Dark Road to Darjeeling

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “How wonderful! I do not often read, but Emma enjoys it so,” Lucy told me. She looked tired, and I was not surprised. Caring for Emma by day and entertaining Harry by night would exhaust a stronger constitution than hers.

  She led me to a pretty spot in the garden, and I settled in for a good gossip, watching Lucy attempt to mend a nightdress of Emma’s. “I never was very clever with a needle,” she said by way of apology.

  “You sew better than I do,” I assured her, and she pinked at the compliment.

  “Emma fares a little better today,” she said. “She is asleep now, but she took an egg for breakfast—a whole egg!”

  “Marvelous,” I murmured. “Has Dr. Llewellyn been to see her?”

  Lucy nodded. “Yesterday. He left some medicines to help her sleep, but who knows when we will see him again?”

  It was unlike Lucy to be sharp and my surprise must have shown itself. “I know I ought to have more compassion. I worry for Lalita. She is so impressionable.”

  “She has feelings for him?” I asked, wishing I had made a wager with Brisbane upon the subject.

  “She is quite awfully in love with him,” Lucy confessed. “And it’s hopeless, tragically hopeless. He will never marry again. He was utterly devoted to his wife and no one, not even Lalita, could replace her. It is terribly romantic really,” she said, her voice trailing off dreamily.

  I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. She might not read much, but Lucy’s tastes in literature were clearly the lowest possible.

  “I hardly see how being mauled to death by a tiger is romantic,” I said waspishly.

  “Oh, but it is! She was so pretty, and it was so very awful. They were very much in love, and he is such a handsome fellow, don’t you think? Not when he’s drinking, of course,” she hastened to add.

  “Of course,” I echoed.

  “There are those who think Sir Cedric’s death was romantic,” she went on, “but it was not, I can assure you. It was so hot, and they were afraid the body would go off, so they had to bury him instantly. He was buried at sea, and not with a proper coffin, but in a bag, if you can imagine! Just a great white canvas bag,” she said with a shudder.

  “A sail,” I supplied.

  She blinked at me, her sewing long since forgot. “Pardon?”

  “A sail, Lucy. The canvas bag would have been a sail. It is a matter of honour to be sewn into a sail and consigned to the sea.”

  She gave me a suspicious look. “It sounds very nice to hear you say it, but it was not nice to see. They just heaved him into the sea and said a prayer and it was done, just like that,” she added with a snap of her fingers.

  Privately, I thought it a rather good way to be disposed of; my late husband’s plot in Highgate Cemetery had cost me a king’s ransom. A bit of sail for a shroud and a quick prayer would have been preferable. But there was no way to make the point without offending her, so I fell silent. I reached for the mending in her lap and began to set stitches.

  “Oh, you are quite good with a needle!” she exclaimed. Hardly, but it did not seem to matter. I stitched on and Lucy plucked a flower and began to twist off the petals, dropping them to the grass like so much confetti.

  “He loves me, he loves me not,” I said softly.

  Lucy’s face blazed with colour and she dropped the rest of the flower to the ground. “Oh, you know!” she cried, putting her hands to her flaming cheeks.

  “Yes, I know,” I said with a gentle smile. “If you would like to confide in me, I should be happy to hear it.”

  She hesitated, nibbling her lip. “It would be so lovely to talk about it,” she said finally.

  I gave her another coaxing smile, and she flung herself to the ground, her head upon my lap. I lifted the mending so I would not stab her with the needle, then adopted my most winsome tone.

  “Tell me all about it, my dear.”

  She lifted her face and it was rapt. “Oh, Julia, have you ever known a man who made you feel as if everything in the world was possible?”

  I gave her a knowing look and she laughed. “Of course you have. You have Brisbane. You know what it is like. But I never imagined. It was not this way with Sir Cedric. He was good to me,” she hurried to add, “but I was always so afraid of doing something silly, of having him disapprove. He did disapprove, of so much. He would purse his lips and look so displeased, as if I were one of his factory workers who had miscounted a packet of buttons!” she added with some indignation.

