Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  At this point in her story, the Maharani paused. For a moment or two a silence reigned between her and a rapt Olivia. Lying back on her cushion staring up at the recognisable constellations moving westward in a clear, cloudless sky, Olivia remained very still. In her mind was a vision of the man as he now was, and the metamorphosis defied belief. She rolled over on a side to prop herself up on an elbow. "Then?"

  "Then," Kinjal resumed, "for many years nobody heard of or from Jai—not that there was anyone with whom he would communicate. Perhaps my father-in-law was his only friend, and in those many years he had died. In any case, Jai neither knew his name nor was curious enough to inquire."

  Arvind Singh became Maharaja of Kirtinagar. He had heard of his father's dish-washer friend but as time passed the story slipped his memory. Twelve years ago, having ferreted out the Maharaja's name from an old groom at the tavern, the impecunious boy reappeared in the form of Jai Raventhorne and asked to see the Maharaja. When Arvind Singh's memory revived, he was staggered at the picture of impeccable, expensive and masterful gentlemanliness the man presented. He found it impossible to believe that this urbane, self-confident stranger who spoke in such cultured tones was indeed the disreputable ragamuffin his father had spoken about so often. Raventhorne was genuinely distressed that the benevolent old man who had showed him such kindness was no longer alive. Despite Arvind Singh's sense of shock, his admiration for the success Raventhorne had achieved and the monumental effort that must have gone into achieving it was instant. There seemed to be some strange empathy between the two men. "And," Kinjal said, concluding her narrative, "they have remained close friends ever since."

  Even though it was Kinjal who had been speaking at such length, it was Olivia's throat that felt arid and tight. It was an incredible story, unlike anything she had anticipated; she felt immensely moved. "Jai's father," she finally asked after lubricating her mouth with sherbet, "who was he?"

  There was sadness in the look Kinjal gave her. "We do not know. If Jai does, he will not talk about it. Rumour says he was an English sailor, perhaps neither seen nor remembered by his son."

  "And his mother?"

  "They say she was a tribal from the hills."

  "Was? Then is she dead?"

  "In all probability. Jai does not talk of her either. Had she been alive I feel that Jai would have wanted us to meet her. My husband did ask him once but Jai became so agitated at the question that the subject has never been raised again."

  Olivia's emotions, already melting with compassion, emulsified further although she could think of no man less deserving of that compassion than Jai Raventhorne. Nevertheless, to have won when the deck was so heavily stacked in his disfavour could not have been easy; the uneven battles could scarcely have left him unscarred. Grudgingly, she began to understand if not all, at least a few then of his perversities, for some wounds heal fast while others suppurate for a lifetime. "Was it to America he sailed on that ship?"

  "Eventually. He says it took him twice around the world first and it was during this time that he learned about navigation."

  "He talks about these experiences freely?"

  Kinjal made a wry face. "When he is in the mood. It was America, he says, that finally made him into a man. A Boston merchant hired him as a shop hand. Jai was an eager apprentice and worked diligently, and he ended up as the man's partner." Uncovering her head, Kinjal opened out her long, flowing hair to re-plait it carefully. "That merchant's name was Raventhorne, Jai told us."

  Olivia sat up. "Raventhorne?"

  "Yes. Jai's own father's name is unknown to him. Until he adopted that of his benefactor, he lived with only one name." To be so deprived, so discriminated against by fate! Olivia filled with an involuntary ache. "That one name, what does it mean?"

  Kinjal smiled. "Jai means victory—what else? You must know he can bear to be nothing but a winner. It is one obsession of which he makes no secret."

  "That destiny he spoke of, has he fulfilled it yet?"

  "Ah!" Kinjal lay back to scan the stars. "That remains the darkest area of all. Jai dismisses it as a joke, a childish flight of fancy."

  "Do you believe that?"

  Kinjal pondered, then shook her head. "No. Jai is not given to flights of fancy. My father-in-law's indelible impression was that he was repeating some sort of vow. And it has not yet been fulfilled. Had it already been, Jai would not still be a man possessed, a man of such burning inner anger. Which is why, Olivia," she sat up again and her frown was worried, "I do fear for you."

