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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘That’s to be expected.’ The matronly woman smiled. ‘But don’t you worry, we’re all prepared.’

  ‘I knew you would be.’ Clarrie relaxed and sat down.

  ‘As I said, we’re setting up extra tables round the corner for the regulars,’ Miss Simpson went on. ‘We’ve got new Chinese screens we can pull across, so it’ll be more private for you.’

  ‘I like the new paintings and plants — and those bonny lamps.’ Clarrie nodded towards the dais. ‘Where did they come from?’

  ‘New owner sent them in,’ Miss Simpson said, lowering her voice. ‘Call me old-fashioned, but I think they’re a bit vulgar. Not nearly enough clothing on.’

  Clarrie said in amusement, ‘Perhaps you could drape them in napkins? Don’t want the customers swooning.’

  Miss Simpson went away chuckling. ‘Betty,’ she instructed one of her waitresses, ‘get Miss Belhaven a pot of Darjeeling.’

  Clarrie unpinned her broad hat, sat back and sighed in contentment. There were less than a dozen people in the cafe and the low-level murmuring was restful. She closed her eyes and thought how lucky she was to have found Herbert. Soon she would be Mrs Stock and the past few years of struggle would be over.

  Her tea came. Clarrie savoured the small rituals of pouring the golden liquid from pot into cup, dropping in two sugar lumps with the delicate metal tongs, and stirring with a silver teaspoon.

  The outer doors opened and closed, sending eddies of cold air rippling around her ankles. Clarrie shivered and put her hands round the teacup for warmth, lifting it to her lips and savouring the delicate aroma before sipping. As she did so, a man in a cape and top hat strode into the room, directly towards her. Catching sight of Clarrie, he checked his step. Even before he removed his hat, she knew from his tall stature and vigorous walk that it was Wesley.

  His dark brows with their familiar scar knitted in a frown of bewilderment, as if he could not believe his own eyes. He came to a halt at her table, staring hard.

  ‘Clarissa?’ he demanded. ‘Can it be you?’

  She felt a jolt at his use of her full name. No one had called her that since Belgooree. With shaking hands she put down her cup. It rattled against the saucer.

  ‘Mr Robson,’ she said, standing up.

  He was quick to say, ‘Please don’t get up.’

  She was too used to being the servant, she thought in annoyance, sitting down again. But it was he who seemed wrong-footed by the sudden encounter.

  ‘How are you? What brings you here? I can’t believe … May I sit down?’

  Despite the uncomfortable pounding in her chest, she nodded in assent. He pulled out the chair opposite, unfastening his cape, scrutinising her all the while. A waitress appeared quickly and took his coat, hat and gloves with a bob of respect. Miss Simpson bustled over.

  ‘Mr Robson, what an honour. What can I get you?’

  ‘Tea, thank you,’ he smiled at her distractedly, ‘and gingerbread.’

  The manageress beamed. ‘Certainly, sir.’

  Clarrie’s insides twisted in envy at the way Wesley inspired deference without seeming to notice. It should not surprise her that he would make it his business to be known in the city’s tea houses, however infrequently he came back to Newcastle. She was thankful she had not come across him here before now. He leaned towards her, eyeing her intently.

  ‘You look well,’ he said, ‘very well indeed.’ When she said nothing he continued, ‘I’m sorry about your father’s death. Tell me what happened — to you and Olive. I heard you went away to relations. But no one seemed to know where. I assumed you were still in India somewhere. Thought I might come across you, but never did. I want to know everything, Clarissa!’

  Clarrie gripped her chair, quite taken aback by his urgent questioning. What did he care what had happened to her?

  ‘Things were very difficult after Father died,’ she said tensely. ‘We had to leave Belgooree. We came here to Newcastle — to my cousin and his wife.’ She was not going to tell him that they had been reduced to virtual slavery in one of the West End’s rougher public houses.

  ‘You’ve been in Newcastle all this time?’ he asked, astounded.

  ‘Yes. We had no choice. We would rather have stayed in India, but we had nothing.’

  Wesley’s jaw tensed as he nodded. ‘I heard Belgooree was sold.’ He looked at her with a glint of impatience. ‘But you did have a choice. I was willing to help.’

