Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  Olivia's eyes brimmed and her heart filled with happiness. Yes, she had known that one day Sally and her father would marry, and she could not envisage a more perfect arrangement for any of them. She loved Sally dearly, and Dane and Dirk were already as brothers to her. Brushing aside her tears, she read on.

  . . . sorrows divided and the warmth of mundane companionship. I don't want you to feel, as you do now, that your own life must stop so that you can take care of your lonely, aging Dad. I want you too to marry, to set up a home, to have children, to travel and grow and develop in your own way at your own pace. It is what I have always wanted for you, to be independent, to be your own person, to fear nothing, to experiment boldly and always to be true to yourself. Perhaps you have already met a man you consider worthy of your love, that man you wrote you had met and whom you wanted to meet again, for instance . . .

  She could not go on. Crushing the pain that shafted through her, Olivia gritted her teeth and thought only of her father and Sally and of the quiet contentment that reached out to her between the lines. They would be a family again. Perhaps there would be a farm in some idyllic Hawaiian valley, maybe a whitewashed farm-house full of the fragrances of freshly baked bread and cinnamon-smothered doughnuts and the ocean right outside the window. There would be chickens and pigs, a horse or two, a swing in the garden, a sugar white beach for the children to play on . . .

  For the first time in weeks, Olivia felt her pall of endless gloom lift. Suddenly, life didn't seem totally hopeless after all. More than ever now she longed to be up and away, and in her bounding exhilaration she found the courage to break the news of her intended departure to her aunt. Since their return to Calcutta, Lady Bridget had improved perceptibly. There was again colour in her cheeks, firmness in her step. Only this morning she had caught Babulal with two cucumbers concealed under his turban and had been animated enough to scold him severely. This portent alone, Olivia decided, was enough to indicate that the worst was over for Lady Bridget.

  Sitting in the garden with her ever-present Bible resting in her lap, Lady Bridget heard Olivia out with surprising calm. When the announcement had been delivered and the explanations were over, Olivia hugged her aunt. "You have been so good to me, Aunt Bridget," she whispered with a catch in her voice, "and I have been happy with you, truly I have, but now I must return to my father."

  "Yes, I know, my dear, I know." Absently, her aunt kissed her on the cheek.

  "And you will soon be leaving for London," Olivia hurtled on so as not to lose her advantage. "Perhaps Uncle Josh can be persuaded to go with you. You have always wanted that, haven't you? You could be in Norfolk for the spring and the daffodils, with the Broads again alive with Sunday picnickers." Emboldened by her aunt's look of frowning concentration, Olivia ventured further. "You and Uncle Josh have only each other now; both of you have suffered equally. Can you not bring yourself to forgive him?"

  She shook her head vigorously. "It is for the good Lord to decide that. The vengeance is only his."

  Vengeance? Olivia suppressed a stab of irritation. "What is done cannot be undone now, Aunt Bridget; it can only be accepted. You will have to someday accept Estelle's elopement, however obnoxious you might find it." Her tone hardened. "And someday, maybe, Estelle will return to you—"

  "Return?" Lady Bridget half rose to her feet. "Do you think I could ever accept her back after this? After this . . .?"

  Her vehemence, the ugly distortion of her features, her whole demeanour, startled Olivia. Even now, when they were tasting the dregs of a common despair, when so much had already been lost and so little was left, her aunt could still pronounce moral judgements? "Everyone deserves forgiveness for one mistake in life," she persisted earnestly. "Surely you must now find it in your heart to forgive Estelle too." The gallantry with which she was defending someone who had helped to destroy her own life brought a sour smile to Olivia's lips. How open ended was her pious selflessness!

  Lady Bridget retrieved her fallen Bible and rose to her feet. "You are a noble girl, Olivia, but you have understood nothing, nothing." Tucking the Good Book under her arm she walked away, her expression one of utter contempt.

  Olivia started to pack.

