Dark Road to Darjeeling

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “I want to believe you, but I believe it is a question I shall ask of myself until the end of my days.”

  I paused. “If you were so convinced that Robin had something to do with Freddie’s death, why did you fear Harry’s involvement?”

  Emotion suffused her face. “Because if I could admit even the smallest doubt of his character, I knew I could never marry him. So long as there was even a shadow of possibility hanging over him, I could not love him.”

  “I understand. Perhaps now—”

  She held up a hand. “It is too soon to think of such things. There is mourning to be done first. And all things must be done in their time.”

  She looked to the far-off peaks of the Himalayas, her expression serene, a mystic nun contemplating medieval mysteries. “This place was not always called the Valley of Eden. That is the name my grandfather gave to it. When he came, the valley had long been abandoned by those who built the temple on the ridge. It had fallen into disrepair and the whole of the valley was carpeted with the most beautiful flowers, a river of violet as far as the eye could see. But the flowers were deadly nightshade, and no native would come to this place, for just to breathe the air was to inhale the poison of the blossoms. My people called it the Valley of Death. And though the English tore out the flowers by their poisonous roots and planted tea and made it safe to live here once more, there are those who say the shadow of death has not left this place.”

  We parted then, for both of us had much to think on and little left to say.

  The funeral of Robin Pennyfeather and his father was conducted the following day, and it was so strange an event that I have never seen its like. The native children of the valley sang, but no hymns, for Cassandra insisted they sing their own songs of mourning, the same songs that had been chanted when the bodies of Robin and his father were carried out of the lake. Cassandra draped herself in flowing black robes with a long black veil, but her face was composed and she did not weep. Primrose too was dry-eyed, dressed in a more conventional mourning costume, and carrying an armful of orchids from her father’s garden. They were purple, the colour of royal mourning, I remembered, and the same colour as the deadly nightshade that had once poisoned the valley. Brisbane was up and about, although he wore smoked spectacles and spoke little. Harry Cavendish stood close to Miss Thorne, I saw, and further I saw the gimlet eye of Miss Cavendish fall thoughtfully upon the pair. I had little doubt that the midnight conversation I had overheard between Miss Cavendish and Harry touched upon Miss Thorne. She had feared Miss Thorne would attempt to acquire the tea garden by legal means, but Harry had known all along that a far simpler solution was at hand if only he could persuade her to accept his proposal of marriage. There had been nothing more sinister than a private family quarrel in that encounter, and I was glad of it, for I had become rather fond of the Cavendishes.

  Dr. Llewellyn read out the order of service, but although he was not ordained, something about the sweet Welsh lilt of his voice made the words more poignant. Unwilling to wait for a clergyman to be fetched from Darjeeling, Cassandra had prevailed upon him to perform the service as a favour to her, and more than once I noticed a certain softness about her when her gaze fell upon him. When the service was concluded, we made our way to the Bower for the obligatory food and drink, and I pondered Cassandra and what might become of her now.

  I need not have worried. I had no sooner filled my plate with an assortment of Lalita’s most mouthwatering delicacies when Primrose appeared at my elbow. “Cassandra would like to see you in the studio,” she murmured.

  I raised a brow, but put aside my plate with a pang of regret and followed her. Packing crates stood open, spilling excelsior over the floor and the shelves had been stripped of their bottled chemicals and photographic equipment.

  “You are packing away your studio,” I said stupidly.

  Cassandra rose from where she was filling a crate with photographic plates. She was wearing black, but filmy stuff, unsuited to mourning, and about her wrist, Percival was coiled half a dozen times, a sort of living bracelet. “I am leaving the valley, and I wanted to see you. I found I could not bear the crush out there any longer,” she added as an apology. “I need to do something with my hands.”

  “I understand perfectly,” I told her, although I had rather expected that receiving condolences and holding court as the grief-stricken mother and widow would have appealed to her sense of the theatrical. It was an unworthy thought and I regretted it instantly.

  “Primrose and I are bound for Greece,” she said, rolling the word on her tongue as if tasting it.

