She had no idea whether the object had deliberately been shoved so far back or whether it had rolled there as she pulled, but that didn’t matter. She drew it out reverently. The locket was very old, its silver tarnished and blotchy, the chain almost black. Her hands trembling, Grace tried to open it, but was unable to at first. Were the contents somehow resisting revealing themselves to her gaze?
She froze as she heard voices outside the door. Had Miss Giles and her mother come to find her? She resisted the impulse to run out of the room and act as though she had just come from her talk with her father. Instead she pressed herself up against the wall near the painting, the locket clasped tightly in her hand as if it were a magical talisman that could make her invisible. The voices passed on, faded away. A door opened and closed somewhere. Our room, Grace thought with a start. Victoria will tell Mother I’m not there. That Father summoned me.
Would she come and look here? But why was she afraid? Wasn’t this room part of the house?
Breathing quietly and feeling the locket gradually warming in her hand, she heard the door again. Footsteps approached, this time unaccompanied by voices. The two people—her mother and Miss Giles—passed by the door to the billiard room, finally returning to the hall.
Grace released her breath, then looked at the locket in her hand. She wouldn’t be able to open it without a letter opener or a needle. She hung the tarnished chain around her neck and hid the locket beneath her dress. Then she closed the drawer, replaced the dust sheet, and, glancing once again at the painting, left the room.
As she had suspected, she found Victoria sitting at her easel. She was painting an arrangement of frangipani flowers standing before her in a silver vase.
“Oh, it’s you! I thought it was Miss Giles again. How did your talk with Father go?”
“Not particularly well.”
“I’ve heard what you did. People are talking about nothing else. One of the workers told Mr. Norris when he thought I was absorbed in my work. It was incredibly brave of you.”
“You think so?” Grace sank down on the bed with a sigh. “If nothing else, it’s earned me house arrest for the rest of the day. And the worst thing was that he told me off in front of Mr. Vikrama as if I were a little child.”
Victoria raised her eyebrows. “House arrest? But you’re eighteen! How can he put you under house arrest?”
Grace shrugged defiantly. “It’s what happens when you don’t behave like an adult. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, either. Until a few weeks ago I was capable of doing what others demanded of me.”
“You’re not in England any more. Back home we don’t have such barbarities as whipping among the cultured classes. You can rest assured that Father will do something against the foreman. He’s the master of Vannattuppūcci, not you!”
“But who else would have helped the woman? No one else was there to stop him.” But Grace couldn’t help wondering what Vikrama would have done if he’d been there.
Instead of touching the supper brought to her by a maid, Grace sat by the open window. Her father couldn’t forbid her from doing that. The green bushes were blurred by a veil of tears as she yielded to self-pity. After Victoria had left to go to the dining room, Grace had been overcome again.
Why hadn’t he been fair with her? Why did he have to punish her in front of Vikrama? That and the fact that Petersen would now be laughing at her expense bored into her like a red-hot blade.
Her father had betrayed her.
“That was very stupid of you!”
Grace started. Looking out of the window, she saw Vikrama in his black clothes. His face was pale, his eyes flashing. What was he doing here by the house? If anyone saw him . . .
But Grace didn’t have the strength to send him away.
“It was the only thing I could have done,” she replied, brushing the tears from her face in an agitated gesture. “I couldn’t watch that woman being whipped. She’d done nothing more than take a few sour apples.”
“Apples that belong to your father,” Vikrama said.
Was he, too, taking her father’s side now? All at once a great longing to be back in London overcame her, with the thought that she had allowed this beautiful landscape to deceive her. It seemed that people were overcome by the beast within when they were far from their homeland.
“Those apples belong just as much to me! I could just as easily have picked them and given them to her,” she said defiantly.
“That would have been different. This was theft, and I will tell the woman not to do it in future. We have a new master now, who isn’t aware of his predecessor’s ways.”
Grace was shocked by the contempt in his voice.
“Do you mean to say that my uncle allowed people to pick the apples?”
A melancholy smile crossed Vikrama’s face. “Yes, he did.”
“Why didn’t you tell my father that? He can’t have known . . .” Grace hesitated as she saw the sadness in his eyes.
“Things have changed since he brought in those new people,” he said quietly. “He’s turned me into a lapdog, a man who hardly has anything to do with the people out there. I have to accompany him to meetings and give instructions to his foreman. But I know that the others are gradually getting to call the shots. One day I’ll be superfluous, and he’ll urge me to go. It simply isn’t proper for a Tamil half-caste to hold an important position on the plantation.”
Damned Stockton, Grace thought angrily. He’s the only one who could have put such an idea into Father’s head.
“I don’t think my father would do something like that. He values your skills and keeps you close by him because he’s still very unsure of himself when it comes to tea production.”
“Maybe,” Vikrama replied, looking at his fingers in a vain attempt to hide his inner turmoil. “I’m probably wrong. But I’m very worried about the fact that I hardly have anything to do with the pickers and other workers any more. They trust me, and under my command they gladly worked for their master. Now Petersen’s people patrol the plantation, carrying weapons though there’s no need for it, and Petersen whips a woman for the alleged theft of a few apples.”
