Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  All this Olivia recognised with extreme clarity. What she could not identify was the capricious, obscure, utterly illogical reason why she could not shake Jai Raventhorne out of her thoughts no matter how hard she tried. Involuntarily, as part of the same thought chain, she saw Greg in her mind. Dreamy, gentle, patient Greg with whom she had grown up. She loved and respected and trusted Greg, but suddenly he seemed to exist only on the fringes of her memory. She could barely see his features now and it disturbed her badly. Inexorably, the world in which Greg lived—in which she too had once lived— was becoming unreal, like a fantasy. Something sly and unwanted was creeping into her life, taking her away from her roots. And somehow, at the crux of her disorientation, stood Jai Raventhorne.

  There was a time, only a few days ago, when she had longed to meet him again. But now in her revived sense of aloneness, of this strange alienation from her past, Olivia determined that accidentally or otherwise, she would not see Jai Raventhorne again.

  "Fancy! I'm actually eighteen—I can hardly believe it!" For days after the birthday ball this was the theme on which Estelle harped constantly.

  "Well, what does that make you, except longer in the tooth, miss?" Olivia demanded irritably as they sat dispatching the piles of thank-you notes that Lady Bridget insisted Estelle send in acknowledgement of the mountain of gifts she had received, Olivia's being a beautiful doeskin skirt.

  "It makes me an adult, that's what! Now I can marry anyone I like whether Mama approves or not, except of course Freddie. He's reserved for you, Coz, isn't he?"

  Before Olivia could give a suitably cutting return, Lady Bridget bustled into the room. "Aren't you girls going for your evening drive at all? There should be considerable excitement on the Strand today with this new ship in from Portsmouth. I hear Lady Birkhurst is one of the passengers on board. Freddie must be delighted."

  Olivia was not at all surprised at Lady Bridget's announcement. As usual, Jai Raventhorne's espionage network had been dead accurate in its information.

  That depressing news aside, the evening drive or stroll along the Strand Road was one that Olivia looked forward to. The outings were a daily sacred ritual with most Europeans in the city. As a rule, white women did not venture out during the day when the sun was relentless and liable to brown delicate complexions maintained scrupulously for their peaches-and-cream pinkness. The evening sorties with their cool and fresh river air were therefore not only entertaining but considered medically advisable. They were also pleasant opportunities to chat with old friends, make new ones, examine at close quarters those newly arrived from home if a ship happened to be in and see the latest modes in frocks, hats and shoes. Even more important, the sorties made it possible to learn what everybody in town was doing (and with whom!) and then to dissect and disseminate the information depending on its value.

  Olivia and Estelle were sometimes accompanied by Sir Joshua and Lady Bridget, but this evening Millie Humphries was calling with her recipe for Christmas mince pies and Sir Joshua had promised Tom Henderson a game of billiards at the club.

  "Good!" Her parents' absence pleased Estelle. "Now we can go and have a proper look at his ship. One of the clippers docked last night." Olivia said nothing; it seemed that her resolution to avoid Jai Raventhorne did not preclude his presence in their midst one way or another. Even so, she felt an involuntary frisson of excitement. "The clipper did the New York to Hong Kong run in a hundred and four days and then returned to New York from Canton in only eighty-one—can you believe it?"

  It was certainly an incredible feat, but Olivia did believe it; grudgingly, she was beginning to develop a very healthy respect for her cousin's talent for gathering information that turned out to be true. "Oh?"

  "Yes. Susan told me. Her father knows the captain. And Susan's mother's durzee," she leaned sideways in the carriage and lowered her voice even though there was no one listening, "also makes clothes for ... for this man's mistress, that native woman, Susan says. They say she's a dancing girl from Fenwicks Bazaar Street and very beautiful—in a native sort of way, of course. Susan says the tailor told her mother that she—"

  "Estelle, I wish you wouldn't listen to so much gossip! It's... cheap." Olivia's reprimand was sharper than she had intended.

  "Cheap? My goodness, if I don't listen to gossip how will I ever learn anything about what's happening in the world?"

  "Well, you could read books and newspapers if it's world happenings you want. If that succession of long-suffering nannies taught you anything at all, surely it was to read and write at least."

