Ryman, Rebecca (110 page)

"Did
you offer them double wages?" Olivia asked in increasing frustration.
"Or did you haggle?"

"I
know the work is urgent, lady memsahib. I did not haggle. I took the liberty of
offering even more than double, but they would not budge."

"Did
you get the impression that their excuses were genuine?"

The
peon lowered his eyes and slowly shook his head.

The
suspicion forming in Olivia's mind strengthened. With the return of Bimal Babu
and the news that he brought, the suspicion turned into a certainty. He had
shown the tiara, he said, to the town's four leading gem merchants, one of whom
was his distant relation. Their answers had all been remarkably similar. The
tiara was exquisite, and the lady memsahib's credentials were unquestionable.
No disrespect was intended, but such a priceless piece would need to be
re-evaluated. The formality— which is all that it was—could take up to a
fortnight. Could they
then offer a loan against the jewellery, Bimal Babu had taken it upon himself
to ask? Oh, certainly, but to raise such a large sum of cash would take at
least a week. Soon after Bimal Babu's return, a curt note arrived from Willie
Donaldson. All at once, it seemed, there was not a mercenary available for hire
in the city. Half of those Farrowsham had on its payroll had disappeared
overnight. Of the rest, many had reported sick or claimed bereavements. It was
astonishing how many grandmothers had died all at once.

The
pattern that emerged from all this was clear; It was Raventhorne's hand that
was blocking each avenue to make it into a dead end. Of that Olivia was now
certain. The harassment was part of his tactics to delay the demolitions, to
divert her energies elsewhere, to dissipate her manual resources. Refusing to
either be intimidated or to waste her stamina further on useless anger, Olivia
instead invoked her logic in a mental climate of calm and examined her options.
She could refuse to repay Mooljee with such ludicrous dispatch, but then she
would have to return the tiara to him. He would instantly foreclose the
mortgage, sell the tiara and cheat her out of a sum much higher than his
wretched loan. She could use Farrowsham funds to tide her over in the crisis or
apply to Clarence Pennworthy's bank for another loan against the tiara. Both
these last two options Olivia rejected. She would not break her vow not to
touch Freddie's money for a war strictly her own. And although Pennworthy would
certainly sanction her the loan, perhaps even without collateral, he was also
Trident's banker. Just as Mooljee disliked "the Eurasian," Pennworthy
did too; but, as Arthur Ransome had once pointed out to her, when it came to
the crunch, business was business. Both also feared Kala Kanta, and Pennworthy
would cunningly invoke as much red tape as possible to delay actually handing
her the money.

It
was this silent observation that brought to Olivia's mind another of Ransome's
long ago remarks. Raventhorne, he had said, had one matchless advantage over
the Europeans: He had India on his side. Now, for the first time, Olivia was
struck by the stunning validity of that contention. So far, Raventhorne had
succeeded admirably in outplaying all her gambits. It was only much later in
the day that Olivia suddenly saw one that he had missed, and she pounced on it.
"He might have India on his side," she exclaimed, eyes shining again,
"but not yet
America!"

"What?"

Olivia
didn't realise she had spoken aloud until Estelle,
following all
the frenetic comings and goings with gathering alarm, jerked out her
monosyllabic query. Olivia laughed. "I was merely wondering why I had not
thought of it earlier."

"Thought
of what?" How Estelle was beginning to distrust that secretive little
smile on her cousin's lips!

"Why,
the Seventh Cavalry, of course!"

While
Estelle gaped in incomprehension, Olivia signalled Salim to order her carriage
and gathered her purse and shawl. Estelle ran up to her and clutched at her
arm. "Olivia,
please
don't goad Jai into any more recklessness! You
cannot match forces with him, he is far too well prepared."

Olivia
stopped in her tracks and gave her a long, thoughtful look. "No. Forces I
cannot match. I do see that now. But what I can match—and adequately!—are
wits.
There, my dearest Coz, we are far from unequal."

As
Olivia had known he would, Hal Lubbock was delighted to grant all her requests
not only without hesitation but with enthusiasm. Yes, he had heard of the vile
troubles her Agency was being subjected to by that son of a bitch Raventhorne,
and yes, of course he would help—any danged way she suggested. "The gah
sure needs his essentials trimmed, beggin' pahdon for mah language,
my'am." He added generously that if he, Hiram Arrow-smith Lubbock, could
be of any service whatsoever, whah, it would be his danged pleasshah to oblige,
bah God it would! A loan? Lubbock laughed. That
sure
would be no
problem; as much as she wanted, anytime. But was that
all?
For a moment
he looked quite disappointed.

"No,
that is not all, Mr. Lubbock," Olivia said. "There is something
else."

He
brightened. "Jes' name it, my'am—want the gah's teeth knocked back into
his throat?"

Olivia
smiled. "Thank you for the offer, it really
is
a temptation! But
no, that isn't it. What I would be most grateful for is a loan of your workmen.
I will need them only for two days, three on the outside."

Lubbock
looked astonished. "Yuh want some
furn'ture
built?"

"No.
I want some structures demolished. I know that is not their usual line, but
they're strong, hard-working and there are
plenty of implements in your workshop
to suit my purpose. I think they will do the job quite satisfactorily."
Still baffled, Lubbock agreed without question. "Thank you kindly, Mr.
Lubbock. I will let you know when."

"Sure,
but ah could easily start raht away, if yuh want," he suggested hopefully.

