Gasping, he tore open his collar. He had to collect himself. He was on his way home to supper with his family, not an occasion to be faced with eyes blazing with lust. Even though his marriage bed had long been cold, his wife nevertheless had a sixth sense, as did all women, that made her fear losing her man. She would see that he had been thinking about another.
As he urged his horse onward again, he tried to steer his mind on to other subjects. But even as he passed through the gates of his plantation, he couldn’t get the gentle lips and blue eyes of Grace Tremayne out of his head.
I’ll make sure George marries her, he told himself. Whatever the cost.
The next morning, Grace and Victoria were setting out on a little walk with Miss Giles when Vikrama approached them, carrying a cage made of pipework in which a fiery-red parrot with green and blue tail feathers was screeching loudly.
“Good morning, ladies!” he said with a small bow. “I heard that Miss Victoria wanted to see a parrot up close. This morning I happened across one that declared itself willing. But only under the condition that it regains its freedom afterwards.”
While Miss Giles peered at it as though she expected to see a flea circus dancing all over the bird, Victoria’s eyes shone with delight.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Vikrama! I promise I’ll be as quick as I can with my drawing.”
“But, Miss Victoria!” Miss Giles cried out, appalled. “Surely you can’t want to get too close to this louse-ridden bird!”
“This bird is perfectly healthy and won’t harm your charge in the slightest,” Vikrama said, giving Grace a conspiratorial glance. “But I do advise you not to touch it. If you approach a parrot in the wrong way its bite can be very painful.”
“Have you ever been bitten by a parrot?” Victoria asked animatedly as she took the cage from him.
“Yes, when I was a child, often. When you catch one you have to take care to hold it carefully from behind, so it can’t reach your fingers with its beak. If you don’t hurt it, there’s a good chance you won’t be hurt back, but you never know when something you do will hurt an animal.”
“Nevertheless, I’m really not sure—”
“Miss Giles,” Grace interrupted her. “I asked Mr. Vikrama to look out for a parrot. It was very kind of him and we’re very grateful. How is my sister supposed to learn about the natural world if not through looking closely at specimens? Unfortunately, Mr. Norris isn’t here to instruct her.”
The mention of their private tutor brought a flush to Miss Giles’s cheeks. Grace noticed with satisfaction that she had succeeded in distracting the governess’s attention. As she turned with a smile to Vikrama, something lit up in his eyes that made her heart beat faster.
“Come on, Victoria, let’s draw the parrot quickly,” she said, laying her hand on her sister’s shoulder. Before turning away she gave Vikrama another smile, and observed the effect it had on his expression.
8
Hill Club Hotel, May 2008
The rain made a mess of Diana’s plans. For the next two days it poured down in bucketfuls. It made it impossible to go up to the plantation—in those conditions, she would have found the hazardous local driving style even more dangerous than usual, and hiking would also have been extremely difficult.
“Do you think the monsoon’s begun earlier than anticipated?” she asked Jonathan over breakfast. “I did hear people saying on the train that it would be starting soon.”
“It’s possible. But I don’t think this is monsoon rain yet. Maybe we’ll get an opportunity in the next few days to hike up to the plantation.”
Diana nodded, a little despondent. She had been hoping so much to gain some clarity soon, but all she had to date were fragments, and the palm leaf still hadn’t been deciphered. All kinds of wild notions ran through her mind as she stared out of the window at the green landscape and low-lying clouds, but she suppressed them. No, she wouldn’t prejudge her ancestors. She would allow the facts to speak for themselves, and only once she ran out of discoveries would she allow her imagination to fill the gaps.
Shortly before meeting Jonathan for dinner, she switched on her laptop again to look through her emails. The hotel Internet was sluggish, and it took ages for all her messages to download.
You should be grateful that there’s a connection here at all, she told herself.
Looking down the list, she sighed.
Messages from Eva keeping her up to date with work were the pleasant side. But Philipp had also written to her three times, each email without a subject line, as if he hoped that would make her more likely to read them.
Diana suppressed the impulse simply to delete them. I’ll look at them later. Maybe he’s even announcing his intention to seek a divorce.
The email from Mr. Green promised to be much pleasanter. He gave a brief report on life at Tremayne House and said that he’d had to call in a handyman because part of the guttering on the main part of the house had come down. This was followed by a request for her to open the attachment and look at the contents closely. It was a picture, entitled simply “IMG7635489.” Had Mr. Green taken a photo of the new gutter?
Diana groaned when she saw the size of the file. How could she pick up five megabytes with this poor connection? Perhaps I should save the message until we’re back in Colombo, she thought. Why would he go to all this trouble for a photo of a gutter? But her curiosity got the better of her. The file can load while I have dinner with Jonathan. It should be here by the time we’ve finished.
She clicked on the button, got up, and went downstairs.
Over dinner they talked about colonial rule in Sri Lanka and about the Tamils.
“If we have time, we really should visit one of the mountain temples,” Jonathan suggested. “The Hindus built magnificent temples, even if they themselves didn’t have much to live on. Their gods are very important to them.”