  “And now,” I prodded.

  “Now, it is bliss!” She sighed. “I want to be with him every moment. I cannot, of course, because of Emma, and I do not begrudge her the little time she has left. But I am so glad to know that I will not be alone when she leaves me.”

  “You have an understanding then?” I asked her.

  She reached shyly into the bosom of her gown and drew out a long thin chain. Dangling at the end was a ring set with a rather fine sapphire. “A betrothal ring,” she whispered.

  I turned the ring over in my palm. The setting was old gold, heavy and costly, and the stone was flawless to the naked eye.

  “Very lovely,” I told her, although personally I never liked sapphires. “And he does not wish to announce the engagement either?”

  “Oh, no! He understands completely that I could never do such a thing to Emma,” she said, her face quite serious. “He is so kind. He said he knew it would break her heart to think that I delayed my happiness for her, so he agreed we must say nothing until she has passed peacefully. Then we will plan our future.”

  “He sounds a perfect paragon,” I said lightly.

  She kissed the ring and replaced it in her bosom. “I think I shall be happy with him as I never have been before. He wants nothing more than to take care of me.”

  And if ever there was a woman who required being cared for, it was Lucy.

  Some time later I walked over to the Bower, the brisk exercise rousing my appetite. I approached through the garden, realising as I came near that I had stumbled onto a sort of tête-à-tête. I heard a familiar voice, low and soothing, and a female voice rising above, tense with emotion. I peered cautiously around a bit of shrubbery and ducked back. I counted to ten, then coughed loudly. There was a hasty bit of rustling. I counted to ten once more and then emerged to see my husband standing secluded in the shrubbery.

  “Julia,” said my husband, his voice slightly strangled.

  “Hello, dearest. I am invited to luncheon. I expect you have been as well?” I kept my tone bright, but through narrowed eyes I saw the lapels of his jacket were moist, and he was tucking a crumpled handkerchief into his pocket.

  “Yes, Harry and I encountered the Reverend upon our ride and he invited us.”

  I smiled benignly. “How delightful. Will you go on ahead and tell Mrs. Pennyfeather I will be along directly? I would like to go upstairs before I come in to luncheon,” I said, offering the discreet explanation of nature’s demands.

  “Of course,” he said hurriedly. He excused himself with a quick dry peck to my cheek, and I waited until he was entirely out of earshot before turning back to the shrubbery.

  “You may come out now, Miss Thorne.”

  The governess emerged from the nearby bushes, her face scarlet—a frightful look for anyone with an English complexion, but with her dusky skin, it was luminous. Even the faint traces of weeping upon her face did not compromise her beauty. It would have been easy to hate her.

  “Lady Julia, I hardly know—” she began.

  I held up my hand. “My dear girl, you are not the first young woman to seek my husband’s company, nor will you be the last.”

  “But it was not like that!” she cried.

  “You mean you were not consulting him upon an investigative matter?”

  She stared at me, openmouthed. “I thought you suspected us of an assignation.”

  “If we are to be frank, I might suspect you of an assignation, but never him. My husband’s morality is unique, I grant you,
but it is absolute.”

  I smiled to show her I bore her no ill will, and she seemed to sag a little in relief. Then she squared her shoulders, resuming her elegant posture.

  “I hardly know what to say. I ought to have approached him in a more conventional fashion, but I could not think how to manage it in such a way as to not excite speculation.”

  “You wish the matter to remain private?”

  “As private as anything can be in this valley,” she said bitterly.

  “Then I will respect your wishes,” I said, feigning reluctance to become involved. In truth, I burned to hear what she had confided in Brisbane, but we were already late to luncheon, and it occurred to me that I could just as easily tease the information out of my husband as the overwrought Miss Thorne.

  She hesitated. “Mr. Brisbane has encouraged me to seek legal counsel in Calcutta. And I mean to do so. I shall not trouble him again,” she reassured me.