Olivia
cogitated, then shook her head. "No. There is one more matter that needs
to be settled before I commence the demolitions. One last thing, Mr.
Lubbock," she paused briefly, "there is likelihood of some . . .
trouble at the Templewood site. May I also request your presence there with a
shot-gun?"

Lubbock
was ecstatic. He hadn't had a single good fight since he had arrived in India
and it was about time he did. "Black or white, my'am, bustin' asses is
what yours truly does best, and ah owe yuh one, ah surely do!"

If
her business with Lubbock had gone smoothly, the second errand that Olivia had
devised for herself was fraught with uncertainty. Lubbock she had met openly;
her second visit would have to be in stealth and at night. It might be a
confrontation and she dreaded it. The letter that her bearer, Salim, had
delivered had brought only a noncommittal, lukewarm response. The meeting she
sought had not been refused outright. But, Olivia knew, there would be rancour,
possibly insults and innuendo. Whether or not she was successful in her quest,
she would lose self-respect. But she was prepared for that, for if she achieved
her purpose, what she stood to gain was more, far more.

For
one, she would have proved that not all of India, perhaps, was on Jai
Raventhorne's side after all.

Sujata
received her with no outward sign of surprise, for she too was prepared. The
midnight eyes, still smooth as satin, seemed startled only at Olivia's odd
apparel, a
burqua
such as Muslim women wore to conceal their bodies and
faces. Many visitors, especially men, came to call only under cover of night in
equal secrecy. Accepting, if not understanding, Olivia's need for stealth,
Sujata merely shrugged and, with that sublime grace that was part of her
profession, silently invited Olivia into her house. They passed through an
archway curtained with glass-beaded strings into a salon, large and dimly
illuminated. Impatiently Olivia divested herself of her cumbersome outer
garment wet from the spitting rain, since she had chosen to walk part of the
way. A servant boy brought in a chair, the only one in evidence. Sujata herself
reclined on a somewhat sad-looking mattress. She was as alert as a snake but
otherwise inscrutable. Somehow, the
minor courtesy of a chair seemed to
constitute a snub. It underlined the difference between them, conveyed a
delicate contempt.

Positioning
herself in the chair, Olivia ignored the slur. "Thank you for consenting
to see me. I hope you will forgive the intrusion." She spoke in fluent
Hindustani, her face expressionless. "I have come with a proposition that
might be of interest to you." She allowed herself the flicker of a smile.
"Its benefit will be mutual."

It
had not been difficult for Salim to locate Sujata's
kotha,
her
courtesan's premises. She was well known in the neighbourhood, and local gossip
about her proliferated. But in her profession, it was obvious to Olivia, her
success had been modest. It was said that she paid her dues on time and
entertained a few regular customers but that her heart was not in her business.
The triple-storied house was owned by her but called for repairs; some walls
showed exposed brickwork, others badly needed a coat of whitewash. The
furnishings, once brocade perhaps, were threadbare; the bolsters and cushions
displayed evidence of darning. In a corner, on a well-worn Persian carpet,
stood neatly arranged musical instruments, perhaps the very ones Olivia had
seen in the Chitpur house.

"Oh?"
Sujata's low laugh was insolent. "I would not have thought that the lady
memsahib and I could have anything in common."

It
was the first time Olivia had heard her speak. She was faintly surprised by the
sweetness of her voice, but then she remembered that she was a singer. "On
the contrary, Sujata," she said softly, scrutinising closely the woman's
smooth, sandalwood face. It was vibrant with colour but beneath the cosmetics
and the contrived smoothness, there were lines. The satin eyes showed hard
ripples of discontent, no longer liquid with love. The coral mouth with which
Olivia had once shared Jai Raventhorne's kisses was puckered into a pout of
sourness. She no longer looked young. Perhaps not even twenty-five, she was
already tarnished, the shine gone. Strange that this too should be mutual,
Olivia thought! "On the contrary, Sujata," she repeated with greater
emphasis. "There appears to be a great deal that we do have in
common."

Sujata
laughed again, a jarring sound. A malicious glance swept over Olivia's stomach.
"The lady memsahib likens her situation to mine? I hardly deserve such
mockery! Yes, we have both been discarded," a flash of vicious triumph,
"but how different
our fates are! Could it be that blinded by wealth, fame, a husband, children,
all that a woman desires—the lady memsahib has not noticed?" Breathing
hard, she turned her angry face away. "Unlike you, I am not married, nor
ever can be. Used for three years, I am fit only for
this,
a profession
of shame but the only skill that the Sarkar taught me. Unlike you, I will never
have children. Those I might will also live ingloriously, despised for want of
a father." Kohl-laden eyes spilled over with hate and a deep, inner
burning. "You are a white mem. Your kind protects you. You survive the
abandonment well, lady memsahib, but don't rub salt into
my
wounds."

"You
are wrong, Sujata," Olivia spoke as gently as she could bring herself to.
The hate she no longer cared about; it was the anger that interested her.
"I too have wounds of my own. What we share is a common cause. Perhaps we
both have many private fires to douse."

"I
do not have the strength to settle scores with him," Sujata said bitterly.
"He is like an elephant, I merely an ant." Reaching for a well-used
silver receptacle at her elbow, she spat into it.

"But
if you did have the strength, would you be prepared to use it?"

Sujata
stared, suspicious and uncomprehending. "Yes. I do not know what the lady
memsahib means, but
yes!
If I had the strength, I would use it."
Her lips thinned; she looked coarse again. "I would cut out his heart and
eat it for reducing me to this!"

"I
can give you the strength. It will not be difficult." Taking out a small
silken bag from her purse, Olivia started to open it. "Together, we could
be invincible."