Ryman, Rebecca (83 page)

"My
uncle recovers well, thank you, but his lingering weakness precludes the
exertions of
burra khanas."
Olivia's reply was equally tactful.

"And
what precludes Your Ladyship's attendance of
burra khanas,
may I ask? I
was most disappointed to receive your own regrets to our invitation for His
Excellency's ball this year. So were Their Excellencies."

"With
His Lordship in England, I shy away from parties,
especially formal ones,"
Olivia explained smoothly. "But I'm certainly enjoying my own. I hope you
are too, Brigadier."

"Oh,
rather!
Quite the most splendid jollification we've seen in a long
while. A great pity His Lordship cannot enjoy it with us."

"Yes,
isn't it?"

At
the bar over fast-flowing champagne, Calcutta's latest scandal was being
debated hotly. It involved, Olivia gathered as she joined the men, the new
Resident of Murshidabad. He had, it was believed, paid the astronomical sum of
twenty thousand pounds to the incumbent as an inducement to early retirement
from a post said to be the most lucrative in the service. Even Lord Clive had
once made the observation that there was more gold in Murshidabad with the
Nawabs than in the whole of London. Such job "purchases," Olivia had
heard, were not uncommon. What gave the present debate its heat was the fact
that the new Resident had also "gone native" and had established for
himself in Murshidabad a sizable harem of nautch girls.

"A
swine, sir, a disgrace to the community!" Barnabus Slocum huffed.

"Well,
what can one expect?" someone else remarked. "His father was a Covent
Garden lute maker."

"Aye,
and known in the trade as
Dissolute
Dave, to boot!" There were
guffaws all around, the loudest from Mrs. Drummond, who was thoughtfully eyeing
the medal-studded chest of the brigadier aide-de-camp.

"Shocking,
sah, shocking! Deserves a taste of the horsewhip." Henry Cleghorne
bristled with moral outrage.

"Heah,
heah," Smithers murmured in that affected accent he always used to divert
attention from his own social inadequacies.

"Och
laddie—you would na be a wee bit jealous, noo would you?" Willie Donaldson
gave Smithers a sly wink. "Noo, if it's skeletons we're rattling, let him
with none in
his
cupboard risk the first rattle!"

Smithers
flushed and there was a short, awkward lull during which only Hal Lubbock had
the gall to roar with laughter. "Waal, like mah Aunt Jemimah might say,
boys will be boys— and a
dy'am
good thing too, eh pal?" He guffawed
again and landed a hearty slap on Smithers's back, which made him splutter and
nearly choke on his drink.

Willie
Donaldson winced audibly and everyone else froze as they instantly closed ranks
against the mannerless American up-
start. Who the hell was he to make free
with one of
their
scandals? Olivia felt a stab of compassion for the
haplessly vulgar Lubbock, who stuck out like a sore thumb in a manicure
parlour. Wrenching herself away from the earnest nostalgia of a desperately
homesick young Company Bahadur recruit fresh from their training establishment
at Haileybury in England, she impulsively and pointedly guided Lubbock towards
the ballroom, where Estelle had chosen to start the dancing before dinner. The
parquet floor was already crowded. On the side lines sat those waiting to be whirled
off by beaux, and fond Mamas shrewdly sizing up eligible prospects before they
could be grabbed by unwanted competitors. Quickly introducing Lubbock to two
young ladies obviously waiting for an invitation to dance, Olivia set off in
search of Arthur Ransome.

She
found him in a far corner hopelessly trapped by the Spin and looking decidedly
hunted. "May I please have a word with you, Uncle Arthur?"

Gout
forgotten, he almost flew out of his seat like a wild bird suddenly finding its
cage door open. "Dreadful woman, dreadful!" He mopped the sweat off
his brow. "You saved her life, my dear, to say nothing of mine. I would
have strangled her in a moment."

"Or
proposed to her, I daresay!" Olivia laughed and Ransome cursed under his
breath. "What I wanted to ask you is—do you consider it too early to serve
dinner? The dancing has only just started and the men still drink. I don't want
Estelle to feel I'm trying to short-change her guests with the liquor."

Excited
by his role as host, Ransome consulted his watch. "No, that wouldn't do at
all. We can't have them thinking we're cutting down on their spirits, ha, ha.
Perhaps we might give them another half hour or so?"

