THE TEA PLANTER'S DAUGHTER:A wonderfully moving story of courage and enduring love: First in the India Tea Series

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Kamal grinned and shrugged as if the ways of Ama and her kind were beyond his comprehension.

  Soon after, they all retired to bed. Olive snuggled up close to Clarrie between chilly damp sheets. On nights when their father was fuelled with alcohol, the thirteen year old always begged to share Clarrie’s bed. It was not as if Jock ever barged in and woke them, but any night noise — a hooting owl, the scream of a jackal or the screech of a monkey — set Olive trembling with unfathomable fear.

  Clarrie lay awake long after Olive’s noisy breathing had settled into a sleeping rhythm. She slept fitfully and awoke before dawn. There was no point lying there stewing over problems; she would go for an early morning ride. Creeping out of bed, Clarrie dressed swiftly and left the house, making for the stables where her white pony, Prince, snorted softly in greeting.

  Her heart lifted as she nuzzled him and breathed in his warm smell. They had bought him from Bhutanese traders on a rare holiday in the foothills of the Himalayas, after her mother died. Her father had found Belgooree intolerable for a while and they had trekked for several months, Olive being transported in a basket slung between poles, her anxious face peering out from under a large raffia hat. Clarrie had fallen at once for the sturdy, nimble pony and her father had approved.

  ‘Superior sort, Bhutan ponies. Of course you can have him.’

  Clarrie had ridden him almost every day since. She was a familiar sight around the estate and the surrounding forest tracks. Hunters and villagers called to her in greeting and she often stopped to exchange news about the weather, information on animal tracks or predictions about the monsoon.

  She saddled Prince, talking to him softly, and led him out into the sharp air of pre-dawn and down the path that snaked away from the house through their overgrown garden. Once through the tangle of betel palms, bamboos, rattan and honeysuckle, she mounted, flung a thick, coarse blanket around her shoulders and set off down the track.

  In the half-dark she could see the spiky rows of tea bushes cascading away down the steep slope. Columns of ghostly smoke rose from the first early fires of the villages hidden in the jungle below. Around her, the conical-shaped, densely wooded hills stood darkly against the lightening horizon. She continued through the forest of pines, sal and oaks, the night noises giving way to the scream of waking birds.

  For almost an hour Clarrie rode until she reached the summit of her favourite hill, emerging out of the trees into a clearing just as dawn was breaking. Around her lay the toppled stones of an old temple, long reclaimed by jungle creepers. Beside it, under a sheltering tamarind tree, was the hut of a holy man built out of palm leaves and moss. The roof was overrun with jasmine and mimosa and he tended a beautiful garden of roses. A crystal-clear spring bubbled out of nearby rocks, filled a pool and then disappeared underground again. It was a magical place of pungent flowers with a heart-stopping view that stretched for miles. There was no smoke issuing from the swami’s hut so Clarrie assumed he was travelling.

  She dismounted and led Prince to drink at the pool. Sitting on a tumbledown pillar carved with tigers she gazed at the spreading dawn. Far to the east, the high dark green hills of Upper Assam came rippling out of the dark. The mighty Brahmaputra River that cut its way through the fertile valley was hidden in rolls of fog. Beyond it, looking north, Clarrie watched the light catch the distant peaks of the Himalayas. They thrust out of the mist, jagged and ethereal, their snow-capped slopes blushing crimson as the dawn awoke them.

  Clarrie, wrapped in her blanket, sat motionless as if caught in a spell. Prince wandered off to graze as the sunlight gathered in strength and the remote mountains turned golden as temple roofs. At last, she sighed and stood up. This place always stilled her fractious thoughts. She left a pouch of tea and sugar at the swami’s door and remounted Prince. A soft noise made her turn. At the pool a graceful fallow deer stooped to drink. Clarrie was entranced that the animal had crept so close to them without showing fear.

  A moment later, a deafening shot exploded from the surrounding trees. The deer’s head went up as if yanked on a harness. A second shot passed so close, Prince reared up in terror. Clarrie clutched frantically at the reins to calm him. A third shot hit the deer square on and its legs folded like collapsing cards.

