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

  ‘Ow, that hurts!’

  ‘Your hairs wet.’

  ‘I’ve been sick.’

  ‘Tilly, y’ all right? Not ill?’ Clumsily, he stroked her hair.

  ‘I think it was those chota things,’ she mumbled.

  James dropped to his knees and fumbled for her hands. ‘Sorry. Thought would help – y’ know – first night.’

  Tilly felt ill again at the thought they now had to consummate their marriage. She wasn’t sure she wouldn’t throw up all over her new husband, who appeared to be quite drunk himself.

  ‘Is Fairfax home safely? You’ve been a long time.’

  ‘Yes, invited me in for a nightcap. Sorry again.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ Right at that moment, all Tilly wanted was to sleep and not wake up until she felt human. She swore she would never touch whisky again.

  ‘Let’s getta bed,’ James said, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet.

  Tilly watched him anxiously as he stumbled around trying to get out of his clothes. Stripped to his drawers and vest, with one shoe and sock still on, James lay back in exhaustion.

  ‘Just give me a minute,’ he said.

  Silence followed. Tilly climbed out of the chair and went to peer. The next moment, he began a soft snoring. He was half on, half off the bed but she didn’t want to touch him in case he awoke. Snoring next to her was a complete stranger.

  She lay down on the pillows wondering how on earth she was going to get through the next two days, and whether if they didn’t consummate the marriage, they could call it all off and she wouldn’t have to go and live with this man in India.

  ***

  James woke up with the feel of a bass drum thumping at his temples. His eyes felt small and gritty as he winced in the morning light streaming in at the open window. The curtains billowed and flapped like sails. A strange sour smell mixed with the salty air.

  ‘Good morning, Mr R.’

  He turned his head a fraction to see a young women with red hair scraped back behind her ears, perched on a chair beside the bed eyeing him. She was pale as a sheet, except for her long nose which was strangely pink. Tilly. His bride. His wife. She looked more like a condemned prisoner. James searched his foggy brain in a panic but could remember nothing of the previous night. Surely he had not mistreated her?

  ‘Good morning,’ he mumbled. He tried to sit up, but it made the drumming in his head worse.

  Tilly handed him a glass of water. ‘I needed one of these too.’

  ‘You did?’ James took it gratefully and drained it in one.

  ‘I’ve ordered tea and toast – couldn’t face the thought of a cooked breakfast. The girl is bringing it to the room – don’t think I can face sitting in the dining-room either – not with the smell of bacon. Have I done the right thing?’

  James nodded and groaned. ‘Quite the right thing.’

  She was wearing a summer dress with a geometric pattern that was making his vision blur. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, she was standing looking out of the window at the blue-grey North Sea.

  ‘Shall we walk along the beach today?’ Tilly asked. ‘I’m not sure what else you’re supposed to do on honeymoon.’

  James snorted. ‘I can think of one thing, Mrs R.’

  She flung him a look, her pale face abruptly tinged with pink. James felt a jolt of alarm again. He wished he could remember more of last night – he recalled leaving Fairfax’s house – but after that his memory failed him. What had he been doing at the old boy’s on his wedding night anyway? What a coward he was. He had chosen this young woman on a whim – because she wasn’t beautiful or independent-minded like Sophie – but kind and robust and biddable. But now the thought of sharing his life with a girl half his age terrified him; he had no idea how to treat her.

  ‘Tilly,’ he swallowed, his throat still parched. ‘Did we – last night – you know ...?’

  Her cheeks grew more crimson. ‘No, we didn’t.’

  James swung himself up into a sitting position, noticing how he still had one shoe on. He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed.

  ‘Sorry, I drank too much. It won’t happen again.’

  Tilly looked him over. His wiry hair stuck out at angles and the skin around his blue eyes seemed more creased than ever. Dark hair sprouted from his broad chest above his crumpled vest, his thick shoulders strangely pale compared to his weather-beaten lower arms. His legs were covered in hair too. It was fascinating and alarming.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ he frowned.

  She blurted out, ‘I had no idea men could be so hairy.’

  He gaped at her and then barked with laughter. He clutched his forehead. ‘Don’t make me laugh Tilly, my head’s too sore.’