  In her own desperate need to be gone, she closed her mind to all other thoughts and considerations. Yes, she felt deeply for her aunt and uncle, but each of them had come into this world with a separately predestined burden of woes graphed individually on a chart of fate. She could not now afford to consider any burden save her own, the burden that she carried within the confines of her body. She hardened herself against even those thoughts of Jai Raventhorne that arrived uninvited in various unexplored recesses of her mind. He was gone. She would never see him again, nor did she especially want to. That fragment of her life he had taken with him would not be missed much longer; she would make it dispensable. For the moment all she wanted was to flee, to escape to where her home truly was, and to cast herself and her sorry load into the arms of her beloved Sally. Her situation frightened Olivia—oh God, how terribly it frightened her!

  An Australian ship that had recently arrived in port for repairs was moving on soon to the Pacific and would most certainly call at Honolulu. Arthur Ransome had spoken to the captain, who had agreed to take on a single lady passenger from Calcutta provided she could be ready to sail at short notice. Delirious, Olivia plunged into a flurry of preparations with renewed vigour for more than one reason; Freddie Birkhurst was deluging her with frantic letters beseeching her to see him. Olivia knew that she would have to, of course, but not until the very last moment when nothing, nothing, could go wrong with her plans.

  To provide salve for a badly scarred conscience, Olivia convinced herself that the Templewood household and its inmates were now securely on the path to normalcy, or at least an acceptable form of it. Sir Joshua was still a shockingly diminished man with prolonged spells of vagueness, but Ransome had persuaded him to attend the office for short periods each day and the enforced mental exercise appeared to be therapeutic. Lady Bridget had started supervising the gardeners again and her daily arguments with the cook were heartening. All in all, she seemed to have accepted Olivia's imminent departure without excessive reaction. At least, since that day in the garden when the initial announcement was made, she had not referred to the subject.

  Among the letters Olivia wrote prior to the sailing date was one to Kinjal. It was not an easy letter to write. Kinjal must know, of course, that Raventhorne had sailed away. Whether she also knew of the extra passenger he carried was impossible to ascertain, but as a point of honour Olivia felt that Kinjal must be told everything. In the end she wrote asking only if she could come and spend a day or two in Kirtinagar before her ship sailed. Kinjal's response was immediate. She was heart-broken, she answered, that her dear American friend was to desert them all so soon, but with her usual discretion she neither commented on nor questioned Olivia's decision. A carriage would arrive from Kirtinagar to fetch Olivia on the following Saturday, which, the Maharani hoped, would be convenient.

  As it happened, it was not only convenient, it was desperately necessary. On Wednesday, a week prior to Olivia's sailing date, Lady Bridget locked herself inside her bath-room and tried to kill herself.

  "What the hell have you been thinking about, Josh? Can't you see, man, she has to be taken away from this infernal country?"

  Exhausted, sweating profusely and livid with anger, Dr. Humphries sat slumped in a chair downing a stiff whisky. Nobody could think of voicing an answer as they all sat white faced and shaken in the Templewood parlour. Hands clasped tightly in his lap, Sir Joshua stared stolidly at the carpet.

  "You can't keep her here anymore, Josh." Anger removed, the doctor's tone was now emphatic. "That was as close a shave as any I've seen. It was only because her hands shook badly that she couldn't entirely sever the blood vessel, and if Olivia hadn't chanced to hear the crash of Bridget's fall in the bath-room it might have been a very different tale indeed. As it is she's los
t a dangerous quantity of blood."

  Sir Joshua still said nothing but Ransome shook himself out of his stunned torpor. "Yes, of course Bridget must go home and Josh must be the man to take her. I've been telling Josh that for weeks."

  Dr. Humphries rose, walked to where Sir Joshua sat and put a hand on his shoulder. "She'll try again, you know," he said bluntly. "They always do."

  He went but left behind a chill, sinister silence that no one had the courage to break. Standing by the window staring out blindly, Olivia remained numb. What if she had not heard that crash? What if nobody had? What if her aunt did try again? The ayah, taking her afternoon siesta on the landing, had remained dead to the world. A dozen more maidservants would be a dozen times more useless. Lady Bridget, now more than ever, needed constant attendance. Would the hired nurse Dr. Humphries had promised be adequately vigilant? Within herself Olivia screamed with anguished protest: It's not my responsibility, it's not my problem! God knows I have my own . . .

