Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  They stared at her blankly, then Estelle asked with marked suspicion, "What's a buffalo chip?"

  Olivia told them and John bellowed with laughter while everyone else looked taken aback. "Well, you must admit Estelle's imagination does her credit and she does spin a yarn well!"

  "Ugh!" Marie Cleghorn shuddered delicately. "How could you, Olivia?"

  "It was quite easy," Olivia assured her callously. "They were old and perfectly dry, our only assured source of fuel."

  "Well, I don't believe it," Marie said flatly.

  "Oh, I believe it," Charlotte Smithers sniggered. "I'd believe anything about Americans. My aunt comes from Memphis and she once hit my uncle on the nose with an umbrella and he couldn't smell anything for a week! Isn't that gruesome?"

  "But since 'e could'n' breathe neither, presum'bly, I s'pose she was quite 'appy, eh luv?" Dave Crichton added with a broad wink.

  Charlotte Smithers tossed her head haughtily but everyone else laughed, except for Estelle. "Well, that's what Olivia told me herself," she muttered, snatching her hand out of John's. "At least that's what I think she told me."

  Dinner was announced with a silver gong, then served and eaten with considerable aplomb as tribute to the splendid display of wines, viands and three kinds of dessert. After dinner the long trestle tables were removed and the arena cleared for dancing.

  "Disgusting!" Lady Bridget pronounced fiercely under her breath, "disgusting!" Sitting down briefly next to her aunt to cool her aching heels, Olivia followed Lady Bridget's shocked gaze fixed on a corner of the tent. Next to the liquor table, Mrs. Drummond clung tenaciously to the arm of a retired naval admiral. It was obvious that both were in an advanced state of intoxication. "How Bertie can encourage the woman I don't know. I've never seen such a shameless display of immodesty." Angrily she tapped on her knee with her fingertips. "I shall have words with Estelle tomorrow, believe me!"

  Olivia believed her. Mrs. Drummond was making rather a spectacle of herself, but it was obviously with the approval and participation of "Bertie," who made no secret of enjoying the coquettish attentions. But there was evidence of lack of inhibitions elsewhere, too, which was not surprising since an inordinate amount of liquor was being consumed. Nevertheless, Olivia remained silent in the knowledge that it was her intervention that had included Mrs. Drummond in the revelry, and that Lady Bridget's promised "words" would have to be shared equally between her cousin and herself.

  "And how Josh can demean himself so by pandering to the man's vanity is beyond me! I'm astonished he can't see how it debases him in the eyes of his equals."

  Her aunt referred, of course, to the Maharaja. Immediately after supper Sir Joshua and some of the other prominent merchants had withdrawn with him to the formal sitting-room in the house. A flurry of bearers was now busy flitting to and fro with choice brandies, cigars and liqueurs. "The coal is of importance to Uncle Josh," Olivia started to explain. "He is preparing the ground for further negotiations, that's all."

  A strange, indecipherable expression came over Lady Bridget's features as she slowly swivelled to face her niece. "Josh will never get that coal, Olivia, never! If he thinks he will with his clownish endeavours and his grovelling, he is an even greater fool than that native prince must consider him to be."

  It had never ceased to surprise Olivia that her aunt's interest in and understanding of her husband's business should be so minimal, indeed, so grudging. She spoke of Sir Joshua's professional affairs so seldom that Olivia was beginning to wonder if she even knew what he did! But now, the categorical remark she had made seemed so knowing, so profound, that Olivia stared. Lady Bridget's eyes glittered like icy blue shards of glass, but her voice shook with rare passion and her hands were clenched by her sides.

  "By gad, Bridget, splendid bash, splendid! Never saw anything like this in Dacca, 'pon my word!" A pompous jute manufacturer with a bright red nose and the strutting gait of an old Army hand strolled up, waving a glass erratically and splashing his drink in all directions. "Can't say I've enjoyed myself so much in years!"

  "I'm so glad, Tim." Carefully, Lady Bridget wiped the front of her dress with a serviette without dropping her gracious smile. The fierce expression of only a moment ago was gone as if by magic. "You must come round for a quiet tete-a-tete and tell us all about your furlough home."

