Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  "Pater?"

  "His father," Freddie translated. "We were both sent down together from Oxford. Our old boys were livid, justifiably I daresay. Awful disgrace, blot on the family escutcheon and so forth. Everyone thought we were less likely to soil the family linen further in the good old colonies, eh Peter?" He hiccupped, pardoned himself and staggered off towards the bar.

  Olivia stared after him helplessly. "Sent down?"

  "Expelled. You know, kicked out." Barstow grinned. "Stroke of luck, really. Couldn't stand the musty old mausoleum anyway." He sipped and over the rim of his glass surveyed Olivia reflectively. "Tell me, Miss O'Rourke, since you do tolerate this blasted country so well, how do you fill the long, dismal hours of the day? Believe me, it is truly for knowledge that I thirst."

  The mockery was thinly veiled but Olivia let it pass. "Well, I ride every morning and explore the town, I read a great deal and I enjoy making mundane, everyday discoveries. There's so much to learn, I find, about this strange subcontinent."

  "Learn?" He looked astonished. "Come, come, my dear Miss O'Rourke, we're not here to learn, we're here to teach!"

  This time Olivia bristled under his patronization. "Oh really? Then you tell me, Mr. Barstow, having been sent down from Oxford and banished to the colonies, what precisely are you qualified to teach the Indians?"

  He flushed but covered up with a murmured "Touché!" Nevertheless his faded blue eyes showed pique. "I hear from Calcutta's other gentry that you, Miss O'Rourke, are a young lady of considerable spirit. As such, might I inquire how you agreed to become a willing member of the fishing fleet? I'm sure you will not resent the question since American women are so admirably blunt and forthright."

  "The fishing fleet?" Olivia looked blank.

  "You are not familiar with the term?" He ran the tip of his finger along a well-waxed moustache. "Permit me then to enlighten you. Each year hordes of young ladies come to India with the specific purpose of finding a husband. In local parlance we refer to them as the fishing fleet. If they are unsuccessful in their hunt, as some sadly are, and are forced to leave without having made a catch, we call them returned empties." He chuckled, then added quickly, "Not that anyone as lovely as you, Miss O'Rourke, could possibly be a part of the return contingent, and certainly not if Lady Bridget's endeavours succeed."

  The arrogant smartass! Olivia went cold with fury, but silently. Death rather than let him have the satisfaction of knowing that she was in any way riled! "Because we American women are blunt and forthright, Mr. Barstow," she said with a pleasant smile, "some might consider your generous words to be a proposal of marriage. Are they?" She had the great pleasure of seeing his face turn purple and his jaw loosen. "No? Well, I can't deny that I am relieved. There are some fates in life possibly worse than being a returned empty after all. Do excuse me." With a tinkling laugh she swept away from him and plunged into the crowd, inwardly fuming.

  From the far end of the room Lady Bridget beamed. How well Olivia was conducting herself with the young men if that smile was to be believed! Of course, Barstow's family even with a titled second cousin was not in the same class as Freddie's, but they were not to be scorned. Satisfied for the moment, Lady Bridget happily returned to the subject of prickly heat with her hostess.

  Blissfully, Olivia saw that Freddie had disappeared from her immediate vicinity. Taking quick advantage of his absence before it was too late, she pressed through the room towards the verandah, which led into the back garden. En route a Mrs. Babcock, wife of a Methodist clergyman, complained bitterly about the miserable, utterly miserable, subsidies her husband received from the church compared to those dispensed by the American Missionary Society in Bombay and seemed to hold Olivia solely responsible for the inequity. Estelle floated by briefly for reassurance that her emerald georgette was indeed superior to Charlotte Smithers's overdone London confection. And a Lieutenant Pringle, resplendent in naval uniform, and some others asked for their names to be added to her dance card.

  The back garden was deserted. Only two bearers, turbaned and white coated, stood silently on call. Trained never to stare sahibs and memsahibs in the face, they lowered their eyes and salaamed as Olivia ran past onto the lawn. The wall that demarcated the Pennworthys' property from the embankment was high, but the wrought iron gate set in it, though locked, was manageable. With a quick glance over her shoulder Olivia hitched up her skirts and easily swung over the gate to the other side.

