Ryman, Rebecca (34 page)

Among
the dozen or so guests at the Templewoods' dinnerparty for the Birkhursts,
Olivia was faintly surprised to see Mr. Kashinath Das. He had been present at
Estelle's birthday ball with other eminent Indians, but Olivia had never seen
him in any
informal European gathering such as this. Short, wiry, with sideburns and
bouncy movements, he looked odd in his stiff dinner-jacket and white boiled
shirt. He assumed an affected speech and pretensions with an English briar pipe
that were more amusing than offensive, but Olivia could not deny that there was
something not quite wholesome about Mr. Kashinath Das. She wondered why he had
been invited at all.

"Everything
tickety-boo with Sir Josh?"

Freddie's
sotto voce inquiry puzzled Olivia until, flushing, she recalled her abrupt
departure on that first morning of their rides. Discreetly, Freddie had not
mentioned the subject since. "Oh yes. It was only a minor matter on which
he needed my opinion." Another lie! How many had she already told because
of Jai Raventhorne? How many more?

"Splendid.
I haven't said anything to anyone. I felt you would not have wanted me
to."

On
a sudden impulse, Olivia touched his hand. Yes, there was something very kind
about Freddie Birkhurst. For all his inanities, he deserved far better than she
could ever give.

The
touch of hands, the exchanged look of understanding, the warm smile—Lady
Birkhurst's limpet gaze missed none of them. Wherever Olivia went, the
needle-pointed perceptions of the baroness followed.

For
all Olivia's evasive tactics, they met in the downstairs guest bedroom, where
Lady Birkhurst had gone to freshen up before dinner and where Olivia was forced
to be on hand at her aunt's command. Taking advantage of the momentary privacy,
Lady Birkhurst came to the point immediately. "In my preoccupation with my
own thoughts the other afternoon, Olivia, there is one possibility I appear to
have overlooked." Warily, Olivia waited while the baroness settled herself
in a chair, her fingers grouped primly in her lap in a fat, meaty ball of
flesh. "Could it be that your vehement refusal of my proposition is due to
your, ah, romantic involvement elsewhere?"

It
was not a question Olivia had been expecting and she was flustered. Since an
immediate answer was impossible, she merely stood in awkward silence, biting
nervously on a lip. In those few seconds of undeniable embarrassment, Lady
Birkhurst drew her own conclusions.

"I.
. . see." The fleshy folds of her face drooped visibly. "In that
case, my dear, you must forgive the presumptions of a silly, voluble woman. And
you must, of course, cast our discussion out
of your mind, unless," a sad
little hope struggled vainly in her eyes, "that is not so and you still
might reconsider."

However
awkward, it was an avenue of escape. Without thinking twice, Olivia took it.
"It is I who must ask for your forgiveness, Lady Birkhurst. I should have
myself clarified my ... situation." In yet another lie (what exactly
was
her "situation," and with whom?) Olivia might have felt shame
were it not for her overriding sense of deliverance.

Lady
Birkhurst heaved herself out of the chair to lay a plump hand on Olivia's
shoulder. "I do not need any clarifications, but if you do have any, I
suggest that you make them to your aunt. She is unaware that her strenuous
efforts in your direction promise to remain fruitless."

Oddly
enough, it was Freddie who sustained Olivia through the evening. He needed
neither attention nor answers. It was so easy to pretend that he wasn't there
at all. In return, Olivia sheltered him from her aunt's barrage of questions
about lids and kerosene tins and termites. "Between you and me,
Olivia," he confided glumly, "I couldn't care less if that damned
kitchen house sank into the Bay of Bengal. Incidentally, where is Miss
Templewood? I have not seen her all evening." His inquiry was one of
relief rather than concern. Estelle's constant teasing made Freddie nervous.

"She
has a bad cold," Olivia explained, her eyes grim. "I believe she's
sleeping it off." In fact, Estelle was not in her room, as Olivia had
already ascertained. The stubborn girl
had
slunk out through the back
door and was no doubt cavorting uncaringly somewhere with that Clive Smithers.
She only hoped Estelle would have the good sense to return before her mother
found her out and another almighty row descended.