  "Fear for me?" The word Kinjal had chosen was so unaccountably strong that Olivia stared. "But why?"

  "You must forgive me, Olivia, if I presume on a new friendship and exceed my limits." The Maharani took her hand and pressed it. "I feel it is my duty to warn you that Jai Raventhorne is a dangerous man."

  The familiar phrase brought an involuntary smile to Olivia's lips. "So everyone tells me!"

  Kinjal did not share in her smile. "The English consider him dangerous for other reasons. I consider him dangerous for . . . you." Her unmistakable sincerity washed away Olivia's smile. "You cannot conceive of the lengths Jai went to so that you could be here this weekend."

  Olivia flushed. "And that is a matter for . . . fear?"

  "You must understand, Olivia, that Jai is very dear to me." Suddenly there was even more concern in her tone. "Nothing I say to you is a disloyalty to him for he knows my views. In Jai's life there have been endless women. He has treated them with scant respect and has used them only for physical gratification." She peered anxiously into Olivia's eyes. "Am I embarrassing you?" Olivia shook her head even though her cheeks felt warm. "In a way I do not blame Jai. He is rich, good-looking and visibly virile so the women flock to him like bees to a honey pot."

  "Like Sujata?" She had not meant to ask, for there was something humiliating about her nagging interest in the woman.

  "You have met Sujata?" Kinjal exclaimed in astonishment.

  "Once." Unable to withdraw the question, Olivia fumbled through a hasty explanation of the circumstances, then inexplicably committed another unwanted indiscretion. "Is he not in love with Sujata?"

  Listening not so much to the words but to the impulse that had prompted the inquiry, Kinjal turned melancholy. "Love is an emotion with which Jai is unfamiliar," she said sadly. "He neither understands it nor accepts it in his vocabulary. No, he is not in love with Sujata or with any other woman." She paused as if to underline the significance of her forthcoming words. "Nor, perhaps, can he ever be."

  This then, these final six words, were the crux!

  They dropped one by one onto Olivia's ears but penetrated her consciousness only superficially. He did not love Sujata! For the moment nothing else that Kinjal had said made any resounding impact. The haunting image of that swift moment of intimacy that had been gnawing away at Olivia's inner mind receded. Now she thought only of another vision, equally haunting, when she had lain in the howdah pressed to his chest, when warmth from his breath had fanned her cheek, when she had glimpsed something in his eyes as nebulous as a passing cloud. Making a circle of her arms, she hugged her knees but kept her face averted so that Kinjal could not observe her contented expression.

  "I accept everything you say, Kinjal," she murmured, following with her smiling eyes the path of an owl as it swooped past into the trees, "but I am curious to know why you should consider it necessary to warn me. True, I find Mr. Raventhorne intriguing and his background is remarkably unusual, but"—to give her subterfuge credence, she raised a laugh—"on the strength of such slender interest, I am unlikely to become one of those endless women!"

  "I have said all this to you, Olivia, because although I am overjoyed that you did come, you must be made aware of the false pretences that have engineered your visit." She spoke with a great gentleness. "Had I not found you so compatible, so unlike other white women I have met, I would have held my tongue. But I think of you already as a friend. I owe it to you to be honest. Please te
ll me that you are not offended."

  "No, I am not offended in the least!" Olivia exclaimed, touched by the sentiments and the concern. "I am only . . . amused. Mr. Raventhorne might be admirable in many ways, but I assure you I find him eminently resistible."

  Had she lied? In the conflicting dictates of her emotions, Olivia was again unsure. The reality of Jai Raventhorne was still too outrageous to have taken root in her mind; was it only her active imagination that gave him an aura of such disturbing magnetism?

  Olivia was relieved that the opportunity to talk about Jai Raventhorne did not arise again for the remainder of her visit.

  "You paid one anna each for the alligator pears?"

  "One anna each."

  "And you say you bought two chickens? I counted only two drumsticks in the mulligatawny last night!"

