Ryman, Rebecca (84 page)

A
paragon of unlikely European elegance, Jai Raventhorne was formally and
impeccably dressed. His suit, English and three piece, was of dark burgundy and
fashionably cut. A cream silk shirt, ruffled down the front, was framed by
black velvet lapels. The black cummerbund circling his slim waist was pleated
with precision. As his ankles, crossed casually, moved, the gold buckles on his
black patent leather shoes caught the light of a chandelier and twinkled. Gone
was the riotous ebony hair; trimmed and brushed scrupulously back, it had been
tamed into uncharacteristic submission. The picture he presented was of a
high-born English gentleman supremely at home in his natural habitat, an
elegant drawing-room. A forgotten vision flashed across Olivia's mind as she
observed the scene—that of a dirty dish-washer by the well of a roadside
tavern. But this time, she did not discard the vision out of hand. Instead, she
scrutinised it from afar, with detachment. She discovered that her scrutiny
brought no sudden twists of the heart, no involuntary wrenches. All it brought
was cold anger. Impatiently, she cleansed her mind of the past, consigning
again to oblivion that which oblivion deserved. She had a need to survive this
evening, and survive it with triumph. That need would not go abegging. Jai
Raventhorne would never be allowed to touch her again.

Holding
her head even higher, she nimbly ran down the remaining stairs.

"Did
you invite him?" As soon as she descended, Arthur Ransome cornered her. He
looked far from easy.

"No.
Estelle did."

"She
had no damn business to, not without at least forewarning us. He docked last
night, I learn. Tomorrow he goes to Assam."

Raventhorne
had not glanced at her even once but Olivia knew instinctively that with some
invisible, inner stare, he had her skewered in his vision. For all his
offhandedness, she could almost physically feel that hateful pewter gaze
dissecting her as if with a scalpel bent on merciless surgery. With an effort,
she pried her own eyes away from the bar. "Why has he come?" she
demanded in a fierce whisper.

"I
have no idea." Ransome shrugged but his frown deepened. "There is
some motive behind it, there must be. I don't mind confessing that I am
distinctly worried."

"Estelle's
liaison with him might not be common knowledge, but your enmity is. Surely he
would not—"

"Oh,
I'm not concerned about the enmity. Not here anyway." He grimaced.
"The world of commerce is pragmatic, Olivia. If all those who hate each
other's guts in office rooms ceased to drink together, there would never be
another social occasion shared in station! No, it's not as simple as that, my
dear. There is something else, I fear, that does not smell quite right."

"Perhaps."
She gave a vinegary smile. "After all, whatever the assumed civilities,
Raventhorne can hardly be called the most popular man in town!"

"On
the contrary," Ransome returned drily, "I would say that with at
least half your guests, Raventhorne is extremely popular."

He
referred, of course, to the ladies. Giggling, fluttering eyelashes and
simpering coyly, many hovered close to the bar counter, making no secret of
their hopes of earning some attention. The displays of coquetry disgusted
Olivia. She made a gesture of contemptuous dismissal. "Oh, I don't mean
them, they are immaterial. I mean the men."

"I
do not exclude the men either. Personal grudges are all very well, my dear, but
business is business—never forget that. There's not a man here who does not,
however indirectly, have dealings with Raventhorne's Trident. Kala Kanta puts
many shekels into many coffers when he wants to. No, however great the private
temptations, I daresay he is unlikely to be murdered publicly on your priceless
Persian carpets." But despite his laugh, he continued to look worried.

Olivia
could no longer avoid circulating. Moving away, she
walked towards
the group farthest from him and the bar counter. But each step she took was
like treading on knives: Even with her back to Raventhorne, she could feel his
eyes—Amos's eyes!— follow her like a tail attached to her body. Between his
stare and that of Estelle (watching warily from a safe distance), Olivia began
to feel impaled, her flesh singed and branded. Her nerves started to falter.
Recklessly, she downed two more glasses of sherry.

