Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  "I have thought of little else these past few days."

  "Then you have decided not to return to your father for the time being?"

  "It appears to have been decided for me," Olivia said bitterly. "If my aunt destroys herself, no matter how insane her reasons, how will I ever be able to live with myself again clear of conscience? And I do love her, Kinjal. She is my own flesh and blood. To abandon her now might be to sign her death warrant." With a sob, she covered her face with her hands. "Oh, it is all so unfair, all so cruel and iniquitous! If I stay on as I am, she will die, not by her own hand but by the scandal of this noxious tumour in my womb. If I go, then she will try again what she tried on Wednesday and, perhaps, with greater success. What am I to do? What options do I have?"

  Kinjal took her hands and pulled them gently away from her face. "I can listen to you, Olivia, talk to you, share in your sorrow and perhaps even lighten it momentarily. What I cannot do is make your decisions. Those must be yours and yours alone."

  Olivia's face again set. "I have already decided. Whatever my other options, I will not nurture Jai Raventhorne's child in my womb."

  "You would knowingly destroy something that one day will have a life of its own?"

  "Yes."

  "You would cast aside the consideration that this is a child conceived in what was once love?"

  "Not love, self-delusion! Love is not a word Jai Raventhorne includes in his vocabulary, as you yourself impressed upon me not so long ago."

  "But you include it in yours, Olivia. Can you forget that?"

  "Yes. But to forget it I must first exorcise him entirely from both body and mind." Her voice broke. "I am shackled, Kinjal, within and without, physically and mentally. At least this one shackle I can shake off to make my burden more tolerable."

  Kinjal's gaze remained stern and unwavering. "You have never been a mother, Olivia. You have never brought into this world a handful of flesh that is of your own. Once gone, that handful will never be again—you have considered the irreversible finality of your decision?"

  "That handful will be flesh from two bodies, not one. To rid myself of its other component I willingly make the sacrifice, if indeed it is one!"

  "One final question, then." A crease in the Maharani's forehead neatly divided into two the vermilion spot she always wore. "Is it fear of public censure that also motivates you? The shame that society can heap on unwed mothers and their children?"

  For the first time Olivia pondered. "The answer to that question," she then said, "would vary with the geography of my situation. In America, I would not give a damn about public opinion and neither would my father or Sally. But here," her expression filled with slow horror, "here in India, I would rather kill the child than subject it to the unholy mercies of Calcutta's social vultures ready to pick at any carrion that will provide a tidbit of gossip. And they will pick clean whatever remains on the bones of my poor, miserable aunt and uncle should I have my baby here. For myself I can perhaps fight back, bite as hard as these harpies can, but would it be worth it?" She swallowed her anger and balled her fists. "No, no, no! As Jai once said to me in another context, the game is not worth the candle. And in any case I have no great desire to bring to life the bastard of a bastard."

  There was nothing left to be said.

  After a moment of silence, Kinjal smiled. "You are a brave woman, Olivia. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps the past can be forgotten only if excised. It is the future we must think of now. To wipe a dirty slate clean and start afresh might be a sensible new beginning."

  She rose, beckoned a maidservant and proceeded to dispense rapid instructions.

  The old woman was like a crow, hunchbacked with age, and with long, hooked fingers that felt like talons. As she poked and pried under the bed-clothes, Olivia watched with nervous fascination the single large tooth that was contained in the floppy, cackling mouth. Around them, maidservants hurried about on velvet feet carrying brass vessels of hot water, banana leaves, bundles of twigs and other leaves, hairlike roots with bulbous endings, bottles of coloured liquid, and crude, hideous implements. A live rooster, his scarlet cocks-comb looking as though it bristled with indignation, was securely trussed inside a basket. Near it rested an ominous-looking knife with a curved blade. In a corner of the chamber a paraffin stove bubbled like a witches' cauldron with a viscous concoction the colour of ebony. In the general gloam, even Kinjal appeared to have taken on an unfamiliar, sinister appearance.

  "What is to be done now?" Olivia asked, running a dry tongue over her parched lips.

