Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  "Your Highness, may I present my niece by marriage, Miss Olivia O'Rourke. She has arrived only recently from a country I know Your Highness admires greatly, the United States of America. Olivia, my dear, His Highness the Maharaja of Kirtinagar. He is one of those royal gentlemen who are held in high respect by my own countrymen."

  For a moment Olivia was rendered speechless. The Maharaja's name had not been on her guest list, nor had her aunt made mention of him. Never having met royalty, much less Oriental royalty, she was thrown off balance. In some confusion she dropped a hasty curtsy and hoped that it would do. In response, the Maharaja folded his hands in the traditional Indian greeting, bowed courteously and smiled. "I am indeed delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss O'Rourke. Yes, I am an admirer of your country. It appears to me a nation in which the first requisite is courage, the second hard work—am I correct?" His English was curiously accented but fluent.

  Olivia pulled a deep breath. "If we seem to have courage, Your Highness, then it is by God's grace. But yes, we do all need to work hard. Life in my country is still demanding and often precarious."

  He nodded in approval. "Nevertheless, God's grace is often a euphemism for sheer elbow-grease, is it not?"

  "Yes, I guess you could say that!" They shared a small laugh and Olivia's shyness started to wane. Despite his awesome regalia and formal bearing, he seemed extremely congenial. "In our own little ways, we all have to contribute to the process of nation building."

  "Ah, nation building." He flicked what was undoubtedly an imaginary speck of something off the front of his splendid scarlet and gold brocade coat that reached down to his knees. "The processes are complex, Miss O'Rourke, but they are also greatly invigorating. From what I have learned of your country, I have no doubt you will attain all your lofty goals in time." He paused to adjust the gold cummerbund at his waist from which hung a jewelled scabbard. "As, perhaps, some day we will too."

  Olivia wondered if those last few words constituted a political double entendre meant for the benefit of his colonial host, who was listening intently to the exchange. She quickly filled the gap with an inquiry. "Does Your Highness have first-hand knowledge of America?"

  "Sadly no. I have not yet had the good fortune to visit your country. But I do meet many American visitors here, such as yourself, and I take pleasure in reading your newspapers even though several months old."

  "And then, of course," Sir Joshua entered the conversation for the first time, "Your Highness does employ American engineers at the mine."

  There was a noticeable pause. "Indeed. But they will not be here much longer. Our own men have been trained with sufficient competence to take charge shortly." He took another appreciative sip of his whisky. "An excellent malt, Sir Joshua. I compliment you on your choice. But I see that you are making me drink alone."

  At a snap of Sir Joshua's fingers, a bearer sprang forward to serve him a whisky and Olivia a frosted sorbet. Sir Joshua raised his glass. "To your health, Your Highness, and to the continued prosperity of your mine." The Maharaja acknowledged the toast with a gracious inclination of his head. The slight gesture caused the light of a Chinese lantern to catch in the jewelled ruby brooch affixed to his yellow ochre turban and its sudden spark of fire so dazzled Olivia that she had to squint her eyes. "I have learned that the Kirtinagar mine is already considered to have better potential than Raniganj?" Sir Joshua's comment was casual but his forehead was beaded with perspiration.

  "Yes. Excavations and predictions are encouraging."

  If Sir Joshua was even aware of his royal guest's reluctance to talk of the subject, he chose to ignore it. Instead he continued to ply him with questions, all of which the Maharaja answered readily but with replies that were noncommittal. It seemed to Olivia, as she listened in interested silence, that his quietly dark Eastern eyes against a complexion of ripening wheat were alert and that his medium height and slender build gave him a mildness that was deceptive. Beneath the immaculate courtesy there was still arrogance, the manner of one born to power, of generations of controlled breeding that had perpetuated forever strict codes of ethics, honour and chivalry. The very casualness with which the Maharaja's fingers rested lightly on the bejewelled handle of his sword was that of a man who took for granted his destiny to rule over others.

  "The very first Indian-owned and operated coal mine is of prime interest to the merchant community, Your Highness," Sir Joshua was saying. "I have no doubt Your Highness, with his reputed business acumen, is already aware of that. The project shows considerable foresight on your part, Your Highness, especially since it can be of mutual benefit."

