Ryman, Rebecca (5 page)

"It
may well, yes. But to match him in the West, we would have to cut investments
in the East, and I'm not prepared for that. Our foundations are in the China
Coast. We are neither ready nor equipped for reckless adventurism in another
hemisphere. As for the challenge," he shrugged, "ten years ago when
we were younger, healthier, more foolhardy, yes, I would have taken the gamble,
but not now. Let us abandon thoughts of the Kirtinagar coal, Josh. We both know
that it can never be ours."

Sir
Joshua's volatile temper, always quick to ignite, strained to explode. "It
can be ours, Arthur, it
must!
If we play our cards
right we
can
bypass him!" He strode to his desk and thumped a fist on it.

"Bypass
Kala Kanta?" Ransome echoed. "In Kirtinagar? My dear fellow, have you
taken leave of your senses? Even trying such a tactic would be an
insanity!" He held up a hand to tick off his fingers one by one. "A
warehouse lost in a mysterious fire. The
Sea Siren
stripped at sea
of valuable cargo by unidentifiable privateers—by no means a first act of
piracy with our opium consignments. Mincing Lane in London continues to receive
from our Canton establishment inexplicably adulterated teas. What Marshall
dispatches are the best souchong and pekoe. What mysteriously arrives is ash
and sloe leaves tanned with japonica and molasses. Leave aside our sinking
reputation; we could earn hefty fines under these new anti-adulteration laws,
even prison sentences. Suddenly no one remembers our magnificent first and
second flushes of the best teas in the world, teas for which we've been
renowned. Now even our insurers are starting to ask damned embarrassing
questions." For a man as taciturn as Ransome, it was a heated speech. He
slumped back in his chair and mopped his forehead. "But then I don't need
to remind you of all these disasters, Josh. They're emblazoned boldly enough in
our ledgers."

Gazing
out of the window Sir Joshua nodded, but absently, as if he had heard nothing.
"We must remain the best, Arthur," he said softly, "the
best.
It is what we
have striven all our lives to be. If we are to be second, it cannot ever be to
him,
never
to him.
As
for the rest, Kala Kanta is not invincible. He
can
and
will
be beaten!"

"No
Josh, he is not invincible," Ransome sighed a trifle wearily, "he is
merely
mad.
And
he is violent, which makes him doubly dangerous. Heaven knows we too have
fought dirty in our time, our hands too are not all that clean, but I don't
have the strength or the stomach for retaliation now. Our only defence against
this mad dog is to stay well out of his way."

"And
what have we gained so far by staying out of his way?" Sir Joshua asked,
his eyes rife with contempt. "Shall I repeat to you those calamities you
have yourself just recounted?"

"I
still have no stomach for provoking more trouble." Ransome's jaw set in a
stubborn line. "Let the bastard do his worst, and we have to concede it
could have been worse than it has. Maybe, given enough rope, he'll do us the
favour of hanging himself some day. But for the moment, Josh, leave it be.
Leave it be, my friend."

Sir
Joshua fell silent, refraining from the heated rejoinder that obviously
trembled on his lips. Instead, he stood glowering at a moth fluttering across a
maroon shantung silk drape as if about to swat it, but he didn't. Unaware of
its brush with death, the moth found a chink in the curtain and flew out into
the garden. Sitting in her wing chair partially concealed from both men, Olivia
remained very still. The silence seemed so total and yet so turbulent that she
finally couldn't contain herself. Inching forward to the edge of the chair, she
asked with a touch of nervousness, "Who is this ... this Kala Kanta you've
been talking about?"

Both
men started. It was obvious they had entirely forgotten her presence. For a
moment neither volunteered an answer. Then, with a visible effort, Sir Joshua
recovered. "Just a man, a business competitor," he said shortly.
"No one of any consequence."

It
was Arthur Ransome, courtly as ever, who hastened to repair his partner's
brusqueness. "Kala Kanta is a scoundrel, to put it bluntly, Miss O'Rourke.
There are many such fly-by-night operators in Calcutta who are a disgrace to
ethical business, if you will accept a seeming contradiction in terms." A
brief smile flickered across his lips. "But this man has gone beyond all
limits. Be that as it may, I apologise on our joint behalves for subjecting you
to a deplorably dull discussion and for excluding you from it so rudely. I hope
you weren't too dreadfully bored?"

"Oh
no," Olivia replied quite truthfully. "I was fascinated. These
calamities you spoke of—are they serious?"

The
endless, often naive, questions she had got into the habit of asking Sir Joshua
usually received indulgent, good-humoured answers, but now his expression
showed a flash of annoyance. "No, of course not. Ups and downs are facts
of corporate life, ours included. Overnight, men can become millionaires on the
China Coast, or go bankrupt. Fortunately, those with the kind of resilience we
have bounce back like rubber. Isn't that right, Arthur?" Buoyant again, he
clasped his hands together and smiled.

"Oh,
absolutely." Ransome heaved his short, stocky frame out of the chair and
stretched each leg in turn. He did not, Olivia noticed, lift his eyes to meet
his partner's.

It
was almost midnight. Since Ransome was a bachelor and lived alone, he often
spent nights at the Templewood house. A bed had already been prepared for him
in the downstairs guestroom. Olivia summoned Rehman, dozing behind the study
door loyally waiting for his master to retire, to remove the coffee tray and
soiled brandy glasses. She bid good night to both men,
received a peck
on her cheek from her uncle, now seemingly recovered and again his usual urbane
self, and allowed him to usher her out of the room. As she turned to smile her
thanks before the door closed again, Olivia's smile froze on her lips and her
eyes widened.

