“THINK OF DARJEELING AS A seaside holiday, without the sea,” said Jeannie; and Sophie, remembering childhood excursions to Bognor Regis, felt at once a familiar atmosphere about the town.
Jeannie had booked a proper house for the season, not just a cottage or bungalow. It was sparsely furnished and a bit rundown, but there was space enough for Sophie to have her own bedroom, while Lily and Alex shared another larger one. Thekong, who had made himself a comfortable space in an outbuilding, was now man-of-all-work, and Jeannie had hired a woman from the town to clean and cook.
“A far cry,” said Jeannie, as she surveyed their Spartan drawing room, “from the days when the memsahibs arrived with twelve camel loads of household goods, including the grand piano!”
The house, like all Darjeeling houses, stood on a hill, and was surrounded by an unkempt rose garden. There were tea gardens on the slopes beyond and the snow capped mountains rising behind. On the Mall — one of the few flat places besides the parade ground — there were shops, cafés, an English library and a proper theatre where visiting players performed. The grey spires of English churches rose among minarets and temple towers. Early mornings were filled with the mists of remembered English autumns, and the night sky was brilliant with stars.
For Sophie and Alex, and for Lily as well, arriving in the hills was like recovering from a long fever. The lassitude of the plains was forgotten; they were filled with projects and enthusiasms. In this gloriously cool mountain air there were picnics to be organized, shops and bazaars to be explored, adventures to be sought out. One morning, waking from another long and dreamless sleep, Sophie realized that she was almost entirely happy.
Jeannie, meanwhile, spent much of her time on the veranda with her pen and notebook. She was working on her next novel, said Alex, with an air of having privileged information. Sophie had taken a surreptitious peek inside the book when Jeannie, suddenly called away to a kitchen emergency, left it lying on the table. Curiously enough, what she saw in that quick glance did not look at all like a manuscript page. Rather it was a long series of lists of what appeared to be Indian place names, with dates beside them. They must be research notes for the novel, Sophie decided, and closed the cover guiltily when she heard approaching footsteps. Jeannie, returning from the kitchen, gave the notebook an anxious look and quickly put it away.
Major Bradley, on leave from Sikkim, came to lunch. Alex was eager for news of the war, but the major, looking unusually somber, seemed reluctant to discuss what was happening in Europe. Instead, Jeannie turned the conversation to the always intriguing subject of Alexandra David-Neel and her Himalayan exploits. “Did you visit Alexandra in Sikkim?” she asked the major.
“Indeed, yes. I clambered up to her mountain hermitage. Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
“And she is well?” asked Jeannie.
“I found her so. I think she is still recovering from the loss of her friend the Maharajah. She seems sad when she talks about him. All the same, I must say she looks quite fit and healthy.”
“We plan to visit her in a few weeks’ time,” said Jeannie, pouring the tea.
“That will cheer her up no end,” the major said. “And Miss Pritchard, I know she is most anxious to meet you.”
“Sophie says she’s never a met a hermit,” Alex observed.
“Has she not?” said Major Bradley, turning to Sophie. “Well, Miss Pritchard . . . ” Under his interested gaze Sophie felt herself blush. “You’ll find that Madame David-Neel is not your ordinary run of hermit. Still, you should get on well enough with her. Just mind you take a stout pair of walking boots, and take care not get caught up in any of her mad schemes.”
After lunch, Sophie and Lily took Alex off to explore the Indian bazaar. Alex had seen a necklace of Tibetan silver and turquoise she planned to buy for Lily’s birthday. As they left, Jeannie and Major Bradley were sitting companionably on the veranda. Glancing back, Sophie noticed Jeannie leaning forward to show the major something written in her notebook. How odd, thought Sophie, considering that those pages were so zealously hidden from casual eyes. Perhaps Jeannie was asking the major to check her research. That made sense — though there was still a niggling doubt in Sophie’s mind.
Surely there could be no romantic attachment between Jeannie and Major Bradley. And if there were, would they not take greater pains to conceal it? The same uncomfortable question had crossed Sophie’s mind that day in College Street, when Jeannie had slipped a message — for surely it was a message — into her pocket, thinking she was unobserved. But then, as now, Sophie had thrust the thought away. Jeannie was a woman of honour. No one could have been more obvious in her love for Tom and her steadfast loyalty to him. But more and more in this pleasant, welcoming household, there were hints of things she did not understand and questions she sensed it was wiser not to ask.