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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Have you ever seen so many folk at one wedding?’ Dolly cried.

  Suddenly, Olive seized Clarrie’s arm and gave a stifled gasp. Clarrie followed her gaze. There, in the middle of a group of younger guests, escorting a tall young woman in a stylish red hat, was Wesley Robson. Clarrie’s insides somersaulted. He looked as handsome as ever, tall, debonair and immaculately dressed from his gleaming spats to his white bow tie. His dark brown hair, once close-cropped, now curled around his ears and thin sideburns framed his prominent cheekbones. His dimpled chin was still clean-shaven. She saw him lean towards his companion, lips twitching in amusement, and say something that made her laugh.

  The woman had pale blonde hair and translucent skin. She was dressed in a shimmering grey dress with long gloves that hinted at delicate hands beneath. Hands that would never cook or scrub or polish, Clarrie thought with a surge of resentment that quite took her by surprise. Why should she care whom Wesley chose as his companion? She despised him and his kind. Yet she could not stop staring. Her heart thumped and her palms felt suddenly clammy. He must not see her.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Dolly asked. ‘Looks like you’ve seen a ghost, Clarrie.’

  In shock, Clarrie pressed her hands to her mouth; she could not speak.

  ‘That man,’ Olive nodded at Wesley, ‘we used to know him.’

  Dolly looked impressed. ‘Used to work for him, did you?’

  No!’ Olive said, offended. ‘We knew him in India before we lost everything. He wanted to marry Clarrie.’

  ‘Don’t!’ Clarrie hissed.

  Dolly let out a snort of disbelief. ‘Aye, and I’m the next Queen of England!’

  ‘It’s true,’ Olive protested. ‘Tell her, Clarrie. Tell her we used to mix with the likes of Wesley Robson.’

  Clarrie shook her head. She knew there was no point in harking back to their old life for it only caused resentment when they did. Dolly might think they were trying to belittle her. They belonged to the servant class now, and it did no good to boast about a time when they did not.

  ‘I’ll call him over if you don’t believe me,’ Olive said indignantly.

  ‘Stop it!’ Clarrie ordered, taking hold of Olive. ‘I’ll not have us humiliated by Robson in front of all these people. Just imagine how he would crow over us.’

  Olive saw the fury in her eyes and fell silent. At that moment, Wesley looked around as if sensing he was being talked about. He scanned the onlookers with mild interest. For an instant, his gaze rested on Clarrie. Her breath froze in her chest. Then the woman in the red hat said something to draw his attention back and he turned away.

  Clarrie took a gulp of air, heart hammering. She felt a strange mix of relief and pique. He had not recognised her. With stupid pride she had imagined that he would pick her out immediately from a crowd, the way she had so easily seen him. But to his eyes she was just a bystander, a dowdy working woman in a serge coat and an unfashionable hat come to gawp at her superiors. At that moment, she felt a wave of humiliation far stronger than if he had stridden across the flagstones and ridiculed her for her fall in status.

  Soon after, Wesley and his group of friends moved off, strolling along Collingwood Street towards the Assembly Rooms, laughing and bantering among themselves. Clarrie felt dizzy with the shock of seeing him, her emotions all churned up. With the excitement abruptly over, Dolly was keen to get back to the house.

  ‘See if Mr Blake’s valet wants feeding,’ she smirked.

  Clarrie was reluctant and saw from her sister’s expression that the same deflated feeling gripped her too. There would be a lull in their duties during the afternoon while Herbert and the guests were out.

  ‘Let’s treat ourselves to tea and cake at the Empire,’ Clarrie suggested. ‘It’s the least we deserve.’

  The sisters set off through the Bigg Market towards Grainger Street, arm in arm. In the luxurious calm of the tea room, with its tinkle of crockery and murmur of voices, the sisters’ spirits revived.

  Out of the blue, Olive asked, ‘Are you going to marry Jack Brewis?’

  Startled, Clarrie said, ‘What ever made you think of that?’

  Olive gave her an impatient look. ‘Don’t pretend it hasn’t crossed your mind. Jack’s nice and kind and it’s obvious how much he cares for you.’

