British author Gregson bows in America with her fast-paced second novel, an absorbing international period drama concerning three young Englishwomen and a troubled boy journeying to India in the late 1920s. The eldest at 25, Viva Holloway is an orphan hoping to retrieve her lost parents' personal effects; she's paying her way by chaperoning three younger travelers. Rose Wetherby is going to India to be married; Victoria "Tor" Sowerby is Rose's bridesmaid; and 16-year-old Guy Glover is returning home after getting expelled from school for stealing. Throughout, narrative shifts reveal the travelers' perspectives and fears: Viva is haunted by a childhood and family she barely remembers; Rose is growing increasingly nervous about how little she knows of her fiancé; and Tor is eager, after a disappointing deb season in London, to find a husband of her own and avoid returning to England. Guy's strange behavior makes it clear he's unstable, and before long, he's assaulted a member of a powerful Indian family, setting off a frightening chain of events for both himself and Viva. Gregson's rich imagery, strong characters and gripping plot make this a resonant page-turner. (June)Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
East of the Sun: A Novelby Julia Gregson
As the Kaisar-I-Hind weighs anchor for Bombay in the autumn of 1928, its passengers ponder their fate in a distant land. They are part of the/i>
From award winner Julia Gregson, author of Jasmine Nights, this sweeping international bestseller brilliantly captures the lives of three young women on their way to a new life in India during the 1920s.
As the Kaisar-I-Hind weighs anchor for Bombay in the autumn of 1928, its passengers ponder their fate in a distant land. They are part of the “Fishing Fleet”—the name given to the legions of English women who sail to India each year in search of husbands, heedless of the life that awaits them. The inexperienced chaperone Viva Holloway has been entrusted to watch over three unsettling charges. There’s Rose, as beautiful as she is naïve, who plans to marry a cavalry officer she has met a mere handful of times. Her bridesmaid, Victoria, is hell-bent on losing her virginity en route before finding a husband of her own. And shadowing them all is the malevolent presence of a disturbed schoolboy named Guy Glover.
From the parties of the wealthy Bombay socialites to the poverty of Tamarind Street, from the sooty streets of London to the genteel conversation of the Bombay Yacht Club, East of the Sun takes us back to a world we hardly understand but yearn to know. This is a book that has it all: glorious detail, fascinating characters, and masterful storytelling.
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London, September 1928
Responsible young woman, twenty-eight years old, fond of children, with knowledge of India, will act as chaperone on Tilbury-to-Bombay run in return for half fare.
It seemed like a form of magic to Viva Holloway when, having paid three and six for her advertisement to appear in the latest issue of The Lady, she found herself five days later in the restaurant at Derry & Toms in London, waiting for her first client, a Mrs. Jonti Sowerby from Middle Wallop in Hampshire.
For the purposes of this interview, Viva wore not her usual mix of borrowed silks and jumble sale finds, but the gray tweed suit she loathed but had worn for temporary work as a typist. Her hair, thick and dark and inclined toward wildness, had been dampened and clenched back in a small bun.
She stepped into the genteel murmurings of the tearoom, where a pianist was playing a desultory tune. A small, bird-thin woman wearing an extraordinary blue hat (a kind of caged thing with a blue feather poking out of the back) stood up to greet her. By her side was a plump and silent girl who, to Viva's considerable amazement, Mrs. Sowerby introduced as her daughter Victoria.
Both of them were surrounded by a sea of packages. A cup of coffee was suggested but, disappointingly, no cake. Viva hadn't eaten since breakfast and there was a delicious-looking walnut cake, along with some scones, under the glass dome on the counter.
"She looks awfully young," Mrs. Sowerby immediately complained to her daughter, as if Viva wasn't there.
"Mummy," protested Victoria in a strangled voice and, when the girl turned to look at her, Viva noticed she had wonderful eyes: huge and an unusual dark blue color almost like cornflowers. I'm sorry, I can't help this, they were signaling.
"Well, I'm sorry, darling, but she does." Mrs. Sowerby had pursed her lips under her startling hat. "Oh dear, this is such a muddle."
In a tight voice she, at last, addressed Viva, explaining that Victoria was shortly to go to India to be a bridesmaid for her best friend Rose, who was, and here a certain show-off drawl entered Mrs. Sowerby's voice, "about to be married to a Captain Jack Chandler of the Third Cavalry at St. Thomas's Cathedral in Bombay."