  Horrified at the brutality of the moment, Clarrie slackened her hold. Prince danced in crazy, petrified circles, slipping on wet leaves. The next instant she was tossed from the saddle, thumping on to damp ground. Her head hit a stone and her vision turned red. She was aware of men’s voices shouting and footsteps running towards her.

  ‘You madman!’ a deep voice thundered.

  ‘Just a ruddy native,’ another blustered. ‘I fired a warning shot.’

  ‘It’s a woman, for God’s sake!’

  Clarrie wanted to carry on listening but their voices were fading. Who were they talking about? Before she could decide, she passed out.

  CHAPTER 2

  When Clarrie came round she was lying under a canvas awning. A man with a thick red moustache was squatting on a stool, peering at her.

  ‘She’s waking!’ he cried, half standing.

  Another man ground a cigarette under his boot and stepped forward. He towered over her, his dark brown hair cropped close to his scalp and his jutting chin clean-shaven. He surveyed her with keen green eyes. Clarrie knew this handsome man was familiar and that she should know him. But who was he and what was she doing here?

  ‘Miss Belhaven?’ he asked, with a quizzical arch of a thick eyebrow. ‘We’re thankful to see you open your eyes.’

  ‘I’m most dreadfully sorry,’ gushed the other man. ‘I should never have shot that deer so close to you. Would never have done it if I’d known you were — well — you were hidden in that blanket and wearing trousers like a man — I just thought …You see, I’d been tracking that fellow for twenty minutes — didn’t want to waste the chance.’

  The deer! Clarrie suddenly remembered the terrible sight of the beautiful doe shot in front of her eyes and Prince’s terror at the flying bullets. She attempted to sit up but the movement made her head throb.

  ‘Prince — where is he?’ she gasped.

  The taller man eyed her sardonically. ‘I presume you’re not addressing either of your rescuers?’

  ‘Rescuers?’ Clarrie gave him a withering look. ‘You nearly killed my pony and me. And that poor deer …’

  She sank back, touching her head where it hurt most. Someone had wrapped a bandage round it. She winced from the pain. ‘Where is my pony, Prince?’

  ‘He’s tip-top,’ said the man with the military moustache. ‘The bearers are feeding him. I must say he’s a fine fellow, Miss Belhaven. But I really don’t think you should be riding out on your own at such an hour. I’m surprised your father allows it. These are wild and dangerous hills.’

  Clarrie gave him a sharp look. ‘The only danger seems to be from trigger-happy hunters.’

  The man blushed and stepped back. ‘I say, Robson, she’s got her old man’s fighting spirit, I see.’

  His companion gave a low, rich laugh. ‘I did warn you,’ he said, never taking his eyes from Clarrie. ‘The Belhavens are known for their fiery pride.’ At once Clarrie recognised the deep voice with its hint of a north country accent like her father’s.

  ‘Wesley Robson!’ she exclaimed. ‘Now I remember.’

  ‘I’m flattered,’ he murmured, ‘that out of all the young men seeking your attention at the planters’ meeting, you should remember me.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ Clarrie said indignantly. ‘It was only because my father pointed you out as a troublesome Robson and told me to steer clear of you.’

  Maddeningly, Wesley merely chuckled at this. ‘And do you always follow your father’s advice?’

  She flushed. ‘Of course.’

  ‘So does he advise that his pretty young daughter should go riding this early on her own, a good hour from home?’

  Clarrie struggled up, infuriated by his patronising tone. ‘My fat
her knows I am a good rider. I know these hills far better than either you or your friend will ever know them, for all you think you own the place.’ Her head pounded as she got to her feet. ‘Please bring Prince to me.’ Then, to her shame, her knees buckled. Wesley caught her quickly.

  ‘Steady,’ he said, clutching her to him. He smelt of wood smoke and something earthier. She was close enough to notice a short scar puckering his left eyebrow that emphasised his sardonic look, and his sun-darkened face was creased with tiny lines around his eyes from squinting into the tropical sun. The vivid green of his irises was mesmerising.

  ‘You’re in no state to go riding off, Miss Belhaven.’ His companion was adamant. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘You’ll just have to let us look after you, I’m afraid,’ Wesley said. Clarrie could hear the mockery in his voice. She felt acutely aware of his strong arms keeping her upright and his breath on her hair. Shakily, she sat down again.

