THE TEA PLANTER'S DAUGHTER:A wonderfully moving story of courage and enduring love: First in the India Tea Series

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Thank you, Cousin Jared, that would be grand,’ Clarrie said, climbing down. She gave Barny a final pat.

  Jared hesitated. ‘I know you haven’t seen eye to eye with my Lily, but you will still order her pies, won’t you?’

  Clarrie quelled the resentment she felt inside; she knew how much they relied on that source of income. ‘Yes,’ she assured him. ‘She makes good pies.’

  Jared looked relieved.

  Clarrie added, ‘But you might want to keep an eye on what she keeps in her pickle jars.’

  He coloured. ‘Oh, the pickle jars.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I know all about them.’

  Clarrie felt suddenly sorry for him. He had to deal with Lily’s moods and sharp tongue every day of the year. ‘We’ll see you at church on Sunday,’ she said, smiling. ‘Thanks for the lift.’

  ‘Ta-ra then, lasses. I’ll miss you round the place.’

  Clarrie gave him a look of surprise. ‘Goodbye, Cousin Jared.’

  Dolly showed them up to the servants’ quarters on the third floor. The room was plain but clean, with a washstand, a wardrobe and an iron-framed bed made up with fresh sheets. Light flooded in through a dormer window that gave a view high over the city’s rooftops.

  ‘Yours is next door,’ Dolly told Olive, ‘and mine’s the room after that.’

  ‘We have our own rooms?’ Clarrie gasped.

  ‘We’ve never had that,’ Olive said, looking anxiously at her sister.

  Dolly laughed at their astonished faces. ‘Aye, it’s grand, isn’t it? I have to share with two sisters and a brother when I gan home. Can’t wait to get back here after me day off.’

  ‘What’s it like working for the Stocks?’ Olive asked.

  ‘They’re canny enough, the master and mistress,’ said Dolly. ‘Mind you, she’s a proper worry — hardly eats and she’s weak as a mouse. I have to help wash her ‘cos she cannot get into the bath any longer. But you’ll be doing that now. Master wants to see you in his study at ten — give you your orders. Mind you,’ Dolly raised her eyebrows, ‘it’s more likely Mr Bertie will tell you what’s what. He likes the sound of his own voice, that one. You would think it was him owned the place, not his da. Still, if you do what he says there shouldn’t be any bother.’

  Clarrie nodded, and Dolly turned to Olive.

  ‘You stick with me and I’ll show you what to do. There’s a uniform in the wardrobe next door — though you look a bit skinny for it. The Stocks like their servants to be smartly dressed.’

  Olive gave Clarrie a worried look. ‘Am I not to go with Clarrie to see Mr Stock?’

  Dolly looked shocked. ‘No, the housemaid only gans on the first floor when the master and Mr Bertie are out at the office — except if the mistress needs you. You’re not to be seen — ’specially if they’ve got clients with them. Mr Bertie’s very particular about that. But don’t worry; the bells ring down in the kitchen if the mistress or Miss Clarrie need anything. Haway, then, Olive; let’s get started.’

  Olive gave Clarrie a look of panic tinged with resentment as she followed the chattering Dolly out of the room. Well, what did she expect? They were going to be treated like servants wherever they went and this house seemed better than most. Clarrie let out a nervous breath and made herself ready for her appointment with Herbert Stock.

  ‘Do you have any questions, Miss Belhaven?’ Herbert asked, standing in the window leaning on his stick. Bertie was lounging in an armchair watching her with undisguised contempt.

  Clarrie’s head reeled from all the information she had just been given about keys, supplies, ordering, mealtimes and menus. Olive would help Dolly in the kitchen and with general cleaning, while a woman called Marjorie came in twice a week to do the washing and ironing, and old Timothy gardened for the whole of the square and came in for his meals on a Tuesday.

  As she searched for something to say, Bertie drawled, ‘You do know about English food, I take it? It’s just with you being Indian …’

  Clarrie was needled by his condescending manner. ‘My father was Northumbrian,’ she reminded him, ‘and I can recognise an English dish when I see one. I can cook most things.’

  ‘You’ll address me as sir,’ Bertie reprimanded her, ‘and my father too. I shall simply call you Belhaven.’

  Clarrie flushed. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Herbert, looking uncomfortable, cleared his throat. ‘Bertie, I thought you had a client to see at ten fifteen?’

