by Olivia
Of course, Dr. Humphries did not know that since that first night, Sir Joshua had not climbed the stairs even once. When he was at home he remained incarcerated in his study, where only Rehman and Arthur Ransome ventured. Lost on either side of a wordless world of bitterness, Sir Joshua Templewood and Lady Bridget had ceased to acknowledge each other's existence.
The decision to temporarily move to Barrackpore seemed to put Arthur Ransome in a better frame of mind and his expression brightened. "I myself could do with a fishing holiday," he muttered. "And the Barrackpore place is very comfortable although Josh and Bridget hardly use it." Ransome and Olivia were sitting by the cheerful fire sharing idle chatter after the day's work was done. Sipping a mug of hot milk Olivia examined him with compassion; if the past few days had been hard on her, they had not been easy on him either. He looked worn and at the end of his tether. He spoke again. "Slocum is prepared to bury the whole tedious business," he said abruptly. "With the bird having flown, there's not much point in keeping the cage."
They had not touched on the subject for days. The distance it had acquired in Olivia's thoughts obviated the need for caution. "But they have not found Das's body yet, have they?"
The look he gave her was sharp. "He may not be dead."
"Uncle Josh seems certain that he is. For my uncle's sake— yours too, perhaps—I hope he is right. Alive, Kashinath Das could be a further embarrassment to you both, considering that explicit confession." She said it all with admirable lack of inhibition. With no more sides to take, she could afford to be blunt.
He didn't insult her intelligence by denying it. "Yes," he conceded, "he would. Where did you read the document?"
"Uncle Josh has a copy."
He did not question the plausible explanation. "So does Slocum," he said sourly. He cogitated a moment, then nodded. "Yes, Josh is right, Jai has killed Das. in view of his damning testimony, his part in this . . . this tragic misadventure, it is unlikely that he could have escaped." He lowered his eyes, depressed by the admission.
"And the body will now never be found," Olivia commented.
"No. It will never be found. You see, it has sailed with Raventhorne on the Ganga," A small sense of shock stirred in Olivia—that last night in port he had had a cadaver aboard? While she was with him? "Josh guessed that, of course, but Slocum could not have. He issued warrants for several other places to be searched."
"And Uncle Josh did not enlighten him?" she asked with a touch of sarcasm, recalling her uncle's odd behaviour that evening. "Surely he would not have missed such a golden chance to see his hated adversary hanged, would he?"
"No, but then you sent for him," Ransome reminded her. "After that it was too late anyway. Even if a steam packet had pursued the Ganga down river with a warrant to board her, it would have been futile. Raventhorne would have already been past the estuary and in the open sea."
"On the other hand, Uncle Arthur," Olivia commented acidly, "how fortunate for everyone concerned! Now everything can be safely blamed on Das, if not Raventhorne. Slocum will say that Das, crushed by his sense of guilt, absconded after a clumsy attempt to involve both of you in that confession of his. The confession, therefore worthless, can be burned and forgotten. Even the handful who know the truth will conceal it willingly in the larger interests of the community. What would be the gain in another pointless scandal, anyway? So you see, this way nobody loses out, do they?" It was all exactly as Jai had predicted. At another time, under other circumstances, Olivia might have been incensed. But now she was merely amused.
Ransome flushed. "I wish I could refute your allegations, Olivia, but I cannot," he muttered unhappily. "It was a vile, immoral and ungodly scheme. I did not learn of it until it was too late, but I can by no means abrogate culpability. In Josh's defence I can say nothing except that, like Raventhorne, he despises the very idea of being a loser. The China Coast trade teaches you to fight back when threatened, to neither give nor take quarter. Deaf to common sense, Josh wanted to destroy Raventhorne's friendship with Arvind Singh and Arvind Singh's trust in his friend so that the consortium could neatly step into the breach and triumphantly take over the devastated mine, and Arvind Singh would then jump at the existing offer, eagerly and gratefully. Raventhorne would be persona non grata in Kirtinagar forever—and, of course, also behind bars. In fairness to Josh, that was the extent of his plotting. He certainly never intended that a man should die."
