Ryman, Rebecca (99 page)

He
pinked. "I dinna mean . . ." He hid his embarrassment behind a cough.
"Anyway, what might be the purpose of this sudden decision, if I may be
bold enough to inquire?" By God, the American lassie was beginning to
sorely try his patience!

"I'm
going to request Mr. Raventhorne to restore our credit."

His
jaw swung loose, exposing the wad of shag that was a permanent resident within.
"Just
like that?"

"Yes.
Just like that."

There
were times when Donaldson admired and respected his owner's wife enormously,
but this was not one of them. Now he was in serious doubt of her sanity, and
even more appalled. "He'll insult you, he'll . . . he'll show you the
door! You've na experience of his tongue but, by
Christ,
I
have.
He's
a right mean
son of a bloody sea cook, lass, and that's a fact." As always when
agitated, he dropped his formalities.

"Show
me the door? Oh, surely not, Mr. Donaldson!" Olivia looked shocked.
"Why, he was charming with me at my party,
charming."

"I'm
na talking of bloody parties," Donaldson raged, chomping furiously on his
tobacco. "I'm talking of business,
hard
business. We
know
why
he cancelled our credit—he's na going to restore it
just like that!"

"Oh,
I don't know. He might. In my experience Mr. Raventhorne can be very reasonable
when approached politely. What I intend to do is to appeal to his sense of fair
play."

"Fair
p—?" Willie Donaldson turned speechless.

"It's
worth a try. If he refuses, well, we're no worse off than we are now, are
we?"

"It's
the
manner
in which he will refuse—and he damn well will—that sticks in
my craw, lass. For a Baroness of Farrowsham to be shown discourtesy by that
uncouth, ill-bred—"

"He
will not show me any discourtesy, Mr. Donaldson. That much I assure you.
Believe me, our Kala Kanta is not entirely without social graces."

He
gave up and, rigid with disapproval, shrugged. "As Your Ladyship deems
best. My humble duty is but to advise as I consider fit."

That
night when Willie Donaldson related the day's events to his wife, as he always
did each evening, he made no bones about his perturbation. "She's up to
something devious again, my love. I'd give my last poond of haggis to know what
it damn well
is."

"Och,
the puir wee lass, Will," Cornelia Donaldson chided with a frown.
"All alone at the mercy of that savage hellion— imagine!"

Over
the rim of his glasses and from behind his four-month-old copy of
The
Scotsman,
her husband withered her with a look. "You dinna see that
bloody glint in the lass's eyes, love. I did. If it's sympathy you want to
dispense, I suggest you keep it for the savage hellion."

"The
Sarkar . . .?"

Ranjan
Moitra blinked owlishly behind his neat, gold-framed spectacles, unable to
believe the evidence before his eyes. A
lady in the Trident offices, a white
mem? And that too,
this
mem . . .? Oh, great mother Kali—it was
unthinkable!

"If
you please, Mr. Moitra. I need to see Mr. Raventhorne for a few moments."
She opened her purse and, smiling cordially, handed him an exquisite ivory and
gilt visiting-card. "I have already established that he is in his
office."

Ranjan
Moitra swallowed hard. "Yes... no, er, I shall see..." Holding the
card gingerly by a corner, he hurried away.

Mesmerised
by the splendid vision Olivia presented, the uniformed doorman seemed awestruck
by her finery. He was not to know, of course, with what effort she sustained
her assumed hauteur, or at what absurd speed her heartbeats galloped beneath
the bodice of her cool, leaf green linen dress cut with such perfection.
Outwardly she radiated confidence, the elegance of her appearance positively
regal to those unused to such sophistication. Osprey feathers cascaded down
from the crown of her wide-brimmed green suede hat raffishly tilted over one
eye. A fine black veil obscured her features but not enough to conceal the
arrogance in them. Even though it was the middle of the morning, discreet
diamonds glinted around her neck and on her ears, reinforcing the
imperiousness. Had it not been for the billowing folds of a very full skirt,
the doorman would have certainly noticed that her legs shook badly and
occasionally her knees knocked against each other.

Moitra
returned. "I regret, Your Ladyship, that the Sarkar is unavailable."
He looked desperately unhappy. "He presents sincere apologies but is
unable to see you this morning." His manner was deferential and suitably
rueful but he could not meet her eyes. "Perhaps another time given prior
intimation . . ."

"Given
prior intimation, Mr. Moitra," Olivia pointed out pleasantly, "I have
no doubt your Sarkar would have arranged to be out. I require very little of
his time and I'm afraid I cannot wait." Brushing past him, she walked out
of the antechamber in which they stood and, giving him no further opportunity
to protest, marched into the main offices beyond.

"Your
Ladyship . . .!" He hurried in after her looking hapless, trickles of
perspiration starting to trail down his temples. "The Sarkar is truly
engrossed at the moment. He cannot be disturbed, I assure—"

"Engrossed
or not, Mr. Moitra, he will have to spare me some time. My business is
urgent." Halting in her majestic sweep down the central aisle of what was
the clerks' room, she retained her pleasant smile but her voice rang with
authority. "I too have
other matters to attend to. Would you therefore be
so kind as to announce me?"

A
hush had settled over the room as serried rows of clerical staff laid down
their quills and sat back to listen with interest, all eyes on the
extraordinary sight of Ranjan Moitra in confrontation with a white-skinned mem.
For him, second only to the Sarkar in the Trident hierarchy, it was an
impossible situation. He gulped again and mopped his dripping brow.
"Perhaps tomorrow morning?"

