THE PLANTER'S BRIDE: A story of intrigue and passion: sequel to THE TEA PLANTER'S DAUGHTER (India Tea Series Book 2)

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘I know the feeling,’ Sophie grinned and slipped her arm through Tilly’s.

  Clarrie welcomed in Tilly’s mother and sister, finding Mrs Watson a chair at once, noticing her laboured breathing and pasty look. Mona stood guard at the door, pulling Tilly firmly by the hand so she wouldn’t escape greeting friends and acquaintances as they arrived. Sophie caught Tilly’s pleading look and hovered close-by, amazed at the number of guests trooping in, while Tilly stuttered a bashful welcome. When the tearoom had filled up, Sophie steered Tilly away from Mona and introduced Clarrie to Auntie Amy.

  ‘A suffrage friend of mine spoke highly of you, Mrs Robson,’ Amy said, ‘for allowing your café to be used for the census protest before the War.’

  ‘Oh, what a night that was, partying till dawn!’ Clarrie clapped her hands. ‘Who was your friend?’

  ‘Florence Beal. She thought you very brave as you hadn’t been open long and no doubt there were plenty who disapproved.’

  ‘Dear Florence! Yes, plenty disapproved,’ Clarrie admitted, ‘including my eldest stepson. But I used to find that if something incensed Bertie then it was usually a cause worth fighting for.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘Now,’ she turned to Tilly, ‘you lasses must find friends your own age. Why don’t you join the group over there? Church friends are they?’

  ‘Tennis Club mainly,’ Tilly said, glancing anxiously across.

  ‘Tennis?’ Sophie said in surprise.

  ‘I play more bridge there than tennis admittedly,’ Tilly giggled. ‘Mona must have invited them.’

  Sophie saw Tilly’s reluctance and slipped an arm through hers. ‘Come on, introduce me to your sporty friends, then we’ll stuff ourselves with cake.’

  With her cousin at her side, Tilly found the party less of an ordeal. She was happiest in a small group of people she knew well, but Sophie could speak to anyone and soon had the tennis crowd laughing at stories about their childhood holidays together; camping in the Pentland Hills and visiting Great Uncle Daniel, a retired weaver, in Perth.

  ‘He taught us to fish,’ Sophie said, ‘it was the only thing he knew how to cook so we had fish nearly every day. When it came to gutting them, Tilly would announce she was feeling suddenly vegetarian and disappear with a book.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t bear all those slippery innards,’ Tilly pulled a face. Sophie nudged her.

  ‘But you converted back quickly to fish eating by the time they were cooked.’

  ‘And he took us to the music hall,’ Tilly reminisced, ‘but told us never to repeat any of the jokes or Mother and Auntie Amy would never let us stay again.’

  There was general agreement that Great Uncle Daniel sounded just the sort of special uncle that everyone should have. The young men began to request dances and fill up the girls’ dance cards. Sophie noticed how Tilly kept glancing at the entrance and suspected she was watching out for James Robson and wanting to keep some dances free for him. She too was intrigued to meet the tea planter and thought it rude he was so late.

  Then Mona beckoned Tilly to join her in the middle of the room while waitresses went around with tray-loads of small glasses of punch for toasting. Mona, on behalf of her mother, made a short speech of welcome to their family friends.

  ‘I’m very fond of my youngest sister,’ said Mona, ‘even if she has driven us all mad over the years with her head in the clouds and her clumsiness. But you couldn’t ask for a kinder heart and a sweeter nature. I’m sad that neither our sister Jacobina nor our dear brother Johnny can be here today – and of course we all miss dearest Father – but they are here in thought and spirit. So let us raise our glasses to Tilly!’

  ‘To Tilly!’ they chorused and drank. People looked at the birthday girl expectantly.

  ‘Th-thank you,’ Tilly blushed. She could think of nothing else to say, quite overawed to be the centre of attention.

  ‘Well,’ Mona said, ‘what Tilly wants to say is, please enjoy the tea and the dancing and thank you for coming.’

  Tilly nodded and smiled and wished the floor would swallow her up.

  Sophie slipped to her friend’s side, took her elbow and murmured, ‘cake now,’ and steered her back to the table.