  Olivia's interest quickened. So this was the native prince who would "sell his mother" if pleasured well and if the price was right! Observing Arvind Singh now, Olivia wondered. His concentration was flatteringly close as he listened; but even though it was Sir Joshua who was doing most of the talking, in some strange, subtle way it was the Maharaja who seemed to control the conversation. The man, Olivia decided, was shrewd.

  "How soon does Your Highness propose to make the coal commercially available in Calcutta's markets?" Sir Joshua asked with just a hint of impatience, since Arvind Singh's reaction to his compliments remained bland.

  "That is difficult to say, Sir Joshua. You see, I am not yet certain that it will be made commercially available. I am anxious to introduce industries within Kirtinagar, and my domestic requirements might not allow for any surplus." The smile that accompanied the blunt declaration was one of continued graciousness.

  Sir Joshua's jaw tightened perceptibly. "A British consortium would be willing to offer extremely favourable terms that might help considerably in, for instance . . . ," he took a sip of whisky and allowed a minim to pass, "... Your Highness's irrigation project. Naturally, part payment would be made in advance."

  For the first time, interest flickered in the Maharaja's hooded brown eyes as he fingered his clean-shaven chin and reflected. "You already have such a consortium, Sir Joshua?"

  "Yes. A draft agreement is in the process of being approved."

  "How would Company Bahadur react to the idea?"

  "Favourably. They are as hungry for coal as we are."

  For another moment the Maharaja stared at his exquisitely tooled gold leather shoes heavy with embroidery and turned up at the toes. "Very well." The sudden decisiveness sounded characteristic. "I would like to see the draft at your convenience, Sir Joshua. And now," he dismissed the subject and turned to Olivia, "I must ask forgiveness for having neglected you, Miss O'Rourke. We men have an incorrigible habit of sacrificing etiquette to mundane business, which is inexcusable." He drained his glass and a uniformed aide-de-camp materialised to claim the empty goblet. The Maharaja declined politely as Sir Joshua ordered a renewal. "It is kind of you to have indulged my weakness for Glenmorangie, Sir Joshua, but in whisky drinking—if not in other matters—one must bow to the wisdom of one's wife. The Maharani disapproves of excesses."

  It was said shyly and with such boyish guilelessness that they all laughed and the atmosphere became once again convivial. The gentle dismissal contained in the Maharaja's apology to Olivia, Sir Joshua took in his stride, too buoyant to care. "Well, if I may now leave Your Highness in Olivia's splendidly capable hands, there are duties to which I must attend as a host or Lady Bridget will be extremely cross." He bowed and backed away.

  Thoughtfully, the Maharaja watched the distinguished, imposing form till it merged with the crowd. "An admirable gentleman, Miss O'Rourke. And a determined one. I am flattered by the honour Sir Joshua and his colleagues do me as pillars of Her Majesty's enterprise in the colonies." Whether or not there was sarcasm in the remark Olivia could not say, because his expression was quite serious. Then, swiftly, he cast Sir Joshua and his colleagues aside. "Now tell me, Miss O'Rourke, how do you consider the chances of Mr. Zachary Taylor in the elections? Is he likely to get the better of Mr. Cass and Mr. Van Buren in this significant contest when for the first time all your States will vo
te simultaneously?"

  Olivia was amazed. "Your Highness keeps in touch with our American presidential politics?"

  "Why not?" By tacit consent they had started to stroll along the paved path that adjoined the embankment wall. Although no one approached, the curious eyes watching were many. Whatever English opinion about native princes in private, in public they aroused keen interest. Not only did the rulers wield enormous power over their subjects, but in some cases their kingdoms were larger than England and certainly richer. "Politics are politics no matter what their nationality, Miss O'Rourke," Arvind Singh continued, "mainly because everywhere people are people. Yes, through friends I do maintain an interest in presidential power play. But you have not answered my question."

