‘Goodness me.’ Herbert beamed. ‘Then we must thank him or her.’
‘Shall I fetch ‘em, sir?’ the waitress asked.
‘If they’re here, please do,’ Herbert said.
She bobbed and left them. Clarrie undid the ribbon, curious. It was full of delicacies: cheeses, cakes, nuts, crystallised fruits, teas and coffee beans.
‘So generous!’ she cried.
From behind a deep voice said, ‘It’s well deserved.’
She whipped round to see Wesley. He gave her a short bow and shook Herbert by the hand.
‘I know you, don’t I?’ Herbert asked.
‘Wesley Robson, a cousin of Verity’s.’ He smiled. ‘I was at your son’s wedding.’
‘Of course,’ Herbert said, shaking him by the hand. ‘This is most generous of you, and quite unexpected.’
‘I was a friend of Clarrie’s father in India,’ Wesley answered. ‘It’s a small token of my esteem for the Belhavens and for yourself.’
‘We’re most grateful,’ Herbert said, looking in astonishment at Clarrie, ‘aren’t we, my dear?’
They were both looking at her. She was finding it difficult to breathe and her pulse raced alarmingly.
Esteem for the Belhavens? Friend of her father’s? What barefaced lies! But worse than his impudence was the revelation that he owned this cafe — her special place. Only two days ago she had boasted to him about holding her wedding party here. Then she cringed to think how she had upbraided him in his own tea room and stormed out. She felt engulfed in a hot wave of embarrassment.
‘Clarrie?’ Herbert prompted.
‘Yes,’ she said faintly, avoiding Wesley’s look, ‘very grateful.’
‘Perhaps I might be permitted to dance with the bride?’ Wesley asked.
‘I’d be happy if you would.’ Herbert smiled. ‘I’m afraid I can’t.’
Clarrie looked at her husband in alarm. The last thing she wanted to do was dance with Wesley, but how could she refuse? Herbert nodded at her in encouragement.
‘Go on, my dear. I want you to enjoy this day as much as I am.’
Wesley held out his hand to Clarrie, his look challenging. She swallowed hard and forced a smile. When she offered her own hand it was shaking and clammy. Wesley led her on to the dance floor and took her in his arms. Clarrie’s heart thudded erratically and her head swam. She thought she might pass out in the heat.
‘Clarrie, are you all right?’ he asked, tightening his grip.
‘Yes,’ she gulped.
He swung them across the floor. Her head began to spin.
‘Look at me, Clarrie,’ he murmured.
Reluctantly, she did. They were so close she could see the vivid green of his eyes between dark lashes, the dimpled cut of his chin. She felt a kick of longing, as potent as when he had first kissed her years ago. Appalled, she tried to summon her previous anger.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you owned the Empire?’ she accused him.
He held her look. ‘You never gave me the chance. Ran off like a spring hare.’
Clarrie flushed. ‘I’m sorry. It was rude of me.’
‘You were upset and that was my fault,’ he said. ‘But it was very unsettling to suddenly come across you like that. And to think you’d been living at the Stocks’ all the while. We could have met any time—’
‘I thought you were a tea broker in London,’ Clarrie said, steering him away from such talk.
‘I was for a while. I went back out to India after Bertie’s wedding. But circumstances brought me back again, and the opportunity to buy the cafe. I intend to open several more.’
Clarrie felt a sharp stab of envy that he could so casually talk about owning a string of tea rooms. She would be happy with just one of her own. It reminded her how the Robsons’ success had always overshadowed the Belhavens’.
He held her tighter. ‘If only I had a good businesswoman to go into partnership with; someone who knew the tea trade well.’
Was he mocking her again? Or making her a proposition?
‘Always thinking of business, even at a wedding,’ Clarrie said drily. She thought of the elegant woman in the red hat she had seen him with. ‘So there is no Mrs Wesley Robson yet?’
‘No,’ he admitted. To her surprise she saw his jaw line redden. ‘We should have met sooner, Clarrie. If only I’d known you were here in Newcastle.’ His gaze intensified. ‘I’ve never seen you look more beautiful.’
‘Don’t,’ she whispered.