  “Greece! That will make quite a change,” I managed.

  Primrose stepped forward. “Cassandra, the crate is already quite packed and you do not want to damage the plates. Begin a new crate and I will mark this one full,” she instructed, moving forward to take charge of the packing.

  I looked at her with fresh eyes and realised what I ought to have seen before: Primrose had put her hair up, literally and figuratively, I decided as she moved about the studio, making brisk decisions about what would accompany them to Greece. “We ought to take the draperies,” she offered. “There is quite a lot of fabric here, and we might want them for curtains in our new house.”

  Cassandra smiled at her indulgently, then turned to me. “You see, our circumstances have turned her into a little martinet.” But her expression was warm, and she extended her hand to her daughter. Primrose came to her and they embraced. “She will take care of me,” Cassandra said, and Primrose petted her with a satisfied air. The loss they had suffered, a loss that might have devastated a different sort of family, might just be the making of them. Cassandra would never lose her indolence, her refusal to take up the burdens of adulthood. But Primrose was only too eager to shoulder them, and I began to see that she had absorbed more of Miss Thorne’s careful good sense than I had previously suspected.

  Primrose withdrew from her mother’s embrace with a fond kiss. “I shall go and see that Lalita has replenished the food and drink. Would you like a plate of something?”

  “No, dearest,” her mother answered. “I do not think I could manage it.”

  Primrose adopted an expression of mock severity I had not seen before. “You must eat. Think of Dr. Llewellyn’s good advice. I will bring you a plate and you will eat at least half of it,” she instructed.

  She left and Cassandra turned to me. “She will be my salvation,” she said fervently, “a new Persephone, consolation to my mournful Demeter,” she pronounced, and I knew then that Cassandra had already cast herself as the wintry goddess whose great solace was the devotion of her daughter. She had already drawn a veil over the terrible loss of Robin and the Reverend, and this new chapter of her life would be writ without them. She would be defined by her fantasies, rather than by the grief she bore, and in a strange way, I admired her.

  “I hope you will be very happy in Greece,” I told her with complete sincerity.

  She took my hands, and I was deeply conscious of the little green snake that flicked its tongue toward my pulse. “Thank you, Lady Julia. I feel we are kindred spirits, you and I.” She looked deeply into my eyes and I cleared my throat.

  “How very kind of you,” I murmured.

  “No, I am quite forthright when I say this,” she insisted. “And that is why I know you will not judge me, but will understand when I say that Primrose and I will be accompanied by a gentleman upon our travels.”

  “Dr. Llewellyn?” I hazarded. She gave a little cry.

  “I knew you were sympathetic to me! How like you to know without a word falling from my lips. Yes, he will come with us. We will be a merry band of comrades together, pilgrims on a quest,” she said, mixing her metaphors dreadfully. “There is nothing to hold him here, and it would be just as well for Primrose and I to have a man with us. He will offer us a strong and manly arm when we have need of him, and Primrose and I will keep him from falling into his melancholia. The Welsh are terribly given to it, yo
u know,” she said conspiratorially. “It is the national disease.”

  “Is it really? How singular,” I said.

  “Oh, yes. I blame the weather. How could anyone be cheerful with so much rain? But Greece will suit him, I have no doubt. The sunshine, the heat, it will infuse his bones with life,” she proclaimed, and who was I to say she was wrong?

  She turned away and retrieved something from one of the crates. “Here. I packed this, but I think you ought to have it. It did not come out as I wished. I wanted something far more mythological, and he simply would not put on fancy dress,” she said with a rueful smile. “Still, I think I captured something rather extraordinary.”

  She put a photograph into my hands. It was mounted on stiff black pasteboard, and the severity of the frame suited the composition. I swallowed hard.

  “Extraordinary indeed,” I murmured, for it was. Brisbane was dressed as he ever was, in perfectly-tailored, perfectly English clothes, but she need not have minded about what he wore. It was the expression that mattered. It was arresting. Somehow she had caught him just as he had looked up, expectant, quizzical, his lips slightly parted as if he were on the verge of speaking. It was an expression I had seen a thousand times before, but never had the opportunity to study at length. It was the very essence of the man himself, confident and intelligent and curious.

