Dark Road to Darjeeling (31 page)

“Then don’t be so vile,” I told him, calmly buttering another piece of toast.

“Very well,” he said. “I apologise. I ought not to have said it. I have never been very useful in a sickroom.”

“He is not sick,” I pointed out. “He has been drugged with a rather potent combination of morphia and a few other various things.”

Plum gave a soundless whistle. “Little wonder he sleeps so deeply.”

“Indeed.”

We fell into silence again, but in spite of the circumstances, I think it was the most comfortable silence I have ever shared with my brother. He must have felt it as well, for before long, he said, in a voice quite unlike any I have ever heard, “It saved me, you know. The work. I did not jest about the cliff. There was one at the seaside where I took a cottage in Ireland. And twice each day I walked it, and twice each day I looked over the edge and tried to decide if the fall was far enough to kill a man.”

I put down my spoon and pushed away the tray.

“I had my art, of course, but even that grew stale and unfulfilling. I lied to Portia when I told her I was painting at my best,” he added, shamefaced. “The truth is I hadn’t painted anything worth the canvas I wasted to make it. I burned them all. And just when I thought I could not fall any lower, Father’s letter came, demanding I accompany Portia to India. And my first thought was that India was as good a place as any to die.”

The food I had just eaten sat heavy as lead in my stomach as he went on in the same odd, toneless voice.

“And then Brisbane approached me about working with him. He told me there were places he could not go, asked if I would consent to be his eyes and ears. I do not know why I agreed. I didn’t even like the fellow,” he said with brutal honesty. “But the more I came to know him, the more I realised why I did not like him. It was because he had everything I wanted.”

“A wife?” I guessed.

“A purpose,” Plum said firmly. “Every morning when he wakes, he knows precisely why he gets out of his bed. And every night he puts his head to the pillow knowing that he has done something worthwhile.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling rather annoyed. Plum flashed me a grin.

“I know he loves you devotedly,” he assured me. “But he knew what sort of man he was meant to be long before he met you, and he is still that man. If you were to leave him, he would be that man until his dying day. I have never met a person with a clearer sense of purpose and duty than Brisbane.”

I looked away sharply, feeling rather proud of my husband.

“And I felt quite annoyed with Father,” Plum went on.

“Father? Whatever for?”

“Because he brought us up to be perfectly useless! Oh, I do not suppose it was entirely his fault,” Plum acknowledged, “but apart from Bellmont, who will inherit the entire estate, what point is there to the rest of us? Father has nine other children and for what reason? What are we meant to do? What should we do? I will grant you Benedick, for he manages the Home Farm and that is good and useful work, but what of the remainder? Valerius will qualify for a doctor, but he has spent years wearing Father down to accept his youngest son’s ambitions. The others of us do not even have that. Our sisters are all wives and mothers, save Portia, and—” He broke off. “Portia is rather a force of nature, but even she has no particular purpose. And our brother Lysander dabbles in his music as I have dabbled in art. We are dilettantes, but never virtuosos. We have talent, but because of Father’s money we are never forced to use that talent to drive us. We lack purpose,” he finished earnestly.

I saw only too well the point he was attempting to make. How often had I lamented my own uselessness? How often had I jus
tified my meddling in Brisbane’s investigations on the grounds that I was accomplishing some good?

“I understand,” I told him. “You do realise your ideas are entirely revolutionary, Plum? They are contrary to everything we have been raised to believe.”

“That is not true,” he countered. “Father always taught us to engage in our passions, follow our enthusiasm. And now, for the first time in my life, I have found my enthusiasm and it is to be useful, to help ensure that justice is preserved.”

It was a pompous little speech, but I could not fault it otherwise.

“Do you mean to work with Brisbane then in some sort of regular capacity?”

Plum nodded. “If he will have me. I have much to learn, but I move in exclusive circles, and I am in demand as a portraitist. I have always spurned such work as lacking in imagination, but just think of what I might learn from a few afternoons spent painting gossipy society ladies or making myself pleasant at a house party. I am uniquely positioned to help Brisbane, the more because no one in society will expect it. Everyone knows we barely tolerate Brisbane.”

“I beg your pardon,” I said with some indignation.

Plum hastened to explain. “You know Bellmont,” he said with a repressive expression. “He is pleasant enough to Brisbane’s face, but he does not much care for his sister being married to a fellow who is in trade. He does not say it, of course, he is too loyal to the family to expose you to public ridicule,” he assured me, “but anyone who knows him can read that tight-lipped smile and those careful silences. He is deeply conscious of being the heir to the earldom and a member of Parliament. He will never be thoroughly happy with your marriage, and it is logical for folk to assume that the rest of us share his opinion. That perception of distance between us could be quite useful,” he concluded.