  As the mood became more boisterous, so did the dancing, which continued till the early hours of the morning. By then the gathering had thinned considerably. Only the younger group remained, along with some sporting elders blessed with more energy than their peers. Having danced every dance, Olivia's soles were afire in the unaccustomed gold sandals, but there could be no question of abandoning the party while the younger crowd persisted; Estelle would never forgive her if she did not stay until the bitter end. Eventually, a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs was served to the determined handful that remained until dawn, Sir Joshua and Lady Bridget having long since retired. Crippled with relief and fatigue, Olivia dragged herself up to bed just before the first streaks of daylight started to stain the eastern horizon. She was asleep even before her head touched the pillow.

  Her slumber, however, was fitful and her dreams mysteriously ominous. Two black mastiffs with blank, silverfish eyes had their fangs securely embedded in her flesh. They were by the river and she was being dragged along the embankment. Even so, she could not recognise the environment in which she was any more than she could divine the direction in which she was being pulled. All she knew was that the force with which she was being carried away was magnetic, and that she no longer had the power to deflect it.

  CHAPTER 3

  It was Sunday.

  In the early morning the Maidan, a vast parkland across the White Town known as the "lungs" of the city, had its usual complement of brisk walkers, casual strollers and horsemen out for an hour or two of exercise when the city was at its most pleasant. Water carriers jogged rhythmically, balanced by their evenly distributed loads; palanquin carriers transported their customers with geometrically measured steps; and a monkey man with his animal perched cheekily on his shoulders looked around for an audience with the help of a small drum. Along the Chowringhee Road, the town's main thoroughfare, sluggish bullock carts creaked with the weight of fresh fruit and vegetables for the markets, and a few carriages clip-clopped along with European passengers. Farther along, at the Chowringhee-Dharamtala crossing, sweepers cleaned the steps of a church in preparation for the morning service, although the congregation on this Sabbath was yet to arrive, no doubt still asleep in bed after the Templewood ball at which many had been guests.

  Despite her exhaustion, or perhaps because of it, Olivia had not been able to sleep for long. She had risen early long before the household had even stirred, to set forth on her customary ride. One of the incidental benefits of Estelle's elaborate party had been that in the confusion that had prevailed throughout the lengthy preparations, nobody had noticed that Olivia went out riding on her own. On this morning, too, with all of Lady Bridget's servants still dead to the world after their arduous labours of last night, Olivia had been unobserved as she left the house on Jasmine. She had long wanted to explore the colourful bazaar near the Chitpur Road, and Mr. Courtenay's (or Poultenay's) recommendation last night had compounded the desire. That circumstances had turned out to be favourable for such a forbidden excursion was, of course, fortunate; that she was disobeying her aunt's express dictates, Olivia did not think of at all in her state of pleasant excitement. It was unlikely that her casual and, in her opinion, entirely harmless sortie would be discovered.

  In the roseate early morning light filled with the pungent aroma of wood stoves, the gracious buildings she passed along the Esplanade and Tank Square looked very imperial indeed. The juxtaposition of elements from Eastern and Western cultures never failed to fascinate Olivia. Outside Writers' Building, seat of the East India Company, Brahmin priests stood waist deep in the Tank chanting with strings of holy beads and their sacred threads loop
ed over one ear. Groups of Indian children, their oily hair slicked over their heads—some with topknots—stared at a group of men in Armenian clothes arguing hotly by the wayside. And a camel with brass rings through its nose trailed behind its keeper and did not even cast a glance at a passing European carriage.

  For all her nostalgia for home, Olivia could not deny that she found India as a country intriguing. Here one saw strange mixtures of the mundane and the esoteric, of the old and the new, of gross superstition and astonishing ancient wisdom, of gentleness and savagery, cruelty and compassion. Paradoxes abounded and life was often tragically hard for unwary Europeans at the mercy of strange diseases, furnace-hot summers and death that struck with frightening suddenness when least expected. Infant mortality was high, leaving parents bereft overnight; loved ones could vanish in a trice in sweeping epidemics. All this Olivia had learned, but she also sensed that for those Europeans who opened their minds—and there were undoubtedly many—India could also be a garden of joy, as generous as a spring blossoming.