She
started to float. Once again the feeling of fantasy was strong, a bubble
enclosing her in the dreamy ether of unreality. Was it true that this was
happening, or was it an illusion, a mirage, a nightmare merely come alive? She
was actually in the same room again with Jai Raventhorne. To touch him with her
eyes all she had to do was turn. If she traversed the length of the room, she
could reach for his hand. At one time she had sold her soul to do both; now she
did neither. Instead, she called for some more sherry, demolished another
glassful and asked for dinner to be announced.

And
inwardly she laughed. To think she had presumed that Estelle could not keep her
secrets well!

Savagely,
Olivia took hold of her mind again and latched it on trivialities. Had the
cruet stands been refilled with fresh mustard? Were the flowers wilting because
the fires were too hot?
Should
she risk sending the pomfret galantine
around twice; was the French cheese too ripe, the English Stilton not ripe
enough? The boom of the silver dinner gong rumbled funereally through the
reception rooms, the band struck a last chord and, eagerly, two by two everyone
streamed into the dining hall resplendent with candelabras and silver and
crackling crisp white napery. The repast that Olivia had arranged was quite
splendid, with game soup, chicken curry in coconut milk, black mushroom pilaf,
sheeps' trotters with chick-peas, toad in the hole, hams, sides of roast beef,
salted venison, roast duck, mounds of delicately steamed vegetables, compotes
and pies, lemon meringues, American chocolate cake with clotted cream and deep
sprinklings of nuts. There were compliments galore as everyone ate and drank
heartily. Everyone, that is, except Estelle and Jai Raventhorne.

Ensconced
in an alcove, they conversed with apparent unconcern. Estelle's cheeks were
high with colour, her eyes alive with sparkles. Raventhorne's gaze was glued to
Estelle's face as he sat cradling a brandy between his palms, but Olivia was
not fooled. She knew by the crawl of her flesh that she was still tightly
encapsulated in that damnable vision, held ruthlessly
within those
pupils that saw without watching.
I
don't
need eyes to see you
. . .

I
must not let go, I must not let go!

No,
this
excess she would not forgive Estelle, not ever!

"What
a superlative evening, Olivia!" Across her overflowing plate, Betty
Pennworthy leaned forward to gush. She dropped her voice. "And, my dear,
what a
coup
to have enticed our reclusive neighbour into coming! Just as
well Josh—"

"Betty!"
Her husband cautioned her with a frown. "It is not for us to comment upon
what is not our business." To underline his point he thrust his empty
plate forward, tacitly demanding a second helping.

"Doesn't
he want to talk with anyone except Estelle?" Susan Bradshaw wailed.
"All he does is drink—what a waste! Can you not persuade your prize guest
to be kind to us too?"

"Mr.
Raventhorne is the guest of John and Estelle. It is to them that you must
direct your appeal," Olivia answered with a flinty smile. "My own
influence in the matter is minimal."

"Oh,
look!"
The Hendersons' recently arrived daughter gave a little cry.
"He's drained his glass. I
do
believe he means to head our way at
last! Oh, do you think I dare?" she asked no one in particular. "Yes.
I do. Coming, Polly?"

Even
the very superior Charlotte seemed flustered. "Oh dear. My hair, it's in
such a mess! I wonder if I should ...?" Muttering to herself, she hurried
off in another direction.

A
tall freckled girl with ginger-coloured hair and a green bow in it sighed.
"Isn't he quite the best-looking man at the party, Clive?" she asked
her escort with supreme lack of tact. "I don't believe he has a
trace
of
native blood in him, truly I don't."

"Well
he has," Clive Smithers snapped. "Besides, he's a cad, a thorough
swine. I can't imagine what Estelle and John are up to. Come away, Hattie,
before you make a fool of yourself." Considering the gossip about the
Smithers's own ancestry, the remark was amusing. But then, such precisely were
the ironies rampant in Calcutta's social self-delusions.

Wherever
Olivia moved, she heard and overheard comments about Raventhorne—some
malicious, others gleeful, but all charged with excitement. Why
had
this
arrogant half-caste bastard suddenly decided to grace the English drawing-room
in which he had sworn not to be caught dead? The endlessly repeated question
that worried Ransome was beginning to worry Olivia too. Yes, why?

