Butterfly Island

by Corina Bomann

  The appearance of Vikrama made him forget the idea for a moment. What was the lad doing here? There was nothing for it, however, but to put on a friendly face. After all, the half-caste, as he secretly called him, was ignorant enough to be completely harmless. Cahill deigned to sing his praises in front of his new employer because he knew that would shed a good light on himself.

  The lad disappeared again, and after Cahill had shown Henry Tremayne around the house, his duties were over for the day.

  On the way home he met a rider coming the other way. It was safe to say that Daniel Stockton was the richest plantation owner in the region. For a long while it had looked as though Richard Tremayne was set to challenge this position, but then the accident had happened and Stockton’s crown was safe.

  “Good day, Mr. Cahill. What brings you up here?” Stockton reined his horse in. He was clearly on his way to Nuwara Eliya to meet his friends at the Hill Club. Cahill had tried, at his wife’s urging, to be accepted as a member, but in vain. The plantation owners and businessmen did not want a lawyer in their midst, especially not one who did not run his own practice, but acted for one of them.

  Despite this stigma, Daniel Stockton always acted with due politeness towards Cahill and the others—or so it seemed, at least.

  “I’ve just accompanied the new owner of Vannattuppūcci, Mr. Henry Tremayne, here.”

  “Richard’s brother?” Stockton’s eyebrows shot up.

  For a moment he seemed to be wondering whether the new owner would be as obstinate as his brother had been. When he was alive, Richard Tremayne had represented strong competition for him. And there had also been some trouble in matters concerning the land.

  “Yes, that’s right. He’s just moved into the house with his wife and two daughters. If I may say so, they’re all very beautiful women.”

  It was well known that Stockton had a weakness for a beautiful woman; he smiled and leaned forward a little in the saddle. “Then I should visit them soon to pay my respects.”

  “That would be a good idea, sir. At the moment things are a little chaotic at Vannattuppūcci, but I’m sure that the next few days will provide an ideal opportunity to visit. In the meantime, Mr. Vikrama has offered to show his new employer around a little.”

  The mention of the half-Tamil brought a scowl to Stockton’s face. It was his opinion that, in the absence of a master at Vannattuppūcci, this R. Vikrama had been behaving as though he were the owner of the plantation. Stockton would voice this opinion to anyone who cared to listen, keeping silent about the real reason for his animosity: that he was annoyed he was not able to acquire the house and the plantation as he had intended.

  Cahill knew of this, however, and could also believe that, while Stockton would not actually attempt to wrest ownership of the estate from Tremayne, he would nevertheless do all he could to gain access to those fields.

  “So, he has daughters, you say?” Stockton mused, ignoring the remark about Vikrama. “No sons?”

  “Not yet; at least none that I know of. But Mrs. Tremayne is still quite young. It’s possible that an heir may be born one day.”

  Stockton pulled a face. Then he sat back in his saddle and tightened his grip on the reins again.

  “Thank you very much for the information, Mr. Cahill. I’ll be seeing you.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Stockton,” Cahill called after him as he spurred his horse to a gallop.

  Cahill found out about Stockton’s visit the next time he called to see Tremayne in his office. By then, Vikrama had explained to Tremayne all that was required of him, and Cahill justifiably hoped that the new owner would slip effortlessly into his role. At least, this was the impression he gained from his conversations with him, and there was the physical evidence of a plantation that was once again running like a well-oiled machine.

  One afternoon, as he was hurrying across the hall, Cahill saw the young Miss Grace talking to Mr. Vikrama. There was nothing wrong with that in itself, but it nevertheless brought Cahill to a standstill. A dark shadow was awoken in his breast, one he had suppressed and forgotten about for a long time. How the girl smiled at him! And how the lad’s gaze roved over her face and her body. Two young people were standing there, hot-blooded and full of desires they had hardly tasted yet.