  Clarrie put down her cup a little shakily. ‘Yes, Jack’s canny, but…’

  She could not put into words the strange yearning, a longing for something else, that gripped her chest. It was ridiculous to think that one glimpse of Wesley should leave her with this feeling of dissatisfaction. It had nothing to do with him, yet she could not empty her mind of the sight of him or stop herself wondering what he was doing now. Was he sitting at a long dining table, raising his voice over the clatter of silver and china to converse with Newcastle’s high society? Would he be dancing later with the sophisticated woman in the red hat who had the languidness of the rich and leisured? Was she his wife?

  Then Clarrie realised how ridiculous were such thoughts. What did it matter? She would never be a part of the Robsons’ world; would never want to be. Jack, though, was a different matter. He was nice-looking, good company and a suitable match for a young woman with nothing but a respectable job to her name. Jack was attainable.

  ‘But what?’ Olive prompted.

  Clarrie took a deep breath. ‘But nothing.’ She smiled at her sister. ‘If Jack asks me, I’ll say yes.’

  Olive’s eyes opened wide in excitement. ‘Will you really?’

  Clarrie laughed. ‘Yes, really!’

  Olive suddenly frowned. ‘But if you marry Jack, you won’t leave me behind at Summerhill, will you? Being bossed around by Miss Landsdowne without you there would be unbearable.’

  Clarrie reached over and covered Olive’s roughened hand with hers.

  ‘No, of course I won’t,’ she assured her. ‘Whatever happens, I want us always to be together.’

  She saw the relief on her sister’s face and felt a surge of fondness and loyalty. Looking after Olive was the one thing that gave her life purpose. They would always have each other.

  ***

  Much later in the day, Herbert returned to Summerhill looking exhausted. He ordered tea to be brought up to the study. Bertie and Verity had left for a week on the south coast, waved off at the station by a raucous crowd of friends who had then gone on to dine in the city. Herbert had thankfully called it a day.

  ‘I’m afraid Tubby and the others might be rather late,’ he apologised, knowing Clarrie would have to stay up until they came in.

  ‘I don’t mind, sir,’ she told him. ‘Plenty time to rest when they’ve all gone tomorrow. It was grand to see Will looking so well. Did he get away on the four o’clock?’

  Herbert nodded and yawned. Clarrie left him, sensing he wished to be alone. When she came back to collect the tray he was sound asleep in his armchair by the hearth. She put some coal on the fire, covered him with a blanket and tiptoed out.

  The commotion in the square later that evening did not stir him. Clarrie rushed down to find a group of Bertie’s friends tripping in the front door. Tubby was at the centre of about a dozen young men smelling of drink and cigars and laughing loudly at each other’s jokes. He led them towards the drawing room in search of more whisky.

  ‘Just a nightcap before bed, eh?’ He waved at Clarrie, forgetting her name.

  ‘You’ll find the decanters in the dining room,’ she told him. ‘I’ve laid out chicken and ham sandwiches too, Mr Blake. If you’d like a hot drink …’

  ‘No, no, whisky’s what we want. Good girl,’ he said, weaving his way back across the hallway.

  ‘Sir, you’ll remember that Mr Stock doesn’t like noise after midnight on a Saturday,’ Clarrie said forthrightly.

  Tubby did an exaggerated shooshing noise with a finger pressed to his lips. ‘We’ll be ever so quiet,’ he mocked, ‘long as you come and tuck us up in bed.’

  Clarrie answered with composure. ‘Goodnight, Mr Blake.’ Sh
e left them to it and retreated downstairs, annoyed that she would have to wait up to lock the front door when the revellers who were not staying left. She had let Olive and Dolly go to bed before her. Blake’s valet was snoring in her sitting room, so Clarrie decided to go outside for a breath of night air to help her stay awake. On her way out, she wrapped herself in a shawl, pulling it over her head.

  The wind had dropped. The night was still and chilly, with a smattering of stars between the clouds. Hidden from view by the tall buildings was a bright harvest moon throwing light into the square like a gas lamp. A servant from the house opposite was putting out a crate of empty milk bottles. She waved across at Clarrie.

  Waving back, Clarrie walked over to the central garden and let herself in through the wrought-iron gate. It smelt of damp leaves. She breathed in deeply and closed her eyes. For an instant she conjured up the earthy, dank smell of the jungle. She was back in Belgooree among tall trees, listening to night sounds and smelling the wood smoke. How she yearned to stretch out her hand and feel Prince’s warm, muscled flanks, to open her eyes and see spirals of smoke drifting above the trees from village fires. A wave of longing engulfed Clarrie. So acute was her desire for her old home that she was left trembling and weak-kneed. She let out a low moan.

