Dark Road to Darjeeling

We lingered a number of days in Darjeeling town organising the rest of our journey before pressing on, passing through villages and skirting tea plantations and falling into rivers. The children were plump and friendly, and I noticed their parents were very unlike the Indians of Calcutta, for here the native folk were much shorter and with a coppery cast of complexion and broad, flat cheekbones. Portia, who had armed herself with every bit of information she could find upon the area, informed me that the people of Sikkim blended Bengali Indian with Tibetan and Nepalese, and that the language was a peculiar patois of Hindustani liberally laced with the mountain tongues. The result was a nearly indecipherable but pleasant-sounding language that rose and fell with a musical lilt.

“Yes, but are we actually in Sikkim?” I asked.

Portia wrinkled up her nose and pored over the map. “I think we may actually have crossed into Nepal.”

“Nepal? Are you delirious?” Plum demanded. “We are still in Darjeeling district.”

I peered over Portia’s shoulder. “I think we might have crossed into Sikkim, just there,” I pointed.

“You have the map upside down. That is Madagascar,” Plum said nastily.

“We could ask a porter,” I ventured.

“We cannot ask a porter,” Portia hissed, “any more than we can ask the Cavendishes. It would be rude and impossibly stupid of us not to know where we are. Besides, so long as the porters know, that is all that needs be said upon the matter.”

The one point we did agree upon was the beauty of our surroundings, wherever they might be. The landscape seemed to have taken what was best from many places and combined it to great effect, for I saw familiar trees and plants—ferns and roses and elms—and mingling with them the exotic blooms of orchids and towering, fragrant deodars. Here and there a cluster of native bungalows gave way to neat English cottages, sitting like curiosities among the orderly undulations of the tea fields. And over it all hovered the scent of the tea plants, rising above the serried rows to perfume the air. It was captivating, and more than once Plum very nearly walked off the side of a mountain because he was busily sketching scenes in his notebook.

At last, a few days’ ride out of Darjeeling town—possibly in Sikkim, although possibly not—we crested a small mountain and looked down into as pretty and tidy a valley as I had ever seen. A small river debouched into a lake thick with lilies and water hyacinths at the mouth of the valley, and the only means of entrance was by way of a narrow stone bridge that seemed to beckon us forward.

The head porter said something in his broken English to Portia and she nodded to me. “This is it. It is called the Valley of Eden, and just there,” she said, pointing with her crop, “that cluster of low buildings. That is the Peacocks.” Her voice shook a little, and I realised she must have been nervous at seeing Jane again. She had loved her so devotedly, and to be cast aside was no small thing to Portia. Yet though she was a prodigious holder of grudges, she would have travelled a hundred times as far to help her beloved Jane. But now, hovering on the edge of the precipice, she must have felt the awkwardness of it keenly, and I offered her a reassuring smile.

“It is time, Portia.” I spurred my mount and led the way down the winding path into the Valley of Eden.

Portia need not have worried. Before we had even ridden into the front court, the main doors of the plantation house had been thrown back upon their hinges and Jane, moving as quickly as her condition would permit, fairly flew down the steps.

Portia dismounted and threw her reins to me, gathering Jane into her arms and holding her tightly. Plum and I looked away until Portia stepped back and Jane turned to us.

“Oh, and, Julia, you as well!” I dismounted and offered her another embrace, although not so ferocious as that of my sister, and after a moment I ceded my place to Plum. We had all of us been fond of Jane, and not just for the happiness she had brought to our sister.

Several minutes of confusion followed as the porters unlashed our trunks and sorted what was to be carried inside and what could be taken directly to the lumber rooms and stored, and through it all, Jane beamed at Portia. Anyone who knew her only a little would think her happiness undimmed, but I knew better. There were lines at her mouth and eyes that matched my sister’s, and a new quickness to her motions spoke of anxiety she could not still.

