Although Louisa refused to leave her bedroom when the Landsdownes came, Clarrie and Olive brought in extra chairs and made the room pretty with flowers so that she could receive her guests for a short while. The Stocks and the Landsdownes sat around the room with Louisa propped up in bed looking strained at all the attention. When Clarrie served out afternoon tea, ruddy-faced Mr Landsdowne astonished her.
‘You must be the one whose father owned a tea garden in Assam?’
Clarrie gawped at him. ‘Y-yes, sir.’
‘We have connections in tea,’ he said grandly, ‘my wife’s family. Young Bertie was interested in your background when you were offered your position. We were able to help.’ He smiled as he said it, but his eyes were cold like Verity’s. Clarrie’s insides clenched. What had been said about them? That her father had died of drink and in debt? That she and Olive had an Indian grandmother? Was that why Verity made disparaging remarks about coolies within earshot?
‘Of course, my wife’s relations are not just involved in tea,’ Verity’s father went on. He had the strange knack of addressing his comments to the Stocks but for Clarrie’s benefit. ‘Like all successful businessmen they have diversified over the years. Perhaps you know them; the Robsons?’
Clarrie banged down the teapot in shock, spilling drops on to the tray. Verity gave her a sharp look.
‘Do be careful,’ she snapped.
Clarrie went hot.
‘Yes, I know of them,’ Herbert answered. ‘Made their money in farm equipment and boilermaking, didn’t they?’
‘Yes, and now they’re doing tremendously well in tea,’ Mr Landsdowne said with a satisfied nod, ‘not just as growers but as importers and retailers. Making money hand over fist if James is to be believed.’ He smiled at Louisa. ‘James Robson is my wife’s second cousin. Your housekeeper must have come across him in India.’
Louisa’s face tensed further as if the effort to entertain them was all too much.
‘No, sir, I didn’t,’ Clarrie answered quickly, watching her mistress with concern.
‘Well, his nephew Wesley, perhaps?’
Clarrie’s heart thumped. She swallowed hard, busying herself mopping up the spillage on the tray. All she wanted was to get out of the room and away from these people.
‘He’s done very well for such a young man,’ Mr Landsdowne continued, turning to Herbert. ‘At twenty-six he’s been to plantations all over India and Ceylon, and now he’s a tea broker in London. Knows everything there is to know about tea, so they say.’
‘Is that so?’ Herbert replied with a nod of admiration. ‘A quick learner.’
Clarrie’s annoyance flared. ‘It takes many years to really know about tea,’ she said. ‘Year in year out; planting it, nurturing it through good seasons and bad — till it’s in your blood.’
They all stared at her. She picked up the tea tray, blushing. How stupid of her to be provoked simply by hearing Wesley’s hateful name.
Mr Landsdowne gave her a frosty glare as she hurried out, mumbling about making a fresh pot. Through the open door, she heard Verity say, ‘It’s a bit rich being lectured by the daughter of a failed tea planter, Papa.’
Clarrie froze beyond the door, unable to stop herself listening to more.
Her father snorted. ‘Yes, my dear, it is. Especially when the Robsons are going from strength to strength.’
Bertie joined in. ‘I’m sorry she was so outspoken. I’ll have a word with her.’
‘Come, come, gentlemen,’ Herbert chided, ‘the girl was merely speaking up for her father. She’s to be pitied for her straitened circumstances.’
Verity’s father grunted. ‘Belhaven was always a failure in business from what I hear and always hankering to rise above his station. Had a grudge against the Robsons all his life because they were more successful. Keep an eye on his daughters, that’s all I say.’
‘Don’t worry, Papa, Bertie knows how to handle servants,’ Verity said sweetly, ‘and so do I.’
Clarrie fled downstairs, furious at their contempt for her father and their condescension towards her and Olive. She felt like ripping off her starched apron and cuffs and marching out. No one spoke to a Belhaven like that! She banged around the kitchen, refilling the teapot, hot water jug and milk, muttering furiously.
A hinge squeaked behind her and she jumped round guiltily. The pantry door opened and Will peered out.
‘Is it safe to come out?’ he whispered.