  The hour was late and there was no one about on the embankment. Grateful for the privacy, Olivia swallowed huge lungfuls of cool air and sighed with relief. It was a remarkably clear night. Clusters of stars hung low against the smooth black satin of the sky. A melon moon, yet to rise fully, hovered over the horizon entangled in silhouetted palm fronds. Save for nature's orchestrations, the silence was untrammelled. Leaves rustled; occasionally the distant splash of oars echoed across the Hooghly. Nightjars bickered, river frogs croaked and the inevitable symphony of cicadas struck varying chords in the dark. In the flickering light of a rising moon Olivia saw a flight of stone steps leading to the river. She ran down it, removed her sandals and sat down on the last step to trail her finger-tips in the welcome coolness.

  In the immense dark the distances seemed endless and unfettered. As always, the solitude of the night brought with it a soaring sense of freedom, a vast liberation of the spirit. Memories stirred, surged and flew across space and time to evoke visions and voices that would not be stilled. Olivia's mind raced back to other nights similar to this when she was with her father and rain smell steamed up through the earth to fill the world with freshness. It was on one such night that she had stood beside him by the mighty Mississippi gazing across its steady flow crinkled in the silvery moonlight. In the infinite silences where only the wind made footfalls in the mind he had said, "The virgin land you see before you, my darling, is a wilderness today, but tomorrow, within our very lifetime, this barrenness will explode and the blessed earth, this earth of America, will throw forth giants. One day we will be proud of what this fallowness will produce, for its fruit will startle the world. It is a grand scheme, Olivia, and you and I too are part of it."

  She had been barely twelve then but she had never forgotten his words. He had spoken with awe, with such passion and simple faith, that now the remembrance again tightened her throat. It had seemed like a miracle that she too could have a share of this promise, of the future of this sweet-sour, soft-savage land out of which people like her father were hacking a nation. Transported across oceans and continents and chasms of dividing loneliness, Olivia thought of Sally and One-Eyed Jack and Bucktooth and Red Feather and Sally's boys, and of Greg. Especially of Greg. She saw that careful smile, those quiet, clear eyes and that sadness in them when she had left. She thought of Spike, her untidy mongrel rescued as a pup from coyotes, and of her Appaloosa, Domino, with his white hide and black spots with a touch of roan, which her father had given her when she turned thirteen. In her inner vision she saw the orchards and the corrals and the paddock rife with the scent of newly mown hay, and in her nostrils she smelt the generous promise of Sally's frying doughnuts to be smothered in sugar and cinnamon, the hickory smoke from the barbecue pit and the foul odour of those cheroots her father refused to abandon. She wondered if it was day or night in California, and was it warm? Wet? Who was frying her father's morning eggs in grease sunny side up on that Nantucket whaler? Reminding him of letters to be written, shoe-laces to be tied, ink stains to be removed from shirt cuffs that never seemed without them . . .?

  The lump in Olivia's throat hardened; self-pity bubbled up and spilled out, overwhelming her like a shroud. What oh what was she doing here, an eternity removed from her beginnings, from everything and everyone she loved? Consumed by melancholy and despair, she cushioned her cheek on her knees and did precisely what she had vowed she would not. She cried.

  How long Olivia wept softly to herself she could not assess. But, as she was drying her tears and feeling better for having
shed them, she stiffened. She felt, suddenly, that she was not alone. Peering over her shoulder she could see no one, but the sensation of being watched was so strong that one by one the hairs at the nape of her neck started to tingle. Nervously, she turned again. And stilled. Something had stirred against a shrub. Then, in the shadowed dark, the faint movement resolved slowly into the outline of a human form.

  As her aunt's repeated warnings rushed back to her, Olivia felt a prickle of fear. In a reflex action born of habit she groped for her purse, which carried her derringer. Reassured, she breathed more easily again. Who was this person sitting behind her? Why? What could his intentions be if not criminal? She was about to get up and hurry away from what might well be trouble, when he spoke.

