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

  ‘Did he?’ Sophie felt a jolt at hearing his name unexpectedly.

  ‘Yes, he seemed to sense your longing. “Laying ghosts to rest” was the phrase he used.’

  Sophie felt a slow thud in her chest and then whispered, ‘He’s right. I suppose deep down, I’d like to know everything that happened to them.’

  Tilly frowned. ‘But you know what happened; they both caught enteric fever. You were lucky to survive it too; that’s what James said.’

  ‘I know,’ Sophie puzzled, ‘but I don’t remember being ill. I remember my father having fever and keeping to his room – and shouting – I remember him shouting a lot. But not mother or me. My last memory of mother is of her playing hide and seek with me. You don’t do that if you’ve got fever, do you?’

  ‘It can happen in a few short hours,’ Tilly said. ‘That’s what is so scary about these diseases.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Sophie struggled with her memory. ‘But where was Ayah? I don’t remember her comforting me when they died or coming to see me off.’

  ‘Maybe she’d been sent to work for someone else?’ Tilly guessed.

  Sophie shook her head, baffled. ‘There was something going on that night. There was a lot of shouting and the grown-ups seemed worried – wouldn’t let me go beyond the veranda steps. I remember lots of noise and fireworks beyond the compound.’

  ‘Yes, I remember you telling me about the drumming when we were young,’ Tilly said. ‘You thought they were drumming for your birthday, didn’t you?’

  Sophie nodded. ‘Obviously that was nonsense – there must have been something going on in the village. My last memory of Ayah Mimi is her running away down the path with our new kitten. Isn’t that a strange thing? Why was she doing that? Or maybe I just remember it wrongly.’

  ‘I don’t think it helps to dwell on all that – you’ll never know for sure – but it might help if you came to Assam for a visit,’ Tilly suggested, ‘go and visit your parents’ graves.’

  ‘I’m not even sure where they’re buried,’ Sophie said sadly. ‘We were living away from the Oxford gardens when they died. I imagine they were buried somewhere in the hills. Auntie Amy never talked about such things – she didn’t want me upset – but perhaps she never knew.’

  ‘James might know,’ Tilly said. ‘I can ask him if you like.’

  Sophie leaned over and kissed her hot cheek. ‘Thank you, I’d be really grateful.’

  They ate more Turkish Delight and talked about the future.

  ‘Who would have thought we’d both end up going to India?’ Tilly mused.

  ‘Or both marry planters,’ Sophie said. ‘You always did copy everything I did.’

  ‘Not this time,’ Tilly protested. ‘I was first to be a planter’s bride and book my passage to India.’

  ‘I know,’ Sophie chuckled in the dark. ‘I was only teasing. And you’re definitely going to be a mother long before me. I have no desire for all that yet – I find babies frightening.’

  ‘Frightening?’ Tilly asked in surprise. ‘You mean giving birth?’

  ‘Not just that,’ Sophie said, trying to voice what it was exactly that filled her with fear. ‘It’s being in charge of something so small and not being able to keep it safe.’

  ‘Oh,’ Tilly said, covering her stomach in alarm. In the past week she had felt definite kicks from the baby and was beginning to think of it as real.

  ‘Sorry,’ Sophie said quickly, ‘that was a stupid thing to say. You and James will be wonderful parents and I bet you go on to have hordes of robust little Robsons. I’m just not ready for a family. Here, let’s have one more sweet in honour of baby Robson.’

  Half the box was gone before they stopped chatting.

  Tilly slept soundly for the first time in two weeks, until the deck scrubbers appeared in the dawn light to hose down the boards, and the cousins crept back to their bunks.

  ***

  The following days were hot and calm; the sea a dazzling peacock blue.

  ‘Looks like a roller has been over it,’ Sophie was amazed, ‘I’ve never seen it so flat.’

  ‘Just wish it wasn’t so sticky,’ Tilly sighed, fanning herself in the shade.

  The ship was hailed by two dhows which had been becalmed and the captain stopped to allow the seafarers to come aboard for fresh water and supplies. Sophie watched in fascination as the men paddled across in slim canoes keeping their balance on the frail craft.

  ‘I don’t see why we should be delayed because of some Arab fishermen,’ Muriel Percy-Barratt complained loudly. ‘It’s their own fault for sailing out so far in those primitive boats.’

