Butterfly Island

by Corina Bomann

  “I must say this quinine seems very good,” Claudia said as the day came to an end. Exhaustion had drawn dark shadows beneath her eyes, mercilessly revealing her thirty-eight years, which she usually concealed with make-up and powder. “Her temperature is bound to rage for a while, but I have the impression it won’t get any worse now.”

  She was right, but as Grace lay down to rest, exhausted, she was sure that the real cure was down to the herbs from the Tamil village.

  During the days that followed, Victoria’s high temperature persisted and she was regularly plagued by bouts of shivering, but the symptoms finally began to recede. As her temperature sank, Victoria got visibly better. Thin and weak, she sat propped up by pillows in bed, ate light fruit soups skilfully prepared by the cook, and after a little more time was even asking for paper and a sanguine pencil.

  Although the recent days had also taken their toll on Grace, she felt freer and more relieved than ever before. As the angel of death was no longer hovering over her sister’s bed, she once again had room in her head for other thoughts. The first revolved around Vikrama, whom she wanted to thank for his rapid help.

  He had looked in at the window whenever it was safe to do so, and had often asked Grace how Victoria was. One cloudy afternoon, after Dr. Desmond had given Victoria a further examination and reassured them that she was out of danger, Grace went out to look for Vikrama.

  She found him in the tea shed, checking the quality of the tea.

  “Mr. Vikrama, please could I have a brief word with you?”

  He turned and nodded, then spoke to the women in Tamil and left the shed.

  “What is it? I hope nothing’s happened to your sister. The girls told me she fought very bravely against the illness.”

  Grace smiled for the first time in days.

  “Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. Victoria’s much better. Dr. Desmond has said she’s out of danger. She’ll be a little weak for a while yet, but that will pass, too.”

  Vikrama sighed with relief. “I’m glad to hear it. Kisah was asking me last time I saw her how the girl was.”

  “You can tell her from me that her medicine had the best possible effect and we’re all very grateful to her.”

  “You didn’t tell your mother about it, did you?” Vikrama frowned.

  “No, she . . .” Grace lowered her head in shame. “She would certainly have claimed it was poisonous. I gave it to Victoria when Mother was out of the room.”

  “So you trusted me.”

  Grace looked at him. “Yes, I trust you.”

  A hint of a smile crossed Vikrama’s face, as fleeting as a breath of wind.

  “Perhaps your sister recovered because you made an offering to Shiva and Ganesha,” he said.

  “I did what?”

  “It was you who placed the bowl of fruit beneath the picture, wasn’t it?”

  Grace puzzled for a moment before remembering.

  “One of the maids told all and sundry that you’d left an offering to the gods. Everyone believes now that Shiva and Ganesha brought your sister back to health.”

  Vikrama grinned at Grace, then without warning reached out his hand and brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. The touch of his finger sent a shiver through her like a flash of lightning. Bewildered by the tenderness of the gesture, she took a step back.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .” Vikrama blushed as he lowered his hand.

  “No, it’s . . . it’s fine.” Grace nervously raised her own hand to brush her hair from her face. Her heart was in her mouth and her cheeks were glowing. Everything in her longed to feel his touch again, but she was sure she had ruined the chance of that by flinching away.

  “In any case, I’m very grateful to you. We all are.”

  “It was my pleasure to help you.” Vikrama gave a small bow, his eyes locked on hers. He’d never looked at her in such a dark, mysterious way. And never before had she felt such a strange, secret tug of longing inside as the one that took her over now and remained with her as she turned and walked back to the house.

  “We’ve been invited to the Stocktons’,” Claudia announced over supper. “Now that Victoria is recovering and has regained some of her strength, we’re in a position to accept.”

  “I agree,” Henry said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “What do you think, Victoria?”

  The girl’s eyes, still shadowed by her illness, lit up.

  “Oh, that would be wonderful! I’ll finally be able to tell their daughter about my illness and even outdo her, since she’s never had malaria!”

