Butterfly Island

by Corina Bomann

  “What gave you the idea of wanting to learn Tamil?” Victoria asked after they had returned to their room. “I thought you couldn’t bear this country. At least, that’s how it seemed three weeks ago.”

  Grace smiled to herself as she examined her embroidery. A few days ago she had begun to embroider a small frangipani flower on a silk handkerchief. “It’s because of that woman yesterday. The one who was whipped.”

  Victoria looked at her in incomprehension. “What’s she got to do with it?”

  “The other women were all agitated and whispering. I’d like to have understood them.”

  “So you do want to spy for Papa?”

  “Of course not!” Grace replied indignantly. “I don’t think those people would say anything bad against us.”

  “Perhaps that’s changed since the foreman whipped that woman.”

  “Let’s hope that isn’t the case. Anyway, I don’t intend to listen in on them and give them even more grounds for suspicion. I just want to be able to talk to them.”

  Grace turned back to her embroidery. She had just finished the edge of another flower when Victoria suddenly said, “You like Mr. Vikrama, don’t you?”

  Grace narrowly avoided pricking her finger with the needle. “What put that nonsense into your head?”

  “Don’t deny it! I’m your sister. I can see the way your eyes light up when his name’s mentioned. And when you talk about him. No wonder Father’s sending Miss Giles along with you.”

  Grace was horrified. Are my feelings really so obvious? she wondered. Her cheeks turned deep red.

  “He’s very nice,” she admitted. “And he’s handsome, don’t you think?”

  “He looks like a London dandy who’s been sitting for too long in the sun.” Victoria’s eyes shone with glee.

  “What do you know about dandies?” Grace said with studied indignation.

  “Have you forgotten the guests at our farewell party?”

  Victoria moved to sit across from her sister on the window seat. “Mr. Hutchinson looked as though he were out to catch a wife. Yet he’s already got one who’s rich—and good-natured to boot, if the other women are to be believed.”

  The memory of the man, who really was a dandy, drove away Grace’s indignation and made her laugh.

  “Oh, that ridiculously patterned jacket!” she said. “Like a scarecrow!”

  “And at his age! The young women were all making fun of him.”

  The two girls burst out laughing.

  “You know,” Victoria said once they’d got their breath back, “I haven’t been totally honest. I do miss London and its parties a little.”

  In a gesture that was almost clumsy, Victoria grasped her sister’s hand. “You would have been the most beautiful of them all at the debutantes’ ball. I mean it.”

  “Honestly?” As her sister spoke, Grace realised that she no longer regretted not having danced in front of the queen. Something had filled the gap left by the missed opportunity. Something she couldn’t put a name to—not yet, at least—but which was much more fulfilling than the glitter of a ballroom.

  “I wonder if I’ll have a debut?” Victoria swung her legs, kicking her heels against the panelling beneath the window seat. “Do you think we’ll go back to England?”

  “If you pester Papa about it for long enough . . .”

  Grace was sure that would have no effect at all, but she didn’t want to deprive Victoria of all hope.

  “Anyway, I’ve heard that there’s an annual debutantes’ ball in Nuwara Eliya, too,” Victoria said.

  “They hold it at one of the hotels in the area. It’s financed by the men from the Hill Club. I bet that’s an attempt to make sure their bored wives have something to do.”

  Grace winked conspiratorially in response to Victoria’s smirk. “I don’t suppose they have the queen’s double there, do they?”

  “No, but I think they hang a copy of her official portrait on the wall,” Victoria said. “So we will get to dance in front of the queen.”

  The two girls laughed.

  12

  Vannattuppūcci Tea Company, 2008

  When Diana woke around seven, the early-morning mist was covering the plantation, bathing everything in a mysterious blue light. As though in response to the effect, the parrots’ early calls were timid and sporadic. Stillness reigned over the rest of the plantation. Only the distant rustling of the wind moving over the leaves of the tea plants reached her ears like elfin whispers.

  Diana rose and went barefoot to the window. The cold tiles beneath her feet drove away most of her tiredness; the rest was dispelled by the view she now saw. The light was completely different from that in Europe—there was nothing depressing about this morning mist; rather, it looked like the veil of a bride eagerly anticipating the moment she would show her face to her beloved.

  Diana sat on the window seat, looking at the silhouette of her own reflection in the glass. Did anything of Grace really linger in this room? And where should she begin to look?

  As the morning light grew stronger and the mist gradually dissipated under the sun, she noticed a small notch in the window frame. It was easy to overlook, but once Diana had seen it, its presence in the wood was obvious.

  A butterfly, Diana thought, her heart beginning to pound as though she had just found Grace Tremayne’s diary. Standing up from the window seat, she leaned over the frame, and found it was actually quite a complex, artistic carving. Was it by Grace? Or Victoria?

  Emily’s grandmother had been known to produce wonderful drawings and etchings. Unfortunately, almost all of her works had been lost over time. All that remained were two charcoal drawings in the Tremayne House drawing room, which had faded in Diana’s memory. What she would have given to be able to compare them now with this butterfly.

  She rejected the idea of asking Mr. Green for a photo or a scan. Instead she reached for her camera, which until now she had only used to capture a few impressions of her guided tour.

