THE TEA PLANTER’S
DAUGHTER
A wonderfully moving novel of courage and enduring love: the first in the India Tea Series
Janet MacLeod Trotter
Praise for The Tea Planter’s Daughter
‘Irresistible’
Sunderland Echo
‘A wonderfully moving, deeply emotional tale’
Daily Record
‘Trotter uses her experiences and imagination to bring strength and depth to her novels. Another thought-provoking book’
Lancashire Evening Post
‘Another action-packed, emotionally charged page-turner’
Newcastle Journal
‘A moving saga set against the backdrop of the thriving tea trade in turn-of-the-century Tyneside’
Peterborough Evening Telegraph
‘A gripping and heartrending novel… An unforgettable novel of courage, suffering and enduring love’
Bolton Evening News
Copyright © Janet MacLeod Trotter, 2007, 2012
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the Publisher.
Published by MacLeod Trotter Books
eBook edition: 2012
ISBN 978-1-908359-21-6
www.janetmacleodtrotter.com
(The photograph used on the cover is of Janet’s maternal great grand aunt)
eBook conversion by www.ebookpartnership.com
About the Author
Janet MacLeod Trotter was brought up in the North East of England with her four brothers, by Scottish parents. She is a best-selling author of 17 novels, including the hugely popular Jarrow Trilogy, and a childhood memoir, BEATLES & CHIEFS, which was featured on BBC Radio Four. Her novel, THE HUNGRY HILLS, gained her a place on the shortlist of The Sunday Times’ Young Writers’ Award, and the TEA PLANTER’S DAUGHTER was longlisted for the RNA Romantic Novel Award and was an Amazon top ten best seller. A graduate of Edinburgh University, she has been editor of the Clan MacLeod Magazine, a columnist on the Newcastle Journal and has had numerous short stories published in women’s magazines. She lives in the North of England with her husband, daughter and son. Find out more about Janet and her other popular novels at: www.janetmacleodtrotter.com
By Janet MacLeod Trotter
Historical:
The Jarrow Trilogy
The Jarrow Lass
Child of Jarrow
Return to Jarrow
The Durham Trilogy
Hungry Hills
The Darkening Skies
Never Stand Alone
The India Tea Series
The Tea Planter’s Daughter
The Planter’s Bride
The Tyneside Sagas
No Greater Love
A Crimson Dawn
A Handful of Stars
Chasing the Dream
For Love & Glory
Scottish Historical Romance
The Beltane Fires
Mystery:
The Vanishing of Ruth
The Haunting of Kulah
Teenage:
Love Games
Non Fiction:
Beatles & Chiefs
To Uncle Donald and in memory of Uncle Duncan, who both began life in India — humorous, kind, fun, generous, humane and with that indomitable Gorrie spirit of optimism, sense of justice and faith in the human race — with admiration and love.
Contents
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
The second in the India Tea Series
Extract from The Planter’s Bride
Comments and Feedback
CHAPTER 1
Assam, India, 1904
‘Gerr out!’ bellowed Jock Belhaven from his study. ‘And take that stinkin’ food away!’
‘But sahib, you must eat—’
There was a splintering crash of china hitting the teak door frame.
‘Try to poison me, would yer?’ Jock ranted drunkenly. ‘’Gerr out or I’ll shoot you, by heck I will!’
In the next room Clarissa and Olive exchanged looks of alarm; they could hear every word through the thin bungalow walls. Olive, round-eyed with fear, dropped the bow of her violin at the sound of their father smashing more plates. Clarrie sprang up from her seat by the fire.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll calm him.’ She forced a smile at her petrified younger sister and dashed for the door, nearly colliding with Kamal, their Bengali khansama, retreating hastily from her father’s study, his bearded face in shock. A stream of foul abuse pursued him.
‘Sahib is not well,’ he said, quickly closing the door. ‘He is snapping like a tiger.’
Clarrie put a hand on the old man’s arm. Kamal had served her father since his army days, long before she was born, and knew the raging drunk beyond the door was a pathetic shadow of a once vigorous, warm-hearted man.
‘He must have been to the village to buy liquor,’ she whispered. ‘He said he was going fishing.’
Kamal gave a regretful shake of his head. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Clarissa.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ she said hastily. They listened unhappily to the sound of Jock swearing as he threw things around the room.
‘Your father is not to blame,’ Kamal said. ‘It is the ague. Whenever it is attacking him, he drinks to stop the pain. He will be right as rain in a few days.’
Clarrie was touched by the man’s loyalty, but they both knew it was not just bouts of fever that bedevilled her father. His drinking had grown steadily worse since the terrible earthquake in which her mother had died — crushed by a toppling tree as she lay in bed, pregnant with their third child. Now Jock was banned from buying alcohol at the officers’ mess in Shillong and treated warily at the tea planters’ club at Tezpur on the rare occasions they travelled upcountry for a gymkhana or race meeting. No longer able to afford cases of whisky from Calcutta, he was dependent on cheap firewater from Khassia villagers or bowls of opium to numb his despair.
