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

  ‘Perhaps your mother called it her little kitten,’ Clarrie suggested, ‘and you took it literally. You were very young.’

  ‘And she may have been frightened to talk about the baby in your father’s hearing,’ Tilly added.

  Sophie fought back tears. ‘I remember calling out to Ayah to wait for me, but she didn’t even turn round. And she never came back for me, did she?’

  Clarrie said, ‘You don’t know that. She might have stayed hidden, caring for the little one – finding someone to suckle him or her – and only come back after you’d been rescued.’

  ‘Yes,’ Wesley agreed. ‘She wouldn’t have known where you had gone or how to find you.’

  ‘Don’t spend your life being angry with her,’ Clarrie said gently.

  ***

  In the middle of the night, unable to sleep for the memories that crowded in and would not give her peace, Sophie went out on the veranda. Wrapping herself in a blanket, she stared out at the outline of huts across the compound where Ayah Mimi must once have lived. Scented wood-smoke filled the darkness. Suddenly she was overwhelmed with grief – for her mother, her Ayah, her lost baby, the brother or sister she would never know – and racking sobs seized her.

  Meera found her in an exhausted dozing state, huddled on the veranda steps, as the grey light of pre-dawn filtered through the trees. Sophie sat up in alarm at the sight of Tilly’s ayah cradling Jamie, as the baby sucked lustily on his bottle.

  Her heart squeezed with fresh pain. Meera removed the empty bottle, put Jamie against her shoulder and rubbed his back. The infant gazed dreamily at Sophie. New tears leaked down her wan face. Meera offered him to her to hold. Sophie shook her head and tightened the blanket around her shoulders. She didn’t know if she could bear to stay under the same roof as Tilly’s baby; she hated the envy she felt and the clawing grief that left her hollow.

  It had been a mistake to come back to Assam. And now she had to live with this appalling knowledge of what her father had done. Her memory of him as an aloof figure of adoration was forever spoilt. He had been a jealous, unkind, cowardly husband and a cold-hearted father.

  As Meera took the baby away, Clarrie appeared in riding dress.

  ‘Whenever I was sick at heart,’ she said softly, ‘and overwhelmed with the troubles of living with an ill father, I would go out riding in the early morning on my beloved pony Prince.’

  She bent and touched Sophie’s head; it felt motherly and comforting.

  ‘Come riding with me now,’ Clarrie urged.

  Sophie looked up with huge dark-ringed eyes. ‘I’d like that,’ she answered.

  ***

  They took the track through the tea gardens and wound their way uphill through thick forest, Sophie following Clarrie on a sturdy brown Bhutanese pony that Wesley had bought for Adela. The trees were alive with the call of birds. With every step, the sky lightened and Sophie’s grief lessened a fraction.

  After twenty minutes they came into a clearing. She gasped at the sudden view of the distant Himalayas; the dawn light turning the peaks apricot. Clarrie dismounted and led her pony to a gurgling stream that spouted from some fern-covered rocks into a dark pool. The animal dipped its head to drink.

  Sophie did likewise, patting the stocky horse and whispering her thanks into its ear. Looking about the grassy enclosure, she saw scattered stones and strangely carved pillars lying prone as if some giant of the hills had trodden on an ancient temple.

  Clarrie unpacked a cloth parcel from her saddlebag and laid it on a flat stone close to the freshwater pool.

  ‘Are you putting out food for the gods?’ Sophie smiled.

  ‘Just for the sadhvi who lives here,’ Clarrie said.

  ‘Sadhvi? That’s a holy woman, isn’t it?’

  Clarrie nodded. ‘The locals think she’s a shaitan – a bad spirit – and the village children are frightened of her, but I think she’s a widow with nowhere else to go.’

  Only then did Sophie notice a low thatched hut almost totally obscured by creepers and overhanging branches. There were traces of an old fire – charred sticks and ash – in front of the closed bamboo door.

  ‘When I was young there was an old holy man lived here,’ Clarrie said, pulling out a rose-coloured stone on a chain from under her riding jacket. ‘He blessed this stone and gave it to me – I think to bring me luck and keep me safe – and I kept it through all the hard times in England. I always believed that one day it would bring me back to India.’ Clarrie smiled, her face radiant in the dawn. ‘And here I am back at Belgooree, in the place I love best and with the people I love most.’