  It’s nothing, he thought in an attempt to reassure himself. It’s perfectly understandable that a charming girl like Miss Grace wants to get to know the people on the plantation. Even though she was nothing like her uncle Richard in appearance, she seemed to have a similar character to his: friendly, open, and warm.

  And that was a good thing—as the future mistress of Vannattuppūcci, she would need the sympathy of the workers, since they were willing to work far harder for an employer they loved than for one they merely respected.

  The weeks following the ball not only saw numerous changes, but also cast something of a cloud over the place.

  While Tremayne delegated work that Cahill had previously carried out to Vikrama, reassuring him that he would still pay him the same for less work, and on top of it all really valued his legal advice and representation, Cahill’s wife complained that the ball had been far from successful from their own point of view. “They didn’t even look at my daughters, especially the elder one,” she grumbled. “The younger one was friendly towards our Sophie, but there was nothing more to it than that.”

  “They’re a different class from us, darling,” Cahill had said in an attempt to pacify her. “In any case, there’s so much for them to take in—I’m sure they haven’t got the time to devote to every guest that was there. I promise you, our girls will be given a chance yet.”

  Mrs. Cahill merely sniffed and appeared to be combing her memory for anything disparaging she could bring up about the Tremayne daughters.

  In the days that followed, Cahill wondered where Vikrama was going with Grace and the rather pompous governess.

  “She wants to learn the natives’ language, so she knows what they’re saying about us.” Tremayne’s assertion sounded serious, as though he suspected some lurking evil intention. Did he believe the people here would deceive him? Or did he have a creeping suspicion that the relationship between Vikrama and his daughter might be more than merely that of a teacher and his pupil?

  Maybe I should say something to him, Cahill thought, but rejected the idea. I’m sure there’s nothing to it. Miss Grace only wants company of her own age. And learning the language was important for the future mistress of Vannattuppūcci. Richard Tremayne had also been able to speak it.

  The following weeks condemned Cahill to almost complete inactivity. Tremayne delegated mindless clerical work to him, and the drafting of documents, which he then sent him to deliver throughout the region.

  “You might as well be a postman,” Lucy carped in a caustic tone. “That Tamil boy is going to oust you.”

  “He certainly won’t, darling, don’t you worry,” Cahill said in an attempt to appease her. But the seed of mistrust had been sown. Had Vikrama really usurped his position? Did Tremayne sense something?

  No, that wasn’t possible. No one knew about that.

  One day, as he was returning from Colombo where he had gone to have a few documents notarised for Mr. Tremayne, he was stopped by Daniel Stockton. He looked rather distraught, and Cahill got the impression he had been waiting for him.

  He probably saw me coming through his telescope, Cahill thought uneasily. Everyone said that Stockton could survey the whole area with it and watch just about anything that happened.

  “Good evening, Mr. Cahill.” Stockton blocked the way of the small carriage, preventing it from moving on. Like a highwayman, Cahill thought.

  “Good evening, Mr. Stockton. What can I do for you?”

  “Oh, a good deal, I believe.”

  He was surprised at that, and his astonishment increased as Stockton let the cat out of the bag.

  “One of the men I’ve lent to Tremayne has reported that Miss Grace meets regularly with that Vikrama.�
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  “She’s learning the language from him,” Cahill replied, turning hot and cold beneath his formal suit.

  “The language, eh? Mr. Petersen says something rather different. He says they meet mostly at night and have been seen kissing. I hardly believe that’s how one learns a language.”

  Cahill was speechless.

  “Have you seen anything of the kind?”

  “No, sir. I’ve only seen them in the afternoons.”

  “Hm. Well it would be a good thing if you could have someone keep an eye on them. After all, I’ve chosen her as a wife for my son, and we don’t want him to be given a cuckoo in the nest.”

  Cahill felt light-headed. That mustn’t happen at any cost! It didn’t bear thinking about.

  “I’ll keep my eyes open, Mr. Stockton.” Something suddenly occurred to Cahill. “What about Mr. Tremayne? Should I tell him about our suspicions?”

