Ryman, Rebecca (38 page)

"Yes,
she was pleased to receive it." He turned her hand over in his large,
hardened palm and examined it closely, as if it were some rare object he could
not translate into terms of
understanding. "Kinjal is well. Busy with her
children, who have returned to Kirtinagar."

Olivia
chanced another question. "And . . . Arvind Singh?"

Carefully
he returned her hand to her lap. "You have heard from Ransome that we are
locked in battle—is that what you really want to know about?"

Olivia
sighed. "I would hate to have you as an enemy, Jai. There is something
about you that quite frightens me. Yes, that is what I really want to know
about."

"Well,
it is true." He seemed to take the question in his stride. "Arvind is
tempted by Sir Joshua's dangling carrots; I am not. And Das, anxious to earn
his commission, is making as much mischief as he can."

His
unworried admission agitated her. "How can you allow a matter of mere
business to disrupt a friendship of such affection and such long
standing?" she cried. "Is it worth it?"

Raventhorne
looked surprised. "It isn't. Business disagreements have nothing to do with
our friendship. We have had plenty of differences before."

"But
you said you were locked in battle . . .!"

He
smiled with a sudden softening of the eyes. "I used a figure of speech not
to be taken literally. When men have business disputes they can be fierce but
they are seldom personal." His amusement deepened. "It is only
women," he said witheringly, "who declare total war on each other
when they fall out."

Olivia
was amazed that he, of all people, should have the nerve to make such a remark,
but she let it pass. "Then your friendship with Arvind Singh is not at
stake?"

"No."

"But
if his irrigation project suffers . . .?"

"It
will not. Indian merchants can be every bit as canny as boxwallahs." A
smug little smile came and went and then the softness returned as he searched
her anxious face. For a moment it seemed as if every nerve in his body was
straining against some inner impulse he was determined to resist. Then, with a
shrug he satisfied himself by pressing a finger-tip into the crease dividing
Olivia's forehead and smoothing it out. "Don't be concerned for my
sake," he said huskily, "if that is what troubles you."

"Yes,
it does trouble me. I can't bear to think—" Olivia cut herself off, unable
to tell him just how unendurable she found the prospect of his solitariness. It
wounded her immeasurably that he should be deprived of his only friendship, of
the only family he could almost call his own.

She
had successfully contained the words, but what she could not contain was her
expression of compassion. Like a trap springing shut, the grey eyes, melting
only an instant ago, turned into stone. "I find your concern
touching," he said with biting sarcasm, "but I can assure you it is
not needed. Through whatever you've heard from Kinjal you have chosen to romanticize
an image of what you think I am." Grabbing the oars, he thrust them again
into the water and jolted the boat into action.

"I
didn't—"

"Don't
lie to me, Olivia. I can read you like a damned book."

"Just
because I'm concerned—"

"Don't
be. I am not used to anyone's concern. It makes me uneasy and suspicious of
their motives."

"Suspicious?"
Frustrated
beyond measure by his sheer orneriness, she banged her fist on her wooden seat.
"I
hate
it when you suddenly become irrational like this! I can't
bear it when you choose to wound me with such lack of cause!"

He
sneered at her and gave an ugly little laugh. "Can't you? I thought you
were willing to accept anything I chose to be! Do I take it your courage
doesn't measure up to your rather rash commitment?"

"No!
But you persist in reading into simple words what there is not. You admit to
regarding me with suspicion, with distrust. You conceal yourself from me with
half truths and evasions and prevarications . . ." Her voice started to
break but, gritting her teeth, she refused to cry. "I . . . love you,
Jai," she whispered, miserable. "It is natural that I should want to
understand you, know you, know about you . . ." She could not go on.
Blinking rapidly, she turned her face away from him.

Anger
spent, he was suddenly beside her, drawing her into the circle of his arms.
"I have no idea what is or is not natural in your love, Olivia." He
buried his face in her neck, stricken with remorse. "I have never been
loved by a woman such as you. There is so much you need to teach me, so much
patience you need to cultivate."

She
filled with sweetness, the taste of sourness gone from her tongue as if it had
never been there, her mind wiped clear of his taunts, his wounding barbs, his
whimsicalities; in a single breath she had forgiven him everything. Pressing
into the tense muscles of his back, she stroked the hardness out of them; with
soothing sounds she solaced his inner torments and kissed away his ravaging
turmoil until the crackling rasps of his breath settled again into cadences of
calmness. The immense love she felt for him
spilled over; in her limbs she felt the
now familiar aches that arose whenever he was close. For a while he lay still
in her arms, his fingers giving her the caresses her body was beginning to
yearn, but hesitantly, cautiously, his restraint almost visibly tight. Then he
raised his head and kissed her once, full on the mouth. "Don't encourage
me, Olivia," he muttered gruffly, his face drawn with strain. "I am
not easily frightened but you make me fear myself. It is an odd
sensation."

He
did not move from her side, yet in some subtle way he had withdrawn from her,
once more coiled within that private shell she detested so much. Her hands
balled with the effort not to touch him; she wanted to grab him, trap that
elusive will-o'-the-wisp of his being and imprison it inside herself forever,
but she knew it was not within her power. Not yet, perhaps not ever.
Disconsolate, she allowed him his retreat without protest. "God knows it
is not I either who has willed this, Jai."

