Butterfly Island

by Corina Bomann

  “I’m sure he didn’t say that.”

  “No, but he implied it. And I feel fully mature.” Victoria raised her chin defiantly, but Grace had no desire to continue the argument. Her gaze was still on Vikrama. Two women were talking to him, gesticulating wildly. What was that about?

  It was impossible to tell from that distance, and she didn’t want to go any nearer. But she suddenly wondered whether Vikrama had a wife, or at least a fiancée. He was the right age, and he was handsome enough for her to imagine him with a wife. The tea pickers were probably all crazy about him, as his position on the plantation also made him a good catch.

  “Grace, are you daydreaming?” Victoria asked, pinching her arm.

  Grace looked at her in surprise, only noticing the pain a moment later.

  “What’s that about?”

  Victoria smiled mischievously. “I asked you whether you think he’ll ever arrive.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Norris. If not, we’ll have to pair poor Miss Giles off with one of the local people. Maybe even with Mr. Vikrama.”

  Grace tried to hide the pang of jealousy she felt.

  “I don’t think she’d want him. He’s not an Englishman, after all.”

  Her gaze wandered back to Vikrama, who had taken his leave of the women with a smile and was now heading for the administration building. “No, he really isn’t the man for her.”

  That afternoon, Grace was sitting with her mother and Victoria in the drawing room, as they all waited for the arrival of her father and Mr. Stockton. Back home, Grace had always loved it when visitors came to Tremayne House. Every now and then they included writers and artists, usually introduced by acquaintances. Now all she could think about was how the collar of her pink afternoon dress irritated her skin and how much the time dragged, as if someone had laid a curse on them as they waited.

  What would Stockton have to say? The question didn’t inspire Grace especially. He would probably rattle on at boring length about tea cultivation and then ask inquisitive questions, such as whether she had been presented at her debut. And she would be struck by the desire to strangle him with his ascot.

  Hoofbeats were heard outside, and all three Tremayne ladies took a deep breath. The visitor had arrived. Tea would soon be served. Grace glanced surreptitiously at the clock. One hour. Maybe two. Then he would leave and she would have time to write to her friend Eliza Thornton, who was at this moment probably sweating her way through a dancing lesson, eager to embark on the ball season.

  As the butler’s voice echoed down the hall, Grace looked across at her sister. They had agreed in advance that they would both keep an eye on Stockton and compare notes about their impressions afterwards.

  Stockton entered alone. Where was their father? Bewildered, the sisters looked at one another.

  “Ah, Mr. Stockton!” Claudia cried out and rose to greet her guest. “I’m delighted to meet you. My husband has already told us so much about you.”

  “I hope it’s all good,” he replied gallantly, without paying the slightest attention to Grace and Victoria. “It would be a shame if I didn’t prove worthy of your hospitality.”

  “You have nothing to fear if my first impression is anything to go by,” Claudia replied coquettishly. She turned to her daughters. “May I introduce Grace and Victoria.”

  “I’ve already had the pleasure,” Stockton replied with a small bow. “I hope you’ve both now recovered from your fright.”

  “Of course we have, Mr. Stockton,” Victoria replied, looking at her sister. Grace forced a smile. Maybe I’ve judged him unfairly, she thought. I mustn’t cause trouble for Mother.

  “We’re well aware there was no bad intention on your part,” she said, offering him her hand. Stockton smiled as he took it.

  “I’m glad to hear it. I would be inconsolable if I’d upset you in any way.”

  “You most certainly haven’t,” Claudia broke in. “My daughter is simply a little impulsive and naturally protective of her younger sister.”

  “All good characteristics in a future wife,” Stockton said, still smiling and giving a light-hearted bow.

  Fortunately, this concluded the pleasantries, and Claudia led their guest to the tea table.

  “Please excuse the fact that the cakes are a little different from what you will be used to. My brother-in-law neglected to instruct the cook on how to bake proper scones.”

