The Tea Gardens

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Oh, I think Rosie would love it, thank you.’

  And they were gone.

  Saxon hadn’t stopped staring. ‘That wasn’t very adroit, was it? They’ve obviously planned this “accidental” meet.’

  I felt unnerved, unsure of what to say. ‘Surely not?’ My words were pure reaction trying to deny what already began to feel plausible. ‘It’s true that Jove knows I’m extremely fond of you. I’ve told him everything that can’t hurt him. I don’t understand, though. What’s to be gained if you’re right and they have arranged this meet?’

  He gave a light shrug, the action so familiar it felt like a pinch, waking me up to all those other small gestures I’d fallen in love with but learned to keep in a darkened, sleeping place deep within. ‘Perhaps you’ve revealed too much, or why else would we be standing here? I suspect Jove’s decided to confront a problem rather than worry about it. My wife, on the other hand, doesn’t know anything about you – not from me, anyway.’

  ‘Are you suggesting Jove has told her?’ I moved us on, my cheeks burning with shame.

  ‘Well, why else am I here? This is not one of our familiar walking routes.’

  I began to feel my well-ordered world fraying, like a thread coming loose with the potential to unravel the whole. ‘How long have you been back?’ I asked, helplessly calculating Rosie’s age.

  ‘I came home for Rosie’s birth in February last year,’ he replied, as if he knew what I was doing, and then to make sure I understood, he added, ‘She was conceived on my last visit home, before you arrived in India.’

  I begged myself not to flush further with jealousy. He had never promised me anything. He had tried to discourage me. I had, in all fairness, forced us together. I cleared my throat. ‘Last February’s when Jove and I married – a little later than planned but still a winter wedding.’ I hated myself for sounding so clumsy. I shifted to the safer ground of medicine. At least I could sound professional. ‘When did it strike again?’

  ‘Recently. English winters can be harsh. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You look terrible.’ In spite of it, you can’t hide those features, I thought.

  He took no insult. ‘You look happily married.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Isla, I know it was you behind the purchase of Brackenridge.’ Straight to the point, as always.

  ‘I . . . er . . . I don’t know —’

  ‘Don’t. Jove hid his tracks well but I’m not a complete fool, you know. Neither’s my wife. That’s probably how they’ve connected – she may have put two and two together.’

  I hesitated and then came clean. ‘After seeing you there and how much you care about it, I wanted you to have it. I gather Rex couldn’t get rid of it fast enough.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Does he know?’

  ‘Not yet. But I do want to thank you; I’ve been wanting to thank you since the sale but I also wanted to keep the promise we made about not making contact, so I didn’t know how to show my gratitude. Without the cloak-and-dagger stuff, Rex would never have sold it direct to me.’

  ‘Is Frances fine with it?’

  ‘Yes, surprisingly so, and given that it’s her money mostly, I’m grateful to her as well, although I think your husband has superb skills of persuasion. No doubt a very slick politician. I’m guessing he convinced her that to buy Brackenridge would stop me being so wistful about it. I suspect now that they’ve met during the negotiations and yes, it’s feasible that they’ve likely discussed our marriages and hatched this rather uncomfortable meet.’ He gave me another doleful stare of accusation.

  I smiled crookedly. ‘Will Frances . . . er . . . will she join you?’

  ‘She’s agreeable to making a semi-permanent visit soon and to stay until Rosie is three. I suspect she is no longer prepared to live alone now that a child is in our midst. Anyway, by then she hopes we’ll have another.’ He cleared his throat as if to rid us of the awkwardness of that last statement. ‘Meanwhile, I’ve agreed I won’t live there all the time. We’ll split up each year as best we can, bring us all home annually for three or four months.’ He looked unsure, frowning. ‘We’ll work it out. I’m happy for Rosie and whoever else comes along that it remains in the family.’

  ‘I’m glad for you, really I am. How’s your arm?’

  ‘Healed as best it could, thank you.’

  Anguish that ghosted in his face dissipated. He smiled and I glimpsed the Saxon who’d entirely seduced me.

