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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  But her greatest concern was for her father. Since Wesley’s disruptive appearance, he had sunk back into a deep depression as if he no longer believed in any future for Belgooree. Clarrie cursed the young planter for having sown such doubts in her father’s already troubled mind. She tried to jolly him along, but he preferred to shut himself into his study and drink himself senseless.

  It was at times like these that Clarrie wondered whether she had been wise to dismiss Wesley’s help, however critical and begrudging. Perhaps the only chance of survival would be to submit to the demands of a larger estate and agree to whatever terms they cared to offer. For Wesley’s prediction that they were facing ruin was becoming closer to reality with each passing day.

  In desperation, she tried to raise the issue with Jock, but he was so horrified at her even contemplating doing a deal with the Robsons that Clarrie quickly backed down.

  ‘Lass, you don’t know what they’re like,’ he railed. ‘They’re ruthless, quite ruthless! They might win you round with promises, but they won’t keep them. Robsons aren’t happy until they’ve taken every last penny from you.’ His glassy eyes stared at her in fear. ‘Me grandfather and father were ruined by them and left without a business to pass on to me. The choice was go and work for Cousin Jared in his grim little public house in Newcastle or join the army.’ He broke out in a sweat of agitation. ‘I’ve done it all myself; a lifetime of hard work and saving. Belgooree is mine. I’ll be damned if I’ll let them take everything away a second time!’

  ‘They won’t, Father,’ Clarrie said, trying to calm him, ‘of course they won’t. We’ll find another way to keep going.’

  If Clarrie’s feelings towards Wesley had been softening, things changed abruptly the following week. Ama came rushing to find her in the gardens, distraught and weeping.

  ‘He’s gone! They’ve taken him!’ she wailed. ‘They’ve stolen him back. My dearest boy!’

  ‘Not Ramsha?’ Clarrie gasped.

  ‘Yes, my Ramsha.’ Ama collapsed into Clarrie’s arms.

  Clarrie hurried back to the compound with her, trying to comfort the old nurse. Sitting on the veranda steps, reviving her with sips of lemon water, Clarrie heard how three thugs had come barging into her house and hauled her sickly son away.

  ‘Are you sure they were from the Oxford?’

  Ama nodded. ‘They say they must make an example of him, or others will run away too. I tried to stop them. But they came when the men were out on the hill with the cattle. They pushed me over and kicked earth into the fire. All the time they are beating Ramsha with a big stick. Now I don’t know if I will ever see my sweet boy again—’ She broke off, sobbing.

  Clarrie held her close. This was Wesley’s doing. Impetuously, she had challenged him about his treatment of his workers and made him suspicious. He had followed her the next morning with the sole intention of discovering the runaway; she was sure of it. His talk about seeing the sunrise and riding with her had just been a cover. How foolish she had been not to realise. She felt a wave of shame and anger. She had led Wesley to Ramsha and was responsible for his capture. She would never forgive herself.

  Clarrie took Ama inside, and she and Kamal tried to console her with tea and sweetmeats. But Ama would not stay and be comforted. She returned to the village and went into mourning for her lost son as if he had died.

  As their situation worsened, Clarrie tried her best to protect Olive from the truth. For her sister’s fourteenth birthday, she agreed to take her into Shillong and sent word to Harry of their trip. First, they visited the nuns at the mission where their mother had taught, and then Harry treated them to tea at the Pinewood Hotel and paid Olive compliments about the sketches that she showed him.

  ‘You’re terrific at birds,’ he enthused. ‘So much detail.’

  Olive was thrilled and gave him several drawings to keep. As they were leaving, Harry took Clarrie by the elbow and asked her bashfully if she had heard from Wesley.

  ‘No,’ she answered shortly, ‘nor do I wish to. Why do you ask?’

  He blushed. ‘Well, I know you had a disagreement over your father, but I rather had the impression that Robson was sweet on you.’

  Clarrie snorted. ‘I think you’re mistaken. Mr Robson cares only for himself and his own advancement, as far as I can see.’ She saw his embarrassment and quickly added, ‘I’m sorry, I know he’s your friend, but Mr Robson and I are incompatible.’

  Harry brightened. ‘Then you wouldn’t mind if I — er — called on you when I next get a spot of leave?’

