Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  Because the late November chill in the air that marked the start of Calcutta's short winter was noticeable, and because huge log fires looked so pretty, Olivia had ordered them to be lit in the marble fireplaces. Now, to counteract their rather excessive heat in a roomful of people, she asked for all the French windows to be opened. Immediately, the luxurious fragrance of the Queen of the Night wafted pleasantly across the two main reception-rooms. In between, she had arranged a bar counter that shimmered with bottles of iced champagne, French wines, whiskies, brandies, beer, port and sherry, and post-prandial liqueurs. An English barman with two assistants had been hired for the evening from the Bengal Club and drinks were being dispensed hand over fist to loosen tongues and induce conviviality. An army of bearers passed around sherbets and cordials. If there was anything Olivia disliked, it was the English custom of using the need to smoke as an excuse for sexual segregation after dinner. To ensure against the ladies being abandoned for shop talk behind closed doors, she had given permission to the gents to light up if they wished, and Dutch cheroots were being passed around, only the Havana cigars and the blocks of pipe tobacco being kept for after dinner.

  Estelle's friends, of course, were all out in force this evening. Over the past months Olivia had avoided meeting them; the need to answer awkward questions about her cousin's abrupt withdrawal from Calcutta was one she was determined not to burden herself with. But whatever alibis Estelle herself had made to them were obviously adequate, for there appeared to be no signs of strain anywhere. The camaraderie and bantering sounded perfectly normal.

  "Oh my, motherhood does suit you, Olivia!" Polly Drummond's envious gaze alternated between Olivia's royal blue gown of Kashmiri pashmina wool embroidered in gold thread with the traditional paisley motif, and the sapphire jewellery she had worn as a concession to the occasion. "And marriage, too—you look divine! Obviously, both are to be recommended?"

  "If that's a hint, my sweet, I'd better strike while the iron's hot." Polly's beau, a curly-haired, dimple-cheeked young clerk with the Company, fell to his knees amidst much giggling. "To press my suit, I—"

  "Press yours by all means, but don't ruin mine, dash it!" someone else groaned as his action sent a beer glass flying.

  "And mine! Ooh, I've got sherbet all over my dress and it's new."

  "Is it? I say, I'm dashed sorry. Here, I'll fetch some water—"

  "Don't be daft, Howard, georgette shrinks ..."

  "Does it? Well, that's quite a prospect!"

  "Oh Lord, I can't take him anywhere!" Polly choked with laughter.

  Amidst the renewed giggles, Estelle sidled up to Olivia. "You do look divine, you know, Coz. I wish I could be as slender, and I'm not pregnant even with a first baby let alone a second."

  "Oh, Oddivia, oh you sdy puss!" Lily Horniman, the girl with enlarged adenoids, squealed at Estelle's stage whisper. "How marveddous to be—" Aware suddenly of the intimate nature of the remark she was about to make, Lily stopped and went scarlet.

  But it was too late. Not many had missed Estelle's stage whisper. Hastily, the men all looked away and the girls, oohing and aahing under their breaths, dragged Olivia aside for excited questioning. Annoyed, Olivia clung tenaciously to her vow to forgive Estelle her silly excesses at least for this evening. By the time she had extricated herself from the melee, she had decided— not for the first time—that it was in the company of men that she felt more comfortable by far, and purposefully turned towards the bar counter. Between her own guest list and Estelle's, most Europeans of consequence had been invited, including two visiting directors of the Company from London. Because of John's connection with the army, there were plenty of uniforms to be seen among the crowd of merchants, bankers, civil servants, Company officials, chandlers and stevedores, and three American medical missionaries from Bombay brought by Dr. Humphries. Much against his wishes, Willie Donaldson had been prevailed upon to bring the cotton man from Mississippi, Hiram Arrow-smith Lubbock ("Jes Hal to mah fray'nds, my'am"), who was interested in leasing the Birkhurst mansion, and was introducing him around the bar with an expression of unconcealed disgust.

