They were interrupted by shouts from the gatekeeper of another arrival.
‘This will be your friend?’ Jock asked.
‘He’s bringing Prince,’ Clarrie said, getting to her feet and making for the steps.
‘Yes, a fine chap,’ Harry said, clearing his throat.
‘A fellow officer, is he?’
‘Not exactly …’
Clarrie stopped and glanced at Harry. She could tell by his expression that he had not told her father the identity of his friend. He had not wanted to be the bearer of more bad news.
‘His friend is Wesley Robson,’ she said, with a warning frown at her father. Jock looked disbelieving.
‘Robson?’ he spluttered. ‘I’ll not have him coming here—’
‘Perhaps we should go.’ Harry rose, red with embarrassment.
‘Please sit,’ Clarrie told him. She appealed to her father. ‘I know this is difficult, but Mr Robson has been kind enough to look after me and bring back Prince. He is Mr Wilson’s friend. So we must be civil.’
She walked down the steps before her father could stop her. Prince whinnied at the sight of her as he was led into the compound. Clarrie rushed forward and flung her arms round his warm neck. Behind came Wesley, still on his horse.
‘Thank you, Mr Robson,’ Clarrie said, looking up. ‘Please come and have some refreshment.’ He looked warily towards the house. ‘My father wants to thank you too.’
He gave her a quizzical look, but nodded and dismounted. Kamal summoned a groom to lead the horses to the stables, while Clarrie led Wesley up past the brass flowerpots to the veranda. Jock nodded curtly and indicated a chair, but continued to glare at Wesley as he sat down. It was Clarrie who offered and poured the newcomer a drink. Harry filled the awkward silence by gabbling about fly fishing and relaying to his friend what Jock had told him about the local use of bark to poison fish to the surface.
Clarrie excused herself. All she wanted was to soak in a hot bath and change out of her grimy clothing. Olive followed her into the house.
‘He’s handsome, isn’t he?’ she said shyly, twirling her long red hair.
Clarrie glanced at her sister in the mirror as she removed her head bandage. ‘I suppose so,’ she said, gingerly touching the grazed bump on her temple. It looked clean. Whoever had treated it had done so efficiently, probably one of the servants.
‘Well I think he’s very handsome,’ Olive said, turning pink. ‘He’s just the sort of man I’d like to marry one day.’
Clarrie turned and laughed in surprise. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’ Olive blushed deeper. ‘Except it’s obvious he’s taken a fancy to you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Clarrie exclaimed. ‘In fact I know he hasn’t. He’s the kind of man who only cares about himself.’
‘Don’t be so mean.’ Olive frowned. ‘Well, I like him whatever you say. And maybe one day when I’m grown up he’ll care about me too.’
Clarrie snorted. ‘Don’t let Father hear you.’
‘Why ever not? Father likes him. He was so enjoying their chat about fishing, he didn’t even think to go out to meet you.’
As Clarrie realised her mistake, she felt the blood rush to her cheeks. ‘Oh, you mean Harry Wilson!’
‘Of course,’ Olive said, giving her a sharp look. ‘Who do you think I meant?’
Clarrie turned away and busied herself undressing. ‘I was just being silly. I’m glad you like him. He’s very friendly.’
Olive brightened. ‘Can we ask him to stay for dinner?’
Clarrie’s heart sank. ‘If you want,’ she agreed.
To her surprise, their visitors readily accepted the invitation to dinner, despite her half-hearted delivery and Jock’s scowl of disapproval. While Harry and Wesley went off to fish below a nearby waterfall Clarrie reminded her father, ‘You’re always telling us how Northumbrians never send strangers from their hearth unfed. Besides, you and Mr Wilson were getting on like a house on fire.’
‘It’s not Mr Wilson I object to, ‘Jock blustered, and retreated bad-temperedly to his study. With a sigh of resignation Clarrie went to discuss the menu with Kamal.
‘Has Ama returned?’ she asked. Kamal shook his head. She scrutinised his face. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’
Kamal blew out his cheeks in a long sigh. ‘The servants talk.’ He shrugged.
‘And?’
‘They say her youngest son is very sick. She is nursing him.’
‘What is wrong with him?’ Clarrie asked in concern.
