Ryman, Rebecca (6 page)

"The
fishing fleet?" Olivia looked blank.

"You
are not familiar with the term?" He ran the tip of his finger along a
well-waxed moustache. "Permit me then to enlighten you. Each year hordes
of young ladies come to India with the specific purpose of finding a husband.
In local parlance we refer to them as the fishing fleet. If they are unsuccessful
in their hunt, as some sadly are, and are forced to leave without having made a
catch, we call them returned empties." He chuckled, then added quickly,
"Not that anyone as lovely as you, Miss O'Rourke, could possibly be a part
of the return contingent, and certainly not if Lady Bridget's endeavours
succeed."

The
arrogant smartass! Olivia went cold with fury, but silently. Death rather than
let him have the satisfaction of knowing
that she was in any way riled!
"Because we American women are blunt and forthright, Mr. Barstow,"
she said with a pleasant smile, "some might consider your generous words
to be a proposal of marriage. Are they?" She had the great pleasure of
seeing his face turn purple and his jaw loosen. "No? Well, I can't deny
that I am relieved. There are some fates in life possibly worse than being a
returned empty after all.
Do
excuse me." With a tinkling laugh she
swept away from him and plunged into the crowd, inwardly fuming.

From
the far end of the room Lady Bridget beamed. How
well
Olivia was
conducting herself with the young men if that smile was to be believed! Of
course, Barstow's family even with a titled second cousin was not in the same
class as Freddie's, but they were not to be scorned. Satisfied for the moment,
Lady Bridget happily returned to the subject of prickly heat with her hostess.

Blissfully,
Olivia saw that Freddie had disappeared from her immediate vicinity. Taking
quick advantage of his absence before it was too late, she pressed through the
room towards the verandah, which led into the back garden. En route a Mrs.
Babcock, wife of a Methodist clergyman, complained bitterly about the
miserable, utterly miserable, subsidies her husband received from the church
compared to those dispensed by the American Missionary Society in Bombay and
seemed to hold Olivia solely responsible for the inequity. Estelle floated by
briefly for reassurance that her emerald georgette was indeed superior to
Charlotte Smithers's overdone London confection. And a Lieutenant Pringle,
resplendent in naval uniform, and some others asked for their names to be added
to her dance card.

The
back garden was deserted. Only two bearers, turbaned and white coated, stood
silently on call. Trained never to stare sahibs and memsahibs in the face, they
lowered their eyes and salaamed as Olivia ran past onto the lawn. The wall that
demarcated the Pennworthys' property from the embankment was high, but the
wrought iron gate set in it, though locked, was manageable. With a quick glance
over her shoulder Olivia hitched up her skirts and easily swung over the gate
to the other side.

The
hour was late and there was no one about on the embankment. Grateful for the
privacy, Olivia swallowed huge lungfuls of cool air and sighed with relief. It
was a remarkably clear night. Clusters of stars hung low against the smooth
black satin of the sky. A melon moon, yet to rise fully, hovered over the
horizon
entangled in silhouetted palm fronds. Save for nature's orchestrations, the
silence was untrammelled. Leaves rustled; occasionally the distant splash of
oars echoed across the Hooghly. Nightjars bickered, river frogs croaked and the
inevitable symphony of cicadas struck varying chords in the dark. In the
flickering light of a rising moon Olivia saw a flight of stone steps leading to
the river. She ran down it, removed her sandals and sat down on the last step
to trail her finger-tips in the welcome coolness.

In
the immense dark the distances seemed endless and unfettered. As always, the
solitude of the night brought with it a soaring sense of freedom, a vast
liberation of the spirit. Memories stirred, surged and flew across space and
time to evoke visions and voices that would not be stilled. Olivia's mind raced
back to other nights similar to this when she was with her father and rain
smell steamed up through the earth to fill the world with freshness. It was on
one such night that she had stood beside him by the mighty Mississippi gazing
across its steady flow crinkled in the silvery moonlight. In the infinite
silences where only the wind made footfalls in the mind he had said, "The
virgin land you see before you, my darling, is a wilderness today, but
tomorrow, within our very lifetime, this barrenness will explode and the
blessed earth, this earth of America, will throw forth giants. One day we will
be proud of what this fallowness will produce, for its fruit will startle the
world. It is a grand scheme, Olivia, and you and I too are part of it."

