Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  "So!" Even in the half light the inquiring lift of an eyebrow was visible as he turned to face her. "He still believes in tilting at windmills even when he knows the fight is hopeless?"

  "He believes in principles," Olivia amended, stung. "And that it is better to have fought and lost than never to have fought at all. Isn't that what every decent man believes?"

  "Possibly. Not claiming decency, I don't. I believe in winning, or not fighting at all. The world is intolerant of losers."

  "And do you always win?" she demanded heatedly, wondering at the same time if she was mad, trading arguments in the middle of the night on the river with a man whose name she did not know and whose face she could not see! The situation was bizarre.

  "Yes, always."

  She was appalled by his conceit. "In that case you must be singularly lucky or given to self-delusion. Or both."

  "I don't believe in luck and only fools delude themselves. I may be many unblessed things but I promise you I am not a fool." His lofty self-assessment was touched with sarcasm as he added, "For a white mem you do have an admirable wit, Miss O'Rourke. I see that my information about you has not been inaccurate."

  Information about her? Nervously, she searched her memory again; could it be that she had met him before somewhere? She dismissed the probability. It was impossible that she could have met so outspoken a person and forgotten him! "What. . . information do you have about me?"

  She heard him fumble in the gloom, retrieve something from his clothing and then strike a light. It was a pipe and he took his time igniting it. The flame cupped between his palms gave her a brief glimpse of a pale face and a mass of very dark hair, nothing else. He puffed a few times before he answered her question with eloquent readiness.

  "I know that your mother, Lady Bridget's only sister, died when you were seven, in giving birth to a still-born boy. Her elopement with your father from her family home in Norfolk was violently opposed by her parents and sister, Lady Bridget. Since they refused to accept the marriage, your father took her to America, where you were born a year later in New Orleans. In those days Sean O'Rourke had no gainful employment and the times faced by all of you were hard. After his wife's death, which shattered him, he took you to California on a wagon train. He arrived in Sacramento penniless but was eventually staked by a man called MacKendrick with whose help he built a ranch, which is presently your home and where he writes while you help breed cattle and horses."

  While Olivia stared in dumbfounded silence, he turned his face upwards to squint thoughtfully at the sky. "What else? Oh yes, the freedom that your father gave you has made you alarmingly independent with ideas that find little favour with your dyed-in-the-wool English aunt in these socially conservative colonies. The reason your aunt has summoned you here is to find you a rich English husband. The front runner at the moment, I learn, is the Honourable Freddie Birkhurst, Calcutta's most eligible bachelor but also the station's prize buffoon. Now let me see, is there anything I have omitted?" He cogitated, then shook his head and smiled. "No, I think not. At least, that is the extent of my present information. Undoubtedly there is more but then not every village grapevine can be exhaustive."

  Through the lengthy recital Olivia had gone very still indeed. For a moment or two silence reigned between them; then, as her paralysis receded, she filled with outrage and sprang to her feet. Instantly the two hounds leapt to theirs and snarled with their fangs bared. Had the man not issued a swift command to them, they would have certainly attacked her.

  "Considering you've been brought up in a country where men understand beasts," he reprimanded with ill-concealed exasperation as both his hands firmly clasped the animals' collars, "you should know better than to make sudden moves. Petulance is a stupid reason for bravado."

  Shaking partly with fright and partly with rage, Olivia managed to issue a request through clenched teeth. "Would you kindly command those damned animals to let me leave?"

  "Why? Because I spoke the truth?"

  "No. Because I find you offensive, presumptuous and unbearably self-opinionated and wish to terminate this futile encounter." She was so angry that she could barely enunciate the words.

  "Oh? I'm sorry to hear that. I was quite beginning to enjoy our contretemps—an oasis in the arid mediocrity of Calcutta's conversational opportunities." He gave no further instructions to his dogs, both of which remained very much on their guard and ready to charge.

  Incensed beyond measure, Olivia began to feel a fool in her enforced immobility. "Why do you continually insult your own community? Do you think that by doing so you add to your own prestige?"

  He did not answer for a moment. "What makes you so certain it is my own community that I insult?" he then asked softly.

