Ryman, Rebecca (10 page)

"He
does not fall in the category of European planters." It was with
difficulty that Sir Joshua appeared to be restraining his exasperation.
"He cultivates indigenous Indian tea trees, not Chinese."

This
time she had no need to simulate surprise. "Indigenous Indian tea trees? I
had no idea that tea plants are also native to India!"

"Assam
has had native tea trees for centuries," he said impatiently as he swung
forward to place his hands palm down on the desk, "but that is neither
here nor there in the present context. The reason why I have brought up the
subject of Raventhorne," his mouth twisted with distaste, "is because
I felt that some explanation was due to you of your Aunt Bridget's silly
melodramatics yesterday. I could see that you were frightened out of your wits,"
he raised a small smile, "and as such an apology from me was certainly in
order. Will you accept it, my dear, and forgive
us for having alarmed you
unduly?" Olivia had no choice but to nod her acquiescence, albeit
reluctantly. "In that case, shall we now consider the entire unfortunate
matter closed?"

Matter
closed.
Her
aunt's words exactly! What was it about this man that made him such a pariah?
Now, of course, there was no possibility of probing further. "By all
means," she murmured, hiding her disappointment.

"Tell
me, m'dear," suddenly, he was all smiles again, "are you truly happy
with us?"

The
sharp change in topic took Olivia aback. "Why, of course I am!" she
cried, flushing. "Why do you even need to ask, Uncle Josh?"

"Because
sometimes I do get the impression that you are not, that life here is not
entirely as you would wish it to be."

She
was dismayed by his perceptions and hastened to refute them. "Apart from
the fact that I miss Papa, I assure you I am marvellously content. How could I
not be in your kindness and generosity to me?"

He
nodded absently. "Yes, all said and done I must say you have adjusted
remarkably well considering how different your environment must have been at
home. Well, Bridget and I enjoy having you with us and Estelle, of course,
admires you no end." He flicked a tube of cigar ash off his lapel and
sighed. "We've rather spoilt her, you know. The truth is, she came to us
so late in life that neither of us quite knows how to handle her. We tend to be
over protective sometimes, but we mean well."

"Estelle
is not yet eighteen," Olivia answered quickly. "She will grow up in
time, but . . ." Taking advantage of his sudden mellowness, she dared
broach a subject brewing in her mind for a while. "Could not you and Lady
Bridget see your way to giving Estelle a little more, well, independence to
manage her own affairs?"

"Independence?"
He looked surprised. "Bridget says the little minx has far too much
already!" He chuckled. "She certainly gives her mother a hard time
now and then, I understand, but then that is a daughter's privilege, I'm told.
In any case, all that is Bridget's domain. Talk to her about it when you
can." He waved away a domestic triviality he considered of no great
consequence as his eyes twinkled and his lips trembled with restrained
merriment. "Now tell me, what do you think of this fellow Birkhurst? Does
he please you in any way?"

"No."
Olivia met his look squarely.

"Oh
dear, Bridget will be disappointed to hear that! She's rather set her heart on
making a match of you two. I daresay you are aware of her ambitions?"

"I
would be a congenital idiot not to be," Olivia retorted drily. "And
so would everyone else in station." Including, she added in her mind, the
noxious Mr. Raventhorne!

Sir
Joshua laughed. "Well, I don't mind confessing that I carry no brief for
any man who can't hold his liquor. There's no better measure of a gentleman
than that."

"Goodness,
I sure am pleased to hear that—I was beginning to think that everyone was part
of the conspiracy!"

"On
the
other hand," he waggled a warning finger, "let us not forget that old
Caleb Birkhurst's Agency House practically mints its own currency. Caleb
prefers to live the life of a nabob in England, but the wealth he continues to
amass here is still considerable. That indigo plantation in northern Bengal
alone is worth a fortune, to say nothing of the Esplanade manse. Does all this
not impress you?"

"No."
Better frankness now than unpleasantness later. "I have nothing against
Mr. Birkhurst, but his wealth and titled family make him no better and no worse
in my reckoning." She gave an impish smile. "I hear despite
everything that he is still considered the station's prize buffoon."

Sir
Joshua threw back his head and roared. "By Jove, you Americans don't mince
words, do you? Know what I'd like to do if I didn't fear that Bridget would
throw another faint? I'd dearly love to let you loose in the Chamber one day to
sort out all those lily-livered nincompoops!" He broke into fresh guffaws
and dabbed his eyes dry with a handkerchief. "But yes, I have to agree
with you. Birkhurst is a blithering ass, entirely unlike his father or, for
that matter, his mother. What the devil Bridget sees in him is beyond me."
He patted back a yawn and rose from his chair.

Olivia
heaved a sigh of relief; even a minor ally was better than none! "Thank
you for the moral support, Uncle Josh; it's greatly appreciated. I'm sorry if I
have kept you up with my chatter. You look tired."

"No,
no, not at all, lass. I enjoy our little chats." Nevertheless he suppressed
another yawn as he stretched with obvious fatigue. "You're a good girl,
Olivia, much too good for sots like Birkhurst; but don't for heaven's sake,
tell Bridget I said so or she'll have my guts for garters." Fondly, he
pinched her on a cheek. "All said and done, Sean has managed a neat job of
rearing you, my dear. It
could not have been easy. About the other business," he stared down at the
carpet with a hard frown, "no more need be said. Your path will not cross
Raventhorne's again."