  "Sir Joshua still under the weather, Your Ladyship?" The tactful inquiry was from a tall, uniformed brigadier with a medal-encrusted chest who had recently been appointed an aide-decamp to the Governor-General, Lord Dalhousie. Being family friends of the Birkhursts, the Governor-General and his lady had been invited, of course, but Olivia had been much relieved when they had sent their regrets due to a prearranged absence in the mofussil. The stiff protocol that surrounded the Queen's premier officer in India was tiresome. Whatever prestige Their Excellencies' presence brought to a gathering, it also brought yawning dullness.

  "My uncle recovers well, thank you, but his lingering weakness precludes the exertions of burra khanas." Olivia's reply was equally tactful.

  "And what precludes Your Ladyship's attendance of burra khanas, may I ask? I was most disappointed to receive your own regrets to our invitation for His Excellency's ball this year. So were Their Excellencies."

  "With His Lordship in England, I shy away from parties, especially formal ones," Olivia explained smoothly. "But I'm certainly enjoying my own. I hope you are too, Brigadier."

  "Oh, rather! Quite the most splendid jollification we've seen in a long while. A great pity His Lordship cannot enjoy it with us."

  "Yes, isn't it?"

  At the bar over fast-flowing champagne, Calcutta's latest scandal was being debated hotly. It involved, Olivia gathered as she joined the men, the new Resident of Murshidabad. He had, it was believed, paid the astronomical sum of twenty thousand pounds to the incumbent as an inducement to early retirement from a post said to be the most lucrative in the service. Even Lord Clive had once made the observation that there was more gold in Murshidabad with the Nawabs than in the whole of London. Such job "purchases," Olivia had heard, were not uncommon. What gave the present debate its heat was the fact that the new Resident had also "gone native" and had established for himself in Murshidabad a sizable harem of nautch girls.

  "A swine, sir, a disgrace to the community!" Barnabus Slocum huffed.

  "Well, what can one expect?" someone else remarked. "His father was a Covent Garden lute maker."

  "Aye, and known in the trade as Dissolute Dave, to boot!" There were guffaws all around, the loudest from Mrs. Drummond, who was thoughtfully eyeing the medal-studded chest of the brigadier aide-de-camp.

  "Shocking, sah, shocking! Deserves a taste of the horsewhip." Henry Cleghorne bristled with moral outrage.

  "Heah, heah," Smithers murmured in that affected accent he always used to divert attention from his own social inadequacies.

  "Och laddie—you would na be a wee bit jealous, noo would you?" Willie Donaldson gave Smithers a sly wink. "Noo, if it's skeletons we're rattling, let him with none in his cupboard risk the first rattle!"

  Smithers flushed and there was a short, awkward lull during which only Hal Lubbock had the gall to roar with laughter. "Waal, like mah Aunt Jemimah might say, boys will be boys— and a dy'am good thing too, eh pal?" He guffawed again and landed a hearty slap on Smithers's back, which made him splutter and nearly choke on his drink.

  Willie Donaldson winced audibly and everyone else froze as they instantly closed ranks against the mannerless American up- start. Who the hell was he to make free with one of their scandals? Olivia felt a stab of compassion for the haplessly vulgar Lubbock, who stuck out like a sore thumb in a manicure parlour. Wrenching herself away from the earnest nostalgia of a desperately homesick young Company Bahadur recruit fresh from their training establishment at Haileybury in England, she impulsively and pointedly guided Lubbock towards the ballroom, where Estelle had chosen to start the dancing before dinner. The parquet floor was already crowded. On the side lines sat those waiting to be whirled off by beaux, and fond Mamas shrewdly sizing up eligible prospects before they could be grabbed by unwanted competitors. Quickly introducing Lubbock to two young ladies obviously waiting for a
n invitation to dance, Olivia set off in search of Arthur Ransome.

  She found him in a far corner hopelessly trapped by the Spin and looking decidedly hunted. "May I please have a word with you, Uncle Arthur?"

  Gout forgotten, he almost flew out of his seat like a wild bird suddenly finding its cage door open. "Dreadful woman, dreadful!" He mopped the sweat off his brow. "You saved her life, my dear, to say nothing of mine. I would have strangled her in a moment."

  "Or proposed to her, I daresay!" Olivia laughed and Ransome cursed under his breath. "What I wanted to ask you is—do you consider it too early to serve dinner? The dancing has only just started and the men still drink. I don't want Estelle to feel I'm trying to short-change her guests with the liquor."

