“That doesn’t sound right,” Victoria said. “You should tell a doctor.”
“We don’t have a doctor, silly,” Grace replied, stroking her hair. “Anyway, I feel perfectly healthy. It must be the fact that the time is different here than in England. I read in one of Father’s journals that the sun rises many hours earlier than back home. I’m probably having difficulty adjusting to it. In any case, evening falls earlier than it does there.”
The more she talked, the more she liked this explanation. Not even Mr. Norris could object.
As it turned out, her father talked to her about the situation that evening. When she confidently trotted out the explanation, Henry looked at her mother reproachfully. “Our daughter must become accustomed to the circumstances here. Can’t Miss Giles do anything?”
“What could she possibly do for insomnia?” Claudia asked in astonishment. “Sing her lullabies, maybe?”
She bent towards Grace with a smile. “Darling, I think we can manage without you at breakfast for now. But you really should work on getting your body’s proper rhythms back.”
“I will,” Grace promised earnestly, although her thoughts had already drifted back to her window and Vikrama slipping between the bushes in his strange garb.
The topics discussed by Mr. Stockton with her father at the reception included recruiting English employees for the plantation. They were to be used for arranging transport and overseeing the tea pickers’ work. Henry appointed a second foreman, a big-boned, blond man called Jeff Petersen, who had formerly worked on a New Zealand sheep farm. His most striking feature, in addition to a large nose, was a braided leather whip that he carried at all times. Although he had a quiet voice, his words were tinged with a threatening force. He was not a man who tolerated failure. Once he had won the confidence of his employer, he would rule with an iron fist.
Vikrama was displeased. Sheep were not tea, and the workers didn’t need a slave-driver. They had always given their best because they valued their life on the plantation and because they still valued Richard Tremayne, even after his death. And because their caste, their position in life as predetermined by the gods, would condemn them to a life of misery if it weren’t for the plantation.
“Forgive me, sir, but are you not satisfied with my work?” Vikrama asked Henry when they met for their daily talk. The new foreman had not yet arrived, but that was soon to change.
“On the contrary, my good man, I’m very pleased with you. So pleased that I’ve decided to make you my estate manager.”
Vikrama stared at him in surprise. “But Mr. Cahill . . .”
“Mr. Cahill is my lawyer, and I believe he performs that function admirably. But I consider your talents to be completely wasted in the position of foreman. I will put you in charge of Mr. Petersen; should he do anything that your experience tells you is wrong, I authorise you to instruct him accordingly.”
Vikrama was nevertheless not satisfied. He knew the pickers and how to motivate them without using a whip. One look at Petersen had told him that things were going to change as soon as he was out in the fields.
“You look as though you’re not pleased with my decision.”
“You’re in charge, sir. You will always do what’s best for the plantation.”
Henry looked at him searchingly, then nodded. “Please have a cup of tea, Mr. Vikrama. You’re right, our plantation really does produce the highest quality.”
Vikrama drank in silence, then said, “Have you ever noticed that the women sing in the tea fields?”
Henry frowned. What had made him think of that? “When we toured the plantation, all was quiet.”
“That’s true. The women had seen us coming. But if you approach the tea fields without being seen, you can hear them singing.”
“That’s all well and good, but what does it have to do with our conversation?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to tell you. The songs are beautiful; they show how happy the pickers are. As long as those songs are heard among the tea plants, Vannattuppūcci will continue to produce tea of the same excellent quality, and you’ll enjoy an excellent name worldwide.”
Henry found what he said odd, but said nothing. What did he mean by that? A clever man like Vikrama didn’t say something for no good reason . . .
All at once he felt a stab of mistrust. Did the lad intend to stir up his workforce against him if he didn’t do what he wanted?
He looked into the eyes of Vikrama, who seemed unmoved, although Henry couldn’t shake off the impression that something was simmering beneath the surface. I’ll have to keep a good eye on him, he thought.
When Henry’s new employees took up their posts, a few things changed on the plantation. Productivity increased—and a silence fell over the tea fields. The women worked faster than before, but no longer sang. In Mr. Petersen’s opinion, singing would distract them from their work.
Henry Tremayne didn’t notice the change. He had forgotten Vikrama’s words, and his estate manager had not brought it up again.
But Vikrama had changed, too. He had become quieter, more inward-looking. He knew that Petersen and his people would not take any notice of a half-caste. And that, should a dispute arise, Mr. Tremayne would take their side.
He put it all down to the fact that he had been seen in the company of Tremayne’s daughter on the evening of the ball. Stockton must have made it clear to him that this was not seemly. Stockton, with whom Master Richard had fought bitterly, and whom Vikrama secretly held responsible for his death. But could he claim that Mr. Tremayne was similar?
He ultimately deemed it better to say nothing—after all, the British stuck together, he knew that—and to keep out of the way of Tremayne’s daughters as much as possible, although he would find it hard to forgo Grace’s company. Grace, with her milk-white skin, who was so different from other women. He had never felt so much for a woman within such a short space of time.
But for the good of his people he forced himself to avoid her. Not that Tremayne would get the wrong impression . . .
