THE MESSENGER
by Iona Grey

York, England. October 1821.

Four o’clock on a winter’s afternoon, that was when she found it hardest. The hour when the sun slid below the rooftops, washing the damp walls of Mrs Spivey’s lodging house the same blush-pink as the silken boudoir at St Saviourgate. The hour when the street below the grimy window was busy with folk hastening home to comfort and company; when the shadows thickened in the cobwebbed corners, the cold settled deeper into her bones, and the contrast with the life she had left was at its most stark.

She boiled water in a blackened kettle and brewed tea – the cheapest kind – from used leaves in a dented tin pot. The cup she poured it into was fine china, edged in gold, painted with roses, violets, cornflowers. It was the only remaining one of the set Edward’s aunt gave to them as a wedding present. The rest had been taken by the bailiffs from the St Saviourgate house, along with all their other possessions, to settle the debts she could no longer meet when his payments stopped after a third disastrous season.

They had weathered the first two. His letters, arriving months after he had written them, described rains coming too early and enduring too long, plants that refused to thrive in Indian soil, workers who had no experience in the processes of fermenting, drying and rolling Camellia Sinensis’s delicate leaves into something that might be sold to English tea-drinkers. And yet, I feel I am getting closer, he had written. Every failure brings success more tantalisingly in reach, if only I can stretch my funds a little further, and you can wait a little longer. My dearest Charlotte, can you wait?

What choice did she have?

It had been bearable in St Saviourgate, though the clocks had ticked away the empty hours with maddening slowness. She had few callers. The summer she had fallen in love with Edward she had been on the cusp of engagement to the son of a distinguished family and – in choosing love over respectability, a fortuneless visionary over a future Viscount – she had forfeited her family and her place in society.

Dazed with love, insulated by the rented comfort of the St Saviourgate house, she cared little at first. At nights, folded into the velvet dark of their bed, he had laid his dreams out before her, drawing a map on her body, tracing a fingertip down her ribs and across her midriff to represent the Indian territory where he believed the tea plants he had smuggled out of China might flourish. The landscape of his mind was so vivid that she felt the steamy heat of Assam, heard the drip of rain on jungle foliage, smelled the damp earth and saw the low-roofed bungalow he would build for her, with the verandah they would sit on in the warm evenings, their plantation spread all around.

That was his audacious plan. He had worked for the East India Company in Canton, seen for himself the stranglehold Chinese trade had on the British market; the danger and darkness behind the fragrant drink she sipped while gossiping in drawing rooms. While inspecting shipments of tea he had learned about varieties and took secret notes of where they came from, the conditions required for each to grow. Exporting plants was strictly forbidden, punishable by imprisonment or death, but he had taken the risk to realise his dream of establishing the first tea plantation in India.

Her parents had called him a fool and a fantasist; a provincial nobody with neither the evidence to support his outlandish schemes nor the money to fund them. The personal possessions she had taken when they eloped had kept them for a while. Her pearl-studded locket had paid his passage to India; a diamond choker and matching earrings had bought the piece of jungle he would cultivate. The silks and furs, gold and gems had disappeared bit by bit, each piece buying a little more time in their fragile soap-bubble of happiness.

The solitary cup was all that remained of that old life now. It looked incongruous on rough table beside her narrow iron bed; the dingy attic room was not a place where such delicate flowers could bloom. She had no mirror, but at night her reflection in the blackened window told her it was not a place where she could either. Her eyes were haunted. Like the cup, her gilded edge had worn off.

Twelve months had passed since he had sent money, eight since his last letter. Her own had gone unanswered and she wondered if they had reached him; if he knew that she had had to leave St Saviourgate and take the cheapest lodgings the city could offer, in the narrow streets near the river. At first she was distracted from her own circumstances by worrying about him but, as time passed, concern crusted over with resentment. Now, with neither money nor hope to sustain her, anger smouldered in her hollow, hungry belly.

He had assured her they would only be apart for a little while before she could join him. He had promised to love her forever, to look after her always.

Fool that she was, she had believed him.

*

The next morning she woke to find the world beyond her window had vanished. A dense, freezing fog had rolled in from the river. It seeped through the gaps in the window and writhed through the room on icy currents of air like the souls of the lost.

There was scarce enough coal for a fire to boil water, scarce enough tea to brew a warming pot. Dressing was effortful. Her skin felt too thin and the rough wool of her stockings chafed it painfully. When she stepped outside, her lungs were scoured out with the cold.

The fog turned the streets into a city of ghosts. Horses materialized like phantoms through the grey gloom and men loomed suddenly before her, leering spectres of themselves. By the time she reached St Saviourgate she was chilled to the bone. The girl who answered the door looked at her with disdain, which turned to disbelief when she said she had been mistress there. The door was half-shut before she had finished asking if any letters had come for her, and she was left staring at the neat-painted wood, the polished brass.