  “When did he pose for you?” I asked after a long moment.

  “The day you lunched with us. I wanted him to pose in costume, but he would have none of it, and I finally persuaded him to let me make a study of his face. He has excellent bones,” she added.

  “Yes, he does. Thank you for this.”

  She bowed her head. “You were very kind to my son, and I believe my husband looked upon you as a sort of confidante.”

  I began to protest, but she covered my hands with her own. “My dear, I am glad of it. I have never believed that one’s partner could answer one’s every need. Tell me though, I beg you. You spoke often with Robin in these past weeks. Sometimes I worried for him. There was something quite unreachable about him, and I used to fret that I had not brought him up in the way he ought to have been reared. I do not know how else I might have handled him,” she added, spreading her hands, her brow knit with concern. “But I wonder if I did the best for him, or if I failed him. He was so withdrawn, you understand, so quiet at times, so different from Primrose. She holds nothing back, no emotion is secret, no impulse concealed. She is the sun, and poor Robin was the moon. But tell me, Lady Julia, did he strike you as a happy child?”

  The lie fell easily from my lips. “Of course he was,” I said promptly. “He was devoted to his animals, and I think if he had lived, Robin would have been a very important scientist.”

  The furrowed brow relaxed and the lovely mouth curved into a smile. “He was happy, wasn’t he? This sort of natural upbringing was for the best. I always thought it,” she went on.

  I smiled in agreement, but said nothing more. I had given her as much assurance as I was able, and I felt suddenly exhausted by the Pennyfeathers and their unbridled emotions. I longed for repressive English company then, and I excused myself as soon as politeness would permit, still holding my photograph.

  I emerged from the studio to find Portia, wild-eyed and darting about. “There you are!” she exclaimed, taking me firmly by the hand. “We must leave at once.”

  “Why? Has the drink run out?”

  “No. Jolly just came from the Peacocks to find us. Jane’s time has come.”

  We hurried back to the Peacocks and to Jane, not even pausing to change out of our mourning clothes. Mary-Benevolence was with her, sponging her brow and murmuring words of encouragement.

  “Oh, my dearest, is it very awful?” Portia asked, taking her hand.

  Jane smiled. “Not yet. My waters broke, and then the pains started. I have only had half a dozen and Mary-Benevolence says it will be quite some time yet.”

  Portia looked anxiously to Mary-Benevolence who nodded sagely. “A day, perhaps longer.”

  “A day!” Portia drew herself up. “That simply will not do. She cannot suffer for a day or more with labour pains. Do something. Make it come faster.”

  Mary-Benevolence gave her a pitying look. “It is the way of women,” she said, shrugging. “The babe will come when it is ready and no sooner.”

  She left then to attend to other preparations for the birth and Portia turned to Jane. “Do you want Dr. Llewellyn? We just left him and he seems in full possession of his senses.” She turned to me for confirmation and I nodded.

  “He appears to have left off the drink and other intoxicants. I do not think he was completely sunk into depravity,” I mused, “but merely deeply unhappy over the loss of his wife. He had fallen into the habit of numbing his pain—”

  “This is hardly the time, Julia,” Portia cut in sharply. “Jane, do you want him?”

  Jane shook her head. “No. I am comfortable with Mary-Benevolence, and I should like to have women around me now. All will be well,” she said by way of reassurance.

  But Portia would have none of it. She paced the room, snapping and snarling at whoever was unfortunate enough to come near, and as the hours passed and Jane’s pains got worse, I threatened to have her bodily removed from the room.

  “You would not dare,” Portia said to me.

  “Try me, I beg you,” I countered coolly. “Now, take a deep breath and get hold of yourself and thank God it isn’t either one of us in that bed,” I muttered.

  She leaned close. “I was thinking precisely the same. I simply couldn’t,” she returned, darting a quick look at Jane’s miserable, contorted face.

