The Tea Planter’s Wife (10 page)

‘And if Laurence finds out?’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something. Can you get back by suppertime?’

‘By train, possibly.’

‘Well then, you’ll be back. He probably won’t even notice.’

Gwen laughed. ‘If it means that much to you. And Laurence isn’t here for lunch today. But who’ll look after you?’

‘Naveena can bring me drinks and change the sheets. Other than that, the butler can call the doctor if need be.’

‘I suppose I could ask Verity to go with me.’

Fran raised her brows.

‘But then again, maybe not.’

Fran laughed. ‘You’re not telling me the angelic Gwendolyn Hooper is actually admitting to disliking someone?’

Gwen gave her a poke in the ribs. ‘I don’t dislike her.’

‘Oi! I’m ill, you know. But if you are going, hurry up, or you won’t make the train.’ She paused. ‘One last thing.’

‘Fire away,’ Gwen said as she leant over to straighten Fran’s bedclothes.

‘Find out if he likes me, Gwen. Please.’

Gwen laughed as she stood up, but she had heard a pensive note in her cousin’s voice.

‘Please?’

‘No, honestly, I can’t. It’s ridiculous.’

‘I’ll be going back to England soon,’ Fran said, her voice firm again. ‘And I just want to know if I’ve got a chance, before I go.’

‘For what exactly?’

Fran shrugged. ‘That remains to be seen.’

Gwen stooped over the bed and took Fran’s hand. ‘Mr Ravasinghe is very lovely, but you cannot marry him. Frannie? You do know that, don’t you?’

Fran pulled her hand away. ‘I don’t see why not.’

Gwen sighed, and considered it. ‘For one thing, apart from me, nobody here would speak to you again.’

‘I wouldn’t care. Savi and I could live like savages on a remote island in the Indian Ocean. He could paint me naked every day,
until my skin turned brown in the sun, and then we’d be the same colour.’

Gwen laughed. ‘You are quite ridiculous. One minute in the sun and you look like a lobster.’

‘You’re a spoilsport, Gwendolyn Hooper.’

‘No, I just believe in being practical. Now I’m off. Take care.’

Christina wore another black dress, with a plunging neckline, and black lace gloves that ended just past her elbows. Her green eyes glittered, and Gwen noticed how beautifully shaped her brows were. Her blonde hair was barely pinned up, but hung in loops down her back; interwoven with black beads, it gave the impression of effortless glamour. She had a heavily sequinned silver ribbon that lay across her forehead, jet drop earrings and a jet choker. Gwen, in a pastel day dress, felt eclipsed.

‘So,’ Christina said as she waved her ebony cigarette holder in the air. ‘I hear you met our ravishing Mr Ravasinghe before your feet even touched Ceylonese soil.’

‘I did … He was kind to me.’

‘Oh, that is like Savi. He is kind to everyone, aren’t you, sweetie? I’m surprised you didn’t head straight off into the jungle with him.’

Gwen laughed. ‘The thought did cross my mind.’

‘But then again, you have hooked the most eligible man in Ceylon.’

Savi turned to Gwen and winked. ‘Don’t take a blind bit of notice. Christina’s whole aim in life is to get under people’s skin, one way or another.’

‘Well, since darling Ernest popped off, what is there to do but make even more money, and annoy the hell out of everyone? He left me a bank, you know. How boring is that? Several years ago now, of course. But I shall stop right now. It isn’t fair on our new arrival. I hope we shall become immensely good friends, Gwen.’

Gwen said something vague in response. She had never met anyone quite like Christina, and it wasn’t just the strange New
York accent that made her different. She had an unsettling thought that perhaps it was that very difference that Laurence had found attractive.

‘Why are you in Ceylon, Mrs Bradshaw?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t be bashful, call me Christina.’

Gwen smiled.

‘I’ve been here on and off for years, but I’m here now because Savi promised to paint my picture. I found him ages ago at a little exhibition of his work in New York. So intimate, his portraits. He draws the heart out of his sitter. I, for one, have fallen in love with him. We all do in the end. You must get him to paint you.’

‘Oh, I –’

‘Now I do hope you like duck,’ Christina interrupted. ‘We are having curried brinjal to start with, and then the most beautiful honeyed duck.’

As Christina led them into the dining room, Gwen stopped in front of a large mask hanging on the wall of the corridor.

‘What is that?’

‘A traditional devil dancer’s mask.’