‘Go and make some tea,’ Clarrie suggested, ‘and sit with Olive. She doesn’t like to be on her own. I’ll
deal with Father.’
With a reassuring smile at Kamal, she took a deep breath and knocked firmly on the study door. Her father shouted back in a jumble of English and Bengali. Bravely, Clarrie opened the door a crack.
‘Babu,’ she called, using the affectionate name from her childhood, ‘it’s me, Clarrie. Can I come in?’
‘Gan t’ hell!’ he snarled.
Clarrie pushed the door open and slipped inside. ‘I’ve come to say goodnight, Babu,’ she persisted. ‘I wondered if you would like some tea before bed?’
In the yellow glow of the oil lamp she could see him swaying amid the wreckage like a survivor from a storm. Mildewed books torn from their shelves and shards of blue and white china — her mother’s beloved willow pattern — were scattered across the wooden floor amid a splattered mess of rice and dhal. A fried fish lay stranded at his feet. The room stank of strong liquor and sweat, although the air was chilly.
Trying to hide her shock, Clarrie moved into the room, stepping over the mess without comment. To draw attention to it now would only madden him. In the morning her father would be full of remorse. He watched her suspiciously but his protests subsided.
‘Come and sit by the fire, Babu,’ she coaxed. ‘I’ll get it going again. You look tired. Did you catch any fish today? Ama says her sons caught some big mahseer in Um Shirpi yesterday. Perhaps you should try there tomorrow. I’ll ride out and take a look, shall I?’
‘No! Shouldn’t be out on yer own,’ he slurred. ‘Leopards…’
‘I’m always careful.’
‘And those men.’ He spat out the word.
‘What men?’ She steered him towards a threadbare armchair.
‘Recruiters — sniffing around here — bloody Robsons,’ he growled.
‘Wesley Robson?’ Clarrie asked, startled. ‘From the Oxford Estates?’
‘Aye,’ Jock cried, growing agitated again. ‘Trying to steal me workers!’
No wonder her father was in such a state. Some large tea estates like the Oxford were ruthless in their quest for new labour to work their vast gardens. She had met Wesley Robson at a polo match in Tezpur last year; one of those brash young men newly out from England, good-looking and arrogant, thinking they knew more about India after three months than those who had lived here all their lives. Her father had taken against him at once, because he was one of the Robsons of Tyneside, a powerful family who had risen from being tenant farmers like the Belhavens, making their money in boilers and now investing in tea. Everything they touched seemed to spawn riches. The Robsons and the Belhavens had had a falling out years ago over something to do with farming equipment.
‘Have you seen Mr Robson?’ Clarrie asked in dismay.
‘Camping over by Um Shirpi,’ Jock snorted.
‘Maybe it’s just a fishing expedition,’ she suggested, trying to soothe him. ‘If he was recruiting for the tea gardens, he’d be round the villages dishing out money and opium as if he owned the place.’
‘He’s trying to ruin me.’ Jock would not be mollified. ‘Old man Robson was the same — put me grandfather out of business. Never forgive ‘im. Now they’re in India — my India. They’re out to get me—’
‘Don’t upset yourself,’ Clarrie said, guiding him quickly into the chair. ‘Nobody’s going to put us out of business. Tea prices are bound to go up again soon.’
He sat watching her, hunched and gaunt-faced, while she blew gently on the dying embers of the fire and added sticks. As it came alive again with a crackle, the room filled with the sweet scent of sandalwood. She gave her father a cautious glance. His chin was slumped on his chest, his hooded eyes drowsy. His face was emaciated, the skin as creased as old leather and his head almost bald. But for his European clothes, he looked more like a Hindu ascetic than a soldier turned tea-planter.
She sat back on her haunches, feeding the fire. In her mind’s eye she could hear her mother’s silvery voice gently chiding her: ‘Don’t squat like a common villager — sit like a lady, Clarissa!’ It was sometimes hard to conjure up her mother’s face these days; her cautious smile and watchful brown eyes, her dark hair pulled into tight coils at the nape of her neck. There was a photograph on her father’s desk of them all taking afternoon tea on the veranda; baby Olive on her father’s knee and an impatient five-year-old Clarissa pulling away from her mother’s hand, her face blurred, bored with keeping still for the photographer. Yet her mother had remained composed, a slender, beautiful pre-Raphaelite figure with a wistful half-smile.
Ama, their old nurse, told her that she grew more like her mother the older she got. She had inherited Jane Cooper’s dark complexion and large brown eyes, while Olive had the pale red hair and fairer skin of the Belhavens. The two sisters looked nothing like each other, and only Clarrie’s appearance betrayed the Indian ancestry of their mixed-race mother. Sheltered from society as they were, growing up at Belgooree, she nevertheless knew that they were marked out in British circles as mildly shocking. Many men took Indian mistresses, but her father had broken ranks by marrying and settling down with one. Jane Cooper, daughter of a British clerk and an Assamese silk worker, had been abandoned at the Catholic orphanage and trained as a teacher at the mission school in Shillong.