"Not a man," Olivia murmured absently, only half listening, "just a native . . ."
Genuinely distressed, Ransome did not hear her. "Estelle's elopement has destroyed the balance of Josh's mind, but my moral responsibility remains, Olivia. I will go to Kirtinagar before we leave for Barrackpore. If Arvind Singh is generous enough to receive me, I will plead for forgiveness, I will humble myself willingly. And reparation must be made, substantial financial reparation, for all the mindless destruction."
Lost within herself, Olivia did not concentrate on what Ransome was saying; the matter had ceased to exercise her. But mention of Kirtinagar had brought back graphic memories of Kinjal. Clear as a bell, she heard Kinjal's voice in her mind: I fear for you. A twinge, a tiny twinge of emotion, nudged her heart— with what face could she ever look at Kinjal again? "If Uncle Josh had obeyed his mother, then none of this would have happened."
Olivia was not aware of having mused aloud until Ransome answered. "No." He grimaced. "I know of no other man so many have wished dead! But then, Jai is like the phoenix. He survives, he endures, he rises again and again from the ashes. And he returns to our lives, as he will return once more, God damn his soul!"
The tiny twinge that had informed Olivia that she was, after all, alive, became more persistent; it would not be ignored. If only as an exercise in futility, she had to know it all.
"When did you see him again?"
She had no need to remind Ransome of the context. It was still alive and vibrant in his mind. "When?" He squinted his eyes in thought. "I'd say about six years or so later. One morning Josh found him standing at his gate. Just like that—Lazarus risen from the dead!"
In a reflex action, Olivia's eyes flew to the window beyond which stretched the driveway to the gate, almost as if he might still be there. Her mind raced with silent calculation; eight and six, fourteen—he must have still been at the tavern. How ironic that those dark areas of his life that she had once yearned so passionately to enter should be suddenly available to her now when she had no further use for them! Somewhere in the arid wastes within her, she felt another throb of life, a tremor—a mere tremor, but oh, so welcome!
"What was he doing at the gate?"
Ransome made a gesture of puzzlement. "Nothing. Just standing and staring. As Josh's carriage passed on its way to work, Jai merely looked at him, hard and long. He didn't say anything. Josh ignored the boy, but then Jai took to coming and standing at the gate every morning with that same unblinking stare as Josh passed. He never spoke, never made any sign, just stared. After three or four days of this curious and apparently senseless exercise, Josh began to be rattled. There was in the boy's stare such menace—loathing, Josh called it—that he was very close to again losing his temper. At first, he ignored the boy ..." Ransome broke off. "You know, even though he lived in my compound for eight years, oddly enough I never cared to find out his name. To me he was always 'the boy' or 'that damned boy.' It was only after he had gone I discovered from the servants that his mother had named him Jai."
"I'm told it means victory," Olivia provided. How appropriate!
"Yes, I believe it does," Ransome nodded. "Anyway, to return to that ruthless morning vigil—Josh was furious about it. He threatened to take his crop again to the boy, but I calmed him and advised him against precipitous action. After all, the boy wasn't doing any harm and he never ventured beyond the gate onto Josh's property. Why not, I suggested, continue to ignore him until he himself tired of his silly little game? For another few days Josh did that. Then, one morning, purely out of impulse, h
e threw him a fistful of coins as the carriage passed the spot where he stood. The boy did not even look at the money, but instead he leapt onto the step of the carriage and spoke for the first time. In halting English he enunciated his words slowly and with effort as if they had been carefully rehearsed many times over. There is nothing you can give me, Sir Joshua Templewood. But one day I will take from you everything—your money, your business, your reputation and all else you hold dear in your life.' With that he jumped off and scampered away. Josh didn't see him again."
"Until another six years later."