Gwen gaped at the odious thing, took a step back and bumped right into Mr Ravasinghe, who patted her on the back. The mask was shocking. An abomination. Wild grey hair a foot long, a large open red mouth with bared teeth, and bright red ears that stuck out either side. It had ogling orange eyes and the nose and cheeks were painted white.

‘Your gorgeous husband gave it to me,’ Christina said. ‘A little gift. You know how appreciative he is.’

Gwen was dumbstruck, both by the gift and Christina’s attitude.

She thought back to earlier on when, after taking a carriage from the small station at Nanu Oya, she’d met Mr Ravasinghe at the Grand. She had waited for him outside in the street and had picked up the scent of eucalyptus drifting across from the cloudy Pidurutalagala ranges. With things now going well with Laurence, she’d felt embarrassed by her previous interest in the
painter. Though she could remember little of what had passed, she did feel ashamed that she’d drunk so much champagne at the ball.

Today, outside the Grand, he had smiled deeply as if nothing had happened at all, then he’d taken her arm to assist her across a road crammed with bullock carts and rickshaws. At that point a high-pitched voice had called out.

‘Hello. How are you?’ the woman asked and stared with her nostrils flaring. Gwen was beginning to think of Florence as the voice of conscience.

‘Very well, thank you,’ she said.

‘I hope your husband is well, dear.’ The word ‘husband’ was pointedly emphasized.

‘Florence, it is lovely to see you, but I’m afraid we can’t stop to natter. We’re on our way to luncheon.’

Florence’s nostrils flared again, and her chins shook. ‘Without Laurence?’

‘Yes, he’s busy all day. Some business about the rollers.’

‘No doubt God will take care of you, dear,’ she added, narrowing her eyes at Mr Ravasinghe.

After that they’d passed a small photographer’s shop. Gwen glanced in the window and, intrigued to see a photograph of a wedding ceremony between a European man and a Sinhalese woman in traditional dress, she thought of Fran.

Mr Ravasinghe noticed her looking. ‘It wasn’t unusual, you know, in the early days. Up until the mid nineteenth century, the government actually encouraged mixed marriage.’

‘Why did it change?’

‘A lot of reasons. In 1869, once the Suez Canal was open, that made it easier for Englishwomen to get here quickly. Up until then they’d been scarce on the ground. But even before that the government wanted to claw back power. They were worried the Eurasian offspring of mixed marriages wouldn’t be so loyal to the Empire.’

Now, as they seated themselves at the small dining table and
Gwen kept a watch on Christina, she wondered if she might have been a little sharp with Fran about Mr Ravasinghe.

‘Ah,’ Christina said and clapped her hands. ‘Here comes the brinjal.’

The waiter served something Gwen did not recognize.

‘Don’t look so worried, Gwen,’ Savi said. ‘It’s only aubergine. It absorbs all the garlic and spices. Delicious. Do try.’

Gwen forked a piece up. The texture felt strange in her mouth, but the flavours were lovely, and she was suddenly ravenous. ‘It’s very nice.’

‘How well mannered you are. We will have to change that, won’t we, Savi?’

Mr Ravasinghe gave her another warning look.

‘Oh, all right. Savi, you are a bore.’

Gwen concentrated on polishing off her brinjal, while the other two talked. This foreign food was growing on her, but Gwen felt a little intimidated by Christina. A familiar sinking feeling took hold of her and she found it hard to swallow the last forkful as she began to wonder about Laurence and Christina again. Devil dancing indeed! Had Laurence given it to her to mean something in particular, or did people in Ceylon just go around giving each other hideous presents? She didn’t want to reveal her ignorance, but she did, however, decide on one vital question.

‘You’ve known my husband for a long time?’ she said.

Christina paused before answering, then smiled. ‘Ah yes. Laurence and I go way back. You’re a very lucky woman.’

Gwen looked across at Mr Ravasinghe, who just inclined his head. He hadn’t looked especially put out when she’d turned up alone, and with his normal civility, they had set off together for the villa Christina was renting. His clothes were immaculate – a dark suit and white shirt that shone against the colour of his skin – and he’d walked so close she could smell the cinnamon. Yet she wondered why he had stubble on his chin as if he’d risen late and not had time to shave or, indeed, as if he hadn’t even been to bed at all.

‘I am so very sorry about your cousin,’ he said, seeing her looking at him. ‘I do hope she makes a rapid recovery. I was thinking of inviting her for a boating trip on the lake at Kandy, now that the rain is holding off a little. Kandy is the Hill Capital.’

