Verity’s look was pathetically pleading. ‘Clarrie, for the sake of the twins, you must help Bertie out. Please!’
Clarrie swallowed down bile. This was the woman who had mocked and humiliated her at Summerhill, ostracised her for marrying Herbert and stood by while Bertie robbed her of her hard-earned business. Now she expected her to throw them a financial lifeline — was grovelling for her help. She felt revenge surge up inside. How good it felt to finally have power over the hateful pair.
Then Clarrie thought of Vernon and the bubbly Josephine. Herbert’s grandchildren. They did not deserve to be punished for their parents’ short-comings. Clarrie considered Verity’s tear-stained face for a long moment.
‘Very well,’ she said at last. ‘I will do this for you. Once the tea room is making a reasonable profit again, I will put some of it into a trust fund for the twins until they become of age.’
Verity’s face brightened. ‘Trust fund?’
‘But on the understanding,’ Clarrie cautioned, ‘that neither you nor Bertie will be able to help yourselves to any of it.’
Verity frowned. ‘What about Bertie and me?’
‘Wesley was right in suggesting your husband look for a job,’ Clarrie answered. ‘If he’s willing to work hard, I can find him employment around the cafe. That is my offer.’
Verity’s face puckered in disgust. ‘Work here? With these people?’
‘You’ll never find better,’ Clarrie said, standing up. ‘Go back and tell Bertie there’s honest graft for him at Herbert’s Tea Rooms. But I’ll not lend him any more money; he’s squandered enough of mine in the past.’
Furious, Verity got up. ‘I feel dirty just coming here to this place and asking for your help. I don’t care how badly we’re in debt, I’ll never let my husband lower himself to come and work in your common tea room.’
Clarrie did not wait for her to leave, but hurried to the door first. ‘Then it’s goodbye, Verity. You can see yourself out.’
Rushing upstairs to the flat, Clarrie grabbed her coat and hat. To an astonished Lexy, she shouted, ‘I have to see someone urgently. I’ll be back!’
She jumped on a tram that took her into the city and then hurried down steep Dean Street to the quayside where the Robsons had their shipping and business offices. Taking the lift up to the third floor, Clarrie asked a clerk in the outer office for Wesley.
‘Mr Wesley’s not here any longer, ma’am,’ he told her. ‘Would you like to speak to someone else?’
‘No thank you. Where will I find him?’ Clarrie asked impatiently.
The clerk frowned. ‘He’s been staying at his cousin’s house, but he’s probably already left for London.’
‘Today?’ Clarrie gasped. ‘But I thought he was here until tomorrow.’
‘Changed his plans late yesterday,’ said the clerk. ‘He seemed keen to get away, if you ask me.’
‘Do you have a telephone number for his cousin?’ Clarrie asked desperately. The man nodded. ‘Could you ring it for me and see if he’s still there? Please.’
The clerk gave her a wary look but did as she asked. Her heart drummed as she watched and waited. All she wanted was this last chance to make her peace with Wesley and tell him how she had been wrong to stay so angry with him all these years.
The operator put the clerk through and he asked for Wesley.
‘Oh, I see. Just a minute.’ He looked over at Clarrie. ‘He’s left for the station. They could take a message and send it on.’
Clarrie’s stomach clenched with disappointment. She shook her head.
‘No message, thank you,’ the clerk replied and rang off.
She thanked him for his help and rushed out, clattering down the stairs rather than waiting for the lift. Running along the busy quayside, dodging horse traffic, motor vans and porters rolling barrels, Clarrie headed for the steep climb to the station. Breathless, she paused halfway up.
‘Clarrie!’ a man cried. ‘What you doing down here?’
Drawing up beside her was a tea van with Jack at the reins.
‘I need to get to the station,’ she panted.
‘Lucky for you I’ve been picking up a delivery.’ Jack grinned. ‘Hop on, lass, and I’ll give you a lift.’
As they trotted briskly through the streets to Central Station, Clarrie quickly told him of Verity’s visit, the letter from Will and how she had misjudged Wesley for so long.
‘I just want to set things right between us before he goes to Africa,’ she explained.