  Wesley ordered one of the bearers to bring her hot tea and scrambled eggs, ignoring her protests that she was not hungry. To her surprise she wolfed them down and accepted a second helping, while the men smoked and watched her as if she were some quaint new species they had discovered in the forest.

  ‘Well done, carry on!’ said the young subaltern, who told her he was Harry Wilson and at her service as long as he was stationed at the Shillong barracks. ‘Wesley’s a friend of mine — we met on the ship coming out — got on famously. Share a love of fishing and shooting. Wonderful country around here for bagging birds. I’m told it’s good for wild pigs and bears too, but had no luck so far. Perhaps your father could advise?’

  ‘His passion is for fishing,’ Clarrie answered. ‘He hates big game hunting.’

  ‘Do you know that a leopard was found right in the middle of town last week?’ Harry continued as if she had not spoken. ‘In broad daylight — wandered right through the native bazaar and into the cantonment cemetery. Sunning itself on a tombstone when they cornered him. Beautiful beast. Colonel’s wife’s having the skin made into a rug.’

  Clarrie wondered if the garrulous soldier drove his comrades mad with his endless chatter. Perhaps silence embarrassed him or maybe he was missing home. She should not judge him harshly, for she had filled the empty hours of longing for her dead mother with all the songs she could remember. She had hated the silence of the house that had once been filled with her mother’s singing. She closed her eyes against the memory.

  ‘Harry, I think Miss Belhaven is tired,’ Wesley intervened. ‘Let’s leave her to rest. One of us can ride over to let her father know she’s safe.’

  ‘Of course,’ Harry said eagerly. ‘I’ll go. The least I can do.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ Clarrie protested half-heartedly.

  ‘You lie down,’ Wesley ordered, ushering her further into the tent. ‘Once you’ve rested we’ll take you home.’

  Clarrie capitulated, and lay down on the camp bed. Wesley covered her with her own blanket.

  ‘It’s a bit rough and ready,’ he apologised, ‘but comfortable enough.’

  She suddenly realised that this was his tent and his bed. It smelled of camphor and a smoky male scent. If her head had not been so sore she might have objected. But she just wanted to close her eyes and wait for the pain to go away.

  She fell asleep at once. When she woke, her first sight was of Wesley sitting on a camp chair by the tent flap, long legs stretched out, reading. It surprised her. He gave the impression of a man of action, to whom reading would be a futile pursuit, yet his wide brow and strong features showed total absorption in the book. He sensed her watching and turned, and they regarded each other in silence. Clarrie reddened at the intimacy of lying in this strange man’s bed while he guarded her close by.

  ‘What are you reading?’ she asked to hide her embarrassment.

  He snapped the book shut. ‘Sport in British Burma’ he read out the title, ‘by Captain Pollok. Borrowed it from Harry’s mess. Very useful about the best places to fish in Assam — mind you, it’s thirty years out of date. I could probably do better myself.’ He cast it on to the floor, stood up and came across to peer at her. ‘Feeling better, Clarissa?’

  ‘Thank you, yes,’ she said, dropping her gaze. It unnerved her that he was so close and using her first name as if they were friends. ‘I would like to ride home now.’

  ‘You’re not riding anywhere yet. Let me take a look at you.’ He reached out and took her hand. Clarrie jumped at the touch, her eyes widening in alarm. Swiftly Wesley let go.

  ‘Why do you dislike me so?’ he asked, frowning.

  ‘I don’t know you well enough to have any opinion of you,’ she retorted.

  He flashed a smile. ‘I’d certainly like to get to know you better too.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ Clarrie said in irritation.

  ‘So tell me,’ Wesley challenged her, ‘what do you think of me? Or are you just going to let your father’s petty prejudice against my family prevent us from becoming friends?’

  Clarrie was riled by his taunt about her father. He had no idea how much Jock had suffered and no right to dismiss him as petty. Her first impression of Wesley Robson as insufferable and arrogant was true. She had had quite enough of being confined in his spartan tent.

  ‘I think you’re swell-headed and too big for your boots,’ she retaliated.

