Ryman, Rebecca (59 page)

"And
Uncle Josh did not enlighten him?" she asked with a touch of sarcasm,
recalling her uncle's odd behaviour that evening. "Surely he would not
have missed such a golden chance to see his hated adversary hanged, would
he?"

"No,
but then you sent for him," Ransome reminded her. "After that it was
too late anyway. Even if a steam packet had pursued the
Ganga
down river
with a warrant to board her, it would have been futile. Raventhorne would have
already been past the estuary and in the open sea."

"On
the other hand, Uncle Arthur," Olivia commented acidly, "how
fortunate for everyone concerned! Now everything can be safely blamed on Das,
if not Raventhorne. Slocum will say that Das, crushed by his sense of guilt,
absconded after a clumsy attempt to involve both of you in that confession of
his. The confession, therefore worthless, can be burned and forgotten. Even the
handful who know the truth will conceal it willingly in the larger interests of
the community. What would be the gain
in another pointless scandal, anyway?
So you see, this way nobody loses out, do they?" It was all exactly as Jai
had predicted. At another time, under other circumstances, Olivia might have
been incensed. But now she was merely amused.

Ransome
flushed. "I wish I could refute your allegations, Olivia, but I
cannot," he muttered unhappily. "It was a vile, immoral and ungodly
scheme. I did not learn of it until it was too late, but I can by no means
abrogate culpability. In Josh's defence I can say nothing except that, like
Raventhorne, he despises the very idea of being a loser. The China Coast trade
teaches you to fight back when threatened, to neither give nor take quarter.
Deaf to common sense, Josh wanted to destroy Raventhorne's friendship with
Arvind Singh and Arvind Singh's trust in his friend so that the consortium
could neatly step into the breach and triumphantly take over the devastated
mine, and Arvind Singh would then jump at the existing offer, eagerly and
gratefully. Raventhorne would be persona non grata in Kirtinagar forever—and,
of course, also behind bars. In fairness to Josh, that was the extent of his
plotting. He certainly never intended that a man should die."

"Not
a man," Olivia murmured absently, only half listening, "just a native
. . ."

Genuinely
distressed, Ransome did not hear her. "Estelle's elopement has destroyed
the balance of Josh's mind, but my moral responsibility remains, Olivia. I will
go to Kirtinagar before we leave for Barrackpore. If Arvind Singh is generous
enough to receive me, I will plead for forgiveness, I will humble myself
willingly. And reparation must be made, substantial financial reparation, for
all the mindless destruction."

Lost
within herself, Olivia did not concentrate on what Ransome was saying; the
matter had ceased to exercise her. But mention of Kirtinagar had brought back
graphic memories of Kinjal. Clear as a bell, she heard Kinjal's voice in her
mind:
I
fear for you. A
twinge, a tiny twinge of emotion, nudged
her heart— with what face could she ever look at Kinjal again? "If Uncle
Josh had obeyed his mother, then none of this would have happened."

Olivia
was not aware of having mused aloud until Ransome answered. "No." He
grimaced. "I know of no other man so many have wished dead! But then, Jai
is like the phoenix. He survives, he endures, he rises again and again from the
ashes. And he returns to our lives, as he will return once more, God damn his
soul!"

The
tiny twinge that had informed Olivia that she was, after
all, alive,
became more persistent; it would not be ignored. If only as an exercise in
futility, she had to know it all.

"When
did you see him again?"

She
had no need to remind Ransome of the context. It was still alive and vibrant in
his mind. "When?" He squinted his eyes in thought. "I'd say
about six years or so later. One morning Josh found him standing at his gate.
Just like that—Lazarus risen from the dead!"

In
a reflex action, Olivia's eyes flew to the window beyond
which stretched
the driveway to the gate, almost as if he might still be there. Her mind raced
with silent calculation; eight and six, fourteen—he must have still been at the
tavern. How ironic that those dark areas of his life that she had once yearned
so passionately to enter should be suddenly available to her now when she had no
further use for them! Somewhere in the arid wastes within her, she felt another
throb of life, a tremor—a mere tremor, but oh, so welcome!

"What
was he doing at the gate?"

Ransome
made a gesture of puzzlement. "Nothing. Just standing and staring. As
Josh's carriage passed on its way to work, Jai merely looked at him, hard and
long. He didn't say anything. Josh ignored the boy, but then Jai took to coming
and standing at the gate every morning with that same unblinking stare as Josh
passed. He never spoke, never made any sign, just
stared.
After three or
four days of this curious and apparently senseless exercise, Josh began to be
rattled. There was in the boy's stare such menace—loathing, Josh called it—that
he was very close to again losing his temper. At first, he ignored the boy
..." Ransome broke off. "You know, even though he lived in my
compound for eight years, oddly enough I never cared to find out his name. To
me he was always 'the boy' or 'that damned boy.' It was only after he had gone
I discovered from the servants that his mother had named him Jai."

"I'm
told it means
victory,"
Olivia provided. How appropriate!

"Yes,
I believe it does," Ransome nodded. "Anyway, to return to that
ruthless morning vigil—Josh was furious about it. He threatened to take his
crop again to the boy, but I calmed him and advised him against precipitous
action. After all, the boy wasn't doing any harm and he never ventured beyond
the gate onto Josh's property. Why not, I suggested, continue to ignore him
until he himself tired of his silly little game? For another few days Josh did
that. Then, one morning, purely out of impulse, he threw
him a fistful
of coins as the carriage passed the spot where he stood. The boy did not even
look at the money, but instead he leapt onto the step of the carriage and spoke
for the first time. In halting English he enunciated his words slowly and with
effort as if they had been carefully rehearsed many times over. There is
nothing you can
give
me, Sir Joshua Templewood. But one day I will
take
from you everything—your money, your business, your reputation and all else
you hold dear in your life.' With that he jumped off and scampered away. Josh
didn't see him again."