The chaperone they had engaged, a Mrs. Moylett, had done a last-minute bunk -- something about a sudden engagement to an older man.
Viva had set down her cup and composed her features in what she felt to be a responsible look; she'd sensed a certain desperation in the woman's eyes, a desire to have the matter speedily resolved.
"I know Bombay quite well," she'd said, which was true up to a point: she'd passed through that city in her mother's arms at the age of eighteen months, and then again aged five where she'd eaten an ice cream on the beach, and for the last time at the age of ten, never to return again. "Victoria will be in good hands."
The girl turned to Viva with a hopeful look. "You can call me Tor if you like," she said. "All my friends do."
When the waiter appeared again, Mrs. Sowerby began to make a fuss about having a tisane rather than a "normal English tea."
"I'm half French, you see," she explained to Viva in a pouty way as if this excused everything.
While she was looking for something in her little crocodile bag, the daughter turned to Viva and rolled her eyes. This time she mouthed "Sorry," then she smiled and crossed her fingers.
"Do you know anything about cabin trunks?" Mrs. Sowerby bared her teeth into a small compact. "That was something else Mrs. Moylett promised to help us with."
And by a miracle Viva did: the week before she'd been scouring the front pages of the Pioneer for possible jobs, and one Tailor Ram had placed a huge advertisement for them.
She looked steadily at Mrs. Sowerby. "The Viceroy is excellent," she said. "It has a steel underpinning under its canvas drawers. You can get them at the Army and Navy Store. I can't remember the exact price but I think it's around twenty-five shillings."
There was a small commotion in the restaurant, the clink of cutlery momentarily suspended. An attractive older woman wearing faded tweeds and a serviceable hat had arrived; she was smiling as she walked toward them.
"It's Mrs. Wetherby." Tor stood up, beaming, and hugged the older woman.
"Do sit down." She patted the chair beside her. "Mummy and I are having thrilling talks about jods and pith helmets."
"That's right, Victoria," Mrs. Sowerby said, "make quite sure the whole restaurant hears our business." She turned to Viva. "Mrs. Wetherby is the mother of Rose. The one who is going to be married in India to Captain Chandler. She's a quite exceptionally beautiful girl."
"I can't wait for you to meet her." Tor was suddenly radiant with happiness. "She is so much fun, and so perfect, everybody falls in love with her -- I've known her since she was a baby, we went to school together, we rode ponies..."
Viva felt a familiar pang -- what a wonderful thing to have a friend who'd known you since you were a baby.
"Victoria," her mother reproved. The blue feather poised above her eyebrow made her look like a slightly miffed bird. "I'm not sure we need to tell Miss Holloway all this yet. We haven't quite decided. Where is darling Rose by the way?"
"At the doctor's." Mrs. Wetherby looked embarrassed. "You know..." She sipped her coffee and gave Mrs. Sowerby a significant look. "But we had the most exciting morning before I dropped her off," Mrs. Wetherby continued smoothly. "We bought dresses and tennis rackets, and I'm meeting Rose again in an hour at Beauchamp Place -- she's being fitted for her trousseau. The poor girl will be absolutely dead tonight; I don't think I've ever bought so many clothes in one day. Now, who is this charming young person?"
Viva was introduced to Mrs. Wetherby as "a professional chaperone." Mrs. Wetherby, who had a sweet smile, put her hand in Viva's and said it was lovely to meet her.
"I've done the interview," Mrs. Sowerby said to Mrs. Wetherby. "She knows India like the back of her hand, and she's cleared up the trunk business -- she says the Viceroy is the only one."
"The girls are very sensible," said Mrs. Wetherby anxiously. "It's just quite comforting to have someone to keep an eye on things."
"But I'm afraid we can only offer you fifty pounds for both girls," said Mrs. Sowerby, "and not a penny more."
Viva literally heard Tor stop breathing; she saw her mouth twist in childish apprehension, big eyes trained on her while she waited.
She did some quick sums in her head. The single fare from London to Bombay was around eighty pounds. She had one hundred and twenty pounds saved and would need some spending money when she arrived.
"That sounds very reasonable," she said smoothly, as if this was something she did every day.
Tor exhaled noisily. "Thank God!" she said. "Oh, what bliss!"
Viva shook hands all round and left the restaurant with a new spring in her step; this was going to be a piece of cake: the gawky one with the blue eyes and the mad-looking mother was so clearly desperate to go; her friend, Rose, was about to be married and had no choice.