  "Well, my father believes that Mr. Taylor has the better chances. He might not be a seasoned politician, but he is known as a good soldier and his victory at Buena Vista has already made him a national hero. The Whigs chose him because he appeals to the common people." She smiled. "They call him Old Rough and Ready. I guess that is as good a selling slogan as any."

  The Maharaja, listening closely, nodded. "But is he not also a slave owner? How will he rationalise that when admitting new States into the Union on a free-or-slave basis?"

  Olivia made a face. "He will change his stance, Papa thinks. In politics, Papa says, only fools keep principles lifelong. The wise stick only to expediency." Quickly she added, "He doesn't mean that as a compliment. Papa has not much respect for politicians."

  Arvind Singh laughed. "Your father is, of course, right. In fact, I must remember that observation when I wish to appear wise before my counsellors. I am told that your father is a highly regarded writer."

  "Yes. Did my uncle mention that?"

  He stopped and rubbed the tip of his nose with a forefinger. "No. It was told to me by a friend who informs me that Calcutta is a village in which everything becomes known to everyone sooner or later."

  Olivia's breath knotted. It was not difficult to guess to whom he referred. Her steps too halted in their tracks. "I . . . see." Lightly, she asked, "May I ask who that friend might be?"

  "I believe you have already met him. His name is Jai Raventhorne."

  The turn of the conversation was so unexpected that Olivia was again thrown off balance. Raventhorne had actually spoken of her to the Maharaja? Why? In what context? "Oh yes, so I have." She kept her gaze fixed steadily on the river. Even though details of her uncle's argument with Arthur Ransome that night now became clear in her memory, she asked, "Mr. Raventhorne is known to Your Highness?"

  He did not answer at once. In fact, he took an inordinate amount of time over a question that Olivia had asked with deliberate offhandedness. "Jai Raventhorne is not known to anybody, Miss O'Rourke, maybe not even to himself. But as far as it is possible to know him, yes, he is known to me."

  That made her smile. "But Mr. Raventhorne believes that nobody ever truly knows anyone else!"

  "In the final analyses, I suppose he is right."

  Unexpected or not, the drift of the conversation was too tempting a prospect not to explore further a man who had strangely dominated Olivia's thoughts over the past weeks. Surprising herself with her forwardness, she asked, "Since Your Highness does know him as a friend, does Mr. Raventhorne deserve the hideous reputation he has with the European community?"

  "Certainly. He not only deserves it, he enjoys it. In fact, Jai is flattered by the list of charges the Europeans prefer against him. Indeed, he works hard to extend it. That his efforts are recognized is a matter of great satisfaction to him."

  Whether or not the Maharaja spoke in jest, Olivia was nonplussed. "But why?" Nervously, she cast a glance over her shoulder to ensure that they were not within listening distance of anyone. Even so, her pulse raced. "Why should any man enjoy being known as a reprobate and a rogue?"

  The Maharaja shrugged, amused by her bewilderment. "Why is not a question that can be asked of Jai Raventhorne, Miss O'Rourke. His motives are as obscure as the man himself."

  Olivia frowned and shook her head. "I'm afraid I don't understand—"

  "I wonder if it is even worth trying to," he interrupted quietly. Some subtle signal must have been made, because an aide emerged suddenly out of nowhere to present the Maharaja with a prettily enamelled silver snuff-box held deferentially in one palm balanced upon the other. Taking from it a delicate pinch, the Maharaja dabbed each nostril with a red silk handkerchief into which he then received a subdued sneeze. "You must forgive my little indulgence," he apologised with a half smile. "It is an unfortunate addiction but I choose to believe a harmless one." They continued their stroll in silence for a while before the Maharaja picked up the thread of their conversation. "Jai is my dearest friend. There is no man I admire quite as much, for he has the courage to wage war on the gods themselves. But," his footsteps halted as he shook his head sadly, "sometimes I am convinced that Jai Raventhorne is utterly . . . insane."

  Arthur Ransome, Olivia recalled, had gone a step further— he had called him a mad dog! "Insane?"

  "In some ways, yes. But then, on the other hand, one must concede that every man is entitled to his obsessions. Jai Raventhorne too has his." They had arrived back at the point from which they had started. The Maharaja held out a chair for Olivia and then slipped into one opposite her. "Tell me, Miss O'Rourke, why does this man interest you so much?"