  Lesser mortals might have quailed before Lady Bridget's gimlet gaze but Babulal was made of sterner stuff. "Two fowl, four drumstick," he intoned without flinching, his eyes turning accusingly in Estelle's direction as she sat apparently engrossed in one of the melodramatic novelettes that circulated tirelessly among her friends.

  Lady Bridget's eyes were the first to drop. She abandoned one battle front to open another. Tapping her household accounts ledger, she attacked from an unguarded flank. "I myself bought two dozen kitchen dusters not more than three weeks ago. Do you mean to tell me that twenty-four brand-new and sturdy pieces of cloth ...?"

  Sitting quietly in a corner reading the very first mail packet she had received from her father, Olivia resolutely shut her ears to the daily harangues. She was beginning to believe that hot wrangles over bazaar accounts were the favourite entertainment of Calcutta's mems, the consequent victories and defeats premier topics of conversation at burra khanas. Most European women were contemptuous of their retinues of domestic staff even though they could hardly do without them, but Lady Bridget's aversion to those who inhabited her vast servants' compound appeared to be excessive. True, the population below the stairs, figuratively speaking, was massive; there were bearers, abdars, khidmutgars, gardeners, coachmen, chowkidars, punkahwallahs, water carriers, sweepers, kitchen boys, stable boys and the two ayahs, and in addition, their prolific families. They all had the length of Lady Bridget's tongue from time to time and, Olivia had heard it said, also a taste of Sir Joshua's hunting crop, for his temper could be volatile. It was a situation Olivia abhorred, but attitudes and prejudices were so deeply entrenched, she could do nothing about it and seldom interfered.

  Estelle, of course, had no such inhibitions. "If you detest servants so much, Mama," she lost no time in pointing out as soon as Babulal had been dismissed, "why do we have so many? It's only because you can't do without them, isn't it?"

  "And you can, I suppose? Don't you talk, miss, until you can learn to keep your own room from looking like a shipwreck! You'll find out soon enough when you have your own household what thieving, indolent—"

  "Papa sends everyone his warm regards." Noting that Estelle was still spoiling for a fight, Olivia quickly intervened. "He says the weather in the islands is glorious even though the stench of blubber isn't. He's still on that whaler."

  Blubber! Lady Bridget controlled herself with an effort. "How very kind of Sean," she murmured, trying to look interested. "Do reciprocate on our behalves when you reply. Anyway," she closed her ledger with a snap and rose from her desk, "I'm pleased that you enjoyed your weekend and that the Maharani wasn't too dreadful, but how odd that there should have been no other European guests. Generally these shooting parties are like tamashas, circuses really." She frowned, still smarting under her husband's wilful destruction of her carefully laid plans. "I hope he at least had the decency to keep you away from his harem."

  "Well, if Arvind Singh has one, we saw no evidence of it," Olivia answered, amused by the comment. "He doesn't appear to be that kind of a gentleman."

  "They're all that kind! Do you think the sanctity of marriage means anything to people who burn widows on funeral pyres?"

  "Well, I haven't noticed much sanctity in the Haworths, for instance, Mama," Estelle piped up. "Everyone knows what she does with Bill Corliss when he comes to tune her piano each week, and it's common knowledge that he's gone all native with that woman from Cossipore. To say nothing of the taradiddles they tell about that half-caste brat passed off as . . ."

  Silently, Olivia crept out of the room, despairing of Estelle ever learning how to keep her mouth shut and when.

  Upstairs in the quiet of her room, Olivia sat down to read her father's letter again, her throat tight with happiness. He had not yet received any of hers, of course, but when he did the flow would be steady. Much of what her father wrote had to do with his investigation, which was proceeding satisfactorily. The information he was collecting, he said, was very significant and useful. There was a paragraph or two about the forthcoming elections at home, where the heat was on. The rest of the letter was about Hawaii, where, he thought, Honolulu was emerging fast as the most important port and town in the Pacific. "However, the verdant scene one sees from the ship is deceptive. Except for the mountains and some valleys, the land is hard, dry and barren, and water is not easy to come by. But I might be fortunate in getting some land with natural irrigation near by although it is rare."

