Dark Road to Darjeeling

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  Brisbane waved a hand. “Immaterial. Sikkim came under English control last year.”

  “So we are definitely not in Bhutan or Tibet,” I said with some satisfaction.

  He had the courtesy to at least attempt to hide his smile. “No, my dear. We are neither in Bhutan nor Tibet. I think you’ll find both of those kingdoms are closed to outsiders.”

  “Nepal?” I hazarded.

  “Also forbidden,” he assured me.

  “So we are either in Darjeeling district in India or in Sikkim which is also under English control,” I concluded. “Which?”

  “I do not think the point is significant,” he said smoothly.

  I snorted. “You do not know any better than the rest of us where we are.”

  “There isn’t exactly a signpost, you know,” he said. But at least he had known we were not in any of the Himalayan kingdoms, I reflected, which was more than the rest of us had. I hurried on.

  “I think we can agree that wherever we are, if the English government has anything to do with the death duties, they must be demanding. Perhaps the profits of the tea garden did not stretch to covering them completely and a few of the treasures had to be parted with to settle their obligations.”

  There was a clumsy knock at the door and Morag entered, almost before I had bade her to. We withdrew behind the dressing screen and she helped me into a dressing gown, collecting my gown, stockings, and slippers to take away with her.

  She sat me down at the dressing table and began to take down my hair, pocketing my jewels as she did so. Brisbane watched her for a long moment, then narrowed his eyes in an expression of mingled satisfaction and anticipation, as a wolf will do when it strikes the promising scent of fresh prey.

  “Morag, my dear, what do you do with Lady Julia’s jewels when you withdraw for the evening?”

  “I lock them in the jewel case and lock the jewel case into the travelling trunk,” she said promptly. “The keys are kept on a chain I wear in my bosom,” she added, drawing a chain with two keys from the depths of her bodice.

  “Morag, we have discussed this before. Do not make reference to your bosom before Mr. Brisbane. It is not seemly,” I said with a sigh.

  She gave a little sniff and yanked the hairbrush through my hair by way of retort.

  “Are you always so vigilant with Lady Julia’s jewels?” he asked.

  “Aye. Particularly when some people will insist upon travelling in heathen lands,” she added tartly.

  “Morag, you are an ungrateful wretch. Most maids would give their eyeteeth for such opportunities as you have been given,” I informed her.

  She began to plait my hair none too gently. “I will leave my eyeteeth under your pillow if it means I can go home tomorrow.”

  “Do you not like anything of India?” Brisbane asked her.

  “I do not, sir. It is a strange place with strange folk. There are devils about,” she finished darkly.

  I rolled my eyes. “I have already told you, those are peacocks.”

  “So you have no reason for being particularly careful with Lady Julia’s jewels here,” Brisbane persisted.

  “Aye. That man of Miss Cavendish’s, that fellow what wears the curtain upon his head. He told me there has been some petty thievery and I would be wise to keep two eyes upon my mistress’ things. As if some native fellow could tell me what’s what,” she said indignantly. Brisbane flashed me a triumphant smile as Morag finished the plait and tied it firmly with a ribbon, knotting it so I should not be able to remove it easily. She collected my things and made her way to the door, dropped a clumsy curtsey and said, “Devils!” once more before banging out.

  The next morning Brisbane and I quarrelled politely over the question of whether or not he should accompany me to Pine Cottage. He had been vastly interested in the fact that Emma and Lucy had come to live in such proximity to the Cavendishes.

  “I do not like coincidences,” had been his pronouncement, and he had risen early with the clear intention of calling upon them.

  I had risen even earlier, and managed to be fully dressed while he still wielded his shaving brush.

  “It will be awkward enough to renew my acquaintance with them without your company,” I told him bluntly.

  He raised one dark brow at my reflection in the looking-glass.

  “Surely I am not so frightening as all that,” he said mildly.