  ‘It’s the code of the sea,’ Wesley said brusquely, ‘and our captain is duty bound to help them – just as they would help us if we needed rescuing.’

  The final few days on board were fractious. People were growing tired of being confined on board and their thoughts were turning in anticipation to arrival. Complaints were made about the carousing of young men in the early mornings on the lower deck, while the young blamed the older men for drinking the most. The ship’s captain responded by forbidding any more late night entertainment. Then a cyclonic gale blew up that sent waves crashing over the bows and any would-be revellers retired green-gilled to their cabins. Sophie was one of the few passengers to brave the storm, revelling in the spray that soaked her hair and face.

  Weaving her way down towards the stern, she came across Clarrie and Mrs Hogg sitting with a tiny old woman in a sari. Sophie stopped in her tracks at the unexpected sight. She had glimpsed the Indian woman before but noticed how she kept to herself. Up close, Sophie could see her skin was wrinkled and yellow like parchment, her thin hands like the claws of a bird.

  ‘This is Mrs Besant,’ Mrs Hogg introduced her. ‘Sophie Logan is a promising student of Urdu. She’s on her way to marry a forester called Telfer in the Punjab.’

  The old woman greeted her in the Eastern manner with a bow and palms pressed together. She spoke in an upper-class accent. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Logan. I hope you enjoy India for the short time the Britishers have left in the country.’

  ‘Now Annie,’ Mrs Hogg chided, ‘don’t tease the girl.’

  ‘Just a statement of fact, Fluffy, my dear.’

  It suddenly struck Sophie who this was; the infamous Annie Besant who had spearheaded the Quit India campaign before the war, advocating the end of British rule. She had read that Mrs Besant had escaped prison only by leaving swiftly for America. Now here she was returning, an unwelcome revolutionary, though to Sophie she looked as harmless as the tiny wren.

  ‘Mrs Besant,’ Sophie returned the gesture, ‘my aunt knew you in her suffrage days – Amy Anderson from Edinburgh – she talked about sharing the same platform with you once but you probably won’t remember.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ the elderly woman said with sudden interest, ‘a talented artist as well as a brave campaigner. I remember meeting her when she came out for her sister’s wedding. How is your aunt?’

  ‘She died a few months ago,’ Sophie answered, her eyes stinging.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Mrs Besant said, with a brief touch on her hand. ‘So you are making a new life in India?’

  Sophie nodded.

  ‘All I ask is that you come with an open mind and do what you can for the country,’ she advised. ‘Too many Britishers come with the sole intention of seeing how much they can get out of India for themselves.’

  ‘Sophie is not the least bit like that,’ Clarrie defended. ‘And she is no stranger to the country; she grew up in Assam before her parents died. She already has a feel for the place, just like us three.’

  Sophie gave Clarrie a grateful smile. It surprised her that three such different women should be friends.

  ‘And perhaps Miss Logan will choose to stay in India no matter who governs in the future,’ said Mrs Hogg.

  ‘That almost sounds like sedition, Fluffy,’ Mrs Besant smiled. ‘Colonel Hogg thinks the Empire will go on for
another century, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Wishful thinking, Annie. He has no more desire than you do to retire to the south of England and grow roses. That’s why we’re making our home in Dalhousie hill station.’

  ‘Dalhousie? That amounts to the same thing,’ Annie said dryly.

  ‘Dalhousie’s more like Scotland from what I’ve heard,’ Clarrie joined in.

  ‘Well at least I’ll feel at home then,’ Sophie said, making the other women laugh.

  ‘My dear,’ said Mrs Besant, ‘I hope you will experience the real India and not hide away in the hills with the government wallahs.’

  ‘I want to experience it all,’ Sophie was enthusiastic.

  ‘And what are the skills you bring?’ she persisted.

  Sophie thought for a moment. ‘I’m not a great cook but can dance quite well.’ From the frown on Mrs Besant’s face, she could see she wasn’t impressed. Sophie racked her brains. ‘My aunt taught me to use a hammer and chisel, though I don’t have her artistic flair.’

  ‘Sophie rides a motorcycle,’ Clarrie came to her rescue, ‘and she can fix almost anything mechanical, according to her cousin Tilly.’

  The older women looked impressed.

  ‘A motorcycle? Well, I never,’ Mrs Hogg gasped.

