She giggled. ‘I think I might be a little drunk.’
He took the glass from her and put it on a table. ‘It’s nothing that a glass of water and a good night’s sleep won’t cure. Come along. Lean on me.’
He kissed her gloved hand and placed his hand under her arm. Through the silk of her dress, she felt the coolness of his hand against the warmth of her body. At the back of her mind she knew it wasn’t entirely proper to allow a stranger to take her upstairs, but after the way Laurence had been dancing with Christina, she decided to throw caution aside.
‘Have you the key?’
‘In my purse.’ She paused to look at him. ‘You always seem to be helping me out of scrapes.’
He laughed. ‘Well, if you will insist on getting into them.’
‘Actually, I feel a bit sick.’
‘Right. Upstairs with you now, Mrs Hooper.’ He gave her a comforting squeeze and she felt her knees loosen. ‘Hold on to my arm, and once I’ve got you settled, I’ll find your cousin.’
As he helped her up a few steps, she heard the sound of footsteps. She glanced up and saw Florence Shoebotham approaching, her nose shining and her chins wobbling. How those chins could speak, Gwen thought as she waited for a pointed comment, but was surprised when none came and Florence shuffled off without a word.
‘Drat! She’ll probably tell Laurence.’
‘Tell him what?’
She waved her hands about and felt extremely woozy. ‘Oh, nothing. Just that I was tipsy.’
Mr Ravasinghe led her to her room and they went in together. When she felt his fingers on her ankles as he pulled off her shoes, she was flustered by his proximity. She bit her lip in an effort not to reveal that she’d felt something she shouldn’t have. He helped her lie down on top of the bed. As she closed her eyes, he gently stroked her temple. It was comforting and she wanted him to go on doing it but, feeling a little ashamed, she shifted slightly.
‘I love Laurence,’ she muttered, the words slurring.
‘Of course you do. Are you still feeling sick?’
‘A bit. The room is wavery.’
‘Then I’ll just stay until you fall asleep. I wouldn’t want to leave you while you might be sick.’
He was a lovely man, she thought between giddy spells, then she said it out loud, hiccupped, and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Ooops!’
He continued to gently stroke her face.
Part of her knew she should ask him to go, but feeling so alone and homesick, this was the kind of contact she’d been longing for, and any thoughts of genuine caution had disappeared with the last glass of champagne. A recurring image of Christina in her black dress, flirting with Laurence, made her eyes sting and she muttered to herself.
‘I can help you get a little more comfortable, if you like.’
‘Thank you.’
He held the glass while she sipped some water and then he slipped another pillow under her head. She threw off her wrap, feeling too warm, and then, falling in and out of a feverish sleep, seemed to burn up. As she lay on the bed with her arms stretched out, the back of her head hurt. Sometimes he was still there, or still seemed to be, and sometimes he was gone. And she had the most disturbing dreams of Mr Ravasinghe touching her, and her own hands reaching for him, only suddenly he turned into Laurence and everything was all right. She was allowed to make love to her husband. When she woke properly she saw that she must have unfastened the buttons of her dress and rolled down her stockings in her sleep – she remembered feeling terribly hot – and her new silky French knickers lay on the floor. When Fran turned up in the middle of the night, she ordered Gwen to get under the covers.
‘Look at the state of you, Gwen, you’re half dressed and all crumpled. What on earth have you been doing?’
‘I can’t ’member.’
‘You stink of booze.’
‘Drinkin’, Franny,’ Gwen said, still feeling groggy. ‘Drinkin’ champagne.’
Fran snuffed out their gas light and climbed into the same bed, snuggling up close behind her, just as they had done as children.
The next morning, over breakfast, Fran was nowhere to be seen and Verity had gone for a walk. Laurence seemed in a good mood and asked if she had enjoyed herself. She replied that she had, but that she’d had rather too much fizz and had gone to bed early nursing a sore head.
‘I looked for you, but when I couldn’t find you, Verity said she thought you’d gone up and that Fran was with you.’
