Gwen frowned.
‘Never mind. You’re here now.’ Laurence put an arm round her and took out a clean handkerchief to rub the dirt from her cheeks. ‘You’ve missed lunch, of course, but you can thank Verity for seeing the dhobi in your place.’
Verity nodded and smiled. ‘No need for thanks. I’ll tell the appu to prepare some sandwiches for you, shall I? And I’ll find some lotion to soothe the ant bites.’
‘Thank you.’
While Verity turned and headed back into the house, Laurence took Gwen’s hand. ‘And then, darling, we need to prepare to go to the ball.’
‘Laurence,’ she said, squeezing his hand. ‘I’ve been wanting to say … about the other day.’
His face clouded. ‘I’m sorry I was rough.’
She stared at the ground for a moment. This was a conversation she wanted to have but not right now with his sister possibly in earshot. Maybe after the ball they would have a better chance to talk in private.
‘Let’s forget that, shall we, for now?’ she said. ‘But what I meant was that I wanted to explain why I went to the labour lines.’
He interrupted. ‘McGregor has already told me.’
‘You do know the man was hurt?’
‘You are kind, Gwen, and very caring, but he’s a known troublemaker. The belief is that he injured himself.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘To try to force our hand over sickness pay.’
‘Well, if people are injured, of course we must help them.’
‘Not if it’s self-inflicted.’
She thought for a moment. ‘I didn’t much like the way McGregor spoke to me.’
‘It’s just his manner. Nothing personal.’
Gwen sighed and, remembering McGregor’s steely eyes and thin lips, she wasn’t sure.
‘Just leave the plantation workforce to McGregor. He does resent his authority being challenged, I’m afraid, and especially by a woman. He’s a stalwart of the old-school type.’
‘There seem to be rather a lot of those around.’
He shrugged. ‘There’s so much still to do, but with the different factions at work in Ceylon, we can’t afford to alienate people by rushing through change. We need a consensus to make any sizeable difference to the country as a whole.’
‘And if there is no consensus?’
He looked very serious as he replied. ‘There has to be, Gwen.’
There was a pause.
‘You’re fond of McGregor?’
‘I suppose I am. I left him in charge during the war, with just two assistant managers. He couldn’t fight, you see.’
‘Oh?’
‘You might have noticed his slight limp. But he managed the thousand-strong labour force admirably, and I’d trust him with my life.’
‘I shall have to learn to like him.’
‘Strictly speaking, it’s more like fifteen hundred now that I’ve taken over another estate. There have been some teething problems with some of the coolie labourers who’ve been transferred. There’s a lot more going on than just the plucking of the leaves.’
‘Why is it always women who pick?’
‘Nimble fingers. We call it plucking.’
‘Verity said. And the men?’
‘There are plenty of jobs that need brawn. Digging, planting, fertilizing, drain clearing and, of course, pruning. We have gangs of pruners, and their children run along collecting the trimmings to take home for the fire. Just remember, while you acted out of pure decency, McGregor’s job is to ensure your safety.’
She nodded.
‘You might have noticed that the household staff think themselves a cut above the estate staff. We don’t want to upset them either. How are you getting on? Nobody causing too much trouble?’
She considered telling him about the accounts, but decided against it. The household was her responsibility and she would find a way to understand what was going wrong.
As he kissed her on the lips she caught the trace of soap and lemons again. ‘Now come on, my gorgeous wife,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it time we had some fun?’
The golf club’s Annual Ball was to be held at the Grand Hotel in Nuwara Eliya. Exactly like an Elizabethan manor house, it was surrounded by immaculate gardens with buffalo- and blue-grass lawns covered in daisies. Gwen had been looking forward to this for days. Now she’d have the chance to wear her new flapper dress in pink and silver, and she and Fran would finally dance the Charleston.
It was a three-hour drive to the town, embracing steep mountain roads, and Gwen felt slightly nauseous. But when they eventually arrived, she climbed out of the car and, in air smelling of mint, she soon revived. The town looked as if it could have been in Gloucestershire, with a clock spire, steps up to an imposing war memorial, and an English-looking church.
