Ryman, Rebecca (82 page)

Therefore,
when Olivia's gold-crested, exquisitely penned invitations to her banquet in
honour of Major and Mrs. John Sturges were received by prospective guests,
there were few refusals. It was an occasion, everyone felt, that would be
socially memorable. Just how memorable, however, not even Olivia could have
foretold with any degree of accuracy.

As
a gregarious young blade in Calcutta, Caleb Birkhurst had loved parties, which
accounted for the copious and complex paraphernalia required for wining and
dining that reposed in the mansion's well-stocked strong-rooms. There was
delicate Irish linen napery, England's finest Wedgwood crockery, China's most
translucent egg-shell porcelain, Belgian crystal, innumerable chests of
monogrammed silver, Czechoslovakian cut-glass goblets and decanters, Russian
caviar bowls, gold-plated serving
dishes, platters and salvers galore.
The dowager Lady Birkhurst had obviously been a painstaking hostess to whom
dinner dances for a hundred and more were all in the day's work. As a
consequence, there was hardly anything Olivia needed to supplement her
requirements for the ambitious festivities she had planned.

Under
her assiduous supervision, teams of servants leapt into action with days of
polishing and scrubbing. The rooms were all opened, swept, swabbed and dusted
till marble floors shone like mirrors and window panes turned invisible. The
chandeliers sparkled, brassware glinted, Persian carpets were aired and brushed
into renewed life and the velvet draperies almost purred under energetic
strokings. Olivia diligently unpacked many of the crates she had stored away in
preparation for her departure, sparing neither effort nor expense. If not to
Estelle, she owed at least that to her absent aunt. After this final
celebration, they would all disperse to different parts of the world, each to
their separate futures. They would probably not see each other again. For
Olivia, therefore, the way to her duty lay clear; also, it was essential that
she should be able to depart with a conscience unblemished by regrets. Her
cousin's repeated pleas to be allowed to help she fielded politely but firmly.
"I have plenty of help, thank you. Let the evening come as a surprise for
you and John."

"But
Dr. Humphries has forbidden you undue exertions," Estelle protested.
"We must consider only the baby."

"I
will have no opportunity for exertions on board the ship. There will be nothing
to do but rest." She smiled. "And I assure you I do consider the
baby."

If
only Estelle knew how much!

"All
this for . . .
us?"
John Sturges was thunderstruck at the opulence
that greeted them. Estelle, equally speechless, only formed a silent Oh! with
her lips.

"Why
not? Estelle is the only cousin I have and you the only cousin-in-law."
Congratulating John on his recent promotion to the rank of major, Olivia kissed
them both in welcome. Noticing the quiver in her cousin's vulnerable underlip,
she added, not unkindly, "Don't cry, Estelle. You don't want black all
over your face, do you?"

This
evening, Olivia had promised herself, she would be kind to Estelle no matter
how sharp the provocation. She could
afford to be generous now. In a day,
Estelle would be out of her life forever. In little more than a week, she
herself would be aboard the
Lulubelle
with Amos, and en route to her
father. The ignominy of an unpaid debt of honour was almost behind her
(entirely, if she could give Freddie a son) thanks to this unexpected little
mango seed that now rested in her womb. God willing, soon she would be released
from all moral bondage. And from the hovering spectre of Jai Raventhorne.

Yes,
this evening would mark the last of her penances, the last!

In
sudden elation she put an arm fondly around Estelle's shoulders. "Tonight
will be your night. Enjoy yourself as you will. I make no demands nor lay down
restrictions."

In
black tailcoat, striped trousers and white starched shirt with a carnation in
his lapel, Arthur Ransome obviously intended to take his duties as host most
seriously. "It's a little tight," he muttered, patting his convex
stomach with a blush. "Haven't worn it in years, not even for your wedding
if you recall. Smells of moth-balls, I'm afraid."

"You
look
splendid.
The Spin certainly won't be able to resist you this
evening!" Olivia laughed and squeezed his arm. "Uncle Josh definitely
isn't coming then?"

"No.
Leave him be. He's better off at home."

"Well,
if you say so, but I will miss him."

Standing
next to her cousin in the receiving line as the guests started to arrive,
Estelle could hardly contain her delight at being centre stage for the whole
evening. Her fashionable gown, of peach velour and ermine, looked
vraiment
parisienne
in cut and style, its bodice—
tr
ès, très
daring!—covered
with Japanese seed-pearls. Uncaring of the mismatch, she displayed in her
cleavage the elaborate diamond necklace that was Olivia's gift. "You don't
think I'm going to miss showing
this
off tonight, do you?" she had
replied smugly to Olivia's eyebrow arched in questioning amusement.

No,
Estelle had not changed much, Olivia concluded to herself. In those round blue
porcelain eyes the underlying shrewdness, the calculation and the cunning were
the same. If there were changes at all they were physical, in the greater
roundness of her cheeks and figure, in her air of insouciant confidence. As she
observed Estelle laughing and bantering and flirting with such bounce, Olivia
could not help feeling a stab of envy. Estelle had a capacity for fun that had
been denied to
her;
she had the gift of carrying her cares lightly.
Whatever scandalous secrets Estelle
concealed in her heart never seemed to
interfere with her appetite for extravagant enjoyment. And in that knowledge,
Olivia sighed; what a gift it might have been for her, too—that talent to bear
burdens with such nonchalance!

"Give
nobody's heart pain so long as thou canst avoid it, for one sigh may set a
whole world into a flame . . ."

Olivia
spun around to face Peter Barstow.

"I
was only remarking," he explained, "on that profound sigh you heaved.
The wisdom, alas, is not mine. It comes from Sa'di's poem
Gulistan.
I
read it in translation, of course, but you see, I'm not as illiterate as you
think."

