The Tea Gardens

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The Tea Gardens Page 35

by Fiona McIntosh


  I sat up and buried my face in a hot flannel, remembering our lovemaking – that’s all we’d ever have, one morning of tenderness, but one that would surely haunt me. Be jolly, be grateful you’ve had these special moments that no other woman in the world has enjoyed with this man. ‘And then set them aside,’ I added. I could admire the memory from time to time but it must always be held as a secret, private pleasure . . . never to be aired, never to be rekindled. Each of us surely has one secret love in our lives . . .

  By the time I was patting myself dry I felt strong again. Maybe

  Epsom salts do have magical therapeutic powers, I thought, with a hint of irony. I was surprised to find a new garment had been left for me in the wardrobe. Perhaps they’d left it during the day, thinking I’d need something for the evening. Once again, it was a throwback to the previous decade, but it was nonetheless exquisite. I didn’t hesitate to pull it on and immediately adored the slightly drop-waisted line that accentuated the hip. My new hollow shape and flatter breasts suited this jazz-age frock that combined a sheer, powder grey-blue chiffon over what I suppose could only be described as a ‘shrimp pink’ crepe shift. Opaque matching pink beaded embroidery added dazzle and some superb grey-blue satin embroidered flowers intermingled with dazzling effect. The broad neckline was softly embroidered too and a glowing shrimp-coloured silk satin bow tied off at the hip, with its tail dropping almost to the length of the narrow gown.

  It felt suddenly symbolic. I was instantly as much in love with the dress as the man I was wearing it for, but I now had every intention of taking off that dress and leaving it behind as I left him behind. My skin was bronzed slightly from the sun it had caught on the trek up the hill and I needed little more than a light sweep of soft peach lipstick. I don’t think I’d ever looked better but I needed to feel stronger than any previous time because I knew it would require all my resolve to walk away from Saxon Vickery in the morning.

  I’d roasted a chicken, serving it with a few root vegetables that I’d thrown into the dish alongside. Simple, healthy fare for Saxon. The bird had been resting since I climbed into the bath and everything was browned to perfection. We’d eat when we felt inclined – no rush – and I could hear the clink of glasses and smiled, walking through to the front of the house, where I noted Saxon had been busy. He’d turned off all lights and instead lit candles around the porch to give this special last night a twinkling quality. He was making up a gin cocktail of sorts but his sharp hearing made him swing around at my soft footfall on the chequered grey-green tiles of his family’s verandah.

  He gasped at the sight of me. ‘You look ravishing.’

  ‘Then ravish me,’ I quipped, glad I’d found the right mood to help us enjoy this last night.

  I watched his expression crease into that wicked smile I loved, which felt like the sun had just emerged from behind clouds. He looked quite the rake in a white tuxedo and black trousers, although he clearly couldn’t be bothered to tie up the bow tie so he had still managed to make himself appear raffishly handsome with his shirt open at the collar.

  ‘Whomever this dress belongs to, she has delicious taste,’ I mentioned, spinning for him and feeling the chiffon, light as a breath, lift on that soft twirl.

  He returned to pouring our drinks. ‘My mother’s, I suppose, although I never saw her wear it. She was an elegant woman with fine taste.’

  ‘She hadn’t worn it. The Parisian shop tag was pinned to the sash.’ I showed him where I’d concealed it.

  ‘Oh, unpin that!’

  I shook my head and laughed. ‘I don’t mind – it’s not mine, after all. Besides, it can wait here for your next affair.’

  He gave me a slit-eyed warning but I sensed he took my jest in the bright way it was delivered. Saxon handed me a glass with curled bright-green lime peel twisting within. ‘You should know before you sip that I make the perfect gimlet, Dr Fenwick.’

  I thanked him with a wry smile, took the glass and clinked it against his. ‘To tea,’ I offered.

  He tapped his glass once again against mine. ‘And when we drink it, we shall always think of each other.’

  I leaned in and kissed him softly before I sipped, wanting him to know my humour was restored and that I would not let him down by being maudlin. ‘I can never drink a cup of tea again without thinking about all the effort, science and indeed the mystique behind it . . . and you leaping over tea bushes.’