He shuddered, clearly longing to haul Petersen and his men over the coals. He looked at Grace and his gaze sent a wave of heat through her veins. “Thank you for standing up for my people. For protecting Naala.”
“That’s her name—Naala?”
Vikrama nodded.
“I’ll remember that.”
“She’ll carry the scars of the whip all her life. She’ll never forget what was done to her, and why. But she’ll never forget, either, that it was the master’s daughter who saved her from worse. None of my people will forget that.”
Their faces were suddenly so close that he could have kissed her at any moment. But then he looked down to the ground and stepped back.
“Mr. Vikrama!” she called before he could turn.
“Yes, Miss Grace?”
“Would it be possible . . . ?” She stopped, afraid of asking too much.
“What is it?” Vikrama was smiling again.
Encouraged, Grace said, “Would it be possible for you to teach me some Tamil?”
“But most people here speak English.”
“I know, but I . . . during the incident I would have liked to be able to talk to the woman . . . to Naala, in her own language. And I would have liked to be able to understand what the other women were saying. I think it would only be . . . courteous to understand their language, don’t you?”
Her throat was tight and there was a knot in her stomach. She suddenly seemed silly to herself. Vikrama was right; they all spoke English here. And after that afternoon’s incident the people certainly wouldn’t want the masters to understand their language. That was the only way in which they could complain without fear of punishment by the foreman.
“Tamil isn’t an easy language to learn,” Vikrama said after regarding her for a few moments. “But I’ll do my best to teach you.
”
He turned and vanished into the bushes.
Grace watched him go with a smile, before remembering the locket. She drew it out from her bodice, looked at it, and was about to get a hairpin when Victoria stormed in at the door.
She quickly slipped the locket back beneath her dress.
“Aren’t you eating?” her sister asked in surprise as she saw the untouched tray.
“I was about to.”
“You should. The poultry is excellent! Anyway, sulking will do you no good. Father’s seen sense and told us that he’s taken Petersen to task for the whipping. He probably only held it against you that you interfered.”
No, he held it against me that I wasn’t the good little girl he’s become used to over the years, Grace thought, but nodded. “I’m going to go to him and apologise first thing tomorrow morning,” she announced. She already knew what she would do when her freedom was restored.
The next morning, after apologising to her father and he had lifted her house arrest, Grace made her way to the tea pickers’ accommodation. Naala was among those who lived on the edge of the tea plantation with their children. It seemed she did not have a husband, although she had two children. Her son was old enough to help with the work, but her daughter was only three or four. The girl stared at Grace wide-eyed as she approached the hut, then whirled around and ran inside.
As if turned to stone, Grace looked at the dwelling, which couldn’t be called a house, hut, or shed. The walls were formed from boards full of holes, and the palm-leaf roof looked anything but watertight. It almost made Grace feel ashamed for the luxury in which she lived.
A little later, the girl appeared again and waved Grace inside. It was dark, the air full of the smell of dried blood and bitter herbs.
Next to the bed, on which Naala was lying on her stomach, an old woman was standing, her skin as brown as walnut shells. Life had traced a furrowed map on her face. She looked Grace up and down, then a spark of recognition flared in her dark eyes. “You are young miss.”
Grace took a moment to understand the heavily accented words, then she nodded. “I am.”
“You help Naala.”
“Yes, and I came to find out how she is.”
“She is bad,” the woman said and pulled the sheet down a little from Naala’s back. The wounds were covered with a paste that did nothing to hide their severity, but on the contrary made them stand out. The skin gaped apart like bloody lips.
Grace’s hand shot to her mouth in horror.
“That should be looked at by a doctor.”
The old woman shook her head. “No doctor. I am here. I care for her. My medicine heal wounds, but take time.”
A firm emphasis in her voice stopped Grace from insisting on calling a doctor. But she doubted whether traditional medicine would be enough. What if the woman got gangrene? She had read in a newspaper article about the painful death that could cause.
“May I come back and see how she’s getting on?”
“Mistress can go where she want,” the old woman replied simply, then pulled the sheet back up.
Grace felt completely useless. She really wished she could have helped the woman. But how?
The silence between them eventually became so uncomfortable that Grace took her leave, promising to call again during the next few days.
She went back through the tea fields, which looked like a soft green blanket, followed by the surprised glances of the pickers, who turned straight back to their work when they saw her looking. She made her way along the narrow path, raising her eyes regularly to the clouds that formed dramatic shapes against the deep-blue sky.
“Miss Grace!” someone called from one side.
She shaded her eyes and made out Vikrama. Today he was wearing a waistcoat over his shirt, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. His dark pants and high boots were streaked with dust. He was clearly on his way back from a tour of inspection.
“Yes, Mr. Vikrama?” Grace said with a smile.
“Are you still interested in learning our language?”