“We have already had tea,” she said apologetically, “but if you would like to rest and wash now, I will have something brought to your rooms and you can meet the family at dinner. They are engaged at present, but they are very keen to meet you.” She showed us to our rooms then, scarcely giving us a chance to remark upon the elegance of the house itself. As we had seen from the road, it was low, only two floors, but wide, with broad verandahs stretching the length of both storeys. Staircases inside and out offered easy ingress, and windows from floor to ceiling could be opened for fresh air and spectacular views of the tea garden and the mountains beyond. I had not expected so gracious a home in so remote a spot, but the house was lovely indeed and I was curious about its history.

I was given a pretty suite upstairs with a dressing room, and it was quickly decided that Morag should sleep there. Morag sniffed when she saw the narrow bed, but she said nothing, which told me she was far more exhausted than I had realised. I felt a stab of guilt when I thought of Morag, no longer a young woman, toiling up the mountain roads, clutching the mane of her donkey and muttering Gaelic imprecations under her breath.

“I do hope you will be comfortable here, Morag,” I said by way of conciliation.

She fixed me with a gimlet eye. “And I hope you will enjoy living out your life here, my lady. There is nothing on earth that would induce me to undertake that journey again.”

And as she unpacked my things with a decidedly permanent air, I realised she meant it.

I lay for some time upon my bed, intending to rest, but assaulted by questions. I rose at length and took up a little notebook, scribbling down the restless thoughts that demanded consideration. First, there was the matter of the estate. I wanted to make certain that the dispositions of Freddie’s legacy were as we suspected. It was impossible to determine if the tea garden was profitable, but the house itself spoke eloquently upon the point of prosperity and perhaps there was a private income attached to the estate as well. If nothing else, the land itself must be worth a great deal and many have been killed for less. Establishing the parameters of the inheritance would go some distance towards establishing a motive, I decided.

Second, I considered the dramatis personae. Who lived at the Peacocks and what had been their relationships with Freddie Cavendish? Were they characterised by pleasantry? Or something darker? I thought of all the possible personal motives for murder—betrayal, revenge, jealousy—and was momentarily discouraged. I had not met Freddie Cavendish for years and already I could imagine a dozen reasons for wanting him dead. This would never do.

I applied myself to thinking logically, as Brisbane would have done, and returned to the question of establishing the players and the question of money. The rest would have to wait, I decided firmly. I put aside my notebook and lifted the bell to ring for Morag. As I did so, I heard the rise and fall of voices, soft murmurs through the wall. I crept close, pressing my ear against it.

“Nothing,” I muttered, cursing the thick whitewashed plaster. I tiptoed to the bedside table and took up a water glass and returned to my listening post. I could hear a little better now, two voices, both feminine, and as I listened, I made out Portia’s distinctive laugh and Jane’s low tones. They were together then, I decided with satisfaction. Whatever had been broken between them could still be mended. And whatever Jane’s fears, she had the Marches at her side to battle her foes.

In spite of Morag’s incessant grumbling about the lack of space in the little dressing room, she managed to unearth my peony-pink evening gown again and the pink pearl bracelets I wore with it. The bracelets were set with unusual emerald clasps and the effect was one of burgeoning springtime, blossoms springing forth from lush green leaves. I left my room feeling rather pretty, particularly after Plum met me on the stairs to give me his arm and look me over with approval.

“A lovely colour. There is the merest undertone of grey to save it from sweetness,” he remarked. I forbore from remarking on the sweetness of his own ensemble, for his taffeta waistcoat was primrose, embroidered with a daisy chain of white marguerites.

He escorted me in to the drawing room where the rest of the household had gathered, and as we entered, Portia looked pointedly at the clock. I ignored her as Jane came forward, a little ungainly with her newly-enhanced figure, but still lovely in her own unique way. She had always favoured loose smocks, and now she wore them to better advantage, a dozen necklaces of rough beads looped about her neck and her dark red hair flowing unbound over her shoulders.

“Julia, you must allow me to introduce you. This is Freddie’s aunt, Miss Cavendish,” she said, indicating the somewhat elderly lady who had risen to shake my hand. Her grip was firm and her palm calloused, and I realised that in spite of her iron-grey hair, Miss Cavendish was something of a force of nature. She had a tall, athletic figure without a hint of a stoop, and I fancied her sharp blue eyes missed nothing. She was dressed in severely plain, almost nunlike fashion in an ancient gown of rusty black, and at her belt hung a chatelaine, the keys of the estate literally at her fingertips.