"No."
He moved away and retrieved his oars. "You asked me if there was anything
I didn't know. There is. I don't know why you should want to love me."

Want
to
love? Did a choice exist? It was not a question to which he expected an answer
and she gave him none. Glumly, she honoured his silent privacy but there was
bitterness in her thoughts. Theirs was an extraordinary relationship, if it
could even be called that! It was neither that of friends nor of lovers—
neither flesh nor fowl. What she was giving him was a promise of abundant love,
her everything; what he was giving her was words, a touch, a fleeting glance
almost
of love. Yet, how precious to her were becoming these random words and
looks and casual caresses! Jai Raventhorne might be a shell, a husk, a phantom,
and woundingly wayward, but it was this very outline of a man that she had
sworn to love and accept as it was. Even as an outline, she would take him
against all the other men in the world put together!

The
mist had lifted completely. On the approaching bank the crouched boatman waited
patiently for their return. There was no one on the embankment save for a dhobi
and his wife beating their day's wash against a protruding stone. They paid no
attention to them as the boat beached and, wordlessly, the boatman led up their
horses.

Olivia
mounted without breaking the silence. Raventhorne held on to her hand for a
moment or two. "You know what it is that I dislike most about meeting you,
Olivia?" She felt a rising
tear and shook her head. Briefly, he laid her hand
against his cheek. "It is that the time also comes when I must leave
you."

She
kept his diminishing form in her vision as long as she could before Shaitan
vanished in a flurry of dust and kicking hooves. Her eyes welled; those last
few words she secreted within her heart like gems in a meagre treasury. This
time she had not asked when she would see him again, nor had he volunteered the
information. But this time it was easy to be patient. She knew she would see
him again. And again and again.

No
force on earth could make it otherwise.

"You'll
never guess what
I've
been doing!" For a change Estelle was in good
humour. When Olivia came out of her bath, she was sitting on her bed munching
an apple. "Well, aren't you going to ask what it is?"

"No."
Olivia buried her head in her towel and vigorously rubbed her damp hair.
"Because you're going to tell me anyway."

Estelle
poked out her tongue but her eyes continued to sparkle. "I've been
auditioning, that's what!"

Olivia
stilled. "For the pantomime?"

"Yes."
Estelle flicked the core of the apple out of the window. "Mr. Hicks thinks
I dance very well."

For
days now a battle royal had been raging between Estelle and her mother about
that pantomime. A visiting stage company touring the country was planning to
entertain Calcutta society over the festive season with a musical version of
Cinderella
at a local theatre. The main roles were to be performed by members of the
troupe, but Mr. Hicks, the manager, was trying to assemble a chorus line from
among Calcutta's young ladies. It was all really quite innocuous, but Lady
Bridget objected to Estelle being one of the chosen for basically three
reasons: Professional actors were all morally loose, the chorus girls would
have to wear heavy paints on their faces and rather too light embellishments
elsewhere, and the manager, Mr. Hicks, was a known personal "friend"
of Mrs. Drummond.

Olivia
regarded her cousin thoughtfully. "Does your mother know you've been
auditioning?"

"No,
but she will if I get the part."

"And
if
you get the part she's already said she won't allow
you to take
it." She began to comb out her long hair. "I'm not sure that Uncle
Josh will either. Your Mr. Hicks certainly
looks
a card whether or not
he is."

"He's
not. He's really very nice, even though he does pick his nose in public."
Delicately, she turned up her own. "I don't care what Mama has to say this
time, Olivia, if Mr. Hicks thinks I'm suitable I'm going to do it. And Papa
won't
object because he doesn't know I even exist any more." Her lower lip
stuck out defiantly. "Anyway, this Clarissa Rose showed Polly and me her
gowns. She's played Ophelia at Windsor Castle, you know, before the Queen. And
she goes to Covent Garden ever so often where the Queen has her own box and
everyone has to stand up when she enters. They play the anthem and all the
ladies curtsy. Isn't she
lucky?"

"Who,
the Queen?"

"No,
silly, Clarissa Rose, this actress who's going to play Cinderella. Fancy going
to Covent Garden!"

"I'm
sure a lot of people go to Covent Garden."

"Well,
I
don't. I have to make do with that blasted Strand Road evening after
evening!" She brooded for a while, then reassumed her good humour.
"And she showed us something called dag . . . dag . . .," she
frowned, then shrugged, "anyway, it was a plate with an imprint on it of
herself. She said it was the latest thing in England for portraits."

"Daguerreotype?"

"Yes,
that was it, I think." Estelle struggled up excitedly. "She said the
pictures were made with a box and you just sat in front of it with plenty of
sunlight on your face. Miss Rose said it was a French invention. Have you ever
heard of it?"

"Yes.
I've never seen one but Papa has. They're using daguerrotyping to print
pictures in the newspapers in America." She sat down on the bed next to
Estelle. "You know the problem with you, Estelle? It's the same that
Freddie has—you need more occupation. Why don't you ask Uncle Josh if you can
help in his office? He'd really appreciate that, you know."

Estelle
looked horrified. "Work in Papa's
office?
Ugh!" she shuddered.
"I'd be bored to tears!"

"You're
bored to tears now," Olivia pointed out. "At least you'd be doing
something useful
and
pleasing your parents."