"Until
another six years later."

If
Ransome was surprised at her information, he gave no evidence of it, too
engrossed in ravelling the tangled skeins of his own suppurating guilt. Or,
perhaps, her interruption escaped his notice. "Yes. And when he resurfaced
this time, it was a very different personality that he had assumed. In fact,
the picture he presented was quite startling. Without waiting to be announced,
he walked straight into Josh's office—unrecognisable save for two things: that
damnable arrogance and those frozen, lifeless silver-fish eyes that still
stared devilishly. But now, his eyes no longer spewed childish hatred. Instead,
they spilled over with icy cold confidence and an assurance with which he
appeared over-endowed. He was totally in control of himself, polished in his
manner and faultlessly dressed in an expensive, stylish three-piece suit, high
leather boots and silken cravat. He clicked his heels smartly, bowed with a
flourish and put an insolent hand on a hip. He spoke only to Josh, and what he
said was in perfect, well-modulated English—and a fluent repetition of what he
had threatened six years ago. He added, T have come to remind you that I am
still alive, Sir Joshua, and that as elephants are reputed not to, I too never
forget.' He laughed, bowed again and turned and walked out."

In
the middle of his account, Ransome had got up and started to pace in halting
but measured steps, leaning heavily on his stick. He now went to the window,
threw it open—for the room had become close—and swallowed several lungfuls of
the sharp wind that gusted in.

"I
am not a nervous man, Olivia, and Josh certainly isn't. But that day, I can
tell you quite honestly, we were shaken. The sudden, unexpected resurrection,
the incredible metamorphosis from worm to butterfly, the fearless mockery, the
confident threat—these were bad enough, but what was haunting was the aura the
man seemed to carry. There was something inhuman
about him, a smell of
something...
unholy."
He stopped and gave a modest, apologetic
laugh. "You might think me unduly melodramatic, Olivia, but neither Josh
nor I is given to flights of fancy and we were truly shaken. That I did not
like him, I already knew; that day I also learned to fear him. We later came to
know that he now called himself Raventhorne."

Through
the open window a fire-fly floated in and twinkled its way across the room.
Olivia followed its flight thinking how pretty it looked against the massed
shadows. "So then he
has
finally fulfilled that long-pending
destiny of his."

Ransome
caught her murmur and frowned. "A curious way of putting it! Whatever his
cursed destiny might be, he has certainly fulfilled his threat." The
corners of his mouth turned down in a gesture of repugnance. "What we must
mourn now is the undeserved destiny of that innocent, gullible child."

The
plucking aches, the wavelets of resurgent emotion, grew into a flood of
resentment. And who will mourn for
my
destiny, Olivia cried within the
confines of her mind, I who have also, in my gullibility, lost my all? Who will
shed tears over the passing of
my
innocence? But her cries of inner anger
remained, as always, unvoiced.

She
knew, however, that Arthur Ransome had not been entirely honest with her; he
had not yet told her everything.

That
night, surrounded by the merciful privacy of her room, for the first time
Olivia read Estelle's letter. Her motive was neither curiosity nor compassion
for her absconding cousin; it was purely selfish. Fissures had started to
appear in the dam of vast anguish shored up within her, and they needed to be
widened, the dam breached. She needed to be whipped into rightful fury; she
needed something to bring her back to life.

She
needed to cry.

Olivia
read:

My
darling Mama and Papa,

By
the time you receive this letter I will be on the
Ganga
sailing towards
the Bay of Bengal and America with Jai Raventhorne . . .

Olivia
skimmed the following two paragraphs containing vehement protestations of
remorse for the pain she was causing and of "understanding" what they
must be suffering. She assured them that, when she was not deliriously happy,
she too was suffering with them, sharing their grief, but that she found she
could not ignore the passionate dictates of her heart no matter how strong her
reason. The reasons she gave for having taken what she called "this
irreversible step" were the humiliations she had undergone as a "bird
in a gilded cage" with no liberties befitting her state of adulthood, and
her overpowering love for a man they had hated and maligned with such rampant
injustice.

The
next page, seething with emotionalism, was in defence of Jai Raventhorne, a
scapegoat of society whose fineness, whose innate decency and gentleness,
strength of character and endurance they had never taken into account when
passing sentence on him. He had shown her nothing but courtesy and, of course,
such selfless love as she had never considered possible.

I
am not ashamed of my love for Jai. On the contrary, I am proud,
proud,
of
it! I have entrusted my life to him because my faith in him is unshakable. For
the first time in my eighteen years I am truly, truly happy.

The
letter ended with more pleas for forgiveness and with impassioned exhortations
that they too should share in her happiness if they really did love her. She
concluded by assuring them that she would always remain their loving if
disobedient daughter, Estelle.

At
the bottom of the large brown envelope, previously unnoticed, was a small white
one, sealed and addressed to Olivia. Her first instinct as she wrenched with
anger was to burn it unread but then she thought better of it. The knife in the
wound was still only half turned; it had to come full circle. She tore open the
envelope and started to read: