The Tea Planter’s Wife (21 page)

For three days Gwen felt terrible. Furious with Laurence for involving the doctor and depriving her of her sleeping draught, she refused to speak to him. She took what little she ate in her room and felt very black indeed, so much so that even the sight of Hugh didn’t cheer her up. More than anything she wanted to be at home with her mother and, wishing she had never met Laurence, she shed angry tears.

While she had been taking the medication, she’d had no worries and no headaches, but now something seemed to have got hold of her. Her head hurt so much she couldn’t think, her hands were constantly clammy and, with sweat running down between her breasts, she had to change her nightdress three times a day. She hardly knew where she was, her body ached in every joint and, with a feeling of needles prickling her skin just under the surface, her muscles were so tender it hurt to be touched.

On the fourth day, in an effort to try to restore some semblance of sanity, she took out all her mother’s letters and cried as she re-read all the news. As memories of home flooded back, the gentle early sun danced a mosaic of light on the sheets of notepaper lying on her desk. She missed England: the frosts in winter, the first snowdrops and the sweet summer days at the farm. Most of all she missed the young girl she used to be: the one who had been so full of hope, and who had believed that everything about life was going to be lovely. When she had done with crying, she had a bath, washed her hair and felt a little better.

On the fifth day, still with shaking hands, she decided to get dressed and, not without qualms, take lunch in the dining room. She made an effort to appear to be her normal self and wore a pretty muslin dress with a long matching chiffon scarf. The dress
fitted more loosely than before, but it moved nicely as she walked and gave her a pleasant floating sensation.

It was well past midday, but she decided to quickly check the supplies cupboard again, and when she unlocked the huge doors she was surprised to see the shelves groaning under the weight of rice, oil and whisky. The
appu
had watched her do it, and while she frowned at him, he shrugged and muttered something she didn’t understand. She scratched her head. It didn’t make sense. What was wrong with her? Had she been so tired that she had imagined that the supplies weren’t there when she had looked before? She shook her head, hating to feel so out of control.

The rains had not yet started, and because the weather had turned bright, Gwen went back to her room before going to the dining room and opened the window to freshen what, she realized, was very stuffy air. As she did so, she heard the gardener whistling in another part of the garden. Inside the house the phone rang, and someone started singing. It all seemed normal. As she left her room, she felt more confident that her abandoned bargain with God had become a thing of the past, had even begun to question whether she had a faith at all, but realized it mattered, for who else was there to forgive her?

In the dining room, lunch was laid for four. Laurence, Mr McGregor and Verity were already there, and two of the houseboys were hovering.

‘Ah, here she is,’ Laurence said with a wide smile.

As soon as Gwen was seated, they were served at breakneck speed.

‘Apparently the soufflé will spoil,’ Verity said. ‘It’s never very good at the best of times.’

Over the meal, the talk was about tea, the upcoming auctions and Laurence’s mortgage on a neighbouring plantation. Verity seemed in a good mood, and Laurence was happy too.

‘Well, I’m pleased to report the recent incidents in the labour lines seem to have settled,’ McGregor said.

‘Is Mr Ghandi due to visit Ceylon again?’ Verity asked.

‘I doubt it. But if he does, it won’t trouble us. None of the workers will be allowed to go.’

‘Maybe they should go,’ Gwen said, turning to Laurence. ‘What do you think?’

He frowned and Gwen had the impression this was a point of conflict between the two men.

‘The question is hypothetical,’ McGregor said.

‘What was the latest unrest about?’ Gwen asked.

‘The usual,’ McGregor replied. ‘Workers’ rights. Union agitators come along, get the workers all riled up, and I’m left to pick up the pieces.’

‘I had hoped the new Legislative Council might have been enough,’ Laurence said. ‘And the amount of money and time the Department of Agriculture has spent teaching people how to improve their methods of farming.’

‘Yes, but that doesn’t help our workers, does it?’ Gwen said. ‘And John Partridge once told me he thought big changes lay ahead.’

Laurence puffed out his cheeks. ‘You’re right. The National Congress doesn’t think enough has been done.’

‘Who knows what they think.’ McGregor pulled a face and laughed. ‘Or even
if
they think! It’s all these intellectual types trying to ignite the workers. It’s one thing giving women over the age of twenty-one the vote in England, but would you be happy to give the vote to ignorant natives?’

Gwen was intensely conscious of the butler and houseboys hearing this exchange, and it embarrassed her that McGregor should speak in such a tactless and unfeeling way. She itched to say something to counter it, but found in her fragile state that she dared not.

