Ryman, Rebecca (76 page)

After
that day Freddie never returned home sober. Nor did he ever go up again to see
Amos.

Sublimely
unaware of the eye of the storm into which he had been born, Amos flourished.
Happily, the world and its sorrows were not yet upon him, his limited universe
beginning and ending with his four hourly pleasures at his mother's breast.
Full of energy and fierce of temper when crossed, Amos continued to grow bigger
and more delightful with each passing day. His large grey eyes, alive with
curiosity, were never still; when amused, his laughter rang out with lusty
vigour to fill the cavernous Birkhurst mansion with good cheer. For Olivia, he
was the focus of her existence, her very reason for it. He was flesh of her
flesh, her life's blood, her everything.

"He
gets his unusual colouring from my Irish grandmother," Olivia explained to
Mary Ling. "She too had mother-of-pearl eyes and ebony hair—isn't that
something?"

With
time the glib lies became easier, except that Mary Ling was somewhat more
gullible than the daily stream of callers who came bearing gifts and piercing,
inquisitive glances. But this situation too Olivia resolved with the same
resourcefulness (deviousness!) that was now second nature to her. Awake, Amos
was not presented for inspection under the excuse of tetchiness or stomach
disorder; when asleep, he was shown off from a safe distance, his hair secured
under a close-fitting bonnet. If a tendril or two did manage to escape, the
Irish grandmother never failed to come in handy. On the whole the charade came
off well enough. It was only when Dr. Humphries made his unavoidable
professional call that Olivia panicked and did something that later disgusted
her. She drugged Amos with a tiny lick of opium. "Hmmm! Healthy little
blighter, isn't he?" was the doctor's sole comment as he threw a few perfunctory
glances at the bonneted child, apparently satisfied. Olivia prayed fervently
that Amos would never need Dr. Humphries in an unguarded emergency.

She
despised herself for her shoddy little subterfuges, appalled at the moral
weakness that forced her to indulge in them. But
then, with poor Freddie's
reputation hanging by a thread anyway, she knew that she dared not experiment
with whatever radical ideas she might have once had. And now with Arvind
Singh's unexpected warning striking further terror in her heart, bravado was
out of the question.

Olivia's
most frequent and most welcome visitor was, of course, Arthur Ransome,
delighted when asked to be Amos's godfather. "Bless my soul!" he
exclaimed the first time he saw the child. "Never thought he would be
quite so small!"

"Babies
usually are, Uncle Arthur." Retrieving Amos with a laugh, she was vastly
relieved that he, who had known Raventhorne so well, had noticed nothing. The
suspense, however, with which she had awaited her uncle's comments as he had
peered and poked at her sleeping son (once more dosed with opium and securely
bonneted despite Olivia's revulsion of the ploy) had been acute.
Notwithstanding his air of vagueness, there were times when Sir Joshua's
perceptions seemed alarmingly lucid. But his interest in Amos was mercifully
minimal and his observation offhand. "Very fine, very fine. Bridget will
be delighted," was all he said.

It
was from Ransome that Olivia heard of Freddie's renewed acquaintanceship with
the Golden Hind. The news was distressing but hardly a surprise; Freddie's
daily drunkenness, his ghastly pallor and his long absences from home each day
were testimony enough. Genuinely concerned, Olivia tackled him firmly one
morning. "You promised me you wouldn't, Freddie, you gave me your
word
..."

He
groaned and cradled his head. "It's too early, dash it, for—"

"It's
not too early. It's almost noon. In any case, this is the only time I can see
you during the day." She softened her tone. "Freddie, what are you
trying to do to yourself—to us?"

"I
am trying to forget something I need
not
to remember!" He
emphasized each word as if speaking to a backward child.

Olivia
stared, attempting to equate him with the man he once was and twisting with
familiar angst. "You need only to accept, Freddie," she said, again
miserable, "to trust, to believe me and
in
me."

He
shrugged. "I cannot force myself to accept or trust or whatever, any more
than you can force yourself to love." He held his head again and winced.
"I told you it was too early for an argument! I think I'll go back to
bed." He walked unsteadily out of the room.

Whatever
her other considerations, Olivia's alarm was primarily
for Freddie's
health. It was already fragile and she had made a promise to his mother, a
promise that she was being prevented from keeping. In her anxiety Olivia spoke
to Peter Barstow. It was a mistake.

"Stop
old Fred hitting the juice?" he drawled, even more bored and supercilious
than before. "My dear Olivia, that's the duty of a loving wife! Now, if he
were getting at home what he gets in abundance at the Behind, he wouldn't have
the
need
to drink, would he?" His thin smile was insultingly
suggestive.

She
wanted to slap his grinning mouth but, with surprising control, desisted.
"Get out!" she snapped instead, cold with disgust. "I think you
must be the most despicable man I have ever known."

"Despicable
but honest, you'll grant me that at least." He again wore that shrewd,
speculative look Olivia knew and hated. "You're too intelligent to have
married Freddie for love, Olivia, too independent to have married for money,
and not snobbish enough to have married for a title." He cocked his head
to a side and smiled. "So, why
did
you marry Freddie? You know,
I've been wondering about that a good deal ..."