  Nobody heard her screams. Like all her others, these too were destined to remain buried in silence.

  "If Bridget wishes to return to England," Sir Joshua finally offered a comment, "I have never indicated any objections."

  "But you can't stay here on your own, man! You couldn't manage a day without Bridget." Ransome sounded utterly fed up with him.

  Sir Joshua pierced him with a look. "I intend to stay on! I am perfectly capable of managing my own affairs. Besides," his voice fell into a mumble, "I have things to do here; Bridget knows that."

  "Don't talk rot, Josh! There is nothing you have to do here, absolutely nothing." Ransome's rebuke was unduly sharp. "You know I can deal with whatever is left of the business." Without replying, Sir Joshua got up clumsily and shuffled out of the room. Ransome tossed up his arms in despair. "What is one to do? What is one to do? He won't listen to anyone, the stubborn fool!" Then he brushed the subject aside and attempted a smile. "And you, my dear? Are you all packed and ready for next Wednesday?"

  "Yes." Olivia did not turn to face him.

  "Is there any way in which I can be of service?"

  "Thank you, no. You have already been most kind."

  "I am arranging dry provisions and some comfortable furniture for your voyage. The conveniences on board are, I regret, woefully inadequate, as you know."

  Again Olivia murmured her thanks, fighting off surging tides of claustrophobia. Slowly, she was being lowered alive into a coffin. One by one the nails were being hammered in. It was dark and dank and she could scarcely breathe. From all around forces were converging and conniving to trap her within that coffin and then leave her to suffocate. "What will happen to them when I'm gone?"

  Ransome shrugged. "I will be as persuasive as I can with Josh, and hope for the best. The nurse, Humphries assures me, is sane, responsible and alert, so we must keep our faith in that. And in God. But if Bridget does stupidly try to harm herself again ..." He trailed into silence, unwilling to complete the sentence.

  Olivia allowed the silence to expand before she could bring herself to ask dully, "After this Australian ship sails, when might be the next departure for the Pacific?"

  He could not conceal the spark of hope that leapt into his eyes. "There are many sailings from here to San Francisco via Honolulu. I could try for something suitable in, say, a month or two."

  A spasm rippled through Olivia's body. A month or two! No, that was utterly out of the question! Already the flatness of her stomach was being rounded into a telltale mound. Come what may she had to leave next Wednesday. She made no further offers; an unkept promise was more cruel than no promise at all. Quietly, she slunk out of the room.

  With her poor, damaged wrists heavily medicated and bandaged, the colour of her skin deathly pale, Lady Bridget lay unmoving on her bed. Her eyes were open but they were unseeing. Next to the bed sat Mary Ling, the half Chinese nurse Dr. Humphries had summoned and briefed without delay. She was a bright young thing no more than twenty-four or -five but, according to the physician, highly competent. And, he further assured them grimly, the girl knew how to keep her mouth shut. Dismissing the nurse from the room for the moment, Olivia sat down on her aunt's bed. "How do you feel, Aunt Bridget? Is there anything you would like me to fetch you?"

  Lady Bridget gave no response, her sightless eyes fixed to the ceiling. But then she moaned and tears started to trickle down the side of her cheeks. "I have failed you; I have failed Sarah. I am sending you back as denuded as you came ..."

  The voice was whispered, an effort, but the words were clear enough. Olivia trembled with renewed shock. "You have not failed either of us," she whispered back passionately. "And you are not sending me back. I return of my own free will because I must, Aunt Bridget, I must..."

  "But then how will I ever atone?" She became agitated. "A promise to the dead is sacred and I have achieved nothing, nothing! Sarah will never forgive me. I have a duty to her." Her voice had risen, the words tumbling out in a frantic rush.

  "You have duties to the living, Aunt Bridget, not the dead!" Olivia held her down gently as she tried to sit up. "To Estelle, when she returns, and to Uncle Josh. They—"

  "Estelle is dead too." Her throat rattled with an unpleasant sound. "As for Josh, it is too late for him. It is too late for everything."

