Ryman, Rebecca (46 page)

"Feeling
better, dear?"

When
she finally awakened to full consciousness, it was to a fine morning of milky
autumn sunshine. Her aunt's face, creased with lines of worry, hovered above
hers. The fever had broken. Olivia tried to sit up but, weakened beyond belief,
she
could not raise the effort. Her aunt's hand gently pushed her back among the
pillows and made her sip warm milk through a spout.

"Thank
goodness! Dr. Humphries said it was the ague compounded by a terrible
chill." Lady Bridget dabbed her mouth with a napkin. "But the fever
has run its course, praise be. We'll soon have you up and about again, you'll
see. The secret is plenty of liquids, he said,
plenty."

Olivia
nodded, sipped and felt marginally stronger. Behind her aunt Estelle hovered
waiting for the empty invalid cup, her gaze circling the room as if to avoid
her cousin's. Something tugged at the tails of Olivia's memory; she tried but
she could not catch it. Like bricks, drowsiness pressed down over her eyelids.
She could scarcely keep them open. Fatigue made it impossible to string
together any intelligible thought except one.

She
was not to see Jai Raventhorne again.

Her
afternoon siesta was fitful but long. She opened her eyes to candle-light and
the sounds of tinkling glass as the ayah rearranged the medicine table by the
bed. More liquids followed, this time brought up by Sir Joshua, and the
pleasing aroma of lemon-grass tea made a welcome change from that of chest
liniments.

"Well,
how do you feel, m'dear?" He settled down by the bed.

"Better,
thank you." Olivia's voice, thin and reedy, seemed not her own. She
struggled up against a supportive bank of pillows.

"Capital,
capital! Humphries was right. This new bark from Malaya seems to be the answer.
They call it cinchona—about damned time someone did something about this
confounded ague." He patted her hand. "We had some anxious moments
about you, my dear. It's good to see colour in those cheeks again." There
seemed to be plenty of colour in Sir Joshua's own cheeks as he chatted amiably,
temper bubbling and buoyant. Licking his whiskers like a cat after he had
drained his own cup, he waggled a warning finger at her. "No more early
morning rides for you, my girl. At least not until some of that strength is
recovered." Whistling tunelessly, he sauntered out of the room.

No.
No more early morning rides. There was no point in them now.

The
next morning Olivia was declared well enough by Dr. Humphries to be sponged and
given fresh clothing. The morning after that he even allowed her an hour in the
garden, bundled like an Egyptian mummy in shawls and mitts and woollen
stockings. It
surprised Olivia that her body could feel so strong again when her mind
remained extinct. In a way she bitterly mourned the passing of her fever; while
it had ravaged her body, there had been at least no need for thought.

With
Olivia's recovery now confirmed, Lady Bridget decided to venture out for an
afternoon to attend a furniture auction. "It's at the home of the
Armenians, dear, who run the races every week. They're off to London and they
do have some good saddles Josh wants me to look at. Also, some Chippendale
chairs and almost new English curtains. I really must do something about
Estelle's room. It looks deplorable."

Estelle!
Olivia's memory clarified with a jolt and she filled with remorse. "Where
is
Estelle, Aunt
Bridget? I haven't seen her around these past two days." How remiss of her
to have forgotten her cousin so completely!

"She's
gone to the Pringles' in Cossipore for a week. You remember that nice naval
lieutenant at the Pennworthys? Well, his sister Anne is down from Lucknow with
her two children. Estelle has taken quite a shine to her and I'm so relieved.
Anne is just the right kind of friend for that girl." Lady Bridget looked
anxious. "You don't mind Estelle having gone, dear, do you? You were so
much better and Estelle has been such a little paragon lately that—"

"No,
of course I don't mind ... a
paragon,
did you say?" Olivia wondered
if she had been hearing right.