  ‘Sadly I had to leave Memsahib behind,’ Sophie said.

  ‘You called your motor machine Memsahib?’ Mrs Besant raised her eyebrows. ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Because she’s temperamental and noisy and likes to think she’s the boss.’

  There was a surprised silence, then Mrs Besant broke into a girlish giggle.

  ‘I like you Miss Logan,’ she laughed. ‘I hope India does too.’

  ***

  The day before the steamer put in to Bombay, Sophie watched a school of porpoises diving through the waves in the dusk and sat up all night under a huge yellow moon, unable to sleep. Tam would already have set off on the thirty-six hour train journey from Lahore to meet her. In a matter of hours, they would be together again. Her stomach did double somersaults.

  Tilly found her perched on the hatchway gazing out at the stunning moon as it set into the sea like an imposter of the sun.

  ‘It’s four-thirty in the morning Sophie,’ Tilly yawned. ‘Are you not going to get any sleep?’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Sophie, ‘I’m too excited. Which frock should I wear? The red flowery one that Tam hasn’t seen or the blue that he likes me in? And what about my hair? I wish I’d booked a perm on board. What if he hates it short? Do I look too much like a schoolboy?’

  Tilly looked at her beautiful friend, her face aglow in the early light, and laughed. ‘Not at all like a boy. It shows off your face even more – makes your eyes look huge.’

  ‘Like a broon coo?’ Sophie joked.

  ‘Yes, like a cow’s,’ Tilly teased.

  ‘That’s better than a schoolboy anyway.’

  Tilly flung an affectionate arm about her shoulders. ‘Oh, Sophie, I can’t believe this time tomorrow we’ll be saying goodbye.’

  Sophie hugged her back. ‘Try and give old Percy-Battle-axe the slip and come ashore for a few hours – we could all go for lunch and you can chaperone me while we go and pick the wedding ring.’

  ‘Better not,’ said Tilly. ‘Knowing me, I’d probably get lost and miss the sailing.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind if you did,’ Sophie grinned, ‘then you’d have to come to Lahore and be my maid of honour.’

  The previous storms had delayed the voyage and it was evening before they steamed into Bombay. Passengers gathered at the railings to see the eastern city in the twilight. Sophie’s stomach knotted in excitement as the wide sweep of the bay with its string of imposing buildings and dockside cranes glowed orange in the dying sun. Colonel Hogg pointed out the half-built Gate of India, a massive biscuit-coloured stone gateway that looked more like a fortress.

  ‘That’s in honour of King George,’ he said, ‘building got delayed ‘cos of the war. Maybe next time we sail, it might be from there.’

  Darkness fell in minutes and the lights of the city showed up as a glow, but they lay anchored off shore for another night. Sophie was in a frenzy of impatience by the time the ship came alongside Ballard Pier at eight the following morning; she had said countless ‘cheerios’ several times over as people searched for their baggage and prepared to disembark.

  ‘I can’t see Tam,’ she peered over the railings at the crowds swarming on the quayside.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Tilly gazed in awe, ‘I’ve never seen such a busy place.’

  A mass of porters, bullocks, carts, traders and officials jostled with those trying to get permission to board to greet their loved ones. They pushed against an endless line of stevedores carrying luggage from the baggage rooms.

  ‘Tam said I should wait on the boat but maybe I should go ashore?’ Sophie was suddenly unsure.

  Half an hour later, with no sign of Tam, Tilly fetched Clarrie.

  ‘Wesley will go with you and see your baggage through customs,’ Clarrie reassured, ‘you mustn’t worry.’

  Wesley picked up Sophie’s small suitcase and arranged for porters to carry her large trunk. ‘He’s probably stuck in the shipping office trying to raise an on-board pass.’

  Sophie hugged Tilly and Clarrie one more time. There was no more talk of Tilly sneaking off with her; she was much too daunted by the chaos in the port. But Adela threw herself at Sophie’s legs.

  ‘‘Ophie lift me! I come too.’

  Sophie grabbed the girl, kissed her dark curls and swiftly handed her to Clarrie. ‘I’ll come and visit you soon, I promise.’

  Adela began to howl and fling herself about when she realised Sophie and her father were leaving the boat without her.

