Chapter Twenty-Six
The car’s tyres crunched on the packed earth as it pulled into Bhasagram, kicking up a cloud of ochre dust that hung in the humid air. Aster stepped out, her legs stiff from the long journey, and took a deep breath. The air was thick with a tapestry of scents – earthy petrichor, pungent spices, and something floral she couldn’t quite identify. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the village, transforming it into a scene from a painter’s imagination.
As she surveyed the scene before her, Aster felt a swell of pride mixed with a keen sense of responsibility. This was Hiverton land now, a significant investment by her family’s estate. The success or failure of this venture would have far-reaching consequences, not just for the village, but for the Hiverton name as well.
Bhasagram sprawled before her, a living canvas of contrasts. Thatched mud huts, their walls a warm terracotta, stood alongside freshly painted concrete structures in vibrant blues and yellows. The village hummed with the sounds of life and progress – hammers striking nails, the whir of power tools, voices calling out instructions in rapid-fire Bengali, all underpinned by the distant lowing of cattle and the cheerful chaos of children at play.
A group of those children, who had been engrossed in a game involving much running and shouting, spotted Aster and raced towards her. Their bare feet kicked up small clouds of dust as they approached, their faces alight with curiosity and excitement.
‘Hello! Hello!’ they chorused in English, giggling as they came to a stop in front of her.
Aster smiled, charmed by their enthusiasm. ‘Hello,’ she replied. ‘How are you all?’
This sent the children into peals of laughter, and they began chattering excitedly among themselves in Bengali. Their words came so fast, tumbling over each other, that Aster found herself lost.
She held up her hands in surrender, chuckling. ‘ I’m sorry ,’ she said, switching to Bengali. ‘ I’m afraid that was too fast for me to catch. Could you slow down a bit? ’
The children’s eyes widened in surprise and delight at hearing her speak their language. Before they could respond, however, a tall, distinguished man approached. He cut an impressive figure in a crisp white kurta over pressed trousers, a gold watch glinting on his wrist. His face was weathered by years in the sun, laugh lines crinkling around his eyes, but his gaze was sharp and intelligent.
‘Lady Aster,’ he said in English, his accent thick but precise. ‘Welcome to Bhasagram. I am Amit Choudhury, head of the muslin consortium and local manager for the Hiverton Estate’s interests here. I see you have already met our welcoming committee.’ He smiled warmly at the children, who beamed back at him before scampering off, their laughter trailing behind them.
Aster shook his hand firmly. ‘Mr Choudhury, thank you for having me. And please, just Aster is fine. There’s no need for titles here.’
Amit’s smile widened, but there was a flicker of something – nervousness? – in his eyes. ‘Of course, of course. But you must understand, it is our way to show respect. We are most honoured by your visit, Lady Aster.’
Aster tried again. ‘Really, Mr Choudhury, I’d prefer if everyone just called me Aster. I’m here to work, not stand on ceremony.’
Amit nodded, but Aster could tell her words hadn’t quite landed. ‘Yes, yes, as you wish… Memsahib.’
Aster sighed inwardly but let it go for now. She had more pressing matters to focus on. ‘I’m eager to see how our family’s investment has transformed the village,’ she said, steering the conversation back to business. It had been her intention to not mention the problems of the fabric supply in the UK. She was certain the problem originated here in India, but she didn’t want to warn anyone until she had a better understanding of the situation.
‘Ah yes, of course,’ Amit replied, his chest swelling with pride. ‘The Hiverton Estate’s involvement has been most transformative. We have come very far in a short time. But come, you must be tired from the journey. Let us get you settled, and then perhaps a tour of the Hiverton operations?’
As they walked through the village, Aster’s keen eyes took in every detail. New roofs of corrugated metal gleamed atop old structures, their modern lines a stark contrast to the organic curves of traditional thatch. Fresh paint in a riot of colours adorned shop fronts and homes, lending a festive air to the streets. In the distance, she could see a group of children in clean, pressed uniforms hurrying towards a building that could only be a new school, its facade bearing the Hiverton crest.
They passed a half-constructed building, its skeleton of steel and concrete a testament to the village’s growing prosperity. Workers called out greetings to Amit as they passed, their faces showing a mix of respect and affection. Amit responded to each by name, inquiring after family members or commenting on the progress of their work.
‘The Hiverton Estate’s investment has allowed us to improve infrastructure significantly,’ Amit explained, his voice swelling with pride. ‘New housing, better sanitation, improved roads – it is all part of the comprehensive development plan.’
As Amit spoke, Aster again noticed an undercurrent of tension in his manner. His eyes darted about as if watching for unseen threats, and his shoulders remained tight, despite his easy smile.
They turned down a side street, the packed earth giving way to a newly laid brick path. The houses here were a mix of old and new, some still mud and thatch, others freshly built with concrete and tile. Amit led Aster to a modest two-storey house, its walls a cheerful yellow that seemed to glow in the late afternoon light.