  Despite the earliness of the hour, the Chitpur markets bustled with business. Under slanted awnings serried stalls offered a bewildering array of wares: bamboo basketry, wooden sandals with thongs, brass idols, books, pottery and kitchen goods, cotton bolts, jute ropes and mats, wooden toys, glass bangles, groceries, spices and grain, green produce, spectacular displays of freshly cut flowers, and every conceivable household essential. In some stalls stoves blazed to dispense freshly cooked sweets and savouries served on disposable plates of banana leaves. Captivated, Olivia dismounted opposite a tall Hindu temple with cupolas to stand and observe one confectioner sitting cross-legged before a gigantic pan, frying yellow circles of batter and then dipping them into sugar syrup. She had never tasted Indian sweets, since they were not served at European tables. These reminded her of Sally's doughnuts and for a moment or two she struggled with temptation. Should she . . .?

  "I would if I were you. Fresh, they are perfectly safe to eat."

  Olivia whirled round in surprise at the unsolicited recommendation, and that too in English. If the features were unfamiliar, there could be no mistaking the rich, deep-timbred voice of Jai Raventhorne! Even less, the pair of piercing eyes that still startled with their opacity. Shocked, she could think of nothing to say.

  "I can endorse the sweets, Miss O'Rourke; what I cannot endorse is for to you stand and eat them in the bazaar." Ignoring her speechlessness, he turned to exchange some words with the confectioner and a moment later was handed a neat little packet made of banana leaves. He touched her lightly on her elbow and relieved her of Jasmine's reins. "Come. I will show you a place where you can eat in private comfort."

  Still tongue-tied, Olivia could only nod and meekly follow him across the street. It was only as they were about to enter a wide black painted gate that she suddenly returned to her senses. "Where . . . where are you taking me?" she stammered.

  In the act of unlatching the gate, he paused. "To my home."

  Instantly her eyes filled with suspicion. "But I thought you lived near the Pennworthys!"

  He raised a sardonic eyebrow. "I should imagine that not even in the most conservative of English circles is it considered a crime for a man to own two homes?"

  "Oh." Feeling foolish, Olivia allowed herself to be ushered in through the gate without further comment or question.

  The court-yard into which they stepped was a rectangle of elegant dimensions, marble tiled and shaded on three sides by an arched verandah that rose into a double-storied house. A fountain spraying faintly green water made a cool centrepiece. As they entered, two men glided out silently from a doorway beyond one of the verandah arches, like genies conjured out of some invisible lamp. They bowed, and one, obviously from the north-eastern hill region, as apparent from his Mongolian features, took charge of Jasmine while the other relieved Raventhorne of the packet of sweets that he carried. Some instructions were dispensed in either Hindustani or Bengali—Olivia couldn't tell which—and then Raventhorne turned to her again. "Shall we go inside?"

  Hearing their master's voice from one of the upstairs balconies, the dogs had started to bark vociferously. All at once Olivia was overcome with apprehension. "I. . . shouldn't really be here at all," she murmured. "Perhaps I had better . . . leave." It was unavoidable to look directly into his eyes as she addressed him and once more she was struck by their strangeness. Pearl grey, like the inner shell of an oyster, they shone with a translucence that seemed bottomless and, at the same time, cold.

  The hint of a smile appeared on his lips as if excavated from within with considerable effort. "I was merely trying to make it possible for you to sit and enjoy your tidbits in privacy. I wasn't intending to make you one of mine! Surely your derringer ensures your protection from big bad wolves such as me?"

  Again he was making her look foolish and her chin lifted. "It does," she retorted with marked coldness. "Although I have no information as to which animal family you pride yourself on resembling most, I'm willing to accept your own assessment."

  The smile widened into a low chuckle. "Well aimed, Miss O'Rourke! But then, why all the fuss? Could it be that in the interim since we met so fortuitously, you have learned something frightening that gnaws away at your American courage, in spite of being so admirably equipped for self-defence?"

  "Your reputation, Mr. Raventhorne, whatever it might be, is no concern of mine," she said stiffly, aware that she had coloured and annoyed that she had. "But yes, I do happen to have a bone to pick with you."

