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

  And Tilly would be going to live in India, the place of Sophie’s birth and first six years of life, the place where her parents had lived, died and were buried. She felt a strange envy that it was to Assam that her cousin was going, and yet also relief that it wasn’t her. Deep down, Sophie still feared the place – feared India and Indians – though she knew it was irrational. But India had taken her parents away – a quick cruel overnight fever – and her beloved Ayah Mimi had vanished too.

  What had happened to her nurse? Perhaps she had merely gone off to another job. Sophie had never asked and no one had thought to tell her. But she had been left with a huge pain inside and a feeling of being deserted.

  Leaving Dunbar a couple of days later and promising Tilly to return for the early July wedding in Newcastle, Sophie relished the ride up the Berwickshire coast, buffeted by a salty wind and clearing her head of troublesome thoughts. She sang songs at the flapping seagulls and her aunt shouted out the choruses above the noise of the engine.

  Sophie went straight back to work the following day and Miss Gorrie kept her busy with paperwork and answering the telephone. Sophie decided that they needed extra storage and spent a happy day sawing planks, hammering nails and erecting shelves in the office. More than anything, she relished doing practical, physical jobs and Amy had taught her to be a competent joiner.

  Each evening on returning home, she would call to her aunt, ‘any post for me?’

  ‘No dearie,’ Amy would say. ‘But you can’t expect Tilly to be writing long letters when she has a wedding to arrange.’

  But it wasn’t from Tilly that Sophie wanted to hear; she still hoped that the handsome friendly forestry student, Tam, might get in touch. He had asked for her address and she had encouraged him but he had neither written nor called. Perhaps they were still away at camp or maybe he had already left for his month of forestry practice on the Continent? She tried to recall when that was to be.

  After three weeks of hearing nothing, she decided that Tam had forgotten about her or had lost her address. Either way, she hadn’t caught his interest in the way he had caught hers. Better to forget about him. She booked train tickets for Amy and herself to attend Tilly’s wedding, travelling down and returning the same day. By all accounts, the Watsons’ house was half-packed up and Sophie could not bear the thought of staying there with Tilly gone.

  Walking home across the Meadows to Clerk Street the evening before the wedding, Sophie saw a group of young men playing cricket, probably students enjoying post-exam freedom. She lingered in the pleasant sunshine, in no hurry to go back to the flat.

  She became aware of one of the men staring at her as he fielded close by. He looked foreign; handsome in a swarthy way with thick black hair. He smiled and gave a half wave but she had no idea who he was so didn’t wave back. He must have mistaken her for someone else. Uncertainty crossed his face and he turned away. A moment later, the ball came hurtling in his direction, speeding along the ground. He dived to stop it, picked it up and threw it back with powerful shoulders, preventing the batsmen from taking a second run.

  The over finished and the fielders changed positions. Sophie was about to move on when a tall, red-haired man sauntering towards her called out. ‘Hello there! Miss Logan, isn’t it?’

  She recognised his sticky-out ears at once. William Boswell, Tam’s friend.

  ‘Boz!’ she grinned. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Very well. And you?’

  ‘Fine thanks. I’m just on my way home from the office.’

  Boz gave an appreciative glance at her smart skirt and blouse.

  ‘Not on The Memsahib today?’

  ‘No, she’s just for days off. In fact she’s in the garage having her starter pedal soldered back on.’ Sophie smiled and rolled her eyes. ‘Probably won’t be able to afford her for much longer.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad to see you got safely back from Newcastle.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Sophie hesitated then asked, ‘is Tam playing too?’

  ‘No, Tam’s a rower and tennis player.’

  ‘Oh, I love tennis.’

  ‘Come on Boz!’ his bowler called over. ‘This isn’t a tea dance.’

  Boz went scarlet. ‘Got to go, sorry.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry for getting you into trouble,’ Sophie said, aware of being stared at by the athletic fielder. She remembered him now; the Indian from the forestry camp. Somebody Khan.

  ‘It’s nice to see you again.’ Boz gave a bashful smile. He turned away, then called over his shoulder. ‘Would you like a game of tennis sometime?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Sophie smiled.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘Not tomorrow, but I’m free on Saturday. Auntie Amy would love to play too. Can we make up a foursome?’

