Ryman, Rebecca (14 page)

In
the roseate early morning light filled with the pungent aroma of wood stoves,
the gracious buildings she passed along the Esplanade and Tank Square looked
very imperial indeed. The juxtaposition of elements from Eastern and Western
cultures never failed to fascinate Olivia. Outside Writers' Building, seat of
the East India Company, Brahmin priests stood waist deep in the Tank chanting
with strings of holy beads and their sacred threads looped over one ear. Groups
of Indian children, their oily hair slicked over their heads—some with
topknots—stared at a group of men in Armenian clothes arguing hotly by the
wayside. And a camel with brass rings through its nose trailed behind its
keeper and did not even cast a glance at a passing European carriage.

For
all her nostalgia for home, Olivia could not deny that she found India as a
country intriguing. Here one saw strange mixtures of the mundane and the
esoteric, of the old and the new, of gross superstition and astonishing ancient
wisdom, of gentleness and savagery, cruelty and compassion. Paradoxes abounded
and life was often tragically hard for unwary Europeans at the mercy of strange
diseases, furnace-hot summers and death that struck with frightening suddenness
when least expected. Infant mortality was high, leaving parents bereft
overnight; loved ones could vanish in a trice in sweeping epidemics. All this
Olivia had learned, but she also sensed that for those Europeans who opened
their minds—and there were undoubtedly many—India could also be a garden of
joy, as generous as a spring blossoming.

Despite
the earliness of the hour, the Chitpur markets bustled with business. Under
slanted awnings serried stalls offered a bewildering array of wares: bamboo
basketry, wooden sandals with thongs, brass idols, books, pottery and kitchen goods,
cotton bolts, jute ropes and mats, wooden toys, glass bangles, groceries,
spices and grain, green produce, spectacular displays of freshly cut flowers,
and every conceivable household essential. In some stalls stoves blazed to
dispense freshly cooked sweets and savouries served on disposable plates of
banana leaves. Captivated, Olivia dismounted opposite a tall Hindu temple with
cupolas to stand and observe one confectioner sitting cross-legged before a
gigantic pan, frying yellow circles of batter and then dipping
them into sugar
syrup. She had never tasted Indian sweets, since they were not served at
European tables. These reminded her of Sally's doughnuts and for a moment or
two she struggled with temptation.
Should
she . . .?

"I
would if I were you. Fresh, they are perfectly safe to eat."

Olivia
whirled round in surprise at the unsolicited recommendation, and that too in
English. If the features were unfamiliar, there could be no mistaking the rich,
deep-timbred voice of Jai Raventhorne! Even less, the pair of piercing eyes
that still startled with their opacity. Shocked, she could think of nothing to
say.

"I
can endorse the sweets, Miss O'Rourke; what I cannot endorse is for to you
stand and eat them in the bazaar." Ignoring her speechlessness, he turned
to exchange some words with the confectioner and a moment later was handed a
neat little packet made of banana leaves. He touched her lightly on her elbow
and relieved her of Jasmine's reins. "Come. I will show you a place where
you can eat in private comfort."

Still
tongue-tied, Olivia could only nod and meekly follow him across the street. It
was only as they were about to enter a wide black painted gate that she
suddenly returned to her senses. "Where . . . where are you taking
me?" she stammered.

In
the act of unlatching the gate, he paused. "To my home."

Instantly
her eyes filled with suspicion. "But I thought you lived near the
Pennworthys!"

He
raised a sardonic eyebrow. "I should imagine that not even in the most
conservative of English circles is it considered a crime for a man to own two
homes?"

"Oh."
Feeling foolish, Olivia allowed herself to be ushered in through the gate
without further comment or question.

