by Olivia
She smiled at his bad temper, murmured a hasty apology and proceeded to give him the news of the forthcoming event. He made no response except to grunt and wave aside the information without the slightest indication of interest. Olivia peered at him with a frown. Today his eyes were far from vacant; instead, they seemed unusually alert, even shrewd. "What is it that you're hiding under there, Uncle Josh? May I see it?"
"Certainly. If you insist—not that it's anyone's business." Apart from his irritability, he showed no other reaction to her request. He pulled aside the cloth to reveal a pair of brand-new American Colts, no doubt part of his extensive collection of firearms mounted on handsome mahogany racks in the billiards room. He had obviously been polishing the revolvers, for they were both burnished to a rare shine. Ignoring her, he persisted with his labours.
Olivia sat down to watch as his fingers flew over the weapons with confident, practiced expertise. Yes, there was something quite different about him today! His shoulders, for instance, were squared back, the stoop forgotten; the eyes that peered into the barrels were clear, steady. There was no tremble in his fingers. And the voice with which she had been reproved had been strong and authoritative. Something sharp caught in Olivia's throat. "Why are you cleaning these weapons?"
"For the same reason that anyone cleans weapons. To have them in perfect firing condition."
"Why should you suddenly want them in perfect firing condition?"
"Because I wish to fire them." He laid down the Colt he held and subjected her to a stern stare. "Now, do you have any more silly questions, or can I be left in peace to get on with my work?"
As he again reached for the Colt, Olivia caught his hand and stopped it. "Whom do you wish to fire them at, Uncle Josh?" Her voice was level but the catch in it made her sound breathless.
"Ah!" He sat back, his hand still in Olivia's grip.
She shook his hand hard. "Tell me, Uncle Josh! Whom do you plan to kill with these weapons?"
He swung forward again, released his fingers one by one and resumed his labours. "I plan to kill Jai Raventhorne."
She was convinced that his mind, already teetering at the brink, had finally snapped. "But Jai Raventhorne isn't here, Uncle Josh!" Olivia cried. "You know that as well as everyone."
"He will be. Soon."
"Soon? What do you mean, soon?" She could barely speak. "Who's been telling you all these lies? Tell me, who . . .?" In her panic she gripped his hands again and held them fast, shaking them back and forth with punitive force.
Carefully, almost delicately, he pried her fingers apart, released his hands and returned to what he was doing. "They are not lies. The Ganga has been sighted in the Palk Straits west of Ceylon. She was heading north."
Olivia regained consciousness to the feel of her own bed at home and the sight of Dr. Humphries's face bending over hers with some seriousness. Behind him, trying hard to minimise her presence but also anxious, stood Estelle. Olivia struggled up on an elbow, dazed. "What happened . . .?"
"You don't remember?" Dr. Humphries inquired. Olivia shook her head, lay back again and closed her eyes. "Apparently you fainted, but with enough good sense to wait until you reached your own threshold. The servants went to fetch me and I sent for your cousin." Putting a hand behind her head he raised it and poured a dose of foul-smelling liquid down her throat. Olivia retched. "Tsk, tsk! No nonsense now, my girl! Drink it all up. You'll be right as rain in the morning."
Memory returned in a cascade and Olivia fell back to bury her face in her pillow. "I'm as right as rain now. There's nothing wrong with me."
"Temper, temper!" he reproved cheerfully. "I never said there was anything wrong with you. In fact, quite the contrary." He snapped his black bag shut and beamed. "I'll be sending you a mixture that will steady your tum. Three times a day before meals. Estelle will see that you rest and behave yourself, won't you, you saucy little monkey?" He pinched Estelle fondly on a cheek.
"I don't have time to rest," Olivia cried, praying that Estelle would just go away. She wanted to be alone—God, how she wanted to be alone! "I have thousands of things to do before I leave."
"All in good time, all in good time." Using the indulgent tone all doctors used with their patients invariably assumed to be half-witted, he laughed. "Well, seeing as you are an old customer and entitled to your little tantrums, I'll give you the good news anyway." He patted her hand and held it. "Then you must sleep. I forbid you to wake up before morning. My dear, you are going to be a mother again."