  ‘I cancelled the appointment so I could help with Belhaven.’ He smiled thinly.

  ‘Well, I think one of us should be at the office.’ Herbert waved at him to go. ‘I’ll follow you over in twenty minutes.’

  Reluctantly, Bertie stood up and stalked from the room.

  Turning to Clarrie, Herbert explained. ‘We’ve taken a small office on Westgate Road, so it’s very convenient. Bertie’s idea. He thinks it’s more professional than having clients come to the house. I still like to entertain some of my commercial clients here, though — give them luncheon. Mrs Stock likes to arrange these things.’ He stopped, his face tightening. ‘She did like to,’ he corrected. ‘I suppose it depends on whether you can manage … ?’

  ‘If that’s what you want,’ Clarrie said eagerly, ‘then of course that’s what I’ll do.’

  ‘Thank you, Clar— er, Miss Belhaven. What shall I call you?’ He gave her a bashful look.

  ‘Most people just call me Clarrie. I’m happy with that.’

  ‘Clarrie it is then.’ Herbert smiled and unclenched his hands. ‘Don’t mind Bertie. He can be a bit particular about social conventions but he means well.’

  Clarrie nodded, wondering how someone so pompous and full of himself could be son to Herbert, who appeared to have no airs or graces whatsoever.

  ‘And what duties will I do for Mrs Stock?’ she asked. ‘Personally, I mean.’

  ‘I’d like you to spend as much of your spare time with her as possible,’ Herbert said. ‘She’s cut herself off from all social contact. Doctor says she’s melancholic. Perhaps having a young woman for company might help and I know that she likes you.’ His look was pleading. ‘Do anything you can to raise her spirits, Clarrie.’

  ‘I’ll look in on her now, if I may?’ Clarrie suggested. ‘Just to say good morning.’

  Herbert nodded, a look of relief lighting his face.

  Clarrie found Louisa sleepy and uncommunicative, but returned later in the day with Olive and a tray of tea and pulled back one of the curtains.

  ‘Daffodils are really coming on now we’ve had a bit of spring sun,’ she said cheerily, ‘and the blossom’s started. Just look at it, Mrs Stock.’ She poured out tea into a thin china cup. The last time she had done that had been at Belgooree. Her hand shook as she placed it on the bedside table.

  ‘This is my sister, Olive,’ she said. ‘Can we help you sit up?’

  Louisa nodded, squinting in the bright afternoon light. Gently, the two sisters pulled her up against a pile of pillows.

  ‘The musical one?’ Louisa croaked. ‘You play the violin.’

  Olive nodded.

  ‘Would you like Olive to play for you sometime?’ Clarrie asked.

  Louisa put her head back wearily and whispered, ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Olive blurted out, ‘Mrs Belhaven went and sold my violin without me knowing.’

  Louisa’s face clouded. ‘Why?’

  ‘For spite,’ Olive said.

  ‘Poor girl.’

  Clarrie said quickly, ‘Mrs Belhaven didn’t understand what it meant to my sister. She needed the money. But we’ll get it back.’

  ‘Yes,’ Louisa whispered, ‘you must do that.’

  Clarrie helped her take sips of tea until Louisa lost interest and sent the sisters away.

  ‘Why were you sticking up for Gin-Lily?’ Olive accused her as they hurried back downstairs.

  ‘There’s nothing to be gained by heaping our problems on to others,’ Clarrie replied, ‘especially a woman as ill as Mrs Stoc
k.’

  ‘She brought the subject up,’ Olive pointed out. ‘I thought I was going to give lessons to Will?’

  ‘Just give it time,’ Clarrie said. ‘We need to gain their trust first — ‘specially Mr Bertie.’

  Olive pouted. ‘I’m just a skivvy again like I was for the Belhavens. Nothing’s changed.’

  Clarrie rounded on her. ‘Of course it’s changed! You’ve got your own room, you can eat as much as you like and you don’t have to go into that terrible pub every day not knowing if you’re going to have to break up a drunken fight. And you haven’t got Gin-Lily bullying you from morning to night!’

  ‘Dolly’s been bossing me about all day,’ Olive said, close to tears.

  Clarrie took her hands in hers. ‘Listen, Olive, the day Father died our old life died with him. We have to look after ourselves now — no one else is going to do it for us — and that means we have to take what we’re offered and work hard. You should be thankful to be a servant for a good family like the Stocks — there are scores of lasses out there who would give their right arm to be in your shoes, just remember that.’

