Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  On nights like these Olivia felt she would gladly sell her soul to be able to love Freddie even half as much as she had once loved Jai Raventhorne.

  Those leisurely drives down the Strand were still something Olivia enjoyed occasionally. Sometimes Freddie accompanied her; at other times when he was out with his friends, she went alone. Calcutta's riverine port always bustled with excitement and activity, especially when new arrivals were scheduled. Watching the hurry and scurry, breathing in the heady tang of salt, reading the boldly displayed labels on crates of cargo, Olivia somehow felt alive again. Instead of a castaway marooned forever in an insular wilderness, she felt that she was again part of the real world somewhere within which there was still America.

  One evening she was taken unawares by an alarming sight: a three-master painted white, flying a familiar saffron flag with a black motif! Her stomach, never stable these days, heaved. Was it, could it be, the Ganga? Memory flew back eight months to Estelle and her opera-glasses; only eight months had elapsed since that day so clearly etched in her memory, but it seemed as if in another lifetime, another age altogether. In a trance, Olivia stopped her carriage and stepped down. There was chaos and confusion everywhere, but suddenly through a gap in the crowd she spied Ranjan Moitra, Trident's manager. With a sheaf of documents in his hand he was arguing vociferously with a Customs official. On an insane impulse, Olivia picked her way through the throng towards him. Moitra saw her immediately and, surprised, stopped in midsentence to bow with elaborate deference.

  "Please to come this side, Madam," he said, hurrying towards her, then guiding her away with the stiff, traditional courtesy Bengalis always showed to women. "These coolies are uncouth louts with no manners."

  What Olivia planned to say she had no idea but, urged on by some force beyond her comprehension, she smiled and allowed herself to be escorted away. "Thank you, Mr. Moitra. I notice that one of your ships has arrived today," she said casually, her breath shallow.

  "Indeed it has, Madam." His chest puffed out with pride. "It is from Boston that it comes, your Boston," as if there might be a hundred others, "and it brings cotton gins and tobacco leaf." Emboldened by Olivia's flattering interest, he waxed eloquent about excise officials, his opinion of whom was the same as Donaldson's although he expressed it in less colourful terms.

  "Well, let me see," Olivia murmured after Moitra had said his piece, "that is a clipper, is it not?"

  His chest expanded further. "Yes, oh yes. Only Trident sails American clippers out of Indian ports."

  "Of course." Her heartbeats accelerated madly. "And this one is called the. . . Ganga, if I am not mistaken?" To stop herself from fainting, she clutched at the iron rail behind her back.

  "No, this is the other one, the Jamuna," he clarified. "We have many American clippers, Madam Birkhurst. As Madam might recall, the Ganga has a steam engine. That vessel remains in New York."

  "And the owner . . .?" Throwing caution to the winds, in her lingering dread Olivia turned reckless.

  "Also. The Sarkar—that is, my employer—remains with the vessel, I believe." He patted a plump mail parcel in his hand. "In New York our packet teas are selling like your cakes that are very hot." He allowed himself a small laugh in his pride of achievement.

  Olivia's gaze was riveted to the parcel in Moitra's hand. For a mad moment she was certain she would snatch it away from him, tear it open on the spot and devour its contents. But then, aghast, she stifled the lunatic impulse and recollected her balance. She recalled that for all she cared, Jai Raventhorne could be at the bottom of the Hudson River. "Indeed!" Her voice chilled as she punished Moitra for her own insanity. "I am pleased that Trident goes from strength to strength, Mr. Moitra, but you can hardly expect me to jubilate with you." With a freezing smile, she walked away.

  Still annoyed with herself for having solicited the pointless conversation, Olivia nevertheless derived some comfort from one small discovery: Not even Ranjan Moitra, trusted confidant of his employer, knew of her cousin Estelle's presence on board the Ganga. From a purely selfish standpoint, this was good news indeed. Obviously, if one were clever enough, secrets could be kept even in a village such as Calcutta!

  Early the next morning, as Olivia was preparing to leave for the Agency, a visitor was announced. According to the card the bearer brought, it was a Captain Mathieson Z. Tucker, master of the Lone Star line vessel Maid of Galveston out of Texas. He had, he wrote on the card, brought for her gifts and messages from Mr. Sean O'Rourke in Hawaii.

