Ryman, Rebecca (26 page)

"I
accept everything you say, Kinjal," she murmured, following with her
smiling eyes the path of an owl as it swooped past into the trees, "but I
am curious to know why you should consider it necessary to
warn
me.
True, I find Mr. Raventhorne intriguing and his background is remarkably
unusual, but"—to give her subterfuge credence, she raised a laugh—"on
the strength of such slender interest, I am unlikely to become one of those
endless women!"

"I
have said all this to you, Olivia, because although I am overjoyed that you did
come, you must be made aware of the false pretences that have engineered your
visit." She spoke with a great gentleness. "Had I not found you so
compatible, so unlike other white women I have met, I would have held my tongue.
But I think of you already as a friend. I owe it to you to be honest. Please
tell me that you are not offended."

"No,
I am not offended in the least!" Olivia exclaimed, touched by the
sentiments and the concern. "I am only . . . amused. Mr. Raventhorne might
be admirable in many ways, but I assure you I find him eminently
resistible."

Had
she lied?
In
the conflicting dictates of her emotions, Olivia
was again unsure. The reality of
Jai Raventhorne was still too outrageous to have taken root in her mind;
was
it only her active imagination that gave him an aura of such disturbing
magnetism?

Olivia
was relieved that the opportunity to talk about Jai Raventhorne did not arise
again for the remainder of her visit.

"You
paid
one anna
each for the alligator pears?"

"One
anna each."

"And
you say you bought
two
chickens? I counted only two drumsticks in the
mulligatawny last night!"

Lesser
mortals might have quailed before Lady Bridget's gimlet gaze but Babulal was
made of sterner stuff.
"Two
fowl,
four
drumstick," he intoned
without flinching, his eyes turning accusingly in Estelle's direction as she
sat apparently engrossed in one of the melodramatic novelettes that circulated
tirelessly among her friends.

Lady
Bridget's eyes were the first to drop. She abandoned one battle front to open
another. Tapping her household accounts ledger, she attacked from an unguarded
flank. "I myself bought two dozen kitchen dusters not more than three
weeks ago. Do you mean to tell me that
twenty-four
brand-new and sturdy
pieces of cloth ...?"

Sitting
quietly in a corner reading the very first mail packet she had received from
her father, Olivia resolutely shut her ears to the daily harangues. She was
beginning to believe that hot wrangles over bazaar accounts were the favourite
entertainment of Calcutta's mems, the consequent victories and defeats premier
topics of conversation at
burra khanas.
Most European women were
contemptuous of their retinues of domestic staff even though they could hardly
do without them, but Lady Bridget's aversion to those who inhabited her vast
servants' compound appeared to be excessive. True, the population below the
stairs, figuratively speaking, was massive; there were bearers,
abdars,
khidmutgars,
gardeners, coachmen,
chowkidars,
punkahwallahs, water carriers,
sweepers, kitchen boys, stable boys and the two ayahs, and in addition, their
prolific families. They all had the length of Lady Bridget's tongue from time
to time and, Olivia had heard it said, also a taste of Sir Joshua's hunting
crop, for his temper could be volatile. It was a situation Olivia abhorred, but
attitudes and
prejudices were so deeply entrenched, she could do nothing about it and seldom
interfered.

Estelle,
of course, had no such inhibitions. "If you detest servants so much,
Mama," she lost no time in pointing out as soon as Babulal had been
dismissed, "why do we have so many? It's only because you can't do without
them, isn't it?"

"And
you can, I suppose? Don't
you
talk, miss, until you can learn to keep
your own room from looking like a shipwreck! You'll find out soon enough when
you have your own household what thieving, indolent—"

"Papa
sends everyone his warm regards." Noting that Estelle was still spoiling
for a fight, Olivia quickly intervened. "He says the weather in the
islands is glorious even though the stench of blubber isn't. He's still on that
whaler."

Blubber!
Lady Bridget controlled herself with an effort. "How very kind of
Sean," she murmured, trying to look interested. "Do reciprocate on
our behalves when you reply. Anyway," she closed her ledger with a snap
and rose from her desk, "I'm pleased that you enjoyed your weekend and
that the Maharani wasn't too dreadful, but how odd that there should have been
no other European guests. Generally these shooting parties are like tamashas,
circuses really." She frowned, still smarting under her husband's wilful
destruction of her carefully laid plans. "I hope he at least had the
decency to keep you away from his harem."

"Well,
if Arvind Singh has one, we saw no evidence of it," Olivia answered,
amused by the comment. "He doesn't appear to be that kind of a
gentleman."

"They're
all that kind! Do you think the sanctity of marriage means anything to people
who burn widows on funeral pyres?"

"Well,
I
haven't noticed much sanctity in the Haworths, for instance,
Mama," Estelle piped up. "Everyone knows what
she
does with
Bill Corliss when he comes to tune her piano each week, and it's common
knowledge that
he's
gone all native with that woman from Cossipore. To
say nothing of the taradiddles they tell about that half-caste brat passed off
as . . ."

Silently,
Olivia crept out of the room, despairing of Estelle ever learning how to keep
her mouth shut and when.

Upstairs
in the quiet of her room, Olivia sat down to read her father's letter again,
her throat tight with happiness. He had not yet received any of hers, of
course, but when he did the flow would be steady. Much of what her father wrote
had to do with
his investigation, which was proceeding satisfactorily. The information he was
collecting, he said, was very significant and useful. There was a paragraph or
two about the forthcoming elections at home, where the heat was on. The rest of
the letter was about Hawaii, where, he thought, Honolulu was emerging fast as
the most important port and town in the Pacific. "However, the verdant
scene one sees from the ship is deceptive. Except for the mountains and some
valleys, the land is hard, dry and barren, and water is not easy to come by.
But I might be fortunate in getting some land with natural irrigation near by
although it is rare."