‘It’s true. I hate to think of you married to someone nearly three times your age.’
Clarrie said in agitation, ‘How dare you say that on my wedding day? It would have made no difference when we met. Do you think I would ever have considered marrying a Robson?’
Wesley gripped her close as they spun. ‘But you did,’ he said urgently. ‘You came to the Oxford to see me. I know you felt something—’
She cut him short. ‘I was a young girl then — I went out of despair. But I wouldn’t have made that mistake again.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Wesley said. ‘If I’d found you before Herbert proposed, I think you would have been quite willing.’
Maddened by his arrogance, she hissed, ‘You’re wrong. I had seen you long before two days ago. In the gardens at Summerhill after Bertie’s wedding. If I’d been so willing, I would have spoken up then, instead of pretending to be Dolly.’
His eyes widened in disbelief. ‘That maid? It was you?’
‘Yes, it was me. I could have let you know then who I was but I didn’t want to.’ She steeled herself to be cruel. ‘I don’t love you and never have. So please leave me alone. I’m Herbert’s wife and you shouldn’t be saying such things.’
He frowned, his jaw clenching in sudden anger. ‘I was never your father’s enemy, nor yours. But you’ve made yourself quite clear. You’re the most stubborn and blunt of all the Belhavens. Forgive me for speaking my feelings. I can see now how wrong I was. Marriage between us would have been a disaster.’
Abruptly he brought her to a stop and led her back to Herbert. With a curt bow he left them. Clarrie collapsed into a chair, shaking and dizzy.
‘My dear, you don’t look at all well.’ Herbert was worried. ‘Has the dancing been too much for you? You seem upset.’
‘I feel a little sick,’ she panted. ‘It’s the heat.’
‘Do you wish to leave?’
‘No,’ Clarrie said, trying to calm the turmoil she felt. ‘I’ll just sit out the dancing for a bit.’
Herbert ordered a glass of water and she drank thirstily. She watched the dancing and merriment through a fog of pain, her head pounding. Wesley had ruined the celebrations with his sudden appearance and treacherous words of love and marriage. Why tell her now when she was married to Herbert? Or had it been part of his cruel teasing to say such things knowing that she was safely married to another? She could not fathom his reasons, or whether he had been sincere.
But even if he had, it made no difference. She would never have married the man who had had Ramsha dragged back to his death on the Oxford tea estates and thought more of profit than the welfare of his workers; who attempted to put good men like Daniel Milner out of business. If Wesley could be so ruthless in his professional life, how could he possibly be trustworthy as a husband?
Clarrie attempted to push such thoughts from her mind and enjoy the remains of her wedding tea. Despite her dizziness, she danced with Johnny and once more with Will. Then the band stopped and it was time to make their way back to Summerhill. They had decided not to go away after the wedding, as travelling could be hazardous in January. Herbert had promised her he would take her to the Lake District in early summer.
Friends came to say goodbye.
‘Dancin’ with all the bonniest-looking lads in the room,’ Lexy crowed, ‘and you not wed five minutes. I take me hat off to yer, Clarrie hinny.’
‘Good luck, lass,’ Ina said, looking tearful. ‘We’re that proud of you. I’ll hear
from our Sally how you get on.’
‘Don’t forget us now you’re one of the posh folk,’ Maggie teased.
She kissed them all and promised she wouldn’t.
Outside it was dark. The snow had stopped falling and was beginning to freeze underfoot. It was bitterly cold. Back at the house, awkwardness gripped all four. Olive stoked up the sitting-room fire and said she would prepare a light supper.
‘Let me help,’ Clarrie said.
‘Not on your wedding night,’ Olive reproved her. ‘You put your feet up. You look all done in.’
Herbert fussed over his new wife, leading her to an armchair by the fire and fetching a rug for her knees.
Will suggested they play cards, but Herbert declined.
‘I’ve a small matter to attend to before tomorrow. Will you be all right, my dear?’
Clarrie looked at him in dismay, but nodded. She would rather he went upstairs to work than pace around disapprovingly while they played games.
Will glanced between them. ‘Why don’t you stay and read a book, Papa?’
Herbert shot him a look of irritation. ‘It won’t take long. I’ll come back down for a bite of supper.’