‘Verity was pretty blotto herself. Why didn’t you come to check on me?’
‘I didn’t want to wake you.’ He paused and grinned. ‘I think you and Fran gave our staid group of friends something of a shake-up.’
Gwen’s face burned. Her memory of the night was somewhat fuddled but she could remember feeling terribly light-headed, and then Mr Ravasinghe had helped her up the stairs.
She looked at her husband and thought about what to say. ‘Did you enjoy dancing with Christina?’ she asked, aiming for lightness, though what came out sounded tense.
He shrugged and buttered his toast, then spread the jam thickly. ‘She’s an old friend.’
‘And that’s all?’
He gazed at her and smiled. ‘That’s all now.’
‘It didn’t use to be?’
‘No, before you, it didn’t use to be.’
Gwen bit her lip. She knew it wasn’t fair, but couldn’t help feeling stung. ‘And it’s over now?’
‘Completely.’
‘It didn’t look over.’
He frowned. ‘She enjoys being provocative. Take no notice.’
‘It isn’t because of her then?’
‘What isn’t?’
She took a sharp breath in. ‘The way you’ve been.’
Did she imagine that his face clouded as he shook his head?
‘It’s all over for her as well, is it?’
‘What is this, Gwen, the Spanish Inquisition? I’ve said it’s over.’
‘And is this what you were about to tell me yesterday?’
He looked puzzled.
‘In the foyer when we arrived.’
‘Ah, that … yes … yes, of course.’
She decided not to pursue it further. She cast around for something different to talk about, then she remembered. This was her first proper chance to raise the subject of the little grave she’d found. She drank her tea and dabbed at her mouth, then over the toast and marmalade – especially imported from Fortnum & Mason, she noticed – she gave him a quick half-smile and spoke.
‘Who was Thomas, Laurence?’
His body stiffened and he kept his eyes lowered.
In the time that he didn’t speak, she heard the sounds of breakfast: the desultory early-morning murmurs, the light-footed waiters, the genteel clinks of cutlery on china. The time stretched out, extending uncomfortably. Was Laurence going to say anything at all? She felt an itch starting at the nape of her neck and she couldn’t help shifting slightly against the chair. She buttered another piece of toast, then reached out across the table to give it to him.
‘Laurence?’
He looked up, raising a hand, and as he accidentally knocked the toast out of her hand it was as if he had wiped his eyes of expression. ‘It would have been better if you had not poked around in there.’
His voice was flat, but she felt the rebuke and frowned, partly in dismay and partly in anger. ‘I wasn’t poking, as you put it. I was searching for the perfect spot for my arbour. And anyway, Spew had run in there and I had to fetch him. I had no idea I would stumble across a grave.’
‘Your arbour?’ He took a deep shuddering breath.
‘Yes.’
There was another pause.
‘Please tell me. Who was Thomas?’
As he exhaled, Laurence seemed to be looking over her left shoulder and not at her. She took a last bite of toast and watched him closely as he rubbed his chin.
‘It seemed so sad that he was all alone there. Why wasn’t h
e laid to rest at the church? People don’t usually bury other people in their garden, even if it’s just a child.’ She took another sip of tea.
‘Thomas was not just a child. He was Caroline’s son.’
She almost choked on the tea.
There was silence as Laurence wiped his mouth, then after he had put the crumpled napkin down, he cleared his throat as if he was about to speak. When he did not, she decided to just come out with it.
‘Do you mean only Caroline’s son?’
‘Caroline’s son … and mine.’ He stood up and left the table.
She leant back in her chair. All she knew of Caroline was what Laurence had told her when they first met. He had been married before, his wife had been ill and then she had died. No mention of a little boy. She felt awfully sorry for him, but why had he never said, and if it mattered so much, as it clearly must, why had he allowed his own child’s grave to become so overgrown?
