Dark Road to Darjeeling. Deanna Raybourn

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ she muttered.

      “Nonsense. The place was named for peacocks. Doubtless there are still some about. They put up a terrible fuss, but they will not hurt you.”

      She fixed me with a sceptical eye and I knew capitulation was my only hope if I expected to sleep.

      I sighed. “Very well. You may sleep in here tonight,” I told her. If I had expected her to make up a sleeping pallet at the hearth, I was sadly mistaken, for no sooner had she helped me out of my gown and locked away my jewels than she dropped her shoes to the floor and climbed into the great bed, taking the side closest to the fire.

      I sighed again and took the other, colder side, burrowing into the covers and pulling my pillow over my head. Sleep did not come easily, perhaps from the heaviness of the meal. But I lay for some time in the dark, thinking of everything I had seen and heard and listening to Morag’s snores. At last, I fell into a deep and restless sleep. I dreamed of Brisbane.

      The Third Chapter

      Thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not.

      Thou hast given me seats in homes not my own.

      Thou hast brought the distant near and made a brother of the stranger.

      —Old and New

      Rabindranath Tagore

      The next morning dawned bright and cool, the mountain air sweeping down from the snowy peaks and scouring away all my heaviness of the night before. I opened the shutters to see the sun shimmering opal-pink against the flank of Kanchenjunga, and Miss Cavendish below in her garden, a trug looped over one arm, a pair of sharp secateurs in the other hand. She was pruning, making things neat and tidy, and if the garden was an example of her handiwork, she was expert. I had not noticed on our arrival, but the grounds were rather extensive, lushly planted with English cottage flowers in the first flush of spring. She kept their exuberance reined in with a firm hand, but the effect was one of refreshment, and I fancied the garden would provide an excellent spot for reflection during my investigation.

      And for conversation, I decided, spying Harry Cavendish just emerging from a pair of garden doors opposite the wing where I was lodged. He looked up and caught sight of me. His mouth curved into a smile, and he waved his hat by way of greeting. I lifted a hand and scurried back into my room. Married ladies did not hang from windows in their night attire to wave at bachelors, I told myself severely. Particularly when their husbands were not at hand.

      A tea tray had been left at the door and in short order I was washed and dressed and ready for the day, determined to make some headway in my investigation. I wanted a tête-à-tête with Jane, but when I made my way to the breakfast room, she was not in evidence.

      “I heard Aunt Camellia say Jane had a bad night,” Harry explained as he helped himself to eggs and kidneys from the sideboard. “She is still abed and Lady Bettiscombe is breakfasting with her.” If I was disappointed at missing the chance to speak with Jane, it occurred to me that Harry Cavendish might prove a worthwhile substitute. I likewise helped myself to the hot dishes on the sideboard and took a seat at the table. Jolly appeared at my elbow with a pot of tea and a rack of crisp toast, and when he departed, I turned to Harry Cavendish.

      “Have you lived here all your life, Mr. Cavendish?”

      He nodded. “Almost. My father was Fitzhugh Cavendish’s youngest son, Patrick.”

      I smiled at him. “A bit of Irish blood in the family, is there?”

      He returned the smile, and I thought of the string of heart-broken young ladies he might have left behind had he ever travelled to London. “Grandfather Fitz’s mother was an Irish lass from Donegal. He was named for her family, and he carried the Irish on to the next generation. His eldest son was Conor, then came Aunt Camellia, then my father, Patrick.”

      “Surely Camellia is not an Irish name,” I put in, helping myself to a slice of toast from the rack.

      “No, Grandfather Fitz had a bit of the poet about him, no doubt a relic of his Irish blood. He called her Camellia after the plant upon which he meant to build his fortune—the camellia sinensis. Tea,” he explained, lifting his cup.

      “What a charming thought,” I said, even as I reflected to myself that anyone less flowerlike would be difficult to imagine.

      “Yes, well.” His lips twitched as if he was suppressing the same thought. “Uncle Conor married and Freddie came along shortly after. Then Uncle Conor and his wife were killed in a railway accident in Calcutta.”

      “How dreadful! Was Freddie very old?”

      Harry Cavendish shrugged. “Still in skirts. He had no memory of them. Grandfather Fitz fetched him here to be brought up, the same as he did for me when my parents died.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “Nothing so dramatic as a railway accident, I’m afraid. An outbreak of cholera. Within the span of two years, Grandfather Fitz had two orphaned grandsons to bring up. If Aunt Camellia ever had the opportunity to marry, she gave it up to stay at the Peacocks and keep matters in hand.”

      “A noble sacrifice,” I observed.

      Harry pitched his voice lower. “If you promise not to repeat it, I will tell you I think she has been quite contented with her lot as a spinster. She has ruled this particular roost with a very firm hand. She had the sole running of the tea garden for a few years when Grandfather Fitz began to fail.”

      “When Freddie was still in England?”

      “Yes. They sent him to school at fifteen and he made up his mind not to come home again.”

      “I remember. He called upon my father,” I commented, deftly omitting Father’s response to his visit. “But surely fifteen was rather late to leave it. Oughtn’t he have been sent much earlier?”

      “Oh, yes, most folk here send their boys back home at age six or seven for schooling. Freddie made do with Grandfather Fitz’s library and the odd bit of tutoring here and there.”

      He pressed his lips together again, and suddenly I became more interested in what he was not saying.

      “And you never went home to England?”

      “Never. My home is here,” he said simply. “I am a planter. Tea is all I know and all I care to know. Aunt Camellia left the place in my hands when she went to England to fetch Freddie home. It was the happiest time of my life,” he said, his tone touched with something more than wistfulness.

      “When was that?” I spoke softly. He seemed to be slipping into a reverie, and I had watched Brisbane question enough people to know that in such a state all a subject requires is the gentlest nudge to reveal rather more than he might have preferred.

      “Two years past. Freddie was in trouble—gambling, I am afraid. Aunt Camellia had almost persuaded Grandfather Fitz to cut him off entirely, but he was still the heir. Aunt Camellia hoped he would learn to love the business if he were brought home and made to apply himself. So she went to England to persuade him to return with her. She failed. She returned home without him, and it took only a little more persuasion to convince Grandfather Fitz to withdraw Freddie’s allowance until he had proven himself worthy of the inheritance. Grandfather Fitz issued an ultimatum. Freddie was to marry and return to India as soon as possible if he held any hope of inheriting СКАЧАТЬ