THE PLANTER'S BRIDE: A story of intrigue and passion: sequel to THE TEA PLANTER'S DAUGHTER (India Tea Series Book 2)

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘James Robson?’ Amy gasped.

  Sophie looked up quickly. ‘Is he the Robson who worked with my father in Assam?’

  ‘Aye he is.’ Her aunt was giving her an odd look.

  ‘And?’

  Amy hesitated. ‘He was the man who brought you back after your parents ...’ Her voice softened. ‘Don’t you remember him?’

  Sophie shrugged. ‘No, not really. I remember the big ship and feeling sea sick, but that’s all. Tell me about him.’

  But Amy said, ‘read on dearie, and see what Tilly has to say.’

  Sophie went back to the letter.

  ‘He called on Mama last week with letters from Johnny and photos of the wedding in Calcutta. My new sister-in-law Helena looks ever so pretty. Apparently the wedding dress was sent for from Paris. Mama put on a brave face but she’s still upset that they chose to rush into marriage instead of waiting till next year when she could come out. But Helena’s family are mostly in Calcutta and Delhi so it suited them – and between you, me and the gatepost – Mama would never survive a trip to India with her bad chest. So I can’t blame Johnny for wanting to get on with it.

  Mr Robson isn’t a bit like his cousin Wesley. Isn’t it funny how different members of the same family can be? He’s not as tall – more square like a prize-fighter – and he’s older – his hair has already gone grey, though his thick moustache is still brown. He’s what you would call weather-beaten and he couldn’t sit still for two minutes.

  I don’t think he’s used to female company as he really didn’t have much to say for himself, except when Mama got him on to talking about dogs and horses. He’s missing his animals on the tea estate, especially his favourite – a retriever called Rowan. He made a real fuss over our fat Flossy and she seemed to take to him too. Mama said it was a bit of a relief when he went, but out of politeness, she insisted on him coming to my twenty-first birthday party next Saturday.

  Come a day early if you can, so you can stop Mama and Mona fussing too much. You are so lucky not to have a bossy older sister – but Mona will be so much nicer to me if you are there! Auntie Amy is to come too of course. It won’t be grand, just a nice tea and a bit of dancing to keep you happy. I can’t wait to see you. Let us know on which train you plan to arrive.

  Your loving cousin and best friend,

  Silly Tilly.’

  Sophie looked up, her brown eyes shining with excitement. ‘Let’s go on the motorcycle – give The Memsahib a run out.’

  Amy rolled her eyes. ‘Lassie, I’m not sitting on that flapper seat for all the tea in India.’

  ‘I’ll get the garage to fix the sidecar back on again.’

  ‘You’ve never driven it that far before.’

  ‘Almost as far. We could stop off in the Borders for a night on the way. Miss Gorrie said I could take a few days off.’

  Sophie was eager for the trip away; she had done little for her own twenty-first birthday a month ago, just helped out at a fundraising hop for Miss Gorrie and had a cake baked by her aunt.

  Amy saw the determination in her niece’s face; it was useless to argue with her when she got an idea into her wilful pretty head.

  ‘So,’ said Sophie, pacing to the window, ‘we’ll get to meet this James Robson again.’ She was intrigued by the thought of meeting someone who had known her parents in India.

  ‘Aye, and you can thank him in person for his kindness to you,’ her aunt pointed out. ‘Even if you don’t remember it.’

  Sophie gazed down the street opposite to the yellow gorse and green slopes of Salisbury Crags. She never tired of the incongruous sight of the rocky outcrop so close to the heart of the soot-blackened city. She was seized with renewed impatience to be out in the countryside again. She would never really be a city girl, however long she lived here; not like Tilly who loved libraries, theatre trips, shopping or just sitting in a fuggy parlour endlessly reading. Dear Tilly.

  As Sophie folded the letter, she noticed a post scriptum scrawled on the back.

  ‘Johnny and Helena have invited me out to India. Mama thinks I should go. I think they are plotting to get me married off to someone suitable. What do you think I should do? You always come up with the right answer. We shall discuss it next week.’

  Sophie felt a pang of anxiety.

  ‘What’s wrong lassie?’ Amy asked. She passed her aunt the final page.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Amy said, understanding at once. ‘You’re worried Tilly will stay and not come back.’