Olivia
frowned. Was he planning a long stay on the islands? She would have to wait to
find out, for he gave no further explanations. A separate letter was all about
Sacramento and the ranch. Greg was managing well in her absence (ten more
longhorns from old Matty gotten dirt-cheap since he's moving to Texas), and
Sally's Dane and Dirk were beginning to sprout 'taches. Sally had had a good
offer for her lending-library from an ex-Yale man and was thinking of selling
because there was grave concern among the locals about the recent discovery of
gold in California, of which the papers were full. "It will start a
stampede," her father warned. "Every scoundrel, murderer and rotten
apple in the United States will be heading West, Livvie. I fear for our State,
darling, for there is no end to man's greed and lust for gold." He
concluded the letter with "Enjoy yourself, sweetheart, and do your best to
utilise the opportunity your aunt has made available to you. I know it cannot
be easy for you, for the rules that prevail there are different from what you
have known. But England too, my dear child, is part of your heritage. However
strange, you must never reject it, for it comes to you from your beloved
mother. Use her gift to the full but remember when you go to bed each night and
commune with your heart in silence that you have an old Dad somewhere who holds
you more precious than his life."

Olivia
refolded the letter, the ache in her heart fierce and her eyes brimming. What would
she not give now for an hour, just one hour, of her father's infallible advice
when her unwanted "heritage" was drawing her into a maze of such
terrible indecision!

A
knock sounded on the door and her aunt entered. "I forgot to mention,
dear, that Lady Birkhurst has kindly invited us for tea tomorrow. We will leave
at four. I have had your blue linen pressed, and you won't forget the white
belt, will you, dear?"

"No,
I will not," Olivia assured her gloomily, then stood up
and decided to
take the bull by the horns. "I am deeply grateful for your concern and for
everything that you are doing for me, Aunt Bridget, but I feel I must now make
something clear to you. I have no intentions whatsoever of marrying Mr.
Birkhurst. It would be wrong to raise any false hopes he might be
entertaining."

"Marry?"
Lady Bridget's expression was of innocence incarnate. "My dear child,
nobody has said anything about
marriage!
Surely you do not object to
sharing a few casual moments with someone who has been kind enough to seek our
company, especially in view of our previous cancellation, which she accepted
most graciously."

The
aggrieved tone did not fool Olivia, but she had made her point. "No, of
course not," she agreed grudgingly, "I would be pleased to accompany
you and Estelle to Lady Birkhurst's."

"Incidentally,
dear," Lady Bridget hesitated, "I called on her personally last
Saturday to inform her that you were ill. It would therefore be imprudent to
mention anything about your weekend in Kirtinagar. Will you remember that?"

Olivia
sighed. "Yes, Aunt Bridget. I will remember that."

But
after five o'clock that afternoon, nobody was to remember anything save that
Sir Joshua had returned home surprisingly early and that his face looked like
thunder. Without exchanging a word with anyone, he had stormed into his study
and slammed the door behind him. "What's happened, Mama?" Estelle
looked nervous. "Why is Papa in such a terrible rage?"

As
she descended the stairs, Lady Bridget's face was equally pale. She did not
answer Estelle's question, or rather, chose not to. Instead, she merely stood
staring at the study door as if mesmerized into immobility. Then, attempting a
recovery, she continued her passage down the flight. "No doubt some fracas
at the office," she said calmly. "You know how strongly your father
tends to react to trivialities. He will be over it by supper-time." But in
her blue eyes the fear remained.

Sir
Joshua was not "over it" by supper-time. Indeed, his mood was such
that he refused food entirely, preferring his own company behind barred doors.
Through their own meal in the dining-room, Lady Bridget remained abstracted and
there was little conversation. Even Estelle did not dare to chatter as she
usually did. When the meal was finished, Lady Bridget prepared a tray of food
in the pantry for her husband and entrusted it to Olivia.

"Josh
likes to talk to you about his affairs, dear. Perhaps you
can find out
the reason for his foul mood." She smiled bravely. "You see, he won't
believe me but he does need a holiday. He works too long and too hard for his
health to bear the strain."

Inside
the study there was darkness. Olivia could discern her uncle's outline against
the window, since the curtains had not been drawn. In the gloom the tip of his
cigar glowed a dull red, brightening each time he pulled on it. Olivia stood
watching for a moment, then cleared her throat.

"Bridget?"

She
groped for his desk and put the tray on it. "No, Uncle Josh, it is I,
Olivia." He did not speak. "Aunt Bridget has sent in some cold meat
and a fresh bottle of port."

It
was only after she had lit the paraffin lamps and tidied the desk to make room
for his plate and glass that he finally turned. "Sit down, Olivia."

She
did, watching him in worried silence as he walked to his chair and sank down
heavily. "What is wrong, Uncle Josh? You look so . . . strange. Are you
not feeling well?" There was no longer rage in his face, but what lurked
in the rutted lines that radiated from his set mouth was still ominous.

"We
have had bad news from Gupta." His tone was clipped. Without paying
attention to what he was doing he speared a slice of meat with his fork, shoved
it roughly into his mouth and champed on it. Olivia waited while he chewed
grimly through the piled meat and washed it down with a glass of port.
"Our consignment of opium from north Bengal has been looted en
route."