  She saw Olive blink back tears and knew how much more traumatic the upheaval of the past year had been for her delicate and sensitive sister. She squeezed Olive’s hands.

  ‘Things are going to get better from now on,’ she said encouragingly. ‘You just do your job and I’ll deal with Dolly.’

  ***

  The first month at Summerhill flew by. Clarrie worked as hard as ever, getting to grips with running the household, supervising the cooking, laying on luncheons for Herbert and his clients and helping with Louisa’s daily care. She went to bed after midnight and was up again at four to draw up lists of duties for the day and do her paperwork in the quiet of the housekeeper’s tiny sitting room off the kitchen.

  She dealt with the tradesmen who came and questioned them about the neighbouring households and their staff. She made it her business to call on the other housekeepers around the square and introduce herself, asking their advice on suppliers and offering her help should they need it.

  ‘We women can help each other out,’ Clarrie said. ‘You’re welcome to call for a cup of tea on your half-day.’

  Most were twice her age and rather taken aback by her forwardness.

  ‘We tend to keep to ourselves,’ one told her. ‘The master and mistress like their privacy.’

  But others were more welcoming, wanting news of Mrs Stock and glad of a friendly face. At the corner house belonging to a builders’ merchant, Clarrie found a young widow called Rachel Garven who had only been in the job six months.

  ‘It can be a lonely life,’ Rachel confided. ‘I’m from Cumberland and hardly know a soul in Newcastle. Any time off, I like to take the tram into town and just have a wander round the shops — be amongst people.’

  Clarrie nodded in agreement. She knew about isolation at Belgooree when all the decisions had rested on her young shoulders and she saw it happening here; women weighed down with domestic burdens with nowhere to congregate and share their troubles.

  ‘Perhaps we could go into town together one afternoon?’ Clarrie offered. ‘I’ve been here nine months and I’ve not been past Westgate Road.’

  Rachel’s eyes widened. ‘I’d be happy to show you. I get Wednesday afternoons off and Sunday mornings.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can arrange.’

  In the household, she divided duties between Dolly and Olive to minimise the friction between them. Dolly, being competent in the kitchen, was given most of the cooking to do, while Olive helped nurse Louisa and served at table after her morning chores. Clarrie helped out in all areas of the household, never asking the others to do something she was not prepared to do herself. As she had hoped, Olive’s carping at having to get up early to lay fires and do endless polishing began to subside the more she grew to know Louisa. It was Olive, while helping wash her mistress and change the bed linen, who remarked on her collection of Thomas Hardy and George Eliot novels.

  ‘My favourite’s Mill on the Floss,’ Olive enthused. ‘Father had a copy, but I read it so much it fell to bits.’

  This sparked off the longest conversation Clarrie had ever heard Louisa have. From then on, Olive read to Louisa for half an hour every afternoon. Herbert was so delighted at this sign of his wife’s taking an interest in something that he allowed Olive to borrow other books from his library for her own pleasure.

  Distressingly, no one had been able to trace Jock’s violin. Lexy had sent a message shortly after the sisters had left Cherry Terrace to say she and Ina had scoured all the neighbourhood pawnshops but Lily had not handed in a violin to any of them. But when Herbert got to hear of the violin’s disappearance, he went out and bought Olive a new one.

  ‘Now you can teach Will a tune or two, eh?’ he said gruffly, embarrassed by Olive’s tearful thanks.

  So each evening, after supper, Will was to be heard in the old nursery on the second floor, scraping away on the new instrument, showing such promise that his father very soon bought him one of his own. Clarrie was amazed at Olive’s patience with the boy, but she saw how playing again was reviving her sister’s battered spirits. By summer, Olive was referring to herself as a lady’s maid and music teacher when speaking to the other servants in the square.

  She turned sixteen and began to blossom like a jungle flower after rain, her figure filling out and her face losing its pinched anxious look. Her reddish hair grew in thicker and more lustrous and when she smiled her pale brown eyes shone, making her whole face pretty.

  Will, when he was not at school or practising his fiddle, followed Clarrie around like a faithful hound, chattering away and badgering her to play backgammon or cards. On wet days, he would take refuge from his critical brother or distracted father in Clarrie’s sitting room and she would often find him curled up with a book on the lumpy sofa.