Over the remainder of their lunch she tried to find her way back to normality, but only managed it in flashes. She joined in the conversation, following the thread, but then, when it moved on, her concentration lapsed and she floundered. She kept her eyes on Verity and McGregor, watching for signs that they might
say something more about the drawing, but her brain still didn’t seem to be working properly and nothing made much sense. The men discussed the political situation a little longer, but she was very relieved when a gorgeous-looking trifle was brought in, and the atmosphere in the room changed.

‘How lovely,’ Verity said, clapping her hands.

There was silence as the trifle was eaten.

‘Will you come for a walk, Gwen?’ Laurence said and smiled.

She saw such warmth in his eyes it made her feel stronger. ‘I’d like that. I’ll just fetch my wrap. I can’t quite make out if I’m hot or cold.’

‘Take your time. I’ll wait for you on the terrace.’

She went to her room, opened out her favourite wrap and threw it round her shoulders. Originally from Kashmir, with the beautiful design of a peacock woven into the paisley patterns on the back, it had been one of her mother’s, though the green and blue wool had worn a little thin now. She was just about to close her bedroom window when she heard Laurence talking to somebody in the garden. The thick walls kept out the extreme heat and noise, but people never seemed to realize that when her window was open, she could hear what was said from as far as the garden room, and from that side of the garden itself.

‘You mustn’t take it personally,’ Laurence was saying.

‘But why can’t I come too?’

‘A man likes to spend time alone with his wife sometimes, and she has been ill, remember.’

‘She’s always ill.’

‘That is nonsense. And, quite frankly, after all I’ve done for you, it pains me dreadfully to hear you speak like that.’

‘Everything you do is for her.’

‘She is my wife.’

‘Yes, and she never lets me forget it.’

‘You know that’s not true.’ He paused while Verity muttered something.

‘I give you a generous allowance. I’ve transferred the deeds of
the Yorkshire house to you, and I allow you to stay here for as long as you like.’

‘I’m polite to her.’

‘I’d like you to love her.’

Don’t think, Gwen told herself as tears came to her eyes. Don’t move. And even though she felt truly stung, she remained where she was.

‘After Caroline died, I had you to myself.’

‘Yes, you did. But you have to build your own life. It’s unhealthy, this clinging to me. Now, apart from saying it really is high time you did your best to find a husband, I’m not going to discuss this further.’

‘I wondered when you’d get on to that, but you know very well there is only one man I wanted to marry.’

During a long pause when neither Laurence nor Verity spoke, Gwen closed her eyes. Then she heard her sister-in-law again.

‘You think I’m left on the shelf?’

‘It seems to be where you have placed yourself.’ His voice was sharp, but hers, when she replied, was petulant.

‘I have good reason. You think you know everything, but you don’t.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You know. Caroline … and Thomas.’

‘Come on, Verity, there’s no reason anything like that should ever happen to you.’

‘You may be my older brother, but there are things about our family you don’t understand.’

‘You’re being melodramatic. Anyway, I think you’re hanging around here far too much. It’s time you did something else.’

‘Say what you like, Laurence, but …’

They moved away, their voices fading, and Gwen did not hear what else was said. She inhaled, then exhaled slowly through tight lips. After all the effort she’d made with Verity, she felt hurt. As she was walking back and forth thinking about it, Laurence appeared at her door.

‘You look lovely, Gwen.’

She smiled, pleased he had noticed. ‘I heard you talking to Verity, while you were in the garden.’

Laurence didn’t answer.

‘She doesn’t like me. I’d hoped she might, after all this time.’

He sighed. ‘She’s a complicated girl. I think she has tried her best.’

‘Who was the man she fell in love with?’

‘Her fiancé, do you mean?’

‘No, I’m talking of the one who didn’t reciprocate.’

His brow furrowed. ‘It was Savi Ravasinghe.’

Gwen stared at the floor and kept her face rigid to conceal her shock. In the long silence that followed, the past came rushing back, and with it the image of her silk knickers on the floor.

‘Did he encourage Verity?’ she eventually asked.

Laurence shrugged but his body tensed as if there was something he couldn’t bring himself to say. ‘He met her when he painted Caroline’s portrait.’

‘Where is the picture, Laurence? I’ve never seen it.’

‘I keep it in my study.’

When he looked at her, she saw deep pain in his eyes, but also anger. Why? Was he angry with her?

‘I would like to see it. Have we got time before our walk?’

He nodded, but didn’t speak as they walked along the corridor.

