by Clare Flynn
‘Thank you.’ He sank back into the pillows. A sudden thought occurred to him. ‘My plant specimens? My camera and sketch books?’
‘Your specimen boxes have all been dispatched to the botanic gardens at Kew in accordance with your instructions. As to your camera equipment and sketch books I’ve no idea. I fear they may have been lost when the bridge collapsed.’
Christopher closed his eyes and groaned inwardly. After all that, he would have no record of the rafflesia. He opened them again, a worse fear hitting him. ‘Please could you pass me my jacket.’ He nodded towards the chair where the jacket hung over the back.
Mrs Lawrence passed it to him and he felt inside the top pocket. Relief washed over his face as he pulled out a piece of folded card, crumpled and water-stained. He opened it and inside was a small pressed flower, a fading yellow buttercup.
‘A buttercup!’ said Mrs Lawrence, nostalgically. ‘I haven’t seen one of those in a long time. Is it a special type?’
‘No. A common or garden one. But precious to me as it was a gift from a very special person.’
The woman smiled at him, then moved to the door. ‘I’ll leave you in peace now.’
The loss of the sketchbooks and photographic plates were a blow – but losing Jane’s buttercup would have been more than he could have borne.
* * *
Later, when a bowl of broth had helped restore a little strength, Christopher remembered the letter from his mother. It lay on his trunk beside the bed, Edwina’s handwriting unmistakeable.
My dear Christopher,
Why haven’t you written to me? I am living in daily terror that a wire will come to tell me I have lost you. There has been nothing since you wrote to tell me you were heading off into the jungle. Surely you must be back in Kuching by now?
If you’d any idea how much I worry about you, you wouldn’t be such a poor correspondent. The other day, Margaret Bennet was telling me there are cannibals in Borneo. I was worried sick that you’d been stuck in a cooking pot and boiled alive. I only calmed down when Mr Bennet assured me that there were no cannibals. But then yesterday I bumped into Mrs Collerton in the village and she told me there are headhunters. You can imagine what kind of state I was in at the thought of your head being hung on a string round some native’s neck, until Major Collerton appeared and assured me that they don’t do it any more in Sarawak and are really quite friendly. Apparently his brother, who is something to do with oil prospecting, passed though Sarawak a few years ago on his way to somewhere else.
But I digress. Please, please, darling, come home. You have had plenty of time now to get your botanical adventures out of your system. Now it’s time to return to your responsibilities. Your sunken garden is looking marvellous. Yes, I have actually been to have a look! What a fantastic job you have done, but the young man who is working there needs more help and it would be such a shame to let it fall back into a wilderness again.
I miss you so much, darling boy. You know I’m not good at saying this kind of thing, but I think of you all the time. I feel so guilty that I drove you away. That I was the cause of the very thing I didn’t want to happen. I know I was wrong to push you into marrying Lavinia, to keep trying to make you the person I thought you ought to be, rather than the one you are – which, now that you aren’t here, I realise is the very best person – a son to make any mother proud. Oh dear, I am now doing what I’ve just admitted I shouldn’t do – trying to get you to do what I want rather than what you want, but I can’t help it.
I do hate to think of you all alone. I know marriage to Lavinia was a terrible and tragic mistake but, once some time has passed, perhaps you should think of marrying again? It would be wonderful for you to be settled, with a wife and children. I so want to see you happy.
Now don’t be cross with me but there is someone whom I think you could be happy with one day. But I promise you, Christopher, I have no intention of compelling you or coercing you into marrying anyone. I have a feeling that if you come home, things will be better for you in so many ways.
Please come home! Quickly!
Your loving mother.
* * *
Christopher shoved the letter back into the envelope, irritated. Edwina couldn’t resist interfering. She had probably already got a selection of marriageable women lined up as potential replacements for Lavinia. Well, he wasn’t playing her game. It was his life and he had no intention of going home to Newlands.
Two days later, Christopher’s bubble was burst when the doctor told him that as soon as he was fit to travel he would be best advised to return to England and avoid returning to the tropics again.
