Ryman, Rebecca (8 page)

"I
haven't left him anywhere," Olivia replied crossly. "I haven't seen
him myself in quite a while." Her aunt's knowing smile told her she was
not to be believed, which made her more cross. She turned quickly to the young
man hovering diligently behind her. "Oh, Mr. Pringle,
do
forgive me for
having kept you waiting and
do
tell me what you had started to about
your encounter with the thuggees ..." Honour bound to make reparation for
her lapse of courtesy, Olivia surrendered herself to the rhythm of a polka
being strummed more energetically than tunefully by the small string ensemble
hired for the occasion by the Pennworthys.

Jai
Raventhorne.

It
was impossible to cast aside the extraordinary encounter by the river or the
man who had dominated it. Over the buffet supper, served deplorably late as
predicted, Olivia listened only absently to the sotto voce flirtatious banter
between Estelle and John on either side of her. Jai Raventhorne certainly was
an unusual name, neither Anglo-Saxon nor Indian. Who—and what—was he? For a
European (which he had strongly denied being), his manner was much too
uncivilised, his liberties far too many. On the other hand, what Indian would
have the courage to bandy words quite so brazenly with a white woman in
Calcutta's segregated society? Whichever way she considered Jai Raventhorne, he
was a misfit with no familiar slot in which to be placed. As for his prying
into her life, it showed a despicable lack
of form, an excessive rudeness that she
had already been subjected to once this evening. But whereas Peter Barstow was
an easily forgettable dandy with a wholly unjustified conceit, this man could
not be dismissed quite so lightly. Olivia had to concede, however grudgingly,
that whoever or whatever Jai Raventhorne might be, she was finding it difficult
to shake him out of her thoughts.

"Another
spoonful, perhaps, Miss O'Rourke?" John Sturges was looking at her with a
hand poised over a dish of prawn curry that a bearer presented.

Olivia
shook her head and smiled. "I don't think I could, Captain Sturges,
delicious as it is."

He
doused his own fluffy rice and Estelle's cheerfully. "I should imagine our
curries
are
too
spicy for you. They're not everybody's cup of tea, if you will forgive a
shockingly mixed metaphor."

Olivia
laughed.
"I
enjoy spiced food. Because of the Mexicans, we are well
used to it at home. Estelle tells me you leave for home shortly on furlough.
Will you be away long?"

"The
usual. A year or more. When I return I hope to persuade my parents to accompany
me. My father used to be in the Civil Service in Peshawar." He threw a
meaningful glance at Estelle, who promptly blushed. It was definitely a hopeful
omen.

Olivia
liked John Sturges immensely. He was a sober Yorkshireman, matter of fact and
endowed with an abundance of both common sense and a lively taste for humour.
Because he was so eminently sane, he seemed a perfect balance for Estelle's
giddiness. Olivia hoped fervently that he would make known his intentions
towards her cousin soon. Not only were they well suited in every way but one
wedding in the family might well divert her aunt's attention from trying to
force another.

Having
spent much of the evening in the billiards room with his host, Clarence
Pennworthy—manager of the merchant bank with which Templewood and Ransome did
business—Sir Joshua suddenly materialized in their midst. "And where might
your worthy escort of the evening be, my dear?" he asked Olivia with a
heartiness she found rather overdone.

"I
have no idea," she answered frostily. Why the
hell
did everyone
think she was Freddie Birkhurst's keeper!

"Not
taking his escorting duties seriously enough, eh?" he teased, chuckling at
her unconcealed chagrin. "Well, don't tell your aunt you've been careless
enough to lose him, will you?"

"Lose
who, or is it
whom?"
Betty
Pennworthy, a vague, twittering
woman with perpetually untidy hair that looked like
a nest and gave her the air of a sparrow, appeared, casting quick glances at
everyone's plates.

"Young
Freddie. Haven't seen him all evening."

"Nor
likely to, Josh," his hostess said sternly with a firm grip on his arm,
"if all you men do is closet yourselves in corners talking politics and
money. If I hear another
word
about that wretched Afghan problem, I
swear I shall have hysterics. Clarence?" she issued a command to her
husband, who was engaged in hot argument with a portly gent with a walrus
moustache. "I wish you would persuade your guests to start eating, dear,
before the dinner turns stone cold and absolutely
in
edible!"

"In
a moment, pet," her husband responded impatiently. "Another beer,
Josh?" Wiping speckles of froth from his whiskers, Sir Joshua patted Betty
Pennworthy on the hand absently and both men walked off, waving their empty
tankards in the direction of a bearer.

It
was while the pudding, a rather flattened caramel custard, was being passed
around and Olivia had resignedly joined her aunt's circle for a dutiful
discussion on heat boils and the iniquities of native servants that a diversion
occurred to put an untimely end to the evening jollifications. Freddie
Birkhurst was discovered in the garden under a croton bush, drunk and out cold.
In the commotion that ensued, with Dr. Humphries bellowing for smelling-salts,
American ice and hot tea, the party inevitably disintegrated, with the caramel
custard forgotten by everyone except Estelle, who, under cover of confusion,
gave herself several generous servings. Escorted by Lady Bridget, Mrs. Humphries,
and one or two others, Betty Pennworthy repaired to her bedroom to have her
vapours in comfort and, one by one or in couples and families, the guests
started to discreetly go home.

The
ride back in the Templewood carriage was conducted mostly in grim silence.
"If he can't hold his liquor, the silly ass has no right to drink!"
Sir Joshua made no bones about his disgust.

Behind
a lace hanky, Lady Bridget sniffed. "I can't see what the fuss is all
about," she murmured, bravely making the best of her own mortification.
"Gentlemen do occasionally go one over the eight—
you
should know that
as well as anyone, Josh." Pointedly, she sniffed again.