‘Is it a good likeness?’ she asked.

Again, he didn’t answer, and when he unlocked the door his hands were shaking.

Once inside, she scanned the room. ‘I didn’t realize it was on display. It wasn’t there last time I came in here.’

‘I’ve taken it down a couple of times but always end up hanging it again. Do you mind?’

Gwen wasn’t sure what she felt but shook her head and studied the painting. Caroline was portrayed wearing a red sari enhanced with silver and gold thread, and with a pattern of birds and leaves embroidered all along the section that fell from her shoulder.
Ravasinghe had brought out Caroline’s beauty in a way that hadn’t been so apparent in the photograph Gwen had seen, but something fragile and sad in her face affected Gwen deeply.

‘It’s real silver, the thread,’ he said. ‘I’ll take it down. Should have stored it away long ago. Don’t know why I haven’t.’

‘Did she always wear a sari?’

‘No.’

‘For a minute there it seemed as if you were angry.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’

He turned away. Maybe he was angry with himself, she thought, or perhaps he still felt guilty that he hadn’t had Caroline hospitalized? She knew very well how guilt could chew up your insides, how it could stick to you, invisibly at first, but gradually fester until it took on a life of its own. She was saddened by the feeling that Laurence might never fully recover from his first wife’s tragic death.

Time passed by and, despite moments of intense anxiety when she still had to fight the panic, Gwen felt stronger every day. Hugh clattered about the place on his new bike and Laurence was cheerful. Gwen read her favourite books, sitting on a bench near the lake, where, listening to birds and the gentle lapping of water, she allowed nature to heal her. Gradually she started to feel like her old self, her worries about the drawing and the guilt about her broken bargain with God beginning to fade.

She knew she was properly better when she ate her first cooked breakfast in months. Sausages, slightly burnt the way she liked them, one fried egg, two rashers of lean bacon, a slice of fried bread, and all of it washed down by two cups of tea.

Where the months had gone, she really couldn’t say, but now it was October, and at last she was feeling bright. She glanced out of the window and down towards the lake where a fresh wind was chopping up the surface of the water. A walk with Hugh might be just the thing. She called Spew and Bobbins, and then found Hugh sitting on his rocking horse and shouting ‘giddyup’.

‘Darling, do you want to come for a walk with Mummy?’

‘Can Wilf come too?’

‘Of course he can. Just wear your wellingtons. It’ll be wet.’

‘Not raining now.’

Gwen pulled a face, and looked up at the sky. During the last few months, the weather had barely registered. ‘Maybe silly old Mummy didn’t notice that the rain had stopped.’

He laughed. ‘Silly old Mummy. That’s what Verity says. I’ll bring my kite.’

Gwen thought of her sister-in-law. There had been no trouble
recently. Verity had taken Laurence’s comments on board, and though she was back now, at least she had been gone for a while.

Neither Verity nor McGregor had mentioned the drawings again and since McGregor had banned the use of the bullock cart to bring messages, Naveena had bribed the
dhobi
to bring them whenever he could. It no longer worked as a warning system, however, as the drawings now arrived erratically, rather than around full moon, and there was no guarantee that the
dhobi
would keep his mouth shut. But he was a greedy man and she hoped the money he received would be enough of a deterrent.

As Gwen and Hugh reached the lake, the path was still muddy. Gwen had not tied back her hair and enjoyed the way it flew in the wind as they ambled along and the dogs raced ahead. On the other side of the lake, a band of purple shadows darkened the water. Hugh was still at the age where every tiny speck was of infinite interest. With a determined look that brooked no argument, he picked up and examined each pebble or leaf that caught his eye, then filled his pockets, and hers, with treasures that ten minutes later would be forgotten.

Grateful for a return to her life after a long absence, she watched her son and her heart burst with love for his smile, his little stocky legs, his unruly hair and his infectious giggles. The happy sound of chattering birds filled the air and, when she lifted her face to feel the warmth of the sun, she felt at peace; yet, despite that, one thing still nagged at her.

They went on a bit further, but Hugh cried when the kite got tangled up and would not fly.

‘What’s the matter with it, Mummy? Can you fix it?’

‘I think Daddy will probably be able to fix it, sweetheart.’

‘But I want to fly it now.’ Livid with anger at his hopes being dashed, he threw it on the ground.

She picked it up. ‘Come on, hold my hand and we’ll sing a song all the way home.’

He grinned. ‘Can Wilf choose?’

She nodded. ‘If you’re sure Wilf knows any songs.’