  “Miss Thorne, my husband’s business matters are no affair of mine,” I told her, feeling my tongue twist upon the lie. There is a certain type of reserved person who will guard their secrets closely until they feel they are not wanted. Then, when they believe you have no interest in prying them loose, they will offer the information with little or no resistance. Unfortunately, Miss Thorne was not one of these. Secure that I would not press her, she merely gave me a look of profound gratitude and guided me in to the house.

  Luncheon was a delicious affair, with proper Bengali cooking and several dishes of great complexity. Lalita had worked her magic well and the excellence of the cuisine served to smooth over the odd atmosphere that had settled over the house. The Reverend was kindly as ever, his wife as distracted as I had come to expect. The children were permitted to sit at the table, although this was hardly a concession in Primrose’s case as she was nearly fully grown. Only Robin seemed to chafe at the privilege, tugging at his collar and fretting over the state of his new quail, whom he told me had begun to pine. Miss Thorne, not surprisingly, was sunk into her thoughts, and Brisbane was careful not to look once in her direction. Harry ignored her as well, but upon reflection, I realised he had perhaps been too carefully schooled in his aunt’s variety of snobbery to appreciate sitting down to luncheon with a servant, albeit an upper one.

  But the excellent food eased the awkwardness of conversation, and as we repaired to the garden to sample an array of sweet things, Primrose actually engaged me.

  “I have heard you investigate things,” she said abruptly. We fell in step and she guided me to the far end of the garden where archery butts had been placed. Everyone else was engaged in some sort of leisurely activity. The Reverend was busily attending his orchids; Brisbane and Harry were engaged in an impromptu game of cricket with Robin while Miss Thorne had gone to fetch her knitting, and Cassandra had reclined herself upon a chaise with a glass of elderberry wine.

  “Yes. I have engaged in a few murder investigations with my husband.”

  Primrose opened her bow box and withdrew a neat yew bow, a glove, and a quiver. I remained silent for several minutes as she prepared her accoutrements and her speech, for I suspected one was forthcoming. “It isn’t fair,” she burst out at last.

  “What isn’t fair, my dear?”

  She strode to a point some distance from the butts. “Some people have everything they want. Father has his orchids and his books, Robin has his animals. They could be happy anywhere, but Cassandra and I are stuck here, in this provincial place with provincial people.”

  “You call your mother by her Christian name? How extraordinary,” I offered, but Primrose merely regarded me with impatience.

  “I am seventeen,” she said crisply. She reached into the quiver for an arrow. “She said I might.”

  “Seventeen? I had not thought you so old.”

  “No one ever does,” she told me, knocking the arrow to the bow. “It is because I wear these absurd dresses and haven’t put up my hair. But I don’t mean to act like a grown woman, not here in this hole.” She sketched a grand gesture with her arm encompassing the whole of the lush tea garden, the grand house, and the imposing mountain behind.

  “The valley is not to your taste?” I asked politely.

  “We should not be here,” she insisted. “It is so small and insular. It is like living in a barrel, a small, cold, dark barrel where all of the other fish know everything that goes on. It is stifling.” She let the arrow fly and it pierced the target, some distance from the bull’s-eye. She frowned.

  “And where would you prefer to live?”

  “Greece,” she breathed, her eyes alight. “Father inherited this property. He thought we could come out and make a great success of it. But he is the only one who is happy here. Cassandra and I want to live where it is warm and the sun shines.”

  “And you can bathe with dolphins in a wine-dark sea?” I guessed.

  “Yes, oh, you do understand!” She let fly another arrow, this one far closer to the mark. “But there’s no use thinking of it because Father will never agree to leave this place. He says it is the best condition for his orchids and he loves the tea garden.”

  “What of Robin?”

  She pulled a face. “Robin can play with snakes and mice anywhere.”

  I tipped my head curiously. “Oughtn’t Robin to be sent to school, back in England, I mean?”

