Ryman, Rebecca (88 page)

And
then, the following morning, Amos was returned!

Fatigue
forgotten, Olivia was delirious with joy. The child's howl of indignation as
she strangled him with a hug and covered
his face with kisses was music to her
ears, starved for so long of the sound. She could not stop touching him,
caressing him, savouring him like a hungry man suddenly presented a feast. He had
grown considerably even during that one month, and now actually had a tooth
showing. Mary Ling displayed the fine line of white in his gums as proudly as
if it had been her very own achievement.

Throughout
the day Olivia did nothing save sit and devour her son with her eyes. One by
one, she celebrated each of his new, unfamiliar aspects—the rounder plumpness
of his cheeks, the growing inquisitiveness in his darting grey eyes as they
perceived and appraised everything in the nursery, his denser riot of silken
black hair, the newly acquired sounds and gestures and little mannerisms. With
all their trials behind them—almost, almost!—she swore silently that they would
never again be parted, not for a moment, not if it was within her power to
prevent it.

But
in the meanwhile, there still remained a great deal to do. Infused with renewed
energy, Olivia settled down to prepare in earnest for her imminent departure.

Crates
reopened for the ball had to be packed and sealed again, the contents listed
for Donaldson's benefit. Unwanted bric-a-brac had to be given away to charity,
the staff's wages and baksheesh computed, gifts purchased for home, cupboards
and writing desks cleared, bills paid, office matters settled and, of course,
the house lease finalised with Lubbock. Mary's boisterous songs and Amos's
amusing responses up in the nursery as she worked greatly relieved the tedium
of Olivia's chores, and as she laboured she smiled almost in contentment. If
life gave her nothing else but her son and a return to her father, it would
have still given her enough.

The
pile of thank-you notes that were being delivered in a steady flow Olivia
discarded unread in her waste-paper basket. She had no wish to be reminded of
an evening that had brought nothing but all-around agony. One by one she went
through the compartments of her desk, throwing away without remorse the
accumulated impedimenta of months. It was as she shook out the final drawer
that something fell onto her desk flap with a metallic tinkle. For an instant
Olivia's breath caught; she had no recollection of having stored the silver
locket here. But then, ruthlessly, she swept that too into her waste-paper
basket. The past was finished, forgotten. She had no more need of its tawdry
souvenirs.

But
that night, irritatingly, she could not sleep. An odd little
prickle kept
gnawing away at her mind, refusing to let it rest. Finally, with a mild oath of
exasperation, she rose and walked towards what she knew to be at the core of
her problem: the waste-paper basket. Cursing both her compulsion and her
weakness in indulging it, she retrieved the locket and held it for a moment in
the palm of her hand. Against her pink skin it looked tarnished, even shoddy.
Returning to her bed she sat down, sighed heavily and, with her thoughts again
rampaging, started to polish it absently with a corner of her bed sheet.

In
marrying Freddie you have allowed him to appropriate something that I
considered to be mine.

It
was not, of course, to Amos that he had referred. It was to her! There was a time
when she would have been flattered by the conceit, but now it merely helped to
incense her further. Once, her affliction had been gullibility. It was not that
now, nor would it ever be again.
Mine!
With what infernal
presumptuousness he had staked a claim to what he himself had abandoned with
such irreversibility! And he had had the nerve to fabricate the existence of a
mythical letter, proud that he had written away her life and appended it with
his signature. How conveniently he had hidden behind silence rather than
explain that ultimate abomination, his shameless relationship with her cousin!
Mine? No, he had never accepted her as his, never, not for an instant, even
during that much flaunted affinity. Now, as smooth as cream, he had twisted the
facts to brand
her
as the villain. Perhaps not even Estelle in her
bovine stupidity was to blame. Perhaps. The culpability was totally his, his,
his.

And
he had called her a whore.

Olivia
recognised her rising fury for what it was, a weakness. A chink. A lacuna in
her character. No, she was not yet indifferent to Jai Raventhorne. The
testimony of the tremble in her hands, the smouldering embers of anger so ready
to flare, the intensity of her reaction to the sight of that damned locket—all
these were proof of her failure. Callously, Olivia tossed the locket into a
corner of her almirah, vowing to discard it later. But the embers continued to
smoulder; Jai Raventhorne had called her a whore. And he had not thought to ask
her, not once,
why
she had married Freddie!

Ironically,
that was the one question from Jai Raventhorne that Olivia still feared the
most!

"Any
further instructions for furniture and suchlike?" Willie Donaldson asked.
"Ships' rations are bloody near inedible. I've made arrangements for
plenty of dry stores and for two milking goats for the bairn."

Willie's
grave concern for her, and his obvious grief at her abandonment of Calcutta,
again touched Olivia. "No, Mr. Donaldson," she said gently, with
affection, "you have done more than enough as it is."

Gruffly,
he waved aside her gratitude. "Noo, aboot funds for the journey and after
. . ."

"I
have enough, thank you," she said and quickly steered him toward another
matter. "About Hal Lubbock—have you been in touch with him again?"

He
turned even more glum. "Aye. The danged dandiprat canna wait to move
in," he muttered sourly. "Her Ladyship would faint at the very idea
of that ill-mannered oaf loose aboot the manse." He brooded for a moment
on that, then sighed. "That loan Your Ladyship has made to Ransome . .
."

"Yes?
What about it?"

"Would
there be more loans being planned?"

"If
necessary. Why?"