  “Terrifying,” I assured him. “In spite of Lucy’s marriage to Cedric Eastley, the Phipps girls have never passed much time in the company of gentlemen. You remember how timid they are around men. I have a much better chance of teasing information out of them on my own.”

  To his credit, Brisbane saw the sense in it. Still, he hesitated, and I pressed the point. “I know you do not wish me to undertake an active part in this investigation, but even you must admit that my cousins are far likelier to confide in me than in you. And what possible danger will they pose to me?”

  He snorted, and I bit my lip, remembering that we were thoroughly convinced that Emma had murdered—perhaps more than once.

  “Very well—I promise not to eat or drink anything while I am there. I hardly think Emma will come at me with a dagger, so I imagine I will be safe enough. I shall keep my wits about me at all times, and I will be vigilant,” I promised him.

  He nodded once, and I went to embrace him, careful to elude both the lather upon his cheek and the wickedly sharp razor in his hand. I left the Peacocks, entirely pleased with the morning’s developments. Perhaps I had been too hasty with Brisbane, pushed too hard to be included in his world. If I were to tread more carefully, choose my involvement more prudently, I could eventually prove to him both my usefulness and my right to the name of partner. I should have to cultivate patience if I meant to be a successful wife, I decided.

  I hurried past the crossroads where the leprous granny sat, clapping her bell disconsolately. Her little grandson was nowhere about to interpret for us, so I merely dropped a few coins into her bowl and hastened upon my way as she sketched a gesture toward me. I only hoped it was a blessing as I could well use one. I could not imagine how I would begin my interview with Lucy and Emma. The preliminaries would be simple enough. One is not born English without knowing how to converse easily about the weather. But beyond that, I could not think how to proceed. I should have to take my cues from them, I decided as I reached the gate of Pine Cottage.

  The fence was low and fashioned of white pickets, and a discreet little sign bore the name of the house. The cottage itself was small and pretty, with a tidy little garden of climbing roses and English flowers and a single pine sitting nobly in a place of honour. Were it not for the mountain looming in the distance, I could have thought myself in any corner of my native land, for nothing of India had been permitted to intrude here.

  Not even the staff, I thought as the door swung back upon its hinges at my knock. A pale girl of English extraction answered, but before I could present my card, she started, her eyes wide in her white face.

  “Julia!” she cried, and to my astonishment, I realised this was no maid, but my cousin Lucy. What call Lady Eastley had to answer her own door, I could not say. Neither could I ask, for no sooner had she said my name than she flung herself at me, dropping her head to my shoulder and bursting into lusty sobs.

  I patted her shoulder awkwardly. “There, there, Lucy. I am happy to see you too, my dear.”

  After a moment, she hiccupped to a stop, wiping the moistness of her eyes and nose upon her handkerchief. “Oh, I do apologise, Julia. I oughtn’t to have left you on the doorstep, and greeted you so abominably. It’s just been so very awful, and when I saw you standing there, it was as if someone had carved out a little piece of England and dropped it upon my threshold.”

  I studied her during her little speech, and for all the red and moist traces of her weeping, she was still a stunningly pretty young woman. Her widowhood had left scant mark upon her save for the new hollows under her cheeks, but they merely se
rved to heighten the effect of her enormous eyes, and I wondered that she had not married again. Of course, the dearth of eligible men in the valley might have something to do with that. But then again, it only needed one to make a match—Harry Cavendish might serve, I thought mischievously. He might do very nicely for her indeed.

  Realising I had not spoken, I patted her again. “Do not trouble yourself, Lucy. I daresay it was a bit of a surprise.”

  “No, not really. Miss Cavendish told us you would be coming, and it is all I have spoken of for weeks to Emma. She has been so happy to have news of you.” She paused, her expression suddenly abashed. “You will have heard that I married Sir Cedric, and that he was lost during our voyage out.”

  Leave it to Lucy to describe the death of her husband in such a fashion as to make him sound like a left parcel.