‘This is the local Hiverton office,’ Amit said. ‘We have set up a room for you here during your stay.’
A middle-aged woman emerged from the house, her round face creasing into a smile as warm as the afternoon sun. She wore a simple cotton saree in a deep blue, offset by a red bindi between her brows.
‘This is my wife, Priya,’ Amit said, his voice softening with affection. ‘Darling, this is Lady Aster from the Hiverton Estate.’
Priya stepped forward, clasping her hands together in greeting. ‘Namaste, Lady Aster. Welcome to Bhasagram. I hope you will be comfortable here.’
Aster returned the greeting, touched by the warmth of her welcome. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs Choudhury. And please, just Aster is fine.’
Priya exchanged a quick glance with her husband before responding. ‘Of course, Memsahib. Please, let me show you to your room.’
Realising her request had once again been politely ignored, Aster resigned herself to the formality and followed Priya upstairs to a small but airy room. Sunlight streamed through a large window, illuminating the simple furnishings. A narrow bed with a crisp white sheet stood against one wall, a wooden desk and chair opposite. A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, stirring the warm air. The walls were adorned with framed photographs – landscapes of lush countryside and portraits of smiling villagers, interspersed with images of Hiverton Estate back in England.
‘I hope this will be suitable,’ Priya said, gesturing around the room. ‘There is a bathroom just down the hall, and I have left some fresh towels for you there. Please, let me know if you need anything at all.’
As Priya left, Aster sank onto the bed, her mind whirling with everything she’d seen and heard. The village’s prosperity was evident, a testament to the success of the Hiverton investment. Yet something nagged at her. It was all too… perfect. Too rapid a transformation for a village that had, by all accounts, been struggling just a few years ago.
She could hear Amit and Priya talking softly downstairs, their voices a comforting murmur in the background. As she unpacked her small suitcase, Aster reflected on her first impressions of Amit Choudhury. He was clearly proud of what had been accomplished in Bhasagram, his eyes lighting up as he spoke of the improvements to the village.
Whatever secrets Bhasagram held, Aster sensed that Amit Choudhury was at the heart of them. This wasn’t just about solving a mystery anymore – it was about protecting her family’s investment and reputation. With a deep breath, she steeled herself for the days ahead, knowing that her investigation was only just beginning.
After a quick freshen up, Aster made her way downstairs to find Amit waiting in the living room. The space was simply furnished but comfortable, with colourful cushions adorning a well-worn sofa and potted plants adding splashes of green to the corners. A tray of tea and biscuits sat on a low table, the spicy-sweet aroma of masala chai filling the air.
‘Ah, Lady Aster,’ Amit said, rising to his feet. ‘I thought you might like some refreshment before we begin our tour. Priya makes an excellent masala chai.’
Aster accepted a cup gratefully, savouring the complex flavours. As they sipped their tea, Amit outlined the changes that had come to Bhasagram in recent years.
‘Three years ago, this village was struggling,’ he said, his eyes growing distant with memory. ‘Our young people were leaving for the cities, seeking better opportunities. Those who remained could barely make ends meet. But then, we successfully revived the cultivation of phuti karpas – the special cotton used in Dhaka muslin. Since then, our fortunes have improved dramatically.’
Aster nodded, her mind already racing with questions. But before she could voice any of them, Amit set down his cup and stood. ‘Shall we begin our tour? I’m eager to show you the improvements we’ve made.’
They set off down the village’s main street, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across their path. The street was alive with activity. Women in colourful sarees chatted as they walked home with baskets of vegetables, men on bicycles weaved through the crowd, their bells tinkling merrily. The air was filled with sounds – the sizzle of food frying in roadside stalls, the bleating of goats, the distant chanting from a temple.
Amit pointed out various new buildings as they walked – a community centre with a small library, a medical clinic staffed by a young doctor from Kolkata, and a vocational training centre where young people could learn new skills.
‘Education has been a key focus for us,’ Amit explained as they passed the new school building. The sound of children reciting lessons drifted through the open windows. ‘We believe it’s the foundation for lasting prosperity.’
As they walked, Aster noticed how people reacted to Amit. Everyone they passed offered a respectful greeting, often accompanied by a warm smile or a friendly wave.
They paused at a small tea stall, where the owner insisted on serving them a cup of his special blend. As they sipped the strong, sweet tea, Aster observed the easy camaraderie between Amit and the stall owner. They joked and laughed, sharing village gossip and discussing plans for an upcoming festival.
They passed a small park where a group of young men were playing cricket. The players paused their game to greet Amit, who exchanged a few words with them about an upcoming tournament.
‘Sports have become quite popular,’ he said as they moved on. ‘It gives our young people a positive outlet for their energy, and it’s bringing the community together in new ways.’