If her father was completely oblivious of the change in Vikrama, Grace certainly noticed it. When they met, he no longer chatted uninhibitedly with her. He was reserved, sometimes really stiff, so that after a few moments Grace would withdraw, completely unnerved, and chide herself for her thoughts in which he frequently played a leading role. But once her disappointment had faded, she would wonder what could have led to it. Were there problems on the plantation? Problems with her father? She hadn’t failed to notice the arrival of the men whom Stockton had recommended. Or that Vikrama was more frequently confined to the office instead of walking around the estate as before. Did that also have something to do with Stockton? Although she didn’t have any proof of it, it nevertheless increased her anger at their neighbour even more.
One beautiful warm morning, while Victoria was sweating in the classroom over a dictation with Mr. Norris, Grace decided that it was time to write to her friends in London. She had intended to ever since they arrived in Colombo, but had never got around to it; there had been too much to see, too much happening.
A shrill cry caused Grace’s pen to slip, causing a hideous line to spread like a gash across what she had written.
Assuming that something bad must have happened, she hurried to the window. She could see nothing from there, so she ran from the room.
She was surprised to find that no one else in the house seemed to have noticed the commotion. Peering out of the tall windows of the hall, she saw a crowd of people gathered by the tea sheds. The cries were still echoing across the courtyard.
At first she thought she should tell her father, but he had left the plantation early that morning. Her mother was in bed with a migraine again.
As no one else appeared to be about to do anything, Grace hitched up her skirts and ran outside.
The sharp hissing sound she heard between the screams turned her blood to ice. She had heard it once before, in Plymouth, where they had boarded t
he ship for Ceylon.
The women drew back as Grace forced her way between them.
A woman was tied to a palm tree and Petersen was thrashing her with a riding whip.
Grace froze as she saw the blood on the woman’s clothes.
“Stop it!” she cried out, but the man brought the whip whistling down again on the woman’s back.
Grace jumped, then ran on. Some of the men shrank back in shock; one called out something she didn’t understand to Petersen.
All at once she realised there was only one thing to be done to stop the foreman. She stepped in front of the woman, and his arm stopped.
Petersen muttered angrily, but then seemed to realise who she was.
“Get out of my way, Miss Tremayne!”
Impertinent swine, Grace thought angrily. Who does he think he is, giving me orders?
“Raise your hand again if you like, but it’s me you’ll hit!” she said to Petersen, whose arm was still raised. “And I can tell you that if you do, you’ll have to explain to my father why his daughter has a bloody gash across her face!”
Time stood still around them. The murmuring that had flared up among the tea pickers fell silent. Petersen chewed his lower lip as though he was weighing up whether to strike. He finally lowered his arm.
“I have the right to punish this woman!” he snarled. “She was stealing.”
“What did she steal, Mr. Petersen? Tea?”
“She was picking fruit from the apple tree.”
Grace gasped and shook her head. “You’re whipping her because she took a few apples? From that tree?” She pointed to the tree that looked as though it didn’t belong in this place. “Have you ever tasted one of those apples?”
“I’d never dare, ma’am,” Petersen replied, puffing out his chest proudly.
“Then you should,” Grace snapped. “Those apples are completely worthless for cooking or eating. That’s why they’re still there. If anyone on the plantation wants to eat one, there’s no reason why they shouldn’t!”
“But I’m sure your father wouldn’t . . .”
“My father doesn’t care about the apple tree! And even if he did, he wouldn’t agree to a woman being whipped. Punishments like this, Mr. Petersen, belong in the Middle Ages, not in a cultured society. You will let the woman go and ensure that she’s given medical attention!”
The foreman ground his teeth. But since Grace was not in the least bit intimidated by it, he rolled up the whip. “I’ll tell your father about this incident!”
“Please do, but don’t forget to tell him about your own behaviour because I most certainly will, Mr. Petersen!”
Their eyes met briefly, and Grace saw that the foreman intended to pay her back for it somehow. But I’m the daughter of the house, she told herself. And one day I’ll run this plantation, with or without a husband.
When her father returned, it was only a few minutes before he heard about the incident and summoned Grace. When she entered she saw that Vikrama, who was standing by her father, was as white as a sheet.
Henry looked enraged. “Sit down, Grace,” he said.
As she sat down on the chair in front of the desk, her father got up and paced a few steps around the room. Grace looked at Vikrama, but the fear on his face was so great that she didn’t dare catch his eye. Her father would probably punish her severely for her intervention.
“Mr. Petersen has just told me what happened out on the yard.”
“He was whipping a woman, Father!” Grace burst out. “If he’s told you anything else, it’s a lie.”
“Grace!” The rage in his voice silenced her.
“I’m sorry.” Grace lowered her head, only keeping her anger under control with difficulty. Was she now to be punished for the fact that the foreman had behaved like a medieval torturer?
“I don’t have to tell you that your actions were completely inexcusable for a young lady. You could have been injured!”
“So you’ve given Mr. Petersen consent to whip the tea pickers? Because of apples from a tree that we don’t even touch?”
“It’s a matter of principle. Theft is theft!”