Clarrie gasped. ‘They’ve been looking for you! You’ve got to go and say hello to the Landsdownes.’
He rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘I don’t want to. They’re boring and Verity doesn’t like me. She’s always telling me to run along and leave her and Bertie alone.’
‘Well, we all have to do things we don’t want to.’ Clarrie was short with him.
He eyed her more closely. ‘You’re all red in the face. Have you been crying?’
‘No!’
Will plunged his hands into his pockets and sighed. ‘You know Verity and Bertie are going to get married?’
Clarrie looked at his forlorn face and felt her heart melt.
‘Does it matter, as long as it keeps Bertie happy?’
Will looked perplexed. ‘But why her? She doesn’t even play backgammon.’
Clarrie snorted with sudden laughter. She swung an arm round him. ‘Oh, Will, you’re a grand lad. Don’t ever change.’
He put his arms round her waist and hugged her in return. ‘I suppose if Bertie’s happy, he might not bother telling us off quite so much.’
‘That’s right,’ Clarrie agreed, ‘either that or they’ll both come after us.’ She kissed the top of his head. ‘Come on, we’ll face them together; the Two Musketeers.’
With Will beside her, Clarrie returned upstairs with a proud lift of her Belhaven chin.
CHAPTER 13
‘Miss Landsdowne wants a December wedding,’ Clarrie told her friend Rachel when they met in the Empire Tea Rooms in town. It was their favourite haunt; a high-ceilinged cafe with stained glass windows, fresh flowers on crisp linen tablecloths and screens of potted palms giving privacy to customers who wanted it. Olive sat beside them doodling patterns in a notebook. ‘She’s forever coming round to talk about arrangements — Mrs Stock’s worn out already.’
‘Where are they going to live when they’re married?’ Rachel asked, pouring out a second cup for them both.
Clarrie grimaced. ‘At Summerhill to start with. That’s another thing; Miss Landsdowne wants to rearrange the whole of the second floor as an apartment for her and Mr Bertie. He says he has to be near the office and she likes being in town. The Landsdownes are giving them a house on their country estate for weekends.’
Rachel rolled her eyes. ‘All right for some. Me and Bob had one room in a cottage and thought ourselves lucky.’
‘I don’t know where poor Will’s supposed to go,’ Clarrie said. ‘Upstairs in the attic if that Verity gets her way.’
‘He’s a nice lad,’ Rachel sighed. ‘Bob wanted a son. Just as well we didn’t, as it turned out. How would I have kept a lad with Bob gone?’
Clarrie saw the tears brimming in her friend’s eyes and reached out a hand. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t be chattering on about weddings.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘I don’t mind. I like you chattering on.’ She blew her nose on a starched handkerchief. ‘And I’m glad of the company. I’d never come in here on my own.’
Clarrie smiled. ‘I’m glad too.’ She turned to her sister. ‘Let’s see what you’ve done.’
‘It’s not any good,’ Olive said, reluctantly handing over the notebook. It was a bold design of interwoven birds and flowers that seemed to jump off the page.
‘It’s very good,’ Clarrie contradicted her, and showed it to Rachel.
Rachel nodded. ‘You’re such a clever lass. Where do you get your ideas from?’
Olive shrugged. ‘They’re just there in my head.’
The exuberant style reminde
d Clarrie of the lush natural beauty of Belgooree, but she did not say so. Olive became easily upset at any mention of their life in India; it was like opening up a raw wound.
‘Well, it’s better than most of the things hanging on the walls at Number Six,’ Rachel said. ‘The master likes maps and boats — dull as anything. You should paint this in bright colours, Olive.’
The girl blushed with pleasure.
‘You’re right,’ Clarrie agreed. ‘I just wish I had the money to buy her a proper set of paints.’
‘I used to have paints and brushes and an easel,’ Olive said reproachfully.
‘And you will again,’ Clarrie said, ‘when we’re not handing over most of our wages to the Belhavens. Just be patient.’
‘Be patient?’ Olive scowled, snatching back the notebook. ‘That’s all you ever say.’