  ‘You look wonderful,’ he said unexpectedly, his voice too soft. It would undo me if I didn’t get away from him. He continued. ‘I’ve . . . well, let’s just say, you’re missed. Oh, one piece of news – take it how you will. Miles Baird is dead.’

  ‘What?’

  He nodded. ‘A hunting accident up in Simla; he died from his injuries. Showing off, no doubt. The tiger apparently turned and attacked. I never did hear all the gruesome details, nor did I care to.’

  Sad, I suppose, but I had not forgiven Miles his trespass and while I didn’t celebrate his death, I didn’t mourn him either. ‘Saxon, I’d ask you both over for dinner but —’

  ‘Please don’t,’ he interrupted. ‘Isla, you are not to take this the wrong way but I’m sorry we’ve met.’

  ‘I understand. I feel the same way.’ I glanced up. ‘Here they come, our two plotters.’

  He gave a brave smile, coughed, and with his back to them they couldn’t see the way he took my hand tenderly. As I pulled away softly, our fingers lingered, intertwined. It was unbearable. ‘I miss your special healing, Isla.’

  I pretended I hadn’t heard him, as the life I thought I’d set up so well once again threatened to unwind. ‘Hello, again,’ I said loudly. ‘Did Rosie enjoy the ducks?’

  Both Jove and Frances beamed. She arrived at the handles of the wheelchair and that was my cue to move next to Jove.

  ‘She did. Bit scared of the swans, though. Right, well, darling,’ Frances said firmly, ‘we’d better get a move on and you out of the draught.’

  I watched her fuss at his scarf and knew he’d hate that as much as the blanket covering his legs. I wanted to touch the wayward lock of hair that had escaped its combing; I noted he kept his hair tidily trimmed these days; no disobedient flicks at the back that I had loved. I wanted to kiss him goodbye, but then I’d always be wanting to kiss him one last time.

  Jove linked his arm into mine and I hoped I hadn’t sagged with relief. ‘Good to finally meet you, Vickery.’ He shook Saxon’s hand. ‘Sorry we can’t stay longer.’

  ‘We must be going,’ Frances said, a fraction too quickly.

  I just wanted to run.

  ‘Goodbye,’ I said, a cursory glance at the beautiful wife and a stolen but lingering look at Saxon. ‘Be well soon, Saxon. Bye, Rosie.’

  And we walked on, they in the other direction. Just like that, he was gone again, wheeled away like an invalid by his wife, who was perhaps all too aware of his attractiveness to other women. Smarting from the meeting and unable to say much, I was relieved when the banker had conveniently happened along.

  ‘I thought that was you, Jove. Ah, Mrs Mandeville, hello.’ He removed his hat and gave me a short bow. I dug up a smile, forcing myself not to look back over my shoulder. ‘I wonder, may I borrow your husband for a tick? I promise not to keep him too long.’

  Jove began to make an excuse but I jumped in. ‘Of course. I’ll visit the ducks myself,’ I think I said, giving Jove a gentle shove. ‘Go on. I won’t go far.’

  _________

  And so here I find myself, no longer trembling, I’m glad to note, but feeling the numbing hardness of the park bench after nearly a half-hour of calming my breathing and slowing my pulse and thinking back upon the period that brought me to this point. Was I past the shock of seeing the person I had been trying so hard to forget?

  Nearly. Past the immediate fright, having sat here contemplating our story, but I would have to start the process again of trying to no longer hear his voice, to
bury the affectionate words just spoken to me and not listen for their echo, to blur the features of his face until —

  ‘Here I am,’ Jove said, taking me slightly unawares. I felt the timber slats bounce up as he landed next to me. ‘Sorry, took a little longer. All right here?’

  ‘Yes, yes, just fine,’ I said brightly. ‘Getting cold, perhaps.’ I touched my cheeks, embarrassed they were burning with guilt.

  ‘Let’s get you home, then. I’ll run you a bath and pour us a sherry. Must have been good to see your old companion again?’

  ‘It was a shock. Bit overwhelming to see him looking so unwell.’