  ‘Are you all right?’ a deep voice asked out of the dark.

  Startled, Clarrie opened her eyes. There was no one there. Then she saw the glow of a cheroot in the darkness. There was someone sitting on the bench under the beech tree. That was how she had smelt wood smoke. A tall man stood up and moved towards her, swaying slightly, as if inebriated. She could just make out that he was wearing a tailed coat. It was probably one of Bertie’s friends who had not made it into the house.

  Only when he stepped into the moonlight did the outline of his strong-featured face become clearer. With horror, Clarrie saw that it was Wesley.

  ‘You’re upset?’ he queried.

  ‘No,’ Clarrie said, quickly pulling the shawl across her face. She wanted to turn and run but that might make him more curious. He discarded his cheroot and ground it under his shoe.

  ‘Come ‘n’ sit down.’ He gestured at the bench. Clarrie shook her head. ‘What y’doing here?’ he asked, peering closer. ‘Girl like you shouldn’t be out alone.’

  He was staring right into her eyes, the only part of her face showing. Her heart thumped hard in her chest. He leaned so close she could smell the wine on his breath, see the gleam of interest in his green eyes.

  ‘Strange,’ he murmured, ‘seeing you hidden in that shawl — it reminded me of someone. Moonlight playing tricks.’ He reached out and tugged at the shawl, trying to see her face. Clarrie gripped it hard.

  ‘Don’t sir!’ she hissed.

  ‘Those eyes,’ he said. ‘My God, it’s uncanny. Who are you? Where’ve you come from?’

  Clarrie swallowed. ‘I — I’m — me name’s Dolly, sir,’ she stammered, putting on Dolly’s accent. ‘I work round here.’

  ‘Why come in the garden?’ he asked.

  ‘No reason,’ Clarrie said, glancing away. She felt breathless under his scrutiny.

  Wesley laughed abruptly. ‘Meeting someone, were you? A secret liaison?’

  ‘No,’ Clarrie said, ‘just out for a bit fresh air — same as you.’

  He leaned close. ‘There’s something about you, Dolly.’

  Clarrie held her breath. She felt caught in his gaze. Any moment he would discover who she really was and her humiliation would be complete.

  ‘I must gan,’ she whispered, stepping away.

  ‘Wait,’ he said, catching her by the arm. ‘Stay a bit and talk.’

  Clarrie tried to wriggle from his hold. ‘Why talk to the likes of me when you’ve all them fancy friends?’

  ‘What friends? Do you know me?’

  ‘N-no,’ Clarrie stuttered. ‘You just — look like you’ve been at the big weddin’. Everyone round here’s been talking of nowt else.’

  ‘The big wedding,’ Wesley grunted. ‘It certainly was that. My fancy friends, as you call them, are still celebrating — polishing off Bertie Stock’s whisky most likely. I’ve had enough. Not much of a drinker. Can’t keep up with them.’ He smiled flirtatiously and pulled her to him. ‘Give me the company of a pretty young woman any day.’

  Clarrie’s heartbeat drummed in her ears at their proximity. How had this happened? She felt sick with both fear and a treacherous flare of desire.

  ‘Please, sir,’ she said tensely, ‘let me go.’

  Wesley’s voice was a low rumble like distant thunder. ‘Let me see your face first,’ he commanded.

  Clarrie was suddenly indignant. How dare he behave like that towards her, just because he thought her a lowly servant girl! She threw off his hold and with lightning speed raised her right hand and slapped him hard on the cheek. As she did so, her shawl slipped from her face.

  Wesley staggered back and steadied himself. ‘Sorry — too much drink—’

  She turned and fled. Then she was out of the garden and running for the basement stairs as fast as she could. All she could hear was the noise of blood rushing in her ears as she flung herself down the steps and back through the kitchen door. Had he followed her? She leaned against the door, shaking and gasping for breath. No footsteps sounded behind.

