Ryman, Rebecca (68 page)

Olivia
wanted to cry. Was he trying to convince her—or himself?

As
socially desirable to the "Mulls" as to the "Ditchers," the
Birkhurst newlyweds were suitably lionised by Madras society. At the game that
afternoon, Olivia made a concerted effort for Freddie's sake to be sociable,
although she was bored to tears. The women fussed and flattered but she knew
inwardly that they had already dubbed her a gold-digging hussy who had used her
American forwardness to snare the Birkhurst heir. The men, as usual, were more
forgiving; indeed, they seemed enchanted by the new Mrs. Birkhurst's charm and
intelligence. She was, they decided privately behind the backs of their wives
and daughters, far too good for that idiot Birkhurst. But then they asked each
other, come to think of it who wasn't?

Generously
unconcerned that his lovely wife outshone him in company, Freddie rejoiced in
her success. "You know, I still can't believe it!" he whispered to
her during the carriage ride back. "I keep thinking you'll turn back into
a pumpkin or something at midnight and fade away."

"No,
I won't fade away, Freddie dear," Olivia responded
with caustic
humour, "but yes, I certainly am turning into a pumpkin!"

He
coloured and fell silent. If there was one topic that made him visibly
uncomfortable, it was her pregnancy.

Their
first
burra khana
that evening turned out to be an unqualified success.
Olivia had taken endless trouble over the buffet menu and in some odd way it
gave her pleasure to do so. She had laden the table with a considerable variety
of well-prepared food and, with grave apprehensions, had also ordered an
extravagant quantity of beer and liquor. Whatever her qualms, she felt she
could not shame Freddie before his friends by appearing niggardly. She went out
of her way to make the raucous polo crowd welcome but, since there were no
ladies in the party, retired to her room early. As the hours ticked by and the
jollifications became noisier and more uninhibited, she started to fill with
dread. With enough alcohol on the premises to launch a ship, what would be
Freddie's condition when the party eventually concluded?

It
wasn't until four in the morning that he finally crept into the bedroom. Shaken
out of her restless doze, Olivia stiffened. He leaned over her quietly and
kissed her on the forehead. As discreetly as she could, Olivia sniffed at the
air around him. He chuckled. "Sniff away, dear wife, sniff away to your
heart's content—you won't sniff a whiff tonight, not one damned
whiff!"
Chortling proudly, he opened his mouth wide and panted rapidly for her
benefit.

With
a small cry, Olivia sat up. "Oh, Freddie—you didn't drink at all this
evening?"

"Not
a sip, not one blasted swallow! See, my love? Tonight I smell of roses. Huge,
horrible, god-rotting roses." He groaned.

"Oh,
Freddie dear . . .!" It was all Olivia could say in her relief.
Impulsively, she pulled down his head and kissed him.

Slowly,
his eyes filled with tears. "You know, that is the first time, the very
first time, you've kissed me of your own volition."

Gritting
her teeth, she forced herself to kiss him again. "For keeping your promise
you deserve more, much more. If it were within my power to give it, I would
gladly."

"Whatever
you give, my sweet, is gratefully accepted," he breathed thickly. "I
want nothing more." Slipping into bed beside her, he fell asleep with his
head on her shoulder.

But
someday you will. . .

If
there was anything Olivia found entrancing in Madras, it
was the beach
along which their bungalow stood. She had not been by the sea since she had
left California. Now, walking along the white sands barefooted every morning,
she felt achingly close to home, once more overwhelmed with nostalgia. She
would never see her beloved country again, never. She was caught in a trap,
this silken trap that was India. She would never be free again. Fanned by the
saltiness of the sea breezes, she walked miles each day fluttering helplessly
within her solitary cage of despair and loneliness. The endless expanses of the
ocean brought with them other heartaches; it was somewhere on this very water
that Jai Raventhorne sailed on his
Ganga.

She
forced herself to abandon the thought and harden. The involuntary weakness of
her wedding night would cripple her mental processes no more; with each passing
day, her hate for Jai Raventhorne was turning stronger. She would make it
sustain her, nourish her. She would not allow it to lapse again.

The
dreaded summons for Olivia came three days after their return from Madras.

In
their absence, an independent apartment had been fashioned for them on the
first floor of the Birkhurst mansion on the Esplanade. It had two connecting
bedroom suites, a sitting-room and dining-room, a study, a pantry and a
scullery. If the Templewoods lived in style, the luxury of the Birkhurst home
spoke of far greater wealth and taste for good living. In its Gobelin
tapestries, its scintillating crystal chandeliers, Belgian gilt mirrors,
Meissen and Ming porcelain, clocks, oil paintings, French furniture with
brocade upholstery and its series of well-stocked strong-rooms lay the
accumulated treasure of family money as well as that earned through trading
endeavours in India. The triple-storied house also boasted gun and games rooms,
a music room, a library, a formal study, reception-rooms of which one was a
full-sized ballroom with a dais for orchestra, guest suites, a portrait gallery
and several porticoed verandahs opening out onto flawless gardens maintained by
an army of gardeners. Behind the vegetable gardens were the stables,
coach-houses, kitchens, store-rooms and servants' quarters and compound. Lady
Birkhurst's apartment, to which Olivia had now been summoned, was on the ground
floor adjoining the glass-roofed arboretum.

Olivia
was awed by the splendour of the manse, more so
since, upon her return, her
mother-in-law had consigned to her charge the hundreds of neatly labelled keys
of the household. In the tacit abdication of authority were symbolised Olivia's
new role as mistress of the house and the expectation that it would be
discharged with responsibility.