  "Do not be alarmed. I sit here doing exactly what you are— savouring the solitude." The voice was cultured and the language he used was English. Olivia was on the point of relaxing her guard when he asked, "Why were you crying?"

  She went rigid again. He had sat in silence while she cried? As an invasion of privacy it was unforgivable! "I was under the impression, obviously mistaken," she said stiffly, "that I was alone."

  "Oh, but you are alone." He rose, walked unhurriedly down the steps and stood against a tree trunk with his arms crossed. "We are all alone. That is how we come into the world and that is how we will go. Alone and, in both instances, unconsulted."

  A wit to boot! She was not impressed. "Courtesy required that you make your presence known to me." She was both annoyed and embarrassed. Who on earth was he—another refugee from the Pennworthys? "I dislike being spied upon."

  "If I took you by surprise, I apologise willingly. I had no intention of spying, I assure you. I usually walk my dogs here at night. They enjoy the exercise and I the solitude."

  In the distance Olivia picked up the sounds of barking, and the slight emphasis on the word solitude could hardly be missed. "If it is I who have unwittingly poached on your preserve," she said with a private heightening of colour, "then it is from me that an apology is due."

  "You misunderstand me. My solitude is enforced so I make a virtue out of a necessity. Your presence is in no way intrusive, on the contrary." Unlocking the shadow of his person from the foliage behind, he sat down at the far end of the step.

  He had spoken politely enough and Olivia's resentment changed into curiosity. She could discern nothing of his face, but she could see that he was tall and wore a light-coloured shirt above dark trousers. Surely he could not have been at the party in that apparel? Betty Pennworthy would have had a fit!

  "Well, what is the caper like?" He broke the silence to dispel her unspoken conjectures. A flash of white indicated that he had smiled. "But you don't really need to answer that question. The fact that you yourself choose to sit out here on your own is testimony enough."

  Sour grapes? Someone chagrined at being left off the guest list? "It was hot. I felt the need for some fresh air, which is the only reason I'm here." She asked pointedly, "Do you know the Pennworthys?"

  He uncrossed his arms and shrugged. "Calcutta is a strange animal. In size, it is a town; in commercial and political importance, a city and a capital. But in terms of social maturity it is a village. And, as in all villages, whether deserving of acquaintanceship or not, everyone knows everyone else."

  It was an observation, however acerbic, that could hardly be denied, so she nodded. "Yes, I guess it's the same in all closed communities." At that he laughed under his breath but said nothing even though she had the feeling that he almost had.

  Etiquette demanded that he withhold his identity no longer, but he made no effort to introduce himself. Nor did he seem to wish to learn her identity! The lapse, obviously deliberate, made Olivia uneasy again. Apart from his reticence, his manner was altogether unusual. Had she been at home, she would have thought nothing of his unorthodoxy. In America's diverse melting pot, oddballs proliferated; but here, where society was mannered and rules clear-cut and rigid, the man seemed strangely out of place for a European. Intending to leave forthwith, she rose to her feet. However, before she could either move or speak, two enormous black dogs came bounding out of the night to circle her with angry barks and root her to the spot.

  "Don't be frightened," the man assured her calmly. "They won't harm you unless they have instructions to do so. If you stand still for a moment they can satisfy themselves that you bear them no ill will." He sounded almost amused, as if explaining an elementary fact to a child.

  With no other option, Olivia did as suggested while the dogs conducted their investigations with sniffs and squeals and suspicious growls. Both animals were sleek and obviously well trained, for at the sound of their master's low whistle, they immediately abandoned her to flop on either side of him with tongues hanging out and ears still erect and on guard.

  He patted each head in turn with obvious fondness. "This is Saloni and this handsome brute glaring at you rudely is Akbar. They are the best friends I have. They protect me with their lives."

  Olivia's trapped breath exhaled in a gush of relief but she remained standing. "I'm not surprised you need protection," she said severely, "if you sneak up in the dark and frighten the unwary half to death!"

  He laughed. "Had I frightened you half to death you would have returned the compliment by pulling your derringer on me."