  “I cannot believe Mother did this ten times,” I murmured.

  “Father has a lot to answer for,” she said. But she was calmer and for the rest of the labour, she held her temper, offering Jane nothing but strong support as she sponged her face and arms. She sang to Jane and plumped her pillows and held her in her arms, anything that Jane asked of her she did, and with such a sweetness of temper, I hardly knew her. Miss Cavendish looked in from time to time, and I stayed to be dispatched for whatever they might require, but Mary-Benevolence was mistress of the room, ordering the rest of us about like so many slaves. We obeyed her willingly, adjusting the light or the temperature of the room, for she insisted it must be dim and warm at all times.

  Finally, as the evening crept on in the second day, it was time for Jane to push at last.

  “I am so tired,” she moaned.

  “I know,” Mary-Benevolence soothed, “but it will be finished soon, little mother.” She crooned endearments to Jane and to the coming child, rubbing her hands with sweetly-scented oils as she bent to her task. What came next I did not like to watch. I moved to the head of Jane’s bed, dipping a cloth in a cool basin of water to wipe her brow. She took no notice of me, so intent was she upon Mary-Benevolence and her gentle instructions. Portia held tightly to Jane’s hand, urging her on, and although it seemed to go on forever, the clock had scarcely struck midnight when the child was born.

  It was astonishingly quiet in the room, for the chaos and pain was finished for a moment, and Mary-Benevolence received the infant in perfect silence. She took the baby and wrapped it at once in a linen cloth.

  “It is a girl, little mother. A fine girl,” she said, holding the baby aloft. The child looked at us with Jane’s wide dark eyes and finally began to cry, a tiny, pitiful mewing sound like a newborn kitten.

  “Oh, give her to me,” Jane said, although she was so exhausted from the ordeal of birth she could scarce lift her arms.

  Portia took the child and held her close to Jane. “She is beautiful,” Portia managed, and then tears began to pour down her cheeks. “She even has your red hair.”

  “She is ours,” Jane murmured, dropping a kiss to her infant’s head. Jane was free now, I realised exultantly. There was no need for her to remain in India. She could return with us to England with the baby. And as I watched Portia’s arms e
ncircle them both, I realised I was witness to the beginnings of a family.

  At Mary-Benevolence’s instruction, Portia took the infant to the basin of warm water to bath her and swaddle her. Portia was not the nurturing sort, and watching her tend the child with such gentle reverence plucked at my heartstrings. I turned away for a moment to wipe away my own tears, and as I did so, I heard a noise, not an exclamation or a cry, but rather a sigh of surrender.

  I turned round to see Jane, her expression one of perfect peace and contentment. And at the foot of the bed stood Mary-Benevolence, her skirts awash in a crimson pool as Jane’s lifeblood ebbed away.

  “What is it?” I demanded. “What is happening to her?”

  Portia whirled and nearly dropped the baby. She shoved the child into my arms and flew to Jane.

  Mary-Benevolence bent to work upon Jane, but after a small eternity, she rose.

  “It is a haemorrhage,” Mary-Benevolence said, shaking her head. “There is nothing to be done.”

  Portia stared at her in disbelief. “There must be something to be done and you must do it, now!” she ordered. “Jane is dying, you must save her. You will save her. I cannot lose her, do you understand me? Whatever you must do, do it now and save her for me, please!”

  She was begging now, and it was the begging of a child.

  Mary-Benevolence shook her head again. “It is the way, sometimes. The womb tears and there is nothing to be done. I am sorry.”

  “Sorry? I do not want your sorries, I want you to make her whole again,” Portia countered savagely. She flew at Mary-Benevolence and struck the old woman hard upon the cheek. Mary-Benevolence rocked backward, but did not fall. She raised her hand, but not to her own face. Instead she took Portia’s face in her hands and spoke slowly.

  “It is finished. She is with God now,” she said, infusing each word with such simple finality that not even Portia could fail to understand that there was nothing more to be done.