Dark Road to Darjeeling (20 page)

Luncheon was a delicious affair, with proper Bengali cooking and several dishes of great complexity. Lalita had worked her
magic well and the excellence of the cuisine served to smooth over the odd atmosphere that had settled over the house. The Reverend was kindly as ever, his wife as distracted as I had come to expect. The children were permitted to sit at the table, although this was hardly a concession in Primrose’s case as she was nearly fully grown. Only Robin seemed to chafe at the privilege, tugging at his collar and fretting over the state of his new quail, whom he told me had begun to pine. Miss Thorne, not surprisingly, was sunk into her thoughts, and Brisbane was careful not to look once in her direction. Harry ignored her as well, but upon reflection, I realised he had perhaps been too carefully schooled in his aunt’s variety of snobbery to appreciate sitting down to luncheon with a servant, albeit an upper one.

But the excellent food eased the awkwardness of conversation, and as we repaired to the garden to sample an array of sweet things, Primrose actually engaged me.

“I have heard you investigate things,” she said abruptly. We fell in step and she guided me to the far end of the garden where archery butts had been placed. Everyone else was engaged in some sort of leisurely activity. The Reverend was busily attending his orchids; Brisbane and Harry were engaged in an impromptu game of cricket with Robin while Miss Thorne had gone to fetch her knitting, and Cassandra had reclined herself upon a chaise with a glass of elderberry wine.

“Yes. I have engaged in a few murder investigations with my husband.”

Primrose opened her bow box and withdrew a neat yew bow, a glove, and a quiver. I remained silent for several minutes as she prepared her accoutrements and her speech, for I suspected one was forthcoming. “It isn’t fair,” she burst out at last.

“What isn’t fair, my dear?”

She strode to a point some distance from the butts. “Some
people have everything they want. Father has his orchids and his books, Robin has his animals. They could be happy anywhere, but Cassandra and I are stuck here, in this provincial place with provincial people.”

“You call your mother by her Christian name? How extraordinary,” I offered, but Primrose merely regarded me with impatience.

“I am seventeen,” she said crisply. She reached into the quiver for an arrow. “She said I might.”

“Seventeen? I had not thought you so old.”

“No one ever does,” she told me, knocking the arrow to the bow. “It is because I wear these absurd dresses and haven’t put up my hair. But I don’t mean to act like a grown woman, not here in this hole.” She sketched a grand gesture with her arm encompassing the whole of the lush tea garden, the grand house, and the imposing mountain behind.

“The valley is not to your taste?” I asked politely.

“We should not be here,” she insisted. “It is so small and insular. It is like living in a barrel, a small, cold, dark barrel where all of the other fish know everything that goes on. It is stifling.” She let the arrow fly and it pierced the target, some distance from the bull’s-eye. She frowned.

“And where would you prefer to live?”

“Greece,” she breathed, her eyes alight. “Father inherited this property. He thought we could come out and make a great success of it. But he is the only one who is happy here. Cassandra and I want to live where it is warm and the sun shines.”

“And you can bathe with dolphins in a wine-dark sea?” I guessed.

“Yes, oh, you do understand!” She let fly another arrow, this one far closer to the mark. “But there’s no use thinking of it because Father will never agree to leave this place. He
says it is the best condition for his orchids and he loves the tea garden.”

“What of Robin?”

She pulled a face. “Robin can play with snakes and mice anywhere.”

I tipped my head curiously. “Oughtn’t Robin to be sent to school, back in England, I mean?”

Primrose gave me another of her expressive, disgusted looks. “Father won’t hear of it. He is far too fond of him. Do not mistake me,” she added hastily, perhaps aware of how harshly she had spoken, “he is a good father and he is affectionate and generous to a fault. But he lacks imagination, like most of the clergy.”

It was an astute and cynical observation from one so young and I told her so.

She shrugged. “Cassandra’s philosophies are much simpler. You mustn’t tell, but I once caught her lighting a candle and chanting to Athena.”

“She worships pagan gods?”

Primrose’s expression turned impatient. “Not really. She simply thinks that all of the old ways have merit and deserve respect. She doesn’t hold with all the nonsense about a single God and neither do I. She is very progressive.”