"Tomorrow
being our last morning here for a while, may I beg to be allowed to ride out
with you again, Olivia?"

Freddie
looked so doleful that Olivia almost acquiesced. Then, because it
was
his
last morning here she hardened her heart. He might wax unbearably sentimental
again, perhaps expect an affectionate parting, even a kiss or two. She
shuddered. "I think not, Freddie. I'm not sure I'll ride at all since I
fear I might be catching Estelle's dreadful cold." She sniffled
convincingly and pulled out a handkerchief.

"Oh."
He looked crestfallen but then rallied with a manful grin. "Well, so be
it. Let it not be said we Ditchers don't bear our crosses with
forbearance."

"Ditchers?"

"Yes,
don't you know? We from Calcutta are called Ditchers. Because of that Maratha
Ditch, you see."

She
didn't see but looked dutifully amused.

"Madraswallahs
are, of course, the Mulls," Freddie went on, encouraged by the smile,
"and Bombaywallahs the Ducks."

"Ducks?
Why Ducks?"

"Because
of the Bombay duck, naturally! Except that it isn't a duck at all; it's a
fish." He slapped his thigh and roared.

Olivia
laughed too. Poor Freddie was not to know, of course, that her amusement was
not at his joke, which she didn't understand, but out of relief that she would
not be seeing him again for several weeks.

It
was nothing more than idle curiosity that took Olivia riding out to the Maratha
Ditch, which ran north and south to the east of the city. All in all it was a
disappointment. Excavated a hundred years ago as a defence against a Maratha
attack, it was never completed because the Marathas failed to launch their
aggressions on Calcutta. Now it was a sorry, smelly sight, an insignificant
trench filled with stagnant water. Crinkling her nose, Olivia turned towards
the forest, a delight of freshness, where billowing bridal veils of mist still
draped the trees and the shaggy carpets of grass were sequined with dew.

With
Freddie finally away, Olivia once again felt free and unfettered, at liberty to
wander where her fancy dictated. The scullion, designated by her aunt to
alternate with the stable-boy as her morning escort in Freddie's absence, posed
no great problems. Given the price of a hearty breakfast in the bazaar, he was
only too happy to save himself an arduous run and wait for her in a tea shop
till she chose to return home.

The
splintered path that zigzagged through the yellow jacaranda, the sinuous
banyan, the mango and the peepuls was suddenly invaded by green parrots making
spiralling loops through the trees, their squawky cries indignant at the human
intrusion. A family of fat, green buds separated to reveal the questioning face
of a beady-eyed mongoose; keeping warily to the top branches, a band of
black-faced monkeys followed her passage with apparent distrustful curiosity.

Olivia
reined sharply, all at once confronted by a most unlikely barrier: a massive
spider's web spread across the lower branches like a magical curtain so fine
that she almost didn't see it. Enchanted by its delicacy, she dismounted to
watch the incredible labours that went into the fashioning of so intricate a
maze. The
home-maker, a plump little black berry of fur and bristles, stilled at her
approach to glare with beady, suspicious eyes that seemed not at all pleased at
the visit. For a while they stared at each other, then Olivia laughed softly.
"Don't worry, little fella, I shall not damage your premises." The
spider seemed to understand the reassurance, for, turning its back to her, it
continued with its spinning.

It
was just then that Olivia noticed the barking of the dog.

Persistent
and getting louder, the bursts of sound seemed to be heading in her direction.
It could, of course, be someone's friendly pet, but it could also be a stray,
since the city abounded in them, many of them diseased and mad. Her aunt had
warned her to be careful. Leaving the spider to its travails, Olivia turned to
quickly remount Jasmine and be on her way. But it was too late; before she
could haul herself up, the animal came bursting out of the bushes. Olivia
nervously remained standing where she was.

The
dog, large and shiny black, pranced around her feet for a moment in a state of
some excitement. His intentions, however, seemed not to be belligerent. Then he
sniffed her feet and her clothes with a quite professional thoroughness. His
jaws opened and something fell out—a piece of fabric. The dog settled back on
his haunches in front of her and whined.