Earlier, as Gwen stepped out of the house, she had been surprised to see that Verity had installed herself in the front passenger seat next to Laurence. There was a flicker of annoyance on his face but he didn’t tell her to get out.
Verity had twisted round. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Gwen? I haven’t seen him for ages.’
Gwen’s vanity was a little injured – after all, the front seat should have been hers – but she understood that Verity and Laurence might want to catch up.
Laurence had already booked them all hotel rooms and when they reached the foyer she stood at the reception desk with him.
‘I’ve arranged for you and Fran to share a room,’ he said. ‘You’ll enjoy the time together.’
She looked at the people milling about and tried to swallow the words she wanted to say.
‘It’ll be like old times,’ he said, his tone a little defensive. Then he turned to talk to the clerk.
‘That’s not the point,’ she hissed. ‘For goodness’ sake, Laurence –’
‘Not now, Gwen, please. Here’s the key.’
She caught hold of his sleeve. ‘This isn’t settled!’
He didn’t reply. She bit her tongue, choking back the sudden burst of emotion, and, not wanting to be seen crying in a hotel foyer, started to turn away.
He reached out a hand. ‘I’m sorry, I know we need to talk. I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely –’
On the point of saying more, he took a sharp breath as Verity swept towards them. With a friendly look at Gwen, she wrapped herself round her brother and leant her head against his shoulder. He gave Gwen an apologetic look but, flushed with anger, she turned on her heels and went in search of Fran.
Their room was large and comfortable, with a sofa, two mosquito-netted beds, a wardrobe, two little bedside tables and a matching dressing table, where three pale orchids had been tastefully arranged. Fran peeled off her dress and the warm woollen wrap Gwen had lent her, and immediately slid under the crisp sheets of one of the beds. She held out her hand and a bracelet tinkled on her wrist. ‘Look, it’s a Buddhist temple. I bought it in one of those noisy bazaar streets in Colombo.’
Gwen examined the new charm on Fran’s bracelet.
‘So how are you enjoying married life?’ Fran said, with raised eyebrows and a wide grin.
‘It’s very nice.’
‘Nice? It should be a lot more thrilling than that.’
Gwen pretended ignorance and shrugged.
‘Come on, spill. You know what I’m talking about.’
Gwen’s face fell and she looked down.
Fran sat up immediately. ‘Oh, Gwennie, what is it?’
There was a short silence as Gwen fought the need to tell all while still remaining loyal to Laurence.
‘You’re scaring me. Has he hurt you?’ Fran held out a hand.
Gwen shook her head and looked up. ‘He didn’t mean to.’
‘You’re covered in scratches.’
‘The scratches were my own stupid fault.’
‘Good. Laurence seems far too nice for that.’
Gwen frowned. ‘He is nice.’
‘Then why are you looking so unhappy
?’ She paused. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? He actually is nice, far too nice. You’re not having any fun, are you?’
Gwen swallowed a lump in her throat and felt her neck grow hot. ‘We were. Then –’
‘Oh, that’s no good at all. What’s the point of being tied to one man if you aren’t having a whale of a time. Does he know what to do?’
‘He was married before. Of course he knows.’
Fran shook her head. ‘Doesn’t always follow. Some men just aren’t cut out for it.’
‘It was wonderful in England.’ Gwen felt the blush spread. ‘And in Colombo.’
‘There’s something troubling him then.’
‘Actually, I think there is something worrying him, but he won’t talk.’
‘Talk won’t do it. Let’s make you look so utterly irresistible, he won’t be able to keep his hands off you. That’s the way to a man’s heart!’
Gwen grinned. After Fran had gone back to London the last time, and before her marriage to Laurence, Gwen had tried to talk to her mother about intimate matters. The attempt had ended in hopeless stuttering. Her mother had probably never heard of orgasms, and the thought of her handlebar-moustached father enabling her mother to have one was enough to make a person cringe, or die laughing. Mother hadn’t even come out with the ‘men have needs’ guff they all used to laugh about at boarding school.