Kamal spoke very low. ‘First it is malaria, now dysentery.’
‘Malaria?’ Clarrie was puzzled. ‘But we don’t get that in the hills.’ The look on Kamal’s face made her suspicious. ‘Has he been working up the valley for our rivals?’
Kamal nodded, looking round fearfully. ‘This you must not say, Miss Clarissa.’
Clarrie’s heart thumped. ‘He’s broken his contract, hasn’t he? He’s run away.’ Kamal nodded again. She seized his arm. ‘Which estate? Please don’t tell me he’s on the run from the Oxford?’
‘Yes,’ he mouthed.
‘Heaven help us.’ Clarrie shuddered. ‘We have a fugitive from the Robsons’ tea gardens in the village and their head recruiter coming for dinner!’
Kamal put his finger to his lips to silence her. Clarrie shook her head in disbelief. ‘I must go to Ama — see if I can help.’
Kamal looked appalled. ‘No, Miss Clarissa, you are making ten times worse. Your father will ask questions. He will be very upset at Ama’s son going to work for big tea men. Then Robson sahib will find out and all hell is breaking loose.’
Clarrie hesitated. ‘The last thing I want is to make trouble for Ama or see Wesley Robson dragging her son away.’
Kamal nodded. ‘You must rest. You are still with bad head.’
Clarrie gave in. ‘Will you send some medicine down to Ama?’
Kamal agreed and Clarrie retreated to her bedroom to lie down. Olive came looking for her.
‘Do you want me to read to you?’ she asked.
Clarrie smiled. ‘That would be nice.’
Olive chose a novel by Thomas Hardy from the bookcase their father had made for them and began to read. Her voice was clear and her reading fluent. Clarrie marvelled that her sister, largely self-taught, should be so accomplished in the arts. She was a talented painter too. Their mother had tutored them as small girls, but Olive had only been seven when their mother was killed. Clarrie had continued to teach her maths and both she and Ama had instructed her in sewing, dressmaking and cooking. But it was Jock who shared with her a love of reading and encouraged her musical and artistic ability. He had played the fiddle in his youth, and by the time she was ten Olive was playing his old violin as well as he. Jock’s interest had waned in recent years, but Clarrie was determined that the housekeeping would stretch to pay for Olive’s fortnightly lessons with a teacher from Shillong.
Clarrie fell asleep to her sister’s rhythmic voice and only awoke when the sun had dipped behind the hill and the jungle was coming alive with evening noises. Feeling much better, she got up and swiftly dressed in her best dress, a hand-me-down of her mother’s, of peach-coloured silk and creamy lace. She carefully brushed out her hair and arranged it in loose coils to cover her grazed temple. As she made ready, thoughts of Wesley kept coming to mind. Perhaps she had been too hasty in judging him. He was new to India and still finding his feet.
It began to dawn on her that Wesley might be useful to them. He was already making a name for himself in the tea trade and he had powerful backers. Why not turn his presence here to their advantage? She hurried to the kitchen, but Kamal chased her out.
‘See to your guests, Miss Clarissa. All is in hand.’
From the sound of it, their visitors were on the veranda and Olive had been persuaded to play for them. Hovering for a moment in the shadows, Clarrie felt a swell of emotion at the soaring music and the sight of her sister’s inten
se, impassioned face as she played. Olive was never happier than when consumed by music or absorbed in front of an easel. Clarrie felt a wave of protectiveness. She must ensure her sister’s talents were nurtured. They must turn round the fortunes of the tea garden so her future could be assured. They needed an injection of capital to see them through the lean time before the new trees fully matured. A financial backer. She observed Wesley, relaxing in his chair, apparently deep in thought. They needed the sort of money that the Robsons and people like them could provide. Persuading Wesley might be difficult, and convincing her father to co-operate would be harder still, but she must try. She would start by being nicer to Wesley Robson.
As Olive finished playing and the men clapped, Clarrie took a deep breath and stepped into the lamplight. Harry sprang to his feet.
‘Miss Belhaven, you look delightful. Feeling better, I hope?’
She smiled. ‘Much better, thank you.’
Wesley was staring at her in surprise, as if he were seeing her for the first time. Belatedly he stood up and pulled out the chair next to his.