Jack nodded. ‘Our Olive always said you should’ve married him when you were out in India. But then I would never have met my lass, would I?’ He pulled up by the stone portico and helped her down. ‘Good luck. I hope you find him.’
A guard told her that the next train to London was in ten minutes from platform four and pointed her over the bridge. Buying a platform ticket, she ran as fast as she could. The train was already in the station, and porters were busy helping carry on luggage. She searched the throng of travellers for any sign of Wesley. With a lurch of alarm, it occurred to her for the first time that Henrietta might be with him. Had she not said once how much she enjoyed visiting the north? Clarrie stood hesitating, her courage almost failing. She was too late. She would only make a fool of herself on this crowded platform if she found him.
‘Clarissa?’ said a familiar voice.
She whipped around. There was only one person who still called her by that name. Wesley was leaning out of an open carriage door. She rushed towards him, but was overwhelmed by the sight of his handsome, frowning face. Her throat constricted with emotion. She could not speak. He climbed down.
‘What is it? Has something terrible happened?’
She shook her head, her eyes smarting at his concern. He took her by the arm and steered her out of the way. Looking round, he nodded for them to go into the small waiting room. It was empty, and Wesley closed the door behind them.
‘Tell me,’ he said, standing close but not touching her.
She told him about Verity and the letter.
‘So I know about Stable Trading,’ she finished hoarsely. ‘That it was you who saved the tea room.’
‘I see.’ Wesley looked stern.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because I knew how proud you were,’ he said. ‘You would probably have thrown my money back in my face.’
Clarrie flushed. ‘Perhaps I would have,’ she admitted. ‘But Will wanted me to know. He wanted to change my opinion of you — for us to be friends.’
Wesley gave her a sceptical look. ‘So you’re doing this for the sake of Will’s memory?’
‘Not just that,’ Clarrie insisted. ‘I wanted to say sorry.’ When he said nothing, she went on. ‘I’m sorry for misjudging you and blaming you for my family’s troubles. My father was wrong about you, Wesley, so very wrong. You befriended Will and helped me without ever expecting anything in return. Those are not the actions of a ruthless and selfish man, but of a kind and generous one.’ She held his look. ‘I wanted to thank you and set the record straight before you left.’
‘Oh, Clarissa!’ He let out a long sigh, his face full of regret. ‘Why have we spent so long at loggerheads? I forbade Will to tell you about Stable Trading because I didn’t want you to feel in any way beholden to me. If you cared for me at all, I wanted it to be for who I was, not because of any financial obligation. That was where I went so wrong at the beginning — offering you marriage as if it was a business transaction to save Belgooree, instead of what it really was.’
‘What was that?’ Clarrie asked tensely.
‘An offer of love,’ he said, his eyes glittering.
Clarrie’s heart twisted. She was engulfed by regret that they had left it too late. ‘It wasn’t just your fault,’ she whispered. ‘I was too stubborn to admit my feelings for you.’
His look intensified. ‘So I was right — you did care for me?’
Clarrie nodded and looked away. ‘Very much,’ she mur
mured. Parting from him was so painful she wanted to end it quickly. ‘You mustn’t miss your train; it’ll be leaving any minute.’ She stepped past him so he would not see the tears brimming over her lashes. ‘I wish you well in East Africa, Wesley,’ she said as steadily as she could, ‘both you and your wife.’
Wesley caught her arm. ‘What did you say?’ He scrutinised her face. ‘You think I’m married?’
‘Well, y-yes,’ she faltered. ‘To Miss Lister-Brown.’
He let out an impatient sigh and shook his head. ‘I never married Henrietta. We were engaged for ages but I kept putting it off. I finally broke off the engagement when I returned from France.’
‘I see,’ Clarrie said, feeling bewildered.
‘No, I don’t think you do,’ Wesley said. He leaned closer. ‘I realised I could never marry her, because I was still in love with you.’
Clarrie’s heart thudded in her chest.
‘Seeing you at the memorial service brought back the strength of my feelings for you — seeing you with that young doctor made me so jealous.’
‘Johnny?’ Clarrie said in astonishment. ‘He was just a friend of Will’s.’
