Loose Leaves from Milton #10
‘Which tea would you care to imbibe, sir?’ asked the waiter, and launched into a list, unbidden, and all in one breath.
‘We have black tea, green tea, white tea, bright tea, fruit tea, mufti, tutti-frutti tea, Russian tea, China tea, oolong, brewed-long, lapsang souchong served by me in a sarong, large leaf, small leaf, rolled leaf, light-fingered “tea leaf,” Twinings, Tweanings, workers’ cooperative with Socialist leanings, First Flush, Second Flush, tippy tea and maidens’ blush, and Yorkshire. ’
‘I did not know camellia sinensis grew in Yorkshire,’ remarked Margaret, surprised.
‘It does not, madam,’ returned the waiter. ‘But it is there given a fine northern blending.’
Inadvertently, her eyes flew to Mr Thornton. Oh, the merest thought of a fine northern blending with him!
‘We will have the Yorkshire,’ announced Mr Thornton, as if half reading her thoughts.
‘And a biscuit, sir? We have Nice, spice, Italian baked twice . . .’
‘No biscuits, thank you.’ Mr Thornton cut off the waiter in his prime, and the man withdrew with a sniff and a mumble about not having got to ‘Rook creams.’
‘As I was saying, Mr Thornton -’ she was still looking at him, her eyes soft, and showing distinct signs of adoration.
‘I have a business proposition to make to you. Just that, for you would owe me nothing - except a proportion of the dividend, or something.’ She frowned.
All that talk of Henry’s had bored her stiff.
Mr Thornton was looking at her, a half smile of immense gentleness playing about his mouth.
She had an idea it was not from his anticipation of a cup of tea.
Boldly, she reached the few inches across the table to touch his fingers, fingers that unconsciously wound between hers.
She gasped, and looked no more at his face, but their conjoined hands.
‘Oh, and I have your black leather gloves,’ she murmured, caressingly.
A Woman in Brown entered the tea room and snorted in disgust at the conjoining of hands in a place that sold beverages.
‘My financial advisors tell me that I have some fifteen thousand pounds doing nothing in the bank, being just notes and inanimate. I had thought to ask you to use it to restart Marlborough Mills, but - if they can blend good tea in Yorkshire, could we not blend it even better in Milton? Could we reanimate the works producing the finest blend of North and South, Mr Thornton?’ Her voice became quite excited.
She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it, as if making a pact.
‘You wish to blend with me?’ J Tea’s voice was barely above a whisper.
‘You would give the brews strength and power and a hint of “smouldering chocolateyness,” and I, I would give them delicate overtones of fragrance and refinement. It would be a blend made in Heaven, Mr Thornton.’
He had no words. Actions were better. He leaned, one hand tea-cupping her cheek as he brought his lips to hers. The first kiss was tentative, as if tasting a cup of tea that might be too hot. The second had the assurance of drinking a favoured tea, brewed to perfection.
Over in the corner, the Woman in Brown hit the waiter, who had got as far as ‘Chocolate hobnob.’
The station master was calling for passengers for the London train.
‘Oh no, my baggage. Henry! I must go!’ Margaret rose hastily, and J Tea did likewise, grimacing as the edge of the table hit him in the groin.
He paled. She was already by the door. He could not prevent her leaving.
He reached the doorway to see her looking up at Boring Henry, a man whom he knew to drink coffee at breakfast. The look between them was not of love.
‘Goodbye, Margaret,’ said Boring Henry with finality, and handed her the valise she had brought with her. ‘You have made a mocha-ry of me.’ With which he withdrew into the carriage and shut the door.
J Tea stood at the tea room door, scarcely daring to breathe. The medical practitioner and the lady with the mote passed him, unaware of his presence in their mutual involvement.
‘It is no use. I cannot go through with it, Laura. I am leaving for Africa. I will run a mission hospital in Kenya and start a tea plantation.’
Even in his trepidation, J Tea could not discount business. African tea? It might do quite well. He thrust his visiting card into the doctor’s hand. It was a very brief encounter, but one never knew. The man pocketed it without taking his eyes from the woman’s face.
‘Oh Alec, this is terribly, terribly distressing.’
‘Go home and have a nice cup of tea, Laura,’ he replied, patting her hand a little sadly, and walked away. She sniffed.
Margaret was turning. She looked a little malformed. The valise was rather heavy and one shoulder therefore drooped. She struggled towards J Tea, who stepped close, holding out his hand.
‘You are Keemun home with me?’ It was half question, half assertion.
‘Oh, Margaret, my Darjeeling. I love you.’ He beamed at her as he took the heavy valise, wondering what it might contain, and offered his other arm for her to lean upon.
They stepped to the Milton bound train. There was no corridor, so no refreshments could be offered, but they did not give a single tea leaf about that.
They were going home to Milton - and passionate brewing together.
Damaris Osborne is an English author and lover of North & South, whose novella ‘North & Spoof’ is available from , and who is the author of a 12thC murder mystery series under another pseudonym.
She says spoofing is her outlet for her ‘silly streak’, and her literary heroes are Jane Austen, Rudyard Kipling, Georgette Heyer and Terry Pratchett.
Damaris Osborne’s other books include: North & Spoof