Hugh jumped up and down with excitement. ‘He does. He does. He does.’

‘Well?’

‘He’s singing, Mummy. He’s singing “Baa Baa Black Sheep”.’

She laughed and glanced back to see Laurence coming down the steps. ‘Of course. Silly old Mummy.’

‘There you are,’ Laurence called out. ‘Better get back in.’

‘We went for a walk by the lake.’

‘You look absolutely wonderful. It has put the roses back.’

‘Have I got roses too, Daddy?’

Laurence laughed.

‘I do feel better,’ she said. ‘And we both have roses.’

There was just one thing Gwen still needed to do to put her mind completely at rest, so the next morning she prepared herself, telling Naveena she wanted the stretch of a good long walk. At the back of her mind she knew the old ayah would object if she knew the real reason.

Naveena glanced at the sky. ‘It will be raining soon, Lady.’

‘I’ll take an umbrella.’

Once out of the house she followed the sweep of the road. Breathing deeply and swinging her arms, she was able to think more clearly when she walked. When the silver sheet of the lake could no longer be seen, she reached the part of the road where ferns laden with water almost brushed the ground. The smell of cooking fires from the labour lines still drifted across, and with it the distant sound of barking dogs. An expectant stillness hung in the air; the calm before the storm, she thought as she glanced at the approaching lines of black clouds divided by slivers of light.

She had always considered herself a good person, one who’d been brought up to know right from wrong. Since the birth of the twins her self-belief had been severely shaken, although her love for Hugh and Laurence was right; that much she did know. But what about Liyoni? Gwen didn’t doubt that the little girl was
safe, now that the missing drawing had arrived, but what if she was not loved?

A memory came back of the day Liyoni was born and, as other images returned to her, the more sure she felt that going to the village was the right thing to do. She hated to think that Liyoni, cut off from her real mother, might be growing up with an inexplicable sense of abandonment. Shivering with the anticipation of seeing her daughter again, she imagined taking Liyoni home with her, but as the rain started up and grew steadily louder, her heart began to pound. Laurence might not be as offended by the colour of Liyoni’s skin as the rest of the European set, but he would be deeply hurt by her infidelity.

All along the road she searched for the turning, but now rainwater was dripping from the trees and into her eyes, making it difficult to see ahead. Eventually she found a track to the left, marked by a large lichen-coated rock, and there she stopped to collect her breath before continuing. She managed to break a path through the overhanging branches with her umbrella, but after just twenty or thirty yards the wall of trees became too dense. When the spokes of the umbrella caught in one of the trees, she tore at it and her hair knotted in the branches. Panting with the effort of freeing herself, it tangled even more and she panicked until, almost in tears, she pulled herself free. The trail had petered out and now the umbrella was ruined too.

She picked the leaves and twigs from her hair and, as the rain became heavier, she made her way back to the road, straining to see through the thick white mist that had descended. Dark shapes seemed to appear and disappear at the edges of the road and she held out a hand to ward them off, suddenly feeling afraid. A bird screeched, there was a loud crash and that was followed by the crackle of snapping branches.

She lifted her heavy wet hair from her neck and shook the water off. Now that she had started, she didn’t want to stop. She wanted to see her daughter again: wanted to see what she looked like, wanted to look in her eyes and see her smile. She wanted to
hold her hand, kiss her cheek again and swing her round as she did Hugh. For a few moments she allowed herself to feel the emotions she had trained herself to deny. Instinctively she’d always known that if she permitted herself to feel love for her daughter she would not be able to cope with her absence. Now, as she allowed herself to want her daughter, she let in a little of that need, and it hurt so much that she doubled up with the pain of it. When she straightened up, she wiped her eyes, took a long slow breath and looked about her. She’d never find the village in this. Dizzy from the rush of blood to her head, she sat on a rock in the pouring rain with her arms wrapped round herself, and made believe it was Liyoni she was hugging.

She stayed until she was completely soaked through, then she choked back a sob and let her little girl go. With her chest tight and hardly able to breathe, she stood. For several minutes she did not move but watched the huge drops of rain as they bounced off the road, then, leaving her daughter behind again, she began the long uphill walk as the road slowly climbed towards home.

Laurence had not seen her arriving home drenched and swollen-eyed. In spite of her fatigue, she had lit candles and run a bath. Though the electricity supply from their own generator was unreliable during a storm, there had been hot water and she’d soaked in the scented bath so that the pain and tiredness might dissolve away. Then she’d taken two headache powders and splashed her face with ice-cold water.