"No,
Mr. Moitra,
now."

A
ripple of astonishment floated across the staff sitting cross-legged on white
floor cushions before the traditional Indian knee-high desks. Moitra flushed.
It was unthinkable for him to lose face before his subordinates at the hands of
a woman. "Very well," he said stiffly, pulling himself up and
assuming an air of control, "I will again make a request to the Sarkar
for—"

"That
will not be necessary, Ranjan." The quiet, measured tones came from an
archway at the far end of the room. "I will see Lady Birkhurst. Would you
kindly show her into my office?"

Their
encounter at her party had come as a surprise to Olivia. This one, however, she
had planned carefully. Even so, she felt her audacity waver in the rush of
blood that flooded her temples, and her hands turned clammy. "Thank
you."

As
Raventhorne turned and vanished from view, she started to follow Ranjan Moitra
in the path he had vacated, keeping her thoughts deliberately on the
trivialities around her.

For
all its commercial prosperity, the Trident office was Spartan, like every other
environment Jai Raventhorne inhabited. There were no outward indications of the
power it enjoyed in the corporate structure of the city, no signs of that
opulence so beloved of others who had made their mark in Calcutta's mercantile
achievements. The accommodation was extensive, airy and immaculately clean, but
arranged solely for function. The walls were whitewashed, the floors plain,
uncarpeted and of sombre marble. The staff was all male and dressed like
Moitra, in traditional dhoti and
kurta,
for it was well known that
Raventhorne employed no Europeans on his immediate staff as a matter of
hubristic policy. Raventhorne's personal office, into which Moitra ushered her
now with due ceremony, was not appreciably different in character. There were
no deep-pile Persian carpets, no triumphant trophies from conquests in other
lands, no jade and porcelain antiques, no proud evidence of marksmanship
mounted on the walls. Only in one corner was there a westernised seating
arrangement of
three chairs and a low table, perhaps as a concession to European visitors. And
under domed glass were exquisitely fabricated scale models of Trident's fleet
of clippers.

As
Olivia entered, Raventhorne rose briefly. It was, she deduced with some
amusement, only as a concession to Moitra's presence. He did not extend his
hand, nor did she offer hers. Politely, Moitra pulled out a chair for her so
that she could sit facing Raventhorne at his desk. "Thank you, Mr.
Moitra." She smiled her gratitude. "I find it difficult to stand for
any length of time these days."

So
far, Raventhorne had suffered her presence impassively, with no identifiable
expression to give away his thoughts. The deliberate reference to her pregnancy
brought a slow flush creeping across his face. Catching it in her peripheral
vision as she sat down, Olivia smiled to herself; behind that mask of studied
off-handedness, Raventhorne was desperately uneasy! Apart from the flamboyance
with which she displayed Birkhurst jewellery and the sartorial finery she could
now well afford, what made him uncomfortable was the fact of her condition. A
slow, acid anger built up inside Olivia. How easily he had absolved himself of
all responsibility!

"Well?"

The
offensively brusque question came as soon as Moitra had left the room. Olivia
ignored it to make a small ceremony of lifting the veil off her face with
unhurried deliberation. Having completed the task, through which Raventhorne
sat with ill-concealed impatience, she turned her attention briefly to the
chair upon which she sat. "Chippendale?" she asked, tapping a
fingernail on the arm. "I'm surprised you didn't prefer something less
European."

His
expression chilled further. "I can hardly believe this brazen expedition
is merely to discuss furniture with me!" The hooded gaze flicked across
her diamond necklace and his jaw tightened. "What is it that you
want?"

Olivia
pondered. What was it that she wanted from Jai Raventhorne—apart from her life
back? The anger expanded but she continued to smile cordially at him across the
unfathomable abyss of hostility that divided them forever. "What I want is
very simple. I want you to restore Farrowsham's credit."

Astonishment
flickered in the eyes Olivia would have given almost anything never to have had
the misfortune to look into. It was evident that whatever else he might have
expected, it was not such bald effrontery. He laughed. "And is that
all?"

"For
the moment, yes."

The
smile snapped off his mouth as he glared at the ivory visiting-card that lay on
the desk before him. "Well, that's settled easily enough—the answer is
no.
In spite of your newly acquired authority in your husband's Agency, there
is a great deal you still need to learn about business methods, especially
mine. Donaldson should have known better than to depute you as his
emissary." He sat back and scowled.

"Appealing
to your finer instincts was my idea, not Donaldson's." She kept the
mockery out of her tone, but that which was subsumed in the remark itself
brought another flush to his face. "Donaldson doesn't believe that you
have any. Finer instincts, that is."

He
raised a caustic eyebrow. "And you do?"

"Well,
we shall see. The fact is that you took the decision against Farrowsham out of
petty pique. To penalise Freddie's Agency for no fault of theirs is iniquitous.
I felt that, perhaps, if I appealed to you with due—what is the word I want? Ah
yes, due
humility
—you might be reasonable enough to reverse your
decision."

She
heard his indrawn breath, although it was very soft, and he started to look
faintly, almost imperceptibly, puzzled as if suddenly out of his depth.
Pleasant and noncommittal, she made sure that her own expression gave away
nothing. Secretly, she exhilarated in his discomfiture. Within him
somewhere—everywhere!—she could feel his creases of anger. He could not tell the
direction in which she was going, but he knew that she continued to mock him.

"I
do not reverse decisions once taken." The clipped dismissal came with
finality, but the puzzlement was replaced by a certain circumspection.
"You should have had sense enough to be guided by Donaldson."