Gwen stood on one of two navy-blue and cream Persian rugs, and twirled round with her arms held out. This would do nicely. Very nicely indeed.
A deep growl startled her. She glanced down to see that she’d trodden on the paw of a sleeping short-haired dog. A glossy black Labrador she thought it might be, though not quite the usual kind. She took a step back, wondering if it might bite. At that moment a middle-aged foreign man almost soundlessly entered the room. A narrow-shouldered man, with small features and a saffron-brown face, he wore a white sarong, white jacket and a white turban.
‘The old dog’s name is Tapper, Lady. Master’s favourite dog. I am butler, and here is tiffin.’ He held out the tray he was carrying then deposited it on a small nest of tables. ‘Our own Broken Orange Pekoe.’
‘Really? I’ve only just had breakfast.’
‘Master will return after twelve. You will hear the workers’ horn, Lady, and then he will be here.’ He indicated a wooden rack beside the fireplace. ‘There are magazines for you to read.’
‘Thank you.’
It was a large stone-surround fireplace, with brass tongs, shovel and a poker, the usual trappings of a fire, and beside them an enormous basket piled high with logs. She smiled. A cosy evening lay ahead, with just the two of them curled up beside the fire.
She had just an hour before Laurence returned so, ignoring the tea, she decided to explore the outside of the house. It had been dusk when they’d arrived in Laurence’s new Daimler, and she hadn’t been able to see what the front of the house really looked like. She found her way back along the corridor and into the main hall, then pushed open one of the dark double doors, with a pretty decorative fanlight above it, and found herself on the front step, under a shady porch. A gravel drive, lined with flowering tulip trees, and interspersed with palms, led away from the house, and then twisted upwards into the hills. A few of the blooms lay scattered like large orange tulips, bright against the grassy verge.
She longed to walk up into the hills, but first went round to the side of the house, where a covered, but wall-less room fronted the lake, though at a slightly different angle from her own room. This outdoor room or portico had eight dark wooden pillars, a marble floor and rattan furniture, and the table was already set for lunch. When a small striped squirrel raced up one of the pillars and disappeared behind a beam, she grinned.
Retracing her steps to the front of the house, she began to climb the gravel drive, counting the trees. The further she climbed, the stickier she felt, but she didn’t want to look back until she reached twenty. As she counted, and smelt the scent of Persian roses, the heat was building up, though thankfully still nothing like the blistering hub of Colombo. Either side of her, lush verges were carpeted with bushes crammed with large heart-shaped leaves and peachy white flowers.
At the twentieth tree she threw off her wrap, closed her eyes and spun round. Everything glittered. The lake, the red roof of the house, even the air. She took a deep breath as if by doing so she might absorb every particle of the beauty before her: the scented flowers, the thrill of the view, the luminous green of the plantation hills, the sound of the birds. It was heady stuff. Nothing kept still, and the air, filled with vivid bustling life, buzzed in continuous motion.
From her vantage point the shape of the house was clear. The back elevation was parallel with the lake, with the outdoor room on the right, and at one side of the house it looked like an extension had been added, thus forming an ‘L’. Beside it was a courtyard and a path that disappeared through a wall of tall trees. She took several more deep breaths of clean air.
The ugly loud hooting of the midday horn shattered the tranquillity. She had lost track of time, but her heart skipped a beat when she picked out Laurence with another man as they strode from the tall trees towards the house. He looked in his element, strong and in charge. She threw her shawl over her shoulder and made a dash for it. But running down the steep slope was more awkward than climbing up, and after a few minutes she slid on the gravel, caught her toe in a root, lost her footing and fell forward so hard it forced the air from her lungs.
When she was able to breathe and attempted to stand, her left ankle gave way. She rubbed her grazed forehead and felt so dizzy she sat back on her behind, already feeling the start of another headache, set off by the sun’s heat. It had been so cool earlier, she hadn’t thought to wear a sun hat. From beyond the tall trees she heard a frightful shriek, like a cat or a child in pain, or perhaps a jackal. She didn’t want to wait to find out, so she forced herself to stand again, this time managing not to yield to the pain, and began to hop back down to the house.
Just as she was in clear sight of the front door, Laurence came back out and hurried towards her.
‘I’m so pleased to see you,’ she called out as her breath quickened. ‘I went up to see the view but I fell.’
‘Sweetheart, it isn’t safe. There are snakes. Grass snakes, tree snakes. Snakes that rid the gardens of rats. All kinds of biting ants and beetles. Better not go off on your own. Not yet.’
She pointed at where the women had been picking tea. ‘I’m not as delicate as I look, and those women were in the countryside.’
‘The Tamils know the land,’ he said as he came across to her. ‘Never mind, hold on to my arm and we’ll get you inside, and I’ll ask Naveena to strap that ankle up. I can get the local doctor down from Hatton if you like.’
‘Naveena?’
‘The ayah.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘She looked after me as a child and I’m fond of her. When we have children –’
Gwen raised her brows and gave him a slow smile. He grinned, then finished his sentence: ‘She’ll look after them.’
She stroked his arm. ‘What will I have to do?’
‘There’s plenty to do. You’ll soon find out.’