  He hesitated for a fraction. ‘Of course, that would be grand! I’ll call and collect you. Clerk Street, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, number seventy-one. How did you ...?’

  ‘Tam mentioned it,’ Boz grinned. ‘I’ll book a court for two o’clock.’

  They waved goodbye and Sophie carried on, feeling ridiculously light-headed that she had stumbled upon Tam’s good friend so unexpectedly. She felt sure it would be Tam who would make up the foursome.

  It was only as she arrived home and raced up the stone stairs to give Amy the news, that she wondered why Tam had never called. He had remembered where she lived and talked about her to his close friend. But then he had obviously forgotten the number; Boz had only known the name of her street. Saturday couldn’t come soon enough.

  ***

  The day of Tilly’s wedding broke grey and drizzly, but the gloomy weather couldn’t dampen her excitement. Jacobina had arrived the night before from Inverness, filling the house with good-humoured chatter, and a telegram from Johnny expressing his pleasure and good wishes had been better than any present.

  Sophie and Amy came on an early train, in time for a late breakfast and to help her dress and make ready.

  ‘Mona allowed me to have her wedding gown altered,’ Tilly explained, ‘wasn’t that kind of her?’

  Sophie eyed the elaborate long dress with its flouncy lace collar and full skirts. It was a style that had been popular before the war and its gathered-in waist and puffed sleeves showed off Tilly’s curvy figure far better than the modern straight dresses.

  ‘Very kind of Mona,’ Sophie approved, ‘and it suits you perfectly.’

  Sophie as bridesmaid was dressed modestly in a plain blue dress of crêpe de chine, long crème gloves that had belonged to her mother and a new straw cloche hat anchored onto her fly-away fair hair with a large steel hatpin. She was in charge of Tilly’s long lace train.

  ‘Mona is convinced I’m going to trip over it and break my ankle,’ grimaced Tilly, ‘or worse still, tear the blessed thing.’

  ‘You won’t,’ Sophie assured. ‘But if you do, you have that manly James Robson to catch you!’

  Tilly snorted with laughter. She had recounted her awkward conversation with James several times to her cousin and now Sophie delighted in teasing her about having called the tea planter large and manly.

  At the moment of leaving the house for the Presbyterian kirk in Newcastle’s west end, Sophie felt a lump form in her throat.

  ‘Tilly, you look beautiful.’ Tears brimmed in her eyes. ‘I’m so happy for you.’

  Tilly smiled back, radiant. ‘Thank you. I can’t tell you how much it means to have you with me.’

  ‘This is going to be a great day, Tilly Watson – soon to be Robson.’ Sophie grinned and kissed her on the cheek.

  Tilly’s insides curdled with nervousness at the thought. She had very little idea what to expect beyond the ceremony and tea party, which Clarrie had insisted on having at Herbert’s Tea Rooms as a gift from her. This time, Tilly had declared it would be a very small affair with just close family and this appeared to suit James too.

  ‘I don’t like fuss,’ he had agreed, ‘and most of the Robsons are i
n their graves or scattered abroad.’

  He had only invited an elderly aunt and some distant cousins called Landsdowne. The Landsdownes had declined and the elderly aunt had said she would come to the service but that the tea party would be too much for her liverish constitution. For best man, James had rustled up a retired planter called Fairfax living in Tynemouth who had befriended him when he’d first gone out to India in the 1890s and had taught him how to play polo and track tigers.

  James had booked them into a hotel somewhere on the coast for two days and then he would have to leave for Liverpool and his passage back to India. Tilly didn’t know if she was more frightened at the thought of being alone with the formidable tea planter for two whole days or of being separated from her new husband for several months until she joined him in December. He had organised for her to be chaperoned on the voyage out by another tea planter’s wife, Muriel Percy-Barratt, who would be on leave in Yorkshire till the autumn, settling her youngest boy into boarding school.

  ‘Tilly, are you ready?’ Walter, her portly brother-in-law asked, offering her his arm. In the absence of any Watson men, Walter had agreed to give her away in marriage. He was a genial quiet man and Tilly thought him a saint for enduring Mona’s bossiness. But she missed her dear father and brother Johnny, and she was suddenly overcome by their absence.