  Relief washed over her. But what if he decided to join the men in the dining room? Clarrie closed her eyes and tried to calm her thudding heart. She would wait down here until they had all left or gone to bed and hope that no one summoned her for more food or coal for the fire. Only then would it be safe to go upstairs and lock up.

  She sat and dozed on a kitchen chair, jerking awake each time her head nodded forward. Shortly after one o’clock she heard the front door slam and voices laughing drunkenly in the street outside. She waited another quarter of an hour, and then went upstairs to the empty dining room to clear the clutter of dirty plates and glasses.

  It was after two o’clock before she hauled herself up the attic stairs to bed. She lay utterly exhausted by the emotions of the day. Seeing Wesley had shaken her badly. Just when she thought she had control of her life and had smothered her feelings of loss for Belgooree, he had appeared like a summer storm and stirred up her deeply buried longing. How strange that he had been there in the garden when she had been thinking so vividly of her old home. It was as if he had the power to conjure up her most profound emotions, her strongest desires. She curled up, hugging herself to stem the physical ache she felt inside.

  Clarrie hated him for destroying her peace of mind, for making her dissatisfied with the new life she had forged for herself and Olive. She felt tears of anger sting her eyes, but she refused to cry. She was stronger than that. She would feed off this new rage that he had provoked in her. Every time she thought of Wesley from now on, she would remind herself how she must advance her position, carve out a good life for Olive and herself, until she could look him in the eye as an equal once more.

  ‘I promise you,’ she whispered in determination, ‘that day will come.’

  CHAPTER 19

  Once Bertie and Verity returned from honeymoon, Clarrie had little time to dwell on the events of the wedding day. She was kept busier than ever running the new household. Verity quickly assumed the role of mistress of the house and the Stock men happily deferred to her wishes in anything to do with the domestic arrangements.

  She would summon Clarrie daily to her second floor sitting room with its charming view over the square and dictate her list of chores. She was particular about which grocers they used, how the servants were dressed and at what times of day they could be allowed into the bedrooms to clean. She quickly cancelled the order for Lily’s pies, despite Clarrie’s protest.

  ‘They are stodgy and quite unhygienic.’ Verity was dismissive. ‘I really can’t serve up food that’s been cooked in a public house.’

  ‘But they rely on orders from the likes of the Stocks,’ Clarrie pointed out.

  ‘We’re not a char
ity, Belhaven,’ she snapped. ‘I’m sure Dolly can manage to produce such pies — and if she can’t we’ll soon find someone who can.’

  ‘Dolly can manage very well,’ Clarrie said, ‘but an extra pair of hands in the kitchen wouldn’t go amiss.’

  Verity agreed. ‘I suppose with all our entertaining that might be a good idea.’

  Within a week, Verity had persuaded Bertie of the need for a kitchen girl. Clarrie sent word to Lexy at the washhouse in Elswick and she lost no time in sending round one of her sisters to apply for the job, A week later, fifteen-year-old Sarah was taken on to the staff and came in daily. Lexy sent Clarrie a bar of Pears soap in gratitude.

  Verity took every opportunity to remind Clarrie and Olive that they were there to serve and not to fraternise with their employers. An elaborate code of uniforms was introduced. Clarrie and Lavender were put into mauve dresses for morning, beige for serving afternoon tea and black for evening wear. Olive and Dolly wore navy during the day and black dresses with lacy white aprons after four in the afternoon. Sarah wore grey and was not to be seen above stairs while the Stocks were up and about.

  There was much entertaining during the week and Verity had regular ‘at homes’ and afternoon teas for the steady stream of friends who called. Lavender fussed over her mistress, delighting in telling Clarrie how many changes of outfit Verity needed; sometimes five or six a day if there were evening engagements.

  Marjorie, the Stock’s arthritic laundry woman, was swiftly retired in favour of two brawny young women who could cope with all the extra washing and ironing of clothing, bedding and table linen.

  Herbert and Bertie spent long hours at the office, returning only after six in the evening. Often Herbert would order a light supper in his study, shying away from the formal meals that Verity demanded in the grand dining room. This seemed to suit his new daughter-in-law, who found his lack of interest in lavish dinners perplexing and his manner austere. Clarrie suspected his diffidence was his armour against the outside world, which he avoided unless it was a matter of business. She knew his feelings of loss for his Louisa were still raw and he had long outlived his appetite for society.