  His counter-question confused her. "Why, are you too not English?" she blurted out, furious for having done so. How did it concern her what or who he might be?

  "Why should you think that I am?"

  "I don't give a damn what you are but you don't look a nat—" Flustered and embarrassed, she choked back the rest of her comment to chew angrily on her lip and fumble warily with her feet for her sandals.

  "How should a native look then?" he demanded tightly, and suddenly Olivia saw that he too was angry. "Servile? Obsequious? A humble groveller at the feet of the white memsahib?"

  "No, of course not!" She was appalled that he should have deliberately chosen to misinterpret her. Forgetting the presence of the vigilant dogs she stamped her foot and immediately earned another snarl. "You know damn well I didn't mean that!"

  From within the shadows she felt his eyes boring into hers, but when he spoke again it was with control. "What you meant was that if I were black as the ace of spades, you would accept me as a native. Well, in this country, my under-educated Miss O'Rourke, we belong to all colours of the spectrum from the lily white to the blue black and all the rest in between. Somewhere within that spectrum is my own colour, and it is not English white." He snapped a comment under his breath and released the dogs. Without even a glance in her direction, they turned and bounded up the steps to disappear into the night. For a moment longer he stood where he was, unmoving, with averted eyes staring steadily into the middle distance across the river. He seemed to arrive at some decision, for he suddenly turned to move closer to her. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to convey my regards to Sir Joshua and Lady Bridget? My name is Jai Raventhorne." It was said coldly and with clipped formality. Then, with an almost imperceptible bow, he spun on his heel and vaulted up the steps after his dogs.

  He did not turn to look back at her.

  Transfixed, Olivia stared after him until he melted into the dark. In his fleeting proximity he had offered her a glimpse of his face, and what she had seen had startled her. In his pale face, in vivid contrast to his dense black hair, were set eyes that appeared almost opaque in the light of the moon. Olivia had never seen eyes like that on anyone; they were unearthly in their opalescence and also frighteningly lifeless. She shuddered. Then, in an effort to cast off her sense of unease, she pulled herself up and threw back her shoulders. Giving a hearty dusting to the skirt of her dress, she ran back up the stone steps and hurried towards the Pennworthys' garden.

  "Where in heaven's name have you been?" The moment Olivia slipped through the wire mesh door, Estelle grabbed her. "Everyone's been asking after you, and Mama is beside herself with worry."

  "Don't exaggerate, Estelle! I only went to . . . powder my nose." A glance at the clock surprised Olivia by announcing that she had been away more than an hour!

  "Where, in the garden? I saw you sneak off earlier." Estelle giggled. "Where have you left poor Freddie—underneath some secluded hibiscus with his manly stamina exhausted?" She sniggered again.

  "Don't be absurd! If you must know, I went for a walk to get some air. I thought I would faint with the heat."

  "Well, wherever you were," Estelle said clearly unconvinced, "if I were you, I'd hurry and make my peace with Mama before she's driven t
o announce happy nuptials." With a pointed smirk she turned and waltzed away in the arms of a patiently waiting John Sturges.

  The peace making with Lady Bridget went off better than Olivia had expected. In fact, as she accepted her niece's explanation and apology, Lady Bridget's reprimand was remarkably mild. The flush on Olivia's face, the nervous twitch of her clasped fingers, the evasively lowered eyes—all these were portents that Lady Bridget chose to interpret to her own satisfaction. "And where," she asked with a touch of archness, "have you left the charming Mr. Birkhurst?"

  "I haven't left him anywhere," Olivia replied crossly. "I haven't seen him myself in quite a while." Her aunt's knowing smile told her she was not to be believed, which made her more cross. She turned quickly to the young man hovering diligently behind her. "Oh, Mr. Pringle, do forgive me for having kept you waiting and do tell me what you had started to about your encounter with the thuggees ..." Honour bound to make reparation for her lapse of courtesy, Olivia surrendered herself to the rhythm of a polka being strummed more energetically than tunefully by the small string ensemble hired for the occasion by the Pennworthys.

  Jai Raventhorne.

