Ryman, Rebecca (95 page)

Equally
startled, Estelle snapped out of her ruminations. "I
only said,
since Jai intended to return to Calcutta within six months with a swift
turnaround from England ..." She faltered, again nervous. "D-did I
say something wrong . . .?"

With
a low, mumbled incoherency, Olivia shook her head and buried her attention
again in the crochet bonnet she was making for Amos. Six months! A drop in the
ocean of time, and yet an eternity! How had he presumed that she
did
have
six months to spare? That his offhand, unilateral decision would dovetail
neatly into her own compulsions? And, having abandoned her without a word of
explanation, did he really believe in his arrogance that she would
still
be
waiting for him like a bonded slave purchased by some feudal plantation owner?
Olivia curdled with fury, with bitterness, but no change was noticeable in the
resolute serenity of her face.

Nevertheless,
she gathered up her sewing materials and replaced them in her wicker-work
basket. She was, she decided, tiring of Estelle's recollections, tiring of the
sound of Jai Raventhorne's
name and of all the virtues Estelle had suddenly
discovered in him. However profound her compassion for her bereaved cousin,
that name buzzed in Olivia's ears like a poisonous insect with sting upraised.
It threatened her mental equilibrium, infected her reason and, in the final
analysis, it was offensive to her self-respect as a woman.

"You
look tired, Estelle," she said as lightly as she could so as not to wound
her feelings. "And you distress yourself even more with all these heart
searchings. We have all the time we want at our disposal—why don't we leave the
rest for another day?"

Anxious
to please in any way she could, Estelle accepted her dictum at face value and
with meekness.

The
days of mandatory rest, of enforced idleness, infused new strength into
Olivia's mind and body. Eventually, even Dr. Humphries declared himself
satisfied with her progress. What he categorically refused to even consider,
however, was her tentative question about the possibility of sailing. She was
certainly not well enough for
that,
he growled—but, if she insisted, he
would allow her a few hours a day at the Agency. "Provided," he
warned, "there are no more high jinks around town! We still have to be
cautious. On the other hand, we don't want you to atrophy into a cabbage, do
we?"

Olivia
bowed to his judgement with resignation. It would be self-destructive not to
when she was bearing a child who depended on her own health, when that child
would some day mean so much to so many. And then, even brief visits to the
Agency were better than mental stagnation at home. Olivia realised that in
elitist colonial society it was considered scandalously immodest for a pregnant
woman to be seen in public. She had flouted the norm once and had received
harsh criticism for her defiance. To do so again would be deemed tantamount to
open rebellion—not that she gave a damn about that.

"Oh,
fiddlesticks!" It was Estelle who supported Dr. Humphries's suggestion
with the most enthusiasm. "To hell with so-called propriety! No matter
what one does here,
someone
always has
something
to say about it,
so why worry? Besides, by going to the Agency you won't have to suffer all
those who still call every day to give me their condolences."

All
of which was true. Estelle's daily visitors were a penance for Olivia although
she had taken great care not to show that, especially never to her cousin. That
Estelle should have noticed it anyway and endorsed the remedy touched Olivia,
and she said so. Estelle went crimson with pleasure; even this scrap of
approval she received with boundless gratification. Emboldened perhaps by
Olivia's few words of praise, she ventured a step on territory she had never
dared to invade before.

"You're
not ever going to join Freddie in England, are you?"

The
sudden inquiry jolted Olivia but she saw no cause for concealment.
"No."

"He
knows the identity of Amos's father?"

"Yes."

"Is
it because of that that he will not accept him?"

It
was an astute deduction, another sign of her maturity. "Yes."

Olivia's
intention had not been to give another turn to the knife already buried deep in
Estelle's conscience, but her cousin was crushed with remorse. "For me,
who deserves it so little," she whispered, "something at least has
turned out well. But for you, with no crime, no blame, nothing has gone right.
Oh, if only we could somehow go back in time and live it all again!"

"If
we could live it all again, nothing would be different," Olivia commented.
"What the past teaches us is that the past teaches us nothing. Given
second chances, we would all make precisely the same mistakes."

Even
though Estelle was by now used to her cousin's cynicism, the frequently acerbic
remarks with which she spiced her conversation, she winced. How much Olivia had
changed! Nothing truly touched her anymore. Like a land struck with drought, she
had withered. So little took root in that infertile region of a heart once lush
with plenitude. And how vitriolic her tongue, even when cruelty was unintended!
This feral arrow, Estelle knew, was not aimed at her alone, but finding a
vulnerable opening it entered and pierced deep.

"Don't
destroy all my illusions; leave me some to survive on!" The lid flew off
Estelle's trapped sorrow; she cried out in anguished protest. "I want to
believe that if I
did
live again, I would cherish Mama, inundate her
with a love she could not deny, beg forgiveness for every harsh word I ever
spoke. I would
will
them, Mama and Papa, to abandon their secret, and so
avert all our wasteful tragedies. In this second incarnation I would be spared
the knowledge that I took your life away, condemned my
mother to an
eternal limbo. I would not have as a companion as chronic as my breath the
awareness that. . . that I
conspired
to kill my father!"