6
Fran had left a note at reception saying she might stay on at the Grand in Nuwara Eliya, and to go back without her. It worried Gwen because as they got in the car straight after breakfast, the massing thunder clouds and the strange light that came with them had tinted the sky yellow. If the rains came soon, Fran mightn’t even be able to get back. Laurence said that the previous year parts of the road to Hatton had been washed clean away, and the only means of travel had been by canoe. Though Gwen was excited to experience her first monsoon, she’d be happier if Fran was safely back with them.
Once home, Gwen and Laurence skirted round each other for part of the afternoon, and then he went to the tea factory. Inside the house, the air had changed. It seemed full of moisture in a way that it had not before: hot and thick, so heavy you could almost slice it, and with an unfamiliar oversweet smell. It was oppressively quiet too and, wanting to tell Fran about Thomas, Gwen was feeling miserable.
At teatime when she went to the kitchen to check on the rice supply, she found Nick McGregor sitting at the table with his pipe and a cup of steaming tea. Although he lived in his own bungalow, not far from theirs, he was often to be found in the main house kitchen resting his leg.
When she broached the subject of gardeners, he was surprisingly helpful, agreeing to allocate workers for the vegetable garden, who would work on a rotation basis. Gwen was delighted at the outcome. She had got McGregor completely wrong, it seemed. Perhaps pain in his bad leg made him irritable.
After that Gwen wondered whether to brave an early-evening walk by the lake with Spew. It was not such a good proposition with the prospect of imminent rain, and resultant slippery steps and pathways back up to the house. Instead, she plumped up one of the tapestry cushions behind her head, sank back on the sofa and closed her eyes.
The sound of Laurence coming in drew her attention. She always recognized the sound of him. She wasn’t sure why. A sureness in his steps perhaps, a feeling in the air of the master having returned, or maybe it was just the sound of Tapper finally rising from his basket.
She went out and found Laurence standing in the corridor, staring at his hands, his white shirt soaked with blood. Her breath caught in her throat.
‘What on earth has happened?’
He glanced at her for a moment, his brows drew together, then he jerked his head in the direction of one of Tapper’s three baskets. She looked around and saw that Tapper had not come into the hall.
‘Where’s Tapper?’
Laurence’s jaw was working and it looked as if he was trying to control himself.
‘Darling, tell me,’ she said.
He attempted to speak but the words came out too brusquely for her to make any sense of them. She picked up the little hand bell from the hall table and rang it twice. While they waited she tried to comfort him, but he brushed her hands away and continued to stare at the floor.
Within minutes the butler arrived.
‘Please ask Naveena to bring water and a fresh shirt for the master. Tell her she can take them to the master’s room.’
‘Yes, Lady.’
‘Come on, Laurence,’ she said. ‘We’re going to your room. You can tell me what has happened when you’re ready.’
She took hold of his elbow and he allowed her to guide him upstairs to his room at the end of the long corridor. She’d only been in Laurence’s room twice before; on both occasions she’d been interrupted, once by a houseboy who came to dust and once by Naveena bringing up Laurence’s ironed shirts.
He pushed open the door. A slight trace of incense hung in the air and the deep-blue velvet curtains were almost closed, with just a strip of late daylight showing.
‘It’s gloomy,’ she said as she turned on two of the electric lamps.
He didn’t seem to notice.
It was a room so sumptuous and so unlike Laurence it couldn’t be imagined, not the masculine hideaway she had at first expected. There were two blue-fringed lampshades, some framed photographs on a table and a few china ornaments on the mantelpiece. A large Persian rug covered a part of the glossy floorboards and the bed was covered in a satin eiderdown the colour of bitter chocolate. The mosquito net hung from a large ring attached to the ceiling and had been tied in a knot above the bed. The furniture, unlike her own, was dark.
There was a knock at the door and Naveena came in with a towel, a bowl of water and a freshly laundered white shirt for Laurence. Though she must have seen the blood on his shirt as he stood by the bed, she didn’t speak, just reached out a hand to pat his arm. He glanced up and a look passed between them. Gwen didn’t understand what it meant, but could see the two understood each other.