  There was a knock at the door and the maid came in with a breakfast tray. Tilly motioned to the table in the window and slipped her a shilling. The girl had helped dispose of the chamber pot earlier that morning and deserved every penny.

  ‘The bathroom is two doors up, right-hand side,’ Tilly told James. ‘Plumbing’s noisy but it all works. Why don’t you have a wash while the tea brews, Mr R?’

  To her surprise, James did as he was told, pulling on a faded paisley-pattern dressing-gown, and left with his shaving equipment. He returned shaved and shiny faced and smelling pleasantly of sandalwood, got dressed behind a screen and joined her for breakfast, polishing off six pieces of toast and most of the tea.

  Ordering a picnic lunch, they went out and walked north along the promenade, stopping at Cullercoats to watch the fisherfolk mending their nets in the blustery sunshine, then eating their lunch on the sand at Whitley Bay. Out in the fresh air, they found conversation easy and Tilly showered him with questions about Assam and what she should expect.

  ‘Muriel Percy-Barratt will keep you right,’ he told her, ‘she’s the burra memsahib around the tea gardens – senior lady. Anything you need to know about domestic stuff, Muriel’s your woman. She’s very pleased to be asked to look after you on the boat back; you’ll be able to have all that household chat that I’m no good at.’

  Tilly was encouraged to think she already had a ready-made friend.

  ‘And it’ll be good having Clarrie Robson not too far away.’

  ‘Belgooree is a great distance from my house,’ James was dismissive, ‘we hardly ever meet.’

  ‘Clarrie said we could meet in Shillong if I’m there on a shopping trip,’ Tilly persisted.

  ‘Shopping?’ James queried. ‘If there’s anything you need, it’s far better to order it from Calcutta or have it sent out from home. But Muriel can keep you right about all that.’

  Tilly let the matter drop. She didn’t want to antagonise him over talk of Clarrie; she was aware that there was a business disagreement with Clarrie’s husband Wesley. But it wouldn’t stop her being friends with Clarrie, who had been dear to her family for years.

  They talked happily about James’s pets; his gun dogs, ponies and a talking bird called Sinbad. The fears and doubts of last night seemed ridiculous now, banished by the cheery sunshine and fresh sea air. James’s drunkenness had been the result of wedding night jitters, just as hers had been. It made her feel tender towards him that such a mature man should have felt boyish nerves.

  That evening, they ate ravenously in the dining-room and retired upstairs early. James drew the curtains and they undressed to the sound of seagulls squawking on the window ledge. She kept on her underclothes and climbed under the covers, but James stripped off completely and burrowed in beside her. His skin smelt of sand and sun and her own pale skin glowed from the heat of the day. She held her breath and waited.

  ‘Can I let down your hair Tilly?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She reached behind to loosen it, but he stopped her.

  ‘Let me do it.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  Slowly he unpinned her wavy tresses and pulled them around her shoulders, his fingers brushing her face and neck, sending small shocks d
own her body.

  ‘There are so many pins, aren’t there? Mother always complains how many I need and how often I seem to lose them.’

  Gently he kissed the wispy tendrils around her forehead and then moved his lips across her lashes and cheeks and chin. His tongue licked at her neck and down her chest as he eased the front of her chemise open, his large fingers clumsy with the dainty ribbon.

  ‘You taste of the sea,’ he murmured, his voice suddenly soft and deep.

  ‘Do I? That can’t be very nice.’ Tilly felt her heart begin to thump erratically, a strange warmth creeping down her stomach. ‘I should have thought to have a bath before dinner.’ She tried not to sound breathless, though that was how she felt. ‘But I was so hungry after our day out.’

  James pulled away her chemise, releasing her breasts. He gazed down at her and gasped.

  ‘You’re beautiful Tilly, like ripe fruit.’

  Tilly snorted with sudden laughter. He frowned.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘The things you say,’ Tilly spluttered.

  He pulled back. ‘I don’t like being laughed at, especially by my new wife.’

  Tilly came up on her elbows. ‘I’m not laughing at you, I promise.’

  ‘That’s what it sounds like.’ He sat up and reached for his cigarette case.