  Stockton shook his head. “No, not at first. We won’t want to arouse his anger when he’s got the plantation to see to, do we? You should only tell your boss when you have concrete evidence. Until then, only me.” The plantation owner took a pouch of money from his pocket. “For you. A little contribution to your expenses.”

  Before Cahill could thank him, Stockton had turned his horse and ridden away.

  From that moment on, Cahill did all he could to spy on Grace Tremayne. For the sake of the plantation, he told himself. And for the good of the young miss. Young things like her are easily led astray. During the day, he peered in through her window at times and watched her from a distance at others. He was unable to obtain any proof, since he didn’t know exactly when they met and what routes the girl took.

  When he encountered Stockton he told him that everything was in order and he was not to worry—who could know what Petersen had seen?

  “Anyway, it could well be that Petersen wants to bring the girl into disrepute. You must have heard how she stood up against him when he was whipping a tea picker.”

  “Yes, that story did reach me.” Stockton’s thoughtful expression indicated that he had not considered this possibility.

  “I’m sure it’s just a case of your man seeking his revenge. Miss Grace Tremayne is a well-bred young lady who knows what’s expected of her. She would never, ever become involved with one of those savages.”

  It seemed evident that Stockton believed the explanation because he stopped asking Cahill about the situation.

  Cahill found out to the contrary a few weeks later. One day, as he was heading for one of his usual meetings, he found the house in quite an uproar. He took one of the maids aside in the hall and asked her what was the matter, especially since Dr. Desmond was there.

  “Miss Grace Tremayne has had a fainting fit. You’d better wait in Mr. Tremayne’s study.”

  Miss Grace had a fainting fit? What could that mean? She was a healthy, robust young woman!

  When Henry Tremayne entered the study two hours later, he was as white as a sheet. “Oh, Cahill. I’m sorry, I forgot all about you.”

  “May I ask what has happened, sir?”

  Tremayne sank down on his chair with a sigh. His features were stony.

  “My daughter . . .”

  “I hope she hasn’t had a recurrence of her malaria,” Cahill said disingenuously—of course he didn’t want to reveal that he already knew it was not about Victoria.

  “It’s not Victoria, but Grace . . .” Tremayne hesitated, weighing his words carefully. “Maybe we should postpone our meeting. I’m too exhausted at the moment.”

  Cahill was about to say that he hoped nothing serious had befallen Miss Tremayne, but managed to stop himself. He would find out what was the matter.

  When he told Lucy about Miss Grace’s fainting, she immediately said, “Could it be that her moral standards are not quite what they should be?”

  “What do you mean by that?” There it was again, that dreadful feeling of alternating hot and cold.

  “As far as I know, young things like her only keel over when they’re pregnant. It happened with me, remember? When I was expecting Meg.”

  In fact, Cahill had taken little notice of Lucy’s trials and tribulations during her pregnancies. One day he had simply arrived home and she had given him the good news.

  “I’m telling you, if there’s a boy who’s been courting her, she’ll be pregnant by him.”

  Her words took away Cahill’s appetite for his supper.

  The next day there were whispers all around the plantation—Miss Grace must be pregnant. And the master was beside himself because she would not tell him by whom.

  Cahill paced nervously up and down in his study. He’d known it all along! It must be that Vikrama. Why hadn’t he kept better watch over them? Why had he given Stockton, who was clearly concerned for his son, that story about revenge? Petersen might be a swine, but his eyes were sharp and he was obviously still loyal to his benefactor, Stockton.

  This was a disaster! If he didn’t know so much about Richard, he might not have cared so much about whether Grace had taken up with Vikrama. But the liaison between them was extremely dangerous, and he should have stepped in sooner for the good of Vannattuppūcci. It was too late for that now.

  He never found out exactly how Henry Tremayne discovered that Vikrama really was the father. There was some talk of a notebook that her sister Victoria had found. It seemed that in her youthful inquisitiveness she had read about her sister’s escapades, which Grace had written down in a kind of diary, and had been caught red-handed by Miss Giles.