  Sophie nodded, gulping down the panic inside. She relied so completely on Tilly’s friendship that she couldn’t imagine her not being close enough for them to meet up every few months as they had done since childhood. India was so very far away.

  ‘Don’t go worrying about something that might never happen,’ Amy advised. She knew that underneath the smiles and chatter, her niece still had a fear of losing people close to her. She had learnt when young that bad things did happen.

  ‘You’re right Auntie,’ Sophie said, putting on a brave face and dismissing the thought.

  Chapter 2

  Sophie rode out of Edinburgh on a blustery June day with a roar of engine and belch of blue exhaust smoke, her Auntie Amy snug under a rug and tarpaulin in the open sidecar and their luggage secured in its trunk. Sophie, in jodhpurs, cast off army jacket, goggles and fair ponytail lifting, gripped the juddering handlebars as The Memsahib rose and dipped along the route to Dalkeith and the south.

  She had learnt to drive at seventeen in the last year of the War when she had worked at the Red Cross depot. Soon tiring of counting supplies, she had volunteered to deliver clothes and linen to the various hospitals and convalescent homes, always finding time to chat to the invalids. One amputee, a major with the Scottish Horse, had been so grateful for her cheerful banter and broad smile that he had given her his old Enfield motorcycle. Sophie, who loved things mechanical, had learnt to grapple with its eccentricities, change a tyre (punctures were frequent), thin the oil and clean the plugs. Sophie Logan and her noisy motorcycle were a common sight in south Edinburgh and on the steep winding roads of the nearby Pentland Hills. Her aunt loved to be taken on picnics into the countryside or down the coast, usually returning with the sidecar crammed with driftwood or fallen branches for her to fashion into cigarette boxes or spurtles for stirring porridge.

  They stopped in Lauder for lunch and Jedburgh for afternoon tea.

  ‘Let’s press on Auntie Amy,’ urged Sophie, the cramp in her arms from holding the heavy bike on the twisting roads having eased. ‘The rain’s holding off and it’s still hours till nightfall.’

  Soon they were out of the town and heading through dense woods. An open lorry full of men overtook them with a boisterous hooting. Some of the men waved and whistled through their fingers but Sophie could only imagine the ribald comments they would be making at a woman driver. She glanced sideways to see her aunt returning a regal wave which caused much amusement among the grinning workmen as the lorry sped away in a cloud of acrid smoke that set the women coughing.

  Shortly afterwards, they were leaving the lush farmland and grinding upwards into bleak moorland whose monotony was only broken by swaying plantations of young conifers. The higher they climbed, the more the wind strengthened until it was hard to keep the bike steady. At the steepest incline, the sky abruptly darkened and rain came on, sudden and heavy.

  Sophie stopped to struggle into waterproofs.

  ‘Shall we go back to Jedburgh?’ Amy shouted from under a black sou’wester.

  ‘No, it’s too far,’ Sophie called through the rain, ‘and we’re nearly at Carter Bar. We’ll get over the top and stop at Otterburn if we have to.’ Silently, she was still determined to get to Newcastle that day and surprise Tilly who wasn’t expecting them until tomorrow.

  The Memsahib wouldn’t start. The engine coughed and died. Sophie tried again and a third time. From the smell of oil she knew she’d flooded it. Why had she stopped? She was already soaked before putting on
waterproofs, and the delay had only given further discomfort to her aunt.

  ‘I need to change the oil,’ she explained. Amy, stoic but grim-faced, began to climb from the sidecar. ‘No, please Auntie, don’t get out.’

  Pushing her goggles onto her head, Sophie peered through the horizontal rain; the road ahead disappeared into mist. It was miles back downhill since they had passed the last isolated farm but she could smell wood smoke on the wind, so there must be some habitation close by. If she couldn’t get it started, they would have to beg for shelter.

  With numb fingers she began to fumble with the tool box where a can of spare oil was kept. Her oilskin cape billowed up and flew in her face, the wind blowing her sideways.

  Amy watched with concern and lost patience. ‘This is ridiculous – you’ll catch your death. We need to find a bothy. There’ll be one in the woods for the shepherds.’

  ‘Just give me a minute,’ Sophie protested.

  ‘Come on lassie,’ Amy said, just as stubborn, ‘leave the wretched beast – at least till the rain eases off.’

  On the point of giving up, there was a sudden rumbling noise and a truck rattled out of the mist. It trundled past the waving women, slowed, stopped and reversed towards them. A lean young man jumped down from the cabin.