  "Whatever is required to fulfil your wishes," Kinjal replied, her tone sombre. "The old woman is knowledgeable and experienced. She says yours is an easy case. She guarantees success. Can you give her the approximate time of conception?"

  Approximate? Olivia almost laughed as, through a knot of sourness in her throat, she voiced the time exactly down to the last minute. And as she did so, the languid, lazy arabesques of their love-making leapt into the forefront of her mind, her memory relentless in its clarity. In searing detail the images of those once-precious moments started to dance before her eyes, every nuance vivid. It was not Jai who had wanted to implant that devil's seed she was now cursing, it was she. It was to pleasure her, to indulge her erotic whims, to sharpen her own sensual gratification that he had let his essence flow into her unimpeded. She had, she knew, conceived his child at that precise moment because, passionately and unequivocally, that was what she had wanted.

  Give me a part of yourself. . .!

  In sudden despair, Olivia clung to Kinjal's hand. "Stay with me, stay with me please—I cannot bear it alone."

  Cool fingers soothed her drenched forehead. "Yes, I will stay with you. The woman asks if she should begin." Despite the physical contact, Kinjal seemed detached and far away.

  The despair receded; Olivia ossified again. "Yes. She can begin."

  Against a hum of incantations and chanting, Olivia sat up to drink a dark-coloured potion offered to her in a silver glass. Its effect was instant. A heavy lethargy pervaded her limbs and body as she sank back against the pillow and shut her eyes. She seemed to be floating away from herself to stand apart and watch the old woman sway from side to side, her hooked fingers flying over packets and bottles to mix and match and pick and reject with an expertise handed down through the centuries. Drowsily, Olivia blanked out of her mind the ugly present. She thought instead of beautiful dawns, of strutting peacocks resplendent in their brilliant mantles, of roses and horses and cottonwood trees and butterflies in the paddock flitting over carpets of green grass. A hot, sweet fragrance wafted about her nose and filled her head. The chanting became louder, the rooster flapped angrily somewhere in the distance, and then silence, followed by Kinjal's quiet command as something was pressed to Olivia's lips.

  "Drink this."

  In a twilight sleep, Olivia drank. The liquid was warm and quick-flowing and red. Like blood. But before she could retch, she was asleep. The final words she heard were Kinjal's. "There. It is finished and done with. By morning it will be as if it has never been ..."

  Finished and done with.

  In her sleep, dreams and fantasies crawled through Olivia's mind like rain insects, nimble legged and fluttering. Unaware and uncommanded, her hand groped for and found the locket she wore around her neck. Tactile memory brought with it a succession of others: satin finger-tips on her cheeks, a silken mouth moistening her breast, fragile kisses across her lips. Pools of smoky grey doused her with their pain, and in her ear a mist, a shadow of a voice murmured, but yes, I do love you . . .

  She slept on and on. When she woke again it was to find that her cheeks were bathed with damp. Trapped between her chin and an arm, the locket felt as cold as ice, its chain cutting into her flesh like an accusation. Her eyes flew open to see Kinjal's face, bathed in sunlight, staring down at her with a smile of satisfaction.

  "There! By tonight your unwanted appendage will wash away in a flow of your normal menstrual cycle
. You will be forever rid of that noxious tumour that threatens your sanity. Aren't you relieved?"

  Unable to speak, Olivia turned her head to the wall and shut her eyes tight. What had she done? Dear God, what had she done...? Wilfully she had destroyed the only part of himself Jai had ever given her! Flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood—whatever little love he had had for her, even that was gone. Sick at heart, Olivia clasped the locket tightly within a palm, kissed it and started to weep softly.

  Bending over her, Kinjal peered closely into her face. "Tears?" she exclaimed in some surprise. "Only of relief, I hope?" When Olivia did not reply but only drew up her legs beneath her chin and buried her face in her sheet, Kinjal pinched her cheeks between her fingers and forced Olivia to look at her. "I suspect that you are unhappy, my dear—can it be that you regret yesterday's decision? Come on, Olivia, tell me truly, do you?"