  Excited by his role as host, Ransome consulted his watch. "No, that wouldn't do at all. We can't have them thinking we're cutting down on their spirits, ha, ha. Perhaps we might give them another half hour or so?"

  "Fine. As long as the souffles don't collapse. Rashid Ali would never forgive me. In the meantime, I'll send round some more canapes. The prawns seemed especially popular. Or we could ..."

  Olivia stopped, for Ransome was no longer listening. His gaze seemed riveted to something behind her. Casually she turned to cast a glance across her shoulder. At the door of the room a new arrival had been announced. He was being warmly welcomed by her cousin, Estelle.

  It was Jai Raventhorne.

  He smiled. He took Estelle's hand in his, bent over and kissed it lightly. John Sturges appeared next to his wife. The two men shook hands, exchanged a smile of greeting. Across the room, all at once engulfed in a deathly hush, a fragment of laughter floated, then another. All talk forgotten, everyone stared avidly at the scene contained in the doorway. In the unearthly silence a burning log fell from the grate with a hiss. Nobody thought to replace it. Then, face aglow, step firm and purposeful, Estelle led a path through the forest of motionless figures to guide Raventhorne down the length of the room towards their host and hostess.

  "Olivia dear, may I present Mr. Jai Raventhorne? I believe that you have met once. Jai, I think you must remember my cousin, Lady Birkhurst." In her voice there was not even a tremor and her unwavering blue eyes were crystal clear.

  Olivia had no awareness of having extended a hand, but then it was being held in his. The flesh against hers felt cold, the lips that skimmed her skin even more so. Did she speak? She couldn't tell. But then he did. "Indeed! Yes, we did meet once. Perhaps it has slipped Lady Birkhurst's memory. How kind of you to offer me your hospitality tonight!"

  They passed on. Hands were shaken with Arthur Ransome, a few words exchanged, and another nervous guffaw of laughter cut across the silence. White faced, Ransome asked somewhere in the vast, echoing distances of Olivia's mind, "What may I offer you to drink, Jai? If I recall rightly, two fingers of Scotch on ice is what you are partial to."

  "Thank you. That would be perfect."

  For the moment, no more formalities were called for. There were few present to whom Raventhorne was not already known. In a recovery little short of miraculous, Ransome led his unexpected guest towards the bar chatting with admirable amiability. Behind her, Olivia heard some woman's sharp intake of breath, "Oh my sainted aunt, it's not possible, it can't be ...!

  The silence cloaking the room lingered a moment or two longer. Then, like an incoming tide, the murmurs crept back and accelerated. Beneath the hum, however, remained a hint of subdued excitement, a frisson of breathless suspense—what was the notorious Kala Kanta doing in an Englishman's drawing-room, and that too at the invitation of Joshua Templewood's daughter? Amidst astonished whispers and covert glances exchanged over rims of glasses, conjectures and questions criss-crossed the room like firework rockets. But then, gradually, normalcy returned. In a flurry, bearers again zigzagged through the crowds bearing trays of fresh drinks and canapes, and suppressed laughs burgeoned once more into hearty roars. A resonant roll of drums sounded to announce the start of a waltz. Whatever tensions remained were soon dispelled by the energetic endeavours of the army band.

  Only Olivia remained rooted. A dreamlike mist, vaporous but determined, obliterated the present. But yes, a voice rose from some mouldy sepulchre to echo in a corner of her mind, I do love you . . .

  She turned and fled upstairs.

  Estelle has gone mad, Estelle has gone mad . . . Crumpled in a trembling heap on her bed, Olivia could think of no other explanation for the horror being visited upon them all. Like a moth fluttering for release from its cocoon, her panic-stricken brain thrashed helplessly inside the walls of her skull. Once again her cousin had trapped her in a situation not of her own making, but this time she had no more resources to manipulate an escape. Oh God, oh God—what was she to do ...?

  The door opened and, noiselessly, Estelle slipped in. "I know that you are furious with me, but I had to do it. I'm sorry. I could think of no other . . . method." Speaking from the doorway as if afraid to step inside, she faltered.