"I
think, my dear, that it is time for our private little t
ête-à-tête."
Lady Bridget sat in the sunny morning-room in which she spent much of her day.
"You and I have promised to be frank with each other, have we not?"

Olivia
moistened her lips and nodded.

"Then
you must now tell me the true reason why you suddenly decided to accept my son
for a husband." The grim solemnity of the occasion was such that a bowl of
bonbons before Lady Birkhurst lay untouched. "I was given to understand
that you were . . . romantically inclined towards some other person."

"Yes."
She swallowed hard.

"The
attachment did not develop as you had hoped?"

This
time Olivia smiled inadvertently. How had she hoped the attachment to
"develop"? "No." Her chin rose a fraction. "I do not
love Freddie. He is aware of that. But then, love was not one of your
conditions, was it? You wanted someone who would accept him for what he is, to
forgive his excesses and to take care of him well. I think I fulfil all these
conditions."

Lady
Birkhurst nodded. "Yes. I did mean every word I said, Olivia. My opinion
of you as the perfect wife for my son has not changed an iota, nor will it no
matter what you reveal to me. You are honest and honourable and you have
courage. Also, the very fact that Freddie no longer drinks is a testimony to
your success as his wife. What Freddie does with his soul is God's business. As
a mother, I am interested only in ensuring his physical salvation, and in this
my gratitude to you is immense. But, whatever your virtues, Olivia," her
tone sharpened, "you are not a crusader. It is not for my son's benefit
that you have opted to become his wife. I now want the real reason, Olivia—the
truth."

Against
her ribs Olivia's heart thudded compulsively and the sweat on her clasped palms
felt cold. But, in a way, it was almost a relief to be rid of at least one
pretence. "I am pregnant. The child is not Freddie's."

With
a sharp sibilance Lady Birkhurst sucked in her breath. The expression on her
face, however, changed only inasmuch as her beady eyes became even more alert.
For a while she sat immobile; then she sighed.

"Freddie
knows the truth, naturally," Olivia proceeded with
as much
calmness as she could muster. "There was never any question of not telling
him. I know that few men, if any, would have accepted me as I am. My debt to
Freddie is not one I can ever repay."

All
of a sudden, Lady Birkhurst laughed. "I had assured you that as Freddie's
wife you would have a certain moral. . . independence. I had not thought that
you would have taken my words
quite
so literally or, indeed, with such
dispatch!" Just as suddenly she sobered. "Why didn't you tell me
about your condition earlier?"

It
was Olivia's turn for amusement. "If I had, would you have allowed the
marriage at all?"

"No.
I would have certainly tried to dissuade my son from exercising his gallantry
with such careless bravado! But not for the reasons you might think,
Olivia." Heavily she sat back. "I am a woman of the world. Nothing
shocks me anymore. My regard for you is no less because you have, perhaps,
loved unwisely and consorted with a man not your husband. Believe me, I've seen
worse." She snorted. "My goodness, half the crowned heads of Europe
would be hard pressed to name their real fathers! No, Olivia, my objections are
purely pragmatic. You see, your marriage to my son rather
muddies
the
future for us." Her eyes narrowed. "Who is the father of your
child?"

Olivia's
chin firmed. "I'm sorry, that I am not prepared to reveal. I have told
Freddie that once my baby is born, if he so wishes I will go away. Whatever
waivers or legal documents need to be signed to renounce all claims to money and
title I will sign willingly. There will be no question of inheritance."

In
Lady Birkhurst's spontaneous chuckle there was humour. "Oh dear, how
dreadfully naive you Americans are! Do you really think that is
all
there
is to the matter? If your child is a male, he will certainly stand to inherit
the title."

"But
I do not want any part of all that!" Olivia cried. "You are free to
disinherit, disclaim, declare dead both me and my child if you wish. All I want
for the present is for my child to be born with a name."

"You
are still missing the point, Olivia," Lady Birkhurst sighed. "In any
case, English titles cannot be renounced just because someone feels like it.
The point I am trying to make is that unless you die, Freddie cannot marry
again, which means that the direct Birkhurst line would die with him." For
the first time she showed signs of agitation. "That is unthinkable! The
next incumbent would be a loathsome cousin with pigeon-toes and bad
breath whose
wife is too stupid to be an English barmaid let alone an English baroness! To
see them installed at Farrowsham would be an abomination to me, even in my
grave."

Overwhelmed
by these complexities to which she had not given any thought at all, Olivia
looked bewildered. "But then ... what is to be done? Is there a
solution?"

Lady
Birkhurst pyramided her fingers and sank her several chins into her chest.
"Yes, there is a solution. I have no objections to your child bearing our
name for the present. Later on, we can arrange for him—if it is a male—to
disappear and be declared dead. Fortunately, there is enough corruption in
England to manage that somehow. If your child is a female the matter becomes
much easier. Do I make myself clear?" Olivia nodded and the baroness's
expression changed perceptibly. "Now we come to the crux.
Whatever
the
sex of the child you bear, you will have to also produce a male child from
Freddie's loins to preserve the direct line of his family."

The
bottom seemed to fall out of Olivia's world at this thunderbolt. She could only
stare at her mother-in-law's determined face in appalled disbelief. But of
course Lady Birkhurst was serious. It was an aspect of the matter that had not
even occurred to Olivia. In resolving her dilemma, she had thought to satisfy
only her own need.