I opened my mouth to remonstrate with him, then closed it sharply. If Plum had been despairing enough in Ireland to contemplate ending it all, I could hardly begrudge him whatever happiness he had found in working for my husband. And he had found happiness, of that I was certain. There would always be the air of sadness lingering in his eyes, the unknowing handiwork of our Italian sister-in-law, but there was a rekindled vitality in him that had been sadly lacking for some time, and I was glad to see it.

“I hope you will be happy in your work,” I told him sincerely. But I did not share with him the letter in my pocket. I might be reconciled to Plum’s presence in the business of investigation, but I held the remaining pieces of the puzzle, and I alone would show them to Brisbane.

Brisbane slept the better part of the day, and when he finally awakened, his eyes were clear and he was able to sit up without demanding a basin—significant improvement, I thought. Dr. Llewellyn had been again to see him, and Jolly had sent up delicious things for me to pick over and send down largely untouched. The longer I remained in that room, the less of an appetite I seemed to have, but Brisbane awoke with a monstrous thirst and enough hunger to eat the entire supper tray I had merely toyed with.

“I am not at all certain you are meant to eat proper food,” I scolded. “You ought to have bland, nourishing things like beef tea and a nice blancmange.”

Brisbane forked up a succulent piece of duck and waved it at me. “If you ever come at me with a blancmange, I shall send the whole mess out the window and you after it.”

I lowered my head and pleated the sheet between my fingers. It seemed impossible to me that he should emerge from such an
ordeal so unscathed and it made me feel quite emotional that he should still be the imperious devil I had married.

I told him as much and he smiled. “I still find light is troublesome,” he admitted. “I shall have to wear the smoked spectacles for a few days.”

“And you must rest,” I insisted.

“After I have had a bath and a decent shave,” he agreed, rubbing a hand to the black shadow at his jaw.

He applied himself to his food again, but after a moment he fixed his attention upon me. “You have learned something.”

“Yes.” I hesitated. I hardly knew how to tell him. It was such a dreadful story. But I took a deep breath and plunged. “When you were slipping into unconsciousness, you told me to find the letter.”

He furrowed his brow. “What letter?”

“I did not know at the time. But you said there would be a letter and I should find it.”

He put down his fork and rested against the pillows. “I was thinking of Pennyfeather. That he ought to have left a letter.”

“He did.” I drew the letter from my pocket and handed it to him. He squinted at the writing upon the envelope, difficult to make out in such dim light and I remembered that his eyes were always a little weak after a headache.

“This was meant to be given to you after the funeral,” he said. “When was it?”

“It is tomorrow, actually. I managed to get it from Lalita. He had given it to her for safekeeping, with instructions to deliver it and a parcel to me after he was buried. It is a confession.”

Brisbane thrust it back into my hands. “Read it.”

He closed his eyes and I read, slowly, feeling the pain that laced each tortured word. When I had finished, Brisbane opened his eyes, shaking his head slowly.

“He needn’t have done it,” he said, his voice thick with anger.

“To his mind, he had no choice,” I returned, tucking the pages into the envelope. “Do try that orange cake. It looks quite lovely and moist,” I said, nodding toward the plump slice of cake still upon the tray.

Brisbane shoved the tray aside, almost upsetting the entire affair.

I rose and tidied away the tray, returning to sit upon the bed. “I know you are angry that he should have taken such steps,” I began.

“Yes, I am bloody well angry,” he burst out. “He might have come to me for help. We could have found a solution that would have satisfied both justice and the boy’s need for supervision.”

“What solution?” I asked gently. “Brisbane, there is nowhere in the world that you can confine a child with murderous tendencies that will not warp him further.”

“We might have found him a place,” Brisbane insisted. “He need not have died.”

“But would he ever have really lived? Robin was devoted to nature, to animals, to the out of doors. To have locked him away and watched him, like a caged specimen, would have been a far worse fate than the one his father inflicted upon him.”

He gave me a withering stare. “You cannot possibly believe that his father acted for the best.”