  None of the pictures she took truly captured the effect the butterfly had on the viewer, but they would be enough for a comparison.

  Looking at the images on her camera, she noticed that the gap between the windowsill and the frame was a little wider by the butterfly. Wide enough for something to be hidden there!

  Obeying a sudden impulse, she opened the window and inspected the gap. At first she couldn’t see anything. I need some light, she thought, then went over to the bedside table and fetched her mobile. In the weak glow from the display lighting, she saw what she was looking for.

  There was something tucked into the gap! A note? Or just a remnant of wallpaper? There was no way she could pull it out with her fingers, but maybe tweezers would do the trick.

  Putting the phone down, she took her make-up bag from the bedside table. She always carried a pair of tweezers in case of emergencies. She used them to reach the greying tip of the paper, which was no easy undertaking. The difficulty in reaching it presumably explained why no one had found the piece of paper before. As she managed to grip it and carefully pull it out, she noticed that this was not a mere piece of paper or scrap of wallpaper.

  It was a letter! A letter in a brown envelope that had been hidden behind the wall panelling!

  “This can’t be true!” she murmured in amazement, her heart beating wildly.

  It bore the inscription By Way of Farewell, 1907. It was secured with a small seal depicting a butterfly.

  Who was its author? Victoria, perhaps? The handwriting was similar to that of the letter from the crypt, but looked more mature and a little agitated, as though the writer had been in turmoil. In any case, there was proof that Victoria had returned to England by then.

  Diana weighed the rough brown envelope in her hand for a moment. It felt like there was more than one page. What could it say? Was it a message someone had left behind for a person they loved? Would this reveal the reason for Victoria’s uneasy conscience?

  Although her curiosity was
killing her, Diana decided not to open the letter until later. Twenty-one years lay between the death of Richard Tremayne and this letter. Much could have happened in that time. Although it was possible that part of the story was recorded here, she decided she would look for other clues first.

  After gazing out over the early-morning scene for a while, lost in thought, she rose and tucked the letter into her bag to avoid the temptation of opening it too soon. She then took the cardboard tube containing the palm leaf that Jonathan had carefully stowed beneath her clothes. It slipped out into her hand with a light rustle.

  “Did you predict a girl’s fate?” Diana murmured, gently tracing the characters with her finger. “Or are you nothing to do with any of this?” Silence followed her words; a silence that contained no answers.

  As the sounds of activity grew in the courtyard and the first employees of the Tea Company arrived to begin their workday, Diana stowed the palm leaf back in its tube and held herself back from taking another look at the letter from 1907. All in its own good time, she thought as she made her way to the small bathroom she shared with Jonathan.

  He seemed not to be up yet, as the shower cubicle was dry and it was a while before the lukewarm water ran hot.

  When she was ready and about to set out along the corridor, the neighbouring door opened. Seeing Jonathan in a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms was a completely new experience for Diana.

  “Good morning!” she called out to him with a grin, as she could see he was not yet fully awake. His reply was more of a mutter than a cheerful greeting, but a shower would probably put that right.

  “I hope you slept well.” Mr. Manderley greeted her as she entered the kitchen. She had been intending to repay Jonathan for yesterday’s dinner, but now she saw that the breakfast things were already out.

  “I took it upon myself to put together a little breakfast,” Manderley said with a smile. “I went to the archive earlier to get some of last year’s books for a market analysis, and I saw that you’ve already made a good start.”

  “Yes, the old cupboards in there provided us with plenty to go on. And now I’ve got someone to help me.”

  “Your fiancé’s an academic, isn’t he?”

  Diana paused. “My fiancé?”

  Manderley looked at her in confusion. “Oh, you’re not . . . I’m sorry—the perils of the English language! I really thought you two were . . .”

  “No. Jonathan—I mean, Mr. Singh—was recommended to me by a friend and has kindly agreed to help me with my research.”

  “Ah, then . . .” To hide his embarrassment, Manderley turned and set the kettle to boil on the stove.

  “I made a discovery,” Diana said to fill the uncomfortable silence. “There’s a butterfly carved into the old window frame in my room.”

  “I know,” Manderley replied. He turned and his unease had vanished. “We assume that it was one of the Tremayne daughters who carved the butterfly. Or a secret lover.”

  “Did the girls have any particular admirers? All I know is that Grace married a sea captain.”

  Manderley looked at her strangely. “A sea captain?”

  “Yes, a German captain. That’s one of the few things I know for certain about her. Maybe that was the scandal that caused the rift between her and the rest of the family.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t shed much light on that. However, I do suggest you might spread your search to the Stocktons. They’re on the neighbouring plantation, which unfortunately went bankrupt last year. However, the process brought to light some interesting documents. As far as I know, the Tremayne family are referred to.”

  Diana’s eyes widened. Stockton was the man who had been standing next to Henry Tremayne in the club photo!

  “Thank you for that information,” she replied. “If I can, I’ll go there and take a look at the documents.”

  Manderley nodded kindly, then suddenly looked towards the door.

  “Good morning, Mr. Singh. Miss Wagenbach and I were just talking about your research.”