  Tilly had a sudden panic that they would never consummate this marriage and if they didn’t do it now, James would sail off to India and change his mind about her and cancel her voyage, and she’d end up a sad old maid living on her sister’s generosity in windswept Dunbar. And she knew more than ever that she wanted to make a go of this marriage to James Robson; she had an inkling that the sex side of things could be a whole lot more fun than Mona had indicated on their one brief conversation about preparing for marriage.

  She reached out and took the cigarette case and lighter from his beefy hands.

  ‘I’m sorry, I know I sometimes talk and giggle too much but it’s only nervousness. It drives my family mad. Come back and taste the fruit,’ she grinned, blushing at her own forwardness, ‘I was enjoying it too.’

  ‘Really?’ James sounded doubtful.

  She guided his hand onto her left breast. ‘Here, feel my heart banging like the clappers. It doesn’t even race that much in tennis.’

  James let out a laugh and plunged his face between her breasts.

  ‘What a feast I’m going to have, Mrs R,’ he cried.

  Tilly gurgled with laughter as he fondled and kissed her, straddling her with all the keenness of a champion jockey. She thrilled at the exquisite things he did to her fleshy belly and thighs, crying out with joy, revelling in the chaos of discarded clothing and bedding, the heat and sweat of their vigorous lovemaking, not caring how dishevelled she became. She felt like a goddess with her cornucopia of fruit; she may even have said so at the height of their passion.

  ‘Oh goodness, James,’ she sighed, as they sank back on the rumpled bed, ‘exercise has never been so much fun.’

  James chuckled beside her, ‘or with so much commentary.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Tilly said, ‘did I talk too much? I’ll try not to next time.’

  He flung an arm over her soft belly. ‘Don’t change a thing, Mrs R. You’re just right as you are.’

  Chapter 7

  Edinburgh

  William Boswell rang the bell for flat four, seventy-one Clerk Street at a quarter to two. Sophie and Amy were ready in tennis skirts and plimsolls.

  Sophie pulled the lever to open the downstairs door but as Boz stepped inside the building she called over the banisters into the stairwell, ‘We’ll come down and save you coming up.’

  She was down the steps, two at a time, her aunt following. In the doorway, she and Boz grinned at each other and shook hands, then Sophie said, ‘you remember Auntie Amy from the sidecar?’

  ‘Aye, of course, pleased tae meet you again, Miss Anderson.’

  Sophie could see someone standing beyond the half open outer door; a leg in white flannels and a billow of smoke from a cigarette.

  ‘Tam?’ she smiled and stepped outside.

  Her face fell as she saw it wasn’t Tam Telfer. The Indian from the Meadows cricket match dropped his cigarette, ground it beneath his shoe and held out a hand.

  ‘Hello Miss Logan; Rafi Khan. We met at the camp – Carter Bar.’

  Sophie hesitated. ‘Yes, of course.’ She took his hand in a brief shake, swallowing down her disappointment.

  Amy greeted him more readily. ‘From Lahore, wasn’t it? Your family’s in construction.’

  ‘Well remembered, Miss Anderson,’ Rafi smiled.

  ‘And you joined the Lahore Horse because you liked riding more than organising bricks – annoyed your father. I like an independent-minded spirit.’

  Rafi gave a delighted laugh. ‘And I salute a woman who shook her umbrella at that wily politician Churchill who didn’t want you to have the vote and doesn’t trust us Indians to run our own country. At least you have won your fight.’

  ‘Rafi, nae politics this afternoon please,’ cried Boz, ‘the ladies were promised tennis.’

  ‘The one topic shouldn’t be at the exclusion of the other,’ Amy said, and fell into step with Rafi. ‘I passed through Lahore over twenty years ago on the way to my sister’s wedding in Murree – wonderful Moghul buildings – and I’ve never seen such a grand railway station; it was like a palace itself.’

  ‘My grandfather was one of the builders,’ Rafi smiled. ‘His fledgling company thrived after that – paid for my schooling at Bishop Cotton’s in Simla.’

  ‘Simla? Now there’s a place I wish I’d visited.’

