Ryman, Rebecca (3 page)

Which
was an introspection very similar to the one Lady Bridget was indulging in as
she absently supervised the pruning of the bougainvillea above the front
portico. Had Olivia not taken so impartially and so equally from both parents,
she mourned silently, there would have been no problem. That wilful
stubbornness and hard set of the chin, those disarming hazel eyes so filled
with innocent fire, that smile of blinding radiance that seemed to illuminate
her face from within, the vulnerability behind the defiance—all these had come
from Sarah. If one could overlook her disastrous taste in husbands, Sarah had
many virtues even though high intellect and the ability to articulate it had
not been among them. These, definitely, Olivia had acquired from her outrageous
father. Whatever Lady Bridget's opinion of him—and it was unambivalent—she
could not deny that Sean O'Rourke did have brains. That he chose to fritter
them away in chasing rainbows Lady Bridget might have considered
his
business, had he
not driven poor Sarah to her grave and defiled his daughter so thoroughly with
his radicalism. Why, she had never even had an English nanny! And which
high-born English gent would want to wed a lass who debated like a politician
and gave a lecture where only a kiss was called for?

Irascibly
Lady Bridget rebuked the gardener for having let the vine grow wild and
promised a deduction of four annas from his wages. But she remained abstracted.
Certainly, Olivia's growing influence over Estelle was not Olivia's fault.
Despite her fearsome spirit, Olivia was practical, resourceful, unspoilt and
(when she chose to be) eminently sensible. That she had been allowed to run
wild in a country already a wilderness was not her fault, any more than the
fact that it was her less sterling qualities that Estelle chose to emulate. And
it was her daughter's growing insurgency that alarmed Lady Bridget. English
society forgave the Americans much because they didn't know any better; in an
English girl born and bred amidst the most hallowed traditions of the aristocracy,
radical behavior was neither easily forgiven nor quickly forgotten.

As
far as Olivia was concerned, Lady Bridget not only knew her duties but was
determined to fulfil them to the best of her considerable ability. It was
Estelle's future that was now beginning to cause her concern.
Had
it been a
mistake, she wondered
also for the thousandth time, to bring Olivia out here before Estelle was
suitably wed? ...

"Vindaloo?
Oh,
splendid." Estelle attacked the curry with gusto. "Is Papa going to
be late again?"

"Your
father said not to wait dinner for him. He and Arthur will eat later in the
study." Lady Bridget signalled Rehman, the chief bearer, to remove the
serving dish from her daughter's purview.

"It's
that
Sea
Siren
business
again, isn't it?" Estelle adroitly outmanoeuvred the bearer to add one
last spoonful of rice to her plate. "They say she was pirated because of
all that opium on board."

"Was
she? Ask your father. I have no idea. Incidentally," she frowned,
"Jane Watkins sent a note to say she's bringing both dresses in the
morning. If you wish to still fit into them, Estelle, I suggest a little more
restraint at table. I will not allow another gown for the Pennworthys'
burra
khana."

"Oh,
I'd forgotten all about the
burra khana!
But can I at least be measured for the
green georgette, Mama? That is, if Olivia doesn't mind the beige."

"No,
I don't mind the beige." Olivia's heart sank—
another
dinner-party?
Did folks in these parts have no other means of entertainment? Since she had
arrived she had been to one, sometimes two, each week and more over weekends.
"In any case, I don't need another dress. I have more than I can use.
Thank you."

"Estelle
has two other greens. I think you should have the georgette, Olivia," Lady
Bridget said firmly, determined to make no differences between the girls.
"Green suits you well, you know."

"Oh,
but it suits Estelle better," Olivia said, her eyes twinkling. "As
the dashing Captain Sturges has no doubt already noted."

Estelle
blushed and tossed a napkin playfully at her cousin. "Well, who cares?
It's
you
who
has poor Freddie Birkhurst mooning like a lovesick duck, hasn't she,
Mama?"

"If
Olivia has aroused the interest of Mr. Birkhurst," her mother said with a
smug smile, "I see nothing wrong in that. Your cousin is a very
personable, very eligible young lady with impeccable
antecedents on
...," she almost said "on her mother's side" but thought better
of it. "I should have told you earlier, Olivia, but it slipped my
mind—Freddie Birkhurst has written to ask if he may escort you to the
Pennworthys next week. Naturally I have been pleased to accept. I take it the
arrangement finds favour with you?"

With
great restraint Olivia forbore from informing her aunt that it certainly did
not! Freddie's obvious infatuation with her embarrassed and irritated her, as
did the unilateral acceptance of his wretched invitation. "Do I have to go
to the party at all?" Olivia asked bluntly, side-stepping the issue.

"I
thought young girls
liked
going
to parties!" Inwardly Lady Bridget seethed again—what was wrong with this
child? Had that wild Irish father of hers given her no social graces at all?
"And it wouldn't do to disappoint poor Mr. Birkhurst now, would it?"

"Olivia
doesn't want to go
because
of
Freddie," Estelle took it upon herself to explain. "She says he keeps
staring at her and his eyes remind her of boiled gooseberries." She
giggled and sucked noisily on a chicken drumstick. "They do rather, you
have to admit, Mama."