Her next stop was the Army and Navy Hotel to talk to a woman named Mrs. Bannister about another prospective client: a schoolboy whose parents lived in Assam. She scrabbled in her handbag to check the piece of paper. The boy's name was Guy Glover.
And now she was sitting with Mrs. Bannister, who turned out to be an irritable, nervy-looking person with buck teeth. Around forty, Viva estimated, although she wasn't good at guessing the age of old people. Mrs. Bannister ordered them both a lukewarm cup of tea with no biscuits or cake.
Mrs. Bannister said she would come to the point quickly because she had a three-thirty train to catch back to Shrewsbury. Her brother, a tea planter in Assam, and his wife, Gwen, were "slightly on the horns of a dilemma." Their son, Guy, an only child, had been asked to leave his school rather suddenly. He was sixteen years old.
"He's been quite a difficult boy, but I'm told he's very, very kind underneath it all," his aunt assured Viva. "He's been at St. Christopher's for ten years now without going back to India. For various reasons I don't have time to explain to you we haven't been able to see him as much as we'd like to, but his parents feel he'll thrive better in India after all. If you can take him, they're quite prepared to pay your full fare."
Viva felt her face flush with jubilation. If her whole fare was paid, and she had the fifty pounds coming from Mrs. Sowerby, she could buy herself a little breathing space in India, thank God for that. It didn't even cross her mind at that moment to inquire why a boy of that age couldn't travel by himself, or indeed, why his parents, the Glovers, didn't come home to collect him themselves.
"Is there anything else you'd like to know about me, references and so forth?" she asked instead.
"No," said Mrs. Bannister. "Oh well, maybe yes, you should give us a reference, I suppose. Do you have people in London?"
"My present employer is a writer, a Mrs. Driver." Viva scribbled down the address quickly for Mrs. Bannister, who, fiddling with her handbag and trying to catch the waitress's eye, seemed half in flight. "She lives opposite the Natural History Museum."
"I'll also send you a map of Guy's school and your first payment," said Mrs. Bannister. "And thank you so much for doing this." She produced all her rather overwhelming teeth at once.
But what had most struck Viva, watching the back of Mrs. Bannister's raincoat flapping in her haste to enter her taxi, was how shockingly easy it was to tell people lies, particularly when it was what they wanted to hear. For she was not twenty-eight, she was only twenty-five, and as for knowing India, she'd only played there innocently as a child, before what had happened. She knew it about as well as she knew the far side of the moon. Copyright © 2008 by Julia Gregson
"She seems all right, doesn't she?" Mrs. Sowerby said to Mrs. Wetherby after Viva had gone. "She's very good-looking," she added, as if this decided everything, "if you discount that appalling suit. Honestly, Englishwomen and their clothes." She made a strange hood of her upper lip when she said the word "clothes," but for once Tor couldn't be bothered to react.
How balloon -- they had a chaperone, phase two of the plan had fallen neatly into place. Her mother's pantomime of careful consideration might have fooled the others, but it hadn't fooled her. They'd fought so bitterly that summer that a hairy ape could have applied for the job and her mother would have said "He's perfect," so desperate was she to see Tor gone.
And now, the excitement was almost more than she could bear. The tickets had come that morning, and they were leaving in two weeks. Two weeks! They had a whole day ahead of them in London in which to buy clothes and other necessities from a thrilling list that their Bombay hostess had provided.
Her mother, who normally had all kinds of rules about things -- for instance, only lemon and water on Tuesdays, and no cake on Wednesday, and saying "bing" before you went into a room because it made your mouth a pretty shape -- had relaxed them, even to the extent of allowing her walnut cake at Derry & Toms. And now she knew she was definitely going, all the other things that normally drove her completely mad about Mother -- the way she went all French and pouty as soon as she got to a city; the embarrassing hats; her overpowering scent (Guerlain's Shalimar); not to mention the other rules about men, and conversation -- seemed almost bearable, because soon she'd be gone, gone, gone, hopefully never to return, and the worst year of her life would be over.
After coffee, Mrs. Wetherby flew off to pick up Rose at the doctor's.
Tor's mother was sipping a hot water and lemon -- no tisane had been found -- she had her silver pencil and notebook out with the clothes list inside.
