Ryman, Rebecca (64 page)

The
despair receded; Olivia ossified again. "Yes. She can begin."

Against
a hum of incantations and chanting, Olivia sat up to drink a dark-coloured
potion offered to her in a silver glass. Its effect was instant. A heavy
lethargy pervaded her limbs and body as she sank back against the pillow and
shut her eyes. She seemed to be floating away from herself to stand apart and
watch the old woman sway from side to side, her hooked fingers flying over
packets and bottles to mix and match and pick and reject with an expertise
handed down through the centuries. Drowsily, Olivia blanked out of her mind the
ugly present. She thought instead of
beautiful dawns, of strutting peacocks
resplendent in their brilliant mantles, of roses and horses and cottonwood
trees and butterflies in the paddock flitting over carpets of green grass. A
hot, sweet fragrance wafted about her nose and filled her head. The chanting
became louder, the rooster flapped angrily somewhere in the distance, and then
silence, followed by Kinjal's quiet command as something was pressed to
Olivia's lips.

"Drink
this."

In
a twilight sleep, Olivia drank. The liquid was warm and quick-flowing and red.
Like blood. But before she could retch, she was asleep. The final words she
heard were Kinjal's. "There. It is finished and done with. By morning it
will be as if it has never been ..."

Finished
and done with.

In
her sleep, dreams and fantasies crawled through Olivia's mind like rain
insects, nimble legged and fluttering. Unaware and uncommanded, her hand groped
for and found the locket she wore around her neck. Tactile memory brought with
it a succession of others: satin finger-tips on her cheeks, a silken mouth
moistening her breast, fragile kisses across her lips. Pools of smoky grey doused
her with their pain, and in her ear a mist, a shadow of a voice murmured,
but
yes, I do love you . . .

She
slept on and on. When she woke again it was to find that her cheeks were bathed
with damp. Trapped between her chin and an arm, the locket felt as cold
as ice, its
chain cutting into her flesh like an accusation. Her eyes flew open to see
Kinjal's face, bathed in sunlight, staring down at her with a smile of
satisfaction.

"There!
By tonight your unwanted appendage will wash away in a flow of your normal
menstrual cycle. You will be forever rid of that noxious tumour that threatens
your sanity. Aren't you relieved?"

Unable
to speak, Olivia turned her head to the wall and shut her eyes tight. What had
she done? Dear God,
what had she done...?
Wilfully she had destroyed the
only part of himself Jai had ever given her! Flesh of his flesh, blood of his
blood—whatever little love he had had for her, even that was gone. Sick at
heart, Olivia clasped the locket tightly within a palm, kissed it and started to
weep softly.

Bending
over her, Kinjal peered closely into her face. "Tears?" she exclaimed
in some surprise. "Only of relief, I hope?" When Olivia did not reply
but only drew up her legs beneath her chin and buried her face in her sheet,
Kinjal pinched her cheeks
between her fingers and forced Olivia to look at her. "I suspect that you
are unhappy, my dear—can it be that you regret yesterday's decision? Come on,
Olivia, tell me truly, do you?"

"What
does it matter now?" Olivia turned her face away again. "It's
finished, isn't it? Done with."

"But
isn't that what you wanted?" The voice, usually so soft, so gentle, was
harsh. "You are crying over spilt milk, Olivia. Something created in love
has been extinguished in anger. What should have been considered profoundly as
a matter of life and death has been subjected to reckless whim. I cannot undo
what has been done, Olivia. You will have to live with it now."

"I
know, oh I
know!"
Wounded by the verbal lashing, Olivia dug her
face into her pillow and exploded into tears. "If you despise me now, I
accept that, for I despise myself. I too am not fit to live ..."

This
time Kinjal offered no sympathy, no words of comfort. Instead she sat in grim
silence listening to Olivia's self-abuse with impassivity. It was only after
the storm of tears had spent itself and Olivia once more lay submerged in her
silent wretchedness that Kinjal chose to speak. "You do still have love
left for Jai, haven't you?"

A
spasm ripped through Olivia's body. "How can I not, Kinjal?" she
cried, "How can I
not?
He is part of me, in me, all around me
everywhere, all the time. And when he is not, it will be because I too am dead
like his child that I have slaughtered so callously."

Kinjal
changed position to sit down on the bed, and her tone softened. "You still
love Jai enough to want to bear his child?" Olivia did not answer but her
stricken expression was response enough. "But is your love adequate to
bear also the ignominy of bearing the bastard of a bastard?"

Olivia
recoiled at the words, recognising them as her own.
"I
don't know,
I don't know ..." Dropping her face into her palms, she sat up and rocked
back and forth.

"But
then, you must find out, my dear, and soon! Jai has treated you abominably. Can
you be big enough to not only bear his child but also to love and cherish it
when you cannot forgive Jai's betrayal of you?"

Goaded
into response, Olivia flared. "I promised to tolerate anything Jai chose
to be, I gave him my word. I wish to God I could truly blame him, but in all
honesty I can't. He is what he is; he never pretended otherwise. Yes, I can be
big enough to love his child if only because as much as it is possible for Jai
to love
any woman, that night he did love me . . ." Her voice broke; she could
tear herself apart no more.