  ‘I’ll bet. It’s curious, isn’t it, Isla, that someone you speak about as such a close and trusted colleague and confidante is someone you never write to, you never see, and you don’t even know is back in the country.’

  I cleared my throat silently before cutting him a look of offence. ‘What are you getting at, Jove?’

  ‘We said no lies.’ He took my gloved hand and squeezed it.

  ‘We did.’ I sounded suspicious.

  ‘Meeting Vickery and his wife wasn’t a coincidence.’

  I looked down, nauseous. ‘So you arranged it.’

  ‘I did. As I arranged the purchase of Brackenridge and then the sale of it to your good friend, the professor.’

  ‘And was this meeting contrived with his wife’s sanction?’

  ‘Frances wanted it as much as I did. She knows her husband hasn’t fully come back to her from India. And she admitted to me that it was no longer just his work or the country that hurt him to be away from.’

  I gave him a glance of pure injury. ‘Why did you do this, Jove?’

  ‘Well, to use a medical analogy that might appeal to you, I thought it could help lance a boil.’ He gave me a sad smile. ‘I thought it important that you and Vickery laid eyes on the people who love you both; the ones who are your partners in life, who worry about you, look after you.’

  I felt desperately sad to realise I hadn’t kept my pain from Jove at all.

  ‘Isla, when you travelled to India you were still something of an indulged child; when you returned, you couldn’t put my ring on your finger fast enough. There was a sort of frenzy about you on your return, as though I couldn’t pin you down . . . couldn’t find you in here.’ He touched the side of my head. ‘The woman I loved had gone missing even though she was in my presence again.’

  He was right, of course. When he’d proposed I was the girl. In India I became the woman and I was alarmed to discover that my life was made less purposeful by finding such dangerous love in Saxon; I was no longer impenetrable and I discovered, to my despair, that love does not strengthen; it weakens. It’s a drug that loosens one’s hold on the sensibilities and responsibilities of life. A new person emerges from under the influence of love. A fragile, more vulnerable version, and yet one sufficiently beguiled who believes that even the seemingly impossible might be achieved. In the end, the reality is that one is entirely weakened – sleeping, in fact – removed from the real world under the influence of the addictive drug that love is.

  ‘Is Isla back? Is she mine?’

  ‘Oh, Jove, don’t,’ I pleaded.

  He gave an affectionate shrug. ‘I’m glad we’re talking about it. I realised I had to give you time – I have the patience of a crocodile, you know.’ He grinned kindly. ‘I knew something had happened and I could guess what that might be. I forced myself to accept that you were a single woman while it occurred. It was one of the reasons I’d made my conditions. But it seemed you’d chosen me; you were home and you were in my arms, determined to marry, so I decided not to fight it.’

  Tears leaked and I sniffed.

  ‘I reassured myself that you were happy to be my wife and since that moment you’ve never given me cause to doubt your sincerity of that.’

  Despite the chill I pulled off my gloves. I took his hand, pulled off his glove so we could feel our skin against each other before I kissed the palm that caressed me so often, and so affectionately. ‘Don’t doubt it, my love. I never want to be anything but Mrs Jovian Mandeville.’

  ‘The thing is, Isla, returning to the condition of us getting married . . . you do remember?’ He pulled out his handkerchief and gave it to me. I nodded thanks. I knew he was waiting.

  After dabbing at my eyes and nose, I answered. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘You made a promise that when you returned I got to have all of you, that nothing would be left behind in India.’ He paused, spearing me with a solemn gaze. ‘That goes for your heart, my darling. I can’t have it belonging to someone else.’

  Oh, how I’d hurt him and still he was being generous . . . ‘It doesn’t, Jove. It’s yours. I love you and that’s not going to change. I told you how ill he was – you can see today how that disease can rob him of his health without warning.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I had to help him.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I sensed he had more to say, wanted to hear more from me, but I was thunderstruck by how long he’d held this knowledge from me and also by what was perhaps an admission by me. He seemed to dither on the precipice of pushing me to say more and then in his wise way, he pulled back. ‘I think it’s a bit of a struggle for her with him and the baby. I think she, too, needed to see for herself that nothing more existed between you both.’

