Ryman, Rebecca (86 page)

Carefully
now Sir Joshua unwound the rich silk cravat from his neck and handed it
imperiously to John Sturges, who was standing behind him and looking
desperately ill at ease. Then, with similar concentration, he worked his
fingers out of his gloves one by one and neatly put the gloves in a pocket of
his greatcoat, which he chose not to remove for the moment. The precise little
gestures, the placid expression, the astonishing steadiness of his hands, the
compelling, commanding air of confidence—all were astounding to those who had
known him intimately during the preceding months.

Having
completed his small duties, Sir Joshua advanced towards Olivia, who now stood
rooted to a spot next to Arthur Ransome. Looking neither left nor right, he
strolled casually down the centre of the room as if he were alone, as if the
gaping throng on either side of him were nonexistent. Sir Joshua's steps were
measured, unhurried, his expression one of supreme composure. For the very good
reason that something in his eyes forbade it, nobody ventured to utter even a
word of greeting. He stopped in front of Olivia, held out his arms and placed a
hand on each of her shoulders. He smiled and kissed her warmly on both cheeks.
"Forgive me if I have surprised you, my dear, but Estelle insisted that I
make an appearance." He nodded approvingly. "You look very fetching
in that blue, my dear, very fetching indeed."

Somehow
Olivia found a voice. "I... I'm delighted that you have decided to come,
Uncle Josh. We . . ." Her voice trembled
and died and her frightened eyes
flitted helplessly between Arthur Ransome and Jai Raventhorne, both motionless
and without expression, not far from each other. Formally, Sir Joshua shook
Ransome's hand. Neither man spoke, at least not in words. What passed between
them otherwise could be anybody's guess. Ransome's face, as wooden as
Raventhorne's, revealed nothing. The immediate formalities completed, Sir
Joshua turned on his heel to walk briskly and directly up to Jai Raventhorne.
He thrust out his right hand.

"Good
evening, Jai."

"Good
evening, Sir Joshua."

The
hush in the room deepened perceptibly, like a fog, all-encompassing and
impenetrable. There had never been a single occasion when the two men had come
face to face, at least in public, and the effect of the confrontation now was
electrifying. Nothing in Raventhorne's body seemed to be moving, not even his
breath. Only a small muscle beneath his right temple twitched; the pale,
staring discs of his eyes were blank as if they perceived nothing. He neither
looked down at the hand proffered nor made any attempt to take it. For a few
more terrible seconds Sir Joshua's hand remained suspended, unacknowledged and
disdained. It was only when, with an indifferent shrug and no noticeable loss
of confidence, he dropped it finally to his side that Raventhorne spoke again.
He used the same tight tones as he had done before, but now he spoke quietly.
"I think you must know, Sir Joshua, that what is between us cannot be
redeemed by a handshake."

Sir
Joshua appeared to consider that with singular concentration, then he nodded.
"No. It cannot," he agreed. "Not now. Particularly not now, but
then Estelle does not see that."

Had
Olivia not been standing close behind her uncle, she would not have heard the
exchange made in almost inaudible undertones. Something at last flickered in
Jai Raventhorne's soulless eyes, a spark of amusement, a flash of contempt. In
her peripheral vision, Olivia saw Estelle recoil and nervously reach out for
her husband's hand. Abandoning his casual, almost cordial manner, Sir Joshua
suddenly turned businesslike, a man of purpose. Removing one of his gloves from
the pocket of the greatcoat he still wore, he flicked it swiftly across
Raventhorne's face.

"Tomorrow
morning at the Ochterlony tower. Promptly at six. Ransome and Sturges will be
my seconds. Choose whatever weapons you wish."

From
the riveted crowd there was a collective gasp, undoubtedly of delight. It had
been many months since Calcutta had witnessed a duel that promised to be as
worth-while as this. Worth-while? Why, this one promised to be sensational!
Suddenly, detaching herself from her husband, Estelle ran to her father and
flung herself at him.
"No!
Papa, you swore that you believed
me!" Her anguished whisper was fierce as she clutched both his lapels in
her trembling hands, her face horror-struck. "You
swore
that you
did, you gave me your
word!"