‘Malaria’s a tricky disease,’ the man said. ‘You can go for as long as a year, feeling fit as a fiddle before it strikes you down.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Plasmodium. It’s a parasite. Can take months after you’re infected before you get the symptoms. The problem is that the damn things can lurk in your liver for years and then re-emerge. You were very sick, my friend. My advice to you is to get well, get home and get yourself along to the Tropical Diseases Hospital in London and have them take a look at you. Then stick to temperate climates. You may appear physically strong, Captain Shipley, but you’ve been through a lot. Your war injuries, the head injuries you sustained when you fell in that river, and now this. Don’t make things too hard for yourself.’
‘But I’m a botanist. This is what I do.’
‘That’s fine but do it somewhere else. There are plenty of plants to study in Europe. I can’t believe they’ve found them all, have they?’ The doctor put his stethoscope back inside his bag. ‘Or you could work in a laboratory or a hothouse. Let some other fools go climbing through tropical jungles for you.’
* * *
When Christopher disembarked from the steamship at Southampton, he was unsteady on his feet. After two months at sea, the ground seemed to roll underneath him as he made his way up the quayside. Today there were no gangs of leaflet-waving women, no men in uniform crowding the dockside. Just the departing passengers and crew and a few dockers to unload the cargo.
The makeshift prosthetic leg he’d had made for him by a Chinese carpenter in Kuching was causing him pain – he would have to get fitted for a new one as soon as possible. It was scuffed and splintered in places and the straps were wearing thin and kept slipping out of place.
Arriving in London, he debated whether to stop off for a couple of days there, sort out a new prosthesis, get the once-over from the Tropical Diseases Hospital and call in at Kew Gardens to find out whether the plant specimens he had sent four months ago, before his accident, had arrived safely. But now he was back in London he was suddenly impatient to be home.
Newlands had never exerted such a pull on him before. He was keen to see how much further Fred had progressed with the sunken garden. He couldn’t wait to ride out with Hooker again. But most of all, he realised he actually wanted to see his mother.
The long absence and his near-death experience had made Christopher feel a fondness towards Edwina Shipley that he’d rarely felt when in her company. He imagined her standing in front of the fireplace, a cocktail in her hand and her dogs in attendance, and smiled to himself. When he had written to her before leaving Kuching, he had been vague about his future plans. Anxious not to worry her he hadn’t mentioned the malaria. There was still that doubt in him that as soon as he were home she would start her scheming again. And yet… she was lonely and did what she did with the best of intentions. Surely his unexpected return would be welcome?
His mind made up to surprise his mother and travel straight to Newlands, he took the train and then a taxicab from the local station. He had made arrangements in London for his trunks to be sent on separately, along with a wooden crate containing more specimen plants – these destined for the greenhouse in the sunken garden.
Telling the driver to drop him at the main gates, he walked up the long sweep of the drive. The trees were turning
gold and brown and there was a smell of burning leaves in the air. It was so different from the heat of the tropics, the dank smell of the jungle, the oppressive humidity of the island that had been his home for almost a year. He breathed deeply, enjoying the fresh air and the crunch of crisp leaves under his feet.
It was a few minutes after three. Edwina would doubtless be reading in the small parlour, as she usually did in the afternoons. Christopher pushed open the front door and, after dropping his overnight bag onto the floor by the door, hurried across the large expanse of hallway.
Swing-doors at the rear of the hall, behind the sweep of the staircase, led to the service areas. With a crash, the doors burst open and a small boy shot through on a tricycle, wearing a pirate costume.
Christopher stopped in his tracks, astonished. Edwina Shipley must be away from home. Were she present, no servant would dare to bring a child into the house, much less allow him to run rampant.
The boy skidded to a halt, looked up at Kit and said, ‘Are you looking for Granny?’
Kit echoed him, ‘Granny?’
The boy smiled. ‘Granny’s with her doggies.’ He pivoted his tricycle around towards the corridor that led to the parlour. ‘Come on!’