Without assimilating the momentous information, Olivia sank into sleep.
Her sedated slumber was long, restful and reviving. She awoke, just as dawn filtered through the bedroom drapes, to the sound of bird song. In a corner with her hands crossed in her lap, Estelle sat on a chair dozing. Hearing the rustle of bed-clothes she sat up with a start. For an instant she looked flustered, as if caught doing something she shouldn't. "I'll go down and ask for some tea, shall I?"
"Have you been here all night?" Olivia spoke with her eyes closed.
"Yes. I thought you might need something."
"You shouldn't have sat up. Salim would have prepared a bed for you in one of the guest-rooms."
He is on his way back!
Olivia could think of nothing else as she hid her waves of crashing panic from Estelle behind tightly shut eyelids. Did Estelle know? But of course she must! Who else would conspire to devise his premature return but her shameless cousin? And what about Amos . . .? With a cry, Olivia leapt out of bed, forgetting even Estelle. She had to write to Kinjal immediately; Amos must not return before she was absolutely ready to sail! If Raventhorne were to hear of her child . . . oh, sweet Lord, she had to get rid of Estelle! To even have her in the same room now seemed an abomination.
"You must rest, Olivia," Estelle was pleading. "Dr. Humphries has insisted on it. You must avoid over-strain for the sake of the baby."
The baby . . .?
Olivia's memory flickered; the baby! Dr. Humphries had said she was to be a mother again! She was going to have another baby, Freddie's baby. A Birkhurst baby. Her mind, still foggy with panic, could not yet absorb the total significance of so unexpected a happening. Still in a daze, she crawled back into bed and lay again with her eyes closed. The sheer force of her colliding emotions drained away her strength and, perhaps, she slept. When she eventually surfaced Estelle was no longer in the room.
Later, much later, Olivia steeled herself to think again of Jai Raventhorne's imminent return, and of his renewed physical presence in the city. But that too was a reality that her brain could not yet fully accept. She had lived with the fear for so long, had watched it weave in and out of her nightmares with such persistent regularity, that now it eluded her comprehension. Incoherently, she sensed his presence everywhere; like a wraith, sinuous and elusive, he was still all pervasive—as if he had never gone away at all! She knew that her mind was playing tricks, but as her carefully erected mental barricades crumbled one by one, she felt defenceless, exposed. At the same time she recognised that now, at this crucial juncture in her bizarre life, more than ever she needed to retain her equilibrium. She had to sustain her sense of perspective; she must not let go of her most valuable defence against Jai Raventhorne—the determination that he would never touch her life again.
"Is it true?" It was the first question Olivia asked Arthur Ransome when he called to inquire after her well-being that evening.
"Yes, it is true." Instinct told him to what she referred.
Olivia quelled her resurgent alarm at the unambiguous confirmation; she had to know more. "How did Uncle Josh happen to hear the news before any of us did?"
Ransome gave an indulgent laugh. "Oh, Josh is a crafty old fox not yet gone to earth, as he sometimes pretends. He still has his sources, especially where information about Raventhorne is concerned. In any case," he sat back, brow furrowed in thought, "rumour also has it that Raventhorne will travel directly up to Assam."
Olivia's hear
t leapt as a faint spark of hope rekindled. "And this rumour is accurate, you think?"
He spread his hands. "As accurate as any rumour about Raventhorne."
With that, for the moment, she had to be satisfied. "The alleged intention to kill Raventhorne," Olivia asked now, "is Uncle Josh serious about it? I can hardly believe that he is!"
"He appears to be serious."
"But Raventhorne will kill him! Surely Uncle Josh realises he will be a sitting duck for Raventhorne if he forces this ludicrous confrontation?"
"He feels he must, Olivia. He believes he has a moral debt to discharge to Bridget."
"And you will do nothing to prevent this . . . murder?" It astonished her that this eminently balanced man could approve of such foolhardiness.
"My own reactions are immaterial," Ransome hedged. "But I have long accepted that a confrontation is inevitable. Sooner or later it will come and one of them will be eliminated. There is neither space on earth nor air in the heavens for both."
