Only a few weeks ago she wouldn’t have cared. She would have submitted to what was expected of her, giving herself up to the duties of a wife. But now she felt a growing resistance, which surprised and shocked her in equal measure. With a man other than George Stockton she would be prepared to bow to the conventions of society, but not with this lad, whom anyone could see was none too impressive.
Fortunately, the guests continued arriving. Henry and Claudia had to take their leave of the Stocktons for the moment. The mere fact of her release from the appraising eyes of Mr. Stockton and George made the greetings and compliments of the new arrivals much easier for Grace to bear. She noticed that some of them meant their remarks sincerely, and she even found she took a liking to some of them, especially the ones who weren’t eyeing her critically like a prize heifer at the cattle market.
Once all the guests had arrived, her father gave a short speech, saying how delighted he was to greet the refined society of Nuwara Eliya and to have the opportunity to put down roots in this beautiful country. He made only brief mention of his brother’s memory—which he handled delicately so as to avoid putting a damper on the atmosphere. He quickly turned his talk back to the occasion and indicated to the musicians, whom he’d had brought from Colombo with Wilkes’s help, that they should begin.
Halfway through the evening, her head swirling from the many conversations and pleasantries, and from keeping a smile fixed on her face, Grace left the house for a short walk. She had to admit that the guests were not so different from the society in London. Although they had been in Ceylon for a long time, it seemed to have altered nothing about the way they behaved.
The garden welcomed her with soothing calm and darkness that got deeper the further away she moved from the house. In former days she wouldn’t have dreamed of going outside in her beautiful ball gown, but the past few weeks had changed her. She didn’t know what it was. Her aversion towards this place had completely reversed, her interest in tea cultivation had awoken, and she was gradually coming to feel like Victoria, for whom their stay here was one big adventure.
“Miss Grace,” said a quiet voice.
She turned to see Vikrama nearby. He was wearing neither his work clothes nor his mysterious night-time apparel, and Grace could do nothing other than stare. He wore a black shirt, the collar open and the sleeves rolled up a little, wide black trousers and bare feet. He looked strikingly like an Oriental knight from one of the stories she used to read many years ago. Unlike the fictional knights, however, he did not cover his face. In the moonlight he looked a little pale beneath his black locks, dark eyebrows, and neatly trimmed beard. He looked even more handsome than she remembered from the previous days’ encounters.
“Mr. Vikrama, I . . .”
He raised his hand with a smile. “I must apologise. My reaction before was inappropriate, and I fear I gave the impression that I was engaged in illegal activities. But that’s not the case.”
Grace smiled at him in relief. He’s obviously not angry with me.
“I never believed you were,” she replied. “I’m just very inquisitive, a characteristic my mother has always disapproved of. In recent years I’ve managed to curb it, but here everything’s so new and different that I’m afraid it’s been reawoken.”
“It’s not always a bad thing to be inquisitive,” Vikrama replied. “Sometimes it helps open your mind to other cultures.”
“Is that something by one of the poets?” Grace raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“No. My words. From my own experience. And that of my people. We’re also very inquisitive, particularly about new people. That’s why you’ll always find people here who are willing to help you. Because in doing so, they get to know you.”
Silence fell between them. In the distance a strange cry rang out, probably a bird.
“Nevertheless, I had no right to ask you about it,” Grace said contritely. “You may be my father’s employee, but you have your own life.”
Vikrama looked at her strangely. Something seemed to be on the tip of his tongue, but he dismissed it with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Then he spoke. “Kalarippayatu.”
Grace looked at him in amazement. “I beg your pardon?”
Vikrama smiled. “That’s what I’m doing. Kalarippayatu.”
“What’s that?”
“A martial art. I practise it every evening with a few friends. The doctor in the pickers’ village is the gurukal, the master. I’m one of his pupils.”
“What do you do in this martial art?” Grace asked breathlessly. Whatever she may have thought lay behind this friendly, polite foreman, she had certainly never envisaged him as a fighter.
“We fight with swords and shields, and also with hands and feet. It’s more like a dance than pure combat. When we practise, we fight with our opponent, not against him.”
Grace tried to imagine what that looked like. Did all the men who practised it dress like Vikrama? What sounds did the swords make? How were they wielded?
“There’s an interesting history behind our martial art,” Vikrama added as he moved a little closer, his hands clasped behind his back. His movements were as silky-smooth as a big cat’s. Or was Grace only imagining that now she was armed with this new information about him?
“Tell me about it.”
“In earlier times the Indian rulers were so wise that they wanted to avoid unnecessary bloodshed in battle. So the two opposing parties would each send forward a kalarippayatu fighter from among their bodyguards to duel to the death. The prince of the fighter who died had to concede defeat.”
Grace was impressed. “That sounds very wise.”
Until then she had only heard of the Indian Sikh warriors, who were renowned for their daring and cruelty.
“It was. Unfortunately, the tradition has fallen somewhat into oblivion over time because there were fewer wars between the Indian princes and the armies had to face invaders who were not familiar with the custom. But the kalarippayatu fighters still form the elite guard of a maharaja.”