Stepping in front of the little boy, and despite the awkwardness of his homemade leg, Christopher squatted down in front of him, blocking his passage. He studied the child’s features.
The boy’s dark eyes had a solemn expression and the possibility formed in Christopher’s mind that this was Martha’s child. But how could that be? And who was Granny? Overcome with emotion and confusion, he held out a hand to shake the little boy’s. ‘Hello, what’s your name?’
Suddenly shy, the boy shook hands and whispered, ‘David.’
‘David? That’s a good strong name.’ As he squatted beside the boy, heart thumping, a mixture of confusion, fear and joy in his head, he was unable to think straight. Who was the boy? Why was he here? Could he really be Martha’s son? But it wasn’t possible. How could it be? And yet? Tears pricked at his eyes and he wiped a hand over them.
David studied him, expression curious. ‘Are you my daddy? You look like the picture Granny has on top of the piano. But my daddy’s gone away.’
Christopher gasped, his heart bursting with a rush of joy and love as he leaned forward and lifted his son off the tricycle and into his arms. Kissing the soft silky hair on his head, he breathed in the smell of the little boy. ‘Yes, David. I’m your daddy. I’ve come home.’
The child moved his head back so he could see Kit’s face. ‘Will you go away again?’
‘No. Never. I’m here for good now, David. I won’t be going away.’ Holding the small body against him, a sudden rush of fear spread through him. David’s presence could only mean one thing. Martha must have died. Why else would the child be here? Martha would never have given up her son. What was going on? And Edwina would never have let Martha return. Besides, Martha was married to Henderson.
He was struggling how to ask the boy, when a familiar voice interrupted them. ‘Darling! You’ve come home! And you and David have met each other. But why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I’d have asked cook to do something special.’ His mother was standing in the arch leading to the east wing. He could see she was on the point of tears.
Christopher put down his son and still holding onto the little boy’s hand, moved to greet his mother, putting his free arm around her and drawing her towards him. For once she didn’t resist.
‘Come and get warm in the parlour. There’s a fire blazing. I’ll ask Bannister to bring us some tea. Oh, darling, I’ve worried so much about you. All this time with no word. I’d begun to fear the worst. I thought something terrible had happened to you. Or that you’d decided to stay in Sarawak.’
‘I was ill. Malaria.’
She squeezed his hand, then flung her arms around him in a most uncharacteristic display of emotion. ‘My poor darling. I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re home. And, David! Isn’t it marvellous that Daddy is home again?’
Christopher had never seen his mother in such a state of unbridled joy. He let her lead him along the corridor and into the warm, cheerful room. The two dogs stirred from their habitual places in front of the grate and came to greet him, tails wagging as he bent down to stroke them.
A little voice chimed. ‘Can I keep on riding, Granny?’
Edwina turned a beaming smile upon her grandson. ‘Of course, my angel. Daddy and I have lots to talk about.’
Kit watched the boy pedalling out of the room, then turned to look at his mother. His hands were shaking as he said, ‘She’s dead, isn’t she. Martha’s dead. Tell me what happened.’
Edwina Shipley looked astonished. ‘Dead? Of course she’s not dead. To the best of my knowledge she’s where she always is in the afternoons, messing about in your sunken garden. She’ll be back for tea later. The dear girl does insist on staying in the keeper’s cottage, even though I’d much rather they moved in here.’
Kit’s heart soared inside him. Relief, joy, overwhelming gratitude. She was alive. She had given him a son. A beautiful healthy son. And, miracle of miracles, Edwina was happy about it – even wanting Martha to move into the big house.
The door opened and Bannister put his head around it. Seeing Kit, his face lit up. ‘I saw the bag in the hall and I did wonder. Good to see you home again, Captain Shipley.’
‘It’s good to see you too, Mr Bannister.’ Christopher got up and shook the elderly retainer’s hand.
‘I’ll bring tea and then I’ll put your bag upstairs, sir.’
