by Tara Haigh
‘And how should I arrange that? You’ve just told me that she almost never leaves the plantation.’
‘The Fosters have a guest house. They occasionally hold parties there for the British residents in the region, and sometimes people stay the night. When I started working for the Fosters, a young Dutchwoman stayed there for a while too. That was when I saw Miss Foster for the first time. The two of them were talking, and had gone for a stroll in the garden.’
‘Perhaps she was a friend of the family?’
‘No, she was only passing through. Mrs Foster made her acquaintance in town.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I was the one who drove Mrs Foster into Johore to buy supplies,’ said Amar.
‘And she simply invited the young woman to stay with them?’
‘On the way back, I heard her say she was an artist. Her name was Esther and she played the violin. You could sometimes hear her playing all the way from the fields. When we heard it, we would stop working and listen.’
‘Was that why Marjory invited her to stay?’ Ella found that hard to believe.
‘No, she did so because of her daughter. “You’ll be good for Heather” – those were her exact words,’ explained Amar.
‘So should I pass myself off as an artist and wait until Marjory comes back into town for supplies?’
Amar laughed heartily.
‘Esther only stayed for a few weeks. She must be back in Holland by now. But she might have met you . . . during her travels . . . and perhaps she told you all about her wonderful stay with the Fosters . . . And now that you’re travelling through too, perhaps you’re curious to see what it was like for yourself . . .’
Now it was Ella who had to laugh. This Amar seemed to share her talent for improvisation – like her, he certainly wasn’t at a loss for plausible pretexts. Yet there was a catch.
‘The thing is, I can’t play any instruments, only a little piano,’ she had to admit.
‘Can you sing?’ he asked.
‘Even the parrots in the jungle can sing better than I can,’ Ella confessed.
‘How about painting?’ suggested Amar.
‘I can paint tolerably well. I used to draw with charcoal as a child. Portraits, studies of plants . . .’
‘So you are an artist after all,’ declared Amar.
‘But I can’t pass myself off as a Dutchwoman.’
‘Nobody will hear the difference. Your accent sounds similar to hers,’ Amar assured her.
‘And where will I find a sketchbook and charcoal to draw with?’
‘Two streets down from here.’
Ella thought it was a crazy idea. Yet she saw no other way at present to find out who her family was. She felt that it could be the Fosters, although the notion that she might be the daughter of the late Richard Foster made her uncomfortable.
‘I think I’ll need to practise a little first.’
‘I’d be happy to serve as a model,’ said Amar. His smile was gorgeous. Maybe she really should try to sketch it.
Ella could hardly believe that she had agreed to Amar’s mad idea, and she had to admit that she had done so not just because of her desire to meet her presumed half-sister, but because Amar had ignited a blaze of curiosity within her. Yet she couldn’t quite pin down exactly what she was so curious about. Was it the plantation, which was ruled with an iron fist by its matriarch? Was it the princess, who locked herself away in a golden cage? Perhaps Marjory Foster was even her mother – that couldn’t be ruled out altogether. Whatever the reason, this place seemed to exert a powerful force of attraction that she could no longer resist.
Ella had deliberately taken the longer route to the plantation to avoid travelling past the place where Rudolf’s body had been found. Before she set out, she had briefly considered stopping there to say a quiet prayer for him – but given his shabby behaviour and flagrant betrayal, she had dismissed the idea. Amar had offered to accompany her, but that would have been far too dangerous. Raj might have seen them together, and as the matriarch’s right-hand man, he would have told Marjory about it before long. To make her look more plausible, Amar had provided her with a second-hand easel. Ella felt like a thief planning to steal a valuable painting from a museum – though in this case, the painting was a secret that she hoped to elicit from the Fosters. The thought of that lifted her spirits, for the nearer she drew to the Fosters’ house, the more absurd her plan to pass herself off as an artist began to appear.