  “Yes, I was so sorry to hear of your loss,” I said, managing a sympathetic smile. It was difficult to muster any real sympathy given my conviction that her sister had killed the poor gentleman, either with or without her knowledge.

  She looked around then and clucked. “How stupid of me! I haven’t even invited you inside. You will come in and have tea, won’t you?”

  I recalled my promise to Brisbane. “I think not, my dear. Miss Cavendish lays a prodigious breakfast and I am engaged for luncheon. The pleasure of your company is quite enough refreshment.”

  The pretty face suffused with pleasure. I had forgot quite how stupid she was and how susceptible to flattery.

  She led me in to a cosy little drawing room, although I fancied it served as a morning room as well, for a brisk fire crackled upon the hearth and a book of accounts lay open upon the writing desk.

  “Do not mind that,” she said, hastily gathering up her papers and stuffing them into the drawer. “My accounts are always in a muddle. Emma used to manage them for me, but I have undertaken to keep them myself. I had forgot how difficult sums can be,” she said, offering me another nervous smile. She motioned toward a small settee covered in cheerful chintz and took a chair opposite.

  “I understand I must wish you happiness,” she said. “You married Mr. Brisbane.”

  “I did, some nine months past. We took our wedding trip in the Mediterranean, and it was there that Portia and Plum found us. They were bound for India to see Jane and insisted we extend our trip to accompany them,” I explained, hoping to forestall any questions about why we had come.

  She nodded. “Miss Cavendish told us that Jane had written to Portia to invite her to stay until the baby is born. It has been so difficult for poor Jane, losing Freddie. He was devoted to her, you know—utterly devoted. She was shattered by his death,” she added, and I wondered again at Lucy’s grasp of the facts. It had not been my impression that Freddie cared anything for Jane beyond the means of providing him with an heir and perhaps a sort of vague friendship. Jane and Freddie had used one another, genteelly, to be sure, but they had used one another just the same. He required a wife and children, she wanted motherhood and stability. Many successful marriages had been built upon sandier ground than that.

  “Of course, and I hope you will not think it wicked of me,” she went on, “I do envy her. Widowhood is so very dreadful, but at least she will have the comfort of a child. I so wish Sir Cedric had given me a child before he died.”

  Even in death he remained “Sir” Cedric to her, I reflected. Not a companionable marriage then, and it had not looked to be one, based upon his treatment of her during their betrothal. Sir Cedric had been decades older, a self-made man of great wealth accustomed to acquiring beautiful things. Lucy had merely been an entry in his catalogue of acquisitions, although for her part she had been genuinely fond of the man.

  Fond of him, and a little frightened, I mused. There had been the faintest touch of the bully about Cedric Eastley, although it had not put Lucy off marrying him. She was accustomed to being bullied. Pretty and soft and entirely guileless, Lucy was one of life’s victims, easy game for the predatory type.

  Like her sister. I cleared my throat. “I had hoped to see Emma as well. Is she about?”

  As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew they were a mistake. Lucy’s features crumpled and it was with the greatest effort of will that she drew in a shaking breath and composed herself.

  “I thought Miss Cavendish would have told you.”

  “Told me what? Has Emma gone abroad?”

  I was wrong in thinking Lucy had not changed. Lucy of old would never have given me the short, brittle laugh that greeted my question. It was just short of hysteria, and I realised I had ventured into something unexpected.

  “No, Emma is not gone abroad. Emma will never leave this cottage.”

  I smiled, wondering what all the histrionics had been in aid of and thinking of Father’s newest addition to his London garden. “You mean she has become hermetic?”

  Lucy gave me a sorrowful look. “No, Julia. I mean that she is dying.”

  The Seventh Chapter

  None lives forever, brother, and nothing lasts for long.

  Keep that in mind and rejoice.

  —The Gardener

  Rabindranath Tagore

  I closed my mouth with a snap. “Dying? What of? And since when?”

  Lucy shrugged. “Months now. She simply lies in bed, wasting away. It began as a growth in one of her breasts.”