Fran interrupted her thoughts. ‘I forgot to tell you. I thought I might get a job when I go back home.’
‘You don’t need a job. You’ve got your rental properties.’
‘I don’t need one for the money, but I was getting bored with parties and champagne. You’ve always had your smelly old cheesemaking, so why shouldn’t I have something?’
The memory hit home. It hurt how much she missed her parents and the ramshackle old manor they lived in. After her mother had converted an old barn to take up cheesemaking, the whole place had become infused with the smell of it. She shook her head. She was here now, in the land of cinnamon and jasmine, and there was no point looking back.
‘Shall we get ready now?’ Fran said.
After they’d both bathed, Gwen put on a pearl-beaded hairband, and Fran helped her arrange her hair so that her dark ringlets fell loosely at the nape of her slim neck. Fran’s own chestnut hair, short and chic, swung about her head, shining beneath a red headband and matching feather.
Fran looked Gwen up and down.
‘Will I do?’
Fran grinned. ‘Let operation seduction begin!’
By eleven that night the ball was in full swing. The orchestra had taken a break and Gwen looked around the room at the people dotted about. Most of the women wore old-fashioned pastel dresses, barely showing an ankle, and even the young ones were dressed like their mothers.
Laurence, handsome in a white tuxedo, hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off Gwen, and they’d been enjoying a close waltz until his sister commandeered him. As Gwen stepped away he gave her a wry smile. Now, unable to spot Fran anywhere, she felt at a loose end. She was leaning against a column at the entrance, listening to the swell of voices and nodding at vaguely familiar faces, when a man spoke.
‘Mrs Hooper. How lovely.’
She spun round and there he was, looking splendid in a dark dinner suit, with a rather extraordinary embroidered waistcoat in shades of red and gold. His eyes lingered a little too long on her face. She remembered the glittering caramel eyes from the day they’d met, and now, as then, when he smiled they warmed, transforming the look of his face. She felt ruffled and searched for a word to describe the man. Exotic, she had thought before, but it was more than that. Disconcerting maybe? She tried for a smile but wasn’t quite able to, then, remembering her manners, she offered her hand and his lips brushed over the silk glove that extended as far as her bare underarm.
‘Mr Ravasinghe. How are you?’
‘You look very lovely tonight. Not dancing?’
‘Thank you, and no, not dancing at the moment.’ This time, flattered to have caught his attention, she managed a smile but then instantly felt self-conscious. ‘Laurence is over there with his sister.’
He nodded. ‘Ah yes. Verity Hooper.’
‘You know her?’
He inclined his head. ‘Our paths have crossed.’
‘I’ve only recently met her. She seems very fond of Laurence.’
‘Yes, I do recall that.’ He paused and smiled at her. ‘Would you care to dance, Mrs Hooper, when the orchestra return?’
‘Please do call me Gwen. But I’m not sure if I should.’ She glanced around and saw Fran coming back into the room from the opposite entrance, carrying something under her arm. Fran, as usual, looked suitably dramatic in her scarlet swing dress, with little red button shoes to match.
‘Oh, look. I must introduce you to my cousin, and best friend, Frances Myant.’
As Fran came up, Gwen saw the instant attraction between Savi Ravasinghe and her cousin. They stared at each for too long, and he seemed unable to speak. Fran glowed with health and glamour, and Gwen realized her cousin had never looked more beautiful, though more than anything it was Fran’s zest for life that made her stand out. Her confidence seemed to draw people to her, as if by being close some of her shine might rub off on them. Either that, or they were disapproving.
For a moment Gwen felt a twinge of envy. Although on the two occasions that they’d met, Savi Ravasinghe had clearly admired her, he had not looked at her like that. And the truth was that when he had looked at her, she’d been ashamed to feel her skin flushing. Now she just felt silly. He’d looked after her, as an older brother might, taking her under his wing, and even his offer to dance, just now, she judged must have been made out of kindness. She coughed to get their attention and was then able to introduce them.