“I do not believe there was a ‘best’ to be had,” I argued. “To that boy there would have been little difference between an asylum and death itself. And you have been in those places,” I went on, “you have seen for yourself how the mad are treated. He would have been an animal to them, something less than human. They do not care for reform in such places. They care only to keep the insane from harming the rest of us. So they lock the doors and bar the windows and stop their ears to the screams.
But Robin would have heard them, every day for the rest of his life. He was a child and he had already committed murder, Brisbane. He was not a china plate to be mended.”

“You do not know that,” he contradicted, but something of the fight had gone out of him, either because he saw a glimmer of sense in my argument or because he was still too exhausted from his ordeal.

“No, I do not know it. But I believe it. And what’s more, so do you. I have heard you hold forth rather eloquently on the subject of asylums and how barbaric they are. You even said you would not want a dog kept in such conditions. How then could they be suitable for a boy who might have to spend fifty or sixty years in such a place?”

He said nothing, and I pressed my advantage, too far as it turned out.

“I think you are simply angry with the Reverend because you are the one who had to take Robin from the lake and carry him to his mother. That must have been ghastly,” I said gently.

But Brisbane wanted none of my tenderness. He punched his pillow viciously. “I am in no mood for visitors,” he said icily. “Leave me be.”

He rolled away with his back to me and I obliged him. I had had my fill of him as well.

I went to the door and paused, my hand upon the knob. “I will leave you to rest now, but make no mistake, Brisbane. I am no visitor. I am your wife.”

I left him then and decided a walk in the garden might soothe my ruffled temper. I knew better than to prick Brisbane when he was in such a mood, but I had not guarded my tongue. The truth was he bitterly resented the fact that the Reverend had left it to others to attend to the clearing up, and although I had seen Brisbane rise to the occasion in circumstances just as demanding, carrying the dead child must have affected him in ways I had not imagined.

I was lost in my thoughts when I gained the pretty little rose arbour, and did not hear footsteps approaching. It was only when a low voice called my name that I looked up.

“Miss Thorne, my apologies. I was woolgathering.”

“No matter. I merely wanted to speak with you, if you do not mind.”

I patted the seat next to me, and although she hesitated a
moment, she seated herself, giving me a grateful look. Just then Feuilly swept by, trailing his tail flirtatiously in front of the austere and unimpressed Madame Feuilly.

“She is a terrible coquette,” I observed. “She actually adores him, and cannot bear him out of her sight. But if he attempts to impress her, she scorns him. It is quite diverting to watch.”

Miss Thorne merely nodded, then burst out, “I know about the letter. Lalita told me of its existence. She does not know what it held, and neither do I, but I can guess.”

I began to explain that I could not break the confidences within, but she held up a hand. “I do not ask anything of you except that you confirm what I already believe.” She paused, gathering up her courage. “I believe the Reverend drowned his son. And I believe he took his own life to atone for taking his child’s.”

I stared at her in astonishment, and she gave me a bitter smile. “You need say nothing, my lady. I see that I was right. I merely wanted to confirm it for my own peace of mind.”

“How did you know?”

She shrugged. “I cannot say. I have always been observant, sensitive to people and their little ways. That is how I was able to go so much further than Lalita in school. I was always able to see the little nuances of how the English behaved and to ape them. Lalita saw few differences, of course, but I saw everything. I saw how ladies held their spoons and how they walked and how they gestured. And when I wanted to please the headmistress and teachers at school, I learned to look for signs that I might approach them. The headmistress was a quarrelsome woman, and I saw that if her knuckles were white and her mouth prim, it meant I should never persuade her to give me what I asked, no matter how just. But if I waited until her lips were parted and her arms swung loosely when she walked, she would always grant
me a boon, regardless of whether I deserved it. And when I went into service as a governess, I learned which masters could be trusted, and which must be avoided, simply by paying careful attention to how the gentleman introduced his wife. A hand to the small of the back, a moment’s lingering glance and I had a man who loved his wife and would not seek to meddle with me, but if he merely waved to her brusquely, he thought of her as a possession and would think the same of me. The first time I met the Reverend Pennyfeather, it was entirely apparent that he had eyes to see his wife and no one else. I thought him kindly and a little naïve,” she admitted.

“He was,” I told her.

“And I suspected they would not interfere with me, the Pennyfeathers. I wanted to come home to the Valley of Eden, and so I took the position. But all was not as it seemed at first,” she confessed. “I saw that the children were odd, perhaps dangerously so in Robin’s case. Primrose was entirely under her mother’s influence, always with her head in the clouds, thinking of some new and outrageous thing. But Robin’s purpose was singular. He wanted only to understand the natural world and how it worked.”