  ‘Mama doesn’t want to chat today,’ he would tell her sadly, or, more mischievously, ‘If Bertie comes looking for me I’m going to hide in the pantry.’

  On the occasions Bertie found him down in the housekeeper’s sitting room he would drag him out and reprimand Clarrie. He criticised her at every opportunity. Bertie had never revised his opinion that the Belhaven sisters were unsuitable and unqualified, and watched their growing popularity with his parents and brother with resentment. Clarrie observed that whenever Bertie returned from staying with the Landsdownes or Verity called at Summerhill, his hostility towards her increased.

  Verity herself treated Clarrie as if she were invisible. She neither acknowledged her nor responded to any of Clarrie’s friendly comments about the weather or enquiries as to how her journey had been. Once, when Clarrie was arranging a vase of flowers in the drawing room, Verity called in with a friend after shopping. Olive took their armful of parcels while Verity swept uninvited into the drawing-room.

  ‘You!’ She pointed at Clarrie. ‘Bring us tea right away. We’re utterly exhausted.’

  Clarrie bit back a retort that no lady should be so rude to a servant and replied, ‘Certainly, Miss Landsdowne.’

  ‘Leave those flowers, Belhaven,’ Verity commanded. ‘You’re doing it all wrong.’ She flapped a glove at her.

  As Clarrie crossed the room, Verity began rearranging the display.

  ‘Can’t expect a coolie to know how to do it,’ she said to her friend.

  Clarrie ground her teeth to stop herself answering back and hurried out.

  When the school holidays came in August and Will had endless time on his hands, Clarrie found it impossible to keep the boy away from the kitchen quarters, even though she knew it would provoke censure.

  One day, an infuriated Bertie rounded on Clarrie. ‘You know he’s not allowed down there, so stop encouraging him,’ he barked. ‘He’ll never grow up to be a gentleman if he carries on mixing with the servants.’ He gave her a particularly withering look. He was always rude to her out of his father’s hearing, but on this occasion he seemed unusually ma
ddened by her.

  ‘My father may think it commendable that you’re trying to ape your betters, but you’re in danger of forgetting your position,’ he went on. ‘I don’t know what society’s coming to; maids teaching violin and borrowing books, and housekeepers making social calls on the neighbours as if you’re gentry! I blame all this nonsense on those unseemly women demanding votes and jobs as if they were men.’ He wagged a plump finger at her. ‘Well, don’t think you can start any of that subversive behaviour in this household. We all know our place here — and you and that chambermaid sister of yours belong below stairs. Do you understand?’

  Clarrie understood only too clearly. A couple of days later she was instructed that Verity Landsdowne and her parents were coming for dinner. It was a special visit and nothing was to go wrong. Herbert told her that the Landsdownes were shipping merchants, although Mr Landsdowne had handed over the day-to-day running of their business to Verity’s brother Clive.

  ‘Landsdowne likes to spend as much time as possible at his country lodge, Rokeham Towers, shooting and fishing. No doubt his daughter’s had to drag him back to town now the shooting season’s under way.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure Miss Landsdowne’s quite capable,’ Clarrie murmured.

  Herbert shot her a look. ‘Capable of what? Dragging him back?’

  Clarrie gave an innocent smile. ‘Just capable.’

  He gave her a bemused smile. ‘Quite so. You’ll discuss the menu with Mrs Stock.’

  ‘Does she wish to join the dinner party?’ Clarrie asked in astonishment.

  ‘I don’t suppose so.’ Herbert sighed. ‘But I want her to be a part of it. This is a significant occasion; something that will lift her spirits.’

  ‘An engagement?’ Clarrie blurted out.

  Herbert gave her a look of consternation. ‘I’ve said too much. Not for me to—’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ Clarrie smiled. ‘I won’t say a word.’

  As she discussed the arrangements with a lacklustre Louisa, Clarrie could not help wondering how an engagement and marriage might alter things at Summerhill. Would Verity come to live with them, or would Bertie live elsewhere? Would Herbert take a lead from Mr Landsdowne and hand over more of his business to his son? If it gave him more time with Louisa and Will then perhaps he should. But Clarrie had seen enough of Herbert’s dedication to his clients to know that his work was a vocation. He put in long hours and everyone Clarrie met remarked upon his reputation for reliability and trustworthiness. His work was his life.