Her
heart gave a lurch of alarm; she could no longer dismiss these barbed
innuendoes with the contempt they deserved. Not after Arvind Singh's warning.
If Peter Barstow had been wondering, perhaps so had others.
Would
Raventhorne . . .?

"Yes,
yes," Sir Joshua muttered testily, "of course you must have the
christening here. Bridget will be livid if you don't."

It
was in answer to a question Olivia had asked several days ago. "Thank you,
Uncle Josh. I. . . we've asked Uncle Arthur to be Amos's godfather."

"That's
all he's good for now, since he won't get off his butt and go to Canton!"
He scowled, lost again in the mists of his mind. "It is this fellow
Birkhurst you said you were marrying, isn't it?"

"Yes,
Uncle Josh."

"And
it's his mother who grazes like a cow in pasture, I believe?"

She
had to smile. "Yes, Uncle Josh."

"And
Birkhurst himself tends to pass out in strange gardens?"

"Sometimes,
Uncle Josh."

He
looked very grave. "Olivia, are you
sure
you know what you are
doing?"

"No,
Uncle Josh," she said sadly, "I'm not sure that I do."

"Well,
if I've told Bridget once, I've told her a dozen times— little Estelle goes to
boarding-school over my dead body. And if that imbecile woman with bad teeth
and dandruff isn't the nanny Est—" Waggling a stern finger in the air, he
shuffled off muttering to himself.

Following
with her eyes the bent, carpet-slippered body of this caricature of a man as he
floated away in his lonely bubble, Olivia filled with rage. Estelle had been
gone almost a year—and still not a word from her to the doting father she had
turned into a travesty! Ensconced in that luxurious London residence with her
indulgent paramour, was she too besotted to spare even a thought for her aging,
ailing parent? Corroding with wrath—a wrath she seldom gave free rein to
now—Olivia strode into the pantry to arrange a light luncheon for her poor
uncle—a quarter boiled egg, some buttered toast and Babulal's much favoured jam
roly-poly. Seething within, she laid out a neat tray while giving brisk orders
to the ever-attentive Rehman. The modest meal ready, she picked up the tray and
went into the dining-room to collect the cruet stand from the table.

A
fine layer of dust covered all the surfaces in this elegant room that had once
seen so many splendid
burra khanas,
so much gaiety. There were cobwebs
in every corner, the majestic chandelier no longer glittered and the large oil
paintings on the walls hung awry under coatings of dull grime. Leaving the tray
on the table, Olivia picked up a feather duster as a natural reflex and brushed
off a pile of stray fluff from the cushion of a chair. Then, balancing on a
stool, she straightened all the pictures on the walls. In the alcove, away from
the other paintings, hung the portrait of the haughty and perpetually
disapproving Lady Stella Templewood. It looked even more woebegone than the
rest. In deference to her uncle's sentiments, Olivia picked up a dusting cloth
and carefully wiped the surface of the painting, which had obviously not been
cleaned in years. Standing on the stool, for the first time Olivia found
herself at eye level with the imperious face of Sir Joshua's mother. She
frowned and observed the face closely. Her hand stilled; for a long moment she
remained entirely motionless, staring.

Then,
one by one, a million goose pimples started to erupt over her body; her skin
chilled. The blood in her face drained, leaving it deathly. Within her grew a
vast silence; her heart faltered,
then leapt, then stopped altogether. In
a daze she somehow stumbled down from her perch, unaware that she had done so.
In order not to faint, she clutched the back of a chair, too stunned to think
of sitting down. She did not notice when Rehman retrieved the tray and carried
it out of the dining-room into Sir Joshua's study. She forgot that she had
promised to sit with him while he ate. She forgot everything.

Except
for that portrait. And the shock of what the dead had just revealed to her.

But
when Olivia reached home, even that shock was wiped clear from her mind; Willie
Donaldson awaited with grave news. A messenger had disembarked from an English
vessel not an hour ago with word that Lord Birkhurst had passed away at his
home in Suffolk. Freddie had been summoned home by his mother with the utmost
urgency to take charge of his estate and its administration. The news, vital in
all its implications, was already three months old.

An
escape!

Keeping
her sudden hope securely anchored behind a solemn front in view of Donaldson's
grief at having lost a friend, mentor and employer, Olivia set about doing what
Donaldson had tearfully requested, help him in locating Freddie. Unaware of his
father's death, Freddie had not been found in any of his usual haunts or with
any of his regular cronies. Quickly Olivia scribbled an address on a slip of
paper; it was of her husband's most recent doxy on Armenian Street. Apart from
a dark flush, Donaldson showed no reaction as he hurried away to do what was
needed. Half an hour later he returned bearing Freddie in his carriage with all
the blinds discreetly lowered. Snoring blissfully in his intoxicated stupor,
Freddie was not to know until the following morning that three months ago he
had become Baron Birkhurst of Farrowsham, eighth holder of the title, and one
of the wealthiest men in Britain.