‘Look, I’ve brought these,’ Fran said. She held out two recordings made by the new electric microphone process.
‘I’m going to ask that young fellow to play them.’ She pointed to a dinner-suited man who was in charge of a wind-up gramophone. ‘Do you Charleston, Mr Ravasinghe?’
He shook his head and feigned dismay.
She grinned and took his arm. ‘Well, never mind, I’ll teach you both.’
Over Fran’s shoulder, Gwen noticed that Laurence had been waylaid by Christina, the American widow. She was the sort of woman who drew a circle of men around her; the bias-cut, slinky black satin dress that clung in all the right places saw to that. Gwen looked at the wave at the front of Laurence’s hair, and wanted to march across and claim her husband. She raised a hand to signal, but then noticed that Laurence hadn’t even spotted her, his wife, and did not stop smiling at the woman. She suppressed the hot prickle of jealousy as she saw the woman reach up a hand and touch his cheek. When Laurence eventually glanced up and saw her looking, he nodded at Christina before making his way across.
‘Gwendolyn. There you are.’
‘What were you saying to that woman?’ She knew her voice sounded painfully petulant.
He pulled a face. ‘A bit of business.’
She narrowed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Laurence, I saw her touch your face.’
He laughed.
‘It isn’t funny –’
He wrapped an arm round her waist and, drawing her to him, he grinned. ‘I have eyes for only you. Anyway, she more or less owns a bank.’
He’d spoken as if that explained it. Then his face darkened and he grew serious.
‘More importantly, I saw you speaking to Ravasinghe. Look, have fun, dance the Charleston with Fran, do anything you want, but I’d rather you didn’t spend time with him.’
She unwrapped his arm. ‘Don’t you like him?’
‘It doesn’t matter whether I like him or not.’
‘Then what? Surely it’s not because he’s Sinhalese?’
‘I hope you don’t think me that shallow.’
‘I don’t, actually. But I do think Mr Ravasinghe is a charming man.’
Laurence sh
ot her a troubled look. ‘Charming? Is that what you think?’
‘Yes.’ She paused for a moment or two. ‘Do your Sinhalese acquaintances ever come to the house?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘Do we go to theirs?’
‘I know it must seem strange to you, but no, not even the relatively well-off ones like Ravasinghe.’ He shook his head and when he spoke again the tone of his voice had changed. ‘He’s painting Christina’s portrait, as it happens.’
‘He’s a painter? I didn’t realize. You sound as if you mind.’
‘Why should I mind?’ he said. ‘Now, there are some people I want to show you off to.’
‘Oh no. Fran is going to teach Savi and me how to dance the Charleston now.’ And, feeling annoyed with him, she turned her back and followed the other two to the gramophone.
After that, Laurence did not come near. While pretending to look the other way, Gwen watched him dance with Christina more than once. She was trying to be grown-up about it, but the sight of them together actually made her feel sick. The nerve of him, telling her who she should pass time with, when the woman was pressing herself against him and touching his face as if she owned him. After seeing that, and with a rising sense of devilment, Gwen drank several glasses of champagne straight off.
For about an hour, Fran, Savi Ravasinghe and Gwen practised the Charleston, to looks of barely disguised disapproval from some of the older onlookers, who were no doubt itching for the return of the orchestra and the chance to continue their waltzes and foxtrots. One or two younger ones had linked up, and for a while even Verity joined in, laughing so much that Gwen found herself really warming to her.
Afterwards, when Fran had disappeared off somewhere and Verity couldn’t be seen, Gwen wilted, her earlier bravado fading. She grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing waiter, left the ballroom and went out to the hall where she leant against the wall behind the stairwell, feeling tipsy, and wondered how to dig Laurence out from the American woman’s clutches.
When Savi Ravasinghe came across, her eyes were drooping.
‘You wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll find your husband.’
‘I feel faint. Please don’t leave me.’
‘Very well. Which is your room? I’ll help you up the stairs.’
The Tea Planter’s Wife Page 7