The Tea Gardens

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘You’ll pay for that, Vickery,’ Miles simpered.

  ‘Really? I can’t wait.’

  We watched Miles get to his knees, then his feet; he angrily grabbed the lantern and the box of matches and walked off into the dark to light it somewhere else – we didn’t care where. I didn’t give him another thought but I began to tremble. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Adri has already made arrangements for you to leave at first light. Here, let me pour you a stiff drink. You need a brandy.’ I waited until he brought it to me. I sipped it in silence and Saxon made sure I drank it all. ‘Was your father ill?’

  I nodded. ‘Heart problems. I think we both knew it could happen at any time.’

  ‘Massive heart attack is written in the telegram. That means he wouldn’t have known, and you could have been anywhere when it happened . . . on your honeymoon, shopping in London, or even just in the garden – you still couldn’t have helped him.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Then perhaps there’s something to be said for your last memory being of your father looking well, looking proud, smiling, waving to you.’

  Did he always have to say the right things? He was more like Jove than he could ever know.

  ‘As it is, it says that he died in his sleep so he didn’t suffer and you haven’t suffered finding him, or the despair of trying to revive him and failing. No one will ever take that far happier memory from you and it’s a good one to lock away.’

  I nodded but I’d never felt further from home than I did in that moment. It was cunning timing for this news. Maybe it was my father’s final way of ensuring I kept faith with my promise to return and marry the man he approved of. ‘I want to be on the first available train to Bombay.’

  ‘Ghum first and then down to Siliguri. Let me see that telegram again.’ He reached for it and read it once more silently. I looked away, never wanting to read those harsh black letters that formed horrible words of pain again. ‘Jove says he’s booked your passage home from Bombay. You’ve got three days to get there – more than enough time.’

  _________

  I heard Saxon ringing the bell on the verandah as I served two small plates of food. We ate, standing up with only forks, waiting for the sighting of Adri. I didn’t taste a morsel but I knew if I didn’t go through the motions of eating, Saxon wouldn’t either and I couldn’t bear to worry about him relapsing.

  ‘There he is.’ Saxon pointed and I saw the first glimmer of a torch, swinging its way through the black of the forest around us. ‘I’ll go meet him and let him know we’ll need him to fetch you in a few hours with men and a palanquin,’ he said and handed me his unfinished plate of food. He looked at me sadly and touched my cheek. ‘Everything about us is unfinished, isn’t it?’

  I held back tears for our sorrows – it felt inappropriate to have selfish needs in the midst of grieving for my father. ‘I’ll go pack.’

  We went our separate ways. I deliberately forced my mind blank so that I wouldn’t have to think on my father; I wanted to be alone when I did so, and it was a blessing because it meant I thought about nothing. I didn’t switch on a light, but instead moved like a marionette around my darkened room, as though someone else was working the strings and I simply obeyed. There wasn’t much to do – I was already in neat shape with all my clothes freshly laundered and easily thrown into the holdall again. I slipped out of my beautiful frock, wincing again at the tear in the sleeve that the moonlight highlighted. The ripped seam appeared to sum up my life just now as I split company with important parts of my life.

  Saxon and I were over.

  My father’s life was over.

  India was over.

  Go home, Isla, I whispered. And make it work.

  I hung the beautiful gown back in the sweet-smelling wardrobe and closed the door in a final, deliberate gesture.

  _________

  I think there was so much sadness suddenly walking with me that I disappeared within, gathering up my pain and neatly tucking it away. I had a long trip ahead; I had to be composed and Jove was at the end of it. I could give away nothing of my all-too-brief affair with Saxon.

  I now had a few weeks of journeying across continents and oceans again to also put Saxon away, deep and secret, where Jove’s sharply attuned perceptions couldn’t reach. Perhaps I could box him up into that part of me where Jove had lived all these years and essentially been forgotten about until that day last year when my father had spoken his name again. Could I forget Saxon? No, but I had to distance myself – not just physically – if I was not going to let him impact on Jove’s and my future.

  All the candles had been extinguished by the time I arrived on the verandah again. It was as dark as a coffin out there. No moonlight either but I sensed Kangchenjunga watching us. Saxon melted out of the shadows.

  ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I don’t really know. Numb.’

  ‘Adri will return at dawn as promised. Everything’s in place and we can leave as soon as we can see our feet in front of us.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I hesitated but then said it. ‘Saxon, I don’t want you to come.’

  There was a weighty pause. ‘I won’t ask why. But if you change your mind, for any reason, I would prefer to see you onto the train myself.’

  I leaned back against him, closing my eyes at the reassuring feel of his body. ‘I know, but I’d rather leave you here . . . where you belong, where I’ll always think of you, laughing and happy. Will you return to Calcutta?’

  I felt him nod. ‘Of course. I’ll likely see out the year back in Calcutta. I have research to finish at the hospital and then back to England I must go. I promised Frances.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you’d be gone that soon. I didn’t even ask.’

  ‘Do you wish to be alone?’

  ‘No. That’s the last thing I want. I’d like to sit in your arms and watch the sunrise together.’

  He gathered up blankets and we moved to the furthest part of the verandah. A large, worn sofa slumped in this corner and had obviously been used for watching the dawn by various Vickerys. It creaked a sigh of surprise, as though delighted to have one of its own back in its embrace, and I snuggled down, allowing Saxon to wrap me protectively in his arms and beneath the blanket. Safe and quiet we remained. There was nothing more to say, although our silent touch said enough. I may have dozed and if I did, or he did, I wasn’t aware of it. I knew only peace in this cool elevation of the tea gardens, where I’d learned the buds grow slower than other regions, allowing their flavours to develop a deeper intensity. I let my mind drift over today and what I’d learned – it was an escape – marvelling mostly that because the region was so dramatically hilly, each of the tea gardens of the area could have their own particular climate.

  ‘From tropical to temperate, and some alpine,’ Saxon had said, astonishing me. ‘Some shadier, some moister, some where the sun hits fiercely and different ripening periods. While some of the higher-altitude gardens are reaching first flush, others well below might be developing their second flush teas.’ I imagined explaining all of this to Jove, who would watch me, delighted by my enthusiasm. I reminded myself of his handsome face with its wise lines and the kindness it expressed each time his gaze rested upon mine.

  Even the short telegram was kindly crafted. Jove had used those few words to explain the news in a gentle way. I felt a new, important surge of affection and understood that this was what I had to harness now and hold on to. I had to do everything within my power to save Jove any pain over this, which had lasted just three days. One day in fever caring for the man I’d fallen for, one day in loving him, and a last one in saying goodbye. It was hardly torrid but it was nonetheless a betrayal and the only defence I could cling to was my spinster status.

  I must have turned that thought over in my mind for hours because night passed and I sensed a soft lightening of the sky behind us. I hadn’t realised Saxon was awake; his breathing was so rhythmic, I’d presumed him asleep. But he shift
ed to point.

  ‘There they are,’ he said with awe. And I saw the peaks begin to emerge . . . five sentinels with their ermine stoles watching over us. ‘The sun rises behind Darjeeling Town so it hits the summit of Kangchenjunga before it lights the valley,’ he explained.

  ‘Where’s Everest?’ I wondered.

  ‘About one hundred and fifty miles from here; you can sometimes see it on a very clear day from the top of Darjeeling. Watch now as those peaks begin to blush,’ he murmured.

  I remained silent and observed precisely that. The sun’s first kiss was feathery light, waking up the gods, and they stirred with an orange glow, but then the heavenly light whispered words of teasing affection, as almost shyly each of the peaks began to wake properly and flush a luminous peachy pink. It was dazzling as they continued to brighten, the light creeping downwards to their hillsides until they fully mirrored the golden joy of the sun, reflecting it off their jagged surfaces while the sky joined in, swooning from the pink of a baby girl’s ribbon to the rich blue of a schoolboy’s blazer.

  So much beauty.

  ‘Time to go, Isla,’ he whispered. I could hear the shuffling of feet, men and animals, and soft voices.

  ‘Saxon!’