But Herbert did not reappear. Clarrie struggled through and lost a game of backgammon with Will, then watched him beat Olive at cards. Olive served up some pea soup.
‘Shall I take a bowl up to Mr Stock?’ she asked.
Clarrie hesitated, and then nodded.
‘Only Papa could think of doing paperwork on his wedding day,’ Will said impatiently. ‘I’m sorry for you, Clarrie.’
‘Don’t be.’ Clarrie summoned a smile. ‘Your father’s just being conscientious. It’s his way.’
Soon afterwards, Clarrie retired upstairs. She knocked on the study door. Herbert was writing at his desk, utterly absorbed.
‘I - I’m going to bed,’ Clarrie said.
His head jerked up and he pulled off his spectacles. ‘I’m so sorry. I lost all track of time.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said hastily, ‘I was too tired for cards anyway. Will and Olive are playing music together.’
Herbert came over and rested his hands on her shoulders, his face creased in concern. ‘You must rest, my dearest. I fear you’re sickening for something.’
‘It’s just a cold,’ Clarrie said.
‘Still, we must take the greatest care with your health.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I can sleep in my own room tonight, if you like. So you can have a good night’s sleep.’
‘There’s no need for that,’ she blurted out, and then blushed. She wanted to get the awkwardness of their first night together over and done with. They must consummate the marriage, else she would not properly be Mrs Stock. In her mind, it was one of the main measures of her transformation from being merely his housekeeper. She must be his wife and lover; in time she wanted to bear children.
‘I think it would be for the best if I did,’ he said firmly, ‘just for tonight.’ He brushed her forehead with his lips. ‘Goodnight, my dear.’
‘Goodnight,’ Clarrie murmured, swallowing down disappointment at the chasteness of his kiss. He made her feel like his daughter, not his new bride.
Alone in the large bedroom, Clarrie struggled out of her wedding dress and flung it over a chair. She pulled on the nightgown that Olive had specially embroidered with green butterflies. Earlier, her sister had drawn the curtains, lit the fire and taken the chill off the room. Still, Clarrie shivered violently as she sat on the edge of the bed, hugging her breasts.
From below, she could hear soft lilting music from the violins. She felt like rushing downstairs to join Will and Olive in the warmth of the sitting room and wrap herself in their companionship. She stood up and went to the window, lifting the curtain to peer into the dark night. Her wedding day. Out there were the people who had gathered to celebrate it. Now they were scattered and the day was over.
She sighed and climbed into the empty bed, curling up tight between the chilly sheets. Her head swam and her body ached. More than anything she craved the comfort of warm arms round her. She had never felt so alone. If only Herbert would come. Perhaps he would change his mind? Clarrie attempted to stay awake in the hope that he would. She listened for the sound of his footsteps, but none came.
The events of the day turned over and over in her mind: the intimate service, the snowstorm, the tea dance, Wesley’s startling appearance. She shook at the memory of his grip on her hand and the small of her back, the way he had looked at her with undisguised wanting. He was a man who knew how to kiss with passion. Sudden longing for him gnawed inside her. Clarrie buried her burning face in the icy pillow and smothered a cry. She despised herself for the lust she felt towards Wesley; it was base and destructive. How could she lie there waiting for her husband with her marriage not even a day old, and be thinking such thoughts about Wesley? She was despicable.
In her shame, she sought to blame him. It was Wesley who had disrupted her wedding party, forcing her to dance and mischievously stirring up her feelings again. It was just another attempt to try to exert control over her, even when she was married to another. He was the source of all her troubles — had been since the day fate had thrown them together at the swami’s clearing in the Khassia hills.
The only thing that was certain in her feverish mind was that she must keep Wesley at arm’s length in future. She must do all she could to stay away from him.
As the night wore on and Herbert did not come, Clarrie wrestled with her tortured thoughts. When finally she fell asleep, she dreamed she was back at Belgooree, lying on a divan with a hot breeze blowing over her. A man was calling her name over and over, but she could not see who it was.
She awoke startled, her pillow soaked with tears.
‘Herbert, is that you?’ she gasped.
But the soft glow from the dying fire showed her that the space next to her was empty.