‘So there is nothing between the two of you?’ Wesley demanded.
‘Nothing,’ Clarrie said, going weak under his gaze.
Wesley grasped her by the arms. ‘Clarissa, tell me truthfully; could you still love me? Knowing that there is no other standing in our way, could we start again as friends and maybe in time be more than that?’
Her heart leaped. ‘Yes, of course,’ she smiled. ‘I still love you, Wesley.’
‘Do you really?’ he asked in disbelief.
‘I always have,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve been fighting my feelings for you for years, wanting to hate you, but unable to. Yesterday, after you left, I realised how very much in love I still was. But I thought it was too late — I just assumed you’d got married. You don’t know how happy I am to find out you are not!’
Heady with relief, Wesley pulled her into his arms. He bent towards her and kissed her hungrily. Clarrie slid her arms round his neck and kissed him back.
The door behind them opened.
‘Train’s about to leave, sir,’ a porter called.
They broke apart. For a moment they held each other’s look. Then Wesley drew a crown from his pocket and tossed it to the man.
‘Take my bags off the train, please,’ he ordered. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
As the astonished porter left, Clarrie laughed. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘That’s up to you,’ Wesley said. ‘Come to Africa with me, or London, or I’ll stay here, or we can go back to India. I don’t care! Wherever I can make you happy.’
Clarrie’s heart pounded. Perhaps they could finally go back to Belgooree? With Wesley anything seemed possible. As she looked into his vital, sensuous face, she realised that her yearning for her past home had been partly bound up with her yearning for him, suppressed though it was.
‘It doesn’t matter to me either,’ Clarrie said passionately, ‘as long as we’re together. I never want us to be parted again, ever!’
Wesley let out a roar of delight. He clasped his hands round her face. ‘Prove to me that I’m not dreaming,’ he laughed.
Clarrie smiled tenderly. ‘Kiss me then.’
With joy, they embraced with longing and passion, impatient to make up for the years of being apart. Tears of happiness fell on Clarrie’s cheeks. Will’s final wish — to see her and Wesley reunited — had been granted at last.
If you have enjoyed The Tea Planter’s Daughter, you might like to read the second novel in The India Tea Series:
THE PLANTER’S BRIDE.
1922: cousins and best friends, Sophie and Tilly, are looking for love and adventure. Sophie, orphaned at six, when her tea planter parents died suddenly of fever in India, has been brought up by a radical aunt in Edinburgh. Tilly meanwhile has lived a sheltered life in Newcastle. Tilly surprises everyone with a whirlwind marriage to confirmed bachelor and tea planter, James Robson, following him to India. Thinking herself in love with the charming but enigmatic forester Tam, the passionate, independent Sophie decides to follow him when he also goes to India. She longs to discover more about her mysterious parents and her early life in the tea gardens of Assam.But the harsh reality of life in India does not match the cousins’ dreams. Sophie’s enthusiasm for living in the jungle turns sour when Tam is bedevilled by ill-health and she receives unwanted attention from Tam’s bullying boss, Bracknall. Increasingly drawn to handsome and charismatic forester Rafi Khan, Sophie discovers too late that Tam has been keeping secrets from her. Meanwhile city-girl Tilly finds herself pregnant and isolated in a tea planter’s remote bungalow. When she begins to delve into Sophie’s past, Tilly begins to suspect that all is not as it should be regarding the death of Sophie’s parents. As long-hidden secrets come to light, the friends will be tested as never before.
Set against the vivid backdrop of post First World War Britain and the changing world of India under the British Raj, THE PLANTER’S BRIDE is a stirring and passionate story of tragedy, loyalty and undying love.
Extract from The Planter’s Bride
Prologue
India, 1907
Sophie stood on tiptoes, peering through the tangle of creepers that blocked her view from the veranda to the path below. She was impatient for her birthday party to begin, for friends from the neighbouring tea gardens to come and share the cake and apple pie that cook had made; to play Blind Man’s Buff and Hide and Seek. This strange creaky house with its shaded veranda and overgrown garden was perfect for hiding. They were playing drums for her down in the village; they had started before dawn and had been playing for hours. She pestered her mother.