Olivia opened her mouth to indignantly dispute his limp acceptance of what to her would be an act of suicide, but then she shut it again. It is not as it seems, Ransome had said once in another context. Now she got the feeling that it was what he was saying to her again. And who was she to argue, or to air secrets not her own? If she had been unable to divert the course of her own fate, it was unlikely that she could that of another.
After Ransome had left Olivia forced her scattered faculties to regroup and sat down to recapitulate logically. John Sturges planned to depart for Cawnpore with Estelle, his parents and Sir Joshua on the afternoon of next Sunday, the day after her reception for the newly-weds. No more than a week later the Lulubelle, already in port and being provisioned, would sail for the Pacific. Even if the Ganga were to dock in the interim, bazaar gossip— often gratifyingly accurate—had it that Raventhorne would not linger in station. The probability of any confrontation, either with Sir Joshua or herself, simply did not exist.
God willing, it would all work out, it must. She would yet beat Jai Raventhorne to the draw!
CHAPTER 17
Whether or not Olivia paid any heed to the social snobberies of Calcutta, the wife of a newly titled baron— and rich, too—was of consuming interest to the community. In the aristocratic pecking order a barony was not as elevated as, say, a dukedom, and titles were by no means exceptional in the general administration, but it was the combination that the new Lady Birkhurst presented that was irresistible. She was young, uncommonly easy to look at, wealthy in her own right and possessed an unusually hard head for business that put to shame many of the foppish popinjays who masqueraded around Tank Square in the guise of merchants. That she was also American had long ago been condoned; after all, nobody was perfect! It was a matter of universal regret, that the baroness no longer gave or attended burra khanas in the absence of her husband but, on the other hand, that very exclusivity set her apart and made her even more socially desirable.
Therefore, when Olivia's gold-crested, exquisitely penned invitations to her banquet in honour of Major and Mrs. John Sturges were received by prospective guests, there were few refusals. It was an occasion, everyone felt, that would be socially memorable. Just how memorable, however, not even Olivia could have foretold with any degree of accuracy.
As a gregarious young blade in Calcutta, Caleb Birkhurst had loved parties, which accounted for the copious and complex paraphernalia required for wining and dining that reposed in the mansion's well-stocked strong-rooms. There was delicate Irish linen napery, England's finest Wedgwood crockery, China's most translucent egg-shell porcelain, Belgian crystal, innumerable chests of monogrammed silver, Czechoslovakian cut-glass goblets and decanters, Russian caviar bowls, gold-plated serving dishes, platters and salvers galore. The dowager Lady Birkhurst had obviously been a painstaking hostess to whom dinner dances for a hundred and more were all in the day's work. As a consequence, there was hardly anything Olivia needed to supplement her requirements for the ambitious festivities she had planned.
Under her assiduous supervision, teams of servants leapt into action with days of polishing and scrubbing. The rooms were all opened, swept, swabbed and dusted till marble floors shone like mirrors and window panes turned invisible. The chandeliers sparkled, brassware glinted, Persian carpets were aired and brushed into renewed life and the velvet draperies almost purred under energetic strokings. Olivia diligently unpacked many of the crates she had stored away in preparation for her departure, sparing neither effort nor expense. If not to Estelle, she owed at least that to her absent aunt. After this final celebration, they would all disperse to different parts of the world, each to their separate futures. They would probably not see each other again. For Olivia, therefore, the way to her duty lay clear; also, it was essential that she should be able to depart with a conscience unblemished by regrets. Her cousin's repeated pleas to be allowed to help she fielded politely but firmly. "I have plenty of help, thank you. Let the evening come as a surprise for you and John."
"But Dr. Humphries has forbidden you undue exertions," Estelle protested. "We must consider only the baby."
"I will have no opportunity for exertions on board the ship. There will be nothing to do but rest." She smiled. "And I assure you I do consider the baby."
If only Estelle knew how much!
"All this for . . . us?" John Sturges was thunderstruck at the opulence that greeted them. Estelle, equally speechless, only formed a silent Oh! with her lips.