  I could smell the zesty spritz of lime ahead of the fume of alcohol. Its bright, sharp tang cheered me further. The bitterness of gin and the sparkle of the soda seemed to refresh my spirits. ‘Mmm, delicious, Saxon, thank you.’

  ‘No, thank you, Isla. For your generosity as much as your calm. We’ve probably only had the sum total of a week in each other’s presence since you came to India and I have to say, not a moment of it has been dull. And I do find almost every woman I meet a bit . . . well, arid . . . ’ He shrugged.

  ‘Jove said something similar.’ I told him Jove’s views and why he’d taken so long to agree to marriage.

  ‘The more I hear of him, the more I like him,’ Saxon said. ‘To you and Jove. I hope you find abundant happiness together and I suspect you will because you aren’t boring and he sounds witty and wise.’

  ‘He is. Thank you. And you must promise me to stay well but also to go home and make time for Frances. I know what it is to love someone desperately and for them to not understand how it aches to not have a response.’

  He looked at me with a perplexed expression. ‘Tell me more.’

  I did. I told him everything I could remember about my childhood crush on Jove. I found it excellent therapy to remind myself of how crazily in love I’d been with him as a youngster. Saxon had cut to the heart of it – how distance had made it too easy to overlook how I’d felt when we’d been reunited as adults; how he made me laugh with such abandon on the day he proposed; how firm he could be . . . how kind and generous he was.

  ‘Isla. You speak with such fondness. You know you’ve made a brilliant decision to marry him.’

  I nodded and it felt more right than it had ever felt before.

  ‘Would you be offended if we didn’t sleep together tonight?’ I couldn’t believe I was asking this. ‘I think the weaning from you needs to begin, especially now that I’ve got Jove so strongly in mind.’

  Saxon pulled me close and kissed the top of my head in answer. We said nothing for a moment as we contemplated the starvation of not being able to enjoy the night as fully as we’d intended.

  ‘Again, right decision. But I promised you dancing, did I not? I think that’s permitted.’

  ‘It is,’ I said, relieved and brightened. I watched him move to the gramophone and blow on the needle before he let it drop to crackle and grate softly before Rudy Vallée’s memorable song of the previous decade rang out across the verandah. The lyrics spoke of romance being a game of chance. He’d chosen well.

  ‘Shall we?’ Saxon asked, his good hand outstretched.

  I took another sip of my gimlet, put down the chilled glass and made a jest of twirling into his arms. At first we danced politely, not speaking, but the way he held my gaze spoke plenty and I was sure I was communicating similar regret and longing. By the time the first chorus had come along, though, we were holding each other close, my head leaning on his shoulder. I didn’t feel forlorn, I just wanted to remind myself, in readiness for leaving, as to how it felt to hold Saxon Vickery so completely: the broad, hard sweep of his body, the soft curls of golden hair that flicked carelessly at his neck, the smell of his lavender-scented Potter & Moore shaving soap I’d seen in his bathroom and whose fragrance clung so faintly to his freshly shaved jaw. But especially I cherished laying a soft, fleeting kiss against his bared neck and felt my lips kissed back by a strong, healthy pulse.

  This was our silent goodbye: our bodies farewelling one another as Vallée also wound up his song of tender surrender, moonlight and love. We’d stopped dancing halfway through the song and
had simply let our melded bodies sway to the music. Now, with the tune finished, we continued to sway to the scratching sound of the needle, neither, it seemed, wanting to let go because we both sensed this was the last time we’d touch intimately.

  26

  Of all the voices to pierce our affectionate bubble, I would never have imagined it to be the one I heard. The tone of that familiar brogue made the sense of butterflies in my heart turn to wasps. What on earth was Miles Baird doing here?

  ‘Well, now, isn’t this just so romantic?’

  Saxon and I let go of each other as though we’d both been stung. Neither of us said anything, perhaps waiting for the other to make the first sound, but even Saxon had no cutting remark. Instead, he let go of me and walked slowly across to the gramophone and gently lifted the arm so the needle would stop bumping on its uneven, scratching revolutions. He threw me a tender glance of apology.

  Our night was instantly in tatters; there really was nothing to say, so Miles filled the heavy, expectant silence.