  "That is not true!" Olivia cried, struggling between impatience and panic. "When you are both in England you can—"

  "I will never see England again. I can face nobody." The voice dropped and she started to sob quietly again. "My life is both finished and unfinished. There is nothing left."

  She was being blackmailed! Olivia knew she was being held ransom for someone else's guilt, someone else's omissions and commissions! Well, she would not stand for it. How dare her aunt force her into corners, impose her will on her, cut off her sole avenue of escape? "Your life is neither finished nor unfinished," she grated harshly, almost shaking her aunt with the violence of her resentment. "You have no cause to seek forgiveness for imagined offences of yester-years, but if it is forgiveness you want, then as my mother's proxy I forgive you a hundred times, a thousand if you wish."

  Lady Bridget fell silent. For a while she said nothing, but then she spoke again, quietly and calmly. "Very well, Olivia. I accept your forgiveness on your mother's behalf. But no one can force me to live if I don't wish to."

  The final nail was hammered into the coffin. Fate had defeated Olivia after all. The diabolic melodrama that had begun that long-ago night on those steps by the river was approaching its climax and she, for her sins, was its leading performer. The time for indecisions was over.

  Therefore, when Olivia stepped into the splendid Kirtinagar coach on Saturday, it was with a resolve that was as cold-blooded as it was inevitable.

  "Are you certain this is what you really wish, Olivia?"

  If Kinjal felt any sense of shock at what had been asked of her, she did not show it. Indeed, the cool eyes appraising Olivia showed only concern.

  In the warm welcome that had greeted her in Kirtinagar, Olivia had found no recriminations, no complacency, no unspoken moral judgements. There had been no need even for words as Olivia had flung herself into Kinjal's arms and burst into a storm of tears against the comforting shoulder. "I should have paid more heed to your warnings," Olivia had sobbed brokenly. "I am sick, Kinjal, more sick than you can suspect. Unfortunately, my sickness is not one that guarantees death."

  "My goodness, how defeated you sound!" Kinjal had exclaimed in an effort to conceal her anxiety under a spark of humour. "What has happened to all that fiery American spirit?"

  "No longer fiery but crushed." The wan smile Olivia allowed herself had soon dropped. "I need your strength, Kinjal. It is only to you that I can reveal my weakness, for I have nowhere else to turn. And I am tired, so tired of being silent and noble and a pillar of courage and forever resourceful. I too want time to mourn, to indulge my sorrow, to consider my loss, to wallow in self-pity if need be, to return myself to myself . . ."
r />   They had sat on the terrace of the Maharani's palace from which the view was magnificent. Under a lather of roseate clouds the sun was slipping into the lake; the scents of the evening were intoxicating. For Olivia, the return to Kirtinagar was wounding— but then no more so than anything else in her life, she reminded herself bitterly. Her need to talk was all-consuming.

  "My husband has taken the children for a picnic," Kinjal had said. "They plan to camp near the mine where the debris is being cleared and to hunt for deer in the forest. We will not be disturbed for a day or two. You can talk to your heart's content."

  The source of Olivia's anguish was, of course, already known to Kinjal. Only the details needed to be filled in. And oh, what bliss it had been for Olivia to at last shed pride and pretences and to deliver the truth, the whole truth. In her account she had omitted nothing, revealed everything, castigating herself with an honesty that was almost masochistic. Kinjal had listened with patience and with tacit understanding, her reactions devoid of anything but compassion. It was only when Olivia had concluded and blurted out her eventual request that the Maharani started to ask questions.

  "Have you thought about it carefully, my dear friend? Kinjal repeated. "Is this truly what you want?" For the first time the serene eyes turned reproachful.

  Olivia's mouth set. "Yes. I need help to forget Jai Raventhorne," she said stonily. "The memories in my mind are hidden and with time they will fade. What can no longer be concealed in my body needs to be excised and discarded."

  The sloe eyes, shrewd and reflective, surveyed Olivia carefully. "And you assure me that you have thought about it well?"