"Take
her away, John." Save for a curt glance and an effort to detach himself
from Estelle's grasp, Sir Joshua paid her scant heed.

"But
sir...!"
Shocked, his son-in-law made no move to comply, unsure as
to how serious was his father-in-law's command or, indeed, the rest.

"Take
her away, John!" Sir Joshua did not raise his voice but there was a hard
glint in his eye and there was no mistaking the ring of authority in his
command. With the trained reflexes of a soldier used to obedience without
question, John firmly grabbed his wife by her arms.

Estelle
resisted violently and promptly burst into tears. "You lied to me, Papa,
you
lied
to me! You
know
I told you the truth, you
know
I
could never fabricate—"

"Let
go, Estelle!" John interrupted sharply, speaking for the first time.
"Do as your father says."

Estelle
let go and turned her tear-stained, despairing face to Olivia.
"Stop
him,
Olivia, he mustn't..." The rest of her sentence dissolved in a fresh burst
of sobs and then John, looking perfectly wretched, was marshalling her away
hurriedly through the nearest exit.

No
one else dared to intervene. If the frightened and fascinated onlookers had
understood little of Estelle's confused exhortations to her father, what they
did understand was that high drama was about to be enacted and they were damned
if they were going to miss any of it. The compacted excitement in the room was
intense, bouncing back and forth, up and down, against the walls and ceiling
like water sloshing around an inadequate container. Through the flurry of
Estelle's enforced removal, Raventhorne had remained silent. But now, as
everyone's attention focused on him, and Sir Joshua's challenge awaited a
response, he became mobile again. Casually he turned and strolled back to the
fireplace. Balancing an elbow on the mantelpiece, he crossed his ankles in a
stance of intended insolence. The curve
that slashed his hard mouth open did
not even pretend to be a smile, but it was audacious.

"No."

The
single syllable was said mildly, even amiably, and Sir Joshua stiffened.
"You refuse to offer me satisfaction, sir?"

"Oh,
absolutely!" Under his breath he made a sound that might have been a
laugh. "That, as you might recall, Sir Joshua, has always been the single
purpose of my life."

Nobody
even tittered. Closed into thin slits, Sir Joshua's shining brown eyes
registered no reaction to the taunt. He shrugged and, with continuing calm, dug
his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat and extracted a blue velvet packet.
"Very well. In that case, we might just as well settle the matter here. We
have enough witnesses." Swiftly he removed his coat, tossed it back into
Ransome's arms and started to unroll the blue velvet.

Raventhorne's
expression turned watchful, but he did not alter his posture. "Here?"

"Why
not? As good a place as any other, wouldn't you say?"

Slate
grey in their wariness, Raventhorne's eyes moved down to stare hard at the
careful, loving delicacy with which Sir Joshua's adroit fingers unwrapped his
possession. The palms of both hands now cradled the glinting metal of his twin
Colts. Tossing the velvet wrapping over his shoulder, he half smiled, but it was
Raventhorne who spoke. "I do not usually come to dinner-parties equipped
to duel, Sir Joshua. Had I been forewarned," he shifted the weight of one
foot onto the other and laced the fingers of his hands, "I would certainly
have dressed with greater care."

Taking
no cognisance of the mockery, Sir Joshua nodded. "Oh, I appreciate that.
Therefore I have come equipped for both." He went down on a knee and slid
one of the revolvers along the carpet. It spun with the accuracy of a
well-aimed missile to stop just a fraction before the toe of Raventhorne's
shining black shoe. "You may verify, or have verified by your chosen
second, that it is loaded in all chambers and is in perfect firing condition.
If you wish, you can test it yourself."

