“Where have you left my son?” he asked, his voice jovial but his eyes boring into her. “You weren’t playing hide-and-seek and left the poor lad outside looking for you?”
“No, of course not,” Grace replied as politely as she could, modestly lowering her gaze so he couldn’t see the horror that the images conjured by George still aroused in her imagination. “I think he wanted to stay out in the garden for a while.”
“Ah, then he must be keeping an eye out for some creature or other,” Stockton replied almost disparagingly. He clearly wasn’t over the moon himself about his son’s hobby. “George’s passion for collecting knows no bounds, but I’m sure that, one day, a pretty woman will be able to bring his mind around to other things.”
He looked at her again before turning to Henry. “Would you object to me showing the young lady our observation tower?” he said. “Maybe if the garden wasn’t to her delight, she may enjoy the wonderful view of the mountains—and your property.”
“But of course there’s no objection!” Henry replied, shooting Grace a look of warning.
The thought of having to go anywhere alone with Stockton made Grace deeply uneasy, but she forced a smile. “Will you come with us, Father?”
Henry declined. “No, I think I’d like to listen to the women’s chatter for a while.”
Not even Father wants to spend too long with him, Grace thought angrily as she rose with a pounding heart and ice-cold fingers, and took Stockton’s proffered hand.
Stockton looked at her with a smile, then led her from the drawing room. As they descended the front steps in silence, Grace wondered where this viewing platform was, and whether it was far. She harboured a slight hope that George or Clara, together with Victoria, would appear and ask to come with them, but they remained absent, as though Stockton had locked them all in some secret chamber.
Stockton dropped her hand as they reached the drive. “Follow me. It isn’t far.” Stockton’s friendly tone merely increased Grace’s mistrust. But she pacified herself with the thought that her parents were close by, and although he had looked at her strangely before, he had never made a move to touch her.
A series of steps made from thick timber boards, with steps smooth enough for her to negotiate freely once she had hitched her skirt up a little, led up the mountainside past the terraced tea fields. For a moment, the view and the rustling of the tea plants made Grace forget that she was still in the company of Stockton.
But then he moved so close to her that she could almost feel the warmth of his body, smell his cologne.
“We’re nearly there,” he said unnecessarily, since Grace could already see the platform. It was set out on an outcrop of rock with a metal railing to protect observers from falling. The small telescope glinted in the sunshine.
Grace had to admit that the view from up here was wonderful. In the distance they could see Adam’s Peak.
“The telescope enables you to look closely at the mountain peaks,” Stockton said behind her. She felt as though his breath were stroking her shoulder. “I hope you’re not prone to vertigo.”
“I don’t think so,” Grace replied, caught between curiosity and anxiety.
“You’re plucky. I like that.”
With a gentle hand at her back, he steered her forward.
As Grace bent to the telescope, her hips brushed against his body. She looked to the side in alarm, as she hadn’t realised how close to her he had moved.
“You can adjust the focus of the lens here.”
Before Grace could pull back, he had reached his arms around her. His hand brushed against her hair as if by accident, his arm touched her back. Effectively embracing her, he turned the adjustment screw, then withdrew his hand, but not without briefly touching her waist.
Grace shuddered. What drove him to touch her like that?
The next moment she felt a little silly. Maybe I’m overreacting, she told herself as she tried to concentrate on the view. She succeeded in doing so for a while, marvelling at the craggy heights of Adam’s Peak and then, lowering the telescope a little, gaining a wonderful view of their own tea fields and the Vannattuppūcci mansion. It looked like a jewel in folds of green velvet.
But then she heard an agitated gasp from Stockton. At first she thought there must be something wrong with him, but as she looked up, she found herself looking into eyes that were dark and gleaming oddly as they watched her. Although she had very little experience with men, she knew instinctively that this was a gleam of lust, of desire. The sensations were making him tremble. His tongue flicked over his lips.
“Grace,” he whispered almost inaudibly, a strange smile playing on his lips.
This and his dilated pupils made her shrink back, but the telescope and metal railing prevented her from going far. Stockton took a step towards her and raised his hand to touch her hair.
“Please can we go?” Grace whispered fearfully, her mouth dry. “I’m feeling dizzy. Please!”
Stockton stopped mid-stride. After a brief pause, he managed to draw the lust back into the black depths of his eyes.
“As you wish, Miss Tremayne,” he said somewhat stiffly, before offering her his hand. This time Grace did not take it, but descended the steps alone.
The whole of the way down, it took all of Grace’s self-control not to run. Stockton made no further attempt to get close to her, maintaining a respectable distance, but she was deeply afraid of what might be going on behind his eyes—almost more afraid than of the subject that Mrs. Stockton and her mother had been discussing.
Back in the drawing room, she found that George, Clara, and Victoria had returned.
“Well, how was the view?” her father asked cheerfully, without noticing that something was amiss with his daughter.
“Beautiful,” Grace said flatly. She noticed Mrs. Stockton look quizzically at her husband. The desire in Daniel’s eyes had gone, but it seemed as though it had left behind some trace that Alice could see clearly. For the rest of the afternoon Grace could not bring herself to look Mrs. Stockton in the eye, even though she had not been the one who had reached out her hand to the woman’s husband or sought accidental physical contact.