When he had gone, Christopher said, ‘But I don’t understand, why is Martha here? I thought she’d married the doctor at the asylum.’
His mother gave her head a shake. ‘A bad business. He married her bigamously. Poor Martha had no idea. But I’ll leave her to tell you all that.’
Christopher gasped in disbelief. ‘She’s not married?’
‘Not any more. She agreed to marry him unaware of the wife and only because she was expecting David.’ Edwina reached out her hand to touch his arm. ‘I am sorry, Christopher. From the bottom of my heart. I’ve been a selfish woman and I know now I hurt you very much. I had no right to do what I did.’ She looked at him intently. ‘As I’ve come to know Martha, I’ve become increasingly fond of her.’ She swallowed. ‘In fact, I’ve come to think of her as a daughter.’ She squeezed her lips tightly together. ‘I hope that perhaps one day she might become that. My daughter-in-law. Your wife. You do still love her?’ Her face was anxious.
Christopher closed his eyes. Shaking his head slowly, he said, ‘More than ever. If that’s possible. And David. Oh, Mother, I have a son, a beautiful son.’ He got to his feet. ‘I must see her. I must go and find her right away.’
‘Sit down. Please wait. I haven’t finished yet.’
Bannister came in and served them tea. Christopher sat, fists clenched in impatience, longing to be making his way to the sunken garden and Martha.
When they were alone again, Edwina said, ‘I did something else that was unforgivable. But I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me.’ She looked down, her face anxious. Kit saw her hands were twisting together in her lap. ‘Your sister died. Jane. It happened before you went away. Before Lavinia drowned. I didn’t tell you. They wrote to me from St Crispin’s to say she had passed away and I could cancel the payments for her keep. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. I was afraid. I didn’t want you to go to Martha. You’d only recently married Lavinia. I thought it better you didn’t know.’ She gave a little sob. ‘And I didn’t want you to be hurt. To drag all that up. I kept hoping against hope that you would eventually be happy with Lavinia. I was wrong. I should have told you. You had a right to mourn your sister.’ Edwina closed her eyes and then looked up at him. ‘I’m so sorry, Christopher. Martha thought you knew and had decided not to attend the funeral.’
‘No! Not dead. Not Jane.’ Christopher let out a long groan. ‘I should ha
ve gone back again. I should have visited her.’ He felt in his pocket for the piece of card with the pressed buttercup that he always kept there.
‘I am so terribly sorry, my darling. For that poor girl and for not telling you. I don’t know why I thought I had the right to play God.’ She took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. ‘Can you ever forgive me? I was only trying to do what was best for you. And I have explained to Martha. I think she has forgiven me, so I hope you will.’
She picked up the teapot and was about to pour more tea for him, when she put the pot down. ‘I’m doing it again,’ she said. ‘Being selfish. Go to Martha. Go now. It’s what you want to do. And if you see David on your way out, tell him his granny is ready to read him his story.’
Christopher needed no further invitation. Throwing a grateful look to his mother, he raced out of the house, across the lawns and the stable yard to the sunken garden, heedless of the discomfort from his battered leg.
At first he didn’t see her. The large garden was crisscrossed by winding paths with trees and shrubs obscuring the view of different areas, creating a series of gardens within a garden. Then, as he turned past a small Chinese-style summerhouse and headed towards the rear of the garden, he saw her.
Martha had her back to him, bending over to prune and shape a line of lavender bushes in a border in front of one of the red-brick boundary walls. It was only when he was a few feet away that she turned around and saw him.
For a moment it was as though time had stopped. They both stood motionless, staring at each other. Then Martha dropped the secateurs and ran into Kit’s arms. Their kiss was long, passionate and hungry, then tender and searching, followed by countless light kisses, as they kept breaking off to seek out each other’s eyes.
‘I thought you might never come home. I was so afraid. Oh, Kit, I couldn’t have borne it if you’d died out there. So far away and without seeing…’ She pulled her head back and looked at him. ‘You’ve seen him? You’ve met David?’
