Page 161 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
It was unexpectedly affectionate; he told her that he was missing her. He was also surprisingly candid: he was surrounded by dear family but felt very alone. No one wanted to hear him talk about Assam or the tea gardens – indeed he found it difficult to talk to her brothers about anything very much. James made no criticism of her mother and his opinion on the house move was fatalistic.
... I realise I am going to have to fall in with your mother’s plan to set up home in Jesmond. She has her heart set on it and who am I to deny her after all these years of coping on her own? Still, I’m determined to rent the house at Willowburn until the winter so that I can take advantage of the riding. I’m enjoying the company of Major Gibson very much. He’s ten years my junior but we seem to share the same outlook on life and he indulges me in my India tales, dear man! You and I, Libby, will spend the autumn riding around the Tyne Valley pretending we are after snipe and blackbuck before returning for achota hazriof kedgeree and Assam tea. How does that sound?
Write and tell me about life at Belgooree. How are dear Clarrie and Harry? Is Breckon behaving himself? Is Manzur well? And Sophie – is she still with you? I think about them all such a lot. In some ways Belgooree is more real to me than my life in Newcastle. I miss the earlymorning rides with Clarrie and talking to Harry about fishing – your brothers aren’t in the least bit interested. What would I give for one day at Belgooree! Inspecting the gardens with Clarrie, Breckon barking at my side, and finishing off the day with achota pegas the sun’s going down and a decent curry to look forward to!
Goodness, what a ramble this must sound. I’m sorry but I haven’t done anything about finding the information that Danny Dunlop wants. I promise I will do soon. I’ll go and see Fairfax. At least we can have a chin-wag about ourkoi haidays – and it’s possible he might remember something I don’t.
Write soon, dearest daughter – or better still come home! Your mother expects you back in time for the annual trip to StAbbs in mid-September.
Your loving father
Libby sighed and pushed the letter under her pillow. She got up and went to look for the others. Clarrie and Sophie were picking fruit in the garden. For a moment, Libby stood watching them working side by side, Sophie reaching to pick gooseberries with gloved hands while Clarrie held out the basket. Such a tranquil domestic task. It was almost impossible to imagine that elsewhere in the country, women were being dragged from their homes and violated or hacked to death. She felt nauseated, her stomach clenching. What did the future hold for any of them?
Unease gripped her. How safe was Clarrie staying on here with only thirteen-year-old Harry and her staff to protect her until Adela and Sam returned? Would they be any safer then? Clarrie kept insisting she had nothing to fear among the Khasi, though she had offered to pay for herkhansama, Mohammed Din, and his family to travel back to their home in Kashmir if they had any concerns. They had chosen not to do so,Mohammed Din declaring he would never desert Robson memsahib while there was breath in his body.
Clarrie caught sight of Libby and waved her over. ‘Finding it hard to write that letter?’ she asked.
Libby pulled a rueful face. ‘How did you know?’
Clarrie gave her a sympathetic smile but didn’t answer.
‘Let me help,’ said Libby.
For a few minutes the three women picked fruit in silence. Then Clarrie spoke. ‘Did your father mention about Adela and Sam leaving?’
‘No,’ said Libby. ‘But it was written nearly two weeks ago.’
‘Is James all right?’ Clarrie asked.
Libby shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think he is. He sounds unhappy and homesick.’
‘Homesick for Cheviot View?’ asked Sophie.
Libby glanced at Clarrie. ‘No, for Belgooree.’
She saw Clarrie and Sophie exchange looks.
‘Dad misses Breckon and Harry and riding round the gardens and even curry,’ said Libby. ‘He asks after both of you. But especially you, Clarrie. He misses you the most.’
Clarrie turned red under her sunhat. ‘Does he say that?’
‘Not in so many words,’ said Libby, ‘but it’s obvious he does. He keeps mentioning you and wanting news.’
‘I told you he would,’ Sophie murmured.
Clarrie bowed her head. ‘What am I supposed to do about it?’ she said, her voice full of sadness.
Sophie put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Nothing. He’s gone back to Tilly and you just have to let them get on with it.’
Libby was shocked. It sounded as if they had discussed her father before – as if Clarrie had feelings for him.
She blurted out, ‘Are you in love with my father?’
Clarrie met Libby’s look. ‘Not in love,’ she said softly, ‘but I care for your father a great deal. If you’d asked me ten years ago, I would havesaid we didn’t particularly like one another. He was a typical hard-drinking planter who thought women should stay at home and certainly not criticise fellow planters like I did.’ Clarrie gave a wry laugh. ‘I thought James pompous and he thought me opinionated. But all that changed after Wesley died and the War came. We’ve been a support to each other.’ Clarrie’s look was reflective. ‘I’ve grown very fond of your father. If he’s missing me then I miss him too – more than I realised I would.’
Libby felt her insides knotting. She had suspected all along that Clarrie and her father cared deeply for each other. It had been so obvious to her. She waited for the surge of jealousy on her mother’s behalf to come, but it didn’t. She just felt deeply sad for all three of them. None of them were particularly happy; all of them just trying to carry on as best they could.
‘I think Dad loves you more than he loves Mother,’ Libby said. ‘And you’ve been a lot kinder to him.’
