Dearest Father and Mother,

I have arrived at Faircrest accompanied by Mrs. Stanton and Emily as you arranged. Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Wilfred have invited them to stay on for the remainder of the summer, which I believe they will do.

The weather here is unbelievably grey and drab. It has only rained two days in a week, yet I feel as though I am being drowned by the clammy mists during our daily walks. Aunt Bee has insisted upon these outings on a daily basis before tea. As she states, "It’s for your own health, everyone knows how frail you poor dears born in India are!" Anyone who has ever lived in India and thrived as we Davies have could never be considered frail! But if anything could do me in, it will be the damp, and if not that, the tasteless gluey stuff that passes for meals here! Aunt says that boiled meats and cold puddings are all she fears my "poor humors" can tolerate and won’t be induced to aid in my "self-destruction" by allowing me to eat anything like the fare I was used to in India.

Enough grumping about that now. How are the two of you doing? I suppose you have all settled in at Simla for the summer season by now and are enjoying yourselves immensely at the balls and plays. Mother, are you to direct the Ladies’ Dramatic Society again this year? I hope so, as Lady Denton-Willis has absolutely no skill whatsoever! Remember what a dreadful selection she made for the Annual Midsummer Programme? "Recitations by Aimee Denton-Willis, accompanied by dramatic interpretation"! Ah, well, if Simla society isn’t self-promoting, what else is it? Simla-- epicenter of all high culture in Her Majesty’s Empire in India! Enjoy your reign Mum, I look forward to your joining me next spring!

Dearest Poppa, I have found England to be a lonely place, even with Emily here for company. Although I know that it is technically my home country, India is the home of my heart. These cold, wet lands compete poorly with the jasmine scented breezes and lush deodar forests of my childhood. The familiar sounds of Hindustani echo in my mind against this ever present background of English. My heart aches in remembrance of gentle Das Rin and his son Panthi as we rode out into the countryside in our little ox-cart. I shall even miss Das Rin’s stubborn Mali, the bullock that almost sent us to our fates several times as he took us to the bazaar! While he infuriated Das Rin, I somehow found a strange affection for him and his kind, the gentle beasts of burden carrying master and baggage day after day. Strange as it may sound, I realize even that I shall miss the occasional tiger scare and the jumbled confusion and din of the bazaar alleys. Father, you have always been wise and tolerant with this precocious daughter of yours. Though I will miss India forever and am not yet accustomed to England, I accept the wisdom of sending me here to continue my studies and broaden my horizons. As you said, there is more to life than Panthi’s hardscrabble world and the society of Simla. So, with tears in my eyes, I threw my topi overboard with the others who cheered as the sea was littered with the cream lilies that were our hats. As mine silently slipped beneath the waves, foretelling that I would never return to my beloved India, I vowed to face my future with a hopeful eye and move on beyond bullocks.

Your loving and faithful daughter,

Emmaline