The
tremor that swept across the room was undulant, like an earthquake. Fevered
murmurs hummed in the air like swarms of bees. Huddled against each other in a
corner, a group of ladies stuffed dainty lace handkerchiefs in their mouths,
almost fainting with anticipation. Only one, however, had the gumption to
actually do so. Tight lipped, her husband looked the other way and it was left
to two young cavaliers to leap forward and hurriedly carry her out of the room.
The call of chivalry completed, they
returned equally hurriedly without any
loss of entertainment. If there was to be bloodshed, nobody wanted to miss it,
no
sah!
The remaining ladies valiantly sniffed courage out of their
ammonia vials and silently vowed not to swoon, at least not until it was all
over.

The
revolver, in the meantime, continued to lie at Raventhorne's feet. He had not
given it the courtesy of even a glance.

"Well?"
Sir Joshua's whip-lash query rang with impatience.

"No,
Sir Joshua. I commend your thoughtfulness, but I do not fight with borrowed
weapons." His expression was alert, but his manner was still casual, as if
in his offensiveness he merely played a game.

"Pick
it up, Raventhorne," Sir Joshua commanded evenly.

"No.
I do not fight with broken-down old crocks either!"

Nothing
changed in Sir Joshua's face. The ruthless self-discipline of decades appeared
to make him impervious to Raventhorne's continued barbs and taunts. Under the
circumstances, his control was admirable. "Whether you do or not, I intend
to kill you, Raventhorne. I hope that much, at least, is clear to you."

"By
all means try." Raventhorne's lip thinned in a sneer.
"If
you
have the accuracy left. And the guts."

"Oh,
I have both the accuracy and the guts!"

Raventhorne
laughed. It was a strange sound, neither full throated nor a chuckle, more an
expression of continuing scepticism. "You know as well as I do, Sir
Joshua," he said softly, "that you have never had the guts to kill
me. Nor
will
you ever have. Not even now."

Sir
Joshua frowned. "You are wrong, Jai," he said, enunciating with great
care. "It is not the guts that have been lacking. But whatever the lack,
it cannot prevail now. That you must already know." He inhaled; it was
almost like a sigh. "Very well, then. If this is the way you choose to
die, so be it. To give you a fighting chance, I will count up to three—"

"For
God's sake, man!" A figure leapt out of the hypnotised audience to
position himself between the two adversaries. It was Barnabus Slocum. His
forehead dripped sweat and his pendulous jowls quivered with pious indignation.
"You can't shoot an unarmed man in cold blood, Josh! Have you taken leave
of your senses? Dammit, sir, it . . . it's
illegal!"

"Shut
up, Barney." There was no heat in Sir Joshua's order, only irritation.
"Stay well out of this."

"Stay
out?" Slocum went scarlet and started to splutter. "Now, look here,
Josh, enough is en—"

"If
you don't step aside, Barney, I promise you will get hurt."

"Good
God, man, this is a civilised gathering. You can't carry on here like some
blasted highway hooligan!" The bright red face turned purple. "As an
officer of the law, in the name of Her Gracious Majesty, I forbid it, I
absolutely and categorically forb—"

"Do
stop blithering, Barney! This is not your business, even less Her Gracious
Majesty's." He raised the barrel of the Colt and aimed it squarely at
Slocum's bulging paunch. "Now get out of the way unless you want to be rid
of that beer belly in a hurry."

A
shrill, nervous giggle sounded in some far corner but was instantly throttled.
Already red veined with an excess of champagne, Slocum's eyes shot open wide in
alarm. He blinked, gulped a few times with an astonished orifice opening and
shutting like that of a gasping fish, then hastily opted for discretion over
valour. Cursing under his breath, he retreated and melted once more into the
crowd, duty done. Nobody else even considered intervention, and with good
reason. If Raventhorne was damn fool enough to meet his Maker with such
arrogant dispatch, then who were they to stop him? In any case, it couldn't
happen to a more deserving man.

"One."

Rumbling
comments sliced off sharply as Sir Joshua began his count. Paralysed into
immobility, Olivia finally stirred but as if in a dream. She felt she was under
water, her limbs pressing down with heaviness as she floated in and out of
herself far away from her coherent mind. "Stop him, please ..." The
mouth that moved was hers but the voice was somebody else's.

"No."
Ransome's skin was ash grey, but there was no hesitation in his response.
"It must come. Let it."