This time, Ella was relieved to meet with only a few curious looks from the workers as she drove through the plantation. She would probably have lost her nerve if she had seen Raj. Shortly before she turned off onto the road leading to the Fosters’ estate, Ella stopped the carriage and asked herself for a final time if she really wanted to take all this upon herself. The answer was a resounding yes. And after just a few minutes’ drive, she came upon a view that not only piqued her curiosity even further, but was also extraordinarily beautiful. The plantation’s rubber trees extended to the foot of a gentle hill, up the side of which wound a driveway leading to a house that truly deserved to be called ‘stately’. Two palm groves surrounded a white three-storey mansion, which had two bay windows and a balcony the size of a veranda on the first floor. There must be countless rooms inside it; indeed, the house certainly seemed far too big for the two people that apparently inhabited it.
As soon as she reached the hill, Ella caught sight of an expansive, well-kept garden that ran all the way to the other end of the rubber plantation. In it stood a smaller house that looked like a pavilion, embedded in a sea of flowers. If Ella wasn’t mistaken, those were oleander bushes entwined around the building in countless different colours. There was clearly a gifted gardener at work here, for when Ella dismounted from her carriage to take a closer look, she noticed that the flowers were even arranged by hue. The red blossoms grew tallest, reaching almost up to the roof of the pavilion, and were joined on one side by pink flowers that gave way to a deep purple – while on the other side, the colour seemed to fade to a shade of apricot before losing itself altogether in a cascade of white blossom. It didn’t take her long to identify the gardener: an older woman wielding a set of pruning shears, who Ella guessed to be in her sixties. She had her hair in a bun and wore a black dress with padded hips that looked slightly old-fashioned, and which was certainly far too warm for the local climate. At any rate, it didn’t look like the outfit of a maidservant. At that moment, Ella realised that she could lay to rest one of the many questions that had been tormenting her, assuming that her investigations had led her to the right plantation. If this woman was Marjory Foster, it seemed unlikely she could be Ella’s real mother. She was probably too old for that.
Ella wondered whether she ought to approach her, but the woman made the decision for her, for she looked up, placed her shears in a bucket and walked towards her. This had to be Marjory, and she didn’t look especially pleased, even at this distance. That much was clear from her rapid pace.
‘Who are you?’ she called to Ella in a harsh tone. Ella nearly lost her nerve, but Amar had warned her in advance.
‘I’m a friend of Esther’s,’ she called back. She hoped it would work.
At any rate, Marjory must have heard her. After a moment of surprise, her brisk march slowed to a stroll, and Ella now saw curiosity instead of disapproval in her eyes.
‘My name is Ella van Veen,’ she announced, as Marjory reached her and examined her from head to toe.
‘You must be Marjory Foster,’ she added.
Marjory nodded.
‘So you know Esther? How is she?’ she asked. Ella had to think quickly, for she didn’t even know where Esther was living at that moment.
‘We met while travelling, and she said such wonderful things about this place. I’m an artist passing through the area, and Esther’s descriptions really captured my imagination.’ Ella prayed that that would fend off any further enquiries from Marjory.
‘
She enjoyed her time here, then,’ said Marjory. As she spoke, a complacent smile crept over the corners of her mouth, which had hitherto been locked in an angry pout. It was a miracle that she could still move her lips, considering how grimly pursed they had been until now.
‘It’s so beautiful here.’ Ella spoke with conviction – a simple glance at the house, the garden and the pavilion sufficed for that. ‘I would dearly love to draw your pavilion. I’ve never seen such beautiful oleander bushes,’ Ella gushed further.
‘And you say you’re an artist.’ Marjory looked at her approvingly. Amar’s plan seemed to be working.
‘That’s overstating it somewhat. But I enjoy drawing.’
‘I do admire people with artistic gifts. Alas, God didn’t grace me with such talents,’ declared Marjory rather soberly.
‘But surely anybody who can cultivate such beautiful flowers and arrange them so perfectly is a god-gifted artist, no?’ said Ella, and she meant it, although she hoped her remark wouldn’t be interpreted as an attempt at flattery. From her watchful blue eyes, she could tell that Marjory was an intelligent woman.
