Page 48 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
She let it melt on her tongue and then took another bite, larger this time. Opening her eyes, she saw that Ghulam was watching her. Libby felt suddenly aware of how close they were sitting and how alone they were. Birds chirruped drowsily in the surrounding trees. Her heart began a slow thud; she could feel perspiration break out on her forehead and between her breasts.
She pushed untidy hair behind her ear. ‘What cake are you eating?’ she asked, her voice sounding breathless.
‘Lemon,’ he said. ‘Want to try it?’
Libby nodded. He offered his half-eaten cake. She leant forward and bit into it. The pulse in her throat made it suddenly difficult toswallow. The tart lemon juice flooded her mouth and mingled with the sweetness already there.
‘Good,’ she whispered and held her slice out to him. ‘Try this at the same time.’
Ghulam hesitated. She thought she had never seen eyes quite so compelling, the green almost translucent and framed by such dark lashes. Then he steadied her hand in his and took a bite from the walnut cake. Libby could hardly breathe. Her hand trembled in his. Was he feeling the same intensity as she was? He pulled his hand away and munched the cake with a frown of concentration. She wanted to push the wayward strand of hair out of his eyes and run her fingers over his uneven features – the broken nose and the dimpled chin that was already showing dark bristles.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
She went a guilty puce. ‘About nice things like cake.’
He swallowed down his mouthful and smiled. ‘Time for another then.’
They sat in the shade munching cake until the box was empty, while Libby told him about long-ago tea parties on the cliffs at StAbbs, of swimming in the sea and playing cricket with her brothers.
‘I have to admit,’ said Ghulam, ‘there’s one thing I will thank the Britishers for when they leave and that’s cricket.’
‘Not cake?’ Libby teased.
‘The Indians have been making sweetmeats for far longer,’ he teased back. ‘So no; you memsahibs can’t claim to have invented cake.’
Libby gave a raucous laugh, wondering if it was possible to be intoxicated by sugar. She felt lightheaded.
He stood up. ‘I really should be getting back to the office.’
‘Pity,’ said Libby.
He offered his hand and pulled her to her feet. For a brief moment, they didn’t let go. He leant towards her and Libby held her breath. Buthe bent to retrieve his jacket. She hid her disappointment by scrambling for her shoes.
As they gained the street again, Ghulam hailed a rickshaw. ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Libby, ‘and get the tram back from town.’
They sat close together but the intense intimacy of the quiet garden had evaporated. Libby sensed that his mind was already preoccupied with work. He must be so worried about the reports of communal violence coming out of the Punjab.
Disembarking at Chowringhee Square, Libby said, ‘Thank you for lunch – and cake – I’ve really enjoyed it all.’
Ghulam nodded and gave a distracted smile. ‘Remember to call on my sister before you go to Assam.’
Libby felt dashed; he was not going to make another assignation. As far as Ghulam was concerned, he had made amends for his rudeness and done his duty to his sister.
‘Would you and Fatima come to my birthday party?’ Libby blurted out. ‘It’s next Tuesday. At my uncle’s house. Nothing grand. But it’s a way of seeing my friends before I leave.’
He looked astonished. ‘I can’t imagine your uncle and aunt will want the likes of me at your party, Miss Robson.’
‘Uncle Johnny won’t mind in the least – and anyway the guest list is up to me, not my aunt. And Fatima deserves a night out – you told me she works too hard.’
He looked undecided.
She pressed him. ‘Please come. You won’t be the only Indians there, I can promise you that.’
‘Well, if you really want—’
‘Yes I do.’ Libby cut in. ‘I’ll send an invitation with the details. I don’t want any presents – just a bit of fun.’
His mouth twitched in amusement. ‘Well, if my sister wants to go, then I shall bring her.’
‘Good.’ Libby smiled. ‘And thank you again for today.’
He raised a hand in farewell and strode off into the building. Libby could imagine her mother’s disapproval at Ghulam leaving her unchaperoned in the street and expected to find her own way home. But Libby was pleased. It showed Ghulam thought of them as equal – and Libby as mature and independent.
With a tremor of excitement, she set off down the street to catch a tram. Something unexpected had happened today. She had gone half reluctantly to meet Ghulam Khan, convinced he would be as dismissive of her as he had been on their first meeting. But she had had the most stimulating lunchtime and afternoon since coming to Calcutta. Libby had revelled in his company and was fairly sure he had enjoyed hers. Why else would he have suggested extending their time together by going to the cake shop and then showing her more of central Calcutta?
Yet, sitting in the Duff Church garden, she had felt something deeper: a powerful physical attraction. Had Ghulam felt anything similar? As the tram swayed, she went over in her mind every scrap of conversation, gesture and look she could recall. She felt exhilarated. Soon she would have the party to look forward to – not only the excitement of being reunited with her adored father, but also the anticipation of seeing Ghulam again.
It was only when she alighted in leafy Alipore that it occurred to Libby: for the whole afternoon she hadn’t thought of George once.