Fortunately, the purgatory was over an hour later and they made their way back to Vannattuppūcci. The whole time, Grace had been simmering inside so much that she was unable to speak. Her unease following her walk with Stockton was mixed with her anger at the machinations towards an engagement between her and George.
But no one noticed, since Victoria chattered away cheerfully about all the ailments Clara Stockton had been regaling her with. “It was hard, but I said nothing about my malaria,” she added when she noticed her father’s dark look.
When the carriage finally came to a halt, Grace felt unbridled anger deep inside. To hear Mrs. Stockton speak, it was as though the engagement with her son was already a fait accompli. How could her mother think of handing her over to the first eligible man that came her way—simply because their plantations were adjacent to one another and the Stocktons were clearly richer than they were?
What would she say if she knew that Stockton clearly had a fancy for her, too? She’d probably think I was imagining it. Grace couldn’t help feeling disappointed by the thought.
In her room, she tore the hat from her head in a rage and threw it into a corner by the window. She put her hand up to her hair and released the locks. Victoria, following a few moments later, quickly closed the door behind her.
“What’s the matter? Have you got an insect in your hair?”
Grace didn’t reply, but tore off her dress. She whirled around, her eyes shining like those of a madwoman. Victoria shrank back in alarm. “Should we be thinking of committing you to an asylum?”
“You should be considering Mrs. Stockton for that!” Grace snarled. “She thinks her George and I would make a wonderful couple! And Mother saw fit to agree! As though there were no other suitable young men in the area.”
She couldn’t bring herself
to tell Victoria how Stockton had almost forced himself on her at the viewing platform.
“I doubt you’d want to marry any of them, either,” Victoria replied sharply, removing her own hat with more considered movements.
“Of course I’d consider marrying one of them. As long as he doesn’t look like George Stockton! How can Mother even think of marrying me off to that insipid boy? Do you know what his favourite hobby is? Stuffing dead animals! When we were out walking he gave me a blow-by-blow account of how he draws out the innards with a hook. I tell you, he’s not right in the head!”
Victoria’s eyes sparkled with dark delight. Given her own curiosity, she would probably have liked to watch the taxidermy in action. “Maybe you should tell Mother about it.”
“She sounded so thrilled with Mrs. Stockton’s suggestion that she probably wouldn’t listen to me. And we’ve only been here two months!”
“Even if we’d stayed in London you’d probably have had admirers by now.”
“But not ones who slaughter animals and stuff them with wood wool.”
“You know Mother believes a girl should marry as soon as possible,” Victoria continued unperturbed. “She was only eighteen when she met Papa.”
Grace almost burst out that this was their father, who had no bloodthirsty hobbies and was glad that his lack of an aristocratic title meant he wasn’t compelled to go fox hunting, but she was only too aware that her feelings for him had changed somewhat since he had punished her for her intervention at the whipping. She loved him, yes, but it was as though a dark veil had been drawn over her love since they had been here. She didn’t know if it was he who had changed, or her.
“I know that I’ll have to marry one day, and indeed, if I’d been told six months ago that I’d become the wife of a rich landowner, I’d have been beside myself with joy. But now . . .” She hesitated. If she were back in England would she really have accepted that her parents would practically choose her husband for her?
In England I’d have had a whole ball season to inspect the available men. I might even have fallen in love with one of them—without his father slavering over me like a hungry wolf.
Love! That was the real reason. As a girl she had always dreamed of it, and as she grew up, everyone had tried to persuade her that her duty to her family was more important. But the germ of longing was not something to be so easily repressed by duty and obedience.
“I don’t love George Stockton, and I probably never will. Doesn’t one always know whether one likes another person within just a few moments of meeting them?”
“It’s also the case that many women get used to their husbands and love can grow from that.”
“Be that as it may. But look at you, immersing yourself in your romantic novels and reading Jane Austen—you’d hardly be satisfied with learning to live with someone, would you? Wouldn’t you prefer to wait for your Mr. Darcy?”
As she spoke, Grace realised that she had found hers.
“I’m more partial to Colonel Brandon,” Victoria retorted with gusto.
“All right, Colonel Brandon, then,” Grace said. “The point is that George Stockton is neither of them. He may be the heir to a magnificent plantation, but I’m sure there are plenty of those around here. What on earth is possessing my parents, wanting to marry me off to that boor? There are plenty of worthier plantation owners’ sons in the area.”
“But if you married George you could stay nearby. You know Father expects you to take over the running of the plantation.”
“Maybe I should take over Tremayne House,” Grace pointed out. “If I’m honest I’d far rather be there right now!”
That was not quite true, since there was definitely one thing that could keep her in this place. But at that moment she would have travelled to the ends of the earth to avoid a marriage to George Stockton.
“What do you want with that old pile?” Victoria asked in amazement. “You have to admit that the climate’s so much better here and this house is less gloomy.”
“True, but just imagine yourself in my position!”