  “I don’t think your brother-in-law is to blame for that,” Stockton replied. “My cook is also somewhat unconventional, but she’s very hard-working, and that’s what counts in my opinion.”

  As they sat to the table, Grace felt a strange tension. Stockton had not yet done anything to cause her displeasure, but there was something in the air, like an approaching storm building up before finally discharging itself with sudden force. Was it because of his remark about a future wife? She didn’t actually have anything against marriage, and after all, the fortune teller had predicted a wedding for her . . .

  “I’m very sorry about what happened to your brother-in-law,” Stockton said. “It was a shock for us all, and I can assure you personally that I don’t give any credence to the malicious rumours that have been flaring up every now and then.”

  Malicious rumours? Grace looked from Victoria to her mother. But as ever, Claudia was a picture of self-control. If the remark had affected her in any way, she didn’t show it, and her manners prevented her from asking about the rumours.

  She rang the bell, and one of the Tamil maids whom Claudia had appointed to serve the meals appeared. She didn’t have the efficiency of English maids, but under her mistress’s stern gaze she made every possible effort.

  Stealing a furtive glance at Mr. Stockton, Grace noticed his eyes following the maid in her bright-blue sari.

  “You allow your servants to wear traditional clothing. That’s very progressive of you.”

  A faint blush tinged Claudia’s pale face.

  “Unfortunately we’ve discovered that there isn’t a single maid’s uniform in the house. My brother-in-law clearly allowed the staff to work in traditional clothes. But proper uniforms should be arriving on the next ship to reach Colombo.”

  “It wasn’t meant as a criticism,” Stockton replied, as he stirred his tea and breathed in the aroma. “I find the women’s clothing delightful. They’re almost as colourful as the parrots in the trees. With all the green that surrounds us, a few splashes of colour are very welcome, wouldn’t you say?”

  As he drank, Grace looked at her mother. Does she still think he’s nice now? Back in England, remarking on the clothing of the servants quite definitely implied a criticism of the hostess.

  “Your tea is truly excellent,” Stockton said after trying it. “Yes, I can say with a touch of envy that this harvest even surpasses my own. First flush, isn’t it?”

  Claudia looked baffled. “Forgive me if I’m unable to reply. I haven’t yet familiarised myself with tea cultivation.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry if I’ve caused you embarrassment. I’ve been familiar with tea growing since my youth, and I frequently let slip jargon without thinking that others might not understand me.”

  “What is the first flush, Mr. Stockton?” Victoria asked inquisitively.

  “It’s one of the four picking seasons.” Stockton’s gaze was fixed on Grace as though he would have expected this question from her. She lowered her eyelashes nervously, but could still see that the man was smiling. “It’s mainly used for Darjeeling, but it’s also common to differentiate the picking seasons for Assam. The variety of tea grown here is mainly Assam, even though we now call it Ceylon.”

  She recalled the explanations Vikrama had given to her father, which made her smile. Needless to say, Stockton noticed.

  “Your daughter is truly charming, Mrs. Tremayne. Has she had her debut yet?”

  Grace hadn’t expected the question to come so soon. Fortunately, he had not asked her, but her mother.

  Claudia looked nonplussed.
“No, unfortunately we didn’t have time for it. My brother-in-law’s death was a frightful surprise for us all. But we’re planning to catch up next year, once the situation here has stabilised somewhat.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, I can tell you now that the young lady should find a good dressmaker. The Nuwara Eliya society is small, but very particular. With a beautiful dress, your daughter would without doubt be in a position to catch the eye of any young man here.”

  “You’re too kind, Mr. Stockton,” Claudia replied, clearly flattered. “Perhaps your wife can advise me on the choice of dressmaker.”

  “It will be her pleasure.”

  Grace finally felt his eyes moving away from her. But that didn’t mean that Stockton stopped focusing on her as a topic of conversation.

  “What do you think about your daughters meeting my children?” he began after trying a piece of cake. “George is twenty and Clara fourteen. I believe they’d get on well.”

  Grace knew what his stares meant. He’s measuring me up like a brood mare.