  Nothing more. Jove, in his wisdom, was allowing for whatever occurred while I was single to be just that – events from the past when as a spinster I could make my own decisions about whom I spent time with.

  ‘Nothing does exist. We talked about Miles Baird dying.’ He raised an eyebrow at this because I’d told him about the behaviour of Miles. ‘We talked about Rosie, the fact that they wanted more children, when they were moving to India together, and we talked about you.’

  He smiled gently. ‘Listen to the jealous old fool I’ve become.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘So we don’t need to have them over or anything?’

  ‘Jove, I never need to see either of them again.’ I meant it.

  He held my gaze. ‘I love you with all of my heart, Isla, and do you know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Seeing that gorgeous child, Rosie, has given me an idea.’

  I sniffed as I laughed, determined to shift our mood, determined in that frantic moment of nearly losing him to shake off my hunger; to let go of my need for a man who no longer existed. Saxon Vickery of Brackenridge was like a ghost . . . he didn’t exist out of the tea gardens of Darjeeling. Perhaps no other living person had experienced that Saxon other than me. He was only Saxon of Darjeeling when he was with me, and we were not together. We never could be . . . we never would be. I remembered something he said: You don’t forget a love that is true. But you can live with its memory. Well, I would live with that memory but I was going to lock it away now because it had no place in my present life; today was an epiphany as I glimpsed the horror of losing Jove.

  Until this second I’d never feared it but I realise now what Jove needed was for me to choose.

  But this time to choose without secrets.

  ‘What do you say, Isla? Is it time we thought about children?’

  I stood, held out my hand and he took it. ‘Come on. Take me home and let’s see if we can’t make a Rosie of our own.’

  He stood and hugged me tightly; we held the embrace long enough that people began to notice but I couldn’t care. I felt the change coming over me and perhaps seeing Saxon today with his wife and daughter was the best situation that could have occurred. Perhaps Jove’s cunning move had achieved everything he’d hoped . . . It’s not that I would ever stop loving Saxon, but the reality of his life was laid out before me in such a stark way. It’s one thing to talk about a wife on the other side of the world, quite a different feeling to meet the living, breathing, jealous version who had simmering emotions and a fiery, consuming love for him that I couldn’t match. Her love was angry, full
of ownership, while I loved him from afar and knew he could never be mine. I didn’t relish the conversation they might be having but that was their life, not mine.

  Now I wanted release from the torment. No more lost hours, no further soft regret, no more replaying of our brief, brightly burning but ultimately extinguished relationship. I dipped into my coat pocket for the talisman that had been my companion since I left India; it was never far from me but now perhaps it was time to let it go, fly free. As Jove raised an arm to wave to an acquaintance that he recognised across the lawns, I dropped the tiny origami magpie that Saxon had folded for me beneath a hawthorn tree we passed, which I knew would provide nectar next spring and food for the birds during this autumn. It was an ideal new home for Saxon’s magpie . . . wild and beautiful – like him, like our love. But I was letting go and it felt right.

  I had someone real, someone loyal, who near enough worshipped me but wouldn’t share me and that was how it should be. I was done with wanting to be two women, I was ashamed at my weakness, and I would set everything right with Jove.

  Kangchenjunga would not see me again and the tea gardens of Brackenridge would raise a new family of Vickerys, in which I had no place, no role.

  ‘Never doubt me again. I do love you, Jove,’ I urged as we walked away from the hawthorn, arm in arm, back towards Mayfair where we called home.

  ‘I know, my darling,’ Jove said as he kissed my hand and I held back tears, grateful for this man I’d known was right for me from my early teens, as did the Lady Palmist on Palace Pier. I decided to trust the oracle and the pledge that we’d made as we stood on that invisible, magical line between land and water and agreed to honour each other in marriage.

  And hundreds of miles away at another magical line where heaven and earth kiss, a mountain looked down benignly upon the world and scattered into its mists the memory of a couple who had touched a brief but extraordinary healing love among the tea gardens.