She
had been barely twelve then but she had never forgotten his words. He had
spoken with awe, with such passion and simple faith, that now the remembrance
again tightened her throat. It had seemed like a miracle that she too could
have a share of this promise, of the future of this sweet-sour, soft-savage
land out of which people like her father were hacking a nation. Transported
across oceans and continents and chasms of dividing loneliness, Olivia thought
of Sally and One-Eyed Jack and Bucktooth and Red Feather and Sally's boys, and
of Greg. Especially of Greg. She saw that careful smile, those quiet, clear
eyes and that sadness in them when she had left. She thought of Spike, her
untidy mongrel rescued as a pup from coyotes, and of her Appaloosa, Domino,
with his white hide and black spots with a touch of roan, which her father had
given her when she turned thirteen. In her inner vision she saw the orchards
and the corrals and the paddock rife with the scent of newly mown hay, and in
her nostrils she smelt the generous promise of Sally's frying doughnuts
to be smothered
in sugar and cinnamon, the hickory smoke from the barbecue pit and the foul
odour of those cheroots her father refused to abandon. She wondered if it was
day or night in California, and was it warm? Wet? Who was frying her father's
morning eggs in grease sunny side up on that Nantucket whaler? Reminding him of
letters to be written, shoe-laces to be tied, ink stains to be removed from
shirt cuffs that never seemed without them . . .?

The
lump in Olivia's throat hardened; self-pity bubbled up and spilled out,
overwhelming her like a shroud. What oh what was she doing here, an eternity
removed from her beginnings, from everything and everyone she loved? Consumed
by melancholy and despair, she cushioned her cheek on her knees and did
precisely what she had vowed she would not. She cried.

How
long Olivia wept softly to herself she could not assess. But, as she was drying
her tears and feeling better for having shed them, she stiffened. She felt,
suddenly, that she was not alone. Peering over her shoulder she could see no
one, but the sensation of being watched was so strong that one by one the hairs
at the nape of her neck started to tingle. Nervously, she turned again. And
stilled. Something had stirred against a shrub. Then, in the shadowed dark, the
faint movement resolved slowly into the outline of a human form.

As
her aunt's repeated warnings rushed back to her, Olivia felt a prickle of fear.
In a reflex action born of habit she groped for her purse, which carried her
derringer. Reassured, she breathed more easily again. Who was this person
sitting behind her? Why? What could his intentions be if not criminal? She was
about to get up and hurry away from what might well be trouble, when he spoke.

"Do
not be alarmed. I sit here doing exactly what you are— savouring the
solitude." The voice was cultured and the language he used was English.
Olivia was on the point of relaxing her guard when he asked, "Why were you
crying?"

She
went rigid again. He had sat in silence while she
cried?
As an invasion
of privacy it was unforgivable! "I was under the impression, obviously
mistaken," she said stiffly, "that I was alone."

"Oh,
but you are alone." He rose, walked unhurriedly down the steps and stood
against a tree trunk with his arms crossed. "We are all alone. That is how
we come into the world and that is how we will go. Alone and, in both
instances, unconsulted."

A
wit to boot! She was not impressed. "Courtesy required
that you make
your presence known to me." She was both annoyed and embarrassed. Who on
earth was he—another refugee from the Pennworthys? "I dislike being spied
upon."

"If
I took you by surprise, I apologise willingly. I had no intention of spying, I
assure you. I usually walk my dogs here at night. They enjoy the exercise and I
the solitude."

In
the distance Olivia picked up the sounds of barking, and the slight emphasis on
the word
solitude
could
hardly be missed. "If it is I who have unwittingly poached on your
preserve," she said with a private heightening of colour, "then it is
from me that an apology is due."