Grace remained silent, completely carried away by his account.
“We fight in the southern style of the kalarippayatu, although we’re no longer allowed to practise the art in broad daylight as the custom would have us do.”
In her enthusiasm, Grace didn’t notice that Vikrama had fallen silent as though he’d already said too much.
“What does a fight look like?” Her eyes were shining. “Could I come and watch, perhaps?”
Vikrama frowned. “That won’t be too easy, I’m afraid. Our practice fights are only attended by men. Women stay away. They’re not forbidden from watching, but people don’t like to see them there, because they represent a distraction or tempt the fighters to be reckless because they want to impress them.”
“Just like at home.” Grace smiled. “Young Englishmen also get up to all kinds of mischief in an attempt to impress the ladies.”
“Maybe we can find a way of letting you watch in secret,” Vikrama relented. “But before you do, you should be able to find your way around the grounds much better. I might be able to take you there, but I couldn’t bring you back very early.”
Grace’s cheeks glowed as if she’d been looking into an oven for too long. How exciting it all was! There wasn’t anything like this in good old England.
She noticed Vikrama’s expression suddenly become serious.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. He stopped moving and gently laid his hands on her arms. “It’s very important that you don’t tell your father any of this. Please, keep what I’ve told you to yourself.”
Grace was surprised. “But . . .”
“I’m not sure yet what kind of man your father is. During the conquest of India, kalarippayatu fighters fought hard against the English. I know of some plantations where fighters were severely punished when it was discovered that they practised their art. Our way of fighting is forbidden.”
Gasping, Grace managed to say, “But
surely you don’t want—”
“No, we don’t want to attack the English. We don’t have sufficient numbers, and anyway, for men like me it’s merely a matter of keeping up the tradition. That’s why I creep across the courtyard at night and meet the others in the forest. And that’s why I didn’t want to tell you about it.”
So her comparison with a knight had not been so absurd. Grace needed a while to digest what she had heard. This friendly young man practised a forbidden martial art under the noses of the colonials, something for which he could be severely punished. And he had taken her, his master’s daughter, into his confidence.
“Why have you told me all this?” she said breathlessly. “I could go straight to my father and tell him everything.”
“You could.” Vikrama smiled again. “But I know you won’t. I knew it from the moment you refrained from betraying that little girl who’d stolen fruit from your cook. Maybe you don’t know, but among the masters here, theft—even if it’s to put food in your belly—is considered a serious crime and is punished by flogging.”
“Surely not for children.”
Vikrama nodded sadly. “Yes, for children, too. The sex or the age of the thief has no bearing on the punishment.”
Grace shook her head in bewilderment. “How do you know about me and the little girl?”
“She told me earlier. She’s the daughter of friends of mine. That’s how our paths crossed just now—I was on my way home.”
Vikrama smiled again and let go of her arms. Although he hadn’t been gripping her tightly, Grace could still feel his hands, and a strange shiver of excitement ran through her.
“I promise he won’t find anything out from me,” she said, and before Vikrama could reply, quickly added, “but please promise me you’ll be careful. I’m sure the punishment, should anyone discover you, would be even worse than for thieves.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Grace. Provided no one discovers what I’m doing, no one will punish me. But now I ought to accompany you back to the house. I imagine they’ll already be missing you at the ball.”
As they made their way back in silence, Grace wondered if people had begun to miss her. Her father and mother were probably so involved with the Stocktons that they wouldn’t have noticed her absence. And Victoria was bound to have made friends with some other young guests, and at worst would be trying to annoy the maids or get hold of a glass of wine.
“Ah, Mr. Vikrama, you’ve found my daughter!”
Grace started as she saw her father approaching. Although they had done nothing wrong, she was overcome by worry that he could be thinking the wrong things.
“I was feeling a little unwell,” she said quickly. “I needed a moment’s fresh air.
“And Mr. Vikrama has made sure you’re safe.”
“I was on the way home, sir,” he said calmly and dutifully. “I had been visiting some friends in the pickers’ huts. Your daughter looked a little lost, so I offered to accompany her.”
“That was very kind of you. Come, Grace, there are some people I’d like to introduce you to.”
Grace turned to Vikrama, who bowed slightly and withdrew after giving her a penetrating look.
She saw that Stockton had appeared behind her father and overheard the conversation. His smile looked partly grim, partly scornful, and Grace could imagine the reason. That time when he had nearly ridden Victoria down, she had refused his offer to accompany them, and now she was accepting the company of a Tamil. Grace pretended not to notice, but Stockton’s eyes bored into her like an arrow.
Back in the ballroom, Grace felt out of place. She smiled when it was expected of her, made a few remarks, but whenever her attention was not required, her gaze wandered to the windows with the darkness pressing up to them like a great beast.
Is he practising now? she wondered. How she would have loved to be out there watching him!
After what seemed like countless hours, the reception came to an end. The Stocktons said their farewells, but not without Daniel once again complimenting her father on his “beautiful ladies” and promising to visit again soon. The other guests also left—some of the ladies tipsy and laughing and the occasional man weaving like a sailor.