  Sophie’s throat constricted. She stared beyond to the golden light flooding across the far mountains and felt her heart squeeze. It reminded her too vividly of her brief magical time with Rafi. No lucky stone could recapture that happiness for her now. But even as she thought her heart could never be sorer, Sophie felt a strange comfort at being there close to the hermit’s hut in its beautiful flower-filled dell with a striking sunrise rippling along the Himalayan chain.

  Yesterday, she neither knew the truth about her parents’ death nor that she had once had a sibling. Today her world had altered for ever. But knowing about the baby brother or sister made her feel less alone. Had he or she survived? Were they still in the area being brought up by another family? She would be sixteen by now (somehow Sophie imagined it would be a sister). Did she look like her? Would she recognise her if she passed her in the village, or Shillong or Calcutta? Sophie determined there and then, that she would make every attempt to find her lost sibling. The idea burned inside her and gave her courage.

  Watching the daylight come, Sophie stood with Clarrie and shared her thoughts.

  ‘We could start by asking in the village,’ Clarrie offered.

  Sophie felt a wave of gratitude that the older woman did not dismiss the idea as impossible. They sat on a fallen pillar and talked. She pulled out the black opal. ‘Like you, I have a special stone,’ said Sophie, and found herself unburdening about her love for Rafi and the fateful trek in the mountains.

  ‘I wish I had known Rafi better in Edinburgh,’ Sophie said sadly, ‘Auntie Amy liked him a lot – he used to go round to visit her – but I was a bit offhand. Maybe even then I was frightened of my attraction to him.’

  ‘Where do you think he is?’ Clarrie asked.

  Sophie shrugged. ‘I wish I knew. I imagine he’s in Lahore working for his father or maybe he’s gone back in the army. He talked with affection of his days with the Lahore Horse. Or maybe he’s just living off his rich new father-in-law like Jimmy Scott said.’

  ‘Of all the foresters, which one would he keep in touch with?’

  ‘Boz or McGinty,’ Sophie guessed.

  Clarrie squeezed her hand. ‘Why don’t you write to Boz and ask if he knows? Even if it’s true that Rafi is married now, I can see you are not going to have peace of mind until you’ve heard from him.’

  ‘Why do you say, even if it’s true, as if there’s some doubt?’

  Clarrie said, ‘Wesley and I nearly threw away our happiness together because of misunderstandings between us. I thought he had married a rich heiress and he thought I had affections for Tilly’s brother Johnny.’

  ‘Really?’ Sophie’s eyes widened. ‘And did you?’

  ‘No,’ Clarrie laughed, ‘I only ever loved Wesley. The first time we met was in this very clearing – he was out hunting and his friend nearly shot me.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Yes. Wesley rescued me but we got off on the wrong foot and argued badly. It took me years to admit how deeply in love I was.’

  Sophie’s eyes glistened. ‘I’m so glad you overcame the misunderstandings. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a couple as loving as you two.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Clarrie smiled.

  ‘The trouble is,’ Sophie sighed, ‘that Jimmy Scott and Boz both saw a notice in the Civil and Military Gazette about Rafi’s marriage to a banker’s daughter – making comment
about him being a brother of the notorious Ghulam who’d been arrested for arson.’

  ‘But you didn’t see it?’

  ‘No, but Boz wouldn’t lie about something like that.’

  ‘It’s just strange,’ Clarrie puzzled, ‘that he didn’t invite any of his forester friends to his wedding.’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ Sophie said, ‘I’ve never thought of that. But there again, Rafi had been sacked by his boss and cold-shouldered by his colleagues.’

  ‘But not by Boz and McGinty, from what you’ve told me.’

  ‘No,’ Sophie agreed, ‘not by them.’

  As the sunlight spread across the ruined temple and they remounted their ponies, Sophie determined she would write to Boz for news of Rafi.

  Chapter 42

  Early each morning, Sophie would ride out to the temple clearing with Clarrie to witness the sunrise. Sometimes Wesley would go with them. The days grew colder and the air stung their cheeks but it was like balm to Sophie’s wounded heart. She looked forward to the rides and began to recover her zest for life. Clarrie carried a parcel of rice or flour each time, in case the hermit had returned, but the hut remained empty.