  Olivia felt the heat climb up her face. The casual façade she had assumed had not deceived the Maharaja. Suddenly, she found the inside of her mouth oddly dry, but she met the probing gaze with contained calmness. "Only because even during that brief encounter, your friend struck me as . . . unusual. I have not met many men like Mr. Raventhorne."

  "Many?" he smiled. "If you had met any, I would have been surprised."

  Not so much by what he said but by the tone in which he said it, Olivia surmised that the matter of Jai Raventhorne was once again closed. The hundred new questions surging through her mind with even more impatience now would have to remain unasked and unanswered. The conversation slipped back into neutral channels as they chatted informally of Kirtinagar, of America and India, of cabbages and kings. The Maharaja, Olivia saw, was an enlightened, well-informed man whose interests were catholic and with whom it was easy to converse. Apart from Jai Raventhorne, the other subject she did not bring up again was that of the coal mine, as outside her ethical limits as was the Maharaja's enigmatic friend.

  "Has Olivia been looking after you well, Your Highness?" Sir Joshua rejoined them eventually, still full of high spirits. "She has a sharp intellect, as I'm sure Your Highness has already deduced, and like many of her countrymen never fails to call a spade anything but that!"

  "Yes, indeed. I am charmed by such refreshing candour," the Maharaja agreed with alacrity. "I have greatly enjoyed our little chat."

  Olivia blushed. "Well, I hope the candour has not been too refreshing! I have never before been in the company of royalty, and so my knowledge of appropriate protocol is deplorably lacking."

  The Maharaja grimaced and arched an eyebrow. "You have no idea, Miss O'Rourke, how tired one tends to get of protocol. Your 'deplorably lacking' knowledge, believe me, comes as a breath of fresh air." He bowed. "I thank you for a most entertaining interlude. I have learned much. Perhaps some day you will give the Maharani and myself the privilege of offering you our humble hospitality in Kirtinagar." He turned to Sir Joshua. "And, of course, yourself, Lady Bridget and the delightful Miss Templewood."

  Olivia watched as her uncle bore off his prize guest to present to him the waiting line of people ranged underneath the canopy. Many already knew the Maharaja, but there was still a formality about the presentation that impressed with its air of ceremony. However elated Sir Joshua appeared to be in his effusive bonhomie, even from a distance Olivia could see that it was not shared by Arthur Ransome as he solemnly shook hands with his partner's royal guest. Ransome, in fact, looked visibly worried. Obviously, there were undercurrents in the occasion but
, as far as Olivia was concerned, none as insidious as those now running within herself. Why had the Maharaja brought up the subject of Jai Raventhorne at all with her? What was it that he might have seen in her face that had urged him on to question the source of her interest? In retrospect, she felt a sense of disquiet, of unreality, about their conversation, for it had been about a man she had met only once and whose face she still had not seen clearly! What an absurd situation!

  "Come and join us, Olivia. What on earth have you been doing with all those antiquated fuddy-duddies?" Estelle's voice was loud enough to be embarrassing. Quickly, Olivia joined her cousin and her friends.

  "Yes do, Olivia," seconded Lily Horniman, a tall girl with ginger-colored hair and an acute case of enlarged adenoids. "Estedde's been regarding us with such tades of your derring-do and they're a hoot, readdy they are!"

  "Estelle maintains," John Sturges said with a wink and his tongue resting in his cheek, "that you were champion shotgun rider with the wagon train and once fought off five redskins with your bare hands."

  Olivia cursed silently; Estelle was incorrigible! But it was difficult not to laugh at her cousin's fertile imagination. "Actually," she said lightly, settling herself down in their midst, "there were ten. And I didn't just fight them off with my bare hands, I strangled half of them. If I didn't ride shotgun, considering I was only eight, I still sure was champion of something."

  "Wot?" Polly Drummond asked wide eyed, not certain if all this was serious or a joke.

  "I was champion of the buffalo chip collecting team, that's what!"