"Now jods. Jodhpurs. You'll probably go hunting in India." It seemed to Tor that her mother was speaking louder than usual, as if hoping the people at the next table would know that, for once, they were the exciting people.
"Ci Ci says it's too stupid to buy them in London; she knows a man in Bombay who'll run them up for pennies."
Ci Ci Mallinson was a distant cousin of her mother's and would be Tor's hostess when she arrived in Bombay. She had also heroically agreed to organize Rose's wedding without ever having met her. Her letters, written on thrilling brittle writing paper in a slashing hand, spoke of constant parties, gymkhanas, days at the races, with the occasional grand ball at the governor's.
"Such a good idea," she'd written in her last about a recent ball at a place called the Bombay Yacht Club. "All the decent young Englishmen are rounded up, and the girls spend ten minutes with each of them and then get moved on -- great fun and usually quite long enough to know if one can get on." Before she'd signed off she'd warned, "People out here really do try to keep up, so be sure to send out a couple of issues of Vogue with the girls, and if it's not too much of a bore, one of those divine silk tea roses -- mine was munched upcountry by a horde of hungry bog ants!"
"Quinine," her mother was ticking away furiously, "face cream, darling, don't forget, please. I know I nag about unimportant things, but there really is nothing more ageing and you are already quite brown." This was true; Tor had her ancestors' smooth olive-brown skin. "Eyebrow tweezers, darling, I am going to take off your own caterpillars before you go." Eyebrows were an obsession of her mother. "Evening dresses, a camp stool -- oh, for goodness's sake! I think that's too Dr. Livingstone...I'm going to strike that -- and..." she lowered her voice, "she says you'll need packets and packets of you-know-whats. They're wildly expensive there and I -- "
"Mummy!" Tor frowned at her and moved away; any moment now she felt her mother would blight her beautiful morning by talking about "Dolly's hammocks," her code for sanitary towels. "Mummy," Tor leaned across the table, "please don't cross out the camp stool. It sounds so exciting."
"Oh, how pretty you look when you smile." Her mother's face suddenly collapsed. "If only you'd smile more."
In the silence that followed, Tor sensed a series of complicated and painful thoughts taking place under her mother's hat; some of them she was all too familiar with: had Tor smiled more, for instance, or looked more like Rose, all the expense of sending her to India might have been saved; if she'd eaten less cake; drunk more water and lemon on Tuesdays; acted more French. Her mother seemed always to be adding her up like this and coming to the conclusion she was a huge disappointment.
But now, how strange, an actual tear was cutting a channel through the loose powder on her mother's face and had lodged in her lipstick.
"Hold my hand, darling," she said. When she took a deep sobbing breath, Tor couldn't help it, she moved her chair away. Her mother in this mood seemed horribly raw and human, and there was nothing she could do about it. It was too late; the harm had already been done.
It was impossible to find a taxi that day, and even though they weren't normally bus people, an hour or so later Tor was on top of an omnibus, looking down on drops of rain drying on the tops of dusty trees in St. James's Park. The bus swept down Piccadilly toward Swan & Edgar, and Tor, feeling the perfumed bones of her mother sitting so unusually close to her, was surprised to feel another stab of sorrow.
This felt so exactly like the kind of outing a happy mother and daughter might have had, if she hadn't been so difficult; a father left at home with a plate of sandwiches, the "girls" up in town for the day.
From the top of the bus she could see the vast bowl of London spreading out to the horizon: splendid shops with mannequins in the window, interesting people -- already a much bigger world.
Bars of sunlight fell across her mother's face as she leaned to look out of the window. The blue feather in her hat wiggled like a live thing.
"Darling, do look!" she said. "There's the Ritz -- oh God, I've missed London," she breathed. And all the way down Piccadilly she pointed out what she called "some smart waterholes" (when Mother got excited her English let her down), places she and Daddy had eaten in when they had money, before Tor was born: Capriati's, the In and Out -- "dreadful chef " -- the Café Royal.
Tor heard a couple of shopgirls behind them titter and repeat, "dreadful chef."
But for once, she told herself she didn't give a damn -- she was going to India in two weeks' time. When you're smiling, When you're smiling, The whole world smiles with you.
"Darling," her mother pinched her, "don't hum in public, it's dreadfully common."
They'd arrived at the riding department at Swan & Edgar. Her mother, who prided herself on knowing the key assistants, asked for the services of a Madame Duval, a widow, she explained to Tor, who'd fallen on hard times and whom she remembered from the old days.
