Ryman, Rebecca (105 page)

Aware
of the rumours, Olivia was more wounded than she was willing to admit. Within
her own premises also, she lived in perennial fear. Mary Ling was a simple,
trusting girl, but she too was Eurasian. How soon would she start to wonder
about the child's resemblance to Raventhorne? And the rest of her staff who had
seen him in such memorable circumstances at her cousin's reception, how soon
would
they
start talking—or did they do so already? All this frightened
and hurt Olivia, but she was helpless; now more than ever she simply could not
afford to
take risks. But once disentangled from the pernicious threads of this giant
silken cobweb, she vowed to herself she would spend every moment compensating
Amos for his present cruel deprivations.

To
avoid the inevitable spate of morning callers, Olivia started to pass the hours
before luncheon at the Templewood bungalow with Amos and Mary. She felt she
could not face those who indubitably came with gossip in mind, to sniff and
smell out juicy snippets of information that could then be scattered around at
burra
khanas
to add to the spicy offerings. Others would come with possibly
kinder intentions, but in her present mood of restiveness, Olivia felt she
could not stomach them either. Besides, some preliminary activity had already
commenced at the Templewood bungalow. A firm of surveyors had been called in to
accurately measure the land, some uneven ground at the back was being levelled
and a suitably qualified architect was in the process of being selected to
design the Farrowsham hotel on the lines of the most modern establishments in
America. Olivia had also made known her need for an experienced, possibly
retired, hotelier of repute who would be competent to act as her adviser. There
was no doubt that the project was gathering momentum. The interest it was
generating among potential investors was prompting a daily deluge of inquiries
at the Agency. If Donaldson was gratified by this favourable reaction he did
not show it; dour and unbending, he remained as suspicious as ever.

But
from Jai Raventhorne there was only silence.

One
of the few callers Olivia genuinely welcomed was Hal Lubbock, fast developing
into an India hand of confidence. For Olivia, even his unbridled vulgarity came
as a touch of the home that was now only a mirage, and she found it vastly
refreshing. One morning he arrived with a not unexpected tidbit of news.
"This gah Raventhorne, ah'd shure lahk to know what makes him tick. Heard
what he's doin' with that old shipwreck?" Olivia told him that she had not
heard. "Nuttin'. Would yuh b'lieve it?
Nuttin'!"
Added to
that, he proceeded to tell her with much astonishment, he had removed the
guards from the site and made it known that anyone who wished to help himself
to a piece of the
Daffodil
was welcome to take what they wanted. As a
consequence, the river site was swarming with scavengers, like flies around a
rotten carcass, picking the ship to its bones. "Can yuh
beat
that,
my'am? Ah guess
someone
could figger it aht—
ah
shure as hell
cahn't!"

Yes,
she could figure it out. Whatever might have once been
mounted on her
prow, the
Daffodil
remained a symbol of the man Raventhorne hated; that
he was now dead made no difference. Lubbock would have been shocked, had he
known it, at just how accurate was his analogy of that carcass.

Were
it not for the dutiful letters Olivia forced herself to fabricate each week to
her family, and for those that arrived in return with gratifying regularity,
she would no longer have thought of America. Home, family and future had simply
ceased to hold meaning for her. Now there was only the present. He was
thinking, her father wrote, of registering Amos's name at Yale, "unless Freddie
considers Oxford or Cambridge more fitting." A nursery annex for two was
half erected right next to the beach. Sally was busy stitching little
swim-suits. A trip was planned to San Francisco this coming summer, perhaps one
to England next year to make the acquaintance of Freddie and his family. No
doubt by then she too would be there with both her children. The Sacramento
farm had been bought up by Greg, who was now married to a Mexican girl and they
were about to become proud parents. Dane and Dirk were learning about India
from her father; they also wanted to know if it was true that as an English
lord's wife she now had to wear a crown, even when she went to bed.

And
then, one fine morning, like a messenger from heaven, an angel from the gods,
Kinjal arrived!

Olivia
was overwhelmed; for a moment or two she could not speak. Before the rains
damaged the roads seriously, Kinjal explained, she had decided to spend some
time in Calcutta so as to be on hand during Olivia's second confinement. Also,
it would be a good time to complete rituals before the mother goddess at the
Kali temple in fulfilment of a vow she had taken for the continuing health and
prosperity of her family. Olivia knew that Arvind Singh maintained a permanent
residence in Kalighat on the canal known as the
adhi Ganga,
the half
Ganges, a tributary of the Hooghly and also highly sacred to Calcutta's Hindus.
It was now almost a year since Olivia had last seen Kinjal; however active
their correspondence, to be once more face to face with her dearest friend, her
true confidant, brought for Olivia a resurgence of a joy such as she had not
savoured in months. There was so much news to be given and received, so much to
be talked about, oh so much!

Kinjal
had brought with her generous gifts for her friend and for Amos. Now almost a
year old, bursting with boyish energy and undiluted enchantment, Amos was much
admired, cosseted
and cuddled, and allowed rampant liberties with which to show off all his newly
acquired accomplishments. In between, they exchanged volumes of news and talked
and laughed until their throats ran dry and their voices cracked. Tarun and
Tara, Kinjal told her, were once again with their grandparents in the north.
Arvind Singh was totally preoccupied with completing repairs to the mine and
with ubiquitous State duties. Relieved of household responsibilities and the
onerous burdens of being a conscientious Maharani, if only temporarily, Kinjal
seemed marvellously relaxed, her mood reposeful and receptive.