CHAPTER 23
1910
The first weeks of marriage were difficult ones of adjustment for them all. Clarrie struggled not to assume her usual role of rushing around as housekeeper, keeping her eye on everything from ordering groceries to cleaning the grates. Herbert, who had employed a Mrs Henderson as cook, chided her for doing too much.
‘Go out more, my dear,’ he urged. ‘Go shopping or take tea with your friends.’
Clarrie bit back the remark that all her friends were working hard making a living. She did not belong in the leisured class and none of Louisa’s former circle thought her worthy of their company. Neither the neighbours nor the well-to-do from church thought to invite her to their houses.
In turn, Clarrie berated Olive for doing menial tasks.
‘You don’t need to polish the stairs any more — leave it to Sally. You’ll ruin your musician’s fingers.’
But Olive said she felt bad letting Ina’s daughter do everything.
‘You have to. You’re family now.’ Clarrie was firm.
‘Then what will I do?’ Olive asked.
‘Anything you want,’ Clarrie exclaimed with impatience. ‘Haven’t you longed for the time when you didn’t need to skivvy anymore?’
‘Aye,’ Olive admitted with a sigh. ‘But it’s boring without Will here. There’s not enough to do.’
Clarrie silently agreed but could not say so.
After that, Clarrie cleared out Verity’s old dressing room and turned it into a studio for Olive to paint in. To her delight, Olive soon rediscovered her former passion for art. But her sister was happier down in the kitchen chatting to Sally and Mrs Henderson than sitting upstairs during the lengthening evenings keeping Clarrie company while Herbert worked.
In frustration, Clarrie saw her life with Herbert little changed from what it was before. She was Mrs Stock in name only. He was kind and affectionate in a distracted sort of way, and appeared to enjoy her company at mealtimes. But they went nowhere socially except to church, and he was happiest retreating to his study after a long day at the office. He was wedd
ed to his work.
All this she had known before marrying him. But she had not expected him to avoid the intimacy of the marital bed. At first, Herbert had used her bout of illness as an excuse to sleep apart. Her heavy cold had turned to bronchitis and had lingered on into February. Yet even when she was fully recovered, he kept away. She was baffled and hurt by his rejection, but did not know how to raise the subject without causing them both red-faced embarrassment.
As spring came, and the evenings lengthened, Clarrie wondered if she should force the issue, go to his room and climb into his bed. But he stayed up working late into the night and was often so testy in the morning that she did not want to risk provoking a rebuke. She wondered about confiding in Olive, but what could her sister do? Perhaps her sham marriage was already the subject of gossip below stairs. It must be obvious to Sally, who lit their fires in the morning and made their beds, that she and Herbert slept apart.
While Olive spent her days sketching and painting, Clarrie’s thoughts turned more and more to her ambition of running her own tea house. She shared her plans with her friend Rachel. Whenever Rachel was off duty they would try out different cafes and make notes on menus, prices and standards of service. Clarrie watched with envy as the Robsons opened up another Empire Tea Rooms in Ridley Place and a third on Jesmond Road. They were stylishly furnished with carved chairs and elaborate wallpaper, brass statues of Eros and stained glass lampshades. The waitresses were dressed in expensive tea gowns like hostesses and had runners to fetch and carry for them. The baking was fresh, the linen spotless and the blends of tea first class. And they were popular. When visiting the two new branches, Clarrie and Rachel had to wait in line for a table.
Clarrie left these tea rooms with both relief at not running into Wesley and sharp envy at his success. She would do just as well, she vowed, but she would not choose to pander to the affluent, bored women of the middle classes. Her aim would be to open up a tea house among the beer shops and public houses of the working-class West End. She walked the streets of Elswick and Benwell looking for vacant premises. Here, businesses frequently changed hands; a general dealer would close one week and open as a furniture shop the next. Cobblers, bakers, drapers, butchers and toyshops came and went like the seasons. Few became rich supplying the working classes along Scotswood Road, but Clarrie was sure that with a lot of hard work she could make such a business pay.
THE TEA PLANTER'S DAUGHTER:A wonderfully moving story of courage and enduring love: First in the India Tea Series Page 25
