Laura Childs: Death By Darjeeling

Convinced that the congenial atmosphere of a tea shop would be far more satisfying for the soul than helping to market credit cards, computer peripherals, and pharmaceuticals, Theodosia threw herself wholeheartedly into her new venture.

She learned how to evaluate the twist, tip, and aroma of tea leaves and acquired a spectacular shop inventory of loose and boxed teas from notable wholesalers such as Freed, Teller, and Freed’s in San Francisco and Kent & Dinmore in England.

Serendipitously, America’s sole surviving tea plantation, the Charleston Tea Plantation, was located just twenty-five miles south of Charleston on the subtropical island of Wadmalaw. So Theodosia was able to acquaint herself with owners Mack Fleming and Bill Hall and their 127-acre plantation that grew nearly 300 varieties of tea.

From Fleming and Hall Theodosia was able to learn about the harvest process. How to select the newest, most tender leaves. The use of withering troughs to circulate air through the leaves. Techniques on macerating leaves to break down cell walls.

She went so far as to glean special tea recipes. A wonderful orange pekoe dessert soufflé from a chef at the Four Seasons in San Francisco, a recipe for tea-smoked chicken from the Peninsula Hotel in Hong Kong.

And Theodosia hired Drayton Conneley away from his role as hospitality director at Charleston’s famed Vendue Inn.

It wasn’t long before the newly energized Indigo Tea Shop, as tea salon, retail tea shop, and gift shop, became a profitable enterprise and a popular stop on Charleston’s many walking and carriage tours. Much to Theodosia’s delight, her tea shop also came to be regarded by her neighbors as the social and spiritual hub of the historic district.

The clip-clop of hooves on the pavement outside the Indigo Tea Shop signaled that the horse-drawn coach had arrived to carry their tea-tasting visitors back to their respective inns and hotels.

“I hope you have tickets for one of tonight’s Lamplighter Tours,” said Theodosia as final sips were taken, mouths carefully daubed, and linen napkins refolded. “Many of the historic homes on the tour are private residences that graciously open their doors only for this one special event. It’s really quite remarkable.”

Sponsored by the Heritage Society, the Lamplighter Tour was an annual tradition in Charleston, held during the last two weeks of October when the long-anticipated cooler nights had returned. These evening walking tours of notable avenues such as Montagu, Queen, and Church Streets afforded visitors a leisurely stroll down cobblestone lanes and a golden opportunity to step inside many of Charleston’s elegant, lofty-ceilinged grande dame homes and cloistered courtyard gardens.

“If I may impart my own personal recommendation,” said Drayton, pulling back chairs and offering his arm to the ladies, “I would heartily suggest our own Church Street walk. It begins at the Ravenel Home, a stunning example of Victorian excess, and concludes in the formal garden of the elegant Avis Melbourne Home where our gracious hostess and proprietor, Miss Theodosia Browning, has been engaged to serve a repertoire of fine teas, including a special Lamplighter Blend created just for this event.”

“Oh, my,” said one of the ladies. “How intriguing.”

“You have characterized it aptly,” said Drayton. “Our Lamplighter Blend is a lovely marriage of two traditional black teas with a hint of jasmine added for high notes.”

Theodosia glanced toward the counter and grinned at Haley, who had just emerged from the back room, her arms filled with gift baskets. Haley was always accusing Dray-ton that his role as Parliamentarian in the Charleston Heritage Society led to oratorical extravagance.

“Of course,” added Theodosia in a droll voice meant to be a casual counterpoint to Drayton’s, “we’ll also be serving blackberry scones with clotted cream.”

Pleasured groans emanated from around the table.

Catching the subtle exchange between Theodosia and Haley, Drayton snatched one of the baskets filled with small tins of tea and tied with white ribbon and held it up for all to see. “Be sure to take a quick perusal of our gift baskets before you leave. Miss Parker here has recently taken up the art of weaving traditional South Carolina sweetgrass baskets and has become quite an accomplished artisan.”

Haley’s face reddened at Drayton’s announcement. “Thank you,” she murmured.

And, of course, ladies being ladies, veteran shoppers, and enthusiastic tourists, at least three of the delightfully done gift baskets were carefully wrapped in Theodosia’s signature indigo blue tissue paper and tucked safely in the carriage as they departed.

“Did you bring Earl Grey down?” asked Theodosia after the door had swung shut and the shadows lengthened enough so she knew there wouldn’t be any more customers for afternoon tea.

Haley nodded. “Earl, come on, fellow,” called Theodosia as she clapped her hands together.

A furry muzzle poked through the draperies, then an angular canine emerged and padded softly across the wooden planks of the floor. When the dog reached Theodosia, he laid his head in her lap and sighed contentedly.

Earl Grey, Theodosia’s adopted dog, looked a far sight better today than when she had first found him. Hungry and shivering, curled up in a cardboard box in the narrow cobblestone alley that ran behind the tea shop, Earl Grey had been an abandoned, unwanted mongrel that probably wandered the streets for weeks.

But Theodosia found his elegant head, soft, troubled eyes, and quiet temperament endearing and took to him immediately. She nursed him, groomed him, named him, and ultimately loved him.

When Drayton had objected to a stray dog being named after the popular nineteenth-century prime minister who first brought back the famed bergamot-flavored tea from China, Theodosia insisted the name was more an old English reference to the dog’s mottled coloration.

“I can’t see that he’s particularly gray,” Drayton had argued, his tone just this side of vexation.

Indeed, the dog was more salt and pepper.

“There. On the inside of his left hind leg,” Theodosia had pointed out. “That area is distinctly gray.”

Drayton was nonplused by the dog. “A mixed breed,” he’d declared with arched eyebrows.

“Like blending a fine tea,” Theodosia had said with artful cleverness. She’d placed her strong hands atop the animal’s sleek head and gently massaged the dog’s ears as he gazed up at her, limpid brown eyes filled with love. “Yes,” she had exclaimed, “this fellow is a blend of Dalmatian and Labrador. A Dalbrador.” And from that moment on, Earl Grey of the Dalbrador pedigree became the beloved, official greeter at the Indigo Tea Shop and a permanent resident of Theodosia’s cozy upstairs apartment.

“How many more sweetgrass baskets can you manage?” Theodosia asked as Haley, standing on tiptoe, arranged a half dozen of the gift baskets on a shelf behind the cash register.

“How many do you need?”

“My guestimate is at least fifty between now and the holidays. If our Web site is up and running by then, double it.”

“Bethany can help me finish maybe another dozen,” said Haley, referring to her friend, Bethany Shepherd, who was temporarily living with her in the little garden apartment across the alley. “But we’ll have to buy the majority.”

“No problem,” said Theodosia. “I was planning a drive out to the low country anyway. After I pop in on Aunt Libby, I’ll round up some more baskets.”

Sweetgrass baskets were a staple in the makeshift stalls along Highway 17 North. Handmade from bunches of sweetgrass, pine needles, and bulrush, then bound together by fiber strips from native palmetto trees, the baskets exuded both functionality and beauty, and the women of the low country took great pride in their handiwork.