A noise from the house made Ella look up. Someone was moving by the window. She thought she saw a female outline behind the curtains.
Marjory followed Ella’s gaze, but said nothing. She seemed to be lost in thought for a moment.
Ella was sure that Heather was interested in the new arrival, but the fact that she didn’t show herself at the window proved Amar right. She appeared to be rather timid.
‘I’m sure you have a long journey behind you. How would you like a cup of tea?’
The tone of Marjory’s voice had grown so mild that Ella could scarcely believe it of her, and she was only too happy to accept the offer.
To describe the furnishings inside the house as elegant and stylish would be an almighty understatement. Ella had seen the interiors of a few mansions in Germany while visiting her patients, but the Foster residence far exceeded all of those. That was down to the finely woven oriental rugs on the floor in the hallway and the drawing room, and the chandeliers in a style she had never seen before, with beautifully cut teardrop-shaped crystals. The furniture was made from tropical wood and polished to a mirror-like shine. The scent of flowers hung in the air, and on the wall of the entrance hall there were two breathtakingly beautiful paintings that clearly depicted an English landscape. Ella couldn’t tear her eyes away from them.
‘England, our old home. We used to spend many weekends in the southwest, on Dartmoor. Sometimes I miss those green meadows, the heaths and the moors,’ explained Marjory, who stopped at Ella’s side and admired the paintings with every bit as much interest and admiration.
‘Jaya,’ Marjory called into the house.
A young Indian girl came rushing in, as if from nowhere.
‘Make us some tea please, and tell Heather that we have a visitor,’ Marjory instructed her.
The young woman – who was dressed in a maid’s black uniform with a white apron and cap – nodded and disappeared through a doorway behind the stairs.
‘Esther was a most charming young lady. Are you from Holland too?’ asked Marjory, while gesturing for Ella to follow her into the drawing room.
‘I come from Rotterdam,’ said Ella. She tried to roll the ‘R’ slightly, although there was no way that an Englishwoman would be able to tell the difference between a German and a Dutch accent in English. Another lie. Ella felt extremely uncomfortable, yet she had blurted it out without really knowing why she had chosen Rotterdam, of all places. She would just have to keep up the pretence now.
The drawing room was downright regal in character. The light olive fabric of the upholstery was framed by extravagantly carved white wood and stood in attractive contrast to the enormous oriental rugs, which depicted hunting scenes. The two chandeliers on the ceiling were even bigger than those in the entrance hall. The Fosters truly seemed to have a weakness for art, for there was no shortage of paintings. Even the gold-trimmed grandfather clock next to the entrance displayed such exquisite craftsmanship that it must have been worth a small fortune, and there were flamboyant marble statues standing on painted ledges too. Yet Ella’s favourite item was a sofa that had one seat facing forwards and the other in the opposite direction, so that two people could sit together and converse without having to turn their heads. Marjory seemed particularly attached to this piece too.
‘A souvenir from France – they call it a tête-à-tête. Heather and I like to take our afternoon tea there,’ explained Marjory.
Ella continued to survey the room, but then froze. Above the sofa hung a portrait of a couple. The woman looked like a youthful Marjory, and Ella could guess who the man must be: Richard, her presumptive father. His gaze was extraordinarily chilling. He looked stern and careworn, with a bony, consumptive face. Ella felt herself grow nauseous. Could somebody like that really be her father? She found it impossible to believe that she might share anything with him; nor did she want to. If even a painting of him could be so repellent – and one showing him as a young man, at that – then what kind of person must he have become later in life?
Marjory had clearly noticed Ella’s eyes resting on the painting, but she said nothing. Out of the corner of her eye, Ella thought she saw Marjory adjusting the sofa cushions in embarrassment. Perhaps she didn’t mention the painting because she didn’t like the portrait herself. That would be understandable. But in that case, why was it still hanging there? She could easily have taken it down.