Lady
Bridget's smile was more expansive than Olivia had seen in weeks.
"Quite
a paragon, believe it or not! She even took Josh's dressing down about that
ridiculous pantomime in her stride. As meek as a lamb, if you please. Not a
word of protest."

"Uncle
Josh refused his permission?"

"Well,
of course he refused his permission!" Lady Bridget looked surprised.
"Even if she hadn't caught him in the middle of this Kirtinagar business,
Josh wouldn't have stood for it. But she's taken it well, astonishingly so. I
can't say I'm not relieved the worst is over."

Olivia
almost asked what "this Kirtinagar business" might be but then
remembered the reality and didn't. "I'm relieved too," she said
slowly, the image of Estelle's ravaged face rising in her mind's eye for a
moment. "I'm glad Estelle has been civil to you for a change."

"She
kissed me, you know." Lady Bridget's voice flickered. "She kissed me
before she went off, the first time in weeks. And she said she was sorry for
all the grief she had given me." She
paused, then cleared her throat and
composed herself again. "Incidentally, dear," she bent down to lift
the shawl off a chair, "I do think this is quite lovely, quite the nicest
one I've seen in a long time. I know Estelle would absolutely adore one for
Christmas. When you're well again perhaps we can send for the pedlar from whom
you bought it. It's not only
pashmina,
it's one of those
jam-e-wars
from
Kashmir. Exquisite! Did it cost a fortune?"

Olivia
pretended to be asleep.

Energies
regrouped, cobwebs cleared from the walls of her mind and the fever did not
recur. There was no way now that Olivia could escape from herself. There was
not even Estelle's monotonous chatter to keep away the questions, the
introspections, the puzzlement. And the pain. Why had Jai cast her off with
such little warning?

Sitting
for hours in the garden while her aunt was either busy or out visiting, Olivia
remained balanced on the knife-edge of torment such as she had never known. The
pain chipped constantly at her heart, paring it down to a knot that would not
stop bleeding. Yet she recognised that in all and equal honesty, she had no
excuse for surprise. Jai had never wanted her love; she had thrust it upon him
regardless. He had often avoided meeting her; she had pursued him till he had
capitulated. He had warned her frequently. It was she who had made light of it.
Those few scraps of emotion he had tossed at her, those reluctant kisses and
restrained caresses, it was she who had made into mountains what were
essentially only pebbles. No, he had not discarded her; he had never accepted
her at all!

But
reasons and causes, however logical, do not lessen suffering. With each passing
moment Olivia's anguish compounded. If there was any thread of light in the
blackness of her despair, any hope in a jungle of hopelessness, it was one to
which she clung tenaciously. Whatever Jai's motives, however bitter the taste
of his renunciation, however small his capacity to receive and return love—he
did love her. He could scorn and scoff and deny as much as he chose, but in
some cloistered corner of that rock he had for a heart, Olivia was passionately
convinced that he carried shared pain. And there was that affinity!
That
he
could never refute, nor would she ever let him.

In
the meanwhile, the pain had to be borne, the aching
separation
tolerated, the sense of despair rebuffed. She knew she would see Jai
Raventhorne again; no divinity fashioning their ends would dare deny her at
least that.

The
garden fragrances were strong and heady. Abstractedly, Olivia inhaled the scent
of freshly mown grass, of river breezes, of the abundance of nature. With winter
near, the garden exploded with new life and cold weather finery: double
hibiscus, dahlias and chrysanthemums as large as fruit bowls; pink, white and
magenta bougainvillea now returned to blossom after their heavy leafing from
the rains; saffron marigolds, sweet peas, snapdragons and gladioli. Among the
profusion a pair of bulbuls daintily gathered twigs with much debate; a
wedge-shaped flight of parrots looped shrilly around a banana grove and a
solitary kingfisher sat hunched on a pole, seeming to meditate. The blue Vanda
orchid flourished. As it peeped at Olivia from behind a branch, it seemed to
snigger with some private joke.

