Laura Childs: Death By Darjeeling

“How is Bethany doing?” asked Theodosia, her face softening with concern for Haley’s friend whose husband had died in a car accident just eight months earlier. In the past couple of months, the shy Bethany had helped out in the tea shop a few times, and Theodosia was hoping the young woman would soon find her rudder again.

“Good days, sad days,” said Haley in measured tones. “It’s not easy being a widow at twenty-seven. I think if Bethany didn’t have the internship to sustain her, she’d really be at loose ends.”

“So at least that part of her life is successful,” said Theodosia.

“Yes, thanks to Drayton.” Haley glanced gratefully toward Drayton Conneley, who was talking on the telephone, briskly finalizing details for that evening’s tea service. “If he hadn’t put in a good word for Bethany at the Heritage Society, I don’t know what she would have done. Bethany slaved to get her master’s degree in art history, but it’s still impossible to land any type of museum curator job without internship credentials. Maybe now...” Haley’s voice quavered and her large brown eyes filled with tears.

Theodosia reached over and gently patted Haley’s hand. “Time heals,” reassured Theodosia in a quiet voice. “And in Charleston, time is an old friend.”

Darkness had settled on Charleston like a soft, purple cloak. Palmettos swayed gently in the night breeze. Mourning doves that sheltered in spreading oak and pecan trees had long since tucked downy heads under fragile wings.

But up and down Church Street the atmosphere was alive and filled with magic. Candles in brass holders flickered enticingly from broad verandas. Clusters of Lamplighter Tour walkers thronged the sidewalks, gliding through dusky shadows only to emerge in pools of golden light that spilled from arched doorways of houses buzzing with activity, open this one special evening to all visitors who had a ticket in hand and a reverence for history in their hearts.

Fat, orange pumpkins squatted on the steps of the Avis Melbourne Home. On the sweeping porch where a half dozen white Ionic columns imperiously stood guard, young women in eighteenth-century garb greeted visitors with lanterns and shy smiles. Their hair was nipped into sleek topknots, their step dainty and mannered, unaccustomed as they were to layers of petticoats and the disconcerting rustle of silk.

Inside the Avis Melbourne Home, the room proportions were enormous. This was a residence designed for living on a grand scale, with gilt chandeliers dangling overhead, rich oil paintings adorning walls, and Italianate marble fireplaces in every room. The color palette was soft and French: salmon pink, oyster white, pale blue.

More costumed guides, members of the Heritage Society, accompanied visitors through the parlor, dining room and library. Their running patter enlightened on architecture, antiques, and beaux arts.

Down the long center hallway, footsteps barely registered on plush wool Aubusson carpets as guests found their way outside to the courtyard garden.

It was here that many of the tour guests had now congregated, sitting at tables that ringed a central three-tiered fountain. Foliage abounded, the sound of pattering water pleasantly relaxing.

Theodosia ducked out the side door from her command post in the butler’s pantry. For the last hour she and Dray-ton had been working nonstop. He oversaw the preparation of five different teas, while she hustled silver teapots out to Haley for serving, then ran back for refills. At one point they’d been so harried she’d asked Haley to make a quick phone call to Bethany and plead for reinforcement.

Now, as Theodosia surveyed the guests in the garden, it looked as though she could finally stop to catch her breath. Haley and Bethany were moving with practiced precision among the twenty or so tables, pouring tea and offering seconds on blackberry scones, looking like French waiters with their long white aprons over black shirts and slacks. The tables themselves had been elegantly draped in white linen and held centerpieces of purple flowers nestled in pockets of greenery.

“Theodosia, darling!”

Theodosia turned as Samantha Rabathan, this year’s chairperson for the Church Street walk, tottered across the brick patio wearing three-inch heels and flashing a winning smile. Ever the social butterfly and fashion maven, Samantha was fetchingly attired in a flouncy cream-colored silk skirt and pale peach cashmere sweater, generously scooped in front to reveal her matching peach skin and ample endowments.

Theodosia tucked a wayward strand of auburn hair behind one ear, and rested the large teapot she’d been holding on one of the temporary serving stations. Even in her midnight blue velvet tailored slacks and white lace top, an outfit that had received admiring glances from several of the gentlemen in the crowd, she suddenly felt like a brown wren next to Samantha’s plumage.

“We’ve got a packed house, Samantha.” Theodosia swept a hand to indicate the contented crowd enjoying tea and treats on the patio. “Your walk is a huge success.”

“It is, isn’t it,” Samantha agreed with a giggle. “I was just calling around on my cell phone and heard that the Tradd Street walk got half our turnout.” She nudged Theodosia with an elbow and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial purr. “Did you know we sold ninety more tickets than last year? It’s a new Church Street record!”

Last year Delaine Dish had been the Church Street chair. For some reason unknown to Theodosia, Samantha and Delaine had a weird, catty rivalry going on between them, one she had no desire to explore, much less get in the middle of.

“Oh, my,” Samantha cooed as she fanned herself briskly with one of the tour’s printed programs. “Such a warm evening.”

And off she went across the patio, the heels of her perfect cream shoes dangerously close to catching between the stones, her cell phone shrilling once again.

“I can’t imagine why she’s warm,” whispered Drayton in Theodosia’s ear. “She not exactly bundled up.”

“Be nice, Drayton,” said Theodosia. “Samantha worked hard on ticket sales and lining up volunteers.”

“You can afford to be charitable,” he said with a sniff. “Samantha’s always been sweet to you. My guess is she’s secretly in awe of your past life in advertising. She knows you’ve sold the proverbial ice to Eskimos. But in complete, unadulterated fairness, this has been a group effort. A lot of good people worked very hard to pull this off.”

“Agreed,” said Theodosia. “Now tell me what results you’ve gathered from our rather unscientific poll.”

Drayton’s face brightened. “Three to one on the Lamplighter Blend! I’d estimate we have less than half a pot left.”

“Really?” said Theodosia, her cheeks flaring with color, and her usually calm, melodious voice cracking with excitement.

“The people have spoken, madam. The tea’s a knockout.”

“So we package more and include it on the Web site,” she said.

“No, we feature it.” Drayton favored Theodosia with an uncharacteristic grin as he picked up the silver teapot she’d set down earlier and started toward the house. “The pantry awaits. The end of the evening is blessedly in sight.” He paused. “Coming?”

“Give me a minute, Drayton.”

Theodosia stood half hidden under an elegant arch of vines, basking in the glow of success. It was the first tea she’d blended by herself. True, she’d started with two exquisitely mellow teas from the American Tea Plantation. And she’d had Drayton’s excellent counsel. But still...

“Excuse me.”

Theodosia whirled about and found herself staring down at two tiny women. Both were barely five feet in height, quite advanced in years, and wore identical green suits. Twins, she thought to herself, then peered closer. No, just dressed alike. Probably sisters.