As
an indication of his disapproval he tapped the point of his pencil against his
front tooth. "I would na advise it. Certainly na after what happened at
the manse that night." To Donaldson the Birkhurst house was always
the
manse
as if none other existed.

"Oh?
I'm sorry, but I don't see the connection."

He
bristled. "The connection is that Josh might be finished but the
Templewood and Ransome name plate still remains. The bastard's na going to rest
till he puts them right
oot
of business. He's going to hit oot in any
direction, and I happen to believe we should na be giving him provocation by
trying to salvage a sinking ship."

"We
are
not, Mr. Donaldson,
I
am. And you already know my views on that. In any
case," she retrieved some papers off his desk and rose, "I will not
be here when Mr. Raventhorne returns from Assam. Therefore his future designs,
evil or otherwise, are immaterial to me."

She
left Donaldson dissatisfied and still glowering at his feet, but by the time
she had reached home, Olivia had forgotten the conversation. It was Amos's
supper-time. As always, she liked to feed him his evening meal because he
gobbled it up with such amusing relish. With a sprightliness that would have
surely earned a sharp rebuke from Dr. Humphries, she ran up the stairs
to the top
floor and flung open the door of the nursery. But then she skidded to an abrupt
halt.

Sitting
cross-legged on the floor and feeding her son out of his little silver bowl as
he sat on her lap was her cousin Estelle.

Estelle?
Estelle . . .?
For a moment Olivia thought she was hallucinating. Why,
Estelle was well on her way to Cawnpore! Surely this was some horrible trick
being played on her by a hyperactive imagination?

But
then Estelle confirmed her flesh and blood manifestation and spoke. "Can
you believe it? The little imp actually
bit
me! Who would think that one
half of one tiny tooth could inflict such damage?" She laughed and wryly
held up a finger.

It
was the laugh that, like a splash of ice water, jolted Olivia back into
reality. Weak with shock, she clung trembling to the door-post. "What are
you doing here . . .?" she whispered, deathly white.

"I
came to see you." Estelle showed no sign of embarrassment. "I was
waiting downstairs when Amos started to cry. Naturally I had no idea that he
was here, so I ran up to see him. Mary was about to give him his supper. I took
charge of that and sent her and the ayah off for their meal." She looked
mildly accusing. "I persuaded John to postpone our going so that I could
see you." She chuckled the child under the chin and he gurgled.

"Get
out." Olivia's eyes were stricken and, try as she might, she could not
raise her voice above a whisper. The familiar fingers of fear played havoc with
her spine—
Estelle would know, Estelle already knew!
With a single blow
she had made a mockery of all her precautions, all her lies and her plottings
and her manifold deceptions. She ran forward and wrenched her son off her cousin's
lap.
"Get out!"
she screamed. "If you dare touch my son
again I... I'll
kill
you!"

Slowly
Estelle stood up, her face as chalky as her cousin's. "It's no use,
Olivia," she said, starting to tremble. "It's too late— you see, I
know that Jai is your son's father. Now give him back to me, can't you see he's
still hungry?" As if to confirm her observation, Amos emitted a furious
wail and started to struggle in Olivia's arms. Estelle calmly reached out to
retrieve him, then sat him up in his crib and began to feed him again.

Numb
with despair, Olivia had no strength to resist her. Slowly her rage dissolved
into an overwhelming sense of defeat. She had lost. She had been a blind fool
to even consider that she would not. There were too many variables against her,
there always had been. Sick with hopelessness, she slunk to the nearest
chair and
slumped into it. "Why did you not go to Cawnpore?" she asked dully.

"Because
John
felt that I should meet you and apologise in person."
Estelle's tone was flinty. "Whatever explanations I had wanted to make to
you earlier, explanations you would not hear, I felt you had forfeited the
right to have. I came here today only to please John. What I had not bargained
for was . . .," she faltered and her tone changed, "Amos." Unbidden,
a sob sounded in her throat and she could not suppress it. "I know now why
you have hated me so much . . ."

Wearily
Olivia dragged the back of her hand across her eyes, the fight flowing out of
her. "I don't hate you, Estelle. I just want you to go and leave me alone.
Please, Estelle, just. . .
go!"

Engrossed
in feeding the child, Estelle made no move to comply. "Jai does not know
that he has a son, does he." It was a statement, not a question.

Olivia
shuddered but could make no response. Too broken even for anger, she merely sat
with her chin lowered against her chest.

"That
is why you had to marry Freddie. I know now about Mama's attempt to kill
herself; I forced Uncle Arthur to tell me everything." The last of Amos's
supper gone, she wiped his mouth with a napkin and handed him a toy. "By
leaving Mama you risked having her make another attempt, as she had threatened
to. By staying, you risked a scandal even more horrendous, considering who
Amos's father is." Her voice cracked and her china blue eyes suddenly
welled. "Yes, you do have cause to hate me. Your hate is entirely
justified, Olivia. Oh God,
how
justified!"

"Estelle,
please . . ."

Embarked
at last on her voyages of belated discovery, Estelle could not be stopped.
"
I
was the ill-starred, ill-fated weapon Jai used to destroy your
life, and I never even suspected it!"

"The
time for penitence and recriminations has passed, Estelle!" Loathing the
prospect of post mortems, Olivia harshly scythed through her remorse.
"Explanations are now irrelevant. Can't you see it's too late for all
that?"

"For
you, maybe," Estelle cried, her tone equally resolute, "but not for
me.
Can't
you
see that now more than ever I must convince you that Jai
has never been my lover?"