Without
another word, Kinjal rose and took her into her arms to hug her, her own throat
tight. "Yes. In his own strange way, Jai did return your love. This much I
am certain of. But Jai is unlike other men. He is a creature of circumstance;
like the wind, like running water, he cannot be possessed. Fulfil that promise
you made to him that night;
trust
him. However galling, have faith.
Wherever you are, some day he will come to you. This much belief I have in a
man I have called my brother."

"And
in the meanwhile," Olivia asked with scathing sarcasm, "what is it
that I do with my own life?"

"Wait,"
Kinjal said quietly. "And think. However much you might dislike the word,
you are resourceful. I have faith in you, too; a solution will appear."

"It
is too late now for votes of confidence, Kinjal!" She felt another surge
of bitterness and her face crumpled. "All that remains for me now is to
wither away like that noxious tumour. I deserve no better."

Under
her breath, Kinjal laughed. "It is not too late. You silly, headstrong
girl—did you really believe that I would permit you to make such a rash
decision without protest?" Gently, she kissed Olivia on the forehead.
"My dear friend, what I put you through was merely an absurd charade
devised to frighten you into your senses again. I wanted only to test the
strength of your decision, and I'm happy, so happy, that I did." She
pointed to the scattered remains of the old woman's ministrations. "What
she gave you was only a harmless mixture to make you sleep. Rest assured, my dear
confused American hothead, what is within your womb remains safe and secure for
the present."

Dumbstruck,
Olivia could only stare.

Once
more Kinjal became grave. "The old woman says we still have time on our
side. During that time, think well and dispassionately and thoroughly, Olivia.
I know that it is a cleft stick that you ride; either way your decision will
bring torment." Placing a palm on Olivia's stomach, she stroked it.
"What lives in here is still no larger than a mango seed. But it grows by
the day, by the hour, each time you take a breath. After four weeks it will no
longer be safe to remove. Whichever path you choose, there will be pain—but
either way I want you to know that you will have my support and help." For
the first time, the Maharani's eyes filled with tears. "If you are still
in India, I will wait to hear
from you. If not, I will miss you with all my heart
and pray that God will always watch over you in your travails."

Olivia
was too overwhelmed to speak.

Her
visit to Kirtinagar, accepted as one of farewell, raised no questions at home,
which was a relief. But now, with time running out, Olivia could no longer
postpone that which she never wanted to do again—
think.
She had not only
to think, she had to calculate and consider, balance and weigh, assess and
examine. Make decisions. Momentarily lulled into hibernation, her conscience
once more became a prowling menace that refused to be silenced. At these the
most vital cross-roads of her life, her conscience taunted and teased and tossed
down a gauntlet it challenged her to ignore. And in her nostrils, whichever way
she turned, she smelled only defeat.

Be
true to yourself.

Her
father's advice now sounded hollow, irrelevant. She no longer knew who she was.
That "true self" her father held so dear seemed forever obscured. All
night Olivia paced, trying hard to gouge out from her memory the sight of her
aunt on the bathroom floor, her lacerated wrists gushing blood like a fountain.
There was still some blood on the hemline of her own dress, which she had not
been able to wash out, and when she had touched her aunt more blood had smeared
her palms. Angrily, Olivia brushed aside sentiment in an effort to reduce her
options into terms of cut and dried reality. She could return to Kinjal during
the month and overnight flush away that loved-hated mango seed that was at the
core of her misfortunes. Or she could stay on in India and bear her child
despite the scandal, despite the slings and arrows of an unforgiving society.
Or she could flout the pernicious demands of her conscience to march up that
gangplank next Wednesday, and to hell with all other problems!

Two
other options remained. She could throw herself into the Hooghly and thus find
instant salvation. No more thought, no more pain, no more decision making!
This, of all her options, was to Olivia the most tempting, the simplest, the
easiest. But then—what would that do to her father? She would destroy herself
yes, but she would also destroy him, not only because he had lost her but
because she had died a coward.

There
was only one choice left. Ironically, it was the option that repulsed her the
most. But it was the one that presented the fewest complications. It too called
for destruction, but only her own. It was a straw, the final one, but the sole
straw within her reach. If it saved her from drowning it also condemned her to
a living death. On the other hand, what was her life worth anyway?

All
night long Olivia paced, thinking, thinking, thinking! By dawn, with her hated
resourcefulness stretched to its limit and every consideration exploited to the
full, she arrived at a decision. It was a decision that was like a cyclonic
gust of wind, extinguishing her spirit and withering away her heart. But it was
the only decision that was available to her.

And
with the coming of that decision Olivia felt the first stirrings of an emotion
she would have considered impossible only a few weeks ago. It was hate for Jai
Raventhorne.

Freddie
Birkhurst was stunned, so much so that he could not speak. For a moment Olivia
thought he might faint.

"I
mean it, Freddie," she repeated. "If you still want me for a wife, I
accept your offer."

It
was early morning. The haze had not yet lifted off the river. They sat in the
same clearing in the Botanical Gardens where, ironically, Freddie had stammered
out his proposal. Now, pressing unsteady fingers to his eyes as if to dispel a
dream, he gulped and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down like a child's yo-yo.
"My God . . .," he breathed finally, "I can't believe it, it
can't be true . . .!"

"It
is true." Olivia's amber eyes, vacant and lifeless, stared nowhere in
particular. "Does your offer still hold good, Freddie?"

He
sprang up, galvanised. "Of course it still holds good! Dammit, what kind
of a cad do you take me to be?" He bristled with hurt.

"In
that case," evading his arms, she moved away, "would you agree to an
early marriage?"