Olivia's
stomach hollowed. In the same instant she recognized both the dog and the piece
of fabric. He was Akbar, Raventhorne's pet, and the lace-edged white cloth was
the handkerchief she had left inadvertently on the
Ganga
that calamitous
morning.

With
an agonised sob trapped inside her throat, Olivia galvanised into action. In a
trice she had mounted Jasmine, dug her heels into the mare's side and was
flying towards the heart of the forest guided by Akbar, who, overjoyed at the
success of his mission, raced ahead. The wind roared in her ears and stung her
cheeks into fiery life; in her temples her blood pounded, reducing her breath
to gasps. And in her heart an overwhelming happiness exploded; she was going to
see Jai Raventhorne again!

He
sat on a boulder by a stretch of water, shoulders hunched, tossing sticks into
the trees, which Akbar's mate dashed to retrieve. Nearby, his midnight Shaitan
grazed languidly on a verge. Beyond that Olivia saw nothing.

He
looked up as she arrived in the clearing and for a moment their eyes locked. He
rose, walked towards her and took charge of Jasmine's reins. Then he held out a
hand and helped her
dismount. Slowly, against him, Olivia slid to the ground. Anxiously, her gaze
scoured his face but it told her nothing—and yet so much! His arms opened for
her and, without a sound, she slipped into the shelter they offered.

Against
her, he trembled. "Forgive me ..."

She
laid an ear against his chest and, for the first time, listened to his
heartbeat. It galloped, like hers, telling her more than words ever could, his
breath, hot and uneven, fanning her own cheeks into warmth. She kissed the
pocket of his rumpled mull shirt beneath which lay his heart. There was nothing
she could think of saying, nor was there any need for words.

"I
wounded you," he murmured, heaving with remorse. "I made you cry. Can
you forgive me?"

"Yes,"
she murmured back mindlessly, hearing neither what he had asked nor what she
had answered, "yes . . ."

"Did
I make you very unhappy?"

Olivia
shook her head, inhaling the freshness of his skin pressed into her face, the
misery of the past few days obliterated in blinding happiness. He laid small,
frantic kisses on the side of her neck, her ear lobes, her temples—and she
shivered. "No."

He
released her abruptly to return to the boulder to sit down again, his brows
drawn together in self-anger. "People say I have a streak of madness in
me. They are right. I have."

Olivia
perched herself on a tree stump opposite him, pulled up her knees and hugged
them tightly. Just to hold him in her vision, to caress him with her eyes, was
enough to content her. "Yes, I know."

"You
know and you are not alarmed?"

"No."

"But
you should be!" He picked up a stone and flung it into the trees to send
Saloni bounding after it with excited yelps. "I carry within me a poison
that infects everyone around me." He looked deeply perturbed.

"Poisons
have antidotes, or they can be cast out if one wishes." Dreamily, Olivia
shut her eyes as if wanting to preserve in them forever this rare moment of
something precious shared and harmonious.

"No."
He shook his head fiercely. "I do not wish it cast out. Without it I would
be half a man. You see?" His bark of a laugh was harsh. "I
am
mad!"

Jolted
out of her soporific trance, Olivia paid attention. His expression was one of
anguish. Concerned, she rose and walked over to him, squeezing herself into the
space beside him on the
boulder. "I cannot understand that, Jai," she said gently, smoothing
his hair back with a hand that still trembled with welling love. "You know
I cannot unless you explain it to me."

"There
is no explanation possible that you will accept."

"At
least let me be the judge of that!"

"You
cannot judge something you cannot understand."

Then
make me understand!
Olivia
wanted to cry out in mounting frustration but held her tongue. They were again
teetering perilously close to the limit of his endurance; she could never again
risk losing him, forcing him into corners from which he needed to battle his
way out gasping for air. Even now, it wounded her unbearably to see his
silvered eyes swim in pain that she would not have thought them capable of
feeling. He had fallen once more into those vast, private, secret silences from
which she was so mercilessly excluded. She watched helplessly, searching for a
crack, a chink, through which to peep into his cloistered mind, but there was none.
Only his pain persisted.