‘Would you like to sit down?’
She nodded in acceptance and took the seat he offered.
‘Were you successful at the fishing?’ she asked.
Harry launched at once into a long story about the waterfall, the clarity of the river pools and the size of the fish. All the time, Clarrie was aware of Wesley watching her, the quizzical rise of his scarred eyebrow no indicator of what he was really thinking. He must be wary of her since their clash that morning when she had accused him of being arrogant and implied he was no friend of the Belhavens. Somehow she must put him at his ease if her plan to extract a loan were to succeed.
When Harry finally paused for breath, Clarrie turned to Wesley and smiled. ‘Mr Robson, I hope you are as enamoured with our Khassia hills as your friend?’
He searched her face, his look suspicious, as if he thought she was trying to trick him.
‘I like them very much,’ he said. ‘They have a wild beauty that I’ve not found elsewhere in Assam.’
She flicked him a look in return, but he seemed quite serious.
‘Perhaps tomorrow you would like to see round our estate? The gardens are flourishing and we produce a very delicate superior tea. Isn’t that right, Father?’
Jock frowned. ‘Don’t want the opposition learning all our secrets, eh?’
‘Not the opposition,’ Clarrie said quickly, ‘a fellow tea planter.’
Wesley regarded her keenly, unable to hide his surprise at her defence of him.
‘After all,’ she continued, ‘we need each other to prosper. There’s room for us all in the marketplace, surely?’
Wesley finally smiled. ‘You are quite right, Miss Belhaven; none of us can survive on our own. And I’d be delighted if you’d show me round.’
‘No,’ Jock snapped. ‘I’ll do the showing.’
There was an awkward pause. Clarrie changed tack, asking Wesley about life up the valley. Work hard, play hard, seemed to be his motto. He put in long hours learning the trade and took his enjoyment at the occasional race meetings in Tezpur or on hunting trips.
‘Wesley’s not the sort of man to while away his evenings playing cards at the club,’ Harry interjected. ‘Can’t sit still long enough.’
Kamal announced that dinner was served and Clarrie led them into the seldom-used dining room. Its cold mustiness was kept at bay by a crackling fire and the damp stains on the wall were muted in the pretty candlelight. There was no shortage of conversation with the talkative Harry at table, and Clarrie made him laugh with anecdotes about the residents of Shillong. Olive became unusually animated too. Clarrie made sure her father was included as much as possible to keep him in good humour. So far, he was not drinking to excess and seemed stimulated by the rare company. To Clarrie’s relief, Wesley was helping by deferring to her father’s greater knowledge of Assam and asking him questions about everything from species of bamboo to variations in soil. Jock was flattered, and began to thaw towards the younger man.
The dinner was going so well that Clarrie decided to steer the conversation back towards tea growing again.
‘What developments are there on the Oxford Estates?’ she asked their guest.
Wesley waxed enthusiastic about mechanisation and the vast new machines they were installing for drying and rolling the leaves.
‘It’s the way forward,’ he declared. ‘Economies of scale and mass production.’
‘But there will always be a demand for the more delicate flavour of tea,’ Clarrie countered, ‘that is grown at higher altitude and picked early in the season.’
Wesley shrugged. ‘Maybe — if the estate is well run. But so many of the smaller ones have gone to the wall because they are just too costly and their practices are inefficient.’
‘Such as?’ Jock frowned.
‘The system of labour,’ Wesley said. ‘You need workers on the spot, all year round, not coming and going with the seasons when it pleases them or when the harvest is bad.’
Clarrie tensed as her father bristled in reply, ‘A happy worker is an efficient worker, I find. Our pickers live in the villages and go home every night to their families as they should.’
‘So do ours,’ Wesley pointed out. ‘They just live on the estates where we can utilise their time better.’
‘Like cogs in a machine.’ Jock was scathing.
‘It’s hard work, but they are treated fairly. Many of them come from far worse places where they stand no chance of making a living.’
Clarrie, thinking suddenly of Ama’s sick son, could not help asking, ‘If life is so good for them, why do you have to force them into binding contracts to make them stay?’