“But of course!” she replied. “Only a moment ago I was wishing I could speak it. I’ve just been to visit Naala. The woman who was with her is a healer, isn’t she?”
Vikrama nodded. “She came straight from the village yesterday to tend the wounds. She’ll make sure that Naala’s able to work again soon.”
Grace detected the hint of reproach. When will he stop seeing me as merely the master’s daughter?
“My main concern is that she survives the whipping and doesn’t get gangrene. I’ve read about the practices on old sailing ships. It wasn’t unusual for men who were whipped to die from their injuries.”
“You’re very different from all the other English women I know, Miss Grace.”
“I take that as a compliment,” she replied with a smile. “For a long time I didn’t know anything different, but this place has worked some kind of magic on me.”
“Yes, it can change people if they let it.” He smiled to himself, lost in thought for a moment, then folded his arms. “How about meeting tomorrow for our first language lesson? I have the afternoon free.”
“And you really want to spend it giving me a language lesson?”
“I don’t have anything else to do. And it’s for a good cause. Maybe your father will take an interest in Tamil at some stage. You could teach him yourself then.”
Grace almost laughed out loud. Her father allowing himself to be taught anything by her? The man who still punished her like a child for making her own decisions?
“I will if he expresses an interest,” she replied simply, not wanting to appear like a sulky child in front of Vikrama. “Thank you very much. I’ll see you tomorrow!”
Back at the house, Grace began to have her doubts. Should she tell her father? She recalled the look in the foreman’s eyes. A look that promised retaliation for her intervention. If he saw her with Vikrama, he might tell her father a pack of lies that could get them both in hot water. She decided to lay her cards on the table.
As she broached the subject nervously, almost fearfully, over supper, she was met with astonishment.
“But what do you want with that uncultured language, when almost everyone here speaks English?” her mother asked. She must have known about her daughter’s punishment, but clearly considered it a closed chapter.
“I want to know what the people are really thinking,” Grace explained. She looked at her father, who gave the impression he wasn’t inclined to grant her wish.
No sooner had she said it than it occurred to her that she could be misunderstood. But it was too late.
“You mean they might be conspiring against us?” Her father’s expression was serious.
“No, it’s just that . . .” Grace hesitated. There was no way she wanted to give the impression that the people here were hatching anything, or it would not be long before Petersen found another woman to whip. “I just want to be able to talk to them. I find it difficult to understand their accent, and it would be polite to be able to speak their language.”
“Polite? With these people?” Henry sniffed scornfully before picking up his glass and drinking two rapid gulps. “These people know nothing but orders and duty. They wouldn’t know what to do if their masters were friendly towards them.”
Grace pressed her lips together. Did that mean no?
“But I grant that it would be an advantage to know the language. At least you’d find out if they’re plotting to rebel. You could be doing me a valuable service if you kept your ears open among them. I too would like to know what they’re really thinking.”
Grace felt as though she’d swallowed a stone. The smell of the roast meat suddenly seemed stale. Her father wanted her to spy for him. Now she was sorry she’d asked—he was so busy that he probably wouldn’t even have noticed if she’d gone ahead in secret without mentioning it to him.
“Then I want to learn the language, too!” Victoria exclaimed.
“
You will concern yourself with your own lessons and the work Mr. Norris sets you,” her father snapped back. “He showed me your last dictation a few hours ago. I can’t believe that a young lady has such dreadful handwriting!”
Victoria pouted as Grace scarcely managed to suppress a sigh of relief. She loved her sister more than anything in the world, but for a reason she did not really understand, she didn’t want her there when she was practising with Vikrama.
“Very well, Grace, you can have lessons with Mr. Vikrama. But only under the condition that you don’t keep him from his real duties.”
“He’s agreed to teach me outside his working hours.”
“And you will take Miss Giles with you to the lessons as a chaperone.”
“Chaperone?” Grace exclaimed. “What do you think is going to happen?”
“Hopefully nothing. That’s why she’ll accompany you. If you don’t agree, I’m afraid you’ll have to go without the lessons.”
Grace sniffed, but she knew that she couldn’t push her luck. The fact that her father was allowing her to have language lessons was a blessing in itself, and she didn’t want to jeopardise that.
“Very well, Father. I’ll take Miss Giles with me,” she said sweetly. “I hope the poor woman won’t be bored to death.”
“She must have some needlework or something that she can take to while the time away,” Claudia said, clearly pleased that she wouldn’t have to find something to occupy the governess herself. “I agree that it would be better if you weren’t alone with this man. He may be a good employee, but we know nothing about his private life.” She glanced at her husband, as though hoping he might enlighten her. “It was very bold of you to ask him. He could have misunderstood you.”
Grace pressed her lips together. What on earth did they think he was like? Some rake who’d pounce on her given the opportunity?
“If you say so, Mother,” she replied. Although she had lost her appetite, she shovelled a little more meat into her mouth and chewed slowly as a defence against answering any more questions.
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