  "Bones are better picked on a full stomach. Come." Without another word he turned and with loose gait, long strides and not even a glance over his shoulder, walked away inside. With no choice left, Olivia followed. His manner had in no way improved with the passage of the many days since she had first encountered him, but she could not deny that there was something exciting about this second meeting, for she had truly never expected to see him again.

  The salon into which Raventhorne now led her was large, also tiled with black and white marble squares, with a high ceiling supported by stone pillars that were heavily carved. It was, Olivia guessed without having knowledge of the subject, a traditional room. A row of windows, screened with delicate filigree in symmetric patterns, ran the length of one wall overlooking another verandah and court-yard on the other side. On a patterned Bukhara carpet at one end of the salon, a seating arrangement had been made with mattresses covered with pristine white sheets and banks of fat bolsters. A sitar, a pair of tablas and one or two other musical instruments stood in a corner. There were no pictures on the whitewashed walls, no drapes at the windows or doors, no cluttered bric-a-brac so beloved of other drawing rooms Olivia had seen. Only one wall had any adornment—an arrangement of swords, scimitars, daggers and shields—and even those looked more functional than ornamental. It was a room almost defiantly bare with no personal possessions at all, no indications as to the personality and character of the man who occupied and used it.

  "Please do be seated." He indicated the mattress. "Or would you prefer a chair? Sitting on floors is a primitive custom not usually favoured by memsahibs, I know."

  "I am well used to sitting on floors, thank you." His tone irked her as she sank onto the mattress and started to remove her heavy riding boots. "Not all memsahibs consider chairs necessary."

  Patting a bolster into shape, Raventhorne lowered himself onto the other end of the mattress, leaned back and extended his legs over the edge so as to keep his own boots off it. Olivia placed herself comfortably, crossed her legs Indian fashion and fixed him with a stern look. "About that bone I have to pick with you ..."

  "After breakfast."

  "No, now!"

  He shrugged and crossed his arms against his chest. "Very well. Since you insist."

  It was not easy to stare into those opalescent eyes without wavering, but Olivia held her gaze. "The message you sent to my aunt and uncle—were you aware of the upset it would cause them?"

  "Certai
nly. It was the only reason for sending it."

  His easy admission galled her. "Did you not think it a dirty trick to play on me, an innocent courier of the wretched message?"

  "Dirty tricks are a part of life, even in America. One more or less makes little difference."

  "It made a difference to me!" His cynicism was, if possible, worse. "Whatever your rivalries with my uncle, you had no business to make me the ham in the sandwich. Surely you must have some scruples about the means by which you achieve your dubious ends, especially when making use of petticoats!" High spots of colour glowed on her cheeks.

  He looked amused. "I don't consider you a petticoat any more than I consider myself a scrupulous man, Miss O'Rourke. Fortunately," he smiled, "I suffer none of the constraints of being a gentleman."

  Olivia had a rash urge to ask him what he did consider her but of course did no such thing. It was bad enough not to have rejected his invitation out of hand and sent him packing when she should have. "You do actually enjoy the diabolical reputation you have, don't you? Well, I think that childish and perverse!"

  "Perversity carries its own pleasures, Miss O'Rourke," he said lightly, unaffected by her show of temper. "But since you, I suspect, do not believe that diabolical reputation, perhaps you at least will forgive me my trespasses."

  The lines of his angular face with so little evidence of softness seemed all at once not so hard. There was also a flash of hitherto unsuspected charm. Olivia wasn't sure she liked any of it, because he was making her unsure again. "Knowing you as little as I do, Mr. Raventhorne, the question of believing or otherwise simply doesn't arise," she said with haughty dignity.

  "But considering the extent of your questions to Arvind Singh last night, perhaps you know me better this time than you did the last?"

  It was with considerable restraint that Olivia didn't jump right out of her skin! She had met the Maharaja no more than a few hours ago—and he had heard already? Suddenly, the respect she felt for the ubiquitous village grapevine turned close to reverence, but she also felt a small sense of betrayal. "Did the Maharaja tell you that?" she asked, embarrassed.