Dark Road to Darjeeling by Deanna Raybourn Read Free Book Online Page B

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, deftlyomitting 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 the estate.”
    “That is why he married Jane so hastily,” I murmured.
    Emotions warred upon his face. “I confess, I did not think them well suited,” Harry Cavendish said. “I like Jane—immensely. But she is so different from what Freddie was. There is something fine about Jane.”
    “Yes, that’s it precisely. She is simple and plain and good. Like water or earth,” I agreed.
    “That is why I am glad you have come, you and Lady Bettiscombe, particularly. A lady should have the comfort of old friends about her at such a time.” Whether he meant during her widowhood or confinement, I could not say, but it was a pretty sentiment either way.
    The conversation turned—rather naturally, I supposed—to tea then, and the coming harvest. The picking was very likely going to commence in a day or two, and I could see from his rising excitement that tea did indeed flow through his veins. But as we spoke, I sensed again an undercurrent of melancholy in him. It was nothing I could have pointed out to another, no peculiarity of manner or speech, but it was there, hovering just behind his eyes, some fear or sense of loss. And as I listened to him enthuse about the harvest, I wondered precisely how far this charming young