  Astonished, she sat down again. "How do you know that I carry a derringer?"

  "Doesn't every sensible American woman in a precarious situation? And what could be more precarious than one of these infernal burra khanas?" He laughed again.

  Olivia drew in her breath sharply. "How, may I ask, do you know that I am American?"

  "And sensible?" He stretched out his legs to make himself more comfortable. "Because Calcutta is a village and the grapevine is extremely effective. And a sensible white woman stands out here like a bird of paradise among cackling hens."

  She found the compliment dubious and offhanded, and the direction of the conversation uncomfortably personal. Furthermore, his deliberate refusal to announce his identity was disconcerting. Once more Olivia decided it was an opportune moment to leave, but as she got up, both dogs also rose in unison and growled. Irritably, she sat down again. "Do you think you could possibly instruct your life's protectors to allow me to go?" she asked acidly. "Any moment I expect a search party to come looking for me and it would be humiliating."

  He made no move to call off his dogs. Instead, he settled back even more comfortably and laced his fingers behind his head. "I assure you that you will not be missed, except by one or two. And since it is to avoid the one or two that you are here in the first place, a precipitous return would defeat the object of the exercise. Besides," he smiled caustically, "the dancing will have already started and dinner will not be served before eleven. And there will be plenty of simpering girls only too willing to grab those dances you have promised and missed."

  His assessments were so accurate that despite their bluntness Olivia had to smile. Her aunt would perhaps be looking for her, but then, so also might Freddie! Apart from other considerations, however, it was soothing to stay out here by the river, and she could not deny that there was something about this anonymous stranger that intrigued her, much as his perceptions made her uncomfortable. Against her better judgement, Olivia hesitated.

  He misinterpreted her hesitation. "I have already pleaded guilty to having surprised you, Miss O'Rourke, but I assure you I am not in the habit of actually attacking the unwary—especially those who are armed."

  She sat down heavily. "You know my name?"

  "Obviously."

  "How do you know who I am?"

  "I don't, except in social parlance. Strictly speaking, it can never be said that anyone truly knows anyone else."

  "That is either very lofty metaphysics," she scoffed, "or very low prevarication. Which are you—a philosopher or a double-dealer?"

  He threw back his head and laughed with such genuine amusement that Olivia could not restrain her own laug
h. "You know, sometimes I wonder myself! But is it possible to be one without the other? Let's just say that I have a touch of both, depending on the circumstances."

  She frowned. "I find that deplorably cynical!"

  "Perhaps. It's difficult to live in this world and not be a cynic."

  "And that," she said firmly, "I find cheap. My father says cynicism is a convenient disguise for moral cowards."

  "Your father is a man of words, not action. Maybe that's why."

  Olivia had not considered that this outspoken stranger could have surprised her further, but this time he startled her. "You... know of my father?" she gasped. "How?"

  He hesitated briefly. "I have read some of his writings."

  "Where?" she cried, excited. "Here in India?"

  "No. In San Francisco. He wrote an expose of the conditions under which miners worked along the Coal River. His sincerity and depth of feeling impressed me."

  "Then you have first-hand knowledge of my country?" For no reason other than she was so desperately homesick, Olivia involuntarily warmed to him, instantly forgiving him his many excesses. "You have lived in America?"

  Again he hesitated. "Yes." Abruptly he rose to his feet, picked up a stone and sent it skimming across the surface of the river. In some subtle way the gesture indicated an end to the subject of himself. "Is that why you are unhappy? Because you are separated from your father?"

  "I miss my father but I am not at all unhappy!"

  The sharpness of her tone didn't seem to trouble him. If the correction was meant as a reprimand, which it was, he appeared not to notice it. Instead he asked, "Is he still active in his journalistic endeavours?"

  Since it was a question less impertinent than his others and since she rarely had the opportunity in Calcutta to talk about her father—never with anyone who knew his literary work first hand—Olivia answered willingly, indeed, enthusiastically. "Very much so. He has recently sailed for Hawaii to investigate the reported massacre of whales in the Pacific, about which he feels strongly. He is urging strict legislation to halt the rampant killings."