The
court-yard into which they stepped was a rectangle of elegant dimensions,
marble tiled and shaded on three sides by an arched verandah that rose into a
double-storied house. A fountain spraying faintly green water made a cool
centrepiece. As they entered, two men glided out silently from a doorway beyond
one of the verandah arches, like genies conjured out of some invisible lamp.
They bowed, and one, obviously from the north-eastern hill region, as apparent
from his Mongolian features, took charge of Jasmine while the other relieved
Raventhorne of the packet of sweets that he carried. Some instructions were
dispensed in either Hindustani or Bengali—Olivia couldn't tell which—and then
Raventhorne turned to her again. "Shall we go inside?"

Hearing
their master's voice from one of the upstairs balconies,
the dogs had
started to bark vociferously. All at once Olivia was overcome with
apprehension. "I. . . shouldn't really be here at all," she murmured.
"Perhaps I had better . . . leave." It was unavoidable to look
directly into his eyes as she addressed him and once more she was struck by their
strangeness. Pearl grey, like the inner shell of an oyster, they shone with a
translucence that seemed bottomless and, at the same time, cold.

The
hint of a smile appeared on his lips as if excavated from within with
considerable effort. "I was merely trying to make it possible for you to
sit and enjoy your tidbits in privacy. I wasn't intending to make you one of
mine!
Surely your derringer ensures your protection from big bad wolves such as
me?"

Again
he was making her look foolish and her chin lifted. "It does," she
retorted with marked coldness. "Although I have no information as to which
animal family you pride yourself on resembling most, I'm willing to accept your
own assessment."

The
smile widened into a low chuckle. "Well aimed, Miss O'Rourke! But then,
why all the fuss? Could it be that in the interim since we met so fortuitously,
you have learned something frightening that gnaws away at your American
courage, in spite of being so admirably equipped for self-defence?"

"Your
reputation, Mr. Raventhorne, whatever it might be, is no concern of mine,"
she said stiffly, aware that she had coloured and annoyed that she had.
"But yes, I do happen to have a bone to pick with you."

"Bones
are better picked on a full stomach. Come." Without another word he turned
and with loose gait, long strides and not even a glance over his shoulder,
walked away inside. With no choice left, Olivia followed. His manner had in no
way improved with the passage of the many days since she had first encountered
him, but she could not deny that there was something exciting about this second
meeting, for she had truly never expected to see him again.

The
salon into which Raventhorne now led her was large, also tiled with black and
white marble squares, with a high ceiling supported by stone pillars that were
heavily carved. It was, Olivia guessed without having knowledge of the subject,
a traditional room. A row of windows, screened with delicate filigree in
symmetric patterns, ran the length of one wall overlooking another verandah and
court-yard on the other side. On a patterned Bukhara carpet at one end of the
salon, a seating arrangement had been made with mattresses covered with
pristine white sheets and banks of fat bolsters. A
sitar,
a pair of
tablas
and one or two
other musical instruments stood in a corner. There were no pictures on the
whitewashed walls, no drapes at the windows or doors, no cluttered bric-a-brac
so beloved of other drawing rooms Olivia had seen. Only one wall had any
adornment—an arrangement of swords, scimitars, daggers and shields—and even
those looked more functional than ornamental. It was a room almost defiantly
bare with no personal possessions at all, no indications as to the personality
and character of the man who occupied and used it.

"Please
do be seated." He indicated the mattress. "Or would you prefer a
chair? Sitting on floors is a primitive custom not usually favoured by
memsahibs, I know."

"I
am well used to sitting on floors, thank you." His tone irked her as she
sank onto the mattress and started to remove her heavy riding boots. "Not
all memsahibs consider chairs necessary."

Patting
a bolster into shape, Raventhorne lowered himself onto the other end of the
mattress, leaned back and extended his legs over the edge so as to keep his own
boots off it. Olivia placed herself comfortably, crossed her legs Indian
fashion and fixed him with a stern look. "About that bone I have to pick
with you ..."

"After
breakfast."

"No,
now!"

He
shrugged and crossed his arms against his chest. "Very well. Since you
insist."

