Ryman, Rebecca (16 page)

"What
did you say to him?" Olivia asked curiously.

He
shook his head. "Secrets between a man and his horse are sacred. It is an
impertinence even to ask." He broke off two lumps of jaggery from a large
piece that one of his attendants presented and fed one each to the two horses.
"His name is Shaitan, which means
devil.
Sometimes he can be a
vicious brute, perhaps to justify the reputation that name gives him."

"Very
much in the manner of his master, no doubt!"

Raventhorne
looked nonplussed at Olivia's tart observation but then flung back his head and
roared. "No doubt at all, I assure you!" He continued to laugh as a
Nepali arrived leading a third
horse, a dun with white stockings. "My man
Bahadur will follow you home from a discreet distance."

Olivia's
protest was almost a reflex. "Oh, that will not be necessary—"

"It
will be necessary!" He interrupted her with a decisiveness that called for
instant obedience. "I know that you are American and given to postures of
defiance and independence, but please humour my whim, if only so that I can
prove I am not entirely without social refinements."

Without
another word Olivia got onto the box and mounted Jasmine. Raventhorne ensured
that she was well settled in her saddle before vaulting into his own. At the
moment of parting the question trembling on Olivia's lips could not be
restrained. "In return for your many impertinences, will you allow me one
more?"

A
wariness settled over his face. "Ask."

"At
least partially, you yourself are European," she said meeting his
suspicious eyes steadily. "Is it not hypocrisy to profess to hate those to
whom you too belong in part?"

She
wondered if he would answer at all, for instantly his jaw cemented. But then he
did. "It is because I do belong to them partially that I have the right to
hate them. And the reason?" The pewter eyes were icy. "In America
livestock carries its brand on its haunches; in India the Englishman's bastard
is branded forever by his face."

He
dug his spurs into Shaitan's sides and at the same instant the huge black gates
swung open soundlessly. Like a gigantic wind machine the midnight charged
forward to blow a storm around him. For a second, man and beast stood poised at
the gate. Then, crouching low in the saddle Raventhorne nudged his horse again
and in a burst of speed vanished into the thoroughfare. He did not look back at
her. But then Olivia knew from past experience that he wouldn't.

Shaken
by the extreme bitterness of his answer, she sat for a moment, unmoving. Then,
remembering the open gates and the waiting Bahadur, she urged Jasmine forward.
Before the black gates finally closed behind her, Olivia turned for a last look
at the house and caught a flash of yellow in an upstairs balcony. It was Sujata
watching her leave.

Whether
or not it is possible for human beings to define in their minds moments of
destiny, Olivia did not know. But what she did know was that her second
unsolicited encounter with Jai Raventhorne was like a signpost confirming a
direction that confounded her. She was fascinated and baffled by this strange
conundrum of a man, yes; but she was not yet sure that she even liked him! He
was hard, opinionated, arrogant, twisted with hate and cynicism. He believed in
adventurism, thought nothing of flaunting his moral turpitude before come who
may and had no scruples about achieving his ends with whatever dubious means
happened to be available at the moment. Arvind Singh had professed profound
admiration for Jai Raventhorne as a man of rare courage. In Olivia's view,
however, there was nothing especially admirable about a man merely because he
was foolhardy enough to challenge the gods themselves.

All
this Olivia recognised with extreme clarity. What she could not identify was
the capricious, obscure, utterly illogical reason why she could not shake Jai
Raventhorne out of her thoughts no matter how hard she tried. Involuntarily, as
part of the same thought chain, she saw Greg in her mind. Dreamy, gentle,
patient Greg with whom she had grown up. She loved and respected and trusted
Greg, but suddenly he seemed to exist only on the fringes of her memory. She
could barely see his features now and it disturbed her badly. Inexorably, the
world in which Greg lived—in which she too had once lived— was becoming unreal,
like a fantasy. Something sly and unwanted was creeping into her life, taking
her away from her roots. And somehow, at the crux of her disorientation, stood
Jai Raventhorne.

There
was a time, only a few days ago, when she had longed to meet him again. But now
in her revived sense of aloneness, of this strange alienation from her past,
Olivia determined that accidentally or otherwise, she would not see Jai
Raventhorne again.

"Fancy!
I'm actually
eighteen
—I can hardly believe it!" For days after the
birthday ball this was the theme on which Estelle harped constantly.

"Well,
what does that make you, except longer in the tooth, miss?" Olivia
demanded irritably as they sat dispatching the piles of thank-you notes that Lady
Bridget insisted Estelle send in
acknowledgement of the mountain of
gifts she had received, Olivia's being a beautiful doeskin skirt.

"It
makes me an adult, that's what! Now I can marry anyone I like whether Mama
approves or not, except of course Freddie. He's reserved for you, Coz, isn't
he?"

Before
Olivia could give a suitably cutting return, Lady Bridget bustled into the
room. "Aren't you girls going for your evening drive at all? There should
be considerable excitement on the Strand today with this new ship in from
Portsmouth. I hear Lady Birkhurst is one of the passengers on board. Freddie
must be delighted."

Olivia
was not at all surprised at Lady Bridget's announcement. As usual, Jai
Raventhorne's espionage network had been dead accurate in its information.