  Wild with excitement, Olivia flew down the stairs to greet Captain Tucker. "How very kind of you to call personally!" She gripped his huge hand and clung to it. "Do I understand that you have actually seen and talked to my father?"

  "Sure thing, m'am. And that ain't all, Mrs. ah, Brixton . . .?"

  "Birkhurst."

  "Pardon, Mrs. Birkhurst... I was there, right there m'am, at his weddin'. And a mighty fine weddin' too, as is only fitten for a fine gent such as yer Paw." He squeezed her hand and shook it so hard that her knuckles cracked, his bright red hair bobbing up and down at the same time. "As to yer own weddin', m'am, yer Paw said nothing. T'was to the Templewood house I went lookin' for yerself this mornin'."

  "Yes, well, the news could not have reached Papa yet when you left him, Captain Tucker." Eagerly she led him into the dining-room, where she had ordered an elegant table laid for breakfast. "Oh, I'm so impatient to hear all the news you bring, Captain!"

  Over a gargantuan meal to which the Captain did full justice, Olivia listened in enthralled silence as he gave her a detailed account of the great event. The ceremony itself, he said, took place in a wooden shack of a church built entirely out of sandalwood, for which the islands of Hawaii were famous. Sally had worn a dress of shell pink and in her hair she had tucked a red double hibiscus in deference to the native custom. The groom had been in a morning suit (How he must have hated that! Olivia chuckled inwardly) and so had Sally's boys. Dane, the younger, had been best man and Dirk had given his mother away. Later, they had celebrated with a luau on the beach with spit-roasted suckling pig, taro bread, sweet potatoes, sand-baked fish and " 'Nuff danged coconut wine to float my goddam ship, beggin' yer pardon, m'am." They had sung and danced till dawn. It had been, he concluded fervently, the best goddam wedding he had ever been to, including his own. Shaking his head, he thrust another vast spoonful of scrambled eggs through the shock of red whiskers that all but concealed his mouth.

  For more than two hours over endless cups of good, strong Brazilian coffee, a gift from the Captain, Olivia plied him with questions about all those thousands of details that could never be put into a letter. Hawaii, he said, like America was becoming an amazing melting-pot of folks from everywhere because the islands were heavenly. "Many Americans too, m'am, like yer Paw, runnin' away from California, where the gold scramble's bringin' every kinda scalawag there is. There's not a crooked son of a sea cook who ain't headin' West for the loot, m'am. And," he wagged a stern finger, "there's other rumblin's. In the South, I've even heard talk of open defiance by the slaves."

  "And the house Sally and my father live in?" Olivia asked, eager for more personal news. "What is that like?"

  Captain Tucker chuckled. "Houses on the islands ain't always like in America, m'am. This one's of grass, tapa cloth and blocks of coral." He told her that in the yard Sally had planted bread-fruit, taro and such vegetables as would grow on the islands' generally poor soil. They were lucky to have fresh water on their land and the fishing was good. When not at the missionary school or being tutored by her father, the boys were learning woodcraft, goat hunting and shearing and skinning, as well as marine engineering down at the shipyard. When they were old enough, her father planned to send them to Yale on America's East Coast. " 'Tis a fine sight to see those lads on a surfin' board, m'am. Brown as berries they are, and happy as bloody sandpipers." Captain Tucker's sigh was deep and hearty. "A few more voyages, a few more shekels and, by Christ, I'm ready for the fragrant isl
es m'self."

  Olivia's eyes, far-away and wistful, filled with longing. So was she, oh God; ready but unable!

  Captain Tucker pointed to the large parcel he had brought. "If it's more news yer after, 'tis all in there, I guess."

  "Yes, I suppose it is." Loath to let him go, she forced another cup of coffee on him. "You bring with you sights and sounds of an outside I had almost forgotten is still there, Captain Tucker. I am very grateful for your time and trouble. Do you plan to stay awhile in port?"

  "Alas, no. We only stop long 'nuff to collect cargo, m'am, a day or so at most."

  "What cargoes have you been carrying so far?" she asked only to prolong the conversation a few more minutes.

  "Mostly goat skins from Hawaii to Canton, bolts of silk now from China to Europe and America. And some of that carv'd, curlicu'd furn'ture the Chinks make. Too fancy for my likes but," he grimaced, "goes like free booze to the thirsty for them that has the cash in the West."