The lion’s head knocker bared his teeth in a sneer.

*

She did not recall the walk back to the lodging house, but when she stepped into the dingy hallway she was aware that the damp had soaked into her clothes and her cheeks were burning. She tried to tread quietly, but still Mrs Spivey heard and came darting out, like a spider in a web.

‘Well, look who’s here – the Duchess of Middle Water Lane ‘erself. Two weeks rent you owe, madam.’

She paused at the turn of the stairs to catch her breath. Her head throbbed painfully and her throat was swollen shut. Dimly, she registered that the landlady was wearing the soft Kashmir shawl Edward had sent when he first arrived in India.

‘Friday,’ she croaked ‘You shall have it by Friday.’

‘See that I do…’ Mrs Spivey’s voice followed her up the staircase. ‘You’ve precious few pretty things left for payment, so coin it must be…’

Inside her room her laboured breath made pale plumes in the frigid air. She was shivering too hard to unbutton her wet blouse. Instead, she kindled a fire with the empty tea packet, then pulled away the loose piece of skirting by the chimney breast and reached down to retrieve the rag-wrapped bundle she had hidden there.

With shaking hands she unfolded the wrappings. Inside were letters, written in his confident, scrawling hand. She picked up the topmost one, the most recent, and unfolded it.

My dearest darling…

The spiky black words scuttled across the page like insects.

I write with joyful news. Finally it seems the heavens have smiled on me and the hybrids I have grown from the seed of last year’s experimental crop have taken hold. They are small yet, but strong: Ramu is confident that the rains will make them fill out and flourish. Sweetheart, I believe our hardships are almost over and soon we will be together again…

The date on the letter was almost a year ago. She had existed since on a dwindling supply of faith, love and pawned jewellery, and now only her wedding and engagement rings – symbols of that faith and love – remained.

With a muffled sob she crumpled the page and fed it to the fire. And for a moment at least he provided her with a little warmth.

*

                  That night the cold bit deeper and the fog thickened. The fever took hold of her burned for three days.

                  Twisting in sweat-soaked sheets, she dreamed wildly. She was back home, running through the frosty gardens, breath burning in her lungs. She was in the nursery, face glowing in the heat of the fire, then sailing to India on heaving seas. Edward was there, but instead of being pleased to see her he was anguished; he ordered her to go back, told her she could not be there – it was not yet time. The anger that had smouldered all those lonely months flared up and she shouted that he promised they would be together - he promised – and now he had abandoned her.

She shouted until her throat was flayed raw and she woke, convulsed with coughing.

The fog had crept in. It whitened the air like breath from a tomb and swallowed all sound. Before her fevered eyes it wreathed and writhed, until a figure emerged from its veils, stooping over the bed.

Edward.

His face hovered above her, pale as milk. She felt no surprise, only relief that he was here, that he had come for her at last. She tried to say that, but it felt like her throat had been scored with rusted razor blades and the profound silence remained unbroken. His eyes were dark pools and though she saw his bloodless lips move his voice seemed to come from inside her head.

I have not abandoned you, my love. I am with you, always.

Soothed by his presence, she slept again. Fathoms deep, like the drowned.

*

She woke to a commotion below, a hammering on the front door and Mrs Spivey’s hostile retort. She got out of bed and went unsteadily to the window. The fog had retreated, leaving a dirty sky, a mud-coloured morning. A carriage waited, steam rising from the flanks of the black horse between its shafts. A clutch of ragged children gaped from a doorway on the other side of the street as the driver lifted down a box.

                  She felt hollowed out, like something washed up. Shivering, she crawled back beneath her damp sheets and noticed the teacup on the table at her bedside. A shaft of weak sunlight touched it, making the painted flowers glow and the worn gold gleam, turning the liquid inside into a pool of amber.

She struggled upright and reached for it eagerly. The tea was not hot, but it was delicately fragrant and it eased her parched and swollen throat. Never had she suspected that the hardened husk of Mrs Spivey’s heart might hold a thin seam of compassion, but perhaps she had heard her cry out and felt pity for her distress. Whatever impulse had prompted the gesture, she was grateful for it.

The slam of the front door shook the building’s mouldering bones. A moment later Mrs Spivey’s heavy tread reverberated through the house. She gave a cursory rap on the door before throwing it open.

‘You’re in’t land of living then,’ she said with a dismissive snort. ‘Summat’s come for you. A package. You can fetch it yer’sen. I’m not hauling it up like a maid of all work.’

As she withdrew Charlotte stammered a thank you for the tea. The landlady looked at her with scorn.

‘Tea?’

‘That you brought for me….’