  Clarrie gawped at him. She had only encouraged contact with the young officer to keep Olive happy. She felt no attraction towards him herself. Glancing over to her sister, she answered cautiously, ‘Olive and I would be pleased to see you. You’ve been very kind to encourage her art and she values your friendship.’

  He gave her a baffled look but nodded and shook her hand warmly. Rejoining Kamal, who was waiting for them outside, Olive pinched her sister on the arm.

  ‘What was he saying to you?’ she said petulantly. ‘He’s my friend. You’re trying to take him off me. It’s not fair!’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Clarrie said. ‘I’ve no interest in Mr Wilson. I only did this for your sake.’

  ‘He wants to see you again, doesn’t he?’ Olive pouted. ‘He’s only pretending to like my pictures to please you.’

  ‘He likes them because they’re very good,’ Clarrie reassured her. ‘I promise you I have no intention of encouraging Mr Wilson in any way other than as a friend of yours.’

  This seemed to mollify Olive, but over the next couple of weeks Clarrie received amorous letters from the subaltern that she quickly threw on the fire and did not answer. She assumed he was lonely stuck in a remote barracks and that she was probably the only eligible young woman he had met so far. His interest would wane as soon as he found someone more suitable or when he had heard enough derogatory remarks about the Belhavens to put him off.

  Local speculation about when the monsoon would finally come grew to fever pitch. The second plucking of the tea bushes had been as fruitless as the first. Clarrie oversaw the process of withering, rolling and fermenting the tea with mounting alarm. Once the blackened leaves were dried and sorted, there was hardly enough to fill two chests.

  When the agent came he took one look at their Orange Pekoe and declared it was greatly inferior to last season’s. He left without buying any of it. Clarrie rode out to the remote hilltop where the hermit lived and wept bitterly. She could see no way out of their problems.

  All at once, the swami appeared, leaning his wizened frame on his long staff as he gazed at her with rheumy eyes. She brushed at her tears and made a greeting with palms together and head bowed.

  He smiled and spoke to her gently in Hindi. She understood little of what he said, but was comforted by the compassion in his voice. He squatted down beside her and began to sing: a thin high-pitched sound that filled the clearing like birdsong. When he finished, they sat in silence and a strange peace descended on her. She must not lose hope, the swami was telling her; she had a path to follow and she must take it and trust that all would be well.

  As Clarrie stood up to go, the old man got nimbly to his feet and held up his hand in a blessing. She drew out of her pocket the pouch of tea and sugar that she always left on his doorstep and handed it to him. They smiled at each other in thanks and she went on her way fortified by the encounter.

  A few days later, she saw the first black clouds amassing on the far horizon.

  ‘The rains!’ she cried out in sheer relief. ‘The rains, the beautiful rains!’

  Later that day, the sky grew as dark as dusk and the first heavy drops spattered the roof of the house. Soon the rain swept in like a heavy curtain of water, drenching everything in its path. Clarrie and Olive rushed out into the courtyard with Kamal and they danced around in the mud, shrieking and laughing like children. Jock appeared on the leaky veranda, pale as a ghost but smiling. He turned his
face up to the rain and let it stream down his sunken cheeks.

  Stretching his arms wide, he bellowed to the heavens, ‘Belgooree!’

  Afterwards, Clarrie wondered if there had been tears mingled with rain on his emaciated face.

  The jungle blossomed in the following days, turning a luxuriant green. Trees and creepers flowered in a riot of colour: brilliant red and purple blooms shaped like parrots’ beaks, yellow pendulous blossom and the fragrant white flowers of the bokul tree. The house almost disappeared under an abundance of honeysuckle and jasmine. Clarrie’s favourite was the hibiscus that grew by the gateway, which bloomed white in the morning and turned a deep red by night.

  For a week or two, the coming of the monsoon renewed her optimism and Jock’s spirits rallied too. But the relief was short-lived. The rains had come too late for the delicate buds of the tea trees and anything they plucked now would be coarse and inferior in comparison. The leaves were so wet that drying them became more onerous, using up large quantities of charcoal. They would have little to offer their workers this season except pruning and weeding. Their finances could not improve until the following year at the earliest.

