Ryman, Rebecca (42 page)

"The
Sarkar, I regret, is not at home." The man had obviously recognised her. A
note of respect had replaced the earlier irritation.

She
felt her spirits tumble and in her bitter disappointment Olivia became
negligent of what this man might think of her probings. Was the Sarkar,
perhaps, on the
Ganga?
The man thought it possible but he could not say
for certain. When was he likely to return to the Chitpur house? He was unable
to make a commitment, for the Sarkar had made none. She knew the man was
stonewalling, and very possibly under instructions. It was only because of her
galloping panic that Olivia lowered herself to ask the one question she had
vowed not to.

"Is
. . .," what would it be appropriate to call her? ". . . the
lady
then
at home, perhaps?"

There
was no noticeable change in the man's expression. "No. The lady has gone
away."

Panic
surged again—gone away?
With
him? Why, it was cruel! How could she ever
bear that? "Do you know where she has gone?"

A
flicker appeared in the man's eyes. Amusement? He shook his head. "She has
gone where she came from."

Olivia
knew it was hopeless. She left without leaving a name, aware that she had made
a fool of herself. Sitting desultorily by the riverside, alone and utterly
wretched, she spent an hour cursing Jai Raventhorne for having reduced her to
such a pitch of humiliation, then another hour cursing herself for allowing him
to. And then she returned home to lock herself in her room to feign a migraine
and to cry. Jai had turned her into a brainless puppet, a slave; she would not
see him again. If it was the last thing she did, she would exorcise him from
her heart, erase him from her mind, excise him forever from her life.

But
in the morning, near the temple in Kalighat, Jai Raventhorne suddenly
materialised beside her out of thin air. One moment she was riding through the
street on her own and the next moment Shaitan was almost rubbing flanks with
Jasmine who, out of surprise, nearly reared and threw her. Olivia gave a
startled cry but Raventhorne had already galloped out of earshot with a
careless look over his shoulder. Dazed into submission, Olivia followed him out
of the bazaar. As soon as they were safely in the open, she flung herself off
her mount and into his arms, shaking, sobbing, crippled with relief that he had
not abandoned her after all.

He
gentled her with loving hands and soothing words, surprised by the force of her
passion. "Why were you looking for me yesterday?"

"Why?"
Olivia wrenched herself free from his grasp and, reminded of her exploding
rage, pummelled his chest with a shower of flailing fists. "How
dare
you
ask me such a dumb, stupid, infantile question! It is an
eternity
since
I have seen you!"

He
manacled her wrists and forced them still. "It is exactly four days."
He gave no explanations.

"Don't
split hairs with me, you heartless . . .
monolith!"
she stormed.
"I have not been able to think of anything except
you . . ."

"You
think too much about me."

".
. . and you are hardly worthy of such dedicated concentration!"

"That
is exactly what I have been trying to convince
you."
He walked away
to settle himself on a boulder. "I am not."

"You
think it is
I
who have chosen this deplorable fate for myself? Do you
believe I actually
enjoy
being tossed around like a damned
skittle?" Outraged by his lack of reaction she flounced off to sit herself
down on another boulder pointedly away from him.

With
his riding crop he doodled idly on the ground, not looking at her. "You
have another option. Take it."

Olivia
clenched her teeth. "If you tell me
once
more that I should marry
Freddie, I swear I'll put a hole through you with my derringer, and don't think
I can't shoot straight!"

"I
doubt if even a derringer could put a hole through a monolith."

She
dragged in a deep breath and her eyes glittered. "By every normal standard
of decency, Jai Raventhorne, I should hate you!"

He
roused himself to look at her. "But you obviously don't," he provided
flatly. "And therein, alas, lies the rub."

Her
anger died; it seemed as pointless as it was self-defeating. "It is a rub
I cannot help," she said dully. "Sometimes I feel I am truly
diseased."

He
was looking not at her now but behind her as if in the unremarkable scenery of
untidy fields and clotted scrub he saw something he could not drag his eyes
away from. "You love me too much, Olivia. Train yourself not to."

Olivia
had seen many of his moods—of anger, of heaving restlessness, of suppurating
frustrations and, yes, of immense tenderness trembling on the verge of
something profound. She had known his moments of remorse, of self-flagellation,
of raving dissatisfaction with himself when he had wounded her. What she saw
now she had never seen before, and, suddenly, it terrified her because she
recognised it for what it was: indifference. In loving him she had vowed to
tolerate anything he chose to be, but among his choices she had not counted
indifference. Olivia had started to include pain among her intimate and
constant companions, but what she felt now, on the knife edge of his
passionless apathy, was an incision in the core of her being and she almost
cried out with the sharpness of it.

"You
mean train myself as . . . you have? Fill myself with insidious poisons against
the world? Sustain myself with hatred
as you do?" Lacerated by his cold
impersonality, she became uncaring of what she said, wanting only to provoke
him into something, anything, so long as he discarded that hateful curtain of
nothingness that veiled his face. "Should I also be frightened in case I
mislead people into believing that I am human, of flesh and blood, like
everyone else? Is that what you mean, Jai?"

Her
spirited provocations achieved nothing; he merely shrugged and continued
doodling. "If that is your interpretation, then yes."

Burning
tears stung her eyelids but, determined not to lower herself further by crying,
she dug her nails into her palms. "It's all a game to you, I know,"
she said miserably. "Nothing in life really holds any meaning for you,
does it, Jai?"

He
frowned and pondered for a while. "Yes, it is a game, I suppose." He
sounded vaguely surprised, as if he had heard something new. "And no,
nothing does hold much meaning for me." He leaned forward to balance his
forearms on his knees and stared down at his boots. "I'm not sure anymore
that the game is worth the candle, you know, Olivia ..."