It
was not easy to stare into those opalescent eyes without wavering, but Olivia
held her gaze. "The message you sent to my aunt and uncle—were you aware
of the upset it would cause them?"

"Certainly.
It was the only reason for sending it."

His
easy admission galled her. "Did you not think it a dirty trick to play on
me,
an innocent courier of the wretched message?"

"Dirty
tricks are a part of life, even in America. One more or less makes little
difference."

"It
made a difference to me!" His cynicism was, if possible, worse.
"Whatever your rivalries with my uncle, you had no business to make me the
ham in the sandwich. Surely you must have some scruples about the means by
which you achieve your dubious ends, especially when making use of
petticoats!"
High spots of colour glowed on her cheeks.

He
looked amused.
"I
don't consider you a petticoat any more than I
consider myself a scrupulous man, Miss O'Rourke. Fortunately,"
he smiled,
"I suffer none of the constraints of being a gentleman."

Olivia
had a rash urge to ask him what he
did
consider her but of course did no
such thing. It was bad enough not to have rejected his invitation out of hand
and sent him packing when she should have. "You
do
actually enjoy
the diabolical reputation you have, don't you? Well, I think that childish and
perverse!"

"Perversity
carries its own pleasures, Miss O'Rourke," he said lightly, unaffected by
her show of temper. "But since you, I suspect, do not believe that
diabolical reputation, perhaps you at least will forgive me my
trespasses."

The
lines of his angular face with so little evidence of softness seemed all at
once not so hard. There was also a flash of hitherto unsuspected charm. Olivia
wasn't sure she liked any of it, because he was making her unsure again. "Knowing
you as little as I do, Mr. Raventhorne, the question of believing or otherwise
simply doesn't arise," she said with haughty dignity.

"But
considering the extent of your questions to Arvind Singh last night, perhaps
you know me better this time than you did the last?"

It
was with considerable restraint that Olivia didn't jump right out of her skin!
She had met the Maharaja no more than a few hours ago—and he had heard already?
Suddenly, the respect she felt for the ubiquitous village grapevine turned
close to reverence, but she also felt a small sense of betrayal. "Did the
Maharaja tell you that?" she asked, embarrassed.

"No.
For his sins, Arvind Singh
is
a gentleman. I have other sources of
information."

A
timely diversion occurred to plug a line of conversation Olivia had no wish to
pursue. One of the men who had received them in the court-yard entered to
engage Raventhorne in brief conversation. With his attention elsewhere, Olivia
could study him more closely. Yes, his skin was pale beneath the leathery
sunburn, justifying the impression of a European. The disturbing eyes, even now
as they focused on the face of the attendant, appeared restless, burning with a
fierce inner light that was demonic. His shock of hair, black and untamed,
tumbled down his neck in a confusion of upturned ends. Thin lips—a clean gash
in a shaven chin—showed ruthlessness, but his profile of aquiline nose and
high, wide forehead was almost patrician. If clothes maketh the man it was
obvious that man was not Jai Raventhorne; his garments were carelessly worn, a
white shirt tucked casually into plain black trousers secured with a black
leather belt
and silver buckle. Yet, the power of the man was such that it was neither
increased nor diminished by what he wore. That he was volatile and mercurial
Olivia already knew, but there was again that air about him that seemed
designed to make others uncomfortable and ill at ease. Had she told him that,
she had no doubt it would have afforded him considerable pleasure, for his
perversity was abundant.

The
attendant left and Raventhorne glanced at a watch attached to his belt with a
clip and chain. "There appears to be a problem with one of my ships due to
sail on the afternoon tide. I shall have to leave soon."

If
perversity was Raventhorne's pleasure, it seemed by no means only his
prerogative. In his imminent departure Olivia felt an annoying stab of
disappointment. "In that case, let me not delay you—"

"I
said soon," he cut in gently, "but not that soon. There is still time
for breakfast." He laced his fingers behind his head and half lowered his
eyelids. "Why are you frightened of me?"