  Her cousin's sarcasm flew right over Estelle's untroubled head. "Oh, I don't mean those kind of happenings, I mean real news. Anyway, Susan Bradshaw's mother's tailor says he's bought her, like one of those—"

  "Why don't we stop the carriage and walk, Estelle? It's such a lovely evening and it's a pity to waste it." Before her cousin could react, Olivia was down on the pavement, and furious with herself. Estelle's silly chatter had once more evoked that distasteful vision of Sujata's voluptuous body bared for Raventhorne's pleasure, and of his own no doubt ardent responses. It was a vision that Olivia was beginning to hate.

  But the evening was indeed lovely. Puffball clouds winged their way across a slowly reddening sky, looking like pink flamingoes. The promenade and its gardens were full of families. Some people walked alone, briskly; others ambled arm in arm in leisured groups chatting in low voices. In between the strollers children wove hoops and shouted with an excess of boisterousness that earned frowns from mothers and guardians. Many were the hats doffed and smiles thrown in their direction as the cousins walked side by side, for only the very new additions to town remained unacquainted with the Templewood daughter and niece.

  "Look, there!" Estelle suddenly hissed, clutching Olivia's arm. "That one anchored mid stream near the dhoolie boats. You can't miss it."

  Olivia looked in the direction Estelle pointed, trying to locate the clipper. Vessels of all classes, sizes and flags dotted the river surface—Indiamen, the Company's tea wagons, sloops, square-riggers, Royal Navy men-of-war, country row-boats and fisher craft. This was one of the busiest ports in the East and, as with all ports, Calcutta's was touched with adventure, with magic and mystery. Despite her attempt at nonchalance, Olivia felt her stomach lurch as she focused the opera-glasses Estelle handed her. Yes, among the untidy assortment of vessels the clipper was unmistakable. It was three masted, long and elegant, and stood higher than any other ship. Its sails were furled; one could see small figures scampering about on the deck, lighting buttery yellow lanterns. On the prow was mounted an exotic shape, obviously metal since it glinted in the sun.

  "Is that his emblem," Olivia asked, "that odd motif with the three prongs?" It looked familiar but she could not place it.

  "Yes. That's a trishul, a trident. Something to do with the heathen god Shiva, Dave Crichton says."

  "Does it mean anything?" Olivia recalled she had seen the same trident above some Hindu temples she had passed by.

  "Who knows? The heathens worship everything, don't they? Dave says he has that on his pennant, saffron and black, but the flag he flies under is yours, American." As Olivia again marvelled at her cousin's cache of information, Estelle snatched the glasses to squint through them, breathing hard. "I wonder if he's actually on board now, this very minute . . ."

  Estelle's sense of thrill was infectious; fantasy flared also in Olivia's secret mind. On the clipper's quarter-deck she saw Jai Raventhorne watching her. On the same wind that ruffled his untamed hair she heard his voice, deep and rich and commanding, boom out orders to be obeyed this instant. In her imagination he even taunted her—unlikely to miss the chance!—for her fluttering heartbeat, her soaring excitement, the flush on her cheeks, knowing all about them as he seemed to know everything else.

  "And I found out something else about him." Estelle's voice disturbed Olivia's daydream and cut it short.

  Embarrassed by her own childishness, Olivia thought, I shou
ldn't be encouraging her in all this dreadful gossip. But aloud she asked, "What?"

  Estelle looked over her shoulder, then pulled Olivia to one side. "They say he's a ... a bastard!" She gasped at her own daring and clamped a hand over her mouth. Then, for Olivia's benefit, she added, "That means his father and mother were never married—isn't that awful?"

  The information did not surprise Olivia. Most Eurasians in India and the Orient bore the stamp of illegitimacy—the brand! Raventhorne's bitterness was neither unfair nor excessive. "Especially for him," she murmured, astonished that she could feel pity for someone who deserved it so little.

  "Mama says bastards are born out of sin," Estelle said piously, disappointed at her cousin's lack of shock.

  "Bastards are born out of women, just like everybody else! It's we who make illegitimacy, not God. Who were his parents, do you know?"

  Estelle brightened again, pleased at being asked. "They say his father was some drunken English sailor, or at least white man, who jumped ship in port, and his mother was a servant girl. He seduced her and then ran away. That means—"

  "Yes, I do know what 'seduced' means. He never came back?"

  "No. At least, Mrs. Drummond believes that Jai Raventhorne knows something more than he . . . oh! I said his name, how dreadful!" She gulped and again her hand flew to her mouth.