"We're looking for some decent summer jods," her mother had drawled unnecessarily to the doorman on the ground floor, "for the tailors in Bombay to copy."
Upstairs, Tor mentally rolled her eyes as Madame Duval, removing pins from her mouth, complimented Mrs. Sowerby on how girlish and slim she still looked. She watched her mother dimple and pass on her famous much-repeated advice about lemon juice and tiny portions. Tor had been forced to follow this starvation diet herself, all through the season, when her mother had only agreed to buy her dresses in a size too small so as to blackmail her into thinness. Sometimes she thought her mother wanted to slim her out of existence altogether: their fiercest row -- they'd almost come to blows -- was when her mother had found her one night, after another disastrous party where nobody had asked her to dance, wolfing down half a loaf of white bread and jam in the summer house.
That was the night when her mother, who could be mean in several languages, had introduced her to the German word Kummerspeck for the kind of fat that settles on people who use food to buck themselves up. "It means sad fat," she'd said, "and it describes you now."
"Right now I've got the larger size." Jolly Madame Duval had returned with a flapping pair of jods. "These might fit. Are we off to some gymkhanas this summer?"
"No," Tor's mother as usual answered for her. "She's off to India, aren't you, Victoria?"
"Yes." She was gazing over their heads at her reflection in the mirror. I'm huge, she was thinking, and fat.
"How lovely, India!" Madame Duval beamed at her mother. "Quite an adventure. Lucky girl!"
Her mother had decided to be fun. "Yes, it's très amusant," she told her. "When these girls go out they call them the Fishing Club because there are so many handsome young men out there."
"No, Mother," corrected Tor, "they call us the Fishing Fleet."
Her mother ignored her. "And the ones who can't find men there," her mother gave Tor a naughty look with a hint of challenge in it, "are called returned empties."
"Oh, that's not very nice," said Madame Duval, and then not too convincingly, "but that won't happen to your Victoria."
"Um..." Tor's mother made the little pout she always made when she checked her face in the mirror. She adjusted her hat. "Let's hope not." I hate you, Mother. For one brief and terrible moment Tor imagined herself sticking a pin so hard into her mother that she made her scream out loud. I absolutely loathe you, she thought. And I'm never coming home again. Copyright © 2008 by Julia Gregson
Meet the Author
Julia Gregson has worked as a journalist and foreign correspondent in the UK, Australia, and the US. She is the author of East of the Sun, which was a major bestseller in the UK and won the Romantic Novel of the Year Prize and the Le Prince Maurice Prize there, and Monsoon Summer. Her short stories have been published in collections and magazines and read on the radio. She lives in Monmouthshire, Wales.
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I know a book is good when I find myself thinking about the characters long after I've finished the book and moved on to a new one. That has definitely been the case with East of the Sun. Julia Gregson portrays the journey numerous English women made across the ocean to India in the 1920s and 30s (pre-WWII) looking for love... or at least a husband. Ever since reading The Secret Garden as a young girl, I've been fascinated by this concept of the British in India. Aayahs and Mem Sahibs... it's all so luxurious and arrogant! This story was especially interesting for its character development. Each character was actually somewhat annoying to me in that none of them really had their head on straight. They were all just a little off-- but aren't we all. I especially identified with the main character, Viva Halloway who is torn between her drive to be valuable and valued as an individual (even as a woman) and her desire to feel connected to a man and to a family. This was a thoroughly enjoyable...and educational read.
A quiet read for a 'stay-at-home with a warm blanket and purring cat on my lap' day. The storyline was interesting (but felt long). I took a long time to warm up to most of the characters. I didn't really feel I developed a deeper understanding of India although I did feel I had a better sense of what it might have been like to be a young British woman during that time in that place. The take-away for me was centered around the orphanage. Good-hearted people trying to help fill a desperate need in constructive ways may in fact create more problems than solutions. The book ended on an overall good note. I appreciated that.
The books first few pages have awkwardly written sentences, but dont let that throw you off, this is a great read!! It is a good long book that you just SAIL through. You feel like you have been on a journey to a distant land and more innocent time. It is all at once exciting and touching. You really care about the characters and that is the thread that keeps propelling you through this book. No slow middle here.