  ‘Daddy’s coming back,’ Clarrie tried to soothe her. The girl’s wailing pursued them all the way down the gangway and into the cacophony of the harbour.

  Sophie caught sight of a tall familiar figure pushing his way through the crowd of porters, beggars and uniformed officials.

  ‘Boz?’ she cried. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Sophie! They wouldna’ let me through,’ he panted, his face puce under his khaki hat.

  Sophie introduced him to Wesley. ‘It’s lovely to see you Boz but who are you meeting?’

  ‘You lassie.’ He took off his topee and pulled at a large hot ear in agitation.

  ‘Where’s Tam?’

  ‘I’m sorry Sophie, he couldna’ come. He sent me in his place.’

  Chapter 15

  Sophie stood in stunned incomprehension. Perspiration prickled her brow and the hot oily smell of people and street food filled her nostrils and made her feel faint.

  ‘What’s happened to Tam?’ Sophie panicked. ‘Has there been an accident?’

  ‘No, lassie, nothing like that,’ Boz said quickly.

  ‘He’s ill, isn’t he? He’s got malaria again.’

  Boz shook his head. ‘He’s had a couple of bouts of fever, right enough; but that’s no’ the reason. There’s nothing to worry about – just a wee misunderstanding.’

  ‘What misunderstanding?’

  ‘Martins, our boss, wouldna give him permission.’

  Disappointment punched Sophie in the stomach. ‘How can you get time off and Tam can’t? I don’t understand.’

  Wesley intervened. ‘Let’s get you into somewhere cooler and quieter, then your friend can explain.’

  In the less noisy surroundings of the shipping waiting room, Wesley guided Sophie into a chair and ordered up tea while Boz delivered his awkward message.

  ‘Tam got on the wrang side o’ Martins last month by gangin’ up tae Pindi for a couple o’ days fishing–’

  ‘Fishing?’ Sophie puzzled. ‘In Pindi? Isn’t that miles from Lahore?’

  ‘Aye, but McGinty and Scott are working up there in the pine forests – Tam fancied a jaunt but he didna’ get his leave put in writing,’ Boz explained. ‘Tam says Martins gave him permission to gang b
ut then Bracknall got tae hear about it and wee Martins denied he ever sanctioned it.’

  ‘Who’s Bracknall?’

  ‘He’s the chief of the whole forestry department in the Punjab – a big gun – mixes with the top nobs in the Indian Civil Service. Came back from touring the province and started throwing his weight about – showing us new recruits who’s boss.’

  ‘But Tam hadn’t done anything wrong,’ Sophie was indignant.

  ‘No, but you have to dae everything by the book here; that’s the biggest rule there is.’

  Wesley grunted. ‘That’s true and it’s why I would never have made a good civil servant. Foolish rules are there to be broken.’

  ‘That’s Tam’s philosophy too,’ Boz said ruefully, ‘but Bracknall’s a stickler for the rule book. Told Tam it would gang on his record as “extraordinary leave” – so every boss in the future will know he went absent without leave – and to rub salt in the wound he didna’ get paid for his five days away.’

  ‘Not a good start,’ Wesley murmured.

  ‘Tam was fuming,’ Boz admitted. ‘Then Martins telt him that it would look bad if he took any more time off to fetch you frae Bombay, seeings as Tam’ll be takkin’ a week’s leave when you get wed.’

  ‘But that’s not fair!’ Sophie protested. ‘It was this Martins’s fault that Tam got into trouble in the first place.’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ Wesley said, ‘but William here is not to blame. He’s been very kind coming down to meet you, Sophie, and giving up some of his own precious leave.’

  ‘I dinna’ mind,’ Boz said with a bashful smile.

  At once, Sophie was contrite. ‘I’m sorry Boz, I do appreciate it. I was just so looking forward to seeing Tam.’

  ‘Aye,’ Boz said, ‘he’s that disappointed too; he’s been like a caged tiger. Tam does no take kindly to orders he does nae agree wi’. But he’s always been like that. He canna wait tae see you, lassie.’

  Sophie was mollified by Boz’s words; it was not Tam’s fault that he had a feeble manager who wouldn’t stand up for him.

  ‘The last thing I want is to get Tam into more trouble for coming to meet me,’ Sophie sighed. ‘But right now I could stick pins into this wretched Martins – and that bully Bracknall.’