On the way back down to the house, she felt the warmth of his body against hers. Despite the pain in her ankle, she experienced the familiar tingle, and lifted a hand to touch the deep cleft in his chin.
Once her ankle had been bandaged, they both sat down together in the outdoor room.
‘Well,’ he said, with a sparkle in his eyes. ‘Do you like what you see?’
‘It’s perfect, Laurence. I’m going to be very happy here with you.’
‘I blame myself for your fall. I’d intended to talk to you last night, but your headache was so bad, I decided to wait. There are a few little things I need to mention.’
She glanced up. ‘Oh?’
The furrows on his forehead deepened, and when he narrowed his eyes, it was clear how the sun had enhanced the wrinkles there.
‘For your own safety, steer clear of workforce matters. You don’t need to bother yourself with the labour lines.’
‘What on earth are they?’
‘They’re where the plantation workers and their families live.’
‘But that sounds interesting.’
‘To be honest, there’s nothing much to see.’
She shrugged. ‘Anything else?’
‘Best not to wander about unaccompanied.’
She snorted.
‘Just until you’re more familiar with things.’
‘Very well.’
‘Only allow Naveena to see you in your nightgown. She’ll bring your morning tea at eight. Bed tea, they call it.’
She smiled. ‘And do you stay with me for bed tea?’
‘Every chance I get.’
She blew him a kiss across the table. ‘I can’t wait.’
‘Me neither. Now don’t worry about a thing. You’ll soon pick up on how things are done. You’ll meet some of the other planters’ wives tomorrow. She’s a funny old bird, but Florence Shoebotham may be a great help to you.’
‘I haven’t got anything left to wear.’
He grinned. ‘That’s my girl. McGregor has already sent someone in a bullock cart to pick up your trunk from Hatton station. Later, I’ll introduce you to the staff, but appare
ntly there’s a crate waiting for you from Selfridges too. Things you ordered before you came out I’m guessing?’
She stretched out her arms, feeling suddenly brighter at the thought of the Waterford crystal and a wonderful new evening dress. The dress was just the thing, short with several layers of fringes in silver and pink. She remembered the day in London when Fran had insisted she have it made. Only ten days and Fran would be here too. A large jackdaw swept across the table and, quick as a wink, snatched a bread roll from the basket. She laughed and Laurence did too.
‘There’s a lot of wildlife. I saw a striped squirrel run into the verandah roof.’
‘There are two. They have a nest up there. They do no harm.’
‘I like that.’ She touched his hand and he lifted it to kiss her palm.
‘One last thing. I’d almost forgotten, but it’s probably the most essential point. Household matters are entirely your affair. I won’t interfere. The household staff answer to you and only to you.’
He paused.
‘You may find things have gone a little awry. The staff have had their own way for far too long. It might be a struggle, but I’m sure you’ll pull them back into shape.’
‘Laurence, it’ll be fun. But you haven’t really told me much about the estate itself.’
‘Well, it’s a large Tamil workforce. The Tamil are excellent workers, unlike most of the Sinhalese. We house at least fifteen hundred. Provide a school of sorts, a dispensary and basic medical aid. They have various benefits, a shop, subsidized rice.’
‘And the actual tea making?’
‘That’s all done in our tea factory. It’s a long process but I’ll show you one day, if you like.’
‘I’d love it.’
‘Good. So now that’s settled, I suggest an afternoon rest,’ he said, standing up.
She looked down at the remains of their luncheon and hugged herself. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Now was the time. When Laurence bent down to kiss her forehead, she closed her eyes and couldn’t stifle the grin of pleasure, but as she opened her eyes, she saw he had already moved off.
‘I’ll see you this evening,’ he was saying. ‘I’m so sorry, darling, but I have to see McGregor now. The tea factory horn will sound at four, and I’ll be away from the house then, but do sleep on.’
She felt tears warm the back of her lids but wiped her eyes with her table napkin. She knew how busy Laurence was and, of course, the plantation had to come first, but was she only imagining that her lovely, sensitive husband was being just a teeny bit distant?
3
The next evening Gwen stood at her window looking at the sunset. The sky and water had turned almost the exact same shade of gold, and the lake was framed by hills in varying shades of sepia. She moved away and dressed carefully, then studied her reflection. The woman had helped thread silver beads through the heavy coil of hair at the nape of her neck, but Gwen teased out a ringlet at the side. Laurence had arranged a little supper party to launch her as the new mistress of Hooper’s Plantation. She wanted to look her absolute best, though she’d decided to save her new dress for when Fran arrived. Then they could practise dancing the Charleston together.
Her dress tonight was pale green silk with a trim of lace at the neckline, and lower than she normally wore. It was, of course, drop-waisted, with chiffon godets hanging in points at the dangerously short hem. There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
Laurence pushed open the door and stood with his legs slightly apart as they stared at each other.
He wore a black dress suit, white shirt, white waistcoat and a white bow tie, and had attempted a parting in his hair. Gwen felt herself tremble under his prolonged gaze and held her breath.
‘I … You … My God, Gwendolyn!’ He swallowed.
‘You look very handsome yourself, Laurence. I’d rather got used to you wearing shorts.’