The
expression on Sir Joshua's face was one of such virulence, such naked spite and
tangible hate that she stood rooted. It was only a flash and in a flash it was
again gone, but there was something so ugly about it that Olivia shivered.

"I
say," Freddie Birkhurst asked, "do you like croquet?"

Two
months ago when she was fresh from home, Olivia would have had no hesitation in
demanding bluntly, "What is croquet?" However, eight weeks of Lady
Bridget's assiduous tutelage in the art of polite English conversation had
taught Olivia caution. The problem was, for the life of her she could not
remember whether croquet was a game or some kind of mutton cutlet. Morosely
scanning the earnest countenance of the Hon'ble Frederick James Alistair
Birkhurst, her escort for the evening, she decided to play safe. "Croquet?
Well, I'm not sure that I've ever enjoyed . . . any."

Freddie
stared, his protuberant eyes poised precariously at the edge of their sockets,
then he chortled. "Oh, Miss O'Rourke, you do have such a divine sense of
humour! Tell me, are all Americans so delightfully witty?" In the width of
his smile his limited chin disappeared altogether.

"There
are seventeen million Americans in America, Mr. Birkhurst," she said
coldly. "Not having met them all, I can hardly hope to answer your
question with any degree of accuracy."

Two
and a half hours of Freddie's uninterrupted company had begun to wear Olivia
down. Except to refresh his whisky, he had not left her side for a moment since
he had fetched her to the Pennworthys in his splendid brougham with the crested
doors. As Lady Bridget's American niece, Olivia effortlessly invited attention
at
burra
khanas,
even
though it was the last thing she wanted at these dreary social occasions.
Tonight, however, she craved attention from others if only to make Freddie's
worshipful presence less intolerable. Her jaws ached with the mandatory smiles
and her temples throbbed for want of fresh air in the
crowded rooms,
but there was no avenue of immediate escape. Even Estelle had vanished from
sight on the arm of her dashing Captain Sturges, and Olivia had no desire
whatsoever to exchange notes on fleas, bedbugs or thieving cooks in the company
of Lady Bridget and her friends.

In
a room teeming with vaguely familiar faces to which she could put few names,
Olivia circulated with some desperation. As at all
burra khanas,
there was the
same sprinkling of uniforms and the customary contingents of merchants, bankers
and John Company officials. Those gents not in uniform wore frock-coats and
shirts with stiffly starched frontages. One or two of the younger blades
ventured sporty jodhpurs and fancy silken cravats. Among the ladies crinolines
and chintzes were the favourites, allover hoops and fussy petticoats, with
bodices adorned with frilly collars, bows, buttons, ribbons and yards of lace
made limp by constant dhobi washings. Had Olivia given in to her aunt and worn
tusser silk, she knew she would have expired with the heat. Her chosen lavender
organdie with short cap sleeves and boat neckline was singularly unelaborate
but at least it allowed for ventilation.

Circulation
among the guests held other hazards for Olivia and small talk was a penance.
She was constantly being asked to repeat herself and, worse, was having to
constantly do the same to others. If her speech sounded odd to the English,
their accents—ranging from Cornish to cockney—baffled her equally. As for
frequently used colloquialisms such as "tiffin," "the
mofussil," "gymkhana" and "chota peg," she couldn't
make head or tail of any of them without explanation. Especially annoying, she
found, was the appalling ignorance that existed about her own country. But if
it was any consolation, information quotients were equally low about India—the
country of their residence— and indeed about England, yearningly talked of as
"home" but which many had never seen.

"How
do you tolerate it here, Miss O'Rourke, considering the diabolical boredom of
life? Enough to send one potty, wouldn't you say?"

Olivia
turned to face Peter Barstow, a friend of Freddie's, also a man of leisure and
private means whom she had met before and thought frivolous. "I tolerate
it very well, Mr. Barstow," she countered, more out of loyalty to the
Templewoods than truth. "If you cannot, then why do you stay?"

Barstow
grimaced. "Same reason as Freddie. Pater's orders."

"Pater?"

"His
father," Freddie translated. "We were both sent down together from
Oxford. Our old boys were livid, justifiably I daresay. Awful disgrace, blot on
the family escutcheon and so forth. Everyone thought we were less likely to
soil the family linen further in the good old colonies, eh Peter?" He hiccupped,
pardoned himself and staggered off towards the bar.

Olivia
stared after him helplessly. "Sent down?"

"Expelled.
You know, kicked out." Barstow grinned. "Stroke of luck, really.
Couldn't stand the musty old mausoleum anyway." He sipped and over the rim
of his glass surveyed Olivia reflectively. "Tell me, Miss O'Rourke, since
you do tolerate this blasted country so well, how
do
you fill the
long, dismal hours of the day? Believe me, it is truly for knowledge that I
thirst."

The
mockery was thinly veiled but Olivia let it pass. "Well, I ride every
morning and explore the town, I read a great deal and I enjoy making mundane,
everyday discoveries. There's so much to learn, I find, about this strange
subcontinent."

"Learn?"
He looked astonished. "Come, come, my dear Miss O'Rourke, we're not here
to
learn,
we're
here to
teach!"

This
time Olivia bristled under his patronization. "Oh really? Then you tell
me, Mr. Barstow, having been
sent down
from Oxford and
banished to the colonies, what precisely are
you
qualified to
teach the Indians?"

He
flushed but covered up with a murmured "Touché!" Nevertheless his
faded blue eyes showed pique. "I hear from Calcutta's other gentry that
you, Miss O'Rourke, are a young lady of considerable spirit. As such, might I
inquire how you agreed to become a willing member of the fishing fleet? I'm
sure you will not resent the question since American women are so admirably
blunt and forthright."