“Has your mother always embraced unorthodox religions?”

She shrugged again. “I do not know. She was always hanging charms and ringing bells. Then she took up photography and her interest seemed to shift to capturing images, sometimes as a means of worship, sometimes merely as an artistic endeavour.”

“An interesting woman, your mother.” I glanced over to where Cassandra lay languidly in the warmth of the garden, sunning herself like a lizard upon a rock. Percival had poked his head out of her braids and was tasting the air about her face.

“She is,” Primrose said fervently. “And that is why she does not belong here. It seems like an exotic place, this valley, but it is not. It is no different than any corner of England. The same morals, the same judgement, the same gossip, the same interference in other people’s lives. And the minute I pin up my hair and let down my hems, someone will be arranging a suitable marriage for me. No, Cassandra and I do not belong here, neither of us.”

A third arrow loosed, this one still nearer the bull’s-eye.

“You think you would fare better elsewhere?”

“I know Cassandra would. She would thrive in a place where folk understand her and accept her instead of pass judgement upon her and say wicked things.”

“Who says wicked things about your mother?” I asked, but the river had run dry, and Primrose applied herself to her archery and shot for several minutes in silence.

“You have everything,” she said finally. Her gaze drifted to where her brother played cricket with my husband and Harry Cavendish. “You have the means to live as you please.”

I would have continued the conversation, but the gentlemen chose that moment to end their cricket game, and the party began to break up. Cassandra roused herself to bid us farewell, and Brisbane offered to let me ride pillion back to the Peacocks with him.

I snorted—pillion is never the most comfortable of positions—and the Reverend Pennyfeather hastened to speak.

“I should be most honoured if Lady Julia would permit me to escort her back to the Peacocks on foot. I have potted an orchid for Mrs. Cavendish, and hoped to deliver it in person.”

Brisbane arched a brow at me, but when he spoke his tone was light. “Very well, Reverend. I will consign her to your care.”

I turned to make certain my back was to the rest of the company before I put my tongue out at him. I walked with Brisbane as far as his horse, and just as he was preparing to mount, he turned suddenly.

“Earlier, in the garden,” he began. “You did not think—”

“Not for a moment,” I told him truthfully.

He stared at me a long moment, a slow smile spreading over his face. Then he kissed me firmly and swung himself into the saddle. “One woman in a thousand,” he murmured.

Harry mounted his horse and the pair of them cantered off whilst I waited for the Reverend Pennyfeather. He bustled up, apologizing for keeping me waiting. He carried a pot with a single slender shaft of blossoms nestled in a spray of glossy green leaves. The petals were white, tinged faintly at the edges with pink, and seemed to glitter in the sun.

“How lovely!” I exclaimed.

“Oh, do you think so?” He flushed at the praise. “I believe it one of the finest specimens I have grown. Of course, I was attempting to create a red orchid, so this could hardly be considered a true success,” he added ruefully.

“Why red?”

We started down the road toward the Peacocks, walking slowly as he launched into an explanation of the intricacies of orchid breeding. The technicalities were far beyond my ability or interest, but after quarter of an hour I realised it all came down to the fact that a true red orchid did not exist.

“And that is what makes it so very desirable,” he concluded.

I made the proper noises of appreciation and hoped he would not ask me to repeat anything he had just said. My mind had been wandering to my conversation with Primrose, and as if the thought of her had conjured it, the Reverend leaned closer, his voice pitched confidentially.

“I did not invite myself to accompany you solely because I had business at the Peacocks,” he said. “I wanted to thank you for your interest in my children.”

I felt a thrust of shame at the fact that I had in fact been using his children as informants unaware, but suppressed it.

“They are interesting children,” I told him, quite sincerely.

He made a little moue of deprecation. “I could wish them a trifle more conventional. Of course, it is difficult to observe the proprieties here, but it seems they grow wilder with each passing year. Primrose is so thorny and sulky. At times she seems a child, at others a woman fully grown. And Robin, I do worry for him.”

“Why? He seems a very intelligent, self-possessed boy.”

