Ryman, Rebecca (32 page)

"This
is
the price one pays for alleged progress!" Raventhorne said bitterly.
"This is what is turning my angel of sublime dignity into a god-rotting
slut."

Certainly
it was an appalling sight. "But still the swiftest slut on the seas,"
Olivia reminded soothingly, clamping a handkerchief to her nose.

He
refused to be consoled. "My captain's account of the journey has destroyed
whatever triumphs there are in the logbook. When the boilers work full blast
the funnel spews smoke that coats the sails with black that is impossible to
wash out. The pistons thunder, the furnace roars and the entire ship shudders
with the vibrations of the paddles beneath the stern. The noise apparently is
deafening, the heat like a blast from hell—and
this
is what coal does to
my men."

A
sailor, obviously the stoker, came up to join them and silently tipped his cap
with a forefinger. Amidst a mask of black, only his eyes showed white. Rivulets
of sweat had made jagged lines down his face and bare chest and the odour he
exuded was
foul. He made a move to pick up his shovel but, with sharp Words, Raventhorne
stopped him. The man paused and a row of white teeth slashed his face in a
smile. Saluting smartly, he turned and scurried back the way he had come.

Raventhorne
cursed under his breath and kicked one of the boilers with such viciousness
that something loose clattered to the iron floor. "These men are simple
sailors," he muttered savagely. "They place their faith in the stars,
the wind and God. Now we tell them to forget their traditional beliefs and pay
homage to
engineers!"
His anger cooled and the lines of his face
lengthened. "It is the end of a chapter, Olivia. For me, perhaps for
others too, the romance of the sea is no longer what it was. The wilful
seductress still beckons, but her charm for me diminishes with each modern
innovation."

The
depth of his emotion startled her. "Then why do you subscribe to a change
that causes you such unhappiness?"

He
sighed. "Because like the rest of the rats, I too am part of the tedious
race to which there is no end. I am on a treadmill."

"You
can get off it—"

"No!"
His reaction was sharp. "No. It is too late for that." Olivia had no
occasion to press her point further, for he walked away.

Their
return path passed through what appeared to be the crew's quarters. Having seen
the accommodation on the India-man on which she had arrived, Olivia was
surprised at the comparison. The dormitory was neat and well scrubbed, and the
tiered bunks had cotton mattresses, thick sheets and woollen blankets. There
were portholes along a side bringing in fresh air, a rare luxury since most
crews' accommodation was below the water level with no light and less air.
Deviating from the path, Olivia investigated the rows of adjoining bath stalls
and lavatories. They were clean and smelled strongly of carbolic acid.

"Well,
do I pass inspection?" Leaning in a doorway, Raventhorne looked on with a
sort of resigned indulgence.

"Not
until I've examined the galleys. Most ship owners feed their men on cattle slop
and vermin. I want to make sure
you
don't," she said, knowing that
the kitchens too would be spotless.

Watched
by two astonished sailors in white aprons, Olivia went through the ranged vats
of rice, lentils, wheat flour, semolina, oil and molasses, poking with a finger
for signs of weevils or fungus. There were none. Everything was labelled,
dishes and saucepans were sparkling clean, giving evidence of much
elbow-grease, and there were racks for all the utensils and
taps of running
water over the huge sinks. Even the garbage pails were tidy with no messy
remnants around which rodents and cockroaches prowled, as she had seen on the
other ship. In the canteen next door there were trestle tables and benches and
stacked metal bowls and mugs.

"I
see you do treat your men well," she said, impressed.

"Why
does that surprise you? Don't you think men deserve to live and work with
dignity instead of with degradation like worms in a cesspool?"

"Oh,
I
think they do but not many ship owners will agree."

"That
is because not many ship owners have lived like worms in a cesspool. I have.
Come," he straightened and glanced at his pocket watch, "it is time
for breakfast. Today we will be very English and feast off bacon, eggs and
muffins."

In
the main cabin, just below deck, they were served breakfast by the discreet and
attentive Bahadur, his Gurkha face as unrevealing as ever. The cabin was
commodious and airy, arranged more like an office than a private chamber, well
appointed for functional nautical living. There was a royal blue pile carpet,
curtains over the portholes, scuffed leather furniture and, almost
incidentally, a four-poster bed with cushions. The desk, a mahogany roll-top,
was set against a shiny wood-panelled wall mounted with navigational maps and
charts, and there were bookcases against another wall. There were no signs of
opulence, as one might have been led to expect from the
Ganga
's smart
exterior. In spite of the cabin's look of practical comfort, the keynote was
still that defiant austerity that Raventhorne seemed to prefer in all his
living arrangements.

Olivia
found it difficult to eat although the array of breakfast dishes could not be
faulted. Opposite her, Raventhorne sat without joining in the meal, one arm
draped across the back of a chair and the other resting on the table with an
unsmoked pipe clasped lightly in his hand. Olivia found his gaze on her
unnerving; it was indecipherable and once more, not intended to put her at
ease. Raventhorne was a man who carried his tensions with him, and the space
between them again crackled almost tangibly, making idle conversation an
effort. There was nothing about him that was casual; he appeared perpetually on
the point of saying something that she expected would unbalance her. Yet, her
curiosity about him was unsatisfied. There was so much more to this man who had
woven such an unbreakable spell over her that she felt she had to know. Kinjal's
story was merely a framework, a skeleton, which she had an insatiable urge to
now flesh out. Her
opening came when Raventhorne answered one of her neutral questions with,
"No, the American presence in the China trade is still limited in spite of
the repeal of the Navigation Acts. The dippers will make a difference although
not much in my opinion, but then I don't interest myself in the China trade any
more, so my prognosis might not be accurate."