  It was impossible to cast aside the extraordinary encounter by the river or the man who had dominated it. Over the buffet supper, served deplorably late as predicted, Olivia listened only absently to the sotto voce flirtatious banter between Estelle and John on either side of her. Jai Raventhorne certainly was an unusual name, neither Anglo-Saxon nor Indian. Who—and what—was he? For a European (which he had strongly denied being), his manner was much too uncivilised, his liberties far too many. On the other hand, what Indian would have the courage to bandy words quite so brazenly with a white woman in Calcutta's segregated society? Whichever way she considered Jai Raventhorne, he was a misfit with no familiar slot in which to be placed. As for his prying into her life, it showed a despicable lack of form, an excessive rudeness that she had already been subjected to once this evening. But whereas Peter Barstow was an easily forgettable dandy with a wholly unjustified conceit, this man could not be dismissed quite so lightly. Olivia had to concede, however grudgingly, that whoever or whatever Jai Raventhorne might be, she was finding it difficult to shake him out of her thoughts.

  "Another spoonful, perhaps, Miss O'Rourke?" John Sturges was looking at her with a hand poised over a dish of prawn curry that a bearer presented.

  Olivia shook her head and smiled. "I don't think I could, Captain Sturges, delicious as it is."

  He doused his own fluffy rice and Estelle's cheerfully. "I should imagine our curries are too spicy for you. They're not everybody's cup of tea, if you will forgive a shockingly mixed metaphor."

  Olivia laughed. "I enjoy spiced food. Because of the Mexicans, we are well used to it at home. Estelle tells me you leave for home shortly on furlough. Will you be away long?"

  "The usual. A year or more. When I return I hope to persuade my parents to accompany me. My father used to be in the Civil Service in Peshawar." He threw a meaningful glance at Estelle, who promptly blushed. It was definitely a hopeful omen.

  Olivia liked John Sturges immensely. He was a sober Yorkshireman, matter of fact and endowed with an abundance of both common sense and a lively taste for humour. Because he was so eminently sane, he seemed a perfect balance for Estelle's giddiness. Olivia hoped fervently that he would make known his intentions towards her cousin soon. Not only were they well suited in every way but one wedding in the family might well divert her aunt's attention from trying to force another.

  Having spent much of the evening in the billiards room with his host, Clarence Pennworthy—manager of the merchant bank with which Templewood and Ransome did business—Sir Joshua suddenly materialized in their midst. "And where might your worthy escort of the evening be, my dear?" he asked Olivia with a heartiness she found rather overdone.

  "I have no idea," she answered frostily. Why the hell did everyone think she was Freddie Birkhurst's keeper!

  "Not taking his escorting duties seriously enough, eh?" he teased, chuckling at her unconcealed chagrin. "Well, don't tell your aunt you've been careless enough to lose him, will you?"

  "Lose who, or is it whom?" Betty Pennworthy, a vague, twittering woman with perpetually untidy hair that looked like a nest and gave her the air of a sparrow, appeared, casting quick glances at everyone's plates.

  "Young Freddie. Haven't seen him all evening."

  "Nor likely to, Josh," his hostess said sternly with a firm grip on his arm, "if all you men do is closet yourselves in corners talking politics and money. If I hear another word about that wretched Afghan problem, I swear I shall have hysterics. Clarence?" she issued a command to her husband, who was engaged in hot argument with a portly gent with a walrus moustache. "I wish you would persuade your guests to start eating, dear, before the dinner turns stone cold and absolutely inedible!"

  "In a moment, pet," her husband responded impatiently. "Another beer, Josh?" Wiping speckles of froth from his whiskers, Sir Joshua patted Betty Pennworthy on the hand absently and both men walked off, waving their empty tankards in the direction of a bearer.

  It was while the pudding, a rather flattened caramel custard, was being passed around and Olivia had resignedly joined her aunt's circle for a dutiful discussion on heat boils and the iniquities of native servants that a diversion occurred to put an untimely end to the evening jollifications. Freddie Birkhurst was discovered in the garden under a croton bush, drunk and out cold. In the commotion that ensued, with Dr. Humphries bellowing for smelling-salts, American ice and hot tea, the party inevitably disintegrated, with the caramel custard forgotten by everyone except Estelle, who, under cover of confusion, gave herself several generous servings. Escorted by Lady Bridget, Mrs. Humphries, and one or two others, Betty Pennworthy repaired to her bedroom to have her vapours in comfort and, one by one or in couples and families, the guests started to discreetly go home.