  “Can nothing be done for her?”

  Lucy’s chin trembled, but she mastered her emotion once more. “The doctor performed an operation when it first became apparent what the trouble was. It was awful beyond belief. He gave her a bit of morphia and put a handkerchief over her face before he began to cut. That is all he could do for her.”

  I swallowed against the queasiness rising in my throat. I had heard of such operations before, commonplace before the advent of ether. But ether would be difficult if not impossible to secure in such a remote place, and doubtless he had done his best with his limited resources.

  I said as much to Lucy.

  “Oh, yes, he was as quick and thorough as he could be. But the growth had taken hold, and although she recovered well enough, it took a very long time, and she never regained her strength. By the time the scars were healed, it became apparent that the disease was too firmly lodged within her to be removed.”

  “And she has been here ever since.”

  Lucy nodded. “Yes. She is in terrible pain, but she tolerates it so bravely. The doctor gives her medicine for it. Sometimes it works, sometimes it does not. Today is a rather good day, I am happy to say. She took a little porridge for breakfast and some weak tea. It is more than she has eaten in the last week. Perhaps she is rallying a little.”

  It was pathetic that such meagre developments could give her hope, but I thought of Portia and knew if the situation were ours, I should hold fast to any shred of possibility she might recover.

  Lucy went on. “I know she cannot survive this, but I did so want her to live out the spring. The garden is so pretty just when the season turns to summer. I should like for her to die when the roses are at their best.”

  I swallowed again, too overcome to speak. After a moment, I composed myself.

  “I should like to see her, if you think it advisable.”

  Lucy smiled broadly, almost in relief it seemed. “Oh, she would like that! I must warn you, you will find her much changed,” she said, rising and leading me up the stairs. She paused before a closed door and rapped softly.

  “Emma, dearest? Can you guess who has come to call?” She opened the door. “It is Julia. May she come and sit with you?”

  There was a feeble noise from the bed, like the mewing of a newborn kitten, and at this, Lucy motioned for me to come forward. The windows were firmly shut and the fireplace blazed away, keeping the room desperately hot. But the slight figure in the bed was piled with a dozen quilts, as if nothing could warm her slender bones, and as I settled myself in a chair next to the bed, I saw the hands flutter, as light and insubstantial as the wings of
a bird.

  “Hello, Emma.”

  “Julia,” she said softly. Emma’s one true beauty had always been her voice, low and melodious, and she had been a gifted storyteller. Now it was rasping and thin, her wonderful stories silenced forever.

  “I am glad you have come,” she told me, although her face bore no trace of pleasure, only a burning intensity. I thought of the medieval saints, the ascetics, fasting themselves to holiness through the stripping away of the flesh, and I wondered if Emma had made her peace with God. “It must have come as a surprise to you,” she said suddenly, and I knew she had been watching me closely for my reaction to her condition.

  “Yes. I am sorry to know that you have been in ill health,” I told her, and I meant it, for no one should be reduced to such a state. I felt a thrust of pity for her. Born poor and slighted the whole of her life, Emma had struck out, a creature tainted by the desperation born of poverty and want, and most importantly, the lack of any real love save that of her sister. She was dying, having never truly lived, and the irony of it pierced me.

  She gave a wheezing sort of sound that I supposed was a laugh. “Yes, let us be polite and use our best manners,” she said, and I was surprised, for there was no trace of bitterness in the words. “I am dying, Julia. Let us have it plainly.”

  At this, Lucy burst into sobs again, and I saw Emma master her impatience. She had always taken care of Lucy, and even now as she lay dying, she had to summon her courage to protect her little sister. “I might manage a little broth, dearest,” Emma said, and Lucy hurried away with her commission.

  She closed the door behind her to hold the heat in the little room, and Emma breathed hard for a moment, her eyes shut. Then she opened them, offering me a wan smile. “I am not supposed to speak of it in front of her. It upsets her so. But sometimes I tire of the pretense.”