He came across, put an arm round her and kissed her neck just below the hairline at the back. ‘You look ravishing.’
She adored the feeling of his warm breath on her skin and knew the night was going to be wonderful. Who could doubt a man like Laurence? He was so strong, you just had to be near him to feel wanted, and so safe that nothing could ever go wrong.
‘I mean it. You’ll put all the others to shame in that dress.’
She glanced down at her shimmering dress. ‘It is quite short.’
‘Maybe we all need a bit of a shake-up now and then. Don’t forget your stole. Even with a fire it can be a little cool after sundown, as you probably gathered last night.’
The night before Laurence had been busy with estate business, so the cosy time together beside the fire had not materialized. At nine, the servants had come in singly, and in strict order of importance. First, the turbaned butler, who was in charge of the whole house, then the head cook, or appu as he was known, who was either bald or had shaved halfway back to his crown, the remaining hair tied up in a fancy knot. He had slightly oriental features, as if somewhere in the past there had been an ancestor from Indo-China, and he wore a long white apron over a blue and gold sarong. Then Naveena had brought in hot goat’s milk, sweetened with bee honey as opposed to jaggery, she had explained, before saying goodnight with a charming smile. She was followed by the five houseboys, who stood in a line and wished her goodnight in unison, and then, finally, it was the turn of the kitchen coolies who simply gazed at their bare feet and bowed. Soon after the elaborate household-staff ritual had taken place, Gwen had gone to bed alone, claiming a painful ankle. Now she smiled at the thought of how strange it had been.
‘What’s so funny?’ Laurence said.
‘I was just thinking about the staff.’
‘You’ll soon get used to them.’
Laurence kissed her on the lips and she smelt soap and lemons on his skin. Arm in arm they left the room to go to the drawing room, where they were to enjoy cocktails before dinner.
‘What is the scent the serving woman has about herself?’ Gwen asked.
‘Are you speaking of Naveena?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know. It’s probably a mix of cardamom and nutmeg. For as long as I can remember she has had it.’
‘How long has she worked here?’
‘Since my mother ferreted her out to be my ayah.’
‘Poor Naveena. I can just imagine you as a boy, thundering about the place.’
He laughed. ‘Mother assembled a family history of sorts: letters, photographs, birth certificates, wedding records, you know the kind of thing. Anyway, I think there may have been some photos of Naveena, when she was younger.’
‘I’d love to see. I want to know everything about you.’
‘I haven’t seen it all myself. Verity keeps a box of that stuff in England. I am so looking forward to you meeting her, by the way.’
‘A shame she missed our wedding. Maybe she could bring the family albums over next time she visits?’
He nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Was Naveena Verity’s ayah too?’
‘No, Verity had a younger woman as her ayah, until she went to boarding school that is. It was hard for her when our parents died, poor girl. She was only ten.’
‘What happens when Naveena’s too old to work?’
‘Then we look after her,’ he said, and flung open the tall French windows. ‘Let’s go via the verandah.’
She took a step forward and laughed. Outside, the sounds were deafening. Rat-tat-tat. Twee twee. Tap tap. The rustles, whistles and guttural croaks rose to a crescendo, before dying back and starting over. Then came a whoosh of running water and a loud scree scree scree, and the singing of cicadas filling the humid air. Over in the dark bushes minute flashes of light darted and swooped in their dozens.
‘Fireflies,’ he said.
Gwen glimpsed flaming torches down by the lake.
‘I thought afterwards we’d take a midnight stroll,’ Laurence said. ‘The lake is gorgeous
lit only by torches and the moon.’
She smiled, unable to contain her pleasure at the raucous night.
‘And there’s less danger of running into a water buffalo at night. They have poor eyesight, so tend to stagger into the water in the middle of the day when it’s hot.’
‘Goodness, do they?’
‘Make no mistake, they are dangerous, and will gore or trample you if they’re feeling particularly aggressive. Don’t worry, we don’t get many here. It’s up on Horton Plains that they’re prolific.’
Back in the drawing room, Florence Shoebotham and her husband, Gregory, were the first to arrive, and while Laurence and Mr Shoebotham talked over by the drinks cabinet, Gwen sipped a sherry and made small talk with his wife. The woman was large, with the typical wide hips and narrow shoulders of an Englishwoman. She wore a pale yellow floral dress almost to her ankles, and had a high-pitched, squeaky voice, which sounded odd coming from someone so large.
‘Well, you are a little young thing, aren’t you?’ Florence said, her chins wobbling as she spoke. ‘I do hope you’ll be able to cope.’
Gwen tried her best not to laugh. ‘Cope?’
Florence plumped the cushion that had been behind her on the sofa, then held it on her lap as she shifted closer to Gwen. The woman had a low forehead and her hair was a faded salt-and-pepper colour, wiry and hard to control by the look of it. Gwen smelt a mix of gin and body odour.
‘I’m sure you’ll soon grow used to our ways. Take my advice, girl, and whatever you do, don’t become over friendly with the servants. It doesn’t do. They don’t like it and they will not respect you for it.’
‘I was always friendly with our maid in England.’
The Tea Planter’s Wife Page 3