If Ransome was surprised at her information, he gave no evidence of it, too engrossed in ravelling the tangled skeins of his own suppurating guilt. Or, perhaps, her interruption escaped his notice. "Yes. And when he resurfaced this time, it was a very different personality that he had assumed. In fact, the picture he presented was quite startling. Without waiting to be announced, he walked straight into Josh's office—unrecognisable save for two things: that damnable arrogance and those frozen, lifeless silver-fish eyes that still stared devilishly. But now, his eyes no longer spewed childish hatred. Instead, they spilled over with icy cold confidence and an assurance with which he appeared over-endowed. He was totally in control of himself, polished in his manner and faultlessly dressed in an expensive, stylish three-piece suit, high leather boots and silken cravat. He clicked his heels smartly, bowed with a flourish and put an insolent hand on a hip. He spoke only to Josh, and what he said was in perfect, well-modulated English—and a fluent repetition of what he had threatened six years ago. He added, T have come to remind you that I am still alive, Sir Joshua, and that as elephants are reputed not to, I too never forget.' He laughed, bowed again and turned and walked out."
In the middle of his account, Ransome had got up and started to pace in halting but measured steps, leaning heavily on his stick. He now went to the window, threw it open—for the room had become close—and swallowed several lungfuls of the sharp wind that gusted in.
"I am not a nervous man, Olivia, and Josh certainly isn't. But that day, I can tell you quite honestly, we were shaken. The sudden, unexpected resurrection, the incredible metamorphosis from worm to butterfly, the fearless mockery, the confident threat—these were bad enough, but what was haunting was the aura the man seemed to carry. There was something inhuman about him, a smell of something... unholy." He stopped and gave a modest, apologetic laugh. "You might think me unduly melodramatic, Olivia, but neither Josh nor I is given to flights of fancy and we were truly shaken. That I did not like him, I already knew; that day I also learned to fear him. We later came to know that he now called himself Raventhorne."
Through the open window a fire-fly floated in and twinkled its way across the room. Olivia followed its flight thinking how pretty it looked against the massed shadows. "So then he has finally fulfilled that long-pending destiny of his."
Ransome caught her murmur and frowned. "A curious way of putting it! Whatever his cursed destiny might be, he has certainly fulfilled his threat." The corners of his mouth turned down in a gesture of repugnance. "What we must mourn now is the undeserved destiny of that innocent, gullible child."
The plucking aches, the wavelets of resurgent emotion, grew into a flood of resentment. And who will mourn for my destiny, Olivia cried within the confines of her mind, I who have also, in my gullibility, lost my all? Who will shed tears over the passing of my innocence? But her cries of inner anger remained, as always, unvoiced.
She knew, however, that Arthur Ransome had not been entirely honest with her; he had not yet told her everything.
That night, surrounded by the merciful privacy of her room, for the first time Olivia read Estelle's letter. Her motive was neither curiosity nor compassion for her absconding cousin; it was purely selfish. Fissures had started to appear in the dam of vast anguish shored up within her, and they needed to be widened, the dam breached. She needed to be whipped into rightful fury; she needed something to bring her back to life.
She needed to cry.
Olivia read:
My darling Mama and Papa,
By the time you receive this letter I will be on the Ganga sailing towards the Bay of Bengal and America with Jai Raventhorne . . .
Olivia skimmed the following two paragraphs containing vehement protestations of remorse for the pain she was causing and of "understanding" what they must be suffering. She assured them that, when she was not deliriously happy, she too was suffering with them, sharing their grief, but that she found she could not ignore the passionate dictates of her heart no matter how strong her reason. The reasons she gave for having taken what she called "this irreversible step" were the humiliations she had undergone as a "bird in a gilded cage" with no liberties befitting her state of adulthood, and her overpowering love for a man they had hated and maligned with such rampant injustice.
The next page, seething with emotionalism, was in defence of Jai Raventhorne, a scapegoat of society whose fineness, whose innate decency and gentleness, strength of character and endurance they had never taken into account when passing sentence on him. He had shown her nothing but courtesy and, of course, such selfless love as she had never considered possible.
I am not ashamed of my love for Jai. On the contrary, I am proud, proud, of it! I have entrusted my life to him because my faith in him is unshakable. For the first time in my eighteen years I am truly, truly happy.