"Why not? Estelle is the only cousin I have and you the only cousin-in-law." Congratulating John on his recent promotion to the rank of major, Olivia kissed them both in welcome. Noticing the quiver in her cousin's vulnerable underlip, she added, not unkindly, "Don't cry, Estelle. You don't want black all over your face, do you?"
This evening, Olivia had promised herself, she would be kind to Estelle no matter how sharp the provocation. She could afford to be generous now. In a day, Estelle would be out of her life forever. In little more than a week, she herself would be aboard the Lulubelle with Amos, and en route to her father. The ignominy of an unpaid debt of honour was almost behind her (entirely, if she could give Freddie a son) thanks to this unexpected little mango seed that now rested in her womb. God willing, soon she would be released from all moral bondage. And from the hovering spectre of Jai Raventhorne.
Yes, this evening would mark the last of her penances, the last!
In sudden elation she put an arm fondly around Estelle's shoulders. "Tonight will be your night. Enjoy yourself as you will. I make no demands nor lay down restrictions."
In black tailcoat, striped trousers and white starched shirt with a carnation in his lapel, Arthur Ransome obviously intended to take his duties as host most seriously. "It's a little tight," he muttered, patting his convex stomach with a blush. "Haven't worn it in years, not even for your wedding if you recall. Smells of moth-balls, I'm afraid."
"You look splendid. The Spin certainly won't be able to resist you this evening!" Olivia laughed and squeezed his arm. "Uncle Josh definitely isn't coming then?"
"No. Leave him be. He's better off at home."
"Well, if you say so, but I will miss him."
Standing next to her cousin in the receiving line as the guests started to arrive, Estelle could hardly contain her delight at being centre stage for the whole evening. Her fashionable gown, of peach velour and ermine, looked vraiment parisienne in cut and style, its bodice—très, très daring!—covered with Japanese seed-pearls. Uncaring of the mismatch, she displayed in her cleavage the elaborate diamond necklace that was Olivia's gift. "You don't think I'm going to miss showing this off tonight, do you?" she had replied smugly to Olivia's eyebrow arched in questioning amusement.
No, Estelle had not changed much, Olivia concluded to herself. In those round blue porcelain eyes the underlying shrewdness, the calculation and the cunning were the same. If there were changes at all they were physical, in the greater roundness of her cheeks and figure, in her ai
r of insouciant confidence. As she observed Estelle laughing and bantering and flirting with such bounce, Olivia could not help feeling a stab of envy. Estelle had a capacity for fun that had been denied to her; she had the gift of carrying her cares lightly. Whatever scandalous secrets Estelle concealed in her heart never seemed to interfere with her appetite for extravagant enjoyment. And in that knowledge, Olivia sighed; what a gift it might have been for her, too—that talent to bear burdens with such nonchalance!
"Give nobody's heart pain so long as thou canst avoid it, for one sigh may set a whole world into a flame . . ."
Olivia spun around to face Peter Barstow.
"I was only remarking," he explained, "on that profound sigh you heaved. The wisdom, alas, is not mine. It comes from Sa'di's poem Gulistan. I read it in translation, of course, but you see, I'm not as illiterate as you think."
She had not wanted to invite Barstow but had capitulated finally to the dictates of social convention. He had, after all, been Freddie's best friend. "I sighed because I was wondering if the pomfret galantine would be enough to go round twice," she answered coldly.
"Indeed! No sighs then for the absent spouse sorrowfully adrift?"
"Plenty, but not necessarily as an exercise in public. And he's not 'adrift'; he's on a ship. Excuse me." Barstow's barbs made no dents in Olivia's composure as she walked away to mingle with her other guests. In any case, they were no different from the conjectures of others in Calcutta.
The reception-rooms were ablaze with light from the many multi-tiered chandeliers, and conversations hummed with liveliness. Olivia was aware that in the medley of accents there were some that would have never got past the doorman of an aristocratic home in England. Indian colonial stations remained loyal to social hierarchies, but since the English here were in a minority, they had the wisdom not to be picky. In India, it was the native who was considered the outsider; snobberies tended to be more of colour than of class. Crisis conditions called for a united front in which it was expedient to hold rank superior to pedigree.