“Stockton’s daughter is utterly boring,” Victoria announced as they strolled back to their room. “Did you see how pale she is? That’s because of the endless illnesses she has. The doctor is a permanent visitor to their house.”
Grace hadn’t been listening properly. “Hm.”
“I’m sure you’re wondering how I know. One of her characteristics is to brag about the various complaints that keep driving her back to her bed. She said that she’s currently suffering from dizzy spells and palpitations. Apparently she didn’t want to come at all, but her mother insisted.”
The words washed over Grace, even once they had reached their room and begun to undress.
“Mary Cahill’s much more interesting. Did you see Mr. Cahill’s daughter?”
Grace shook her head mechanically, as the words penetrated her mind.
“I tell you, she won’t have a problem netting herself the right husband. I’m just glad we’re not boys, or she’d be bound to have made eyes at one of us.” Noticing that her sister wasn’t really listening, Victoria fell silent and turned to her. “Is something wrong? You’re so quiet.”
“No, nothing. I’m just dog-tired. Father and Mother presented me to literally every guest. I couldn’t begin to tell you which son or which daughter belongs to which family.”
“Well, when it comes to sons, I imagine your chances of not having to marry into the Stockton clan have been increased substantially by this ball.” Victoria laughed briefly, but when she saw that her joke hadn’t registered with Grace she sat down next to her big sister on the edge of the bed. “Where were you when Father went outside to look for you?”
“I went for a walk,” Grace replied. As she undid the buttons of her dress, she wished only that she could be in bed or alone by the window with time to think.
“For a walk? Alone in the darkness?” Victoria’s eyes widened as though she had seen something dreadful. “You could have been whisked away by a monster.”
“Not here. The only ones remotely approaching monsters were in the ballroom. It was all quiet in the tea sheds, and I doubt that there are such things as tea ghosts.”
“You don’t know that!” Victoria raised her index finger in warning. “Every place has its ghosts; there must be some here, too. Maybe Uncle Richard wanders through the tea fields by night, watching over his estate.”
The sinister tone her sister used so masterfully when imitating the content of her horror novels sent an involuntary shudder down Grace’s back.
“Nonsense,” she said eventually and rose to step out of her dress. “Uncle Richard isn’t haunting this place. Otherwise he’d have shown himself to us. Ghosts want an audience, don’t forget.”
Grace kissed her sister’s brow, then extricated herself from her remaining skirts before slipping between the sheets dressed only in her shift and drawers. Her sister heaved a resigned sigh and also went to bed.
That night, Grace did not go to sit at the window. Her eyes wide open, she stared at the plain whitewashed ceiling, chasing the questions that swirled around in her head.
She would have liked to have asked the most important ones to Vikrama in person as she walked through the park with him. Did he have a wife? Or a fiancée?
Bewildered, she realised that she felt something akin to jealousy, even though she didn’t know what his answers would be.
To prevent these imaginary women from confusing her any further, she tried to picture what this strange martial art looked like. Did they fight like knights? Or did they set about one another like those wrestlers in the backstreets of London? Of course she had never seen anything of the kind, but Victoria’s lurid novels had been enough to fuel her imagination. Gripped by a strange excitement, she closed her eyes and slipped into an uneasy sleep full of dreams of
strange men in even stranger white costumes.
During the weeks that followed, Grace constantly sought opportunities to find out about the lives of the tea pickers, to explore her surroundings and maybe meet Vikrama by chance as she did so. She had the feeling that, beneath the veneer of his sense of duty, his character and feelings were gradually becoming more apparent.
He continued to disappear between the bushes every night, reappearing several hours later. Sometimes he looked up, smiling if he caught sight of her at the window. But sometimes he was so deep in thought that he didn’t raise his head, causing Grace to rack her brains about what he might be thinking.
As the wakeful hours took their toll, Grace slept in a little later.
“You never come to the lessons any more,” Victoria said one morning as Grace rose lethargically from her bed. “Mr. Norris is missing you. And Father’s wondering why you’ve been having your breakfast sent up to your room for the last two weeks.”
“I’m observing life on the plantation,” Grace replied evasively, hoping that her sister hadn’t realised the real reason for her solitary walks.
“What are you doing at night after we’ve all gone to sleep?”
Feeling trapped, Grace remained silent.
“I’ve recently noticed you sitting at the window, staring at the moon. You’re not a sleepwalker, are you?”
“I . . . I can’t sleep properly in bright moonlight,” Grace replied, hoping that would satisfy Victoria. She knew her sister couldn’t see from her bed what was happening outside.
“I’ve also seen you smiling to yourself, as though you were thinking something nice,” Victoria added, close to rejoicing in the fact that she had uncovered one of her big sister’s secrets. “You’re not like one of those poets who write odes to the moon, or that German artist who paints nothing but moonlit landscapes, are you?”
“You mean Caspar David Friedrich? No, I don’t think I’d ever master his skills.” On hearing her sister’s innocent musings, Grace now felt a little safer. “Believe me, since we arrived here, I keep waking from a bad dream at about the same time every night, and it’s not until way past midnight that I can get back to sleep again.”
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