  ‘Hello ladies, can we help? Me and Boz wondered where you’d got to,’ he grinned, pushing a slick of wet hair out of his eyes. ‘Run out of petrol have you? We’ve got spare.’

  ‘No,’ Sophie felt foolish. ‘I just need to change the oil.’

  ‘Looks like you need a change of clothes too.’

  She blushed at his assessing look. He was scruffily dressed but his Scots accent was educated. ‘It’s nothing I can’t manage.’

  ‘Let us help,’ he insisted. ‘Your poor mother is getting drenched.’ ‘Thank you, young man,’ Amy called, already out of the sidecar and accepting his offer with alacrity.

  He went straight across to help her, taking her by the elbow and steering her towards the truck. ‘Jump aboard and we’ll take you back to the camp to dry off.’

  A tall, red-headed man with large ears, loped around the back of the vehicle.

  ‘Boz, get their luggage,’ the driver ordered as he lifted a dripping Amy to safety. He turned back to Sophie. ‘In you get, quick as you can.’

  Soon, both women were perched up high, squeezed in between the two men.

  ‘I’m Tam Telfer,’ the driver introduced himself as he turned the lorry around, ‘and this is William Boswell but everyone calls him Boz.’

  The red-haired friend smiled bashfully and nodded in agreement.

  Amy introduced them in return. ‘How fortunate that you came along when you did; an answer to prayer.’

  ‘That’s not how we’re usually described,’ Tam laughed. ‘But to tell you the truth, we’ve been keeping an eye out for you coming over the top. When the rain came on hard, Boz and I thought we should go looking for the damsels in distress.’

  Amy glanced at Sophie and raised an eyebrow. ‘How very observant.’

  ‘How did you know we were heading for Carter Bar?’ Sophie was curious.

  Tam turned and winked. ‘You were packed for a journey and this road only goes to England.’

  Boz spoke up, his accent thicker. ‘We’ve been watching the bike frae the plantation. Tam was takin’ bets as to whether you’d make it up the brae.’

  ‘Was he now?’ Sophie felt annoyance.

  But Amy laughed. ‘You’re foresters then?’

  ‘Student foresters,’ Tam said, ‘at Edinburgh University. The reason we’re so long in the tooth is we had an extended holiday in Flanders courtesy of the Kaiser, before starting our degree.’

  ‘Good for you laddies,’ Amy nodded with approval.

  ‘Was it you who overtook us south of Jedburgh?’ Sophie asked, remembering the lorry of laughing men.

  ‘Yes,’ Tam admitted, his look amused as he steered the truck between a break in the trees and pulled up outside a long low hut.

  ‘So how much did you win in your bet that I wouldn’t make it to the top?’ Sophie challenged.

  Tam pulled on the brake and cut the engine. He fixed her with an amused look in his bright blue eyes. ‘I lost two bob,’ he replied. ‘I was the only man bet you would get to the top before it rained.’

  A huge beam spread across Sophie’s bedraggled yet still pretty face.

  ***

  The men gave up one of their bunkrooms for the women, brought in hot water in a zinc tub and left them to change.

  ‘Sorry Auntie,’ Sophie apologised, brushing out her wet hair and pulling on a Fair Isle jumper. ‘I shouldn’t have insisted on leaving Jedburgh. Looks like we’re here for the night.’

  ‘This is no hardship,’ Amy said brightly, ‘and maybe they can be a new source of cheap timber.’ She winked.

  In the spartan communal mess room they sat around a scrubbed table with a dozen students and ate ham and egg pie, peas, kale and steamed potatoes.

  ‘The lecturers don’t stay here,’ Tam explained, ‘they prefer a comfy billet in Jedburgh or drive out from Edinburgh for the day – make sure we haven’t thinned the wrong trees or raided over the border.’

  He was delighted to find Amy’s interest in trees and they talked animatedly about different types of wood, their grains and suitability for furniture. Sophie observed him. There was an energy about him and a sense of fun that immediately appealed. Despite a beaky nose, he was handsome with a strong jaw, sharp blue eyes and a lean athletic build. She noticed a scar on the back of his head where the hair had not grown back and wondered how he had got it.

  ‘And do you share your aunt’s passion for wood, Miss Logan?’ he was quick to include her.