  ‘Not much different from your Scottish Highlands – or your Scottish weather,’ Rafi joked. ‘I was well prepared for mist and rain by Simla summers, and cold winds and snow by Simla winters.’

  ‘So why leave the warmth of Lahore for Scotland, Mr Khan?’

  ‘I like Scottish weather.’

  Amy peered at him and realised from his sardonic look that he was teasing her.

  ‘And at Simla I developed a passion for trees. Edinburgh has one of the best forestry trainings in the Empire ...’

  Sophie stepped ahead with Boz, feeling hot with embarrassment that she should have assumed Tam would be making up their tennis four. The sophisticated Khan made her feel quite tongue-tied. Boz seemed to understand.

  ‘Tam is abroad at the moment. He went tae France as soon as term finished.’

  ‘Oh, I see. It’s the final forestry camp, is it?’

  ‘No, that’s not until August.’ Boz glanced at her. ‘He’s in Paris with his ma and sister. The first holiday they’ve had together since the end of the war. It was Tam’s idea.’

  ‘How kind of him,’ Sophie smiled, relieved that Tam’s absence had nothing to do with not wanting to play tennis with her. ‘He spoke very fondly of them – quite admiring of his older sister.’

  ‘Aye,’ Boz agreed. ‘Flora’s been like a second mother to him – ten years older – so he’s always after her approval.’

  ‘Well taking her to Paris must score a lot of points,’ Sophie said dryly.

  ‘Aye, he’s out to impress,’ Boz nodded, ‘show off his bad French and convince her that after surviving a war and a university degree, he’s finally a grown man capable of making his own decisions.’

  ‘She sounds formidable.’

  ‘She is,’ Boz grunted. ‘Any friend of Tam’s has to be approved by his sister Flora first.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Sophie said.

  He gave her an odd look. Perhaps he was disappointed that she was taking such an interest in his friend, but surely it must have been obvious at the camp that that was where her feelings lay?

  They talked no more of Tam and enjoyed a lively game of doubles; Amy pairing with Rafi, and Sophie with Boz. Her aunt was slower around the court than Sophie, yet her swing was strong, her arms well-muscled from her joinery work. Rafi was also a strong confident player and had
Sophie running all over the court, but Boz with his lanky height and reach, managed to win many of the shots that Sophie couldn’t.

  Each pair won a set and then Sophie’s pair narrowly won the third. Amy tired and lost the fourth set easily.

  ‘That’s enough,’ her aunt panted, ‘I’m sorry Rafi, I’m done in.’

  ‘So am I,’ Rafi agreed. Though Sophie thought he didn’t look tired at all. His handsome face hardly glistened whereas Boz was puce and dripping with sweat. Rafi flicked Sophie a look. ‘Well played.’ He shook Boz’s hand in congratulations but didn’t attempt to take hers. ‘You make a winning pair.’

  Sophie was rankled by his comment; the Indian was mocking her so she ignored him.

  ‘Thanks Rafi, well played too,’ Boz said, wiping his face with a large handkerchief.

  ‘Let me walk you home, Miss Anderson,’ Rafi turned away. ‘Boz and Miss Logan can have a singles game without us. Your niece still looks full of energy.’

  Amy accepted readily and Boz seemed keen to carry on.

  ‘Yes let’s,’ Sophie agreed, trying not to show her annoyance at Rafi’s remark. It was less the words than his teasing manner. ‘I don’t often get to play and the weather’s too nice to be indoors.’

  She felt a strange relief when the urbane young Indian walked away with her aunt. He was handsome and humorous, she had to admit, but she didn’t feel comfortable in his presence. It was nothing she could readily explain. And the way he looked at her with a coolness that verged on disdain, made her suspect that he didn’t much like her.

  Sophie and Boz played for another half an hour. To her delight, her game improved while he tired and they drew at five games all.

  ‘Next time I’ll beat you,’ Sophie said.

  ‘I accept the challenge, Miss Logan,’ Boz grinned.

  They arranged to play the following Wednesday evening and walked back to the Clerk Street flat together, Sophie inviting him up for some of Amy’s homemade lemonade to quench his thirst. She felt a flutter of nerves as she entered the flat; the Lahori would be lounging in a comfortable seat smoking and spouting politics with her aunt.