As if that were not offence enough, Jock caused further embarrassment by expecting his daughters to be welcomed into Anglo-Indian society as if they were pure English roses. And to cap it all, this jumped-up soldier from the wilds of Northumberland thought he knew how to grow tea.
Oh, Clarrie had heard the hurtful comments at church and clubhouse, and felt the disapproval of the women from the cantonment in Shillong who stopped their conversations when she entered the shops of the bazaar. Olive hated these shopping trips, but Clarrie refused to let small-minded people upset her. She had more right to live here than any of them and she loved her home among the Assam hills with a passion.
Yet she shared her father’s worry over the estate. The terrible earthquake of seven years ago had ripped up acres of hillside and they had had to replant at great expense. The tea trees were only now reaching maturity, while the market for their delicate leaves appeared to have vanished like morning mist. The insatiable British palate now demanded the strong, robust teas of the hot, humid valleys of Upper Assam. She wished there was someone she could turn to for advice, for her father seemed intent on self-destruction.
Clarrie glanced at him. He had dozed off. She got up and fetched a blanket from the camp bed in the corner. Her father had slept in here for the past seven years, unable to enter the bedroom in which his beloved Jane had died. Clarrie tucked it around him. He stirred, his eyes flickering open. His look fixed on her and his jaw slackened.
‘Jane?’ he said groggily. ‘Where’ve you been, lass?’
Clarrie’s breath froze in her throat. He often mistook her for her mother in his drunkenness, but it shook her every time.
‘Go to sleep,’ she said softly.
‘The bairns.’ He frowned. ‘Are they in bed? Must say goodnight.’
As he struggled to sit up, she pushed him gently back. ‘They’re fine,’ she crooned. ‘They’re asleep — don’t wake them.’
He slumped under the blanket. ‘Good,’ he sighed.
She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. Her eyes smarted with tears. She might be only eighteen, but she felt weighed down with a world of responsibilities. How long could they go on like this? Not only was the tea garden failing, but the house needed repairs and Olive’s music teacher had just put up her fees. Clarrie swallowed down her panic. She would talk to her father when he was sober. Sooner or later he would have to face up to their problems.
Returning to the sitting room she found Olive crouched in a chair hugging her knees, rocking back and forth. Kamal stood by the carved table in the window guarding the silver teapot.
‘He’s sleeping,’ she told them. Olive. stopped her rocking. Kamal nodded in approval and poured Clarrie a cup of tea while she went to sit beside her sister. She put a han
d to Olive’s hair and stroked it away from her face. The girl flinched and pulled away, her body taut as piano wire. Clarrie could hear the tell-tale wheezing that preceded an attack of asthma.
‘It’s all right,’ Clarrie said reassuringly. ‘You can carry on playing now if you like.’
‘No I can’t,’ Olive panted. ‘I’m too upset. Why does he shout like that? And break things. He’s always breaking things.’
‘He doesn’t mean to.’
‘Why can’t you stop him? Why can’t you stop him drinking?’
Clarrie appealed silently to Kamal as he set her cup on the small inlaid table beside her.
‘I will clear it all up, Miss Olive. In the morning all will be better,’ he said.
‘It’ll never be better again! I want my mother!’ Olive wailed. She broke off in a fit of coughing, that strange panting cough that bedevilled her during the cold season as if she were trying to expel bad air. Clarrie held her, rubbing her back.
‘Where’s your ointment? Is it in the bedroom? I’ll fetch it. Kamal will boil up some water for a head-steam, won’t you, Kamal?’
They rushed around attending to Olive’s needs, until the girl had calmed down and her coughing had abated. Kamal brewed fresh tea infused with warming spices: cinnamon, cardamom, cloves and ginger. Clarrie breathed in the aroma as she sipped at the golden liquid, her frayed nerves calming with each mouthful. The colour, she noticed thankfully, was returning to Olive’s wan face too.
‘Where’s Ama?’ Clarrie asked, realising she had not seen the woman since lunchtime. She had been too busy in the tea garden supervising the weeding to notice.
Kamal gave a disapproving waggle of his head. ‘Swanning off down to village doing as she pleases.’
‘One of her sons is ill,’ Olive said.
‘Why didn’t she say anything to me?’ Clarrie wondered. ‘I hope it’s nothing serious.’
‘Never serious,’ Kamal declared, ‘always toothache or wind. But Ama flies off like mother hen.’ He made a squawking noise.
Clarrie snorted with laughter and Olive smiled. ‘Don’t mock,’ Clarrie said. ‘She fusses over you as much as any of us.’
THE TEA PLANTER'S DAUGHTER:A wonderfully moving story of courage and enduring love: First in the India Tea Series Page 1