Her
heart leapt; at last she had cracked that stony mould of indifference! His
features had lengthened and in his voice there were uncharacteristic undertones
of defeat. Olivia hastened to his side to kneel on the ground and rest her arms
on his lap. "Then why do you continue to play it, Jai? Why?"

Her
nearness seemed to please him, for raising a hand he allowed it to wander
through her hair. A ghost of a smile, barely anything and yet to her so much,
touched his mouth. "How can you put up with me, Olivia?"

She
refused to be diverted.
"Why?"

"Because
if there is any meaning in my existence, however insubstantial, it is this game
that I play."

Her
throat tightened. "There can be other meanings—"

"Not
now, not for me!" He became animated and restless. "What has been
started must be finished. None of us can be spared, not me and not even . . .
you, my innocent madonna ..." In a burst of feeling he gripped her hand
and pressed it between his palms until her bones ached, but she did not cry
out, knowing, sensing, that he was at this moment closer to revealing himself
than he had ever been before.

She
trembled yet dared not make any other move that might snap that elusive
filament of his thoughts. "I am not spared even now," she whispered,
barely audible.

He
dropped her hand. It felt numb. "I am helpless, Olivia." His
eyes stared at
her, wild and unseeing. "And yes, I
am
insane . . ."

"Then
let me share in that insanity, Jai," she implored, each nerve in her body
straining to reach him. "Whatever its cause, your torment is half mine,
yet you persistently keep me in the dark." Welling with love, she
encircled his neck with her arms and pressed her lips into the hollow of his
throat. "Give me a place in your life, Jai . . ."

There,
it was out! She had at last vocalised her plaint. There could be no retreat
now. Brazen or not, the words could not be unsaid.

He
did not reply immediately, but he did not push her away. Instead, his fingers
traced the line of her spine and in their tips Olivia felt the entire load of
his longing. When he spoke it was with difficulty, as if he were having to
prize every syllable out with a pair of forceps and it hurt him. "You have
a place . . . in . . . my heart. You must know that ... by now."

It
was the closest he had ever come to telling her that he loved her. For a whole
moment the world stopped. Nothing in it moved, not even a hint of life. Like a
fossil destined to live forever in its stone grave, for her the instant
petrified into immortality.

But
then, impatiently, he stirred as if in annoyance with himself. "I must
go."

In
her daze Olivia was seized by terror. "Go? Go where?"

As
always, he unlocked her fingers gently from behind his neck and, kissing each
of her hands, stood up. "To the Customs house," he said with a lift
of a quizzical smile at her stricken expression. "Donaldson is sending a
consignment that will ensure your Freddie's continuing prosperity. I want to
make certain it contains only what its documentation says it does."

She
knew he mocked her extravagant reaction, but it didn't matter. Not today! He
had not used the word
love,
but he had thought it. She had seen it in
his mind as clearly as if it were emblazoned across his forehead! For all its
inadequacies, this would still be the diadem in her treasury of jewelled
moments.

"How
suspicious you are of your clients!" she remarked, blissful again.
"You know that Freddie's agency doesn't dabble in opium."

"At
one time or another, they all dabble in opium."

"Even
though it is a Company monopoly?"

"Because
it
is a Company monopoly! Those with monopolies have more to sell, and avarice
feeds upon itself."

"You
mean they allow opium to be smuggled out to Europe?"

"Some
do. For a price."

"How?"

"Concealed
in cargo, with couriers, through ships' crews—a thousand different ways. Europe
too has its addicts, its stinking opium dens. Where do you think
they
get
their supplies? There are no poppy plantations in England!"

"In
that case, the traffic is enormous. Single-handedly you want to take on the
whole world ...?" she cried in protest despite his darkening face.

Suddenly
the clouds broke and a smile of genuine humour broke through like a hesitant
ray of sunshine. "No, only
half
the whole world. For the present
that is enough. Now come, or I shall miss my appointment, and possibly one more
London den will have triumphed." Olivia did not argue; the idea of poor
Willie Donaldson, a man of unimpeachable ethics and reputation, being an opium
smuggler was laughable. But Raventhorne's obsession with the nefarious trade
was not open to reason. She wondered briefly about that obsession. Could it be
that opium was also smuggled out in tea chests and
that
was the source
of his enmity with her uncle . . .?

"The
day after tomorrow are the immersions that mark the conclusion of the Durga
festival." He spoke again with a switch of topics. "Would you like to
see them?"

Olivia
gave a small gasp of delight. "Yes, oh
yes!
Where are the images
immersed?"

"Up
and down the river at the various ghats. They take place mostly at night and
are very colourful." He took her hand and held it for a while, his face
solemn. "Can you get away without inconvenience?"

Inconvenience!
Did he still not know that merely to be with him she would willingly walk
through fire to the ends of the earth? "Yes. Inconvenient or not, I will
get away."

"Very
well. My carriage with Bahadur will await you on the night at the corner of
your lane."

"At
what time?"

"They
will be there soon after dark. Come when you can."

Anxious
that no detail be overlooked and the precious appointment missed by default,
she asked, "Do you know my uncle's house?"

It
was, Olivia realised instantly, an absurd question
and Raventhorne
looked fractionally startled. Then he began to chuckle as he bent down to cup
his palms into a foothold so that she could mount Jasmine. "Who in
Calcutta does not know the house of Sir Joshua Templewood?" By the time
she was in the saddle and the girth tightened to his satisfaction, once more
his mood had changed. As he stood stroking Jasmine's neck absently, his
pearl-sheened eyes had dimmed to move away from Olivia into some incalculable
distance. If there was any identifiable emotion in his drawn features, it was
sorrow. "You deserve so much better than I can ever give you, Olivia. I
wish—"