to the school is a short one. Did you make coats for the orphans?”

Mrs. Stringly sighed and reached for a bolt of dirty brown wool.

All the while, Aunt Louise was watching what was going on. Several times I saw her open her mouth as if to protest, but then she lost her courage. Now she took a deep breath. “Ethyl, Rosalind is not used to the cold winters. Should she take a chill in so thin a coat, Harlan and Cecelia would hold us responsible.”

Aunt Ethyl flushed a deep red, as if Aunt Louise had conveyed to her some blame that went beyond the making of my coat. “Very well. You may use the fleece for the coat, Mrs. Stringly.”

On our way home Aunt Louise looked longingly at the tearooms as we passed them, but Aunt Ethyl headed directly for Lord North Street, where we dined on shepherd’s pie with a great deal of potato, but little meat.

After lunch, Ethyl went up to her room for her afternoon nap, and Aunt Louise said, “Let me show you my favorite spot.”

Just a block away was Smith Square, where there was a small garden surrounded by elegant homes like a row of stylish ladies. Across the square was a church.

“St. John’s Church,” Aunt Louise said. “They have musical evenings there. I believe there is one tomorrow night. A fine organist is giving a Bach recital. If you think you would like to hear it, I’ll ask Ethyl if we might attend. She seldom objects, since the recitals are close to home and no attendance fee is asked.”

I knew little about Bach, and organ music gave me a toothache, but I quickly said, “Oh, let’s. I would love to,” for it would get us out of the house, and the hall where Sarojini was speaking was only a few blocks away. As we sat companionably together in the little park among the trees and the beds of bright flowers and the houses standing watch around us I dared to ask Aunt Louise, “Can you ever do as you like?”

“As I like? Whatever do you mean, Rosalind?”

I took a deep breath. “I mean, you’re a grown-up, and you are always asking Aunt Ethyl for permission. I suppose she has all the money and you are dependent on her.”

“Oh, indeed no. Father left the estate in equal shares to all of us, but I leave the care of the funds to Ethyl. I have no head for figures.”

“You don’t know how much money you have?”

She blushed. “Please don’t tell Ethyl or she would feel I was checking up on her, but I did peek at my account a few months ago and I have a very great deal, but what would I spend it on?”

“Isn’t there anything you would like? Isn’t there anything you would want to spend your money on?”

There was a long silence. A busy red squirrel loosened a leaf, and the leaf fell into Aunt Louise’s lap. She held it in her hand, examining it as if she had never seen a leaf before. At last she said, “There is one thing I long for, but you must not breathe a word to your aunt. Your mother writes such lovely letters about India. Ethyl throws them away, and I rescue them. I have them all. I read and reread them. I close my eyes and see all the bright colors. I would give anything to see India before I die.”

“You have the money to pay your passage, though, and just think of all the good things your money could do in India. It was your shilling that let me buy a baby and save his life.” I told her all about Nadi. At first I could see from her shocked expression she didn’t believe me or didn’t want to believe me, but I must have convinced her, for she said, “And to think it was my shilling. Oh, Rosy, nothing has ever made me happier.”

“Come back with me, Aunt Louise. Mother would love to have you.”

Aunt Louise gave me a look of such longing, but in seconds I saw the longing fade and the frightened and intimidated look I was used to take its place. “I wouldn’t dare,” she said, and then she asked, “Do you really think such a thing would be possible?” Before I could encourage her, she got up from the bench. “It’s time we were home. Ethyl will be looking for us.”

And she was. “Where have you been?” she demanded of Aunt Louise.

“We were in Smith Square. It was such a lovely afternoon.”

“I can’t think why the two of you would want to sit out in public for everyone to see.”

“It’s really quite private there, Ethyl, with all the trees and shrubbery, and it’s just across the street from St. John’s, so it’s quite safe.”

“The church is having a recital tomorrow night, Aunt Ethyl,” I said. “Aunt Louise and I would like to go, and it’s free.”

“Perhaps I’ll go with you.”

Before I could think of a way to discourage her, Aunt Louise said, “That would be lovely, dear.”

After dinner, we gathered as we had the evening before in the sitting room. Aunt Ethyl was about to open the book of Tennyson’s poems when I said, “Why don’t I tell you a little about life in India?” I wanted Aunt Louise to hear more about the country she longed to see.

Before Aunt Ethyl could stop me, I said, “Diwali is next month. It’s a sort of Hindu Christmas with five days of celebration. I always know it’s coming, because the servants turn out their houses and scrub everything, and then they open all their windows so that Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, can come into their homes. The women put on their best saris and make delicious dinners, and my friend Isha sneaks me some of the things her mother makes, like almond katli and soan papdi. Everyone gives everyone else sweets and gifts. At night there are little clay lamps everywhere, as if all the stars have fallen down from the sky to light the city. Isha says the lights are a celebration of our inner light, our true nature. Isn’t that beautiful?” The more I rattled on, the more real India was becoming in my mind. I could see vividly all I was describing, and it seemed awful that I should be deprived of Diwali. I brushed away a tear so that my aunts would not see it.

Aunt Louise was leaning forward, listening intently. I was sure she was imagining herself there to experience it all. Aunt Ethyl’s face was very red. “What you are describing is a pagan festival, surely not a proper celebration for a Christian.” She opened Tennyson and began to read in a voice that killed all the words.

That night, Aunt Louise followed me to my room. “I don’t think I can bear to die without seeing India,” she whispered, and then disappeared into the dark hallway.