Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  Sir Joshua threw back his head and roared. "By Jove, you Americans don't mince words, do you? Know what I'd like to do if I didn't fear that Bridget would throw another faint? I'd dearly love to let you loose in the Chamber one day to sort out all those lily-livered nincompoops!" He broke into fresh guffaws and dabbed his eyes dry with a handkerchief. "But yes, I have to agree with you. Birkhurst is a blithering ass, entirely unlike his father or, for that matter, his mother. What the devil Bridget sees in him is beyond me." He patted back a yawn and rose from his chair.

  Olivia heaved a sigh of relief; even a minor ally was better than none! "Thank you for the moral support, Uncle Josh; it's greatly appreciated. I'm sorry if I have kept you up with my chatter. You look tired."

  "No, no, not at all, lass. I enjoy our little chats." Nevertheless he suppressed another yawn as he stretched with obvious fatigue. "You're a good girl, Olivia, much too good for sots like Birkhurst; but don't for heaven's sake, tell Bridget I said so or she'll have my guts for garters." Fondly, he pinched her on a cheek. "All said and done, Sean has managed a neat job of rearing you, my dear. It could not have been easy. About the other business," he stared down at the carpet with a hard frown, "no more need be said. Your path will not cross Raventhorne's again."

  For a long time after the rest of the household had retired that night, Olivia stood by her window listening idly to the hoot of the owls and to the regular "Khabardar, khabardar!" of the night-watchman on his rounds as he warned intruders away. Finally she settled down at her desk to complete the letter to her father and to make an entry in her diary. In both, boldly, she wrote, Last night I met a man. She cogitated for a while before adding firmly, I think I would like to meet him again.

  Estelle Templewood, born fifteen years after her parents' marriage when all hope of offspring had been abandoned, had been named after her grandmother, the late Dowager Lady Stella Templewood, and had inherited more than just the name. A woman of iron will and lofty ambition, Sir Joshua's mother had determinedly headed for Calcutta with her young son shortly after becoming a widow in order to manipulate for him a job with John Company that allowed him to earn while he learned. Cannily, she had spurned titled but impoverished prospects to forge for him an alliance with the daughter of a wealthy Norfolk flour mill owner so that the substantial dowry she brought could set up young Josh in his own enterprise. His subsequent success had been his own, but it was this initial impetus that had given a head start to Templewood and Ransome. Until her death shortly before Estelle's birth, the dowager had ruled her son's household with dictatorial firmness. There could not be, she had decreed, two Lady Templewoods under the same roof, and since she herself disliked being called a dowager, it was her daughter-in-law who became simply Lady Bridget, and the name had stuck. Lady Bridget had learned much from her mother-in-law, whom she had feared and respected, but the dowager's eventual death had come as a relief. Which was perhaps why the old lady's portrait had since been relegated to the darkest corner of the Templewood dining room, from where the gimlet gleam that issued forth from the pale, unwavering eyes continued to survey the household with grim disapproval.

  It was this same gleam that had now taken up permanent residence in Estelle's eyes as the household plunged into a flurry of preparations for her coming-of-age ball. "Mama insists on saddle of Canterbury lamb," she protested to Olivia, stamping her foot angrily and close to tears again. "Everyone has saddle of Canterbury lamb and it's so ... so common!"

  "But that's not all you're having," Olivia sighed, worn out by the constant demands on her talents as moderator as the arguments raged hourly. "What about the sides of Aberdeen beef, chicken breasts, boned quail, Norwegian anchovies, plovers' eggs, bhetki fish and the dozens of other courses? Why not let your mother have her way with the lamb?"

  "She's having her way with everything, even the flowers. Why can't I have chrysanthemums instead of those silly roses? And why does Jane Watkins have to arrange the bowls?"

  "Because," Olivia explained with miraculous patience, "chrysanthemums are not yet in season, for a start. And all Aunt Bridget wants is for the bowls to be arranged well, which Jane will do since she's been trained in the art."

  "Well, that's only because Jane schooled in England and I didn't. If they'd let me go like everyone else I'd have been trained too, wouldn't I have? Charlotte says in Tonbridge—"

  "All right, all right," Olivia cut in wearily. Her cousin's grouses against the world in general and her mother in particular again dovetailed into each other with bewildering lack of logic and, for that matter, truth. "I'll see what I can do, but nobody can produce chrysanthemums in September, honey, and that's that."