“A noble enough pursuit,” I observed.

“I believe that depends upon one’s methods,” she corrected. “And Robin’s were sometimes cruel. Boys are often cruel, I know this. They pull wings off flies and burn ants through the lens of a magnifying glass. But once I went to Robin’s room and saw that he had taken the legs from a lizard to observe if the creature would learn to move as a snake moves and adapt to its new situation.”

“How ghastly,” I murmured.

“Exactly. I told the Reverend Pennyfeather, but he dismissed it with a pat on my arm, saying Robin was a budding scientist
and must not be discouraged. I knew then I could not say to him that I had seen something malicious in his son’s eyes. He would think me a fool. And so I simply watched.”

“And?”

She spread her hands. “I saw nothing. Robin had seen my look of horror, and he was careful to keep his door locked after that. His parents would never force the issue, and I had no authority of my own. I could only watch and keep my suspicions to myself. I was glad when he befriended Freddie Cavendish,” she said with a faraway look. “I thought Mr. Cavendish might be a settling influence upon Robin. The boy had no friends of his own age, and Freddie Cavendish—” She broke off.

“Was a bit of a child himself,” I supplied.

“Precisely,” she said. “I do not like to speak ill of the man. I thought with his enthusiasm and insouciance, perhaps he could become friends with Robin and help to bring him along. But I was wrong. He was so easily led by others. I do not think he wanted to be here, burdened with the responsibilities of a grown man. He left Harry to manage the tea garden and his aunt to manage the household. And I fear he was not always kind to Mrs. Cavendish, although it is not my place to say it. This is the picture of the man Freddie Cavendish was.”

She paused and I thought of my first husband, Sir Edward Grey. He had had much in common with Freddie Cavendish.

“And so I saw very quickly that this relationship would not bring the stability that I hoped it would to Robin’s life. Freddie seemed to tire of him as he tired of all his enthusiasms. Sometimes he would be rather brusque with the child and put him off, but other times he was kindly and jovial, and soon Robin began to look for those times as a starveling pup will look for food. You see, for all their intelligence and their kindness, the Pennyfeathers lacked basic affection towards their children. They
were so busy engaging in their own pursuits, they thought the best they could do for Primrose and Robin was leave them to their own devices, confine them as little as possible and let them develop as nature intended. This was Mrs. Pennyfeather’s belief,” she hastened to add. “I do not think the Reverend always agreed, else I do not think I should have been engaged. But their whole manner of bringing up their children seems so peculiar to me, the most curious mix of neglect and indulgence. And the result is two children who I suspect have been damaged by the lack of proper structure and rules, tempered with simple affection.”

“You think Primrose was damaged as well?”

“How could she fail to be? Her perception of the world has been coloured by her mother’s rose-tinted spectacles. To be sure, Primrose is far more practical than Mrs. Pennyfeather, but I have already seen examples of her disregard for convention,” she said, primming her mouth. “The Pennyfeathers do not observe propriety when it does not suit them,” she added, but although the words were harsh, they were said without anger. Pity seemed her only emotion.

“What will become of you now?” I asked her. “Will the Pennyfeathers keep you on now that Robin is…” I did not like to say the word.

“I do not know. Primrose never liked having a governess, but Mrs. Pennyfeather does seem rather dependent upon me as general dogsbody, so perhaps there will be a place for me,” she said with a weary smile.

We rose then and I put out my hand. “I am sorry for your loss, Miss Thorne.”

She looked at me, startled. “My loss?”

“I think you cared for Robin, and I think you bear the guilt of knowing that the boy’s mind was twisted and there was nothing you could have done to prevent it.”

“I ask myself that, over and again,” she said. “Could it have been prevented? Could I have done more to save him?”

“No.” I put my hand to her sleeve. “You did all that you could, and you must content yourself with that.”

“I want to believe you, but I believe it is a question I shall ask of myself until the end of my days.”

I paused. “If you were so convinced that Robin had something to do with Freddie’s death, why did you fear Harry’s involvement?”

Emotion suffused her face. “Because if I could admit even the smallest doubt of his character, I knew I could never marry him. So long as there was even a shadow of possibility hanging over him, I could not love him.”

“I understand. Perhaps now—”

She held up a hand. “It is too soon to think of such things. There is mourning to be done first. And all things must be done in their time.”