  Clarrie felt anger flare. ‘Yes, you made no secret of how you coveted my father’s estate. A good business proposition. No doubt the Robsons picked it up for a song.’

  He leaned closer, eyes narrowing. ‘We didn’t buy it, though we should have. Some speculators thought they could make easy money, but they made no better job of it than your father. The last time I was up that way two years ago it was all overgrown — practically gone back to jungle.’

  Clarrie’s heart squeezed in pain. She could not bear to think of her old home derelict and the tea bushes grown wild. Had her parents’ graves disappeared under tangled undergrowth, or been dug up by leopards? She clutched at the table, stifling a groan.

  Wesley quickly covered her hand with his. ‘I’m sorry to upset you. I didn’t know about your father’s death until long after you’d gone, please believe me. If I had, I would have tried to help.’

  Clarrie snatched her hand away, alarmed at his touch. ‘What good would knowing have done?’

  He leaned away. They studied each other in tense silence.

  When he spoke again his tone was mocking. ‘No, you’re right. The proud Belhaven girls would not have allowed a mere Robson to come to their aid. Isn’t that so?’

  Clarrie remained silent. She did not want to think about how things might have turned out if Wesley had still been in Assam when the catastrophe happened.

  Suddenly he leaned forward again and said in a low voice, ‘But you did come looking for me, didn’t you? You came to the Oxford. Bain, the assistant manager, told me when I came back from Ceylon the following year. Why did you make that journey? What did you want to ask me, Clarissa?’

  His green eyes glittered knowingly. He was enjoying her discomfort. The last thing she was going to admit was that she had gone to say she would marry him after all.

  ‘It was Olive’s idea,’ she said, flushing. ‘It was desperation.’

  Wesley gave a short laugh. ‘Blunt as ever, Clarissa.’

  ‘No one calls me Clarissa anymore,’ she said in agitation. ‘I’m known as Clarrie here.’

  They were interrupted by the arrival of his tea and gingerbread. As he helped himself, Wesley gave her a sardonic smile. ‘Perhaps I should just call you Miss Belhaven so as to avoid any offence?’

  Clarrie eyed him. ‘You could — but not for much longer. I’m to be married the day after tomorrow.’ She felt a rush of triumph at his dumbfounded expression. ‘That’s why I’m here, finalising arrangements. We’re having a small tea dance at the Empire. It’s my favourite tea room in Newcastle.’

  Wesley swiftly regained his composure. ‘Mine too.’ He fixed her with his penetrating look. ‘And who is the lucky gentleman?’

  Clarrie smiled with satisfaction. ‘I believe you know him. Mr Herbert Stock, the solicitor.’

  ‘Bertie’s father?’ he almost bellowed. Heads turned to glance in their direction.

  ‘Yes.’ Clarrie blushed, infuriated by his look of amused disbelief.

  ‘But he’s an old man!’

  ‘He’s a good man,’ Clarrie said defensively, ‘which is the best kind.’

  ‘Good and dull,’ Wesley declared. ‘From what I know of you, Clarrie, you’ll be bored to tears with him.’

  His arrogance enraged her. ‘Well you don’t know me,’ she said, almost choking with anger, ‘and you’ve no idea what my life has been like these past six years — for me and Olive. You’ll never know what it’s like to skivvy for a pittance, not knowing if you’ll have a roof over your head from one day to the next or whether O
live will die from an asthma attack because we can’t afford the doctor! You and your kind think you rule the world and that no one should stand in your way. Well, that’s not what I want. I just want a marriage to a good man who will treat me and Olive with respect. And you can laugh at me all you want, Wesley Robson, but I’d rather be marrying Herbert, however old he is, than share my life with the likes of you!’

  She jumped out of her seat, seized her hat and barged her way past him. He tried to grab her arm as she went.

  ‘I’m sorry — don’t go — tell me more—’

  ‘I have nothing to say to you,’ she hissed, shaking free, mortified that people at nearby tables had stopped to listen to their argument.

  In humiliation, she fled from the cafe without looking back. She ran aimlessly along the city’s streets, and then, terrified he would come after her, she jumped on a tram and found herself going in the wrong direction. Getting off in Sandyford, she walked westwards as sleety rain began to fall. By the time she reached Summerhill, she was drenched and chilled to the core.