Wesley gave her a sharp look. ‘No one is forced to stay, but the system breaks down if you allow coolies to come and go as they wish. It doesn’t happen in any other industry, so why should it in tea?’
‘Even if they contract malaria and don’t get treated?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You sound as if you are talking about someone in particular.’
‘No.’ Clarrie flushed. ‘It was a general observation.’
‘We have doctors who look after the health of the coolies and their families,’ Wesley said. ‘You must be ill-informed.’
Jock thumped the table. ‘My daughter is very well informed. She knows more about tea than you ever will.’ His indignation grew. ‘And don’t you dare blame the small gardens for the slump in tea prices. It’s not our inefficiency — it’s large estates like yours that got greedy and overplanted. You grow too much inferior tea. And using all these new-fangled machines and running gardens like factories will only make things worse. You might know all about boilers and farm ploughs, young Robson, but tea’s a different matter. It can’t be regimented.’
‘But it can!’ Wesley was equally animated. ‘That’s where you’re wrong.’
‘Perhaps there’s room for both methods,’ Clarrie suggested, trying to defuse the heated exchange and cursing herself for having challenged the young planter.
‘No, there is not!’ Jock and Wesley spoke at once.
Harry gave a false laugh, uncomfortable with the mounting disagreement. He blustered, ‘I say, Miss Belhaven, you do seem to know a lot about the tea trade for a young girl. Best to leave these things to the men, don’t you think? Perhaps while the chaps are looking round the estate tomorrow, you and your sister would like to watch me fishing instead?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Olive said at once. ‘Wouldn’t that be lovely, Clarrie? I could take my sketchbook.’
‘You’re an artist as well?’ Harry cried, seizing on a change in topic.
‘A very good one,’ Clarrie said, smothering her annoyance at the soldier’s belittling remarks to her. ‘You could take your easel and paints, too.’
Olive’s face lit up. ‘Yes, please.’
‘That’s settled then.’ Harry beamed.
Soon after, Clarrie and Olive withdrew to let the
men smoke. Clarrie coaxed her sister to bed by promising that they would get up early to join Mr Wilson at the waterfall. She sat on the veranda listening to the muffled argument coming from the dining room. Her father and Wesley were still disagreeing about tea production. Clarrie felt utterly weary. It had been a foolish notion to think she could win either of the stubborn men round. They were too alike.
Half an hour later the guests emerged and took their leave.
‘I think your father’s a little tired,’ Harry said. ‘He’s gone to his study.’
Clarrie nodded. Harry thanked her for dinner and bowed in farewell. Wesley gave her one of his bold assessing looks. Clarrie suspected he was as unsure of her as she was of him. She held out her hand and he took it as if to shake it, then changed his mind. He raised it to his lips and brushed her skin with a kiss. Her eyes widened and excitement surged through her at the contact. Wesley watched her, his dark brows rising quizzically as if he had felt the change in her. He held on to her hand for longer than was polite. Clarrie did not pull away.
Harry cleared his throat. ‘Come on then, Robson, old man.’
‘Thank you for such a pleasant evening,’ Wesley murmured and let go of her hand.
Clarrie felt a ridiculous disappointment at his going. ‘It was a pleasure,’ she answered.
He gave her a sceptical smile, as if he thought she was mocking him. ‘I’ll look forward to tomorrow with interest.’ He turned to go.
‘Mr Robson.’ Clarrie stopped him. ‘A word of warning about my father. He knows a great deal about India and tea. Please listen to him. He is a proud man, but if you gain his respect I know he will listen to you too.’
Wesley looked about to argue, then held himself in check. With a brief nod he turned away.
Then the two men were clattering down the steps and calling for their horses. She watched them mount and trot away through the gate behind the torchlight of their bearers. For several minutes she observed their progress through the trees by the glow of the flames. Then they rounded the hillside and were gone.
CHAPTER 3
Clarrie woke in the early hours, worried about Ama and her son. Her head throbbed again from the pain of the blow the previous day, but she ignored it and tiptoed out of the room. Ten minutes later, she was slipping into the compound of Ama’s house and ducking beneath the low thatched roof, calling for her old nurse.
THE TEA PLANTER'S DAUGHTER:A wonderfully moving story of courage and enduring love: First in the India Tea Series Page 3