  ‘Should I apologise for interrupting this sweet, intimate scene?’

  Still we gave him no response.

  ‘Nothing to say?’ he wondered gleefully, and in a show of poor manners reached for the gimlet at the occasional table and drank from Saxon’s glass. ‘Oh, I say. That’s seriously good, Vickery. You always could make a damn fine gimlet.’

  ‘Cut the Hooray Henry accent, Baird, and revert to your uncouth Aberdeen upbringing, why don’t you? Everyone knows you fake it because you’re such a desperate social climber.’

  I expected Miles to bristle or quake. He laughed instead.

  ‘And what were you hoping to climb aboard this evening, Vickery?’

  ‘You really are repulsive, Miles,’ I joined in, turning away.

  ‘Be very careful,’ Saxon warned. ‘If you insult Isla again, there’ll be no time for apology.’

  ‘And risk those surgeon’s hands?’ He feigned sympathy. ‘Oh, pity about the burn.’

  Saxon returned an unblinking, glacial stare. ‘Risk your clumsy ones, more like. What the hell do you want, anyway? Why are you even here? How did you find us?’

  ‘All will be revealed,’ he said in a mocking tone. Oh, he was surely enjoying himself and our shock. ‘I’m actually on an errand of mercy,’ Miles said, glee in his voice. ‘Quite a job getting here, though, isn’t it? I’m surprised you didn’t see the torches of the coolies who got me here, or perhaps you were too lost in your embrace to even notice the light or smoke?’

  Saxon had told me the locals deliberately burned off forest at night; perhaps he had seen the flames and thought nothing more of them. It didn’t seem worth enquiring about. I for one had not been looking out of windows this evening but I wasn’t going to fuel his pleasure by asking questions or even answering them if I could help it.

  ‘Anyway, you’re looking surprisingly well, Vickery,’ he continued. ‘I had been told by Matron that you were knocking at death’s door but I can see Dr Fenwick’s special sort of ministrations have coaxed you into almost shining health – you certainly look happy with yourself.’

  I saw Saxon’s fist form; Miles was flirting with the notion of a physical fight. I didn’t think Saxon would give him another warning.

  Nor was he as prepared as I was to wait for Miles to explain.

  ‘Why are you here, Baird? I can’t imagine you came all this way from Calcutta to look in on my recuperation.’

  ‘You’re right, I didn’t. Mmm, that roast smells good. I don’t suppose —’

  ‘No!’ we both said together and I didn’t feel a moment’s remorse at being so harsh.

  ‘Well, I’ll need a bed, old chap,’ he snivelled with an open-palmed look of appeal, and then he dug a deeper hole. ‘Perhaps I can sleep in yours, as I suspect you’ve got a far warmer cot to tuck yourself into tonight.’

  Saxon moved but I was ready for the explosion and grabbed him equally quickly. The wrench on my arm tore the small cap sleeve of his mother’s exquisite dress. We all heard the horrible ripping sound and fortunately it halted Saxon from launching himself fully at Miles, who’d predictably leapt back fearfully. I didn’t think it was achievable to think less of him, but I did in that moment of cowardice.

  Saxon unclenched his fists and ran a hand through still-damp hair, which he’d combed for my benefit into a slicked-back style that only enhanced his looks.

  ‘Miles,’ I said, finally feeling obliged to take charge, ‘you are unwelcome here. The last time we spoke I thought I’d made my position extremely clear. I don’t know why you’re here but whatever message you have presumably brought, deliver it and then you can sleep on the day bed over there —’

  ‘He can sleep in the sheds!’ Saxon growled.

  I threw Saxon a look of censure. ‘You can leave in the morning the same way you came. You said you had coolies carry you down?’

  Miles grinned back lazily. ‘I did, at great expense,’ he jested. ‘And I suspect you might want to leave with me, Isla,’ he said, unable to hide the mischief in the Scottish accent.

  ‘I’ll leave here when I’m ready and certainly not alongside you.’

  ‘Really?’ he mocked. ‘One last night of rutting, eh, before you head home with that butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-your-mouth smile for your husband?’