  ‘Ssh,’ he hushed, and helped me to unfold myself from the comfort of his embrace and from the cocoon we’d created. Stiff from being in one position and cool despite our heavy, warm blanketing, I stretched out my spine and straightened my resolve.

  He wouldn’t look at me, immediately greeting Adri and company so that all intimacy was banished.

  Adri bowed as I came around the verandah. ‘Morning,’ I whispered. It didn’t seem right to speak loudly. ‘I’ll just fetch my bag.’ Before anyone could offer, I’d disappeared into the house to my room. I used the bathroom – this would be the last time for many hours that I’d have such decent facilities – and I washed my face, splashing the coldest of water so I was shocked awake. I brushed my teeth and, with each small ablution, I swallowed the lump of emotion that had threatened to spill. He was never mine.

  I returned, surprised at how in control I felt. If we just kept avoiding looking at each other, I could leave and then it would be too late to look upon him again. We went through the motions of loading up my holdall, plumping the cushions within the litter and rearranging a blanket for the cool morning. There was a strange sensation that I could only describe as fizzing in my mind and my throat was tight. I tried to breathe but the air felt shallow.

  And then the moment arrived. ‘Are you sure you want go on alone?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ I squeezed out, lying to myself and him, not meeting his glance.

  He offered his hand to help me into my chair. I had to raise my gaze to his. We had an audience, which in a curious way I was glad for because it helped us to remain as aloof as possible. He was grinding his jaw and I suppose I found it reassuring that he was experiencing a similar struggle. He deliberately mentioned Miles, perhaps to keep my emotion keen. ‘Is Dr Baird still around, Adri?’

  ‘No, sir. He left just before dawn with his own group.’

  He looked at me. ‘You’ll be following them up the hill.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Tell the men to keep a distance. I don’t want Dr Baird anywhere near Dr Fenwick.’

  ‘I shall instruct them.’ Adri left us.

  We were still holding hands. ‘Be safe, Isla.’

  Time to swallow. ‘And you take care of yourself.’

  He gave a sad grin.

  ‘I mean it, Saxon. Promise me. Your hand needs care and —’

  ‘Be still. I’ll drink a lot of tea and think of how much I love you.’

  ‘I want to kiss you,’ I admitted in a voice barely above a whisper.

  He shook his head slightly. ‘Save your kisses for Jove. He deserves them.’ He leaned down and kissed my hand instead and I had to swallow a rising sob.

  ‘Farewell, fair Isla.’ He let go. ‘Move on!’ he called out, sounding almost angry, but I knew what it was taking for him to be this strong for us. He gave a sharp whistle and the palanquin jerked into motion.

  I pulled the curtains aside so I could watch him. And now I did cry, because no one but the Himalayan peaks could see me weep. I saw him ruthlessly turn his broad-shouldered back on me and hoped he was crying too but I suspected that was an empty wish. I watched him lope toward the ridge and he kept his back to us as we began to ascend the narrow, uneven path. Soon we’d turn and I would be pointing the wrong way; I wouldn’t be able to see him . . . the sensation was akin to panic and I leaned out of the chair, forcing my bearers to adjust quickly or risk toppling, but I didn’t care. One last look, one last moment of stolen love . . .

  There he was. He had turned to watch us. I waved. He lifted his injured hand in farewell and dared to blow me a kiss. And now the sob did escape and I didn’t care if the men heard. I had one final glimpse over the top of the rocky terrain we were now navigating and it was of Saxon, bathed in a fiery morning light, standing at the top of the world, in the bosom of Brackenridge where he belonged – strong, golden, protected by mountains that hugged the tea gardens – and I wept openly.

  Epilogue

  We didn’t exchange a word or seek news of each other in more than two years. It’s now autumn of 1935 and I returned home on the first day of Autumn, 1933, to bury my father and to keep my promise to Jove to be home for our wedding. Out of respect, we held off on our marriage until a frozen winter wedding took place at the end of February, and I admit to quiet contentment in my life as Mrs Jovian Mandeville.