  “It would be better for you not to mention your illness to the Stocktons,” her mother said. “We don’t want them thinking you might be infectious—their daughter has a weak constitution, and we don’t want her mother worrying.”

  “But Dr. Desmond said malaria isn’t passed on through personal contact.”

  “I wouldn’t be so certain of that if I were you, young lady,” her father replied. “Scientific knowledge is constantly on the move. Who knows how findings will change from one week to the next? Maybe they’ll discover that malaria actually is contagious, and then we’d be putting our nice neighbours at risk.”

  Henry laughed briefly and then swept his napkin over his lips. Claudia patted him on the arm. Victoria stuck out her lower lip sulkily.

  Grace remained silent the whole time. The mere idea of spending a whole afternoon in the company of the boring George made her shudder. And the looks his father gave her! Her parents must be blind if they hadn’t noticed it.

  She secretly wished it was she who had contracted malaria. A few of the employees had also come down with it, but thanks to the Tamil healer, no one had come to any serious harm.

  “What’s the matter, darling?” Henry turned to Grace. “You’re so quiet. Wouldn’t you look forward to a little trip out?”

  “Of course I would.”

  “But you look as if you’ve been forced to eat a whole crate of lemons.”

  “I’m not feeling well.”

  It was the best excuse she could think of, and one she knew her father wouldn’t pursue.

  “Oh. Then let’s hope you’ll be feeling better again in a few days. It would be a real shame if you couldn’t come with us.”

  It would not have been a shame at all for Grace, but she knew she would have no choice. She nodded with a smile. “When are we intending to go?”

  “This coming Sunday, immediately after our morning service. If you like, we could even go to church in Nuwara Eliya.”

  Not a bad idea, Grace thought, hoping her expression didn’t betray her scorn. If we did, I could pray that George Stockton has no interest in me at all.

  The week flew by. Together with Grace and Victoria, Miss Giles made improvements to the dresses the girls were to wear for the visit.

  “I’m beginning to feel like a lady’s maid,” she muttered whenever she felt no one was paying any attention to her. If her complaint had reached the ears of Claudia Tremayne she would have reprimanded her, but neither Victoria nor Grace had any interest in telling on her. While Victoria worked at catching up on the schoolwork she had missed during her illness, Grace distracted herself with walks or daydreamed about being able to resume her lessons with Vikrama as she listlessly sewed braid and lace. He had still not been able to make time for teaching her, and she feared she might forget all her carefully learned lettering and vocabulary.

  On the Sunday afternoon, after a visit to the recently built church in Nuwara Eliya and a brief luncheon, they set off to the Stocktons’. The track through the jungle was bumpy and rutted from the passage of numerous wagons. Every now and then there was a buffalo in the road, chewing the cud and staring at them as though it couldn’t imagine what people and horses could possibly be doing here. Above their heads, parrots and small monkeys sported in the treetops. Every so often one of the comical little creatures would appear near the carriage, like a scout sent to report back to the clan on who had come to disturb the
peace of the forest.

  All these scenes passed Grace by as she tried to convince herself that it wouldn’t be as bad as she imagined. After all, she had survived various unpleasant visits back in England to her father’s creditors. And Stockton wouldn’t bite her—at least not if she stayed close by her family.

  After about an hour’s journey they saw the Stockton plantation before them. The three-storey mansion stood resplendent like a pearl on green velvet. The estate was substantially larger than Vannattuppūcci, and there were more commercial buildings around the place. The house was ringed by a tall, decorative fence, which caused Henry to exclaim, “That’s the finest example of wrought ironwork I’ve ever seen!”

  “Our fence is just as beautiful,” Grace couldn’t help remarking. The house may have been magnificent, but in her opinion it was far too ostentatious for a man with no claim to nobility. The Tremaynes, no more aristocratic themselves, preferred a more modest two-storey house.