  Rumours about their parlous situation must have started to spread, for letters began to arrive from creditors in Calcutta. A bank loan needed repaying, a tailor wanted a long-standing account settled and an exporter was owed money for tea chests. Jock refused to deal with them.

  ‘Let them wait,’ he said in irritation. ‘I’ll not be bullied.’

  ‘They won’t wait for ever,’ Clarrie fretted. ‘What are we ever going to pay them with?’

  Jock had no answer. Clarrie took a deep breath and suggested, ‘Perhaps it’s time we thought about selling off part of the estate — or at least renting out the house? I’m sure shooting parties might be interested.’

  He gave her a look of such desolation that Clarrie recoiled.

  ‘This is our home,’ he hissed, ‘your mother’s home. She’s buried here. How could you suggest such a thing?’

  Clarrie cried in desperation, ‘Well it won’t be our home much longer if we carry on as we are!’

  After that, Jock locked himself into the study for three days and refused to come out. Her only escape was to go on long rides with Prince. Ranging in the hills was the only time she felt a degree of calm. She would gaze down on the tea garden far below and see it as small and insignificant among the majestic mountains and forests. These mountains would still be standing when the gardens and their inhabitants were long gone. It made her think of Wesley’s comments about the Khassia hills being wild and beautiful. Had he ever returned here to hunt or fish without her knowing? If he had, he knew he was not welcome at Belgooree so would have given it a wide berth.

  In such moments, she allowed herself to contemplate going to the Robsons to beg for help. Yet she knew she could not stoop that low. They were her father’s enemies and Wesley was a callous recruiter who must have arranged for Ramsha to be dragged from his bed, beaten and hauled back to the miserable servitude of the Oxford Estates.

  On one such ride, Clarrie observed a bank of cloud amassing to the north after a hot and humid day. Flashes of lightning illuminated its blackness. A north-wester, a violent storm, was on its way. She turned for home, gripped by a strange unease. The air was sticky and oppressive. As she urged Prince on, the clouds rolled closer. They rose in an arch whose summit was like the overhanging crest of a gigantic wave about to break. All about her the sounds of the forest quietened as if nature held its breath. The air stilled to a dead calm.

  Clarrie knew then that she would not reach home before the storm broke. It must be less than a mile away and travelling fast. Eddies of wind began to whip up the leaves and dust around Prince’s trotting hooves; the temperature dropped rapidly. Quickly, she turned into the forest to take shelter. Finding a mighty babul tree, she led Prince among its raised roots and tore down some bamboo branches for a makeshift roof.

  Hunching down not a moment too soon, she gasped as a huge gust of wind burst around them in sudden fury. In minutes the bamboo shelter was ripped off and carried away, along with saplings torn from the soil. A loud clap of thunder came with vivid lightning. Prince whinnied in alarm. But the strong arms of the babul’s roots protected them and Clarrie soothed the pony with soft words and caresses. Then the torrents of heavy rain descended. There they hid, listening to the rain crashing on the dense canopy of leaves above.

  An hour later, the rain eased and Clarrie emerged, soaked but safe. Back out on the path, the air was cool and refreshing. The jungle shone an emerald green against the deep violet of the departing storm clouds. The forest floor steamed and dripped after the deluge. Clarrie breathed in its heady scent. The sense of foreboding she had felt so strongly before had passed with the storm. She picked her way home with care as Prince slipped and slithered on the pathway that was now a small stream. It was dusk by the time she reached the house.

  There was consternation at her arrival.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Olive cried, rushing out to meet her. ‘Why weren’t you here when he came? Were you hiding till he went away? Father’s in such a state.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Who’s been?’

  ‘Miss Clarissa!’ Kamal came hurrying out, holding a faded black umbrella over her head although she was already wet through. ‘Come, come in the house and getting dry.’

  He bustled her up the steps into the bungalow. Rainwater still ran off the roof into the water barrel and dripped from the creepers on to the faded outdoor furniture.

  ‘I’m fine. Just tell me what’s been happening.’

  ‘Big fireworks,’ Kamal said, his face creased in worry.

  ‘Wesley Robson’s been here,’ Olive said, her look nervous. Clarrie’s insides twisted at the name. ‘He and Father had a terrible, terrible row. You should have been here to stop them.’