  ‘I don’t have a husband, Miles.’ I held up my hand, pointing to my ring finger. ‘And I don’t wear an engagement ring, either.’

  ‘Well, now you don’t have a father any more,’ he sniped.

  Silence claimed us as though a huge switch that controlled all the creatures of the land – including the chatting crickets – was thrown and we all fell dumb.

  My lips tingled with the fear that raced through me, like a thousand watts of electricity had just arced into my body. ‘What does that mean?’ My voice sounded as though it was coming from the other side of the room.

  ‘What does it sound like to you? Your father’s dead, Isla. Heart attack, apparently. It’s why I’m here at your filthy place of orgy with a married man – shame on you, Vickery. Your poor wife must never know, eh?’ He carried on as though we were making small talk at a party. ‘Your good fortune is that I just happened to be in Darjeeling, visiting my fiancée and her friends, when the news came through to the telegraph station from Matron. Naturally, they found me as I am personally known to you as a colleague.’ He sounded bored explaining to us. ‘I offered to bring it down on the grounds that I could soften the blow . . . something like that, anyway.’ He smiled and I saw that the vulpine ears I’d once mentally accused him of possessing suited him perfectly. A crafty fox lived within Miles Baird.

  Saxon moved to me. ‘You bastard, Miles.’

  I was still staring at him with my numb lips and perhaps a slack-jawed look of disbelief, trying to discern the meaning of what he’d just said. My father was dead from a heart attack . . . That was the phrasing and yet the words were like pebbles falling on flagstones, harsh and bouncing away. I tried to grab at them, make sense of them, but it wasn’t until I felt familiar arms around me that I collapsed into full understanding.

  ‘Isla, I’m so sorry,’ Saxon murmured, holding me tight, and all but carried me to a seat.

  ‘Listen, you two, I’ve got —’

  ‘Shut up, Miles!’ Saxon snapped.

  ‘Well, there’s gratitude for you,’ he said, flicking the envelope towards us, which presumably the telegraph office had given him. Saxon picked it up and gave it to me. I read it through a film of tears that rapidly dispersed in two silent streams. He was still talking through my horror. ‘I’m the one who took my life in my hands to come here in the dark and . . . ’

  I set Saxon’s reassuring hands aside, pushing the telegram into them, and while Miles bleated I stood and took a deep breath. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I thought I might just swing the punch that Saxon longed to deliver but instead I walked right up to Miles, who maybe thought I was about to fall into his arms for solace – or perhaps hug him
– but he stopped talking and looked at me with wonder that I’d disentangled myself from Saxon and appeared to be choosing him. What he didn’t factor in was the fluid grab of my barely touched gimlet and with dead-eyed accuracy I hurled the contents of my glass into Miles’s face. It hit him in the left cheek, stinging his eye and splashing all over him. ‘You’ve used my father as your excuse to come here and gloat at my expense, and into my grief, you perfectly revolting toad of a man. You will not sleep at this house. You will have no food, no drink or hospitality from me and I know Saxon couldn’t care less if you fell off the edge of the world. Walk off into the dark. There’s a shed over there. And there’s a lamp by the step that will light your path. I will not accompany you anywhere, ever. Remember me telling you to go to hell? I haven’t changed that attitude. I hope I never have to look upon you again.’ I had to stop talking because the emotion was too powerful; it was rage and despair, it was fear, anger and loathing, all of it wrapped into a huge dark ball of pain sitting in my belly, and it had begun to unwind to start tying my insides into knots.

  But Saxon was there behind me and he held me, keeping me strong and upright. ‘You heard her, Miles. Do the world a favour and scuttle off and, I don’t know, die somewhere, won’t you.’

  ‘You deserve each other,’ Miles snarled. ‘And you deserve the pain of knowing that while you were fu—’

  This time nothing was going to stop Saxon, although much later I would recall his restraint – no doubt for my benefit again. With his punching arm injured, he instead shoved Miles, who sprawled across the verandah, taking chairs with him as he fell. ‘Get out! You’re lucky I don’t throw you off the whole property. Don’t let me so much as glimpse your ugly head tomorrow or I really will make good on the threat.’ He loomed over the fallen doctor.

 

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