‘I brought nowt. Why would I? I’m not running a charity mission. I’ll have what’s owed today, Madam, or tonight’s the last you spend under my roof, d’ye hear?’

She huffed down the stairs, not bothering to close the door behind her.

*

The inked stamps on the packing crate told the story of a journey from Calcutta to Liverpool, Liverpool to York. Her tired heart gave a flutter of joy and relief when she saw it in the hallway, and hope lent her the strength to carry it up the endless stairs to her room.

What could he have sent her? Another gift, like the Kashmir shawl, to celebrate his success? A Bill of Exchange that she could take to the bank, then settle her debt to Mrs Spivey and book her passage to join him? With frantic fingers she tried to loosen the lid, grasping a spoon to lever it up, laboriously working around each edge until finally she lifted it off and pulled out the straw packing inside.

The breath wheezed painfully from her chest as she stared at the plain box that was revealed.

It was made of dull wood, crudely carved with birds and flowers. Lifting the lid she saw it contained two smaller compartments and realized it was a tea caddy.

The first compartment held a few small, inconsequential objects - a seashell, two mismatched shirt studs, a small pocket notebook with a worn leather cover. The second contained a fold of paper.

She opened it out. The name at the head of the paper was that of the solicitor in Calcutta Edward had used to help him buy the land.

Madam –

I deeply regret to inform you of the death of your husband, Edward Aubrey Middlemiss, in the district of Jorhat, Assam, on the 9th day of February in the year 1821. I am informed by his bearer that Mr Middlemiss succumbed to jungle fever, despite the attentions of the local doctor.

She pressed her fingers to her lips to suppress a cry.

I am now charged with the settlement of Mr Middlemiss’s affairs. I enclose some small personal effects, the bulk of his possessions having been retained against debts and costs. The matter of the land remains to be settled. Regrettably it has turned out to be unsuited to cultivation and of little value. As such, I propose we proceed with its sale without delay and, upon your agreement,  assure you that I will forward onto you any funds at the soonest opportunity.

I extend my sincerest condolences.

                  It was not, in that moment, grief that made her seize the box and hurl it against the wall, but despair and fury. Grief would come later, when she read through the painstaking notes Edward had crammed, almost indecipherably, into the little book, and pieced together a more accurate description of his battle with the land than his letters had given. When she began to understand. 

                  The box splintered as it crashed to the floor. She stood, fists clenched into her wild hair, and watched as something rolled across the bare boards and came to rest at her feet.

                  It was small. Pale, like bone, fashioned in the primitive shape of a ghost. When she picked it up she found that it was smooth, like a pebble washed by the sea, and covered in delicate markings. Holding it to her nose she inhaled the faint scent of oolong, lapsang, bergamot, and, as she turned it in her fingers she discovered a hollow in its base. A twist of paper inside.

                  I am with you, always.

The writing was frail and spidery, but unmistakably his. The message was wrapped around what looked like a small stone.

A seed of camellia sinensis. The tea plant.

*

Assam, India. September 1872.

She never planted the seed. She kept it with her throughout the six-month voyage to India, on the cheapest ticket that was all her engagement ring could buy. She has it still, wrapped in the tattered scrap of paper, tucked inside the ghost that was Edward’s messenger, telling her what he knew the unscrupulous solicitor would not; that his new plantation was beginning to thrive. It sits on the desk before her, beside the inkwell.

                  Many people have asked her, these past fifty years, how she – an English woman in the heat of Assam, a widow, with no previous experience of running a business or cultivating tea – made the plantation into the success it has become. She tells them that she had Ramu, who became as good a friend to her as he had been to Edward. She does not tell them that she also had Edward, always with her. She married again (a Civil Servant; solid, dependable, not remotely visionary) but secretly her heart still belongs to her first love. She has not seen Edward again, as she did that night in Mrs Spivey’s lodging house, but she has never stopped hoping that she might, one day.

                  She shifts a little in her seat, stiff from sitting so long. She has risen early, as she always does, to get ahead of the business of the day before the heat makes it too arduous but, as the sun begins to burn away the morning mist and the warmth intensifies, she feels the chill of that long ago English winter. Her hands are cold and there is an odd feeling in her chest, as if a weight is pressing there. Her gaze comes to rest on the little messenger ghost. The two dark eyes that look back at her are full of wisdom.

                  She summons her strength to stand, but as she does so, feels a sickening pain beneath her shoulder and the weight on her chest is suddenly suffocating. Her skin is clammy. She gasps in a breath and opens her mouth to call for Ramu but all that comes out is a little cry of surprise.

                  Because Edward is there, strolling through the pearly mist towards the house. His shirtsleeves are rolled up over tanned forearms and his face breaks into a smile as he sees her. He is young.

And, as she rises to greet him, so is she.