She
had not wanted to invite Barstow but had capitulated finally to the dictates of
social convention. He had, after all, been Freddie's best friend. "I
sighed because I was wondering if the pomfret galantine would be enough to go
round twice," she answered coldly.

"Indeed!
No sighs then for the absent spouse sorrowfully adrift?"

"Plenty,
but not necessarily as an exercise in public. And he's not 'adrift'; he's on a
ship. Excuse me." Barstow's barbs made no dents in Olivia's composure as
she walked away to mingle with her other guests. In any case, they were no
different from the conjectures of others in Calcutta.

The
reception-rooms were ablaze with light from the many multi-tiered chandeliers,
and conversations hummed with liveliness. Olivia was aware that in the medley
of accents there were some that would have never got past the doorman of an
aristocratic home in England. Indian colonial stations remained loyal to social
hierarchies, but since the English here were in a minority, they had the wisdom
not to be picky. In India, it was the native who was considered the outsider;
snobberies tended to be more of colour than of class. Crisis conditions called
for a united front in which it was expedient to hold rank superior to pedigree.

Because
the late November chill in the air that marked the start of Calcutta's short
winter was noticeable, and because huge log fires looked so pretty, Olivia had
ordered them to be lit in the marble fireplaces. Now, to counteract their
rather excessive heat in a roomful of people, she asked for all the French windows
to be opened. Immediately, the luxurious fragrance of the Queen of the Night
wafted pleasantly across the two main reception-rooms. In between, she had
arranged a bar counter that shimmered with bottles of iced champagne, French
wines, whiskies, brandies, beer, port and sherry, and post-prandial liqueurs.
An English
barman with two assistants had been hired for the evening from the Bengal Club
and drinks were being dispensed hand over fist to loosen tongues and induce
conviviality. An army of bearers passed around sherbets and cordials. If there
was anything Olivia disliked, it was the English custom of using the need to
smoke as an excuse for sexual segregation after dinner. To ensure against the
ladies being abandoned for shop talk behind closed doors, she had given
permission to the gents to light up if they wished, and Dutch cheroots were
being passed around, only the Havana cigars and the blocks of pipe tobacco
being kept for after dinner.

Estelle's
friends, of course, were all out in force this evening. Over the past months
Olivia had avoided meeting them; the need to answer awkward questions about her
cousin's abrupt withdrawal from Calcutta was one she was determined not to
burden herself with. But whatever alibis Estelle herself had made to them were
obviously adequate, for there appeared to be no signs of strain anywhere. The
camaraderie and bantering sounded perfectly normal.

"Oh
my, motherhood does suit you, Olivia!" Polly Drummond's envious gaze
alternated between Olivia's royal blue gown of Kashmiri
pashmina
wool
embroidered in gold thread with the traditional paisley motif, and the sapphire
jewellery she had worn as a concession to the occasion. "And marriage,
too—you look divine! Obviously, both are to be recommended?"

"If
that's a hint, my sweet, I'd better strike while the iron's hot." Polly's
beau, a curly-haired, dimple-cheeked young clerk with the Company, fell to his
knees amidst much giggling. "To press my suit, I—"

"Press
yours by all means, but don't ruin
mine,
dash it!" someone else groaned
as his action sent a beer glass flying.

"And
mine!
Ooh, I've got sherbet all over my dress and it's
new."

"Is
it? I say, I'm dashed sorry. Here, I'll fetch some water—"

"Don't
be daft, Howard, georgette
shrinks ..."

"Does
it? Well,
that's
quite a prospect!"

"Oh
Lord, I can't take him anywhere!" Polly choked with laughter.

Amidst
the renewed giggles, Estelle sidled up to Olivia. "You
do
look
divine, you know, Coz. I wish I could be as slender, and I'm not pregnant even
with a first baby let alone a
second."

"Oh,
Oddivia, oh you sdy puss!" Lily Horniman, the girl with enlarged adenoids,
squealed at Estelle's stage whisper. "How
marveddous to be—" Aware
suddenly of the intimate nature of the remark she was about to make, Lily
stopped and went scarlet.

But
it was too late. Not many had missed Estelle's stage whisper. Hastily, the men
all looked away and the girls, oohing and aahing under their breaths, dragged
Olivia aside for excited questioning. Annoyed, Olivia clung tenaciously to her
vow to forgive Estelle her silly excesses at least for this evening. By the
time she had extricated herself from the melee, she had decided— not for the
first time—that it was in the company of men that she felt more comfortable by
far, and purposefully turned towards the bar counter. Between her own guest
list and Estelle's, most Europeans of consequence had been invited, including
two visiting directors of the Company from London. Because of John's connection
with the army, there were plenty of uniforms to be seen among the crowd of
merchants, bankers, civil servants, Company officials, chandlers and
stevedores, and three American medical missionaries from Bombay brought by Dr.
Humphries. Much against his wishes, Willie Donaldson had been prevailed upon to
bring the cotton man from Mississippi, Hiram Arrow-smith Lubbock ("Jes Hal
to mah fray'nds, my'am"), who was interested in leasing the Birkhurst
mansion, and was introducing him around the bar with an expression of
unconcealed disgust.

"Sir
Joshua still under the weather, Your Ladyship?" The tactful inquiry was
from a tall, uniformed brigadier with a medal-encrusted chest who had recently
been appointed an aide-decamp to the Governor-General, Lord Dalhousie. Being
family friends of the Birkhursts, the Governor-General and his lady had been
invited, of course, but Olivia had been much relieved when they had sent their
regrets due to a prearranged absence in the mofussil. The stiff protocol that
surrounded the Queen's premier officer in India was tiresome. Whatever prestige
Their Excellencies' presence brought to a gathering, it also brought yawning
dullness.