‘Please, have a seat. The tea will be here soon enough. You must try the biscuits too. Our cook used to work in England, and she does a most tolerable job, for an Indian,’ said Marjory, before sitting down at a circular table inlaid with mosaics.
Ella had scarcely made herself comfortable before she heard steps outside the door. Jaya entered and placed a silver tray on the table, laden with a teapot, three cups and a plate of biscuits – all made of the finest bone china – before pouring the tea.
‘Thank you, Jaya. That will be all,’ said Marjory.
Ella felt as though she was sitting before a queen. It was clear that she had her household and her staff fully under control – even down to minor details, such as the tray, which had been polished so diligently that it virtually sparkled.
‘Would you like some milk? Oh, excuse me, I shouldn’t even ask. We English are probably the only people in the world mad enough to pour milk in our tea,’ laughed Marjory.
‘Oh no, I’d love some. I lived for a time in England and I learned to appreciate your habits.’
‘In England, you say? What did you do there?’ Marjory asked.
Ella cursed her loose tongue. Then again, it couldn’t do any harm to talk about her profession. There were plenty of artists who had to do conventional work when they couldn’t live off their art alone. Ella decided to risk it.
‘I trained as a nurse there.’
Marjory nodded approvingly. ‘A practical profession is worth its weight in gold. Was it your work that brought you to Malacca?’ The questions were becoming increasingly probing, but she managed to come up with a suitable excuse, thank goodness.
‘I’m interested in traditional Indian and Chinese medicine,’ answered Ella truthfully.
‘Well, you can find both here, and save yourself two arduous journeys to India and China. A clever decision,’ Marjory replied. Then she looked up impatiently.
‘What’s keeping Heather?’ she asked, and called for Jaya. This time, the maid didn’t appear quite so quickly. Marjory rose to her feet, ready to reissue her order to fetch Heather from upstairs.
‘Perhaps she’s tired. If you would allow me to draw your beautiful garden once we’ve finished our tea, then maybe I can stay for a while yet,’ said Ella. That appeased Marjory, and she relaxed once more.
‘I’m excited to see your work,’ she said, and took a sip of tea, looking at Ella the whole time.
Ella was now in need of a plausible explanation for why she intended
to capture the glorious colours of Marjory’s garden only in black-and-white charcoal – and whether the results would be at all passable remained to be seen.
She could still feel Marjory’s eyes on the back of her neck as she set up her small easel beneath the shade of a palm tree on the lawn in front of the oleander house – so called because the magnificent blossoms concealed the bulk of the building when you stood directly in front of it. The fragrance was beguiling. Perhaps it would calm her nerves at the prospect of trying to draw a picture that didn’t resemble the work of a child. Yet as soon as Ella picked up her charcoal, her confidence grew. It felt so familiar, and reminded her of a time when she used to take great pleasure in drawing.
‘You would have made a wonderful artist,’ her art teacher always used to say to her at school.
Ella clung to the memory, and reflected that it was actually rather original to draw a house like this in black and white.
When she examined them more closely, the bushes seemed to take on a life of their own. If she looked beyond the colour and concentrated more on the fresh shoots and the shapes of the buds, she might be able to draw something that forced the viewer to see the house with new eyes.
Encouraged, Ella put her charcoal to the paper. The outline of the circular building quickly took shape. How extravagant the façade was, with its classical ornamentation. She managed to capture it in an interesting way on her sketchpad, and exhaled in relief. Next up, the branches, which shot upward like tentacles. They almost looked a little threatening, and yet they had a dreamlike quality – somewhat like an enchanted palace that you might see in an illustrated book of fairy tales.
Ella heard steps approaching, and her muscles clenched, as she expected it would be Marjory. But why didn’t the steps come any closer? She turned round.
Amar hadn’t exaggerated. The woman standing in the shade of the small palm grove truly was as beautiful as a princess. Her face was flawless and her skin as white as porcelain – no doubt because she barely left the house.