As tears sprang to her eyes, Victoria came and sat by her, laying her arm gently on her shoulder.
“Maybe they’ll reconsider. Anyway I don’t want you to leave here. Perhaps young Stockton won’t be willing, either. Or perhaps he’ll fall from his horse when he’s riding around the plantation with his father. No one knows what fate has in store for us.”
Of course a woman had to fulfil her duty and marry. But why George Stockton? As Grace wondered what had become of the obedient daughter who had dreamed of nothing but her debut and a wedding, she realised that no one else could claim a place in her heart. That had already been taken. Taken by a man whom she didn’t even know was free.
14
Vannattuppūcci Tea Company, 2008
The next morning, breakfast was again waiting for Diana and Jonathan, but instead of Mr. Manderley, there was only a small card on which he apologised for his absence, saying he had business in Colombo and would not be back until the following day.
“We’ll miss him,” Diana said with a smile, as she pushed the card into her trouser pocket on the way to the archive room. “What if we have any questions?”
“The whole building’s full of nice people who are dying for a distraction from their real work.” Jonathan grinned, then handed her a CD case. “I looked up a few facts about kalarippayatu for you, including a video that will give you a good impression of a fight. Maybe you can use this for your collection.”
“Where did you get the CD from?” Diana asked in surprise.
“Oh, you know, the ladies in the admin department. You give them a charming smile, modestly tell them what you’d like and, hey presto, you’ve opened all kinds of doors. This material is well worth looking at.”
Diana took the case. “How’s your project going, anyway?” she asked. “I can’t help feeling bad that I’m keeping you from your work.”
“I hardly think that what I’m doing here could be considered keeping me from my work. As I told you yesterday, I can use some of what we find here for my book. Actually, I’m the one who should be grateful to you and Michael for showing me a completely different point of view. We historians often tend to approach the subject far too cautiously. In this place”—he spread his arms—“you can experience aspects of the conflict before your eyes. What more could I ask for?”
Several hours passed, and the only new thing Diana brought to light was an old prescription for quinine, issued by one Dr. Desmond. The other loose papers, some of which she had hoped might be personal letters, turned out to be delivery notes and business correspondence. Even so, she found that some of them were in the handwriting of her ancestor, Henry Tremayne. Even though she was no expert in graphology, Diana could see that the plantation owner was a strong-willed man.
She was reminded of Emily’s funeral service. The event—the “scandal,” as Victoria herself referred to it in her letter—must have been serious enough for it still to be reaching the present as a faint echo. No one could make out the words any longer, but everyone could still hear that something had been called.
“Oh my God!” Jonathan suddenly exclaimed.
Diana whirled around in surprise. “What’s up?”
“I think I’ve found something here that you most certainly need.”
He handed her a tattered little notebook, its pages wavy with damp. It bore no title, and on the first few pages there was nothing but Tamil characters.
“What’s this?” she asked, pointing at the blurred letters. “You know I can’t read Tamil.”
“The characters are meaningless. It looks like they could be practice notes. But after them I think you’ll find a real treasure.”
Diana leafed through and saw what Jonathan meant.
“I can’t believe it,” she murmured breathlessly. Her pulse quickened as though she was at the starting line of a sprint.
After the characters came a series of notes in w
riting so tiny that it would take a magnifying glass to read them. The lines were cramped up close, as though the author had tried to use every bit of free space in the notebook. Anyone taking a cursory glance would have thought this meaningless scribbling, but Diana held the writing close up to her eyes as though she had suddenly become short-sighted, and recognised the tiny shapes as proper words.
“The writer must have used a really fine nib,” she said as she put the notebook down. “I think I’ll have to ask Mr. Manderley for a magnifying glass.”
“Anyone who used such tiny writing must have been trying to hide something,” Jonathan said as though he were an expert in deciphering hidden codes. “This could be where Grace’s or Victoria’s secrets are lurking.”
“If this notebook really did belong to one of the sisters, she can’t have thought it important enough to take back to England. Perhaps we shouldn’t get our hopes up; it might be meaningless.”
“You’ll only know that if you read it, won’t you?”
Diana nodded and thoughtfully ran a finger over the paper, which felt like fine-grained sandpaper.
“You know what? I’m going to ask the ladies in the admin office for a magnifying glass. After all, the one in the red patterned sari gave me the CD.”
Why did that comment cause her a small pang of jealousy?
Diana knew the answer, but suppressed it, since at that moment she wanted to concentrate on the notebook.
“I’ll be right back!”
Jonathan got up and left the archive. Diana gazed after him for a moment, then picked up the notebook again and held it close up to her eyes. She noticed a faint scent of cinnamon, like the one that had clung to the objects in the chest. As she tried to decipher the tiny letters, her eyes began to water, and suddenly the tears seemed to transform her pupils into magnifying glasses so she could read the first sentences.
I don’t know where to begin. My thoughts are in such confusion, and I have no one to confide in. Without a single friend here, all I can do is confide in this notebook and burn it as soon as I’ve filled it. Maybe I’ll succeed in setting everything down in the right order . . .
Butterfly Island Page 33