  Olive fussed over her, removing her wet clothes and wrapping her in a rug.

  ‘Where’ve you been? I thought some’at terrible had happened.’

  Clarrie saw the anxiety etched on her sister’s face and decided not to tell her about the encounter with Wesley. She would not burden Olive with the knowledge that Belgooree had gone to rack and ruin.

  ‘Got on the wrong tram,’ she shivered. ‘Stupid of me. Head in the clouds at the moment.’

  ‘Dafty!’ Olive said with relief, as she rubbed her hair dry. She made her a hot drink. Handing it over, she said, ‘You really do care for Mr Herbert, don’t you?’

  Clarrie gave her a guilty glance. Her mind had been full of the encounter with Wesley and how disturbed it had left her. She took the cup and nodded.

  ‘I’m glad.’ Olive gave a rueful smile. ‘I can’t believe how different your life is going to be in less than two days’ time.’

  ‘And yours,’ Clarrie said quickly.

  Olive’s look was thoughtful. ‘I suppose so. But it won’t be the same.’

  She went off to hang the wet clothes in the drying room before Clarrie could ask her what she meant.

  CHAPTER 22

  On the day of the wedding, Clarrie woke feeling shivery and apprehensive. She had probably caught a chill. Olive helped her dress, chattering in excitement as she unbound the rags from Clarrie’s hair and arranged the long black strands into elaborate coils with ringlets framing her oval face.

  ‘How bonny you look,’ she declared. ‘Like that photograph of Mother.’

  Clarrie surveyed her image in the small mirror above the washstand. Tonight she would look into the full-length looking glass in the marital bedroom. Her large dark eyes shone with a feverish light. Her head pounded. She must shake off this lethargy.

  ‘You’re so clever with your hands,’ she told Olive, trying to sound bright. ‘No hairdresser could have done a better job.’

  She turned round and saw Olive’s pleased expression. Tonight Olive would move into Bertie and Verity’s old bedroom. Ina’s daughter Sally would come from tomorrow to be maid to the household and lodge in the attic bedroom that the sisters had continued to share even after the other servants had left. No longer would they hear each other’s breathing in the night, or whisper in the dark when they could not sleep. Only for a brief spell when they had first come to Summerhill had the sisters ever slept apart.

  Clarrie felt a sudden pang of loss at the thought. She held out her arms.

  ‘Oh, Olive, I’m going to miss you!’

  ‘Me too!’

  Olive ran into her hold and the pair of them burst into tears. They clung together crying.

  ‘Aren’t we daft?’ Clarrie sniffled. ‘It’s not as if I’m going away. We’ll still be together every day.’

  ‘I know,’ Olive sobbed, ‘but it f-feels like the end of s-something.’

  It was Clarrie who pulled away first. ‘Well, it’s not the end of us two being together. I promised you, remember?’ She smoothed Olive’s red hair away from her tear-stained face. At nineteen, she was a pretty young woman, and it suddenly struck Clarrie that Olive would soon be of marriageable age too. Not that her sister had expressed an interest in anyone romantically since her girlish crush on the soldier Harry Wilson. Clarrie would advise her when the time came, for she still felt as protective towards Olive as if she were her own daughter. Nothing would change that.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you ready now,’ Clarrie smiled. ‘Don’t let Sir hear us wailing as if we’re off to a funeral.’

  ‘You know what the hardest thing will be?’ Olive sniffed. ‘Calling Mr Stock by his Christian name.’

  Clarrie nodded in agreement. ‘Herbert,’ she said tentatively. ‘Herbert. Herbert. You try it.’

  ‘No.’ Olive sniggered.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Herbert.’ Olive giggled. ‘Herbert, Herbert.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Clarrie encouraged her. ‘Together!’

  ‘Herbert, Herbert, Herbert, Herbert!’ they shouted, falling on to the bed and convulsing in laughter.

  It broke the spell of anxiety. The unease that had gripped Clarrie since long before dawn vanished in their shared hilarity.

  A carriage was laid on to take the sisters to the church but Herbert insisted on walking up the hill with Will, despite Clarrie’s worry that the cold would set off his rheumatism. Low clouds threatened snow and they hurried into the church as the first flurry arrived.