  All in all, it was an exhausting time for Olivia. She helped willingly, of course, to lessen the burdens of an occasion such as she had never known; but, plunged into a confusion of tailors, jewellers, shoemakers, embroiderers, carpenters, upholsterers, painters and pedlars, by the time night came her head spun and her feet throbbed with the effort. Catering for the hundreds of guests had been arranged with Spence's hotel, reputed to provide the best fare in town. The long-awaited ship had docked on schedule with its massive cargo of wines, liquors, liqueurs, beer, cigars, chocolates, cheeses and tobaccos, as well as with Estelle's exquisite robin's-egg blue organza gown with frothing Brussels lace, seed pearls and diamante, which was quite the finest dress Olivia had ever seen in her life. On the back lawn of the Templewood bungalow a wooden dance floor was being laid under a giant canopy. A raised dais had been constructed for the Army band, which was to be in attendance throughout the evening. -

  In her unwanted and thankless role of arbitrator, Olivia tried to be as fair as she could, but it was not always easy. Secretly she often found her sympathies with her aunt, but in one matter she was firmly on her pampered cousin's side. "To Estelle her eighteenth birthday is the most important day in her life, Lady Bridget," she pleaded following yet another storm of tears from Estelle. "Could you not make some allowances and let her invite whomsoever she wishes?"

  Lady Bridget chilled. "Polly Drummond is a common little flibbertigibbet, and her mother is no better than a . . ." She left the word unsaid. "And I have made allowances. That Dave Crichton is a cockney shippie with atrocious grammar and worse manners. Everyone knows his father runs dogfights in White-chapel. He's not even trade, and goodness knows that's bad enough! Well, he's coming, isn't he?"

  "Yes, but Polly is Estelle's best friend, and however, well, overblown, Mrs. Drummond isn't entirely unattractive."

  Olivia's choice of adjectives elicited cutting comments on the worthlessness of cosmetic appeal when there was moral odium within, but eventually Lady Bridget capitulated, perhaps through sheer exhaustion.

  The one person in the household who successfully avoided being dragged into the onerous preparations and disputes was Sir Joshua. Lady Bridget complained stridently about his convenient absences from home, but since he was never to be found anyway, the complaints remained unheard by him. One very early morning, however, she did manage to corner him in his study to present her long list of questions and to demand the required answers.

  "I've ordered American ice, Josh, for the sherbets and the white wines. The Bassetts served their wines warm and they were a laughing-stock, remember? Well, how much will we need, four maunds?" The grunt that issued from behind the newspaper could have indicated anything, but his wife chose to take it as an affirmation of her estimate and neatly ticked off an item on her list. "And I've asked for a hundred bearers for the serving. Do you think that will be enough?"

  "Quite enough, dear." Had she said two or two thousand, his response would have probably been the same.

  "Will you wear your maroon or your navy blue? I've had them both cleaned and pressed just in case."

  "Good."

  "And you must tell me, what do these native princes drink? Isn't alcohol against their religion or something?"

  This time she had her husband's total attention. "As far as I know," he said, setting
aside the newspaper and concentrating fully, "Arvind Singh appreciates a good Scotch as well as the next man. Keep the Glenmorangie aside for him, will you? It's not an old whisky, but Willie Donaldson recommends it thoroughly. I've been informed that His Highness will bring an entourage of twenty-five. They won't touch the beef, of course, or the pork. Neither will Das and his bunch. Make a separate table for them with plenty of fish, fowl and vegetables."

  Lady Bridget's lips thinned in disapproval. "What a silly fuss, Josh! The more you pander to them, the larger the swell of their heads."

  Sir Joshua returned to his newspaper. "Arvind Singh is an investment, Bridget. Let's leave it at that."

  "And that man Das? Vain, dressed-up toad that he is?"

  His expression thoughtful again, Sir Joshua fingered his whiskers as he stared out of the window. "When one wishes to catch a monkey, my dear, one has to employ all one's resources," he said softly. "Das is a resource, no less, no more. Besides, he is a money-lender, a rich one at that. He has his uses." He smiled. "They all do, my dear, they all do."