  As the carriage rolled up on the circular driveway before the sweeping stairs to the front door, Claudia took the opportunity for a final warning. “You will behave respectably, both of you. I don’t want to hear any peculiar comments. Victoria, you will not regale the daughter of the house with tales of your malaria, and Grace, you will put on a more affable expression than your present one and behave properly towards the Stocktons.”

  When did I ever not behave properly? Grace thought, but kept the comment to herself.

  While they were both nodding dutifully, the driver brought the carriage to a standstill.

  A supercilious butler conducted them into the hall where the Stocktons waited to greet them. Their sickly daughter was there, as was their pale son, who, despite his slim build and scrawny neck, looked as though his silver ascot tie were strangling him.

  “My dear friends!” Alice Stockton trilled, approaching them with outspread arms. As her husband shook Henry’s hand enthusiastically, he allowed his eyes to wander, as if accidentally, in Grace’s direction. She felt his gaze like an unpleasant touch to her cheek.

  After the welcome, during which Grace couldn’t escape having her hand kissed by Daniel Stockton, they were led to the drawing room, a magnificent circular room entered through a leaded sliding door. Claudia was not the only one to stare in wonder at the beautiful rattan furniture, luxurious carpets, and paintings depicting fascinating landscapes.

  Tea was served from a Chinese tea service, accompanied by a perfect selection of dainty cakes. Grace noticed her mother looking at the scones with a hint of envy before biting into one.

  She herself felt as though she had swallowed a stone—obviously not due to the quality of the scones, but to being caught in the crossfire of looks exchanged between George and Daniel Stockton. Once, she caught George licking his pale lips, which sent a shudder down her spine. She quickly turned her attention to her teacup, only to be addressed the very next moment by Daniel Stockton.

  “You must be missing the season in London, with all the lavish balls taking place there at the moment.”

  “To be honest, I am missing London,” Grace replied coolly. “But I find the beautiful landscape and life at Vannattuppūcci to be more than sufficient compensation.”

  She worded her reply guilelessly, ensuring it could not cause offence to anyone. Indeed, no one took offence, but it led Daniel Stockton to ask, “Why don’t you allow George to show you around the plantation after tea? As future master of this corner of the world, he would no doubt be delighted to escort you.”

  “But of course,” his son replied, blushing deep red. “If you would like that?”

  What else could Grace do but accept? Especially since her mother and father were giving her looks that warned her to be polite. When she accepted, as was expected of her, they nodded and smiled to one another.

  To cap it all, Victoria grinned broadly at her sister in an unobserved moment.

  Grace hardly listened to the chatter over the tea table; her attention was caught by a bright-pink frangipani tree that bloomed in the middle of the English garden. The frangipanis at Vannattuppūcci were also very beautiful, but there was something special about this tree. Maybe I should persuade George to stop by it later. Or better still, play hide-and-seek—while she sat in the grass behind the tree, keeping absolutely silent, he could search until he was blue in the face.

  As far as she was concerned, the afternoon tea could have gone on for hours, but the dreaded moment of the guided tour arrived all too soon. Daniel invited Henry to his study, where he had something he wanted to show him, while Victoria withdrew with Clara to the latter’s room. The ladies decided to enjoy the peace and quiet in the shady drawing room—and George offered Grace his arm.

  At that moment Grace was filled with envy of her younger sister. She would have far preferred listening to Clara’s boring accounts of her ailments than forcing herself to make conversation with a man who had little of interest to say to her.

  George led her out into the garden, having flatly refused to venture out into the tea plantation or the adjacent pickers’ village because one didn’t want to squander the afternoon under the gaze of those primitive people, and at her request they made for the magnificent frangipani. What at first glance had seemed like a single tree was in fact a number of intertwined trunks. Was this the work of nature or due to the hand of a skilled gardener? Either way, the result was extremely impressive and beautiful.