Diana had seen one of these temples in a book on the region. To stand in front of one, to be able to touch its colourful paintwork and breathe in the scent of the floral offerings, hugely appealed to her.
“That would be lovely. Do you know of any temples in the area?”
“There’s one really close to Vannattuppūcci. And two more in the surrounding area. As soon as the rain stops we should be able to reach them easily. But”—he reached for his glass of tea which had cooled enough to drink—“your family history takes priority.”
“Perhaps my family history is more closely linked to Hinduism than I realise.” Diana sighed. “Oh, if only I knew a little more. All I have to date are suppositions and general information that doesn’t have anything to do with the secret.”
“I think that’s the nature of secrets,” Jonathan murmured thoughtfully, as if to himself, as the same shadow settled in his eyes that had struck him when he referred to his ex-wife. Did he also have a secret?
As Diana watched him, she suddenly felt a need to know more about him. The story of his failed marriage and his child were perhaps enough for a stranger, but by now she had found out so many of his little characteristics that she wanted to know how he had acquired them. And every time she had the opportunity to look longer into his eyes, she was overcome by a longing to be embraced and kissed—and to experience in bed what she and Philipp had long since lost.
They sat for the rest of the evening in front of a sketchy mind map they had scribbled down on a napkin. They drew together all they knew, padded out with general information. At last Diana had some idea of what her ancestors’ lives would have been like. Once on location, she might even get to the bottom of the secret itself, around which all the events had played out.
On the way back to her room, Diana took the leaflet about the plantation from her bag and folded it so that the telephone number was showing. Tomorrow was Monday, so the employees would be there and she could maybe make an appointment—provided the rain stopped.
When she entered her hotel room, she had forgotten the photo she was downloading. It was onl
y the screensaver switching to a new picture that reminded her.
The computer showed that the file was fully downloaded. When Diana clicked on it, at first she saw nothing but a grey-and-white area that looked similar to the photo of Grace in front of the plantation. Then the pixels sharpened to show a landscape that had nothing to do with Sri Lanka. The photograph must have been taken in Europe, she supposed in around the 1960s, as indicated by the border around the photo and the lack of mildew spots. To her great amazement it was a picture of a cemetery. At its heart was a gravestone marked with a cross that towered above all the others, its inscription frustratingly unclear.
The next day, Jonathan’s guess that the downpour did not herald the start of the monsoon seemed to be proved correct. The clouds thinned a little, finally allowing a few rays of sun to break through. The sight of the glittering drops on the leaves reminded Diana of the fairy story of a princess who wanted a crown of dewdrops because the water glittered like precious stones. Emily had told her the story, and after Mr. Green had watered the lawn, she had sometimes imagined that she was walking through a garden full of roses made from gemstones.
Oh, Emily, she thought, glancing at the desk. Why didn’t you leave me some clearer clues . . . ?
When Jonathan knocked she was in the middle of gathering up her clues and stowing them in a plastic bag to protect them if it rained again. She had a feeling that it would be good to have them with her. Maybe she would be able to link them to what she found at the plantation.
“Come in!” she called. Jonathan appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in hiking gear, his small travel bag slung over his shoulder. “What do you think. Should we risk it?”
“Of course!” Diana replied. “If we wait any longer we’ll have missed our chance. My flight home is in five days, so we don’t have much time left. Anyway, I called the plantation this morning. The secretary said the next few days would be a good time, as the manager is there and will be able to show me around.”
Jonathan had succeeded in finding a driver with a jeep that would save them from trekking through the jungle.
“Were you joking when you said we had to walk?” she asked sceptically after they had climbed in.
“It’s usually a beautiful route,” he said. “A walk through the jungle can be wonderful. But with the weather like it is, it’s better to have someone drive us. Besides, we don’t want to run into any sloth bears, do we? Those fellows can be very dangerous, especially if they’re scared.”
Before Diana could reply, the driver had started up the jeep and they set off on the bumpy ride. The loud roar of the engine made it virtually impossible to hold a conversation, and the additional fear of rolling or getting stuck weighed heavily on her. In the event of an accident, how long would it take for them to be rescued?
Glancing at Jonathan, she saw only a calm, thoughtful expression, but she suspected he was putting on a poker face so as not to unnerve her any more than she already was.
Finally, her imagination having run through every possible manner of getting killed in the jungle, she gave herself up to the rocking motion and allowed her thoughts to return to the strange photo that Mr. Green had sent her. A cemetery in some godforsaken place.
She hadn’t yet asked what he intended by it and where he had found it, but she would do as soon as they were back from the plantation.
9
Vannattuppūcci, 1887
Inspired by her close encounter with the parrot, Victoria now went out frequently with her drawing pad to catch the impressions of the world around her. As though the animals somehow knew she was no longer intent on catching them, they seemed to show themselves more frequently, and she soon had a fine collection of sketches of parrots, butterflies, and other insects. But the flying foxes were still proving elusive.
“Could you ask Mr. Vikrama if he can find me a flying fox?” Victoria asked after another fruitless search for the animals.