  ‘Here, take this,’ Sophie murmured and thrust a handkerchief into her hand. From the look of compassion on her cousin’s face, Tilly knew she understood. She blew her nose into the scented handkerchief, dabbed her eyes and handed it back.

  Sophie winked and pulled Tilly’s veil into place. ‘Anchors away,’ she whispered.

  Clutching onto Walter’s arm and heading down the aisle of the plain lofty church, Tilly was astonished to see James standing smartly in a morning coat and striped trousers. It was the first time she had seen him wearing clothes that weren’t crumpled or a little stained. His ruddy neck still strained against his collar but his dimpled chin was well-shaved, his moustache trimmed and hair cropped short, making him look younger.

  He gave her an anxious smile as if he had doubted she would turn up and she knew in that moment that they were both equally nervous and keen to make a go of it.

  She trembled as they made their vows and her hand shook as James thrust the gleaming wedding band onto her finger, so that he had to clutch at her fingers to keep them still. Tilly tried not to wince at his strong grip. Then organ music erupted around them and the small group of wedding guests began a lusty hymn singing. When the moment came to head off down the aisle on the arm of her new husband, Tilly caught sight of her mother’s grey face beaming and tearful, and a sob caught in her own throat. Even Mona was sniffing and smiling encouragement. Glancing behind, Sophie was arranging the long trail of lace, her face pink with emotion. They exchanged loving smiles. Tilly felt suddenly blessed to be surrounded by people who loved her just the way she was.

  ‘Come on my dear,’ James’s voice boomed over the music. He jammed her arm possessively in his and marched her out of the church.

  Clarrie laid on a delicious tea at Herbert’s, screening off an area of the tearoom to give them privacy and laying on a fiddle player to entertain.

  ‘We can push back the tables if you’d like a dance or two,’ Clarrie offered.

  ‘I’m no dancer,’ James said stiffly, his neck turning red. Tilly already knew this was a sign of his embarrassment.

  ‘Me neither,’ she said hastily, ‘but thank you Clarrie – we’re just enjoying hearing the music.’

  Although the tea plates groaned with sweet fancies that Tilly would normally have wolfed down, her stomach was so knotted that she could hardly eat. Sitting in her finery, she drank two cups of tea, terrified at spilling a drop on Mona’s precious gown, and forced down a finger of wedding cake which only made the aching worse.

  Her sisters were talking loudly and laughing at things Amy and Sophie were saying; even her mother had colour in her cheeks and was in deep conversation with the elderly tea planter, Fairfax. Clarrie was trying to make small talk with James who wouldn’t sit down, but he seemed ill at ease and lost for words. He kept taking out his pocket watch and checking the time, frowning and throwing her glowering looks. It made Tilly all the more nervous; was he bored or already regretting their momentous step?

  Clarrie gave up on talking to James and came to her side, James following.

  ‘I’ve been telling your husband that he must bring you across to visit us at Belgooree, once you are settled at Cheviot Cottage.’

  ‘Thank you, I’d love that.’ Tilly gave a grateful smile. ‘Isn’t that kind?’ She looked at James but couldn’t yet bring herself to use his first name.

  ‘It’s a long way between the Oxford gardens and the Khassia Hills – two days’ travel,’ James muttered.

  ‘A day and a half,’ Clarrie countered. ‘So when you come you must stay. Adela would be that pleased to see you too. But we can talk about that more before you leave for India.’

  ‘Well, Mrs Robson,’ James growled, ‘it’s time we left.’

  Tilly looked at Clarrie in confusion. Clarrie glanced between them and laughed.

  ‘I think he’s talking to you, Tilly, not me!’

  Tilly went crimson. ‘Of course, silly me. I’m not used to the name yet.’

  ‘You will be soon,’ Clarrie smiled. ‘And Wesley and I are so happy to have you in the family.’

  James ignored this remark and pulled Tilly to her feet. ‘I’ve ordered a cab to take us and Fairfax to Tynemouth.’