  Two of the men from the tennis club claimed the cousins in the first dance; a sedate two-step. Tilly then managed a waltz without treading too much on her partner’s feet, followed by a Gay Gordons with the son of their family doctor which left her dizzy and declining the next few. She watched Sophie doing a sprightly polka and wished she had half her grace and nimbleness. The young men queued up to dance with her pretty cousin and somehow Sophie seemed to know all the latest dances including the racy foxtrot which brought a disapproving look from Mona.

  The dance was nearly over, and Tilly had given up hope that James Robson would come, when she noticed his stocky figure standing near the door, dressed in a crumpled linen suit and smoking hard. His weathered face looked ruggedly handsome above the stiff white collar. He was staring in her direction so she half rose with a tentative wave, then realised he was looking beyond her. She turned to see that it was Sophie who had caught his attention, twirling around the dance floor in a Scottish reel. Glancing back at James’s mesmerised look, she felt a wave of disappointment and sat back down.

  Mona pounced on James and pulled him over to greet the family. Tilly’s mother gave a distracted hello; she was feeling the strain of too many people and the heat as much as Tilly. Auntie Amy though was all smiles as she shook hands.

  ‘So glad to meet you again, Mr Robson,’ she beamed. ‘Sophie is looking forward to seeing you too. She’s dancing over there.’

  ‘I thought that must be her – the likeness to her mother is striking.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ Amy agreed. ‘She wants to thank you in person for helping her through school.’

  James grunted. ‘No need.’

  He turned to Tilly and held out a present. ‘Happy Birthday, Matilda.’ His expression was almost a scowl. For a second Tilly wondered who Matilda was; no one had called her that since she had left school at fifteen.

  ‘Thank you.’ She took it, not wanting to open it in front of curious eyes. ‘May I open it later?’

  ‘Whatever you wish,’ James said, aware of her discomfort. Perhaps he had been wrong to come, he thought. The attentions of an older man were obviously embarrassing. ‘It’s only a papier-mâché trinket box bought in the bazaar.’

  Tilly went even redder and couldn’t think of a polite reply.

  ‘How very useful,’ Mona came to the rescue. ‘Please sit down with us Mr Robson and we’ll order a fresh pot of tea. We did think you’d be here earlier. The dancing is nearly over. The band has another engagement at five o’clock.’

  James’s colour deepened. ‘I’m not one for dancing, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well that’s something you and my sister have in common,’ Mona said bluntly.

  James sat down gingerly on a dainty chair, his legs anchored firmly either side as if he feared his bulk would break it. Ever watchful, Clarrie appeared with a waitress carrying a fresh pot of tea and replenished the sandwiches. They greeted each other warily, then Clarrie bustled away again.

  Amy attempted to engage him in conversation. ‘How was the voyage?’

  ‘Fine, thank you.’

  ‘How long are you in England?’

  ‘Six weeks.’

  ‘Not long then. So you return ...?’

  ‘In four weeks.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll have time to pay us a visit in Edinburgh?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ James said, glancing again at the dancing Sophie and stirring sugar vigorously into his tea, causing it to spill over the cup onto the saucer. He was aware of the women exchanging glances and wished they would talk among themselves. He was so out of practice in polite conversation, largely content with his own company and that of his dogs in his remote home. He spent his days talking business with his undermanagers and workers, and after a day in the saddle was too tired to go socialising. Besides, the n
earest neighbours were miles away and just as busy as him.

  Amy tried again. ‘The tea gardens are doing well, I hope?’

  ‘We do our best.’ He took a slurp of tea. Herbert’s Tearooms served a quality blend, he thought with grudging admiration. Now tea he could talk about. ‘Things have been harder since the War. There was a great deal of stockpiling at the docks that flooded the market once shipping could sail safely again. And the growers had been encouraged to produce as much as possible during the War, so there was massive overproduction.’

  ‘Good for us tea drinkers, surely?’ Amy asked. ‘The price of tea has come down.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mona joined in. ‘As someone who has to keep a rein on the household purse, a drop in tea prices is to be welcomed.’

  ‘A slump in the price is not good in the long run,’ James curbed his impatience. ‘If we don’t get a good price we can’t invest in new machinery and then we become inefficient or go out of business – then a couple of years down the line you’ll see the price of tea rising sharply.

  We’ve had to cut back on production – and our labour force was hit hard by Spanish flu so we’ve had extra recruitment costs to bear.’