‘Right,’ Gwen said, once Naveena had left the room. ‘Let’s get that shirt off.’
She pulled back the bed covers and Laurence sat on the edge of the mattress as she undid the buttons of his braces and his shirt, then gingerly slid the shirt away from his arms and back in case of injury. She wiped the blood from his hands, and he stood up to remove his trousers. When she examined him, she saw he did not appear to be hurt.
‘Do you want to tell me what happened now?’ she said.
He took a breath, then sat back on the bed and slammed his fists down on the mattress. ‘They killed Tapper. My Tapper. The bastards cut his throat.’
Gwen’s hand flew to her own throat. ‘Oh, Laurence. I am so sorry.’
She sat down next to him and he leant against her. She watched his hands as they flexed and contracted in his lap. Neither of them spoke, but she could feel the pent-up emotion in her husband’s hands, each movement as eloquent as if they were trying to communicate on his behalf. Eventually he went limp and she held him in her arms, stroking his hair and murmuring. Then he began to make great gulping, sobbing sounds that seemed to come from somewhere deep within.
Gwen had only ever seen her father cry once, and that had been when his brother, Fran’s father, had drowned. Then, she had sat on the stairs with her head in her hands, and been frightened by the sound of her brave, strong father sobbing like a baby. But at least it had taught her to wait for Laurence’s sorrow to pass, as her father’s had eventually done.
When he seemed to quieten, she wiped his face and kissed him repeatedly on the cheeks, tasting the saltiness of his tears. Then she kissed his forehead and nose, just as her mother used to do when she was hurt.
She cupped her hands round his face and looked in his eyes, and what she saw instantly confirmed that this was not only about Tapper.
She kissed him on the lips. ‘Come to bed.’
They both partly undressed, then lay down on the bed, side by side, and didn’t move for a stretch of time. She felt the heat of his body against hers and listened as his breathing steadied.
‘Do you want to tell me why Tapper was killed?’
He moved on to his side and looked in her eyes. ‘There has been some trouble in the lines.’
Gwen’s brows shot up. ‘Laurence, why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I don’t like to worry you.’
‘I
’d like to be more involved. My mother and father always talk their problems over and I want to do the same.’
‘It’s a man’s work, running a plantation. And you have enough to do, getting to grips with the household.’ He paused. ‘The thing is, maybe I allowed McGregor to treat the culprits too harshly.’
‘What will you do?’
He frowned. ‘I don’t know, I really don’t know. Attitudes are changing and I am making progress with some of the other planters but it’s hard-going. Things used to be so simple.’
‘Why don’t you start by telling me about how it used to be? Right back to the beginning. Tell me about Caroline and Thomas.’
There was silence for a while and Gwen hoped she had not misjudged the moment.
‘You must have loved Caroline very much.’
A little on edge, she waited. Eventually he rolled on to his back and, staring at the ceiling, he paused to swallow. When he spoke again she had to strain to hear.
‘I did love her, Gwen.’ There was a very long pause. ‘But after the baby –’
‘Was that when she became sick?’
He didn’t speak, but his breath shook, and she wrapped an arm round his chest then kissed the side of his face, the stubble there prickling her lips.
‘Where is she buried?’
‘At the Anglican church.’
She frowned. ‘But not Thomas?’
He paused again and seemed to be weighing his words, then he turned to face her.
She watched him carefully and suddenly felt shaky.
‘She would have wanted him to remain here, at home. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you about him. I know I should have. What happened was too painful.’
She looked in his eyes and a lump came in her throat. For someone accustomed to keeping his unhappiness hidden, he looked profoundly stricken, in a way she’d never seen before. It seemed as if something inaccessible underlined the sorrow, something more than grief, and it appeared to be tormenting him. Though she was curious to know what the sickness was that had caused Caroline and baby Thomas’s death, she felt unable to press him.
She nodded. ‘It’s all right.’
The Tea Planter’s Wife Page 8