  Primrose gave me another of her expressive, disgusted looks. “Father won’t hear of it. He is far too fond of him. Do not mistake me,” she added hastily, perhaps aware of how harshly she had spoken, “he is a good father and he is affectionate and generous to a fault. But he lacks imagination, like most of the clergy.”

  It was an astute and cynical observation from one so young and I told her so.

  She shrugged. “Cassandra’s philosophies are much simpler. You mustn’t tell, but I once caught her lighting a candle and chanting to Athena.”

  “She worships pagan gods?”

  Primrose’s expression turned impatient. “Not really. She simply thinks that all of the old ways have merit and deserve respect. She doesn’t hold with all the nonsense about a single God and neither do I. She is very progressive.”

  “Has your mother always embraced unorthodox religions?”

  She shrugged again. “I do not know. She was always hanging charms and ringing bells. Then she took up photography and her interest seemed to shift to capturing images, sometimes as a means of worship, sometimes merely as an artistic endeavour.”

  “An interesting woman, your mother.” I glanced over to where Cassandra lay languidly in the warmth of the garden, sunning herself like a lizard upon a rock. Percival had poked his head out of her braids and was tasting the air about her face.

  “She is,” Primrose said fervently. “And that is why she does not belong here. It seems like an exotic place, this valley, but it is not. It is no different than any corner of England. The same morals, the same judgement, the same gossip, the same interference in other people’s lives. And the minute I pin up my hair and let down my hems, someone will be arranging a suitable marriage for me. No, Cassandra and I do not belong here, neither of us.”

  A third arrow loosed, this one still nearer the bull’s-eye.

  “You think you would fare better elsewhere?”

  “I know Cassandra would. She would thrive in a place where folk understand her and accept her instead of pass judgement upon her and say wicked things.”

  “Who says wicked things about your mother?” I asked, but the river had run dry, and Primrose applied herself to her archery and shot for several minutes in silence.

  “You have everything,” she said finally. Her gaze drifted to where her brother played cricket with my husband and Harry Cavendish. “You have the means to live as you please.”

  I would have continued the conversation, but the gentlemen chose that moment to end their cricket game, and the party began to break up. Cassandra roused herself to bid us farewell, and Brisbane offered to let me ride pillion back to the Pe
acocks with him.

  I snorted—pillion is never the most comfortable of positions—and the Reverend Pennyfeather hastened to speak.

  “I should be most honoured if Lady Julia would permit me to escort her back to the Peacocks on foot. I have potted an orchid for Mrs. Cavendish, and hoped to deliver it in person.”

  Brisbane arched a brow at me, but when he spoke his tone was light. “Very well, Reverend. I will consign her to your care.”

  I turned to make certain my back was to the rest of the company before I put my tongue out at him. I walked with Brisbane as far as his horse, and just as he was preparing to mount, he turned suddenly.

  “Earlier, in the garden,” he began. “You did not think—”

  “Not for a moment,” I told him truthfully.

  He stared at me a long moment, a slow smile spreading over his face. Then he kissed me firmly and swung himself into the saddle. “One woman in a thousand,” he murmured.

  Harry mounted his horse and the pair of them cantered off whilst I waited for the Reverend Pennyfeather. He bustled up, apologizing for keeping me waiting. He carried a pot with a single slender shaft of blossoms nestled in a spray of glossy green leaves. The petals were white, tinged faintly at the edges with pink, and seemed to glitter in the sun.

  “How lovely!” I exclaimed.

  “Oh, do you think so?” He flushed at the praise. “I believe it one of the finest specimens I have grown. Of course, I was attempting to create a red orchid, so this could hardly be considered a true success,” he added ruefully.

  “Why red?”

  We started down the road toward the Peacocks, walking slowly as he launched into an explanation of the intricacies of orchid breeding. The technicalities were far beyond my ability or interest, but after quarter of an hour I realised it all came down to the fact that a true red orchid did not exist.

  “And that is what makes it so very desirable,” he concluded.