"You
misunderstand me. My solitude is enforced so I make a virtue out of a
necessity. Your presence is in no way intrusive, on the contrary."
Unlocking the shadow of his person from the foliage behind, he sat down at the
far end of the step.

He
had spoken politely enough and Olivia's resentment changed into curiosity. She
could discern nothing of his face, but she could see that he was tall and wore
a light-coloured shirt above dark trousers. Surely he could not have been at
the party in that apparel? Betty Pennworthy would have had a fit!

"Well,
what is the caper like?" He broke the silence to dispel her unspoken
conjectures. A flash of white indicated that he had smiled. "But you don't
really need to answer that question. The fact that you yourself choose to sit
out here on your own is testimony enough."

Sour
grapes? Someone chagrined at being left off the guest list? "It was hot. I
felt the need for some fresh air, which is the only reason I'm here." She
asked pointedly, "Do you know the Pennworthys?"

He
uncrossed his arms and shrugged. "Calcutta is a strange animal. In size,
it is a town; in commercial and political importance, a city and a capital. But
in terms of social maturity it is a village. And, as in all villages, whether
deserving of acquaintanceship or not, everyone knows everyone else."

It
was an observation, however acerbic, that could hardly be denied, so she
nodded. "Yes, I guess it's the same in all closed communities." At
that he laughed under his breath but said nothing even though she had the
feeling that he almost had.

Etiquette
demanded that he withhold his identity no longer, but he made no effort to
introduce himself. Nor did he seem to wish to learn her identity! The lapse,
obviously deliberate, made Olivia uneasy again. Apart from his reticence, his
manner was altogether unusual. Had she been at home, she would have
thought nothing
of his unorthodoxy. In America's diverse melting pot, oddballs proliferated;
but here, where society was mannered and rules clear-cut and rigid, the man
seemed strangely out of place for a European. Intending to leave forthwith, she
rose to her feet. However, before she could either move or speak, two enormous
black dogs came bounding out of the night to circle her with angry barks and
root her to the spot.

"Don't
be frightened," the man assured her calmly. "They won't harm you
unless they have instructions to do so. If you stand still for a moment they
can satisfy themselves that you bear
them
no ill will." He sounded
almost amused, as if explaining an elementary fact to a child.

With
no other option, Olivia did as suggested while the dogs conducted their
investigations with sniffs and squeals and suspicious growls. Both animals were
sleek and obviously well trained, for at the sound of their master's low
whistle, they immediately abandoned her to flop on either side of him with
tongues hanging out and ears still erect and on guard.

He
patted each head in turn with obvious fondness. "This is Saloni and this
handsome brute glaring at you rudely is Akbar. They are the best friends I
have. They protect me with their lives."

Olivia's
trapped breath exhaled in a gush of relief but she remained standing. "I'm
not surprised you need protection," she said severely, "if you sneak
up in the dark and frighten the unwary half to death!"

He
laughed. "Had I frightened you half to death you would have returned the
compliment by pulling your derringer on me."

Astonished,
she sat down again. "How do you know that I carry a derringer?"

"Doesn't
every sensible American woman in a precarious situation? And what could be more
precarious than one of these infernal
burra khanas?"
He laughed
again.

Olivia
drew in her breath sharply. "How, may I ask, do you know that I am
American?"

"And
sensible?" He stretched out his legs to make himself more comfortable.
"Because Calcutta
is
a village and the grapevine is extremely
effective. And a sensible white woman stands out here like a bird of paradise
among cackling hens."

She
found the compliment dubious and offhanded, and the direction of the
conversation uncomfortably personal. Furthermore, his deliberate refusal to
announce his identity was disconcerting. Once more Olivia decided it was an
opportune moment
to leave, but as she got up, both dogs also rose in unison and growled.
Irritably, she sat down again. "Do you think you could possibly instruct
your life's protectors to allow me to go?" she asked acidly. "Any
moment I expect a search party to come looking for me and it would be
humiliating."