  ‘Perhaps she’s on pilgrimage,’ Clarrie wondered.

  ‘Or moved on,’ said Wesley.

  James soon grew impatient with being at Belgooree and, refusing Wesley’s offer of a fishing trip, set off back to the Oxford Estates, taking Tilly and the baby with him.

  ‘He doesn’t want us to be separated again so soon after my Shillong visit,’ Tilly explained to Sophie. ‘Are you sure you won’t come with us?’

  ‘Clarrie says I can stay,’ Sophie replied, ‘and I want to try and find out more about my sister or brother.’

  ‘It’s not because of Jamie, is it?’ Tilly worried. ‘I know you find it difficult with a baby around.’

  Sophie gave a bleak smile. ‘Sorry, I know it’s silly and he’s such a lovely wee boy–’

  Tilly grabbed her hands. ‘It’s not silly at all. I can’t imagine what it’s like for you. I just know that you’re strong enough to come through this dark time. When you’re ready, you will come and stay with us at Cheviot View for as long as you want. There will always be a home for you wherever I live.’

  Sophie’s eyes stung with tears at the kind words. She pulled her cousin into a hug.

  ‘Oh, Tilly, you are the best of friends!’

  A week after the Robsons departed, Sophie noticed a difference as she rode with Clarrie into the jungle clearing. Scented wood smoke filled the air and a small fire crackled and sparked, illuminating the sadhvi’s hut. The door was open.

  They dismounted and Clarrie went forward with her parcel of food. As she laid it on the flat stone between the hut and the pool, a figure appeared from under the low door, wrapped in a grubby saffron-coloured robe. A tiny woman with claw-like hands pulling the end of her sari over sparse hair, approached them. In the half-light, Sophie thought she looked like the malevolent spirit that the local children feared, her forehead daubed in white and ochre, her nails like talons.

  She put her hands together and bowed in greeting. Clarrie and Sophie responded. The holy woman beckoned them towards her fire. Sophie hesitated but Clarrie said softly, ‘she’ll want to give us something in return for the food. Best to accept.’

  The sadhvi moved with a calm gracefulness, pulling out a battered rush mat from her hut for them to sit on and pouring tea from a kettle suspended over the fire into clay cups. From under her veil she gave them quick darting looks, murmuring to herself. The sun rose. The tea was laced with something spicy – perhaps cardamom Sophie guessed – and filled her with a strange sense of familiarity.

  No one spoke as the golden light on the far peaks dazzled their eyes. Sophie took a sip of the aromatic drink. She caught the sadhvi staring at her with keen dark eyes that belied her careworn wrinkled face. Sophie’s heart began to thud. The holy woman rose from her squatting position and stepped around the fire, her gaze never faltering. Emotion welled up in Sophie’s chest. She saw the mole on the woman’s wrinkled chin.

  ‘Ayah Mimi?’ she whispered.

  The woman stretched out her bony hands and cupped them around Sophie’s face.

  ‘Sophie, my little chick,’ she croaked in a voice not used to speaking.

  ‘Ayah!’

  Tears spilled down Sophie’s face as the woman’s thin arms went around her and stroked her hair. Ayah began a high-pitched song of joy that rose up to mingle with the twittering of birds in the dense trees.

  ‘Sophie,’ Ayah crooned. ‘I knew you would come back one day. I just had to be patient.’

  Sophie held onto her and wept and wept.

  ***

  Ayah rode back to Belgooree with the British women, perched behind Sophie on the stout pony. Adela was fascinated by the woman with the ochre streaks on her face who Sophie had conjured out of the forest and she stared at her from the safety of her mother’s skirts. It wasn’t long before Ayah Mimi had won Adela’s confidence with her singing and easy smiles, and Sophie felt a tender tug to see the small girl sitting cross-legged on the veranda with the old nurse eating rice with her fingers; something she remembered her own parents forbidding her to do.

  Over the next couple of days, they pieced together what had happened that fateful night when the Logans had died. After Robson Sahib had tried but failed to get the Logans to leave Belgooree, Bill Logan had gone out to the compound with a gun and told the servants to make themselves scarce. Alarmed, Ayah had been sent by Jessie Logan to the village with the week-old baby – a boy whom the Logans had yet to name – for safekeeping.