  Clarrie, fuzzy-headed from her brewing cold, was aware of Will taking her cold hands in his and trying to warm them up and then the next moment she was walking towards Herbert on Will’s arm, seeing everything through a blur of gauzy veil. Yet Herbert’s admiring look as her veil was pulled back and the way his sombre face creased into a broad smile lifted her heart.

  The ceremony was short and dignified, and she emerged on Herbert’s arm into swirling snow. Quickly, they clambered into the carriage with Will and Olive, and rode precariously downhill into town. The Empire seemed even more welcoming than usual as they escaped out of the blizzard into its cosy gentility.

  The band struck up the bridal march as Clarrie and Herbert appeared arm in arm, brushing snow from each other’s clothing. Miss Simpson guided them to a long table at the top of the room next to the musicians and her waitresses began to bring out platefuls of dainty sandwiches, buttered scones and slices of cake.

  Soon all the guests were gathered and tucking into the tea, faces glowing in the lamplight as they warmed up. Before the dancing, Herbert gave a short, bashful speech, thanking their friends for attending.

  ‘After my first wife died,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘I never thought to find such happiness again with any woman. Was certainly not looking for it.’ His eyes glittered as he gazed at Clarrie. ‘But there she was, in my own household, being brave and kind and looking after us all, when sometimes getting through the day seemed an impossibility.’

  He rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘Clarrie has given me a new lease of life. She is a gift from God. I still have to pinch myself to be sure I haven’t dreamed that this beautiful young woman has agreed to be my wife. But she has and I’m profoundly grateful. So is my son Will, to whom Clarrie has been a caring mother since his own passed away.’

  He smiled. ‘So please, enjoy the tea and dance if you wish. And thank you for coming to share in our happiness on such an inhospitable day.’

  The guests clapped and Will jumped to his feet to propose a toast to his father and Clarrie. They raised their teacups. ‘To Herbert and Clarrie!’

  Clarrie was amused to see Lexy and her friends winking and pulling faces at having to drink just tea. Herbert had wanted no liquor to spoil the day. ‘Tea’s the best fillip anyone could want,’ he had declared.

  As the guests clapped and sat down again, and the musicians struck up, a man moving out of the shadows by the Chinese screens caught Clarrie’s attention. She froz
e in shock. It was Wesley, arms folded, observing them with mild amusement. He saw her looking at him and arched his brows, his look insolent. How dare he come here and spoil her day! Clarrie’s heart thumped in agitation. She felt sweat breaking out on her brow. A moment later Wesley was summoning one of the waitresses and then he disappeared behind the screen.

  ‘Clarrie dearest,’ Herbert said, ‘are you feeling well?’

  She realised she was breathing hard, her palms sweating. She was turning hot and cold. She tried to focus on what he was saying.

  ‘I was hoping you would dance with Will. Save my embarrassment.’ His look was apologetic. ‘The walk to church was as much as I could manage.’

  Clarrie had hoped to persuade Herbert on to the dance floor, if only for a sedate waltz, but he was self-conscious about his limp and adamant in his refusal. At that moment, Clarrie was not sure she was capable either. Her head swam in the heat of the room. Will, though, was eager. She tried to summon some enthusiasm as the boy led her on to the polished floor. Others swiftly followed their lead.

  ‘You’ve been practising,’ Clarrie said, impressed by his handling.

  Will grinned. ‘With Johnny’s sisters.’

  While he chattered on about them, Clarrie could not help glancing round to see if Wesley would dare to show his face again. Why had she been foolish enough to tell him of her marriage plans? She might have known he would use the knowledge to make her feel awkward. He had come to mock her for marrying an old man, for having a simple wedding with ordinary guests more at home in the terraces of Elswick than the mansions of Jesmond. Well, whatever his reasons, Clarrie determined, she would not be belittled by his sneering from the sidelines.

  As she and Will made their way back to the table, a waitress was coming towards it bearing a huge basket tied up with silver ribbon.

  ‘Compliments of the Empire,’ she said, grinning.

  ‘How kind!’ Herbert exclaimed as he rose to take the hamper.

  ‘Very,’ Clarrie gasped. ‘We must thank Miss Simpson.’

  ‘Oh, it’s from the owner, miss,’ the waitress replied.