Which
was why, that afternoon, Olivia decided to stir a subject she had not meant to
until much later. In a way, she dreaded the moment, but what she had planned
had to be said sometime and now seemed a better time than later. "You have
already done so much for me, Kinjal dearest, that I am ashamed to confess there
is still one favour I have to beg of you. Had you not come, in fact, I would
have written to plead for your presence." The strangeness that had come
over Olivia's face stopped Kinjal from premature intervention. She waited.
"As soon as my baby is born, I request you to remove it from my
proximity."

"Remove
it?" Kinjal was startled. "Remove it where?"

"Wherever
it is not within my reach or hearing. I would also be supremely grateful for
the provision of a suitable wet-nurse of your recommendation from Kirtinagar.
She should be willing to travel to England with the child. I will, of course,
also bear all expenses for her subsequent return. Mary will be accompanying
them, naturally. The woman will be well taken care of and will suffer no
language difficulties."

Olivia's
calm matter of factness by no means deluded Kinjal, but nevertheless she was
appalled. "You will surrender your child to your husband? With no thought
for your own feelings? No,
no,
my poor friend, I will not, I
cannot
be
party to such self-inflicted cruelty!"

"Kinjal,
I
must
do this!" Olivia said fiercely. "Without it my moral
bargain has no meaning." For the moment she felt no pain, only impatience.
There would be plenty of time later for mourning. "You see, Kinjal, what I
want
to do is not what I
have
to do anymore. The two have become
irreconcilable. Between you and Estelle, who will also arrive shortly, you must
not let me weaken. I have no one else upon whom to depend."

"Curses
on that moral bargain of yours!" Kinjal cried in rare anger. "It is
the mother in me who rebels at the severity of this obscene penance you have
devised for yourself!"

"Devised
for myself?" Olivia laughed. "Every twist of my
life has been
devised
for
me, my friend, or had you not noticed? Circumstances pipe
the tune. I merely dance to it."

Silenced,
Kinjal searched Olivia's smiling face in immense sorrow. How transformed her
lovely, innocent American had become in even less than a year! There was a
waspish set to her mouth, thin and hard, that made a mockery of her laugh. The
golden eyes, so filled once with honeyed innocence, were like frosted window
panes, opaque and glassy. She seemed compulsively restless, finding it
impossible to keep her twitching hands still. Where was that mellifluous calm,
that gazelle grace that had given her such suppleness? And where was the
innocent radiance that had once illuminated that angelic face from within like
a Chinese lantern? Even the rich gloss of her glorious chestnut hair had
dulled. Gone also was that beguiling openness of manner that had been her most
appealing asset. Now there was unattractive smugness, a furtive need to avoid
meeting even her friend's eyes squarely, and a sadly distasteful lack of
honesty. It was a reversal of personality so cruel that Kinjal liquefied with
inner pain and a profound feeling of personal loss.

"Keep
your
child, Olivia!" she begged, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Forget
Freddie, forget your satanic bargain—
forget Jai Raventhorne!
Your
craving for vengeance corrodes only you; it tarnishes your judgement, distorts
all your perspectives—and still harms not a hair of Jai's head.
Take
your
two children away to those heavenly islands, Olivia. There you will learn to be
content, to laugh again, to love and be loved, to be happy and, perhaps, to
live once more in tranquility."

Olivia
was vaguely surprised by Kinjal's lack of understanding. Forget Jai
Raventhorne?
Now?
When she was so close to levelling the score? When she
had waited so long for this, the moment of final reckoning? But then she
remembered that, like Estelle, Kinjal too had divided loyalties; she could
hardly be expected to abandon one in favour of the other. No, she could not
forget Jai Raventhorne. Life revolved around many axes, in many time cycles.
There was a time to love, a time to forget. A time to avenge.

But
for Kinjal's benefit, she only smiled.

En
route on her return journey to Calcutta, Estelle said, she had made an
excursion into the Burdwan jungles to visit the grave of her father. With her
she had taken a marble tombstone reading:

Here
lies Joshua Adam Templewood, beloved husband of Bridget Lucy nee Halliwell,
cherished father of Estelle Sarah Sturges. Born June 28, 1793 Anno Domini, died
November 15, 1849, here in the wilderness under tragic circumstances. Deeply
mourned in abundant love, never forgotten, always missed. "He maketh me to
lie down in green pastures."

The
day Estelle had installed the headstone at the lonely grave, he would have
completed the fifty-sixth year of his life.

Olivia
was pained to see Estelle again so desolate, so low in spirits. She talked
instead of Arthur Ransome, making inquiries as to how he enjoyed his holiday in
Cawnpore. But Ransome too, it appeared, had broken journey to visit the grave
on his way up country and that subject was equally hurtful to Estelle.
Considering all this, Olivia refrained from making mention of the letter she
herself had just received from Lady Bridget.

Since
her aunt had left, Olivia had written to her with unfailing regularity once a
month but, until now, she had never received any answer.
My darling child,
the
unexpected missive had begun,

With
your inborn compassion you will have, I know, forgiven my long silence. I have
had nothing of worth for which to put pen to paper, save my love and blessings
that are always yours. I rejoice to learn of your happiness, of your son and of
the fulfilment I know you have enjoyed in your marriage. That you are again to
be a mother I celebrate without words. I have none to express the joy that I
feel.