  "What does it matter now?" Olivia turned her face away again. "It's finished, isn't it? Done with."

  "But isn't that what you wanted?" The voice, usually so soft, so gentle, was harsh. "You are crying over spilt milk, Olivia. Something created in love has been extinguished in anger. What should have been considered profoundly as a matter of life and death has been subjected to reckless whim. I cannot undo what has been done, Olivia. You will have to live with it now."

  "I know, oh I know!" Wounded by the verbal lashing, Olivia dug her face into her pillow and exploded into tears. "If you despise me now, I accept that, for I despise myself. I too am not fit to live ..."

  This time Kinjal offered no sympathy, no words of comfort. Instead she sat in grim silence listening to Olivia's self-abuse with impassivity. It was only after the storm of tears had spent itself and Olivia once more lay submerged in her silent wretchedness that Kinjal chose to speak. "You do still have love left for Jai, haven't you?"

  A spasm ripped through Olivia's body. "How can I not, Kinjal?" she cried, "How can I not? He is part of me, in me, all around me everywhere, all the time. And when he is not, it will be because I too am dead like his child that I have slaughtered so callously."

  Kinjal changed position to sit down on the bed, and her tone softened. "You still love Jai enough to want to bear his child?" Olivia did not answer but her stricken expression was response enough. "But is your love adequate to bear also the ignominy of bearing the bastard of a bastard?"

  Olivia recoiled at the words, recognising them as her own. "I don't know, I don't know ..." Dropping her face into her palms, she sat up and rocked back and forth.

  "But then, you must find out, my dear, and soon! Jai has treated you abominably. Can you be big enough to not only bear his child but also to love and cherish it when you cannot forgive Jai's betrayal of you?"

  Goaded into response, Olivia flared. "I promised to tolerate anything Jai chose to be, I gave him my word. I wish to God I could truly blame him, but in all honesty I can't. He is what he is; he never pretended otherwise. Yes, I can be big enough to love his child if only because as much as it is possible for Jai to love any woman, that night he did love me . . ." Her voice broke; she could tear herself apart no more.

  Without another word, Kinjal rose and took her into her arms to hug her, her own throat tight. "Yes. In his own strange way, Jai did return your love. This much I am certain of. But Jai is unlike other men. He is a creature of circumstance; like the wind, like running water, he cannot be possessed. Fulfil that promise you made to him that night; trust him. However galling, have faith. Wherever you are, some day he will come to you. This much belief I have in a man I have called my brother."

  "And in the meanwhile," Olivia asked with scathing sarcasm, "what is it that I do with my own life?"

  "Wait," Kinjal said quietly. "And think. However much you might dislike the word, you are resourceful. I have faith in you, too; a solution will appear."

  "It is too late now for votes of confidence, Kinjal!" She felt another surge of bitterness and her face crumpled. "All that remains for me now is to wither away like that noxious tumour. I deserve no better."

  Under her breath, Kinjal laughed. "It is not too late. You silly, headstrong girl—did you really believe that I would permit you to make such a rash decision without protest?" Gently, she kissed Olivia on the forehead. "My dear friend, what I put you through was merely an absurd charade devised to frighten you into your senses again. I wanted only to test the strength of your decision, and I'm happy, so happy, that I did." She pointed to the scattered remains of the old woman's ministrations. "What she gave you was only a harmless mixture to make you sleep. Rest assured, my dear confused American hothead, what is within your womb remains safe and secure for the present."

  Dumbstruck, Olivia could only stare.

  Once more Kinjal became grave. "The old woman says we still have time on our side. During that time, think well and dispassionately and thoroughly, Olivia. I know that it is a cleft stick that you ride; either way your decision will bring torment." Placing a palm on Olivia's stomach, she stroked it. "What lives in here is still no larger than a mango seed. But it grows by the day, by the hour, each time you take a breath. After four weeks it will no longer be safe to remove. Whichever path you choose, there will be pain—but either way I want you to know that you will have my support and help." For the first time, the Maharani's eyes filled with tears. "If you are still in India, I will wait to hear from you. If not, I will miss you with all my heart and pray that God will always watch over you in your travails."