  ‘I’m in awe at what she does with it,’ Sophie smiled, ‘but I prefer my trees alive. I love nothing better than to walk through wild forests.’

  Tam’s look was quizzical. ‘You can’t get much opportunity to do that around Edinburgh?’

  ‘No but The Memsahib allows me to reach the Border forests or get up to Perthshire.’

  For a moment Tam was lost for words.

  ‘She means her motorcycle,’ Amy chuckled.

  ‘Ah! Why memsahib?’

  ‘I grew up in India till I was six,’ Sophie explained. ‘It’s a bit tongue in cheek I suppose – my motorcycle is the boss not me, I’m afraid.’

  Tam laughed. ‘How interesting. Some of us boys are training for the Indian Forest Service – me and Boz – and Rafi over there.’ He thumbed down the table at a dark-haired Indian who nodded and gave an attractive smile. Sophie noticed how at ease he seemed among them, yet there was something unsettling about him. Maybe it was just the mention of India again so soon after Tilly’s letter.

  ‘You’re going to work in India?’ Sophie’s interest quickened.

  Tam nodded. ‘Just another month of practical, then exams in early September and we’re off.’

  Boz interjected. ‘Not forgetting a month in France and Switzerland in August learning from their foresters.’

  ‘Switzerland?’ Sophie cried. ‘Lucky you!’

  ‘You know it?’ Tam asked.

  ‘Auntie Amy took me and a cousin there before the War. I fell in love with it.’

  ‘They say the foothills of the Himalayas look like Switzerland.’ Tam called down the table to the Indian. ‘Isn’t that right Rafi?’

  Rafi shrugged and laughed. ‘I wouldn’t know Telfer – you can’t see them from downtown Lahore.’ His voice betrayed little of an Indian accent.

  ‘You’re such a city boy,’ Tam teased. ‘Don’t know how you’re going to cope in the jungle.’

  ‘Just like you Telfer – by getting the natives to do all the hard work.’

  Tam barked with laughter. ‘Don’t be fooled by Rafi’s sahib act,’ he winked at Sophie. ‘Five years in the army and three as a student have turned him into a terrible radical. Surname should be Lenin not Khan.’

  They took mugs of tea and sat around a
fire that filled the room with aromatic wood smoke. Tam brought out cards and the women joined in a game of Rummy. Boz struck up on a guitar and they joined in popular war songs and Scottish ballads.

  ‘Sophie can play,’ Amy told them.

  ‘I haven’t for ages, Auntie.’

  ‘Go on,’ Tam encouraged. ‘We’ve had Boz singing out of tune all week – please take it off him.’

  Sophie strummed and sang The Skye Boat Song. Then Amy requested some North Country songs that her Watson cousins had taught her. The students clapped and sang along; Tam told her she had a voice as sweet as honey. She knew he was the type who flirted with women but she was enjoying the attention. What harm would it do for one evening? She would probably never see him again.

  They retired to bed with the rain still drumming on the corrugated iron roof, Tam and Boz promising to rescue her bike in the morning.

  Sometime in the early hours the rain stopped and the silence woke Sophie. She lay and dozed but Amy’s snores prevented her from falling back asleep. Pulling on clothes she padded barefoot into the mess. Her boots were still damp but she put them on and went outside.

  The sun was watery and yellow, rising over the treetops, the air fresh and smelling of pine and damp earth. Sophie closed her eyes and breathed it in.

  ‘Best part of the day, isn’t it?’

  Startled, she spun round. Tam was standing in shirt and khaki trousers, hair still ruffled from sleep, smiling at her. Her stomach lurched.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, pushing loose unbrushed hair behind her ears, self-conscious at her dishevelled state. ‘I didn’t think anyone would be up. I thought I’d walk – couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Can I come with you?’ he asked. ‘Or do we need a chaperone?’

  ‘My chaperone is sound asleep.’

  ‘Shall we risk it?’

  Sophie nodded. ‘I’ll behave myself if you will.’

  Tam grinned in delight at her teasing.

  For a while they walked in silence, Tam leading her along a track through the woods, then he stopped to point out trees they had marked and fence posts they had cut and hammered into the ground.

  ‘Tough work,’ he said, ‘but none of us are shy of getting our hands dirty. It’s what the army taught us – don’t ask a man to do a job you’re not prepared to do yourself.’