  She felt like jumping up and leaving the room, but held on to her self-control. Nevertheless, her silent wish for the afternoon tea to come to an end became all the more urgent.

  “We would find that a great pleasure, Mr. Stockton,” she heard her mother reply. “I’m planning a small house-warming reception. But before I do, I need to introduce myself to the other ladies.”

  “I think it will be enough for you to send them invitations. I can assure you that my wife is bursting with curiosity about you. News spreads fast in Nuwara Eliya, and the ladies are all eager to meet you.”

  The way he stared at her convinced Grace that he was keen to pair her off with his son. But before he could go on, they heard steps approaching the drawing room. A moment later her father came through the door.

  “Daniel, what a pleasure to see you here!” Henry greeted his guest warmly, and Grace only just managed to suppress a sigh of relief at the thought that Stockton’s attention would now turn to their father and the tea plantation. But she was mistaken.

  “Please forgive me for being late,” her father said as he took a seat. “I had to go out to the new field to set matters straight. My daughter had drawn my attention to an irregularity.”

  “An irregularity?”

  As though he knew from whom the information came, Stockton looked at Grace again.

  “One of the elephants was injured, and the girls were afraid that the workers might have mistreated him. However, the animal sustained the injury in a fight with another bull elephant. My workers have decided to use him in another location to prevent any further conflicts.”

  Henry looked at his daughter, causing her to blush.

  The afternoon tea went on almost into the evening. Grace had to use the pretext of a slight dizzy spell to extricate herself from Stockton’s company. At least there was no more talk of marriage or debuts, but she nevertheless felt incredibly relieved when she couldn’t feel Stockton’s eyes on her any more.

  She stepped outside, intending to go for a walk and let the wind blow Stockton out of her head, and immediately bumped into Mr. Vikrama, who was on his way into the house.

  “Excuse me, miss,” he said once he had collected himself. “I didn’t intend—”

  “I’m the one who should apologise, Mr. Vikrama,” Grace said quickly. “I should have looked where I was going. I almost knocked you over.”

  They were silent for a moment, then she said, “Did you want to see my father? He’s with Mr. Stockton in the drawing room.”

  “Oh,” he said and took a step back. “Then I’d better come back another time.”

  “Why should you?” Grace said. “If it’s important, my father won’t mind being disturbed.”

  “It isn’t,” Vikrama replied, looking at her as though he had already said too much. “I’ll discuss it with him later. There’s no hurry.”

  He turned to go, but Grace held him back. “Mr. Vikrama!”

  “Yes?” he asked, his gaze sending a rush of warmth through her veins, making her forget what she had been going to say. Or had she actually been going to say anything? At a loss, she struggled to find the right words, finally coming up with something that wouldn’t make him think she’d lost her mind.

  “My sister has fallen in love with the parrots. Do you think you could show her how to catch one?”

  His expression mixing incredulity and surprise, he replied, “Of course I can. But I must tell you that the birds are anything but happy in cages and aviaries. They love flying with their flock, and even the most beautiful ones are all the more delightful if you catch sight of them by chance in the palm trees.”

  Grace felt a lump in her throat. She had a mental image of her acquaintance’s deranged bird. It was probably truly crazy—crazy with longing.

  “But if your sister would like to see a parrot up close, I can arrange that.”

  His warm smile drove away her concerns that she had offended him.

  “That would be really kind,” she said. “If I’m honest, I’d also like to see more of a parrot than its underside. I promise you we’ll release it once we’ve had a good look.”

  Vikrama nodded with a smile and was about to turn away again when something else occurred to Grace.

  “Please could you explain to me about the tea picking seasons? Mr. Stockton said something about a first flush.”

  Vikrama’s face lit up with the same smile she had noticed when he was talking to her father. Was it really possible for a man to have so many different kinds of smile? Grace was bewildered, so much so that she almost missed what he was saying.

  “Have you got a few moments spare?” he asked. “We shouldn’t really be talking like this on the steps.”