As they neared the end of their tour, they passed a group of elders sitting in the shade of a large tree, engaged in an animated game of chess. Amit exchanged a few words with them, and Aster noticed how they deferred to him, their expressions a mix of respect and something else – gratitude, perhaps?
‘The elders were initially sceptical of our plans,’ Amit explained as they walked away. ‘Change can be difficult, especially for those who have seen hard times. But now, seeing their grandchildren with opportunities they never dreamed of… well, it’s made believers of them.’
The sun was setting as they made their way back to Amit’s home, painting the sky in brilliant hues of orange and pink. The village was settling into its evening rhythm – lamps being lit in windows, the smell of cooking fires filling the air, the sound of children being called home for dinner.
Despite the smiles, Aster sensed an anxious community. Tomorrow she would inspect the factory and surrounding fields and maybe then she would begin to get some answers.
She was about to fire up her laptop when her phone rang and she recognised Nick’s number.
With a sigh—Nick rarely called unless something urgent required handling—Aster picked up.
‘Hello, Nick. What’s on fire now?’ Aster asked alert to any incoming problem.
Nick’s voice was brisk, as always. ‘Not a fire. Quite the opposite, actually. I have some news, and for once, it’s not a disaster. Are you sitting down?’
Aster had been typing whilst chatting but now gave Nick her full attention. ‘Go on.’
‘The painting,’ Nick said, her tone carrying a rare note of excitement. ‘The one from the convent. The restoration is complete.’
Aster leant forward, holding her breath.
‘And?’
‘And, it’s a Raphael.’
The words hit Aster like a jolt of electricity. For a moment, she was too stunned to respond. ‘A Raphael?’ she finally managed, her voice almost a whisper.
‘Yes,’ Nick confirmed, her tone brightening further. ‘I just got the report from the restorers. The pigments, the techniques, even the underdrawings—it’s all been authenticated. It’s a bloody Raphael, Aster. Can you believe it?’
Aster stood abruptly, pacing to the window. She gazed out at the street, her mind racing. ‘Five thousand pounds,’ she murmured. ‘That man walked away with a Raphael for five thousand pounds.’
‘Correction,’ Nick interjected. ‘He walked away with it for five thousand pounds, and then we bought it back for ten times that.’
‘And you nearly had a fit, remember?’
‘Water under the bridge.’ Said Nick laughing at her own doubt. ‘When we auction it, the proceeds will go back to the convent and their projects. It’ll be worth millions.’
Aster’s mind spun as she absorbed the magnitude of the news. A Raphael. A treasure lost in plain sight for centuries, hidden under layers of grime in a small London chapel. And now, thanks to her—and, she grudgingly admitted, Nick—it had been given a second life.
‘This is… incredible,’ Aster said finally. ‘But how did the restorers confirm it?’
‘The usual methods,’ Nick replied. ‘X-rays, infrared imaging, consultations with art historians. Apparently, there’s a small signature buried in one corner that matches known Raphael works. It’s all documented. It’s unequivocal.’
Aster let out a low whistle. ‘Well, I suppose I owe you a thank-you for handling the restoration so thoroughly. I wasn’t sure we’d ever find out its true worth.’
‘Don’t thank me yet,’ Nick said wryly. ‘We’ll see how the auction goes. But for now, I’d say you’ve done a good deed. The convent’s roof is fixed, and their future is secure. Not bad for a day’s work, eh?’
Aster chuckled softly. ‘Not bad at all.’
Nick’s tone turned teasing. ‘Though if you’re planning any more good deeds, try to keep me in the loop next time. My wallet might not survive another surprise like this.’
Aster grinned. ‘I’ll think about it. Thanks, Nick. Really.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ Nick replied. ‘Now, see if you can manage another miracle. How’s it going out there?’
The sisters chatted briefly as Aster outlined her concerns and promised to keep Nick informed and they ended the call agreeing to put the Raphael straight up for auction, once Ari was brought up to date.
As the call ended, Aster set the phone down and stared at the papers on her desk, though her thoughts were far from her itinerary now. A Raphael. The convent’s sacrifice had unearthed a treasure, and she felt a profound sense of responsibility to see it through.
Taking a deep breath, she returned to her plans for the factory tour tomorrow. But now, the excursion felt different, infused with a renewed sense of purpose. Whatever had gone wrong, she would be able to fix it.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she could hear Sister Bernard’s laughter, delighted at the thought of a watertight roof and a chapel no longer plagued by buckets. She knew Nick would be calling the nun to update her, Aster would have loved to let her know but this needed to be done face to face and Aster was stuck in India. She would have to catch up with her when she got home.
She also had an insane urge to call up Edward and crow, imagining his face, the look of shock would be priceless. Instead she pulled her laptop towards her and continued to make notes, a large smile on her face.