That
depressing news aside, the evening drive or stroll along the Strand Road was
one that Olivia looked forward to. The outings were a daily sacred ritual with
most Europeans in the city. As a rule, white women did not venture out during
the day when the sun was relentless and liable to brown delicate complexions
maintained scrupulously for their peaches-and-cream pinkness. The evening
sorties with their cool and fresh river air were therefore not only
entertaining but considered medically advisable. They were also pleasant
opportunities to chat with old friends, make new ones, examine at close
quarters those newly arrived from home if a ship happened to be in and see the
latest modes in frocks, hats and shoes. Even more important, the sorties made
it possible to learn what everybody in town was doing (and with whom!) and then
to dissect and disseminate the information depending on its value.

Olivia
and Estelle were sometimes accompanied by Sir Joshua and Lady Bridget, but this
evening Millie Humphries was calling with her recipe for Christmas mince pies
and Sir Joshua had promised Tom Henderson a game of billiards at the club.

"Good!"
Her parents' absence pleased Estelle. "Now we can go and have a proper
look at
his
ship. One of the clippers docked last night." Olivia
said nothing; it seemed that her resolution to avoid Jai Raventhorne did not
preclude his presence in their midst one way or another. Even so, she felt an
involuntary frisson of excitement. "The clipper did the New York to Hong
Kong run in a hundred and four days and then returned to New York from Canton
in only eighty-one—can you believe it?"

It
was certainly an incredible feat, but Olivia did believe it; grudgingly, she
was beginning to develop a very healthy respect
for her cousin's talent for
gathering information that turned out to be true. "Oh?"

"Yes.
Susan told me. Her father knows the captain. And Susan's mother's
durzee,"
she leaned sideways in the carriage and lowered her voice even though there
was no one listening, "also makes clothes for ... for this man's mistress,
that native woman, Susan says. They say she's a dancing girl from Fenwicks
Bazaar Street and very beautiful—in a native sort of way, of course. Susan says
the tailor told her mother that she—"

"Estelle,
I wish you wouldn't listen to so much gossip! It's...
cheap."
Olivia's
reprimand was sharper than she had intended.

"Cheap?
My goodness, if I don't listen to gossip how will I ever
learn
anything
about what's happening in the world?"

"Well,
you could read books and newspapers if it's world happenings you want. If that
succession of long-suffering nannies taught you anything at all, surely it was
to read and write at least."

Her
cousin's sarcasm flew right over Estelle's untroubled head. "Oh, I don't
mean those kind of happenings, I mean
real
news. Anyway, Susan
Bradshaw's mother's tailor says he's
bought
her, like one of
those—"

"Why
don't we stop the carriage and walk, Estelle? It's such a lovely evening and
it's a pity to waste it." Before her cousin could react, Olivia was down
on the pavement, and furious with herself. Estelle's silly chatter had once
more evoked that distasteful vision of Sujata's voluptuous body bared for
Raventhorne's pleasure, and of his own no doubt ardent responses. It was a
vision that Olivia was beginning to hate.

But
the evening was indeed lovely. Puffball clouds winged their way across a slowly
reddening sky, looking like pink flamingoes. The promenade and its gardens were
full of families. Some people walked alone, briskly; others ambled arm in arm
in leisured groups chatting in low voices. In between the strollers children
wove hoops and shouted with an excess of boisterousness that earned frowns from
mothers and guardians. Many were the hats doffed and smiles thrown in their
direction as the cousins walked side by side, for only the very new additions
to town remained unacquainted with the Templewood daughter and niece.

"Look,
there!" Estelle suddenly hissed, clutching Olivia's arm.
"That
one
anchored mid stream near the
dhoolie
boats. You can't miss it."

Olivia
looked in the direction Estelle pointed, trying to locate
the clipper.
Vessels of all classes, sizes and flags dotted the river surface—Indiamen, the
Company's tea wagons, sloops, square-riggers, Royal Navy men-of-war, country
row-boats and fisher craft. This was one of the busiest ports in the East and,
as with all ports, Calcutta's was touched with adventure, with magic and
mystery. Despite her attempt at nonchalance, Olivia felt her stomach lurch as
she focused the opera-glasses Estelle handed her. Yes, among the untidy
assortment of vessels the clipper was unmistakable. It was three masted, long
and elegant, and stood higher than any other ship. Its sails were furled; one
could see small figures scampering about on the deck, lighting buttery yellow
lanterns. On the prow was mounted an exotic shape, obviously metal since it
glinted in the sun.

"Is
that his emblem," Olivia asked, "that odd motif with the three
prongs?" It looked familiar but she could not place it.

"Yes.
That's a
trishul,
a trident. Something to do with the heathen god Shiva,
Dave Crichton says."

"Does
it mean anything?" Olivia recalled she had seen the same trident above
some Hindu temples she had passed by.

"Who
knows? The heathens worship everything, don't they? Dave says he has that on
his pennant, saffron and black, but the flag he flies under is yours,
American." As Olivia again marvelled at her cousin's cache of information,
Estelle snatched the glasses to squint through them, breathing hard. "I wonder
if he's actually on board now, this very minute . . ."