She looked to the far-off peaks of the Himalayas, her expression serene, a mystic nun contemplating medieval mysteries. “This place was not always called the Valley of Eden. That is the name my grandfather gave to it. When he came, the valley had long been abandoned by those who built the temple on the ridge. It had fallen into disrepair and the whole of the valley was carpeted with the most beautiful flowers, a river of violet as far as the eye could see. But the flowers were deadly nightshade, and no native would come to this place, for just to breathe the air was to inhale the poison of the blossoms. My people called it the Valley of Death. And though the English tore out the flowers by their poisonous roots and planted tea and made it safe to live here once more, there are those who say the shadow of death has not left this place.”

We parted then, for both of us had much to think on and little left to say.

The funeral of Robin Pennyfeather and his father was conducted the following day, and it was so strange an event that I have never seen its like. The native children of the valley sang, but no hymns, for Cassandra insisted they sing their own songs of mourning, the same songs that had been chanted when the bodies of Robin and his father were carried out of the lake. Cassandra draped herself in flowing black robes with a long black veil, but her face was composed and she did not weep. Primrose too was dry-eyed, dressed in a more conventional mourning costume, and carrying an armful of orchids from her father’s garden. They were purple, the colour of royal mourning, I remembered, and the same colour as the deadly nightshade that had once poisoned the valley. Brisbane was up and about, although he wore smoked spectacles and spoke little. Harry Cavendish stood close to Miss Thorne, I saw, and further I saw the gimlet eye of Miss Cavendish fall thoughtfully upon the pair. I had little doubt that the midnight conversation I had overheard between Miss Cavendish and Harry touched upon Miss Thorne. She had feared Miss Thorne would attempt to acquire the tea garden by legal means, but Harry had known all along that a far simpler solution was at hand if only he could persuade her to accept his proposal of marriage. There had been nothing more sinister than a private family quarrel in that encounter, and I was glad of it, for I had become rather fond of the Cavendishes.

Dr. Llewellyn read out the order of service, but although he was not ordained, something about the sweet Welsh lilt of his voice made the words more poignant. Unwilling to wait for a clergyman to be fetched from Darjeeling, Cassandra had prevailed upon him to perform the service as a favour to her, and more than once I noticed a certain softness about her when her gaze fell upon him. When the service was concluded, we made
our way to the Bower for the obligatory food and drink, and I pondered Cassandra and what might become of her now.

I need not have worried. I had no sooner filled my plate with an assortment of Lalita’s most mouthwatering delicacies when Primrose appeared at my elbow. “Cassandra would like to see you in the studio,” she murmured.

I raised a brow, but put aside my plate with a pang of regret and followed her. Packing crates stood open, spilling excelsior over the floor and the shelves had been stripped of their bottled chemicals and photographic equipment.

“You are packing away your studio,” I said stupidly.

Cassandra rose from where she was filling a crate with photographic plates. She was wearing black, but filmy stuff, unsuited to mourning, and about her wrist, Percival was coiled half a dozen times, a sort of living bracelet. “I am leaving the valley, and I wanted to see you. I found I could not bear the crush out there any longer,” she added as an apology. “I need to do something with my hands.”

“I understand perfectly,” I told her, although I had rather expected that receiving condolences and holding court as the grief-stricken mother and widow would have appealed to her sense of the theatrical. It was an unworthy thought and I regretted it instantly.

“Primrose and I are bound for Greece,” she said, rolling the word on her tongue as if tasting it.

“Greece! That will make quite a change,” I managed.

Primrose stepped forward. “Cassandra, the crate is already quite packed and you do not want to damage the plates. Begin a new crate and I will mark this one full,” she instructed, moving forward to take charge of the packing.

I looked at her with fresh eyes and realised what I ought to have seen before: Primrose had put her hair up, literally and
figuratively, I decided as she moved about the studio, making brisk decisions about what would accompany them to Greece. “We ought to take the draperies,” she offered. “There is quite a lot of fabric here, and we might want them for curtains in our new house.”

Cassandra smiled at her indulgently, then turned to me. “You see, our circumstances have turned her into a little martinet.” But her expression was warm, and she extended her hand to her daughter. Primrose came to her and they embraced. “She will take care of me,” Cassandra said, and Primrose petted her with a satisfied air. The loss they had suffered, a loss that might have devastated a different sort of family, might just be the making of them. Cassandra would never lose her indolence, her refusal to take up the burdens of adulthood. But Primrose was only too eager to shoulder them, and I began to see that she had absorbed more of Miss Thorne’s careful good sense than I had previously suspected.