  Tilly thought him rude for their hasty goodbyes and abrupt departure, but she knew he was awkward at social gatherings and had hardly had time to get to know her family well. She kissed and hugged them all.

  ‘You’ll be seeing them again in a couple of days,’ James said, not hiding his impatience.

  Sophie helped keep her flounces of lace out of the puddles as she stepped into the waiting taxi, while Walter held an umbrella against the worsening rain.

  ‘Come to Edinburgh as soon as you can,’ Sophie insisted. ‘I want to see as much of you as possible before you go abroad.’

  ‘I will,’ Tilly promised and waved through the rain-spattered window at her loved ones huddled in the tearoom entrance.

  All the way to the coast, James chattered to Fairfax about the tea trade and Assam. The old man pulled on his bushy tobacco-stained moustache and chortled as they reminisced. It was the happiest Tilly had seen James all day and when they got to their hotel, he invited his old colleague in for a chota peg.

  ‘Three large whiskies with soda,’ he ordered, before their bags had even been taken to their room. He sank into a comfortable chintz armchair. ‘God, I’m in need of a drink.’

  ‘Me too, old boy,’ Fairfax agreed. He looked at Tilly warily. She stood in her wedding dress feeling foolish. ‘I’ve never drunk whisky before.’

  ‘Would you like us to order you tea instead?’ asked Fairfax.

  ‘No,’ James said, ‘Mrs Robson looks more in need of a chota peg than we do. Come on, Mrs R, sit down and put your feet up. A whisky is just the thing to steady a bride’s nerves.’

  Tilly gave a nervous laugh and sat down. When the drink came, she took a sip and grimaced at the sour taste. Her father had taken a ‘wee dram’ as he had called it, only on special occasions like seeing in the New Year. She couldn’t imagine how anyone found the taste enjoyable, yet James and his bachelor friend had nearly finished theirs and were ordering another. She persevered and found she quite liked the way the bubbles from the soda tingled around her tongue before she swallowed, and the warmth that spread inside. She relaxed and became giggly at their reminiscences about tiger hunts and elephants running amok in the gardens. After an hour of drinking chota pegs, Tilly realised her stomach pains had disappeared.

  They ordered a supper of smoked fish and poached eggs with a bottle of red wine; Fairfax needed no persuasion to join them. By the time they had finished, Tilly had developed hiccups and she f
ound it hard to walk without tripping over her dress. She giggled to think how disapproving her mother and sister would be.

  ‘You go upstairs Mrs R,’ James ordered, ‘and settle yourself in while I escort my friend home.’

  With difficulty Tilly climbed the stairs and only found their room with the help of a chambermaid.

  ‘W-ill you h-help me out of my dress?’ she hiccuped.

  The girl laughed and stayed to help.

  The next thing Tilly knew, she was lying on the double bed in her underclothes, head spinning round like a carousel. The girl had gone, the room was half dark and she knew she was about to be sick. She had no idea where the bathroom was and anyway there wasn’t time. She tumbled off the bed and scrambled underneath for a chamber pot, pulling it out just in time. Tilly heaved and spewed into the pot, splashing her face and hair in sick.

  She had never felt so ill. When the last retching was over, she sat back in relief. Her stomach felt sore and hollow at the same time. Her hair stank. She felt disgusted with herself. What would James think of her? Where was James? By the fading light it must be late evening; she had lost all sense of time.

  Too embarrassed to creep along the corridor in search of a water closet in which to flush away the potful of vomit, Tilly carried it to the far corner and covered it with a towel. Perhaps James might not notice. She felt too ill to care. Using water from the china jug on the washstand, Tilly tried her best to wash her face and hair. Then she sprayed on scent from a little bottle given her by Sophie, hoping it would mask the smell. The flowery scent reminded her of her cousin and Tilly was suddenly tearful.

  James came crashing in at the door half an hour later, to find his new bride shivering in a chair, half-undressed, reeking of perfume and crying her eyes out.

  ‘Whatever’s wrong?’ he slurred, lurching towards her and getting tangled in wedding lace that trailed on the floor. He pitched towards her and grabbed her shoulders to steady himself. She flinched at his touch.