  Henry Tremayne’s reaction was drastic. He sent Petersen and his friends out to search for Vikrama and punish him.

  He hadn’t intended his daughter to watch, but the girl found out and ran from her room after Tremayne had given his orders.

  Cahill would never forget the girl’s wailing as they dragged the lad in. He had just arrived at the house for a meeting with Tremayne, but stood rooted to the spot on the steps up to the house as the scene unfolded in front of him.

  “Please let him go!” she sobbed, writhing in the arms of the men who were holding her fast.

  “The devil we will, miss!” Petersen sneered. “Your father has instructed us to teach him a lesson, and a lesson he’ll get! Drag him over to that tree so I can flay the skin from his body!”

  “No!” Grace screamed, so shrilly that Cahill wanted to block his ears. “Defend yourself!” she cried out in anguish. “Please defend yourself! Don’t let them kill you! Think of our child!”

  Her cries incited him to struggle up against the men who were holding him. He glanced over his shoulder and exchanged a look with Grace—a look that suggested that what happened next would drive them apart forever.

  Then Vikrama exploded. With movements the like of which Cahill had never seen before, he released himself from the grip of his captors and set about them. Before they knew what was happening, two were bleeding from the nose and a third was stumbling backwards.

  Petersen unrolled his whip at lightning speed, but he was only able to bring it down once. He had raised his arm for another strike, when Vikrama beat against him with rapid blows.

  “Damn you all—doesn’t anyone have a gun?” the foreman yelled, but Vikrama was away, turning once for a last glance at his beloved before plunging into the darkness.

  The men who had been holding Grace released her and stormed after him, disappearing into the undergrowth a few seconds later. The girl sank down on the steps. She gazed imploringly into the darkness, probably hoping with all her heart that he would make it.

  When Mr. Tremayne finally came out, the defeated men had struggled to their feet. With swollen lips Petersen reported Vikrama’s escape. When he added that he had been striking out in all directions like a man possessed, Grace finally spoke, a strange smile on her face. “That wasn’t the devil, it was kalarippayatu, idiot.”

  Cahill took it to be the name of a demon; Henry Tremayne didn’t care a jot what it meant. He grabbed Grace and raised her t
o her feet.

  “What are you doing here? I put you under house arrest.”

  The girl swayed as if she were about to faint, which was not surprising given her condition. But she remained standing and looked at her father with an expression that would have moved a more sensitive being to tears.

  “They won’t catch him, Father. They won’t catch him; his gods will make sure of it!”

  Henry glared at her for a moment as though he were about to slap her face, before dragging her back into the house.

  Cahill, whom no one had noticed, sank against the banister for support.

  What a night! What a commotion! And all because he had remained silent. Because he had done nothing to prevent this disaster from the start!

  I should have told Mr. Tremayne his brother’s secret. The consequences would have been bad, but maybe not as dreadful and insurmountable as the present situation!

  Exhausted, he took his handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his brow. He could forget about his meeting with Mr. Tremayne. He might as well go, and return the next day.

  The following evening, Daniel Stockton galloped into the courtyard. The search for Vikrama had by then spread to both plantations, and after hearing what had happened and what had triggered it, he had also offered his help. His people were now also looking for the former estate manager—but without success as yet. In a rage at this on top of everything else, he drew his horse to a halt and ran up the steps. He didn’t spare a glance at Cahill, who was waiting in the hall.

  “He should have been shot like a dog!” Stockton raved a little later in the Tremaynes’ drawing room, acting as though he were Grace’s father.

  Well, Cahill thought, I suppose he would have become her father-in-law if Vikrama hadn’t got her pregnant. Once again his dark secret stirred inside him. Mr. Tremayne would have to know sooner or later. But not yet.

  Cahill knew it would be better to withdraw and come back later, but then he noticed a figure on the steps. Miss Grace! He withdrew further into the shadows and hid behind an open door.