  ‘Oh yes, there was quite a storm in the papers recently over tea workers,’ Amy remembered. ‘Lots of them leaving because of sickness and bad conditions.’

  ‘Stirred up by outside agitators,’ James snapped. ‘That troublemaker Ghandi sent in his followers to try and start revolt among the coolies. But it’s all died down now. We don’t have any trouble at the Oxford, though some gardens have gone to the wall.’

  There was an awkward pause. Tilly looked anxiously at the faces around the table. Her mother looked ill; Mona was raising eyebrows at an amused Amy, while James looked annoyed. She wanted to make him feel at ease as well as demonstrate that she knew something about the tea trade. It was obviously the way to his heart.

  ‘Clarrie says that your cousin Wesley is doing very well at Belgooree,’ she piped up. ‘She says that specialist small growers are becoming popular again, after all the inferior tea people had to drink through the War. Is that what you’re doing at the Oxford gardens, Mr Robson?’

  To her dismay, he looked incensed.

  ‘Certainly not! Wesley has allowed his heart to rule his head. He’s only done it to please Clarrie because she grew up there. It’s never made a profit even in old Jock Belhaven’s day. Belgooree will never be as prosperous as the Oxford; it’s only because Wesley’s ploughed so much money into it – I don’t know how he hoodwinked the shareholders into the foolhardy venture. He’s quite misguided.’

  The dancing finished and as the band packed up, Sophie came over breathless to the family table. She noticed at once Tilly’s burning cheeks and eyes brimming with tears. Whatever had upset her?

  Amy broke the strained atmosphere, introducing a bulldog of a man with a thick red neck and piercing blue eyes. ‘Sophie, this is Mr James Robson.’ He stood, nodded and after a moment’s hesitation, took her hand in a crushing handshake.

  ‘So pleased to meet you, Mr Robson,’ Sophie smiled, pulling her hand free and trying not to wince. Something about his square shoulders and jutting chin gave her a frisson of remembrance.

  He gave a half-smile. ‘You look like your mother.’

  ‘Do I?’ Sophie was suddenly overcome with the thought that this man had known her parents; had been the one to rescue her from India and bring her to Scotland. Her eyes smarted. ‘I’m very grateful for what you did for me – and helping me and Auntie financially.’

  He cleared his throat, embarrassed by such talk. ‘Nothing really. Was pleased to do it. Friend of your parents. Such a tragedy.’

  Sophie was bursting with a hundred questions. ‘There’s so much I want to ask you about India – about my parents. I remember so little.’

  ‘Perhaps now is not the time or place,’ Amy said gently. ‘I hope that Mr Robson might visit us properly before his leave is over, so we can repay him for some of his kindness.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Sophie enthused, ‘please come.’

  James smiled, flattered by the pretty young woman’s eagerness. A thought half-formed in his mind. He began to ask her questions about her life in Edinburgh. She told him about her work for the Scottish Servants’ Charity, her driving in the War for the Red Cross and her passion for motorcycling. James was entranced though a little shocked at her modern ways. Her upbringing with spinster Amy Anderson appeared somewhat lax. Sophie’s father, Bill Logan, would not have approved at all. But as the other guests said their thanks and left, James felt energised by Sophie’s chatter and was reluctant to leave.

  Abruptly, Tilly stood up.

  ‘Mother, you don’t look at all well; would you like to go home now?’

  Mrs Watson nodded with relief and reached for her stick.

  ‘Oh Mother, I’ll take you home,’ Mona took command. ‘Tilly, you stay and say goodbye to your guests.’

  ‘Most people have gone and I’d rather come too,’ Tilly gave a pleading look. ‘I don’t feel well either.’

  ‘Too much cake?’ Sophie teased. Tilly gave her such a tearful look that Sophie jumped up too. ‘Sorry Tilly, I didn’t mean– ‘

  Tilly shook her off. ‘Don’t fuss.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mona sniffed, ‘I think it’s time we all went home.’

  Sophie stood back, baffled. Mona turned to James. ‘This has all been a bit much for Mother. I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit in Newcastle, Mr Robson. Goodbye.’

  ‘Perhaps I could call round this coming week?’

  ‘We shan’t be there,’ Mona said rudely. ‘Mother and Tilly are returning with me to Dunbar on Monday.’

  Sophie gave Tilly a look of surprise but her cousin did not deny it.