The letter ended with more pleas for forgiveness and with impassioned exhortations that they too should share in her happiness if they really did love her. She concluded by assuring them that she would always remain their loving if disobedient daughter, Estelle.
At the bottom of the large brown envelope, previously unnoticed, was a small white one, sealed and addressed to Olivia. Her first instinct as she wrenched with anger was to burn it unread but then she thought better of it. The knife in the wound was still only half turned; it had to come full circle. She tore open the envelope and started to read:
My dear, darling Coz, my only friend—
There are no words with which I can express my gratitude to you. It is you who showed me the way to this wonderful, wonderful fulfilment, to the love of my life, my only love. It was you who triggered my interest in the man you met once so casually—and it was you who taught me how to see him in a light so different from that in which others saw him. Instead of contempt and hate, you unknowingly showed me how to regard him with compassion—the one feeling he has always been denied by everyone. Once we were not allowed to mention his name in our house; now his name resounds in my heart with its every beat and it fills me with a joy that I can never hope to put into words.
I wanted so much to tell you everything, dearest Coz. I felt you were the one person in the whole wide world who would truly understand what I felt. Alas, you fell ill and I couldn't. Perhaps just as well! Knowing your high ideals, your sense of duty, the honesty with which you conduct yourself always—knowing all these I have no doubt you would have tried to dissuade me. Would you have succeeded? Who can tell! Not because I love Jai less but because your logic is so hideously persuasive.
I write this from Chitpur, from one of Jai's quaint and quite amusing homes. In an hour—sixty minutes!—he will send for me. I am to be summoned aboard the Ganga—remember that beautiful clipper we admired one day from the Strand? How I would love you to see it, my darling Coz! It is in this graceful machine that we are to explore the seven seas, Jai has told me. Oh, I can scarcely wait! At last, Olivia, the wide, wide world and its secrets are to be mine. No, ours!
Whether you believe this or not, the pain I have in my heart for my beloved Mama and Papa is acute, the only cloud in an otherwise clear sky. I know that in your immense wisdom, in the sympathy and love that you have for me, you will solace them and at the same time assuage my own crime by pleading forgiveness for me. You will be to them, I know, a far, far better daughter than I ever was. They will need you— and you will fulfil that need just as you have always fulfilled
those of your own father. But in your anger with me, my darling Coz, promise me that you will never, never stop loving your incorrigible brat of a cousin, for my love for you is deep and abiding. I have told Jai so much about you, so much! God willing, one day you too will know him as I do and learn to love him as I have.
And now I must fly. Jai's man waits at the gate with a carriage. The Ganga must not miss the tide or Jai will be livid. Adieu, sweet Coz, adieu—but not farewell. For everything you have given me and taught me, I am grateful, forever in your debt. I will try to emulate your fineness always, for it illuminates my life like a beacon guiding me to a destiny that will not be diverted. If not now, as you read this, one day you will consider me worthy of your love, but for the moment I remain your worthless, selfish cousin, Estelle.
There was a postscript:
Did you really believe it was Clive Smithers who had bewitched me? Ugh!
And another:
When you clear my room—as Mama will not want to wait to do!—please return Charlotte's silver sandals to her. Also Polly's music sheets, which are in my bureau. I can never forgive Papa for all the nasty things he said, nor Mama for her instigations, but despite their little love for me I have preserved such secrecy that you, especially, would be proud of your chatterbox cousin! I have told no one of my plans, not even Charlotte. Mama will be content that she may have lost a daughter but not her reputation. If there is a scandal, that, at least, will not be of my doing. E.
With the letter in her hand, Olivia sat motionless. Everything within her had come to a standstill. She was in the eye of a cyclone; the world still swirled but inside there was only eerie calm. Then she lay down on her bed and closed her eyes. Behind the darkness of her lids, those visions kept locked in frozen seclusion for so long slunk out one by one to parade in gleeful abandon. Spectres lurking in crevices unknown scuttled out to mock with no further constraints. The cyclone spun like a top; the vortex that had given her brief sanctuary moved on. Suddenly something struck with the force of a sledge-hammer.