Now as they both settled down to read after dinner, the oil lamps were lit. She sniffed their faintly smoky smell, hoping the gentle peace of the evening might stitch up the wound in her heart.

‘Why did you go for such a long walk in the rain?’ Laurence asked as he poured them both a brandy.

She shivered, fearing she had caught a chill. ‘I just needed fresh air. I had an umbrella.’

He fetched the blanket from the other sofa, wrapped it round
her and rubbed the back of her neck. ‘You’ve only just got better. We don’t want you ill again, my darling. We need you too much.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

The truth was the soaking had left her feeling drained, though more from emotion than the weather. However, she needed to appear her normal self so decided to read for a while then write to her mother. She’d been disappointed when, due to her father’s shortness of breath, her parents had cancelled their long-awaited trip to Ceylon.

‘It’s muggy, isn’t it,’ she said, ‘now that the rain has stopped?’

‘It will rain again soon.’

He went back to sit in his favourite armchair and picked up his paper.

Thoughts of Liyoni still threatened to spill over, but she swallowed back the distress and fought against them. She made herself comfortable on the sofa, not the one with the leopard skin. Gwen never felt at ease leaning against a dead animal. With a cushion behind her head, she put up her feet on one of the tapestry footstools and determined to concentrate on her book, but still the words swam.

‘What are you reading?’ he asked as he reached for his brandy.

‘It’s an Agatha Christie.
The Mystery of the Blue Train
. It only came out last year, so I’m quite lucky to get it. I do love Agatha Christie. It’s so vivid, and so exciting, you really think you’re there.’

‘A little unrealistic though.’

‘True, but I like to lose myself in a story. And I can’t bear those heavy tomes you keep in the library. Apart from the poetry, of course.’

He grinned, raised his brows and blew her a kiss. ‘Glad we have something else in common then.’

‘Darling!’

She closed her eyes but the need to confess all to Laurence was still there. She imagined throwing herself at his feet and begging for mercy, like one of the heroines in the novels she so liked to
read. But no, that was ludicrous. Her heart raced frantically and she put a hand to her breast as she rehearsed the words silently. She only had to open her mouth and speak.

‘All right?’ he said, noticing.

She nodded, aching not to have to keep Liyoni secret from him any longer. In that one night at Nuwara Eliya she had exchanged the love of her life for a drunken moment, but the price had been too high for too long, and she felt she could not go on. She tried the words again.
Laurence, I gave birth to another man’s child; a child I have hidden away
. No. That sounded terrible, but what better way was there to say it?

When the doorbell rang, he raised his brows and she put down her book.

‘Are we expecting someone?’

She shook her head, hiding the relief that washed through her.

‘Who could it be at this hour?’

‘I’ve no idea. Maybe when Verity left, she didn’t take her key.’

He frowned. ‘The door isn’t locked. If it were Verity, she’d come straight in.’

They heard the butler’s shuffling footsteps in the hall, and then a woman’s voice. A woman with an American accent. That was followed by the sound of high heels briskly tapping on the parquet floor, becoming louder as she walked along the corridor.

‘Christina?’ Gwen said in a low voice.

‘I don’t know any other Americans, do you?’

‘What can she –?’

The door opened and Christina came in. She wore her usual black, but was devoid of all jewellery. She looked as if she’d dressed in a hurry and had simply forgotten to put it on. While Gwen was coping with her misgivings at seeing the woman, Laurence had gone over and, with a smile on his face, was offering her a highball. She didn’t smile back.

‘No. Large whisky. Neat.’

Gwen watched as Christina sat on a straight-backed chair at the card table. Her hair, usually so elaborately styled, was
hanging loose over her shoulders, and Gwen could see from the colour of the roots that it was dyed. Something about that made her look vulnerable.

Christina pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from her bag. She put the cigarette into a silver holder, but when she attempted to light it, her hand shook so much she couldn’t manage it. Laurence stepped in, took the lighter from her and reached over to offer the flame. She drew in a long breath, the cigarette lit, then she leant her head back and exhaled, sending rings of smoke to the ceiling.

‘Is something wrong?’ Laurence asked her with a concerned look, and touched her bare arm. Not a caress, not that, but gentle.

Christina lowered her head and didn’t reply. Gwen noticed how the woman’s face, stripped of make-up, was incredibly pale, and maybe because of that she appeared to be at least ten years older. Not a woman in her thirties after all. Not so glamorous either. But Christina looked so strained that the thought didn’t comfort Gwen.

‘You had better sit down, Laurence.’