  "Why?" Olivia surprised herself with her sudden spark of anger. "If your parents do not wish his name mentioned in their house, I respect that. But that doesn't mean we must never talk of him anywhere else at any time. Oh, don't be so silly, Estelle!"

  The reprimand halted Estelle in her steps. "Well, I don't want to talk about him at all," she said, aggrieved. "I've only been gathering all this because you keep asking." Raising her nose, she walked away.

  Which was, of course, quite true. Reluctantly, Olivia bit back all the other questions tumbling around in her mind and hurried behind Estelle to smooth her ruffled feathers. "It's just idle inquisitiveness on my part, my dearest Coz, and hardly worth arguing about." With a laugh she gave her cousin a hug. "Come on, let's go and see what all the pother is about at the jetty." Perforce, the subject of Jai Raventhorne was dropped.

  At the wharf there was chaos. Europeans, newly arrived, and those who received them jostled each other among piles of cabin trunks, carpet-bags, wooden crates, tin boxes, gunny sacks, bedding rolls, furniture and mountains of cargo from the recently docked ship. The noise was cacophonous. Everyone talked at once as Customs and Port Trust officials fought to hold tempers trying to answer a dozen questions at the same time. Clad in loin-cloths, mahogany-skinned coolies bargained hotly as budge-row boats delivered more passengers to the jetty.

  "I say, what a splendid coincidence! Are you here to receive the unfortunates arriving from the good old mother country?"

  Olivia and Estelle turned to see the vapidly grinning face of Freddie Birkhurst. "No," Estelle answered, "but you are, we know."

  Freddie's mouth dropped. "Indeed. The mater is about to land and take charge of her wayward son. You must both come for tiffin anon to meet her."

  They made polite noises. Then Olivia inquired, "This isn't Lady Birkhurst's first visit to India, is it?"

  "Good God, no. Mother is an old India hand. Lived here for years when the pater was doing his bit for the Empire—and taking his bit in return." His glumness deepened. "She's a tough old rhinoceros, you know. Laps up this damned country like whipped cream."

  "Well, never mind, Mr. Birkhurst," Estelle comforted cheerfully. "Olivia will help revive your flagging spirits. She's dying to meet your mother."

  "Are you, Miss O'Rourke?" If anything, he looked astonished. "Well, in that case, would you both do us the honour of lunching with us at the Tolly Club next Sunday? There's a frightfully exciting polo game on. Of course I shall get Mother to write to Lady Bridget immediately on arrival." He brightened considerably.

  Olivia was furious but Estelle was not yet done. "A polo game? Oh, how adventurous! Just yesterday Olivia was complaining of how little she understood this native game that is suddenly all the rage with you English gents. I'm sure she'd adore some explanations."

  He went purple with happiness. "I would be delighted, er, honoured to explain the game to you in detail, Miss O'Rourke! Shall we then take luncheon next Sunday as said?"

  "Oh, would you please excuse me for a moment?" Avoiding her cousin's outraged glare, Estelle started to move away. "I've just seen Charlotte, I think, and there's something I absolutely must..." She waved and vanished.

  It was impossible for Olivia to follow suit without seeming unforgivably rude. Trapped within the adoring gooseberry gaze of Freddie Birkhurst, she relapsed into sullen silence. He coughed and cleared his throat. "I have, er, been waiting for an opportunity to, er ...," he ran a finger inside his collar, "apologise to you most profoundly for my unfortunate, ah, lapse, yes lapse, at the Pennworthys the other night, Miss O'Rourke, er, Olivia. I should have written but my, ah, nerve failed me. Are you totally disgusted with my behaviour and with me?"

  He looked so woebegone that it was difficult not to feel sorry for him. "No, of course not. I had already forgotten all about it." She smiled with as much warmth as she could muster.

  It was as if heaven had opened up for Freddie. "You had? Oh, ah, splendid, splendid! Not for anything in the world, Miss O'Rourke... Olivia, would I wish you to think badly of me. I—"

  "I don't think badly of you at all, Mr. Birkhurst, I promise you . . ." Frantically, she looked around for escape but none seemed possible. She cursed her cousin roundly and soundly, but then fate intervened.

  "Damn, I think I spy the mater..." He clasped Olivia's hand warmly. "I'd better be off. Until Sunday then. I can hardly wait..." He hurried away.