Under
her breath Olivia muttered a strictly forbidden oath and her aunt bristled.
"If Olivia finds Mr. Birkhurst's kind and entirely courteous attentions
irksome, she is at perfect liberty to tell me so herself." She paused, but
no response was forthcoming from her intimidated niece. "You see? Olivia
has no such reservations. And I do think it's wicked of you to make idle
mockery of the brave young men who sustain the outposts of our Empire with such
dedication, Estelle!"

It
was a reproof for them both but, catching her cousin's eye, Olivia nearly
giggled too. Everyone knew that if there was anything Freddie Birkhurst was
dedicated to, it was devout self-indulgence. As for the Empire, in Freddie's
own opinion, it could sustain itself very well without his help. Or, as many
felt, better for that reason precisely.

"Oh,
Mama, stop
worrying!
You
don't have to make matches for Olivia," Estelle offered without being
asked. "She'll trap her own husband without even trying. Freddie isn't the
only prospect in station ready, willing and able; they all are."

A
shocked silence ensued. Furious, Olivia broke it before her aunt could recover.
Under the table her palms itched to smack her cousin's bottom. "I shall be
very pleased to accept Mr. Birkhurst's offer," she said behind clenched
teeth, somehow raising a smile.

"It
is kind of him to have made it." Crushing her cousin with a look, she
excused herself from table and escaped into the back verandah.

At
last the storm had broken.

In
a clamour of thunder and lightning the still of the afternoon vanished to give
way to whipping gales that raced across tree tops, making them dance like
dervishes to rhythms dictated by arcane music. Jagged bolts of white light
cracked open the skies, turning night into day bathed in eerie phosphorescence.
Through the frenzied acacias at the foot of the garden, the Hooghly peaked and
pranced as it joyously joined in the impromptu monsoon ballet, its waves rising
in walls of animated abandon. If there was anything Olivia had come to love in
Calcutta, it was these nightly seasonal rituals. Curled up in a cane chair in
the verandah with Clementine in her lap, she sat and watched the play of earth
and sky and water, comforted by an odd kind of security. Even half-way around
the globe, a million years and miles away from her roots, this at least was
familiar. The rolls of thunder, the gush of water down the drainpipes, the rain
insects fluttering around the sconces, the rich smell of wet earth, the slush,
the splashing sprays, the brilliant intensity of the nourished greens—these
were the same here as at home.

Home!

Suddenly,
she felt washed away again with nostalgia. Her eyelids started to sting and her
throat hurt but, chewing hard on her lip, Olivia swallowed her homesickness.
I
will
not cry,
she
vowed softly into Clementine's warm, musty fur.
Come what may, I
will not cry.

It
was past nine when carriage wheels rumbled up the drive and Sir Joshua's hearty
bellow of
"Koi
hai?"
sent
the household again scurrying into activity as he rattled off orders in his
fluent Hindustani.

The
storm had long subsided, leaving an aftermath of cool. Against a clear sky
galleons of clouds skimmed tree tops, urged on by gentle wind. The inevitable
chorus of cicadas and deep-throated frogs was in full concert around the
verandah where Olivia still sat brooding. With the arrival of the master, fresh
human sounds started up. Servants, barefooted and hushed,
scampered up
and down stairs like mice; overhead, punkahs squeaked as they circulated air,
and in the pantry, under Lady Bridget's crisp supervision, glasses tinkled,
crockery rattled and the pungent aroma of warming food arose. Sir Joshua's deep
chuckles and Estelle's prattle floated in Olivia's direction from the front
portico and a moment later heavy footsteps strode purposefully down to where
she sat.

"Jasmine
threw you today?"

"Well
. . ." With a reproachful look at her cousin, Olivia lifted a cheek to
receive Sir Joshua's peck. "I guess so."

"Not
hurt badly, I hope?"

"Not
hurt at all! Just a few grazes. Jasmine took that hedge so perfectly yesterday.
I could have bet a silver dollar she'd do it again." Olivia made a wry
face. "Fortunately, the ditch was full of water."

"Fortunately?"
Sir Joshua cocked an eyebrow. "Well, I could bet a silver dollar your aunt
didn't see it quite like that! You had no business to try and turn poor old
Jasmine into a steeplechaser. Don't risk it again, eh?" His eyes twinkled
and he winked. "Let's keep that pioneering spirit on a shorter leash,
shall we? I won't say more because I have no doubt Bridget has said it all. Had
dinner?"

"Yes,"
answered Estelle, "and there's chicken
vindaloo
curry with loads
still left for you and Uncle Arthur." She nuzzled her father's arm fondly.

"There
is? What did you do then, starve yourself?" He laughed, patted his
daughter's well-rounded behind and turned again to Olivia. "We had fun and
games in the Chamber this morning. Those new tea levies seem to have opened a
pretty can of worms, as you Americans might say. Come and join us later if you
like. I'll tell you how we worthy boxwallahs become squabbling fishwives when
it boils down to rupees, annas and pies." With Estelle still hanging on to
his arm, he strode away.