This may be the first book of the year to earn the title of Epic Read. To me, an Epic Read is a book where I could easily imagine a full series out of the storylines. That doesn't mean that I think the story would have been better in a multiple book format, it simply means that this book was jam packed with storyline and kept me intrigued for days. East of the Sun, by Julia Gregson, had a main storyline and multiple branching storylines that really keep the reader involved. This is part of what made the book so wonderful to me. We begin with the story of Viva, an orphaned woman who carries a great deal of pain with her. She is quite, unwilling to share herself with others and broken by passed tragedy. In East of the Sun, we follow Viva as she makes a life altering decision to act as a Chaperone to a group of young adults travelling to India. She hopes to make a new life for herself in this exotic land, but what she finds there may be much more than she is prepared to handle. Will she be able to protect and guide the girls she is chaperoning on their journey to this exciting country? Gregson does an amazing job of creating a complex world with the various stories and yet always finds a way to pull everything together into one cohesive element. Each character complements the story and adds a layer of mystery and suspense to an already juicy plot. One thing that I absolutely loved about the book was that we didn't really have to think too hard about what time we were in throughout the chapters. Many chapters had the location and year under the chapter number. As much as we jump around India and characters, these locations and years really helped to keep our perspective in check. In addition, this book covers a long period of time and the dates help us to view how our characters have changed and grown over time. I won't go into too much detail about the time and where the story takes us as I don't want to give anything away, but be prepared for a lot of character development to happen. In one way, that is a large purpose of the book; we get to see how our trio of friends develop over time in relation to themselves and each other. One thing that did catch me up a couple times throughout the book was the action. Gregson did an amazing job of creating suspense, tense scenes that pulled us along until finally breaking free into some glorious action. On more than one occasion, however, Gregson would set the tension, slowing building anticipation, pulling our emotions like a rubber band stretching just to the point of breaking...and then she'd suddenly drop the rubber band, leaving us without the release of the pop as we watch it gently flutter to the ground. There was more than one scene where I felt that the unwinding of the scene was fairly anticlimactic. Perhaps that was the point, I'm unsure. The story was still magnificent (and it's easy to use that word in relation to this book), but I think it might have been even better if we'd received full resolution to the tension she built throughout the stories. I recommend this book to everyone. It was a fantastic read that kept me coming back for more. I often found that I couldn't set the book down because every time I thought I would find a stopping point, allowing me to put it down for the evening; I would get caught up again. It really is an epic adventure and one that will stick around for a while.
In 1928 twenty-five years old Viva Holloway is paying her passage to India by escorting three younger travelers; she heads to the "Gem of the Empire" to pick up her late parents personal things. Of her three charges: Rose Wetherby is going to marry; Victoria "Tor" Sowerby is her bridesmaid; and teen Guy Glover is going home after being expelled from school. Viva tires to hide her trepidation as she has no experience chaperoning or for that matter traveling as they sail the Kaiser-i-Hind to Bombay.---------------- All four have their own secret agendas. Viva simply wants to survive the ordeal of being the one in charge. Rose hopes her cavalry officer loves her, but she is nervous because she knows nothing about him as they only met a few short chaperoned times. Tor hopes to find a husband on her "fishing fleet" tour. Finally Guy wants these femmes to leave him alone. When he loses his temper and attacks a prominent member of an Indian family, he sets in motion trouble for himself and his temporary guardian.------------------- This is a fascinating historical tale that rotates perspective between the four prime characters so that the audience understands what motivates each of them. The story line starts slow as Julia Gregson introduces her fantastic four, but once the readers feel comfortable with the lead foursome, the plot moves briskly to a strong finish. Fans will enjoy this engaging look at life of young adults between the wars in the British Empire as the sun is starting to set.---------- Harriet Klausner
I picked this up when doing a review of the clearance books and it was a pleasant surprise. It is a good exposure to the British expat experience to India as an escape to the female conformist life in England. You will find yourself craving curry while you read it.
Very enjoyable, although left lots of loose ends. And by the way, Barnes & Noble, Monmouthshire is not in England.
Wonderful writing-the period beautifully described-great fun to read!
I loved this book, couldn't put it down, and was sorry to see it end. I went out and bought two more copies -- one for my sister, and one for a friend. I loved it so much, I just had to share it. Great story, and characters you will fall in love with, This would make a great movie!!
I thought this was a little slow to start, was better once they reached India however was disappointed at so many open ended story lines. Felt the details could have been more, you never really understood what was going on with everyone. Overall, I'm glad I read it but not a book I would pass along to anyone.