  "Does it?" Olivia's eyes had suddenly turned thoughtful. "Did you say you plan to touch England too, Captain Tucker?"

  "Aye, m'am. Southampton."

  "In that case," she said crisply, "would you be so kind as to give me another few minutes of your time? There is a small matter I would like to discuss."

  Arthur Ransome stared. "Yarrow has just returned from the docks. The Maid of Galveston can carry no more cargo. Her holds are full."

  "If Mr. Yarrow goes again and meets Captain Tucker personally, he will find that the situation has changed." Olivia explained her fortuitous encounter with her father's friend. "He is willing to oblige on the basis of his friendship with Papa. He tells me he has good contacts in Southampton. He will sell your tea locally and," she leaned forward and smiled, "I will purchase your consignment before dispatch so that you can receive payment immediately."

  Ransome's eyes widened. "Good God, my dear, Willie would have a fit! To involve Farrowsham in this—"

  "The involvement is not Farrowsham's, it is mine."

  "But I cannot allow Birkhurst money to—"

  "It is not Birkhurst money, Uncle Arthur. It belongs to me, personally." Her tone turned persuasive. "If you miss this opportunity, Uncle Arthur, that tea will deteriorate further and become unsalable. I assure you that the money I offer is mine to do with as I wish without consulting either Freddie or Willie Donaldson. I consider my investment safe since I am not looking for profit. If I break even in Southampton, I will be satisfied."

  Deeply moved, Ransome fell silent. Then, noisily, he cleared his throat. "Your offer is generous enough to render me speechless, but . . . ," he shook his head uncertainly, "but you make yourself vulnerable and, through you, Farrowsham."

  "Farrowsham is big enough to take care of itself. As for me, I neither fear nor care a crooked cent for your Mr. Raventhorne's reaction. In fact, I dare him to do his worst!" She flung the challenge with supreme confidence. For her, Raventhorne's worst had already been done.

  Eventually, albeit reluctantly, Ransome capitulated, abandoning foolish pride to accept a golden chance that might never again come. The other project Olivia had envisaged for Ransom's benefit, while chatting with the obliging Captain, she decided to reserve for later, following further investigations.

  If Arthur Ransome had been at a loss for words, no such reticence afflicted Willie Donaldson the next morning when news of the impromptu sale and dispatch of the moribund tea chests became known to the business district. "You should na have done that, lass," he exclaimed heatedly. "By Christ, it ain't our business what bad blood exists twixt Trident and anybody else!"

  "It still isn't Farrowsham's business," Olivia reminded him, unruffled. "And it isn't a matter of 'anybody else'; it's a matter of my uncle's firm. Besides, there is no need for the Agency to be involved."

  "There's na need but it might. Because we dinna ever touch the damned poppy trade, the cursed madman leaves us alone. To interfere noo with his affairs is foolhardy. It canna but invite trouble." He was extremely put out.

  "Trouble!" Olivia's lips curled. "Why is everyone so damned scared of trouble from Raventhorne? He's a bully, not some magical genie with supernatural powers!"

  "He's na genie but he is vicious and vindictive. What he's done to your uncle—"

  "What he's done to my uncle he's done because everyone was too lily-livered to stop him! Well, in my book he's just a cocky, self-opinionated smartass who's sledge-hammered his way to the top because no one has had the guts to settle his hash. Well, I have, Mr. Donaldson, I surely have!" Furious, she stood up and glared down at him with flashing eyes. "And if in the process I wish to help my kith and kin with my own money, I will damn well do so, and to hell with every one of Calcutta's whey-faced, yellow-bellied merchants!" Violently angry, she flounced out of his room.

  Open mouthed with astonishment, Donaldson gaped after her for a moment, then slowly sat back and took a deep breath. He remained awhile rubbing his chin and pondering and suddenly he broke out into quiet cackles. "Well, bless my soul, bless my soul! For a wee lass na yet dry behind the ears, she na runs short on bloody gall!" He roared and slapped his thigh. "But by God it's a grand pleasure to put one over the satchel-arsed bastard!"