Clarrie did not want to have an argument in front of her friend. She shared Olive’s frustration, though she wished her sister could be less temperamental. Olive proceeded to sigh and drum her pencil on the notebook in a clear indication that she was bored and wanted to leave.
Clarrie tried to ignore her. These rare moments of luxury — of sitting down and being served by others, of talking to Rachel and eavesdropping on the middle classes of Newcastle — were what got her through the long week. There were a group of women having a meeting in an alcove discussing a local by-election. At the next table, four friends were working their way through three tiers of sandwiches and cakes while talking about their children. In the corner was a couple who had come in separately; Clarrie suspected it was a clandestine meeting.
Reluctantly, she finished her last drop of tea. ‘Come on,’ she said with an apologetic look at Rachel, ‘we’ll have a wander in the sunshine.’
The warm weather continued on into September. ‘An Indian summer’, Herbert called it. Thoughts of sitting on the veranda at Belgooree gave Clarrie the idea of encouraging Louisa out of bed to sit by the open balcony window and view the garden in the mild air. Her mistress was growing painfully thin. It was much easier for Olive and her to lift Louisa now her legs were wasted from lack of use.
Louisa sat sighing by the window, but seemed content enough to be left there. Her face would light up at the sight of a lanky Will racing home from school and waving to her from across the square. His legs were suddenly longer and more gangling since the summer holidays, and he would bound upstairs and plonk himself at his mother’s feet to chatter.
One time, when Verity was trying to interest Louisa in the refurbishment of the second floor rooms, Will clattered in and knocked over a pile of material samples. Clarrie, who was serving tea, hurried to pick them up.
Verity tried to hide her exasperation with false laughter. ‘What a clumsy boy you are!’
‘Sorry,’ Will said, rushing to kiss his mother, then proceeded to ignore his future sister-in-law. ‘Look, Mama, my first conker!’ He pulled out a shiny nut from the pocket of his shorts. ‘Clarrie can help me string it.’
‘Aren’t you a little old for conker fights?’ Verity asked. ‘You’re nearly thirteen. Clive was boxing by your age — doing men’s sports.’
Louisa put a protective hand on her son’s fair hair. ‘He’s still young,’ she said fondly. ‘Plenty of time for manly things later.’
It was shortly after this that Clarrie overheard Bertie suggesting to his father that Will be sent to boarding school.
‘He needs toughening up, Papa. And he’s spending far too much time with the servants. The boy’s got no manners. He can be quite rude to Verity,’ he complained.
Herbert let go an impatient breath. ‘I’m the first to admit the boy can try one’s patience, but I wouldn’t want to send him away. Besides, your mother would never allow it. Verity will get used to him in time.’
The weather turned suddenly chill and autumnal, and Louisa retreated back to bed. No more mention was made of boarding school as Verity threw herself into elaborate preparations for the wedding. The couple were to be married in St Nicholas’s Cathedral with a reception and ball at the Assembly Rooms the week before Christmas. Half of Newcastle seemed to be invited. Clarrie knew she was in for a hectic time, for Bertie wished to host a large reception the evening before the wedding and offer accommodation to relations travelling from Yorkshire.
It was Will who aroused her concern over Louisa.
‘Mama’s got a funny cough,’ he told her, ‘and she hasn’t touched her supper again.’
Louisa ate so little that her abstinence had not struck Clarrie as odd, and anyway it was often Olive who went to and fro with her meals. Clarrie had been so busy of late with Verity’s demands that she had spent little time with her mistress, other than to give her the regular bed bath. For the past two days, Louisa had refused to be washed or even touched, and whenever Clarrie had looked in she had been asleep. Why had she not taken more notice? Clarrie thought with a stab of guilt.
Bertie and Verity were out at the theatre, and Clarrie hurried to Louisa’s room to find her mistress flushed and glassy-eyed, her breathing wheezy. When Clarrie put her hand to her forehead, she whimpered, ‘Leave me alone! Please leave me.’
‘You’re burning hot, ma’am,’ Clarrie said in concern.
Louisa began a painful coughing.
‘I’m going to fetch the doctor,’ Clarrie said at once.
‘No,’ Louisa gasped between coughs, ‘no — more — doctors.’