"One
over the eight?
Twenty-eight
more
likely!"

Only
Estelle dared to giggle. "He has much more, Susan Bradshaw says her
brother tells her, at the Golden Behind
where—" Too late, she broke off
and clamped a hand to her mouth.

There
was a moment's ominous silence. Then, in a voice hushed with anger, Sir Joshua
asked, "And what may you know of the Golden Behind, my lass?"

Estelle
gulped. "I'm only s-saying what everybody s-says, Papa—"

"No
daughter of mine is
every
body!"
her
father roared. "My daughter is—or is expected to be—a
lady,
not a
crude-tongued gutter-snipe, is that clear, Estelle?"

"Y-yes,
Papa."

"And
if this is the language you share with your friends, I must say I approve of
your mother's reservations, is that clear too?" Lips trembling at her
father's rare display of temper against her, Estelle nodded. "Very well,
we will say no more, but such language will not be used in our presence again
or, indeed, anywhere. Understood?" For the third time Estelle nodded, then
sank back in her corner to sulk in silence.

Olivia
said nothing but, privately, considered the reprimand overblown. The Golden
Hind, to give its seldom-used proper name, was a "club" of dubious
reputation in Lal Bazaar patronised by a strictly male clientele. The name by
which it was universally known gave ample indication of the pleasures it
offered its members. Olivia could see no reason why a whorehouse should need a
euphemism, but she doubted if anyone in Calcutta would have agreed with her.

The
journey back was completed with no more talk.

It
was not until later that night when they were on the landing preparatory to
withdrawing into their respective bedrooms that Olivia suddenly recalled the
cryptic message she had been asked to deliver to her aunt and uncle. Was it,
she wondered, worth delivering at all? She still smarted under the onslaught of
the objectionable Mr. Raventhorne but then she shrugged to herself. Why not?
The few words were of no great consequence one way or the other.

"I
almost forgot to tell you, Uncle Josh," she began casually, "that I
happened to go out on the embankment briefly this evening and I met someone who
knows you."

"Oh?"

"He
asked me to convey to you and Aunt Bridget his regards. He said his name was
Jai Raventhorne."

As
Olivia pronounced the final two words, something strange started to happen.
Everyone froze into a sort of grotesque
tableau. Lady Bridget's hand, half way
up to the sconce to extinguish the wall lamp, remained suspended; Sir Joshua's
right leg, partially through the doorway to the master bedroom, halted in
mid-air, his eyes wide and still. About to say something, Estelle had her mouth
open and it stayed so, her saucer eyes glazed with horror. Uncomprehending of
what was occurring around her, Olivia stared at each in bewilderment, the
residue of whatever else she was about to add forgotten in her throat.

The
silence was long and noticeably tense. Lady Bridget was the first to move. She
sighed and her arm dropped to her side. Without saying anything she sank slowly
to the floor in a swoon.

"But
what did I
say,
Estelle?
What in heaven's name was it that I said
wrong?"

Olivia
and her cousin were, at last, by themselves in the privacy of Estelle's
bedroom. Lady Bridget had been carried to her bed, revived with whiffs of
ammonia and finally put to sleep with a dose of her usual draught. Apart from
what was strictly necessary, there had been no exchanges among them. Not even
Sir Joshua, silent and stern faced, had offered any explanations or, indeed,
recriminations. The very lack of them and the continuous leaden silences were
to Olivia intolerable. She was deeply distressed.

Estelle
locked the door behind them. "You should not have mentioned that
name," she whispered severely, her own face pale. "It is not
permitted in this house, not that you could have known that."

"But
why?" Olivia's bewilderment remained. "What has he done, this . . .
this Raventhorne?" Unconsciously, she followed Estelle's example and
lowered her own voice.

"
I
don't know, nobody tells me anything." With an aggrieved sigh, Estelle
reached under her bed to pull out a biscuit tin. "All I know is that
everyone hates him."

"There
has to be a reason," Olivia persisted. "What has he done to deserve
such universal hate? Is it something to do with business?"

"I
suppose so." She started to munch on a ginger biscuit. "They say he's
unprincipled and unscrupulous and a blackguard without morals. Besides, he
hates us too."

"Us?"

"The
English. They also say he's plotting to turn us out of India." She laughed
scornfully. "You see? He's mad as well."

Olivia
digested the information thoughtfully. "Then he is not . . .
English?"

"Good
Lord, no!" Estelle looked horrified. "He's
Eurasian.
If he
were
English he'd
have a good bit more sense." She picked up a second biscuit and, with a
sly glance at the door, lowered her voice further. "What did you talk
about with him? Anything interesting?"

However
fond Olivia had become of her cousin, she certainly wasn't fool enough to
answer that truthfully! With her penchant for avid gossip, Estelle kept nothing
to herself for more than five seconds. "Oh, this and that. Nothing very
much. Tell me, what is his background? I mean, what is it that he does in
business?"

Estelle
shrugged. "No one knows much about his background, not even Mrs.
Drummond—and there's precious little that misses her!" She looked briefly
envious. "He has this tea business, like Papa. And he has his own ships,
which are better than everyone else's tea wagons. That's
one
reason for
hating him."

Well,
that made sense considering the fierce rivalries in the city. What didn't make
sense was why, not being a European, he chose to live in the White Town, especially
in view of his avowed contempt for the English. "And the other
reasons?"

Pleased
at suddenly being considered the repository of useful information, Estelle
preened herself. "Well, Mrs. Drummond says he grows his own teas in Assam
and, you see, we
can't.
We
have to get ours all the way from China to send to England. He sends his to
America, which is what sticks in everyone's craw."