“She was only taking something to eat! In England theft is no longer punished by whipping.”
“No, but the thief is dismissed and sent away without references.”
“You should at least compensate that woman for the injuries she’s suffered.” Grace’s eyes were gleaming. What had happened to the father she knew? Had Stockton replaced him with an evil marionette? “Since when have we acted like barbarians?”
Henry pressed his lips together. His cheeks flushed. All signs of an attack of rage. A knot gripped Grace’s stomach. Not from fear, but from the realisation that her father was not on her side.
“You will never again interfere in the affairs of my employees,” he said, quietly emphatic, his voice filled with the threat of anger. “For your disrespect I’m placing you under house arrest for the rest of the day. I don’t want to see you outside under any circumstances, do you hear?”
Grace looked at her father in stunned silence. The last time he had placed her under house arrest was eight years ago, when she had been caught at a garden party climbing trees in a white lace dress to enjoy the view over the park. The dress had been ruined, and she had been confined to a day’s boredom in her room on her own since little Victoria had to stay with her mother.
You don’t mean that, she wanted to say, but the words stuck in her throat. She looked at Vikrama, unable to read his expression, then got up from her seat.
Her father’s eyes blazed with rage. “I expect an appropriate apology from you tomorrow. You may go.”
Grace’s heart felt tight. Tears rose up inside her, tears of anger and disappointment, but she suppressed them as she turned slowly and left the room. She continued to control herself as she crossed the hall. Her mother was on the stairs, talking to Miss Giles about the picture of the Indian gods and the flowers that were still regularly laid before it by unknown hands. Even after a month here, no one had seen the faithful, who seemed prepared to wait for the optimum moments.
Grace managed to slip silently past them into the corridor. Here, protected by the half-light, she gave free rein to her tears. She wept quietly about the injustice she had suffered, and about her father’s disinterest in the well-being of his employees. She wept about the fact that Vikrama had been witness to her father’s reprimand of her. That weighed heaviest on her.
On reaching the end of the corridor, she stopped. She could clearly hear Victoria sighing to herself. She was probably at her easel again, painting.
No doubt she would ask Grace why she had a tear-stained face. Although she knew Victoria would be on her side, Grace didn’t want to tell her anything, to show her how much her father had hurt her.
After brief consideration, Grace thought of the billiard room. As far as she knew, her father had not yet taken it over. With a lump in her throat, she turned and ran to the door she and her sister had opened a few weeks ago.
She could still hear her mother’s and Miss Giles’s voices drifting through from the hall. Fearing they might hear her, Grace turned the doorknob carefully.
She had hardly stepped over the threshold when she seemed to be gripped by a strange magic—as though Uncle Richard were waiting in person to comfort her. Her tears dried up; her mind became clearer. The injustice she had suffered was forgotten as other thoughts took its place.
Who was Richard Tremayne?
Grace suddenly regretted that she knew so little about him.
Would he also have punished her because she had tried to help a woman on his estate? How had he dealt with his people? The few words Vikrama had spoken about him had been full of admiration.
Grace dismissed any hope that Richard might have left behind some kind of record. It wasn’t the way of the Tremayne men to keep diaries. If Richard had resembled his brother in the slightest, he had to have been a purposeful man who lived in the here and now, without c
linging on to memories and deliberations.
The fact that she, the heir of the Tremaynes, did so must have come from her mother’s side. Her mother, too, tended to think too much, a habit to which her doctor ascribed her migraines, but which she persisted with nevertheless.
Closing the door behind her, all that remained of her furious crying was the occasional slight sob, as though she were a little child who had soon forgotten the reason for her tears. She crossed the room cautiously, running her hands over the dust sheets and feeling the contours of the furniture beneath. She opened the lid of the piano and pressed one of the white keys. The tone that rang out at the gesture sounded out of tune, indicating that the instrument had not been played since long before her uncle’s death. Why had he bought it? Had he wanted to learn to play?
She considered that improbable, too. It was more likely because he wanted to impress his friends and fellow club members.
Driven by a sudden impulse, she went over to the little Empire chest of drawers that stood beneath a landscape painting showing a lake and a country house. On closer inspection, it was obvious that Grace’s initial assumption that this was Tremayne House had been wrong. This painting was clearly not here for nostalgic reasons; her uncle must have hung it there merely to decorate the room.
She opened the top drawer, her heart beating loudly with expectation. Would she find anything here to help her form a picture of Uncle Richard?
The dry scraping of wood on wood was followed by a glimpse of dusty red velvet. Indents in the fabric indicated that something must have been kept here, something that had long since been removed. Grace ran her finger over the velvet lining. Finding nothing there, she closed the drawer and moved to the one beneath it. In this one were a few pieces of paper, yellowed bills inscribed with Tamil writing, an empty tobacco tin with a missing hinge, and a link of a brass chain. Junk that had been left behind when the important items were removed from the drawer.
At first glance, the last drawer, which was particularly difficult to open, seemed to yield nothing of importance, either, but as she drew it out she heard a muffled knocking along with the scraping. Intrigued, Grace pulled the drawer out further—and was finally rewarded by something that glittered.
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