  With her head spinning with exhaustion, her feet throbbing and her nerves torn to shreds, Olivia prayed only for the great day to come and go. Save for its lavish dimensions, there was no reason why this burra khana should be any less boring for her than the others she had been subjected to. The sole silver lining she saw was that the benign hand of fate had withdrawn Freddie from station and borne him away to his north Bengal indigo plantation. Even so, she decided glumly, the evening for her would be a penance.

  But in her pessimism Olivia was to be proved wrong. During the course of Estelle's coming-of-age festivities she was to have an encounter destined to change the direction of her life.

  Each year Estelle's birthday missed the last of the monsoons by a hairbreadth. Consequently, it was amidst a glorious post-rains sunset of scarlet and orange and purple that the carriages started to arrive in an endless procession. Smart gentry in their best bibs and tuckers spilled out onto the manicured lawns massed with banks of flowers. Pale faced and shivering with excitement, Estelle took her place in the receiving line together with her parents and Olivia. Her spectacular blue gown suited her well, and in the middle of her elaborate coiffeur (subject of another fierce battle) nestled the priceless diamond tiara given to her by her parents as a birthday gift. The cosmetics on her face were heavy (the fight to have them even more so), but she looked enchanting as she dispensed curtsies, kisses and handshakes, and gave and received compliments with the perfect poise of the adult she considered herself to have now become.

  For Olivia, this evening her aunt's will had prevailed. She had not been able to avoid wearing the shimmering aquamarine sateen specially ordered for her by Lady Bridget at enormous cost. The beautiful gown had a waspish waist that necessitated the ultimate horror, whalebone stays. Her aunt had also insisted on lace gloves, high-heeled gold sandals and long stockings. To her pained protest that nobody would see the stockings anyway, Lady Bridget had snapped, "Well, I should hope not!", closing the discussion. But however self-conscious she felt, Olivia would not have been human not to feel some thrill at what the mirror offered. Brought up in wholesome cottons, sensible shoes and no-nonsense underwear, she blushed at the vision of unaccustomed elegance that confronted her, especially at the exquisite emerald necklace and pear-drop earrings her aunt had loaned her to wear through the evening. Secretly twirling and twisting before the full-length mirror, Olivia could almost hear Sally MacKendrick's admiring gasp. "Why Livvie honey, you look fit to be eaten by the Queen, pips and all, I do swear!"

  Estelle's fervent plea to her had been to keep an eye on Mrs. Drummond. "If Mama were to be rude to her in front of my friends, I'd die, just die, Olivia." But, as it happened, Lady Bridget's mood was expansive. The Governor-General, His Excellency Lord Dalhousie and Lady Dalhousie had sent their regrets since they would be out on tour, but they had also sent a handsome silver creamer engraved with their crest as a gift for Estelle. In her pride at the honour, Lady Bridget radiated impartially in all directions, one of which happened to be where Mrs. Drummond sat. The unexpected smile of approval she received quite confused the lady; in her nervousness she promptly downed two more glasses of claret in rapid succession.

  As per her aunt's stringent instructions, Olivia grimly and dutifully circulated. The lawns, both front and back, now thronged with guests and the crush was considerable. The happy clink of glasses sounded across the easy laughter and the hum of well-bred conversation. An inordinate number of bearers, in starched turbans, white liveries and red cummerbunds, scurried to and fro with their splendid array of refreshments. Although Olivia could not remember the names of all those to whom she had been introduced, she exchanged pleasantries and made small talk with finesse, staying well away from the two topics her aunt had proscribed—politics and commerce.

  "You ride exceptionally well, Miss O'Rourke, that too astride, which is unusual for ladies here. I see you often in the mornings."

  The speaker was a rotund young man with a goatee and humorous brown eyes. His name was Courtenay or Poultenay; Olivia couldn't remember which. "Thank you. Yes, I do enjoy exploring the town—not the native quarters, of course," she clarified quickly in case it was somehow passed on to her aunt. "I restrict myself to the White Town and the embankment."

  He raised a questioning eyebrow. "Oh, but you shouldn't! The true heart of India beats where the natives live. The bazaars, the gullies and alleyways are far more interesting than this dreary part of station."

  Taken aback, Olivia surveyed him with interest. "You know them well?"

  "Oh, indeed. I share a chummery with friends in Neeloo Dalai Street." Noting her look of astonishment, he laughed. "You see, Miss O'Rourke, I belong to that happy, exclusive band of Europeans who are said to have 'gone native.' We don't serve by standing and waiting, but not even Milton could fault the salutary service we perform for the European community. Were it not for us renegades, what on earth would you ladies talk about?" He laughed again, obviously content in his alleged notoriety.