Olivia
was taken aback by the ferocity of the sudden eruption. "The blame is not
only yours, Estelle, we all—"

"Yes,
we all contributed, I know—but that no longer consoles. It makes it even more
painful. I have lost Papa and Mama, both of whom I did love to distraction but,
shamefully, with them my resentments have not been lost. They lied to me,
goaded Jai into terrible things, incited me to rebellion uncaring that I was a
fool, a pampered child engrossed only in herself. And then they questioned my
innocence. Papa looked at me like . . . like high-caste Hindus look at
sweepers, as if I were
untouchable.
What a legacy he left me, Olivia! I
can
never
forgive him that."

Still
startled by her cousin's bitterness, her burning sense of injury, Olivia
allowed Estelle her say without comment. It had to be aired sometime; better
now than to let it corrode her forever. All she ventured, mildly, was,
"The brother you have found is also part of that legacy, Estelle. At least
that
you consider as a gain."

"Yes—a
brother hated by everyone, even you! Hated for many faults that were part of
his
legacy from his father. They shared the same moral contamination, hated the
same weaknesses, turned sentiment into a crime. When I pointed that out to
Papa, he merely hid behind that stubborn silence, but I know now that my
defence of Jai enraged him more, reinforced his determination to kill him,
convinced him finally that I
was
guilty. Oh, what a mess, what a
mess
we helped each other make of everything, Olivia . . . !"

A
mess.
Yes, that it was. But what would Estelle have to say, Olivia wondered, if she
could surmise how much more mess was now waiting to be added?

Willie
Donaldson was overjoyed to have Olivia back at the Agency, but he would have
died rather than confess just how much he had missed her these past weeks of
her indisposition. He already knew that she had no plans to leave station in
the immediate future and this too delighted him. The incidental benefit of her
decision to stay he was unlikely to miss either: The sacrosanct manse was not
to be defiled by an alien presence after all! But
once the formalities were over
and he had finished bringing Olivia up to date with current developments,
Donaldson revived a subject that was uppermost in his mind. The subject now not
only disturbed him, it was beginning to alarm him seriously: her continuing
loans to Arthur Ransome.

"I
appreciate, Your Ladyship, that personal considerations have much to do with
your generosity." He was formal in the extreme. "No doot, poor Josh's
untimely accident has added to Your Ladyship's sentiments. But," he loaded
the qualification with meaning,
"but,
Your Ladyship must see that
in my own sentiment for Caleb's Agency, I
canna
allow Farrowsham to
become a target for
any
bloody lunatic in a danged fight that's not even
ours. To me, such intervention is oot
rag
eous!" He calmed down to turn
earnestly persuasive. "Templewood and Ransome are finished. With Josh
gone, irredeemably. We canna breathe life into a corpse, Your Ladyship,
certainly na at the cost of ending in the mortuary ourselves."

"They
are not yet in the bankruptcy courts, Mr. Donaldson," Olivia reminded him,
annoyed. "They still do have assets left. I mean to see that they get a
square deal when they sell them."

"Ransome
is na exactly incapable, Your Ladyship! He's as old a hand at the bleeding game
as any of us."

"I
know, but in his present frame of mind he's disinclined to fight. He'll make
distress sales and lose the value of even those assets he has left. I merely
loan him the wherewithal to survive until he can regain his equilibrium."

"Assets,
hah!"
Donaldson snorted, as unconvinced as ever. "A hoose in
Barrackpore falling to ruin, Ransome's bungalow for which na offer is likely to
be received, likewise the Templewood hoose. The
Sea Siren
's already gone
for scrap to Banaji's shipyard in Kidderpore, but even Banaji won't touch the
Daffodil..."

"Well,
I happen to disagree, Mr. Donaldson. Those houses are still good, solid real
estate properties and the
Daffodil
might be a wreck but she's far from
done. Refurbished, she could still give yeoman service to some less affluent merchant."

"You
reck'n any sane sailing man would look twice at that toothless, worm-eaten old
hag?" He made another sound indicating disgust. "Bar Raventhorne, of
course. Na that anyone with his marbles intact would call
that
eccentric
bastard
sane!"

"Raventhorne?"
Olivia stared at him blankly. "He's back from Assam?"

"Aye.
Gossip is he's putting oot feelers for a purchase."

For
weeks now Olivia had been preparing herself for the
moment of
Raventhorne's return to Calcutta. She had managed to even persuade herself that
she was absolutely ready for the eventuality. But now, she was aghast at the
swiftness with which Donaldson's brief syllable of confirmation had reinvoked
her heavy sense of dread. Somehow she hid her apprehension behind seeming
unconcern and stilled her hands fidgeting nervously in her lap. Donaldson's
other bit of news, momentarily forgotten, now leapt to mind and she looked
surprised, certain that she had misheard him.