"Fine.
As long as the souffles don't collapse. Rashid Ali would never forgive me. In
the meantime, I'll send round some more canapes. The prawns seemed especially
popular. Or we could ..."

Olivia
stopped, for Ransome was no longer listening. His gaze seemed riveted to
something behind her. Casually she turned to cast a glance across her shoulder.
At the door of the room a new arrival had been announced. He was being warmly
welcomed by her cousin, Estelle.

It
was Jai Raventhorne.

He
smiled. He took Estelle's hand in his, bent over and kissed it lightly. John
Sturges appeared next to his wife. The two men
shook hands, exchanged a smile
of greeting. Across the room, all at once engulfed in a deathly hush, a
fragment of laughter floated, then another. All talk forgotten, everyone stared
avidly at the scene contained in the doorway. In the unearthly silence a burning
log fell from the grate with a hiss. Nobody thought to replace it. Then, face
aglow, step firm and purposeful, Estelle led a path through the forest of
motionless figures to guide Raventhorne down the length of the room towards
their host and hostess.

"Olivia
dear, may I present Mr. Jai Raventhorne? I believe that you have met once. Jai,
I think you must remember my cousin, Lady Birkhurst." In her voice there
was not even a tremor and her unwavering blue eyes were crystal clear.

Olivia
had no awareness of having extended a hand, but then it was being held in his.
The flesh against hers felt cold, the lips that skimmed her skin even more so.
Did she speak? She couldn't tell. But then he did. "Indeed! Yes, we did
meet once. Perhaps it has slipped Lady Birkhurst's memory. How kind of you to
offer me your hospitality tonight!"

They
passed on. Hands were shaken with Arthur Ransome, a few words exchanged, and
another nervous guffaw of laughter cut across the silence. White faced, Ransome
asked somewhere in the vast, echoing distances of Olivia's mind, "What may
I offer you to drink, Jai? If I recall rightly, two fingers of Scotch on ice is
what you are partial to."

"Thank
you. That would be perfect."

For
the moment, no more formalities were called for. There were few present to whom
Raventhorne was not already known. In a recovery little short of miraculous,
Ransome led his unexpected guest towards the bar chatting with admirable
amiability. Behind her, Olivia heard some woman's sharp intake of breath, "Oh
my sainted aunt, it's not possible, it
can't
be ...!

The
silence cloaking the room lingered a moment or two longer. Then, like an
incoming tide, the murmurs crept back and accelerated. Beneath the hum,
however, remained a hint of subdued excitement, a frisson of breathless
suspense—what was the notorious Kala Kanta doing in an Englishman's
drawing-room, and that too at the invitation of Joshua Templewood's daughter?
Amidst astonished whispers and covert glances exchanged over rims of glasses,
conjectures and questions criss-crossed the room like firework rockets. But
then, gradually, normalcy returned. In a flurry, bearers again zigzagged
through the crowds bearing trays of fresh drinks and canapes, and suppressed
laughs burgeoned once more into hearty roars. A resonant roll of drums sounded
to
announce
the start of a waltz. Whatever tensions remained were soon dispelled by the
energetic endeavours of the army band.

Only
Olivia remained rooted. A dreamlike mist, vaporous but determined, obliterated
the present.
But yes,
a voice rose from some mouldy sepulchre to echo in
a corner of her mind,
I
do love you . . .

She
turned and fled upstairs.

Estelle
has gone mad, Estelle has gone mad . . .
Crumpled in a trembling heap on
her bed, Olivia could think of no other explanation for the horror being
visited upon them all. Like a moth fluttering for release from its cocoon, her
panic-stricken brain thrashed helplessly inside the walls of her skull. Once
again her cousin had trapped her in a situation not of her own making, but this
time she had no more resources to manipulate an escape. Oh God, oh God—what was
she to do ...?

The
door opened and, noiselessly, Estelle slipped in. "I know that you are
furious with me, but I had to do it. I'm sorry. I could think of no other . . .
method." Speaking from the doorway as if afraid to step inside, she
faltered.