‘Fran would love that. I’ll pass on the invitation.’

He nodded. ‘Actually, if Fran is still here in July, you might both enjoy a candlelit, full-moon procession in Kandy. It’s called the Perahera festival, and is rather spectacular. They decorate the elephants in gold and silver.’

Christina whistled. ‘Do come. The procession celebrates the tooth of Gautama Buddha. Have you heard the story?’

Gwen shook her head.

‘Centuries ago, a princess is said to have smuggled the tooth over to Ceylon from India, hidden in her hair. And now it’s carried through the streets, to the sound of drums and followed by garlanded dancers. Let’s all go,’ Christina said. ‘Will you ask darling Laurence, Gwen, or shall I?’

‘I will,’ Gwen said, and forced a laugh to mask her irritation at the way Christina was implying she still maintained a certain familiarity with Laurence.

After the pudding had been cleared away, Christina lit a cigarette, then stood. ‘I think it’s time to unveil your canvas, Mr Ravasinghe, don’t you? But first, I need to powder my nose.’

She came round to Savi’s chair as he stood and Gwen caught a trace of Tabac Blond by Caron, an American perfume that Fran had worn. How appropriate it was here, muddled in with cigarette smoke. Christina kissed Mr Ravasinghe’s cheek, then raked his long wavy hair with her varnished nails. As Mr Ravasinghe turned to Christina, Gwen studied his profile. He was a very good-looking man, perhaps made more so by the hint of danger behind his eyes. He lifted the American’s hand from his hair and kissed it with such tenderness that it unsettled Gwen.

She had been avoiding the issue of asking Mr Ravasinghe if he
liked her cousin, but now that Christina had left them alone it seemed like the perfect opportunity. And though she had told Fran she wouldn’t do it, now she felt it important that she did.

‘Talking of Fran,’ Gwen said.

‘Were we?’

‘Earlier, yes.’

‘Of course. And what do you want to say about your delightful cousin?’

‘What do you think of her, Mr Ravasinghe?’

‘You must call me Savi.’ He paused and smiled warmly, looking into her eyes as he did. ‘I think she is perfectly lovely.’

‘You like her then?’

‘Who could not? But then, I would like any cousin of yours, Mrs Hooper.’

She smiled, but his reply had only created more doubt. He did like Fran, but would have liked any cousin. What kind of an answer was that?

As Christina came back into the room, he held out his hand for Gwen and they all walked through to a well-aired room at the back of the house. Two tall windows overlooked a terraced wall garden, and the canvas, covered by a sweep of red velvet, leant on a large easel in the middle of the room.

‘Now are we ready?’ Christina said, and she pulled the drape of velvet away with a flourish.

Gwen gazed upon Christina’s likeness then glanced up at Mr Ravasinghe, who smiled and held her gaze without blinking as if in expectation of a comment.

‘It’s unusual,’ she said, feeling hesitant.

‘It’s more than that, darling Savi. It is sublime,’ Christina said.

The trouble was, Gwen wasn’t sure. It wasn’t that she didn’t like his painting, but she had the feeling that he was somehow laughing at her. That they both were. He was a perfect example of polite well-bred manhood, but there was something about him, and it was more than the fact that he’d seen her in such a
tipsy state, more than the fact that he had stroked her forehead and helped her into bed.

‘It’s not what you can see that’s bothering you,’ Christina said.

Gwen looked at her and frowned.

‘You’re frightened of seeing what might happen next.’

Savi laughed. ‘Or what has already happened.’

Gwen looked back at the canvas, but a second look only served to underscore her reservations. Christina’s cheeks were flushed, her hair tangled, and all she wore was a black jet necklace and a knowing look. The portrait ended just beneath her naked breasts. She knew she was being ridiculous but she hated to think that Laurence had seen Christina like that.

‘Savi painted your husband’s first wife, you know.’

‘I haven’t seen it.’

‘I imagine Laurence might have taken it down after she died.’

Gwen thought for a moment. ‘Did you know Caroline?’

‘Not well. I got to know Laurence afterwards. Savi was all set to paint Verity too, before her big day, had even made some preliminary sketches, but then she upped and bolted back to England. Nobody knew why she ditched her poor intended chap. He was something in government, and rather sweet, I heard. What do you make of your sister-in-law?’

‘I don’t know her very well.’

‘What do you think of Verity Hooper, Savi? Do tell us.’