  Olivia sat up slowly, loath, even in her state of panic, to expose herself to her obnoxious cousin. She pressed shaking finger-tips to her temples, but not even closed eyes could blot out the vision of those mutually warm looks, that welcoming smile, the unspoken rapport to which Raventhorne had subscribed so openly. Behind shuttered eyes Olivia's hate swilled and spilled over and she contorted with rage. "How dare you, Estelle! How dare you use my hearth and home for your shameless exhibitions!"

  Quietly, Estelle entered and closed the door behind her. "You said I could ask anyone I wished to. You made no demands, placed no restrictions—did you not mean that, Olivia? Was that too a hypocrisy?" She was pale but in her attitude there was only defiance.

  "Anyone, yes, but not . . ." She could not speak the name. "I meant what I said because not even I could have guessed the extent of your immodesty. In flaunting your ... relationship with that man, you feel no sense of ... of defilement? No contamination . . .?"

  Estelle flinched but held her ground. "No. I am proud of my relationship with Jai. I want everyone to know about it, to accept it. And one day, I promise, they will."

  Her own words of so long ago! Olivia flew off the bed, grabbed her cousin's shoulders and shook her in a fury no longer containable. "And does your husband know and accept it too? You have no guilt about thrusting your . . . your lover," she spat out the word in Estelle's face, "down his throat—-forget mine and everyone else's!"

  Estelle wrenched herself away and, all at once, her face puckered. "John understands," she whispered, her tone suddenly weighted down with misery. "Perhaps you would too if—"

  "I have no more understanding to spare. Keep your squalid alibis to yourself, Estelle." To hide the shaking of her hands she tucked them out of sight under her arms and walked away to stand at a window. Breathing in great lungfuls of cool night air, she forced her anger back under a cover of brittle control. "After tonight, Estelle, I never wish to see you again. I want you out of my life forever. Frankly, I don't care a ha'pence what you do with your life and with whom. I am not your keeper; you owe me no excuses. But yes, in one matter I have erred—I did say you could have anyone here you wished to with neither demands nor restrictions. I shall not go back on my word. Now please leave me alone and go down to rejoin your guests."

  For just another moment Estelle hesitated, her face cracking with unhappiness. "Very well. If that is what you wish," she said quietly. "But please be polite to him, Olivia. You have no idea how difficult it was to fetch him here. He . . ." She stopped, the despair in her voice compounding. Then her expression firmed again. "But what must be done, must be done." She turned and walked out.

  Behind her Olivia locked the door. Going into Freddie's adjoining bedroom, she opened his bureau to take out a half-finished bottle of sherry. Without bothering about a glass, she downed several gulps. The burning liquid brought tears to her eyes and made her stomach scream in protest, but, resolutely, she downed several more. For a moment her head spun but then her nerves resp
onded and she steadied. Five more minutes before the mirror brought vibrant colour back to her cheeks and a gloss to her lips. Whatever flickers of fear were left, she crushed them ruthlessly beneath the heel of her will-power. Amos was safely away and Jai Raventhorne was to her now a meaningless quantity. Whatever suspicions he might have about her son were mere suspicions; she would manage them. His effrontery and Estelle's brazenness could not be matched with wilting weakness and hysteria. If they could display hides of leather with such inglorious abandon, then—hell's bells and damnation!—so bloody well would she!

  Head held high, cheeks again aglow with confident colour, she swept imperiously down the marble staircase.

  Pausing minimally to take stock of the scene below, Olivia was amazed at how normal everything seemed. Through the archway to the ball-room she could see feet twirling unconcernedly to some strange Latin rhythm that was quite the rage, she had been informed, in London. Directly ahead was the bar counter. Mellow eyed, indulgent, the men still lounged and drank and squinted cordially at each other through the thick spirals of smoke. Raventhorne leaned against the counter, composed and entirely at ease, talking to John Sturges, Clarence Pennworthy, an Indian army colonel with a wooden leg and, of all people, the police chief Barnabus Slocum. There appeared to be nothing untoward in anyone's manner and if there was hostility, none was apparent. What they said was lost in the distance and the general hum of conversation, but it was obviously cordial enough to provoke some stiffly polite laughter.