Grace started and realised how the mere mention of his name caused blood to shoot to her cheeks. She didn’t know why, but whenever she saw the foreman she was overcome by an unprecedented attack of nerves that she couldn’t explain. He was always friendly and helpful towards her, without the oily manner of Daniel Stockton. Yet whenever she met him she couldn’t help feeling that she was completely inappropriately dressed, had the wrong hairstyle, and appeared childish. What was wrong with her?
Mr. Norris’s eventual arrival had heralded an end to their morning walks. From now on, Victoria had regular lessons, while Grace was condemned to spending the time with Miss Giles, concerning themselves with their dresses—as they had unpacked their clothes, the need for repairs had become woefully obvious.
When the sewing and patching became too much for her, she would slip into Victoria’s teaching room, where Mr. Norris was informing her about the native species—not a subject he was particularly knowledgeable about. Her father had probably demanded that his second daughter was familiarised with the flora and fauna of her surroundings.
Grace was a little envious of Victoria for the fact that she could still receive schooling and didn’t have to devote herself entirely to household duties, particularly one morning when the Tremaynes’ tutor was talking about the native flowers.
“The bush you see outside the house is called frangipani here, or Plumeria in Latin. There are various varieties and colours, with yellow and red predominating. This shrub, which belongs to the dogbane family, is found throughout the Indian subcontinent.”
“Is there also a blue frangipani?” Victoria asked after she had finished taking notes.
“To be honest, I’m afraid I can’t answer that one, but one never knows what range of colours God has appointed for this plant.” Mr. Norris removed his metal-rimmed glasses from his eyes and laid them down gently on the desktop. “Perhaps you and your sister will find a few blue specimens on one of your walks.”
Victoria whirled around, and Grace, caught out, stood up. Disbelief was written all over the younger girl’s face—disbelief that her sister would voluntarily come to a lesson when she was free to do other things.
“I just wanted to listen for a while,” Grace said, embarrassed. Although she had not had lessons for three years, she suddenly felt like the pupil she had once been, full of respect for her teacher. “I’m sorry for interrupting.”
The tutor grinned. “That’s what I find strange about my pupils,” he said, as though talking to himself. “When I’m teaching them, they all seem to want to escape from my classes. And once they’ve left the halls of learning forever, they’re constantly drawn back.”
“It’s simply that you never used to tell me about exotic plants and animals,” Grace replied.
“You’re right. And I must confess that, although rocks are my primary interest, I find myself fascinated by the flora and fauna of this region.” He placed his spectacles back on his nose. “If you like, and if your household duties allow it, you’re welcome to listen in on my classes again. Without any troublesome requirement to note down what I say, of course.”
Victoria pouted. “But I’m not released from taking notes, Mr. Norris?”
“Of course not,” Norris replied sternly. “Miss Grace has already completed her schooling, and I’m sure she won’t be able to attend these classes all the time. She’s bound to marry one day and set up her own household. And to make sure you’ll be able to do the same when you’re older, Miss Victoria, I think we should continue the lesson now. Next week I’ll be asking you to write an essay.”
With a sigh, Victoria turned back to her notebook.
As Mr. Norris pronounced on the uses of the coconut palm, Grace looked out of the window and tensed. Mr. Vikrama was passing at that very moment, probably after visiting the drying sheds to make sure things were running smoothly. Once again Grace found herself pondering on what he had said about the tea picking seasons. Did Mr. Norris know about that?
Unlike the previous night, when she had watched him again, Vikrama was n
ow wearing normal British clothing, his brown trousers tucked into high boots and a beige patterned waistcoat over his three-quarter sleeved shirt. The box under his arm looked important.
Where’s he going all the time? she wondered. She felt like jumping up to ask him, but she fought down the impulse and gazed out at the distant palms while the tutor’s voice drummed down around her like summer rain.
The monsoon season brought with it dull days, constant rain, and a little cool relief, if it could be called that with the temperatures only dropping by a few degrees and remaining hotter than those of an English summer.
For Grace and Victoria it meant long days indoors, which Victoria in particular found trying. She no longer considered her lessons to be a waste of time, but she sorely missed the compensation of her afternoon walks.
During their free time, the two sisters frequently retired to the conservatory, where they set up their easels. Within a few moments the fresh smell of the rain would be permeated by those of oil paints and turpentine.
“Do you remember that time by the lake?” Victoria said, as her brush loaded with blue paint conjured up a parrot’s wing.
“You mean when we had our portrait painted?” Grace asked as she began to apply the first pale-pink hues of a frangipani branch laden with blooms.
“Yes, that’s right. Wasn’t it a wonderful day? Do you recall how we kept upsetting the poor artist as he tried to commit our likenesses to canvas?”
“I’m surprised you remember it at all,” Grace said in amazement. Even she had only a faded memory of the afternoon by the lake. She had been nine and had had her fill of having to sit still for the artist. Despite her mother’s warnings, she had finally got up and walked around, her legs grown numb from sitting for so long on the lakeside, the air swarming with midges.
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