  It wasn't until they were both back in the carriage again that Olivia could vent her exasperation. Estelle, however, was unrepentant. "My dearly beloved Coz, you are now all of twenty-two years old, and Freddie Birkhurst is not only the biggest catch in station, he's passionately in love with you—"

  "I don't care how big a catch he is and I'd rather he kept his passionate love to himself. I'm not going to marry Freddie!" Olivia was very cross indeed. "And if he is such a big catch, why hasn't Aunt Bridget tried to make a match between you two?"

  "Oh, she tried all right. But Papa put his foot down; so did I." She shuddered. "Fancy waking up to Freddie Birkhurst's boiled gooseberry eyes every morning. Ugh!"

  "Well, thank you very much! Having decided that, you now want to palm him off on me!"

  "No, Olivia, that isn't the idea at all," Estelle explained patiently. "It's the practical aspect of the matter that you must consider. Papa's money guarantees a title for me anyway, but Uncle Sean doesn't have any money. If you married Freddie you wouldn't need a portion because he's already got plenty and he'd sell his soul to have you at any cost. Besides, you'd have one of the best titles in England and estates in Suffolk and India—now, wouldn't that be perfect for everyone?"

  What a calculating little minx! Even so, it was impossible to remain angry with such barefaced effrontery for long and Olivia laughed. "Everyone except me! Why don't you just worry about your John and leave me to my fate as an old maid?"

  "Oh, John I can have any time. He absolutely worships me." Estelle looked smug as she waved the familiar contender aside.

  "But he doesn't have a title."

  "He will one day, maybe soon. You see, John's father's older brother is the Marquis of Quentinberry and he's a bachelor. So John's father is his heir, unless of course his uncle marries and has children, which he won't because John says he's impotent—not John, the Marquis." She paused to give a maidenly blush, then opened her mouth again.

  "Oh, you don't need to explain," Olivia said, greatly amused. "I also know what impotent means."

  "Yes, well, John's father is already ailing," Estelle continued unfazed, "which is why John is going home on furlough. The chances are John will outlive both his uncle and his father, so there! The Marchioness of
Quentinberry..." She rolled the name around on her tongue a few times and looked satisfied. "Yes, that will do nicely, I think. Unless a, well, dukedom with money happens to turn up. Especially since John is going to be away for a year and there are other fish in the sea." Eyes narrowed in coldblooded speculation, she absent-mindedly tapped a tattoo on the window with her fingers.

  Olivia was so taken aback by this new aspect of her cousin that for a moment she could only stare. "Other fish?" she then asked suspiciously. "Who? Not Clive Smithers, by any chance? I hear he cuts quite a dash in his naval uniform, and since his arrival Charlotte has suddenly developed a whole new rash of friends including you who couldn't bear her not so long ago."

  Estelle first looked flustered, then haughty. "Huh! I don't have a case on Clive, so there! I don't want to marry anyone yet, I just want to go to London and have fun and be free." Her lips suddenly quivered and her eyes welled. "I've never been anywhere, done anything, met anyone truly wonderful. Do you know, I've never ever even seen snow . . .?"

  Lady Birkhurst's formal letter of invitation to luncheon at the Tollygunge Club the following Sunday duly arrived. The invitation kindly included Sir Joshua in case he were not otherwise occupied, which, he lost no time in informing his wife, he would make certain he would be. Lady Bridget, however, was openly thrilled. To have so fortuitously outdistanced all the other ladies in Calcutta also with marriageable girls on their hands!

  "You must wear your blue linen with the white organdie ruffles and, of course, that white leather belt since it suits you so well." Lady Bridget got down immediately to essentials. "Or do you think the lemon with the polka-dots? No, perhaps not. It heightens far too much the sunburn on your face and arms. Mind you, I wouldn't entirely reject the pink. It does bring out the . . ."

  Steeped in depression, Olivia listened morosely. Inwardly, however, she burned with resentment. No matter how diligent or well meaning her aunt's matchmaking efforts, they had to be stopped. Should she do it now or later? Well, perhaps later; after all, it was presumptuous to accept as granted Lady Birkhurst's approval of her no matter how positive Jai Raventhorne's uninvited vote of confidence! And it might never happen. With all her heart Olivia prayed that Lady Birkhurst would absolutely hate her!