  Olivia spent an evening of undiluted delight with the packages Captain Tucker had delivered. She read all the letters contained in them over and over again. How different they were in tone from her own blatantly fabricated, insincere bulletins! Besides the letters with their welcome news, there were gifts galore: carved sandalwood figurines and animals from Dane, similarly crafted book ends from Dirk, clothes hand stitched by Sally, books, newspapers and magazines from her father, cans of coffee-beans, coral jewellery and a goat-skin jacket specially made for her birthday. Her birthday! Lost in her fragile, perilous world so far away from reality, Olivia had forgotten even that!

  But if the generous parcel from Hawaii filled her heart with sweet and sour aches, the memory of another parcel from a different part of the world made Olivia's heart burn with persistent curiosity. Try as she might, she could not forget the sight of that fat brown bundle clutched in Ranjan Moitra's hand at the docks! It was not idle news about Raventhorne that she craved. Only one devouring question dampened her forehead with cold sweat and brought a sick, hollow feeling to her stomach: Was he intending to return soon to Calcutta ... ?

  As it happened, no great deviousness was required to trap Moitra into somehow releasing the information; two days after the encounter at the docks, he simply walked into the office and requested an audience with her. Olivia's pulse skipped—why the sudden call? "Yes, Mr. Moitra. What can I do for you?" A few minutes later when he was settled opposite her in her room, the front she presented to him was businesslike and composed.

  He coughed and looked unhappy. "Please to forgive the intrusion, Madam, but it is to beg Madam's forgiveness that I have come. I offended Madam the other evening." Olivia looked blank, so he continued ruefully. "I should not have mentioned Trident's successes in your country. It was—how to say it?—a foot in my mouth, a gross error. Naturally Madam cannot jubilate with us, naturally! As the esteemed daughter of Sir Joshua's esteemed lady memsahib's sister, it would be unthinkable. Please to pardon this humble, mannerless idiot." The corners of his mouth drooped in abject penitence.

  Olivia was tempted to smile but, of course, didn't. "There is no need for an apology, Mr. Moitra. You are, after all, a loyal Trident employee. Your pride in your employer's achievements is understandable."

  He was even more overcome by the gracious concession. "Madam is too kind, too kind," he murmured, then sat toying with a thought for a while before blurting it out. "Madam is also a fine, dutiful lady who is doing much to aid her family. I was personally very happy to learn that Mr. Ransome has been able to dispatch his tea to England." He turned earnest, his expression intent. "The Sarkar is my revered friend and mentor, but I do not approve of some of his methods. It is not with disloyalty that I speak, for the Sarkar is well aware of my opinion."

  Oliv
ia was surprised and touched by this unexpected sympathy. Also, it provided her with a tailor-made opening to probe. "Thank you, Mr. Moitra. Your words are greatly appreciated. Now, would you care to join me in a cup of cardamom tea? There is a certain matter I wish to bring to your notice."

  In no way suspicious of her motives, he nodded shyly. When the tea-tray was delivered a moment later, Olivia opened a ledger sitting on her desk. "On going through this, Mr. Moitra, I notice that your cargo rates are higher than everyone else's." Aware that Willie was fortuitously out of the office, she spoke with confidence. "The consignment of shellac you carried on the Tapti, for instance, cost us twice as much as it would have on another vessel."

  Moitra looked considerably surprised. "It is well known, Madam, that our rates are higher because our clippers are the fastest vessels available from Calcutta."

  "That is not entirely true, Mr. Moitra. Other lines, foreign ones, use clippers as well. Lone Star, for instance. Captain Tucker charged us far less for that tea than what we pay Trident."

  "But Lone Star ships do not call here regularly," Moitra protested. "Our sailings are like the workings of clocks. Besides, our contracts are all long term ..."

  Moitra was beginning to look puzzled. He knew, of course, that this sharp American lady whose brain was like a man's was now holding top position at Farrowsham, but why had Mr. Donaldson not brought up this question before? Olivia had expected resistance but she persisted. "What I would like to know is— would you be willing to re-negotiate lower terms with us, Mr. Moitra?"

  "Oh no, Madam." His reaction was immediate, as she knew it would be. "That is entirely beyond my authority. Only the Sarkar can make changes." His smile was profoundly apologetic. "I fear that Madam will have to wait for the Sarkar's return to re-negotiate the contract."