  Mona signalled to Clarrie, who sent a waitress into the street to hail a cab. James, feeling suddenly snubbed by the Watsons, gave a curt goodbye and left. As the family thanked the staff at Herbert’s, Clarrie took Tilly’s hands in hers.

  ‘I hope you’ve had a grand time?’

  Tilly nodded and gulped back tears.

  ‘James Robson hasn’t been upsetting you has he?’

  ‘Why should I care about Mr Robson?’ Tilly tried to laugh.

  Clarrie lowered her voice. ‘He’s a man’s man – not very comfortable around lasses – but he’d be mad not to see such a bonny one right under his nose,’ Clarrie said kindly.

  Tilly smiled, trying to smother her jealousy that James appeared too captivated by her cousin to notice her.

  Back at the Gosforth house, Mrs Watson retired to bed and Amy offered to sit with her and read, leaving the cousins alone.

  Mona was quick in her condemnation. ‘What a rude man, turning up when the party was almost over and then lecturing us all on the economics of tea, as if we had the slightest interest.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Tilly said, collapsing into a chair with a book.

  ‘And the way he criticised dear Clarrie in front of us all and ticking you off as if you were a child. The man has no manners.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Sophie asked. ‘I knew something had upset you.’

  ‘You’re one to talk,’ Mona rounded on her young cousin. ‘Monopolising him you were. It was Tilly’s birthday, not yours. I do think you could have been a bit more considerate.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sophie was contrite. ‘I was just trying to keep the conversation going – nobody seemed to be saying anything.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s more ladylike to talk less and listen more,’ Mona scolded.

  ‘Tilly forgive me,’ Sophie sat down beside her friend. But Tilly would not look up from her book.

  ‘Well,’ Mona huffed, ‘it’s as well to find out now what a bore he is. Drank his tea like a navvy as well. No, I don’t think he’s husband material at all. You can do a lot better than James Robson.’

  Sophie said, ‘That’s not very kind. I think he was just a bit overwhelmed in female company. Probably doesn’t see much of
it in Assam.’

  ‘Another reason for Tilly not to encourage him,’ Mona said. ‘She doesn’t want to live in the back of beyond with no polite society for a hundred miles.’

  ‘Tilly could live anywhere as long as there’s a supply of books,’ Sophie nudged her friend.

  Tilly threw down her book and sprang up. ‘You don’t know what I want – either of you! But I’m not encouraging him because it’s obvious he cares nothing for me and I don’t care for him. So you’re welcome to him, Sophie.’

  Tilly rushed from the sitting-room and stamped upstairs, leaving the other women open-mouthed.

  Mona stopped Sophie going after her. ‘She’ll see that it’s all for the best when she goes out to join Johnny and Helena in Rawalpindi. My new sister-in-law is very well connected in India – army family – been there for three generations. She’ll find a suitable young officer for my sister – and maybe instil more household skills into her than I’ve been able to.’ Mona warmed to her theme. ‘Robson’s only in trade – they come pretty far down the pecking order in India, so I’m told.’

  ‘But you can tell Tilly’s fond of him,’ Sophie pointed out, ‘or she wouldn’t be making such a song and dance of pretending she isn’t.’

  ‘Fondness is for dogs,’ Mona was sharp. ‘Marriage is more important than that. What matters is financial security and being of the same class. If you rub along together like I do with Walter, then that’s an added bonus.’

  Ignoring Mona’s advice to leave Tilly alone, Sophie knocked on her door and tried to enter. The door was locked and her cousin would not answer her calls.

  ‘I’m sorry Tilly,’ she said through the keyhole, ‘don’t let this come between us. I only wanted to speak to Robson about my parents, that’s all. He’s about the closest link I’ve got to them. Don’t be mad with me.’

  But Tilly remained silent and Sophie gave us with an exasperated, ‘Oh silly Tilly!’

  Tilly lay on her bed wrapped in a soft woollen shawl that Johnny had sent to her from India, feeling wretched. She wanted to rush to the door and let Sophie in, so why didn’t she? Why was she punishing her best friend? She understood that Sophie didn’t care for James Robson and saw him merely as a friend of her dead parents; she knew her well enough to know that even if Sophie felt even a flicker of interest in the tea planter that she would do nothing to encourage him, out of loyalty to her. That was not the problem.