  ‘Logan-mem was frightened for the baby. But also thought Sahib would calm down if the baby was out of the way. He was very jealous of Baby.’

  Mimi had been told to stay at the house of Ama, a wise old Khassia woman, whose son was the mali at White Blossom Cottage and whom Jessie trusted.

  ‘Ama?’ Clarrie had cried. ‘She was my old nurse!’

  She had found Ama’s family in the midst of a wedding party but Ama had taken them in and found a young mother in her tribe to suckle the Logan infant.

  Two days later, the celebrations over and worried that no word had come from Jessie, Ayah went back to the tea bungalow with Ama’s son, the Belgooree gardener. They found the house boarded up with a Sikh policeman on guard who chased them away. A week later, a police officer from Shillong tracked Ayah down to the village and forced her to hand over the baby.

  ‘He told me that the Logans had died of fever and that their daughter no longer had need of me. I begged him to tell me where they had taken you, Sophie, but he said it was none of my business.’

  ‘Was he called Burke?’ Sophie asked.

  Ayah nodded. ‘He said that he would throw me in prison for stealing a white man’s baby if I tried to follow you. He paid off the other servants and told them the same story about fever. I tried to find you. I walked to Shillong and sold my gold earrings and bracelets, then made my way back to Assam. But it took many weeks and I was held up by the rains. By the time I got there, the Logan bungalow had been given to another family and you were gone. The old sweeper thought you had been taken to Calcutta. When I asked about the baby, he said there had never been one; you had left alone.’

  Ayah broke down in tears, wailing about her failure to Logan Memsahib to keep her baby safe or to care for her daughter.

  ‘What did you do next?’ Sophie asked gently, putting her arm around the distraught woman.

  ‘I went to Shillong and got work at the orphanage, sewing and looking after the babies. I hoped I might come across Baby Logan but didn’t. When I heard that a family had come back to Belgooree, I left and came back to the hills, hoping it might be you.’

  ‘How disappointed you must have been to find us instead,’ Clarrie sympathised.

  Ayah shook her head. ‘You have been kind to me. Some weeks I would not have eaten if it was not for your gifts. And I never gave up hope. I prayed every day that my li
ttle chick would be returned to me or if that was not to be, that the gods of the mountains would protect you wherever you lived and breathed.’

  Sophie and Ayah sat rocking in each other’s arms, absorbing the shock of finding one another again. If she could be reunited with her beloved old nurse against all the odds, Sophie thought, then why not with her missing younger brother?

  Wesley broke into their reverie. ‘So the only person who really knows what happened to Baby Logan, is the retired police officer Burke?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ayah said, ‘but I was too frightened to approach him again.’

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ Sophie said. ‘If he doesn’t tell me what happened to my brother, I’ll expose him for covering up murder.’

  Clarrie put out a steadying hand. ‘Be careful; you would be getting James into trouble too. And it’s obvious from what Ayah is saying that he knew nothing about Burke going off with the baby.’

  Sophie bit her lip in frustration. The last thing she wanted was to cause problems for Tilly’s husband; he had protected her, brought her safely to Edinburgh and helped pay for her education. He might have his differences with his cousin Wesley but he was a good man and Tilly adored him.

  ‘Sophie has a right to know,’ Wesley said stoutly, ‘and it needn’t come to threats. I’d be happy to go with you to see him.’

  Sophie smiled at the handsome, craggy-faced tea planter. ‘Thank you.’

  ***

  It was another ten days before the trip to Shillong was arranged. Sophie wrote to Tilly asking for Burke’s address, giving her the astonishing news about finding Ayah Mimi and the news about a baby brother. While she waited for Tilly’s reply, a letter came from France. Sophie took it out into the garden to read. Clarrie found her teary-eyed.

  ‘Tam left the ship at Marseilles,’ Sophie said quietly. ‘Nancy was there to meet him. They’re wintering in the French Alps.’

  Clarrie squeezed her shoulder. ‘It must be upsetting.’

  Sophie shook her head and swallowed. ‘I’m happy for him. It’s a relief in a way. I’m just sad he wasn’t honest with me at the beginning.’