Clarrie attempted to prop her up to ease her coughing, but she winced and shivered as if Clarrie had touched her with fingers of ice. In a panic, Clarrie went in search of Herbert and found him working in his study. The look of fear on her face brought him to his feet.
‘Whatever’s wrong?’
‘It’s Mrs Stock — she’s not at all well. I think she’s got a fever.’
‘Fever?’ Herbert repeated. ‘But I saw her this morning—’
Clarrie interrupted. ‘She’s hot as a fire and she hasn’t been eating these past couple of days — just sleeping.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ he asked her sharply.
‘I’m sorry.’ Clarrie flushed. ‘I think we should call out the doctor, sir.’
‘I’ll go myself,’ Herbert snapped.
Clarrie shook her head. ‘Let me, so you can go and sit with her.’
He nodded and went, leaving his work scattered across his desk.
When Clarrie returned with the doctor and showed him upstairs, Will was sitting anxiously on the bed while Herbert stood by the fire with his hands clasped behind his back. When the doctor entered Herbert chased his son from the room and Will took refuge with Clarrie downstairs.
‘Perhaps Olive could read to her,’ the boy suggested, ‘or I could play her a tune. Do you think that would help?’
‘I’m sure it would, but maybe tomorrow when she’s had a night’s sleep. Why don’t you go and find Olive — do some practising?’
Will seized on the chance to do something and ran off to look for Olive. Then the bell in the study rang for her and Clarrie hurried upstairs. The doctor was taking a quick nightcap with Herbert. Bertie had returned and was swigging back a large whisky.
‘Mrs Stock has caught a chill,’ the doctor told her.
‘It’s hardly surprising,’ Bertie said loudly. ‘Belhaven here has had my dear mother sitting for hours in front of a draughty window, as if we lived in the tropics.’
‘Surely that’s not the cause?’ Clarrie said in consternation.
The doctor held up his hand as if it was fruitless to cast blame. ‘I’ve prescribed medicine and a vapour rub. Her temperature is higher than it should be. You need to bathe her with a lukewarm cloth through the night to keep her cool. Try to get her to drink something if you can.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘I’ll return tomorrow,’ he assured Herbert, with a pat on the shoulder. ‘By then the worst may have passed.’
Clarrie was prepared to sit up through the night with Louisa, stung by Bertie’s harsh accusati
on, but at midnight Herbert sent her to bed.
‘I’ll stay with her,’ he said with a grim look. ‘I can’t sleep tonight.’
Clarrie stood up, exhausted but anxious, not wanting to leave. Louisa was fretful, her eyes closed. She moaned and turned her head as if in discomfort, yet did not respond to any of their questions.
As Clarrie left, she said, ‘Ring for me if you need me, sir — whatever the time.’
Herbert nodded but his gaze never left his wife.
Clarrie made up a bed on the floor of the housekeeper’s sitting room in case he should call, then lay down fully clothed. At three in the morning, as she was drifting off to sleep, she came wide awake at the sound of someone padding into the room.
‘There you are!’ Will whispered, clutching his violin case. ‘I thought you were with Mama, but I went in and Papa told me to get out. He says I’ll only make her worse. But I can’t sleep. Can I stay here? Please.’
‘Course you can.’ Clarrie did not hesitate, even at the thought of what an irate Bertie might say. She got up and wrapped a blanket round Will’s shaking shoulders. ‘Curl up in the chair; I’ll make us a hot drink.’
She boiled up some hot milk and stoked up the fire. Together they sipped and talked quietly about trivial everyday things. Eventually, Will yawned and grew drowsy. By the time Clarrie had taken their cups to the sink and rinsed them, the boy was fast asleep. She dowsed her face in cold water and went upstairs with a fresh pot of tea.
Herbert had gone to sleep with his arms splayed across the bed. As soon as Clarrie approached, she heard the change in Louisa’s breathing. It rattled and rasped in her throat like pebbles in a fast-flowing stream. Clarrie gasped and banged down the tray. She had heard that sound before — in her dying father.
Herbert woke up with a start.
THE TEA PLANTER'S DAUGHTER:A wonderfully moving story of courage and enduring love: First in the India Tea Series Page 16