  Olivia frowned. Was he planning a long stay on the islands? She would have to wait to find out, for he gave no further explanations. A separate letter was all about Sacramento and the ranch. Greg was managing well in her absence (ten more longhorns from old Matty gotten dirt-cheap since he's moving to Texas), and Sally's Dane and Dirk were beginning to sprout 'taches. Sally had had a good offer for her lending-library from an ex-Yale man and was thinking of selling because there was grave concern among the locals about the recent discovery of gold in California, of which the papers were full. "It will start a stampede," her father warned. "Every scoundrel, murderer and rotten apple in the United States will be heading West, Livvie. I fear for our State, darling, for there is no end to man's greed and lust for gold." He concluded the letter with "Enjoy yourself, sweetheart, and do your best to utilise the opportunity your aunt has made available to you. I know it cannot be easy for you, for the rules that prevail there are different from what you have known. But England too, my dear child, is part of your heritage. However strange, you must never reject it, for it comes to you from your beloved mother. Use her gift to the full but remember when you go to bed each night and commune with your heart in silence that you have an old Dad somewhere who holds you more precious than his life."

  Olivia refolded the letter, the ache in her heart fierce and her eyes brimming. What would she not give now for an hour, just one hour, of her father's infallible advice when her unwanted "heritage" was drawing her into a maze of such terrible indecision!

  A knock sounded on the door and her aunt entered. "I forgot to mention, dear, that Lady Birkhurst has kindly invited us for tea tomorrow. We will leave at four. I have had your blue linen pressed, and you won't forget the white belt, will you, dear?"

  "No, I will not," Olivia assured her gloomily, then stood up and decided to take the bull by the horns. "I am deeply grateful for your concern and for everything that you are doing for me, Aunt Bridget, but I feel I must now make something clear to you. I have no intentions whatsoever of marrying Mr. Birkhurst. It would be wrong to raise any false hopes he might be entertaining."

  "Marry?" Lady Bridget's expression was of innocence incarnate. "My dear child, nobody has said anything about marriage! Surely you do not object to sharing a few casual moments with someone who has been kind enough to seek our company, especially in view of our previous cancellation, which she accepted most graciously."

  The aggrieved tone did not fool Olivia, but she had made her point. "No, of course not," she agreed grudgingly, "I would be pleased to accompany you and Estelle to Lady Birkhurst's."

  "Incidentally, dear," Lady Bridget hesitated, "I called on her personally last Saturday to inform her that you were ill. It
would therefore be imprudent to mention anything about your weekend in Kirtinagar. Will you remember that?"

  Olivia sighed. "Yes, Aunt Bridget. I will remember that."

  But after five o'clock that afternoon, nobody was to remember anything save that Sir Joshua had returned home surprisingly early and that his face looked like thunder. Without exchanging a word with anyone, he had stormed into his study and slammed the door behind him. "What's happened, Mama?" Estelle looked nervous. "Why is Papa in such a terrible rage?"

  As she descended the stairs, Lady Bridget's face was equally pale. She did not answer Estelle's question, or rather, chose not to. Instead, she merely stood staring at the study door as if mesmerized into immobility. Then, attempting a recovery, she continued her passage down the flight. "No doubt some fracas at the office," she said calmly. "You know how strongly your father tends to react to trivialities. He will be over it by supper-time." But in her blue eyes the fear remained.

  Sir Joshua was not "over it" by supper-time. Indeed, his mood was such that he refused food entirely, preferring his own company behind barred doors. Through their own meal in the dining-room, Lady Bridget remained abstracted and there was little conversation. Even Estelle did not dare to chatter as she usually did. When the meal was finished, Lady Bridget prepared a tray of food in the pantry for her husband and entrusted it to Olivia.

  "Josh likes to talk to you about his affairs, dear. Perhaps you can find out the reason for his foul mood." She smiled bravely. "You see, he won't believe me but he does need a holiday. He works too long and too hard for his health to bear the strain."

  Inside the study there was darkness. Olivia could discern her uncle's outline against the window, since the curtains had not been drawn. In the gloom the tip of his cigar glowed a dull red, brightening each time he pulled on it. Olivia stood watching for a moment, then cleared her throat.