  Olivia was too overwhelmed to speak.

  Her visit to Kirtinagar, accepted as one of farewell, raised no questions at home, which was a relief. But now, with time running out, Olivia could no longer postpone that which she never wanted to do again—think. She had not only to think, she had to calculate and consider, balance and weigh, assess and examine. Make decisions. Momentarily lulled into hibernation, her conscience once more became a prowling menace that refused to be silenced. At these the most vital cross-roads of her life, her conscience taunted and teased and tossed down a gauntlet it challenged her to ignore. And in her nostrils, whichever way she turned, she smelled only defeat.

  Be true to yourself.

  Her father's advice now sounded hollow, irrelevant. She no longer knew who she was. That "true self" her father held so dear seemed forever obscured. All night Olivia paced, trying hard to gouge out from her memory the sight of her aunt on the bathroom floor, her lacerated wrists gushing blood like a fountain. There was still some blood on the hemline of her own dress, which she had not been able to wash out, and when she had touched her aunt more blood had smeared her palms. Angrily, Olivia brushed aside sentiment in an effort to reduce her options into terms of cut and dried reality. She could return to Kinjal during the month and overnight flush away that loved-hated mango seed that was at the core of her misfortunes. Or she could stay on in India and bear her child despite the scandal, despite the slings and arrows of an unforgiving society. Or she could flout the pernicious demands of her conscience to march up that gangplank next Wednesday, and to hell with all other problems!

  Two other options remained. She could throw herself into the Hooghly and thus find instant salvation. No more thought, no more pain, no more decision making! This, of all her options, was to Olivia the most tempting, the simplest, the easiest. But then—what would that do to her father? She would destroy herself yes, but she would also destroy him, not only because he had lost her but because she had died a coward.

  There was only one choice left. Ironically, it was the option that repulsed her the most. But it was the one that presented the fewest complications. It too called for destruction, but only her own. It was a straw, the final one, but the sole straw within her reach. If it saved her from drowning it also condemned her to a living death. On the other hand, what was her life worth anyway?

  All night long Olivia paced, thinking, thinking, thinking! By dawn, with her hated resourcefulness stretched to its limit and every consideration exploited to the full, she arrived at a decis
ion. It was a decision that was like a cyclonic gust of wind, extinguishing her spirit and withering away her heart. But it was the only decision that was available to her.

  And with the coming of that decision Olivia felt the first stirrings of an emotion she would have considered impossible only a few weeks ago. It was hate for Jai Raventhorne.

  CHAPTER 13

  Freddie Birkhurst was stunned, so much so that he could not speak. For a moment Olivia thought he might faint.

  "I mean it, Freddie," she repeated. "If you still want me for a wife, I accept your offer."

  It was early morning. The haze had not yet lifted off the river. They sat in the same clearing in the Botanical Gardens where, ironically, Freddie had stammered out his proposal. Now, pressing unsteady fingers to his eyes as if to dispel a dream, he gulped and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down like a child's yo-yo. "My God . . .," he breathed finally, "I can't believe it, it can't be true . . .!"

  "It is true." Olivia's amber eyes, vacant and lifeless, stared nowhere in particular. "Does your offer still hold good, Freddie?"

  He sprang up, galvanised. "Of course it still holds good! Dammit, what kind of a cad do you take me to be?" He bristled with hurt.

  "In that case," evading his arms, she moved away, "would you agree to an early marriage?"

  "Early marriage?" Disbelief turned into rapture. "How early—tomorrow? Today, if it suits you better!" He could barely stay still.

  "Don't be silly, Freddie. Next week will do just fine. I want no fuss. A simple, private ceremony with just the families." She spoke with a curious calm, a sense of purpose that was nerveless, as if she had died and emerged elsewhere, evacuated of all feeling.

  "An elopement, dear heart, if you wish! Only the two of us—"

  "What would be your mother's reaction to a quick wedding?" she cut in impatiently, dismissing his suggestion with a gesture.