  Wesley gawped in astonishment. He stood back and thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘Well, a little more gratitude might have been nice.’

  ‘Gratitude?’ Clarrie cried. ‘You’ve got a nerve! I was minding my own business, enjoying the dawn in my favourite spot, when I was shot at and injured — and I’ve had a bad fright — and my head still hurts — and you made fun of me to your army friend as if I were still a child — and my father will be furious when he finds out — and I just want to go home!’

  They glared at each other. A muscle twitched furiously in his cheek. He was obviously not used to criticism, especially from a young woman. Well, she did not care if she had offended him. This was a mess of his making. He was the one who should be apologising to her.

  Wesley turned and marched out of the tent. She heard him issuing orders to the bearers, and when she emerged they had organised a dooli, a makeshift bamboo carriage on poles.

  ‘The servants will carry you,’ he told her curtly.

  ‘I’d rather ride Prince,’ Clarrie said.

  He swept her a mocking look. ‘I’ll lead your precious pony back. I’ll not take the blame for you swooning and falling off. Can’t have your father any more upset than he’s going to be already.’

  Clarrie gave him a furious look but climbed on to the dooli without another word. They set off at a running pace and it was not long before she regretted agreeing to be carried. With each jolt her body felt bruised and her head ached. She clung on, gritting her teeth. She should have insisted on riding back herself, but there was no sign of Wesley or Prince who were following on behind. The nearer they drew to Belgooree the more anxious she became. In what state would Harry Wilson have found her father? He might already have chased the young subaltern from the premises with curses and gunshot for putting his daughter in danger. Either that or still be sleeping off his hangover.

  Finally the bearers staggered up the steep slope of the estate and in through the walls of the compound. Kamal and Olive came rushing out to meet them.

  ‘Miss Clarissa! Allah is merciful!’ cried Kamal, helping her out of the carriage.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Olive accused her. ‘I was frightened on my own. Are you very hurt?’

  ‘No, just a bit sore,’ Clarrie said, hugging her sister. ‘I’m sorry for all the upset.’

  Olive lowered her voice. ‘We took ages waking Father this morning. I had to talk to Mr Wilson while Kamal got him shaved. His sister plays the viola, did you know?’

  ‘No, but good for you.’ Clarrie gave a strained smile. If it had not been for the wretched Wilson she could have returned from her ride
with her father none the wiser.

  Kamal sent the bearers to the kitchen for refreshments and fussed as he led the girls up the steps. There on the veranda, obscured by overgrown creepers, sat her father and Harry deep in conversation about fishing.

  ‘There she is,’ Jock called querulously, ‘my Clarrie! Come, lass, and let me look at you.’

  As he stood up, Clarrie was struck by how frail he was. His clothes hung off him and the arms he held out were shaking. His skin was the colour of yellowing parchment. The bouts of drinking were finally taking their toll. Today he looked worse than ever.

  ‘I’m all right, Father,’ she said quickly, ‘just a graze on my head.’

  He came towards her unsteadily and would have hugged her were Olive not still clutching on to her possessively. At once Clarrie smelled the alcohol on his breath. She glanced at the table and saw they were already drinking. He caught her look and went on the defensive.

  ‘What possessed you to gan off gallivanting before sunrise? You should have woken me so I could have gone too. Really, Clarrie, what will this canny young officer think of us?’

  Clarrie stared at him. She could hardly say he had still been sleeping off the excesses of last night when she left.

  ‘I think very highly of you both,’ Harry said quickly, standing up and offering her a seat. ‘Please don’t be hard on Miss Belhaven. The incident was entirely my fault.’

  Jock sighed as if he had no appetite for an argument. ‘Well, all that matters is that my lass is safely returned.’ Clarrie saw the glitter of tears in his eyes and smiled in reassurance.

  They sat back down and Kamal brought Clarrie a glass of rhododendron cordial and some of her favourite sweetmeats: honey snaps and coconut cakes. She shared them gratefully with Olive while Harry talked animatedly about fishing and Jock poured out more country spirit from a jug. Clarrie wondered when Wesley would arrive and thought it strange there had been no mention of him. Now that she was safely home, she was beginning to regret her hasty words to him. She had been in shock, but he had not deserved her contempt.