Olivia
sat up slowly, loath, even in her state of panic, to expose herself to her
obnoxious cousin. She pressed shaking finger-tips to her temples, but not even
closed eyes could blot out the vision of those mutually warm looks, that
welcoming smile, the unspoken rapport to which Raventhorne had subscribed so
openly. Behind shuttered eyes Olivia's hate swilled and spilled over and she
contorted with rage. "How dare you, Estelle! How
dare
you use my
hearth and home for your shameless exhibitions!"

Quietly,
Estelle entered and closed the door behind her. "You said I could ask
anyone I wished to. You made no demands, placed no restrictions—did you not
mean that, Olivia? Was that too a hypocrisy?" She was pale but in her
attitude there was only defiance.

"Anyone,
yes, but not . . ." She could not speak the name. "I meant what I
said because not even I could have guessed the extent of your immodesty. In
flaunting your ... relationship with that man, you feel no sense of ... of
defilement? No
contamination . . .?"

Estelle
flinched but held her ground. "No. I am proud of my relationship with Jai.
I want everyone to know about it, to
accept
it. And one day, I promise,
they
will."

Her
own words of so long ago! Olivia flew off the bed, grabbed her cousin's
shoulders and shook her in a fury no longer
containable. "And does your
husband know and accept it too? You have no guilt about thrusting your . . .
your
lover,"
she spat out the word in Estelle's face, "down
his
throat—-forget mine and everyone else's!"

Estelle
wrenched herself away and, all at once, her face puckered. "John
understands," she whispered, her tone suddenly weighted down with misery.
"Perhaps you would too if—"

"I
have no more understanding to spare. Keep your squalid alibis to yourself,
Estelle." To hide the shaking of her hands she tucked them out of sight
under her arms and walked away to stand at a window. Breathing in great
lungfuls of cool night air, she forced her anger back under a cover of brittle
control. "After tonight, Estelle, I never wish to see you again. I want
you out of my life forever. Frankly, I don't care a ha'pence what you do with
your life and with whom. I am not your keeper; you owe me no excuses. But yes,
in one matter I have erred—I did say you could have anyone here you wished to
with neither demands nor restrictions. I shall not go back on my word. Now
please leave me alone and go down to rejoin your guests."

For
just another moment Estelle hesitated, her face cracking with unhappiness.
"Very well. If that is what you wish," she said quietly. "But
please be polite to him, Olivia. You have no idea how difficult it was to fetch
him here. He . . ." She stopped, the despair in her voice compounding. Then
her expression firmed again. "But what must be done, must be done."
She turned and walked out.

Behind
her Olivia locked the door. Going into Freddie's adjoining bedroom, she opened
his bureau to take out a half-finished bottle of sherry. Without bothering
about a glass, she downed several gulps. The burning liquid brought tears to
her eyes and made her stomach scream in protest, but, resolutely, she downed
several more. For a moment her head spun but then her nerves responded and she
steadied. Five more minutes before the mirror brought vibrant colour back to
her cheeks and a gloss to her lips. Whatever flickers of fear were left, she
crushed them ruthlessly beneath the heel of her will-power. Amos was safely
away and Jai Raventhorne was to her now a meaningless quantity. Whatever
suspicions he might have about her son were mere suspicions; she would manage
them. His effrontery and Estelle's brazenness could not be matched with wilting
weakness and hysteria. If they could display hides of leather with such inglorious
abandon, then—hell's bells and damnation!—so bloody well would
she!

Head
held high, cheeks again aglow with confident colour, she swept imperiously down
the marble staircase.

Pausing
minimally to take stock of the scene below, Olivia was amazed at how normal
everything seemed. Through the archway to the ball-room she could see feet
twirling unconcernedly to some strange Latin rhythm that was quite the rage,
she had been informed, in London. Directly ahead was the bar counter. Mellow
eyed, indulgent, the men still lounged and drank and squinted cordially at each
other through the thick spirals of smoke. Raventhorne leaned against the
counter, composed and entirely at ease, talking to John Sturges, Clarence
Pennworthy, an Indian army colonel with a wooden leg and, of all people, the
police chief Barnabus Slocum. There appeared to be nothing untoward in anyone's
manner and if there was hostility, none was apparent. What they said was lost
in the distance and the general hum of conversation, but it was obviously
cordial enough to provoke some stiffly polite laughter.