  “Mr. Manderley has kindly told me about some documents at the neighbouring plantation. He thinks the Stockton family may also have some information about mine. Isn’t that great?”

  “Stockton? Isn’t that the man in the Hill Club photo?”

  “The very same!”

  “I think you’re on your way to getting some results,” Manderley said. He glanced at his watch and looked a little harassed. “Please excuse me, I have to go on a tour of the plantation soon. Don’t forget the tea!”

  Before Diana could thank him for the breakfast, he had vanished. The water in the kettle had come to the boil. Manderley had thoughtfully set out a tea caddy and two cups, which suggested he had never intended to have breakfast with them.

  As the tea gave off its heady, herby scent, Diana took care of the toast, while Jonathan set the table.

  “So, how was your night in the divided room?” Diana asked when they had finally sat down together and were busy spreading butter and orange marmalade on the toast. Without knowing why, she kept quiet about her find from the window frame. It was as though she wanted to keep that card up her sleeve for the time when all other avenues had come to an end.

  “Not particularly good. But you could see that when we met in the corridor.”

  Diana gave him a searching look. He still looked a little worse for wear.

  “Did you see a ghost, perhaps? You didn’t have any problems sleeping back at the hotel.”

  “No, and I don’t usually suffer from insomnia, either. I just had a few things going round my head. Usually I can put them out of mind, but there’s something about this place that breathes new life into thoughts—good ones and bad ones.”

  What could he mean?

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have taken you away from your work,” Diana began guiltily. “Here I am dragging you around the countryside and back home your publisher’s going crazy.”

  “It’s not that,” he blurted out. “It’s about my ex-wife.”

  “I see.” Embarrassed, Diana bit into her toast, washing it down with the best Ceylon tea she had ever tasted. Manderley had clearly given them a pack of the hand-produced tea.

  “She sent me a message yesterday telling me that she’d met someone else,” Jonathan continued unexpectedly. “A computer specialist from Melbourne. She’s even considering moving out to Australia and taking Rana with her.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “There’s no need to be. I’ve been suspecting something of the kind for a while now. Or maybe I should say that Rana’s suggested it in her letters. Of course she can’t write well enough yet to explain what she feels in great detail, but I’ve been sensing that something’s bothering her.”

  “What if you seek to get custody? After all, you’re an Indian citizen.”

  “But that would mean I’d have to move to Delhi. I’d have to leave Sri Lanka and with it all the plans I had.”

  Diana remembered the Kingdom of Kandy that he’d told her about.

  “It sounds horribly selfish, doesn’t it?” He smiled self-deprecatingly and took a drink of tea.

  “What if you were to bring your daughter to Sri Lanka?”

  “Then the argument about her change of school would no longer hold water because she’d have to go to a different school here. Anyway, she’s too attached to her mother.” He set his cup down with a sigh. “I’m afraid my book’s going to have to be a real bestseller before I can afford to visit her in Australia.”

  “Is it out of the question for your ex-wife to pay for your daughter to fly here?”

  Jonathan shook his head. “Rana’s eight. I don’t think any mother in the world would place her daughter alone on a plane at that age if there wasn’t a serious reason for it. For better or for worse, I’ll just have to get used to the idea of not seeing my daughter for long stretches at a time.”

  Diana felt keenly how much this was affecting him, and without thinking reached for his hand. “I’m su
re you’ll find a solution. And if necessary I’ll pester all the publishers in Europe to buy the rights to your book.”

  Jonathan smiled to himself, then changed the subject with a light shake of his head. “We ought to talk about the archives and what you intend to do. You definitely want to visit the neighbouring plantation, don’t you?”

  Diana nodded. “Yes, provided we can get there. Our driver isn’t coming back for three days.”

  As she spoke she remembered she had to rearrange her flight.

  “I’m sure Mr. Manderley will lend us a vehicle. Even though this has nothing to do with him, he seems to be really keen on our project.”

  The way he stressed the word our made Diana feel warm inside, but she concealed her smile behind her teacup.

  Half an hour later, they were on their way to the archive and the plantation came to life. Out in the courtyard, workers were calling to one another, women were adjusting their saris and shouldering their baskets. A phone was ringing somewhere in the house, and someone was bashing away on a computer keyboard behind a door.

  Downstairs, in the former servants’ quarters, everything was quiet. The only sound in the corridor was the humming of the fluorescent lights. In the archive room, dust motes were floating in the rays of sun that fell on to the desk. Overnight, another table had been brought in and was now waiting to be filled with commercial records and books.

  Jonathan rubbed his hands together before opening the doors to a cupboard. He looked at the mess inside with a kind of reverence, then smiled. “You know, in a way I’ve missed this kind of chaotic filing. Earlier, in the museum, we were constantly making finds like this, which had to be worked through and catalogued. Sometimes it seemed like a real burden, but now I realise how much I actually miss it.”

  “Well, you’ve got plenty of opportunity here to get it out of your system,” Diana replied as she went over to the desk. “I’ve found a few books here that date back to the relevant time. As soon as I know what’s in them I’ll get the next ones out.”

  Nodding eagerly, Jonathan turned and immersed himself in the old cupboard.