A
carriage swept noisily through the gate and up the drive. Even before it
reached the portico, Sir Joshua leapt forth from it. Waving extravagantly in
Olivia's direction, he bounded across the lawn towards her.

"Koi
hai?"
His
roar brought Rehman hurrying out of the kitchen house. "A drink, you
moth-eaten rascal, a strong drink,
juldee, juldee,
or you'll have a
taste of my crop across your idle backside, you black son of a whore!" He
sat down heavily, almost upsetting the tea table in the act, and turned to
Olivia. "As good as new I see, huh?
Shabash,
splendid! Now, that's
what I like to see in you young chits, as many roses in the cheeks as in the
garden, no?" He slashed recklessly at a nearby bush and guffawed.

Olivia
stared at him in astonishment. His behaviour was extraordinary, so out of
character! "Are you not feeling well, Uncle Josh? Somehow, you seem . . .
not to be yourself today."

"Not
myself today?" He grappled with the concept, then, unable to grasp it,
shrugged and gave up the effort. Putting his head between his hands he groaned
and cursed volubly. "The clap-riddled, horse dung-brained son of a
two-anna harlot—I
told
the god-rotting jackass that nothing these bloody
natives do is ever
simple . . .
" His mouth dripped saliva and his
speech was thickly slurred.

"Who,
Uncle Josh, and do what?" Olivia was bewildered.

"Eh?
Who . . . what?" Dazed again, he stared at her blankly. Then his face
darkened again as he looked around for Rehman. "Where's my bloody drink,
you misbegotten bastard? Can't you
move your black butt faster?"
Picking up a saucer he flung it at the terrified bearer as he approached.
Rehman dumped the tray onto the table and fled. Sir Joshua half rose, as if to
give chase, then slumped again cursing under his breath. "No risk, the man
said, no bloody
risk . . . hah!"
Pouring himself a double measure,
he downed it in a gargantuan gulp.

Sir
Joshua was drunk!

Olivia
had never seen her uncle in a state of such unmistakable intoxication. Indeed,
his boast was that he could drink anyone under the table and still walk a
straight line. Also, there was something in his disjointed ravings that was
ominous—something to do with "that Kirtinagar business" . . .?

"Risks
where,
Uncle Josh?" she asked urgently, forgetting that the matter,
whatever it might be, should no longer be of interest to her.

He
glared at her and through her, fuzzy eyed, unable to focus. "Slocum will
earn his spurs this time," he muttered smugly.
"This
time he
will not let go ...
arrey, koi hai?"
He rapped the table with his
crop and Rehman crept fearfully out from behind a flowering bush but poised for
instant flight, if necessary. With unsteady hands Sir Joshua poured himself
another drink, spilling much of it over the table-cloth. "Get some of that
jam roly-poly Babulal made last night, the thieving swine. And if there's none
left, tell him I'll string his black hide up the Ochterlony tower,
achcha?"
With a stricken nod, Rehman fled again.

"Not
let go of
what
Uncle Josh?" Olivia asked impatiently, her alarm
rising for more than one reason. It was not his drunkenness as such that
worried her. At home she had seen plenty of brawls in the saloons, even killings,
when men had swigged with abandon, then drawn their guns at the turn of a card,
the sound of a hasty word. Apart from the fact that something terrible had
happened, she was nervous at Sir Joshua's belligerence where the servants were
concerned. What if he exercised his wrath on them physically . . .? He was a
big man, well over six feet tall, with very solid strength in his muscled
shoulders. She would not be able to restrain him, and for the servants to
venture retaliation was, of course, unthinkable. Taking his arm firmly, she
shook it. "Answer my questions, Uncle Josh!" Olivia commanded, not
because she hoped to receive an explicit response but only to keep his
attention diverted from the servants. "I want to know
exactly
what
has happened." He did not reply, of course. Mouthing more graphic oaths,
he merely laid his head down on the table.