“How do you do, Miss Cavendish, although I am reminded we are kinswomen, are we not?”

“We have just been discussing the connection,” Portia put in, and I could see from her expression that the conversation had not been entirely pleasant.

“Indeed,” said Miss Cavendish stoutly. “Always said it was a mistake for Charlotte to marry your father. A nice enough man, to be sure, but classes shouldn’t mix, I always say, and Charlotte was gentry. Besides, the March bloodline is suspect, I am sure you will agree.”

I struggled to formulate a reply that was both pleasant and truthful, but before I could manage it, a voice rang out behind me.

“I for one am very pleased to own the connection.” I turned to find a personable young man standing in the doorway, smiling slightly. He extended his hand. “We do not stand upon ceremony here. I am Harry Cavendish, Freddie’s cousin, and yours, however distant. Welcome to the Peacocks.”

I took his hand. Like his aunt’s it was calloused, which spoke of hard work, but he was dressed like a gentleman and I noticed his vowels were properly obedient.

“Mr. Cavendish. I am Lady Julia Gr—Brisbane,” I corrected hastily. After nine months, I was still not entirely accustomed to my new name. “My sister, Lady Bettiscombe, and my brother, Eglamour March.”

He shook their hands in turn, and I noticed his aunt’s gaze resting upon him speculatively.

“Are you missing someone?” Miss Cavendish asked suddenly. “Seems like there ought to be another. I thought Jane said to expect four.”

A moment of awkward silence before I collected myself. “My husband. I am afraid he was detained in Calcutta at the viceroy’s request,” I explained hastily.

Just then a native man, a butler of sorts I imagined, appeared with a tiny gong, and I blessed the interruption. He was dressed in a costume of purest white from his collarless coat to his felt-soled slippers, with an elaborately-wound turban to match. He wore no ornamentation save a pair of heavy gold earrings. He was quite tall for a native of this region, for he stood just over Plum’s height of six feet, and his cadaverous frame seemed to make him taller still. His profile was striking, with a noble nose and deeply hooded black eyes which surveyed the company coolly.

With a theatrical gesture, he lifted his arm and struck the little gong. “Dinner is served,” he intoned, bowing deeply.

He withdrew at once, and Portia and Plum and I stared after this extraordinary creature.

“That is Jolly,” said Miss Cavendish, pursing her mouth a little. “I have told him such dramatics are not necessary, but he will insist. Now, we are too many ladies, so I am afraid each of you gentlemen shall have to take two of us in to dinner.”

I was surprised that the customs should be so formal in so distant a place—indeed, it seemed rather silly that we must process in so stately a fashion into the dining chamber, but I took Mr. Cavendish’s left arm and kept my eyes firmly averted from Portia’s. I knew one look at her was all that would be required to send us both into gales of laughter. Fatigue often had that effect upon us, and I was exhausted from the journey.

But all thoughts of fatigue fled as soon as I stepped into the dining room.

“Astonishing,” I breathed.

Beside me, Harry Cavendish smiled, a genuine smile with real warmth in it. “It is extraordinary, isn’t it? My grandfather always kept pet peacocks, and he commissioned this chamber in honour of them. It is the room for which the house was named,” he explained. The entire room was a soft peacock blue, the walls upholstered in thin, supple leather, the floors and ceiling stencilled and painted. Upon the ceiling, gold scallops had been traced to suggest overlapping feathers, and upon the walls themselves were painted pairs of enormous gilded birds. Most were occupied with flirtation or courtship it seemed, but one pair, perched just over the fireplace, were engaged in a battle, their tails fully opened and their claws glinting ominously. Each eye had been set with a jewel—or perhaps a piece of coloured glass—and the effect was beautiful, if slightly malevolent. A collection of blue-and-white porcelain dotted the room in carefully fitted gilded alcoves, and provided a place for the eye to rest. It was a magnificent room, and I murmured so to Harry Cavendish.