“That is my fear,” he said. “He is so self-possessed, he hardly has need of anyone at all. He taught himself to read when he was three, can you imagine? Since then, I have let him shift for himself. He is far too energetic and spirited to keep indoors. We tried him with a tutor once and the poor boy nearly went mad from being made to stay inside. Cassandra persuaded me to let him be.”

“It does not seem to have harmed him,” I observed. “Perhaps he might be a trifle more comfortable in company if he had had a more conventional education, but most boys his age do not appreciate constraint.”

“I suppose,” he agreed slowly. “And he does seem to pick up whatever he needs to know to get along. He has an odd habit of attaching himself to the nearest person who can give him the skills or information he lacks. He gathers knowledge like a magpie gathers gewgaws,” he said with a fond laugh. “Harry Cavendish taught him his sums by way of account-keeping with tea ledgers. Dr. Llewellyn instructed him on how to care for injured animals by applying the same principles he uses with people. Even Freddie Cavendish managed to teach him the rudiments of drawing so he could record his observations.”

“Freddie liked to draw?” If the Revered thought my interest in the dead man was strange, he did not betray it.

“Oh, yes. He was rather skilled, although if I am to be very honest, Cassandra said he lacked the true perception of an artist. He was a capable draughtsman, I should say. He was very generous of his time with Robin. I know Robin missed him when he passed,” he added with a little sigh of regret. “It is difficult the first time death touches a child. One must explain the eternal mysteries, and in spite of my training, I can tell you I found it most trying.”

In another man, such flowery language would have seemed pompous, but I rather liked Reverend Pennyfeather’s old-fashioned manner of speaking.

“Robin took Freddie’s death to heart then?” I pried gently.

“Not precisely. They had reached the end of what Freddie could teach him and Robin had taken to spending more time alone. He still saw Freddie from time to time, but with the child coming, Freddie was naturally more involved with Mrs. Cavendish,” he added with a kindly smile.

“Naturally,” I agreed.

“Of course any change to Robin’s education would mean crossing Cassandra, a thing I do not like to do. It is not that she is difficult,” he hurried on, “you must not think such a thing. It is simply that she does not view the world through the same lens as other folk.”

“Literally,” I quipped.

The Reverend hesitated a moment, then gave a laugh, a dry, rusty sound. “Yes, precisely. She is so carefree and natural a creature, so free with expression and emotion. It was so beautiful to see her with the children when they were babies. She never imposed rules or discipline upon them, you see. It was simply not how she was brought up. She was reared to value feelings
and the free demonstration of them. It seemed harmless enough when the children were younger, and I always hesitated to use a firm hand. But now, I wonder if I ought to have tightened the reins.”

I found the metaphor distasteful—neither the children nor their mother were animals to be controlled—but I understood his dilemma. A man of the church would be less likely than most to indulge his family in artistic license.

“My father was indulgent about such things,” I told him. “We were given opportunities to express ourselves, although perhaps not as freely as Mrs. Pennyfeather,” I admitted.

The Reverend sighed, causing the petals on his orchid to tremble.

“I hope that it will all come round for the best,” he said. “At the beginning, I could deny Cassandra nothing. I was a besotted fool, as so many newly-married husbands are.” He blushed a little and shoved his spectacles farther up his nose.

For some reason the thought of an impassioned Pennyfeather amused me. “And you indulged her,” I guessed.

“Yes. I used my first earnings to purchase her photographic equipment. But she hated Norfolk, the isolation of the parish, the loneliness. When I inherited this property, it seemed like such a grand adventure. We told the children we were stamping the dust of England off our shoes and leaving all we knew behind. And when we arrived, it seemed indeed like a new Eden, so beautiful and untouched.”

He surveyed the land around him, the great looming bulk of Kanchenjunga, the pickers moving slowly between the rows of rich green leaves, filling the air with the scent of tea.

“I thought we had found paradise,” he murmured. After a moment, he collected himself. “But even paradise had its serpent. If Norfolk was lonely, it was nothing to this. The
smallest handful of families for us to call upon, and even then Cassandra found it difficult to meet anyone in sympathy with her artistic ideals. She was quite happy when Freddie brought Mrs. Cavendish here. Her skills as a potter and musician endeared her to Cassandra.”