For
a long time after the rest of the household had retired that night, Olivia
stood by her window listening idly to the hoot of the owls and to the regular
"Khabardar,
khabardar!"
of
the night-watchman on his rounds as he warned intruders away. Finally she
settled down at her desk to complete the letter to her father and to make an
entry in her diary. In both, boldly, she wrote,
Last night I met
a man.
She
cogitated for a while before adding firmly,
I
think I would
like to meet him again.

Estelle
Templewood, born fifteen years after her parents' marriage when all hope of
offspring had been abandoned, had been named after her grandmother, the late
Dowager Lady Stella Templewood, and had inherited more than just the name. A
woman of iron will and lofty ambition, Sir Joshua's mother had determinedly
headed for Calcutta with her young son shortly after becoming a widow in order
to manipulate for him a job with John Company that allowed him to earn while he
learned. Cannily, she had spurned titled but impoverished prospects to forge
for him an alliance with the daughter of a wealthy Norfolk flour mill owner so
that the substantial dowry she brought could set up young Josh in his own
enterprise. His subsequent success had been his own, but it was this initial
impetus that had given a head start to Templewood and Ransome. Until her death
shortly before Estelle's birth, the dowager had ruled her son's household with
dictatorial firmness. There could not be, she had decreed, two Lady Templewoods
under the same roof, and since she herself disliked being called a dowager, it
was her daughter-in-law who became simply Lady Bridget, and the name had stuck.
Lady Bridget had learned much from her mother-in-law, whom she had feared and
respected, but the dowager's eventual death had come as a relief. Which was
perhaps why the old lady's portrait had since been relegated to the darkest
corner of the Templewood dining room, from where the gimlet gleam that issued
forth from the pale, unwavering eyes continued to survey the household with grim
disapproval.

It
was this same gleam that had now taken up permanent residence in Estelle's eyes
as the household plunged into a flurry
of preparations for her coming-of-age
ball. "Mama insists on saddle of Canterbury lamb," she protested to
Olivia, stamping her foot angrily and close to tears again.
"Everyone
has
saddle of Canterbury lamb and it's so ... so
common!"

"But
that's not all you're having," Olivia sighed, worn out by the constant
demands on her talents as moderator as the arguments raged hourly. "What
about the sides of Aberdeen beef, chicken breasts, boned quail, Norwegian
anchovies, plovers' eggs,
bhetki
fish and the dozens of other courses?
Why not let your mother have her way with the lamb?"

"She's
having her way with everything, even the flowers. Why can't I have
chrysanthemums instead of those silly roses? And why does Jane Watkins have to
arrange the bowls?"

"Because,"
Olivia explained with miraculous patience, "chrysanthemums are not yet in
season, for a start. And all Aunt Bridget wants is for the bowls to be arranged
well, which Jane will do since she's been trained in the art."

"Well,
that's only because Jane schooled in England and I
didn't.
If they'd let me
go like everyone else I'd have been trained too, wouldn't I have? Charlotte says
in Tonbridge—"

"All
right, all right," Olivia cut in wearily. Her cousin's grouses against the
world in general and her mother in particular again dovetailed into each other
with bewildering lack of logic and, for that matter, truth. "I'll see what
I can do, but nobody can produce chrysanthemums in September, honey, and that's
that."

All
in all, it was an exhausting time for Olivia. She helped willingly, of course,
to lessen the burdens of an occasion such as she had never known; but, plunged
into a confusion of tailors, jewellers, shoemakers, embroiderers, carpenters,
upholsterers, painters and pedlars, by the time night came her head spun and
her feet throbbed with the effort. Catering for the hundreds of guests had been
arranged with Spence's hotel, reputed to provide the best fare in town. The
long-awaited ship had docked on schedule with its massive cargo of wines,
liquors, liqueurs, beer, cigars, chocolates, cheeses and tobaccos, as well as
with Estelle's exquisite robin's-egg blue organza gown with frothing Brussels
lace, seed pearls and diamante, which was quite the finest dress Olivia had
ever seen in her life. On the back lawn of the Templewood bungalow a wooden
dance floor was being laid under a giant canopy. A raised dais had been
constructed for the Army band, which was to be in attendance throughout the
evening. -

In
her unwanted and thankless role of arbitrator, Olivia tried to be as fair as
she could, but it was not always easy. Secretly she
often found her
sympathies with her aunt, but in one matter she was firmly on her pampered
cousin's side. "To Estelle her eighteenth birthday is the most important
day in her life, Lady Bridget," she pleaded following yet another storm of
tears from Estelle. "Could you not make some allowances and let her invite
whomsoever she wishes?"

Lady
Bridget chilled. "Polly Drummond is a common little flibbertigibbet, and
her mother is no better than a . . ." She left the word unsaid. "And
I have made allowances. That Dave Crichton is a cockney shippie with atrocious grammar
and worse manners. Everyone knows his father runs dogfights in White-chapel.
He's not even trade, and goodness knows that's bad enough! Well, he's coming,
isn't he?"

"Yes,
but Polly
is
Estelle's
best friend, and however, well, overblown, Mrs. Drummond isn't entirely
unattractive."

Olivia's
choice of adjectives elicited cutting comments on the worthlessness of cosmetic
appeal when there was moral odium within, but eventually Lady Bridget
capitulated, perhaps through sheer exhaustion.

The
one person in the household who successfully avoided being dragged into the
onerous preparations and disputes was Sir Joshua. Lady Bridget complained
stridently about his convenient absences from home, but since he was never to
be found anyway, the complaints remained unheard by him. One very early
morning, however, she did manage to corner him in his study to present her long
list of questions and to demand the required answers.