  ‘I got caught in the downpour,’ Clarrie explained. ‘It wasn’t safe to ride. Why on earth did Mr Robson come here?’

  Kamal and Olive exchanged anxious looks, as if neither wanted to be the one to tell her. Kamal helped her discard her wet coat, pushed her into a chair by the fire and wrapped her in a blanket. Clarrie caught his hand.

  ‘Tell me!’

  Kamal let go a sigh and sat down. ‘Robson sahib — he hears tittle-tattle that Belgooree for sale.’

  ‘From who?’

  Kamal shook his head. ‘Maybe men in Calcutta have tongues wagging.’

  ‘So what did Mr Robson want?’

  ‘He come with offer. He say big Oxford tea gardens take Belgooree off Belhaven sahib’s hands. They pay off all debts but run Belgooree like proper tea garden.’

  ‘Proper tea garden?’ Clarrie exclaimed. ‘Of all the cheek—’

  ‘Listen, Clarrie!’ Olive begged.

  Kamal’s bearded face looked pained. ‘He say Robsons will do all running of gardens, not Belhaven sahib. And he is very much liking this place. Robson sahib wants to live here.’

  ‘Live here?’ Clarrie cried. ‘And what about us? Packed off to some dingy boarding house in Shillong, no doubt. He must know Father would never agree to leave Belgooree. The arrogance of the man!’

  ‘Mr Robson said we could stay,’ Olive said, her face tense.

  Clarrie saw her sister and Kamal exchange wary looks again, and frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘By marrying him,’ Olive blurted out. ‘If you agreed to marry Wesley Robson then we could all stay. He asked Father for your hand in marriage.’

  Clarrie gawped at them. For once she was speechless.

  ‘Robson sahib, he is saying it will save face for Belhavens,’ Kamal added. ‘He willing to save you all from gutter.’

  ‘The gutter!’ Clarrie spluttered. ‘How dare he?’

  ‘That’s what Father said,’ Olive answered. ‘He shouted all these terrible things at Mr Robson. Said he would never allow him to marry you, even if he was the last man in India. Mr Robson got angry too. He said he wa
nted to speak to you and you should have a say in all this.’ Olive began to pant as she gabbled out her words. ‘But Father said if he went anywhere near you he’d shoot him with his own revolver. Father said you hated Mr Robson as much as he did and to never come back again. He said he’d starve before he let Mr Robson take everything he loved away from him—’

  She broke off in a fit of coughing.

  ‘Raise your arms,’ Clarrie commanded, moving swiftly to rub her back and calm her. Kamal rushed to administer sips of chilled tea.

  When Olive could speak again, she asked, ‘Why does he hate Mr Robson so much?’

  ‘He doesn’t trust him,’ Clarrie answered, ‘and neither do I.’

  ‘So you won’t marry him?’

  Clarrie gave her a sharp look. ‘Of course not. It’s unthinkable.’ She grew hot at the thought. ‘Besides, he doesn’t even like me. He’s only doing it to get his hands on Belgooree.’

  ‘But why should he do that if it’s worth nothing?’ Olive asked.

  ‘It is worth something,’ Clarrie insisted. ‘It’s worth a very great deal, both as a tea garden and as a hunting ground. Oh, Mr Robson is very aware of its potential. Why do you think the Oxford Estates are so keen to get their hands on it? Robson is a ruthless businessman, first and foremost.’

  Olive looked at her in disappointment. ‘But if you married him, at least we could all stay here.’

  ‘We will stay here,’ Clarrie cried. ‘But Father has made his decision and I support him. Marrying that man is out of the question.’

  Shortly afterwards, Clarrie went to find her father. He was staring out of the study window. She put a hand on his shoulder but he hardly stirred.

  ‘Olive and Kamal told me about Mr Robson’s visit.’

  He looked at her with haunted eyes. ‘He wanted to take you away from me. Not just my land, but my beloved daughter.’

  Clarrie slipped an arm through his. ‘He could never do that.’

  ‘I told him he couldn’t have you. Was I right to say what I did?’ Jock searched her face for reassurance. Clarrie hesitated as she remembered how eagerly she had responded to Wesley’s kisses. How disloyal she felt.