“Magnificent to be sure, but I have always found it a bit much,” he confessed, and even as I smiled in response, I saw Miss Cavendish draw herself upright, her stays creaking.

“This room was my father’s pride and joy,” she said sharply. “He had it commissioned when he married my mother, as a wedding present to her. It is the jewel of the valley, and folk are mindful of the honour of an invitation to dine within its walls.”

Before I could form words, Harry Cavendish cut in smoothly. “And well they ought, Aunt Camellia. But even you must admit the artist meant us to fear that fellow just there,” he said, nodding toward the largest of the peacocks, whose great ruby eye seemed to follow me as I took my chair. “Just look at the nobility of his profile,” Harry went on. “He is a fellow to be reckoned with. Just as Grandfather Fitz was.”

At this mention of her father, Miss Cavendish seemed mollified. She gave Harry a brisk nod of approval. “That he was. He carved this plantation from the wilderness,” she informed the rest of us. “There was nothing here save a ruined Buddhist temple high upon the ridge. No planters, no village, nothing as far as the eye could see to the base of Kanchenjunga itself. A new Eden,” she told us, her eyes gleaming. “It was my father who named this place, for he said so must have the earth itself appeared to Adam and Eve.”

She left off then to ring for Jolly and dinner was served. To my astonishment, there was not a single course, not a single dish, to speak to our surroundings. We might have been dining in a rectory in Reading for all the exoticism at that table. The food was correctly, rigidly English, from the starter of mushrooms on toast to the stodgy bread pudding. It had been cooked with skill, to be sure, but it lacked the flavour I had come to appreciate during my long months of travel. I had learnt to love oily fishes and pasta and olives and any number of spicy things on my adventures, and I had forgot how cheerless British cooking could be.

Harry gave me a conspiratorial nod. “It is deliberately bland because we must preserve our palates for tasting the tea. There are bowls of condiments if you require actual flavour in your food,” he added. I spooned a hearty helping of chutney upon my portion to find it helped immeasurably.

Over dinner, Miss Cavendish related to us the disposition of the valley.

“We are the only real planters in the valley,” she said proudly. “There is a small tea garden at the Bower, but nothing to what we have here. Theirs is a very small concern,” she added dismissively. “Almost the whole of the valley is entirely within the estate, and we employ all of the pickers hereabouts. Doubtless you will see them along the road, although I will warn you they can be importunate. Do not give them anything.”

Portia bristled. “Surely that is a matter best left to one’s own conscience,” she said as politely as she could manage.

“It is not,” Miss Cavendish returned roundly. “With all due courtesy, Lady Bettiscombe, you do not have to live amongst them. Our policies towards the local people have been developed over the course of many decades, and we cling to them because they work. Money is of no use to them for there is nothing to buy.” She warmed to her theme. “There have been planters, English planters, who have been foolish enough to meddle with the ways of the mountain folk. When it has gone awry, they have found themselves without pickers. The natives simply vanished, passing on to the next valley and leaving them with a crop and no one to pick it. They have failed and lost everything because of one moment of misguided compassion,” she said sternly. “That will not happen at the Peacocks.”

I noticed Jane said little, simply picking at her food. I wondered if she felt poorly, or if her nerves had simply gotten the better of her, and I was as relieved for her sake as mine when the meal was over, signalled by Jolly ringing his gong and announcing, “Dinner is finished.”

We rose and Miss Cavendish turned to us. “We keep planters’ hours here, I am afraid. We seldom engage in evening entertainments, and you are doubtless tired from your journey. We will say good-night.”

Upon this point we were entirely agreed, and the party broke up, each of us making our way upstairs with a single candle, shielded with a glass lamp against sudden draughts. A sharp wind had risen in the evening, and the house creaked and moaned in the shadows and every few minutes, a piercing shriek rent the night. “Peacocks,” I reassured myself, but I shivered as I made my way to my room where Morag was sitting, wide-eyed upon the edge of the bed.

“Devils,” 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.”