Whirling
around the dance floor in the arms of a deferential
young Port
Trust official whose name she could not recall, Olivia wanted to plug her ears
to stop the snatches of conversation that wafted past.

"...
dare to show his face? Poor Oli—"

"...
hardened rogue, my love,
hardened ..."

"Oh
Ted, you're
jealous! You
couldn't fit a cummerbund over . . . now then,
could you?" Giggle, giggle.

"Everyone's
saying [whisper, whisper] isn't it
awful?"

"—erican,
after all. So
uncaring
of scan—"

"Really,
Archie! To hell with the half-caste when he has such . . ."

By
the time she could escape onto the verandah and be alone, Olivia was limp.
Weakly she leaned against a pillar, shivering but not entirely with the cold.
Whatever the circumstances, she had not been prepared for the shock of this
evening, for the defeat of not being able to beat Raventhorne to the draw.
Taken by surprise and lulled into a fool's paradise, she had not bothered to
retain her defences, to predetermine reactions, to make herself totally immune
to his presence. This Olivia now admitted to herself. To hate was not enough,
not nearly so! By natural progression, that hate had to evolve into
indifference, and she was not yet entirely indifferent to him. Both love and
hate meant an expenditure of energy, of time and thought. She resented that
expenditure, even during the hour or two more that she would have to spend with
him under the same roof.

From
behind the pillar Olivia had a partial view of the dance floor. Raventhorne was
now dancing—dancing!—with Estelle in his arms. Olivia had rarely seen him smile
with such ease. Or such warmth. Barely reaching his shoulder, Estelle gazed up
at him with her heart pouring out of her eyes. Olivia felt sickened with the
obscenity of it all. Her stomach heaved and she could not contain it. Holding
her mouth, she ran silently into the garden to be ill behind a bush bursting
with white winter blossoms. Skirting the house, she then ran to the kitchen to
rinse out her mouth and lubricate her ragged throat with a drink of water,
watched by her astonished staff. By the same route she returned to the verandah.

Where
Jai Raventhorne awaited her.

"Why
does the refined Baroness Birkhurst need to be sick in her garden?" he
asked with cloying softness.

Olivia
froze. She had not envisaged so private an encounter away from the insulating
presence of others. For an instant she lost contact with her mental moorings,
but only for an instant. "Perhaps
because," she replied in a
lightning recovery, "some of her guests reduce her to it." She moved
to walk past him but he had her by the arm.

"Even
though she had pledged to accept them for what they were?"

He
had the nerve to resurrect
that?
Olivia wrenched her arm free to stand
and survey him through narrowed eyes. Her punctilious investigation was a
therapy; it gave her time to recover more fully. She had never before seen him
so formally dressed. She was glad she had done so now; the paragon of sartorial
perfection wiped out forever that haunting vision of a deprived menial so
callously defrauded by fate. And in the act of their flesh touching, even
minimally, she felt a revived sense of outrage. And courage. Staring
contemptuously into the mother-of-pearl eyes that were his accursed legacy to
her son, she asked, "Why have you come?"

"Why?
I could not refuse Estelle."

"Estelle
is a conniving minx!" She hadn't meant to say that but it was out and
irretractable.

"Most
women are. Some are conniving sluts." Olivia stiffened, but he manacled
her wrist so that she could not walk away. "Which is the second reason why
I am here. I couldn't resist the temptation to see Lady Birkhurst in the
luxurious habitat she had long selected for herself with such relentless
duplicity. How diligently you set your sights on Freddie Birkhurst, with what
accuracy and how swiftly!"

She
had tasted his gall many times before; its flavour was sharp in her tongue's
memory. Even so, the magnitude of his insolence and the inequity of his
presumptions swept her with blind fury. But, with miraculous calm, she caught
the tail of her rage before it could flare. If she had to pay him back at all,
it was in his own currency.
And he had not yet mentioned Amos!
"Supposing
I were to say that a choice between decency and degradation, if offered, is not
to be spurned?" she inquired with scathing sarcasm.