  I teach now and find it far more rewarding than I imagined it could be. I am still consulted from time to time for clinical work, but I’ve kept my word and make sure that Jove and our life comes first, although the new Mothers and Babies Institute I’ve championed and chair could demand every moment of my life if I let it . . . I won’t, of course. I had no idea how busy it would be as the wife of a popular member of parliament and given that we move between the house in Mayfair that we now call home and his family manor in the Cotswolds, there is always entertaining to be done. What I thought would be tedious is nothing of the sort, as Jove’s friends – the ones he is genuinely close to – are all interesting people, and I’ve found a few of the wives to be colourful, including a writer, an artist and a woman who is an expert on herbs; she’s teaching me more about natural medicines, which I find irresistible.

  Our wedding present to each other was the purchase of a four-storeyed seaside home on Brunswick Terrace. We plan to slowly renovate and decorate to our taste but we hope to spend a spring and an autumn down there within a couple of years.

  All of this has helped to anchor me to life as Mrs Mandeville but the struggle of keeping the memory of Saxon Vickery tied down is my burden. It’s a daily chore, worst first thing in the morning as I tend to wake and rise at dawn; it’s a delicate time for me as memories crowd. As the day wears on it all gets easier and by evening I could honestly admit that he has no impact. It’s the fragile hours when I’m at my most vulnerable, but the truth is that time’s passing eases most burdens . . . the grief of losing my father is, these days, a soft pain and now I have reassured myself that it is a case of time: waiting it out for the ache of leaving Saxon Vickery to slide into the sunset of my past.

  All of that thinking held firm until this very moment, the moment when Saxon Vickery appeared like an apparition before me and Jove, here in the middle of Hyde Park. Until a few minutes ago I had thought time and I were in concert, but confronting him again just now was harder than leaving him. Oh, why did this have to happen? Us Mandevilles arm in arm, gently debating the colour we would paint our drawing room, which overlooked Hove beach on the seafront, nearly stepping into the path of Saxon and Frances Vickery.

  ‘Oh, do forgive us,’ I said, not realising at first because I looked absently at the elegant woman pushing the wheelchair.

  She was dressed in a calf-length fur and soft felt hat. Her pencilthin eyebrows framed dark,
almond-shaped eyes and the bow of her lips was painted a soft cherry, while auburn hair was fashioned in a curly bob. Slim, like a mannequin, she walked with confidence and a long stride. She struck me as terribly beautiful, all her actions graceful, whether it was pulling the fur coat more snugly around herself or reaching to touch her hair. Naturally I glanced down, really just to offer a polite smile to her companion, but let out a gasp to see the familiar beloved face ravaged once again by illness.

  ‘Saxon!’ It came out as a whisper. Breathing was suddenly hard.

  ‘Good grief,’ I heard Jove remark. ‘Is this the professor you speak of?’

  The bundle in the wheelchair sighed and the small child on his lap grinned up at me before offering a sticky lick of her lollipop. Shock upon shock.

  Jove rescued me, taking it upon himself to introduce us all. Handshakes and polite greetings were exchanged and the inevitable awkwardness of what to say next arrived.

  ‘Well, isn’t this daughter of yours a cherub?’ Jove offered.

  ‘She was christened Rosamunde. But we call her Rosie,’ Frances Vickery said in a cultured accent; her voice was smoky, rather compelling.

  ‘It suits her,’ I said, looking at the happy, apple-cheeked child with golden curls. I needed to pull my anguished gaze from him and say something. ‘Er, Frances, I’ve heard so much about you. It’s lovely to meet you at last. Rosie’s beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, not gushy as I’d always thought she would be; instead composed and slightly cool. I watched her lay a hand on her husband’s shoulder, then stroke his cheek as if she could check his temperature through her ecru suede glove. A message was being communicated, not so subtle, either. ‘Not too chilled, darling?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, his stare from those familiar, beloved eyes belying his words. His gaze reminded me of the gelid air that swept off the Himalayan peaks and roared through the valleys to drop the temperature dramatically.

  ‘Rosie.’ It was Jove again, helping me out. ‘Would you like to see the ducks? I suspect your father and Isla here would like to exchange news of India.’ He beamed at the adults as Rosie licked her lollipop. ‘Care to take a look, Frances? It’s just a few steps away.’