  "When you say 'gone native,' " Olivia asked, lowering her voice with a hasty look over her shoulder as she warmed to him, "what exactly do you mean?"

  He pinked and his lips twitched. "I regret that such information you will have to extract from one of the ladies, Miss O'Rourke. I'm in enough trouble as it is."

  By which Olivia presumed it was something to do with Indian mistresses and suchlike and was much intrigued. She would have dearly liked to pursue the matter, but, catching Lady Bridget's hawk-eye across a jasmine bush, she regretfully excused herself to move on to her next duty. Privately, however, she decided to include Mr. Courtenay or Poultenay in her diary the next day as her accolade to a rather intrepid young Englishman.

  In her shimmering beige taffeta cuffed with café au lait lace, Lady Bridget looked intimidatingly regal. Her fair hair, streaked only lightly with grey, was coiffed with such perfection that not even the breeze dared to disturb a single strand. Hers was that effortless elegance that only those who are rich and have never been otherwise can carry off with grace. She patted the chair next to her and Olivia seated herself. The conversation between her aunt and her surrounding friends was about hill stations, the frantic need each summer to flee the blazing heat of Calcutta, and the woeful dearth of any suitable hills to retreat to in this part of the country. "From Rawalpindi," mourned a Mrs. Dalrymple who obviously came from there, "Murree is a hop, skip and a jump. One can abandon the burning plains to be within viewing distance of snowy peaks in the Himalayas in no more than a day!" She fanned herself vigorously. "But where does one go from here, I ask you, where?"

  "Well, there's always the sea," Lady Bridget replied a trifle coldly. It was all very well to curse Calcutta oneself; no such liberty could be allowed a newly come northerner bent only on finding fault. "Many consider the beaches of Puri, for instance, far more invigorating than the hills. I must say, I do myself."

  Which successfully put paid to any further
comments Mrs. Dalrymple might have been intending on the subject. Sitting next to Mollie Bassett on her right, Olivia picked up her whisper to Betty Pennworthy seated on Mrs. Bassett's other side. "It's the heat that does it, you know. Makes them, well, more ardent than we English." They were staring at a knot of Indian gents dressed in awkward broadcloth frock-coats and stiff shirts, looking dreadfully gauche and self-conscious.

  "You're not speaking from personal experience, now are you, lovie?" Mrs. Pennworthy giggled and jabbed her neighbour with an elbow. "If so, do tell. I hear a toss in the hay native style can be very, well, spicy!"

  Mollie Bassett squealed. "Ooh, Betty! Not in front of Arabella and our innocent Olivia, to say nothing of," she dipped her voice, "Bridget!" Holding her sides, she fell about with laughter.

  "You don't have to worry about me, ducks," sniffed Arabella Winter drily. A spinster, she was known universally behind her bony, angular back as "the Spin." "I used to teach biology in Middlesbrough—there's not much I don't know about our bodily functions. It's young Olivia here you're shocking out of her wits."

  "Not at all, Miss Winter," Olivia hastened to assure her, equally drily. "Believe it or not, we Americans too have our bodily functions."

  There were more helpless hoots all around and a shocked "Tut, tut!" from one or two despite the exclusively female company. Just then Estelle hurried up to claim Olivia and drag her behind a tree. "There's something I have to know this instant." She looked flushed and flustered. "It's about John. He kissed me, right behind the stables, and put his tongue in my mouth. Is that. . . normal?"

  "No. If it were normal, he would have kissed you on the mouth, not behind the stables," Olivia said, grinning.

  Just at that moment Sir Joshua appeared to grab Olivia's arm. "Can you spare a few moments, my dear? There is someone I especially want you to meet and be charming with."

  There was a curious urgency in his voice. A fine film of sweat shone on his forehead. Delighted at the reprieve from boring conversational duties and a possible chance of some stimulating talk, Olivia agreed with alacrity. As Sir Joshua guided her with rapid strides across the lawn, there was a spring in his step that spoke of high excitement. They walked to a far corner of the garden where a secluded seating arrangement had been improvised overlooking the river. As they approached, a small cluster of men leapt aside to reveal a seated figure. The figure rose and stepped forward.