‘When will they come, Mama? When will they come!’
‘Wheesht lassie,’ her mother sighed. ‘It’s too far for children to come just for tea.’
‘No it’s not!’ Sophie shook her head of honey-coloured curls. ‘We go for hours and hours to see people.’
‘This year is different. How many times do I have to tell you?’
Sophie looked at her mother in disappointment; she hadn’t even made the effort to change into an afternoon dress, as if she knew no one was coming. Sophie had put on her best blue dress the moment she had woken, without any help from her nanny, Ayah Mimi, though she had allowed Ayah to brush out her hair and button her shoes with the special metal hook.
‘We can ask some village children then,’ Sophie brightened. She had seen them splashing in the river pool when Papa had given her a riding lesson down the drive and along the track that led deep into the forest. Some of them had laughed and waved to see her perched high in the saddle, her legs straddled like a boy’s with her father leading the reins.
Her mother ignored this. ‘Ayah will set out your toy tea set and you can have a party with your dolls.’
‘No!’ Sophie stamped her foot in frustration. Today, she was six year’s old and wanted a proper tea party at the grown-ups’ table. She didn’t like the wax-faced dolls her parents had given her two years running, ignoring her pleas for a toy train; the only doll she had ever loved was a soft one in a velvet jacket and a long dark plait like Ayah Mimi’s, but it had gone mouldy and disintegrated in last summer’s rains. ‘I want a proper party!’
‘Don’t shout,’ her mother snapped, ‘you’ll disturb Papa.’ She gave an anxious glance into the dark interior of the house. All was quiet but for the new kitten mewling.
‘Will Papa get up today?’ Sophie asked. ‘If I can’t have a party, will he take me fishing?’
‘Not today. No one’s going anywhere today.’
‘Why not?’
Her mother twisted and twisted a ring around her finger.
‘Next year, God willing, I promise you will have a party.’
‘I don’t like it here – I want to go home.’ Sophie ran to the veranda steps and plonked herself down to wait; she refused to believe tha
t no one would come.
‘Keep out of the sun,’ her mother fretted, ‘and don’t go further than the bottom of the steps.’
‘Why?’
‘Cos I say so.’
Ayah Mimi’s soft tread came out of the shadows. The slim woman with a mole on her chin popped Sophie’s topee on her head and coaxed her out of the fierce light.
‘Lime juice and story time,’ smiled Ayah, ‘then lots of cake.’
When Sophie looked round her mother had already gone.
***
They were arguing – men’s voices – her father’s was hoarse and querulous, the other man’s deep and booming. The wide veranda was in darkness. Someone had covered her with a cotton sheet – it smelled of cloves like Ayah Mimi – as she had lain napping in the low hammock.
The sky was red and angry; the drumming from the village louder, sending birds screaming into the trees. Sophie sat up in alarm. Her mother was screaming too.
‘Just go! You’re making things worse!’
And why was that kitten wailing? The dusk made everything sound bigger than it should be.
Sophie scrambled out of the hammock, stumbling into heavy furniture and knocking over a pot plant. She peered down the steps; a large black horse was tethered to a post. She could just make out its tail flicking in the dying light, but no one was tending it. No cooking fires burned in the compound beyond the jungle of garden.
Was it still her birthday? She looked down at the limp dress stuck to her prickly skin. It must be.
‘Ayah?’ Sophie called out. ‘Ayah Mimi!’
She wanted her nanny to come and be with her while the grown-ups shouted and the fireworks went off in the village and the drumming went on pounding like it was inside her head.
Suddenly the shouting was spilling through the door. Sophie pressed back into the shadows.
‘Jessie, you’re not safe here. There have been threats. You must come–’
‘I’m going nowhere. Stop interfering! You being here is what makes it not safe.’
The man with the booming voice strode from the house and down the steps. Sophie heard the big horse snort as he mounted and kicked it forward with a final shout, ‘On your own heads be it!’
THE TEA PLANTER'S DAUGHTER:A wonderfully moving story of courage and enduring love: First in the India Tea Series Page 41