  “A little further along you’ll find a bodhi tree,” George said, long accustomed to seeing the frangipani and immune to its special qualities. “The natives believe it’s akin to the one under which Buddha received enlightenment, and they’ve established a truly absurd cult around it. It’s only through a strict ban that we’ve managed to stop them constantly leaving flowers under it.”

  Grace was reminded of the painting of the gods in their entrance hall. Since the maids had seen her leaving the fruit there, and Victoria’s subsequent recovery, the number of flowers laid beneath it had begun to increase again. She fervently hoped her father would not let Stockton persuade him to forbid the workers and pickers from leaving their offerings.

  As they were standing beneath the spreading branches of the tree, Grace noticed a number of parrots.

  “Oh, look!” she cried. “Aren’t these birds beautiful?”

  George glanced at them briefly and said, “Not long ago I bagged a green parrot, and I managed to stuff it without compromising any of its natural appearance.”

  Grace’s eyes widened in shock, which the young Stockton must have mistaken for admiration, as he added, “You must know that taxidermy is a great passion of mine. I also preserve insects, butterflies and moths. I can show you my collection if you like . . .”

  Grace thought of the trophies in Father’s room at Tremayne House. Animals he had not shot himself, but had kept in memory of the past. As a child, the animals’ black glass eyes had regularly sent shudders down her spine.

  “No, thank you,” she said quickly. “I prefer to observe animals in their natural surroundings.”

  If she had hoped that would divert George from his favourite subject, she was mistaken. With a passion she had not expected from this pale young man, he began to talk about the taxidermy process, increasing the queasy feeling in Grace’s stomach. When he came to a description of how he had used a preserved parrot’s wing to make a piece of jewellery to give his mother for a Christmas gift, it was finally too much for Grace.

  “Please excuse me, I’m not feeling well,” she said, perhaps a little more sharply than necessary.

  “I’ll accompany you back to the house,” George offered, but Grace shook her head.

  “No, there’s no need. I don’t want to take you away from observing your next . . . specimens.”

  She turned and began to walk away. At first she restrained her steps with as much dignity as she could muster, but as soon as she thought she had put enough space between herself and Stockton’s son, she started to run as though pursued by the ghosts
of George’s trophies.

  Back indoors she tried to calm herself a little. If her objections to George Stockton had previously been rather trivial, she now had something she could really detest him for.

  As she rounded the corner and was heading for the magnificent glass door to the drawing room, she heard the voices of her mother and Mrs. Stockton. The tones of their voices caused Grace to stop and listen.

  “My dear, our son is really quite besotted with your daughter,” Alice gushed. “Since your ball he can’t get her out of his head.”

  “Even though he only saw her briefly,” Claudia said with a sigh. “I really don’t know what was the matter with her that evening; it was so out of character.”

  “It’s the climate here. Young people are easily affected by it. Even though I’ve been here twenty years, I’ve never really grown accustomed to it myself. But you can be sure that our George and your Grace will make a wonderful couple if you will consider their union.”

  Grace held her breath.

  “My dear Mrs. Stockton, we’ve already considered it. Now all that remains to be seen is how well the young people get on together.”

  Grace had to press her hand to her mouth to prevent a cry of horror from escaping. Did her mother in all earnestness want to pair her off with that pallid boy? She who had married such an imposing figure as her father?

  Her head started spinning so much that she had to lean against the door frame. But she had no time for a fainting fit as she heard Stockton’s voice approaching behind her, giving her father yet more good advice about the plantation.

  Grace immediately realised which was the lesser of two evils. She straightened herself up and walked into the drawing room.

  “Ah, Grace, there you are!” her mother said sweetly. “We were just talking about you.”

  A modest reply would have been the polite response, but Grace couldn’t force out the words. She bottled up the only reply she could make to what she had heard, her lips forming a crooked smile.

  A little later Stockton and Henry returned to the drawing room. Stockton’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as he saw Grace sitting by her mother—alone.