  The ride back in the Templewood carriage was conducted mostly in grim silence. "If he can't hold his liquor, the silly ass has no right to drink!" Sir Joshua made no bones about his disgust.

  Behind a lace hanky, Lady Bridget sniffed. "I can't see what the fuss is all about," she murmured, bravely making the best of her own mortification. "Gentlemen do occasionally go one over the eight—you should know that as well as anyone, Josh." Pointedly, she sniffed again.

  "One over the eight? Twenty-eight more likely!"

  Only Estelle dared to giggle. "He has much more, Susan Bradshaw says her brother tells her, at the Golden Behind where—" Too late, she broke off and clamped a hand to her mouth.

  There was a moment's ominous silence. Then, in a voice hushed with anger, Sir Joshua asked, "And what may you know of the Golden Behind, my lass?"

  Estelle gulped. "I'm only s-saying what everybody s-says, Papa—"

  "No daughter of mine is everybody!" her father roared. "My daughter is—or is expected to be—a lady, not a crude-tongued gutter-snipe, is that clear, Estelle?"

  "Y-yes, Papa."

  "And if this is the language you share with your friends, I must say I approve of your mother's reservations, is that clear too?" Lips trembling at her father's rare display of temper against her, Estelle nodded. "Very well, we will say no more, but such language will not be used in our presence again or, indeed, anywhere. Understood?" For the third time Estelle nodded, then sank back in her corner to sulk in silence.

  Olivia said nothing but, privately, considered the reprimand overblown. The Golden Hind, to give its seldom-used proper name, was a "club" of dubious reputation in Lal Bazaar patronised by a strictly male clientele. The name by which it was universally known gave ample indication of the pleasures it offered its members. Olivia could see no reason why a whorehouse should need a euphemism, but she doubted if anyone in Calcutta would have agreed with her.

  The journey back was completed with no more talk.

  It was not until later that night when they were on the landing preparatory to withdrawing into their
respective bedrooms that Olivia suddenly recalled the cryptic message she had been asked to deliver to her aunt and uncle. Was it, she wondered, worth delivering at all? She still smarted under the onslaught of the objectionable Mr. Raventhorne but then she shrugged to herself. Why not? The few words were of no great consequence one way or the other.

  "I almost forgot to tell you, Uncle Josh," she began casually, "that I happened to go out on the embankment briefly this evening and I met someone who knows you."

  "Oh?"

  "He asked me to convey to you and Aunt Bridget his regards. He said his name was Jai Raventhorne."

  As Olivia pronounced the final two words, something strange started to happen. Everyone froze into a sort of grotesque tableau. Lady Bridget's hand, half way up to the sconce to extinguish the wall lamp, remained suspended; Sir Joshua's right leg, partially through the doorway to the master bedroom, halted in mid-air, his eyes wide and still. About to say something, Estelle had her mouth open and it stayed so, her saucer eyes glazed with horror. Uncomprehending of what was occurring around her, Olivia stared at each in bewilderment, the residue of whatever else she was about to add forgotten in her throat.

  The silence was long and noticeably tense. Lady Bridget was the first to move. She sighed and her arm dropped to her side. Without saying anything she sank slowly to the floor in a swoon.

  CHAPTER 2

  "But what did I say, Estelle? What in heaven's name was it that I said wrong?"

  Olivia and her cousin were, at last, by themselves in the privacy of Estelle's bedroom. Lady Bridget had been carried to her bed, revived with whiffs of ammonia and finally put to sleep with a dose of her usual draught. Apart from what was strictly necessary, there had been no exchanges among them. Not even Sir Joshua, silent and stern faced, had offered any explanations or, indeed, recriminations. The very lack of them and the continuous leaden silences were to Olivia intolerable. She was deeply distressed.