  “Of course!”

  Grace followed him down the steps into the gardens, towards the rhododendrons where she and Victoria had hidden to listen.

  “So you want to learn something about growing tea?” he asked.

  Grace nodded, completely off her guard. She’d expected him to launch straight into his explanation. “I’ll be living here from now on, won’t I? So I ought to know something about the tea. Since I don’t have a brother, not yet at least, I could even be mistress of Vannattuppūcci one day.”

  Another thought suddenly flashed through her mind. “What does Vannattuppūcci actually mean?” she asked before Vikrama could respond to her previous words. “It’s your native language, isn’t it?”

  Vikrama nodded. “It means butterfly. Your uncle noticed that we have a great many beautiful specimens here on the plantation. He named the estate accordingly.”

  “I saw a lovely butterfly a few days ago—a gorgeous blue one. Sadly, it had gone as quickly as it came.”

  “Some people believe that butterflies are the souls of the dead. The Hindus believe that in the next life a person can be reincarnated as an animal, not necessarily a human. Maybe the one you saw was your uncle wanting to see who had moved on to the plantation.”

  Grace liked this idea, even though she didn’t feel any kind of bond with Uncle Richard. But a hint of real sadness flashed in Vikrama’s eyes. He had clearly been really fond of her uncle.

  But he only let his feelings show for a brief moment.

  “Well, I think he’d be delighted by his niece’s interest in his life’s work. You wanted to know about the picking seasons, didn’t you?”

  Grace nodded, and Vikrama explained that there were four harvest seasons. The first flush referred to the first leaves picked after the winter, and the second flush was the summer harvest, which was under way at the moment. The rain flush was during the monsoon season, and the growing year ended with the autumn flush—the last leaves picked before production ceased for the winter.

  “If you like, I can tell you about the differences in the quality of tea in each season. Every flush gives a different quality. The first flush is light and bitter, the second flush a little milder, but darker in colour. You just have to pay attenti
on when drinking the tea.”

  Grace was going to comment, but her words dried up in her throat. Looking towards the house, she saw that her father was just outside the front door with his guest and they were now walking across the courtyard. Stockton was looking around as if searching for something. He finally turned towards her. Grace froze and looked to the ground in embarrassment.

  “What’s the matter?” Vikrama asked.

  “I think my father will be able to see you now,” she said with some disappointment. “He’s just saying goodbye to his visitor.”

  Vikrama raised his eyebrows in surprise, but Grace didn’t feel she could stay with him any longer.

  “I have to go now. Many thanks for your explanations, Mr. Vikrama.”

  She hitched up her skirts and hurried along the sandy path to the house.

  A smile played on Daniel Stockton’s lips as he left the plantation behind. Young Grace was a promising prospect—he had realised that as soon as he saw her pulling her sister out of the way of his horse. She had character and courage; she was fiery and apparently in good health—all characteristics he would like to see in a daughter-in-law.

  All the things his wife was not. Delicate Alice had almost died giving birth to their second baby, and the children she had borne were frail. George, his son, was absorbed from dawn to dusk in stuffing birds instead of showing an interest in tea growing. His daughter, Clara, was sickly and spent most of the time, whatever the season, closeted away in her room.

  It hadn’t bothered him too much to begin with, but now he was getting on in years he had to start thinking about what would become of his plantation in the future.

  Grace was from faraway England, but he sensed she would take to tea production. And even in these early days she seemed to have developed a good relationship with the workers—why else would she have been talking to her father’s foreman?

  The alternative explanation made his mouth go dry.

  Did the fellow have designs on the young woman?

  The mental image of her naked in a passionate embrace with a man excited Daniel Stockton so much that he had to halt his horse. Here and now, away from the watchful eyes of society and his pale wife, he could give himself over to his fantasies undisturbed, and that meant a vision of the young woman’s face flushed with desire, golden-red locks falling over her naked shoulders and breasts as they moved back and forth in passionate thrusting. All at once he became the stranger who lay between her thighs and . . .