"When
you did interest yourself in the China trade," Olivia asked, spearing a
last piece of bacon and avoiding his eyes, "what kind of ships did you
sail?"

"Sieves!"
He grimaced. "The first was a brig we chartered from a ship graveyard. It
had one rusty gun mounted on the fo'c's'le, a cask full of inoperative small
arms and a basket of stones with which to bombard pirates when the triggers
jammed." The recollection seemed to amuse him and the flash of humour
brought to his face a boyishness it could not have known for years. "I was
a damn fool, of course, but like a cat I have nine lives. I survived."

Olivia's
hopes fluttered; he seemed not to mind the probing. "You said 'we'; who
were the others?"

"In
the main, my American partner."

Raventhorne?
But
that Olivia dared not ask. "What was your partnership for?"

"For
a journey into Eldorado," he said with a dry smile. "We bartered furs
for silks, teas and jade. The capital outlay was his."

"And
what was your contribution?"

"Navigational
expertise, muscle power," he finally lit his pipe and inhaled, eyes
crinkled against the spiral of smoke he blew out, "and guaranteed rewards
from the China Coast."

"Guaranteed?
What if there had been losses instead?"

"Losses?"
He looked vaguely surprised. "The thought never crossed my mind. There
were no losses. That damn brig sank in the West River after our second trip,
but by then we could afford something better and with each voyage our fortunes
improved." A distant look came over his features. "Those were good
days back in the thirties."

Olivia
sat back, enjoying from behind lowered lashes the sudden relaxation of his
expression, the far-away eyes usually as restless as quicksilver. "Then
why did you return?"

It
was the wrong question. His eyes snapped back into wariness, the softness again
hardening into impassable granite. "Because India is my home," he
said shortly, rising to his feet and waving a hand impatiently for Bahadur to
clear the table.

You
had no home then, tell me the truth!
Olivia wanted to cry
out.
What is
this destiny you returned to fulfil, this corrosive canker that pulled you
back?

But
she did not dare speak her thoughts. The gossamer filament between them was
tenuous enough as it was; if it snapped altogether, she felt she would forever
be shut out of his life with no more opportunity to share the shadows that lay
beyond. She could not risk that, not any more. To be barred now from entering
his secret, inner world would be to leave her own life incomplete.

"Why
do you want to know so much about me, Olivia?"

The
thrill of hearing her name on his lips was still unfamiliar enough to bring a
flush to her cheeks. His quiet question from the other side of the room, where
he stood staring out of a porthole, set her heart galloping again.
"Because I know so little at the moment," she answered with perfect
truth, her tone wistful.

"Why
is it necessary to know more?"

"Because
there is so much I don't . . . understand."

He
turned. "Such as?" He walked back to sit down again.

"Such
as . . .," she swallowed hard and took the plunge, "why you persist
in hounding my uncle." Her chin rose and so did her voice. "You
arranged for that opium consignment to be looted, didn't you?"

For
a moment he did not answer, but it was obvious that her bold question angered
him. "I told you, I don't believe in selling death." He did not deny
the accusation she had hurled at him in a second of rashness. "Have you
ever been inside an opium den?" Desperately sorry that she had brought up
the subject, she shook her head. "Have you ever personally known an
addict, been close to one, stood by and watched helplessly as death came, inch
by inch, second by second?"

The
passion with which he flung the questions at her was consuming; there were
tremors in his hands, and his expression was almost maniacal. Shaken, Olivia
leaned over to lay a hand on his arm but, leaping out of his seat, he shook it
off. "No, I haven't," she began in an effort to redeem herself in his
eyes, "but I—"

"Then
go and first
learn
from experience. Why come to me with all your pious,
mealy-mouthed accusations?" He was shouting at her and his tone was
insufferably rude.

Olivia
felt her own temper stir in the unfairness of his attack. "
I
did
not come to you," she cried, rising to her feet.
"You
tricked
me into coming!"

"Tricked
but not
forced.
" He controlled himself enough to lower his voice
and edge it with ice. "You were free to leave my
ship any time
you pleased." He spun on his heel to stride up to the porthole.
"Don't involve me in your petty inquisitions, Olivia. I dislike being
questioned, especially by those who understand nothing of the East."

"I
am not an imbecile child," she grated, humiliated by his cavalier
dictates. "If made to understand, there is no reason why I
shouldn't."

With
a muttered oath he threw up his hands in frustration, then roughly combed back
his hair with his fingers. When he spoke finally his voice was again level.
"We are all afflicted by the same disease, Olivia. No one can boast
immunity." He turned slowly to face her with a sickle smile that was as
thin as it was dispassionate. "I do what I do because I must."

Olivia's
defiance collapsed. Through unalloyed impulse she had deliberately destroyed
the few moments of rapport between them. Once again she had fallen prey to the
curiosity he hated so much, and once again he had retracted out of her reach.
His expression was closed, his eyes openly hostile. Close to tears, she sat
down again and ran a hand across her eyes. "I am so totally
confused," she whispered miserably. "I don't know what to do . .
."

He
wiped himself clean even of anger. "Shall I tell you what I think you
should do?" He ambled towards his roll-top desk and leaned his elbow on
it. "I think you should marry Freddie Birkhurst."

If
he had suddenly pulled the rug from under her feet, she could not have been
more stunned. She stared at him, aghast, then very slowly, filled with pain.

"I
mean it, Olivia." For all the emotion he showed, they could have still
been discussing topgallants. "Your aunt has made a wise choice for you.
Birkhurst may be a prime idiot, but he is at heart a good man. He will be kind
to you."

She
was wounded beyond measure. "How can you,
you
of all people, make a
suggestion that is so grotesque, so monstrous...?" Her voice was low but
impassioned. In her moment of panic her tongue loosened; she was hardly aware
of what she said.