by Olivia
"Yes. Very. We talked about London and the life there."
"Nothing else?" Lady Bridget sounded disappointed.
"Oh, and about America and all kinds of things," Olivia said vaguely.
"Did she ask about your . . . father?"
"No."
Her aunt's sigh of relief was audible if not tactful. "Well, I'm glad she was cordial. You must go and see her again, of course, when they return from the north."
Olivia stared out of the window, her mind still clogged with the unbelievable conversation she had had. Staves of pity stabbed repeatedly at her heart. How was she ever going to face poor Lady Birkhurst again?
"I told you I was right, didn't I?" Lady Bridget suddenly exclaimed with considerable exultation.
"What about?" Estelle asked.
"I knew Babulal had overcharged for those alligator pears!"
CHAPTER 6
"I say, wasn't old Lady B an absolute scream this afternoon? As for your face, darling Coz, well I thought I'd die, just die, trying to stifle my giggles." Sitting cross-legged on her bed, Estelle layered her cheeks with another generous coat of lanolin.
"Well, I'm glad you didn't," Olivia retorted as she brushed out her hair in front of the mirror. "If you had, who would have finished all those biscuits?"
"She'd have! Have you ever seen anyone so besotted with food?"
"Yes," Olivia teased, "you."
Estelle ignored the barb. From beneath the oily slick of face cream, her eyes glinted like those of a fox on the scent of a choice prey. "I hear that his clipper docks tomorrow night, the one that's been outfitted with a coal engine. Won't Papa be livid!"
Poker faced, Olivia gave no hint of the quick leap of her pulse. "Really? How do you know?"
"From Charlotte's cousin who works in the Customs office. He told her and she told me this morning in Whiteaways while you were buying your sandals. Imagine! The Ganga could do the Calcutta-London run in thirty days! No wonder everyone's in such high dudgeon. He threatens to wipe out all the opposition." But since her interest in the trials of the business community was minimal, Estelle soon returned to more personal worries. Throwing herself back on her pillow, she glared petulantly at the ceiling. "I'd give anything, anything, to be in London in thirty days! Marie says she changed her hair colour twice in three months and nobody in London batted an eyelash. God, I'm so sick of this same old face in the mirror every day! And compared to what Susan brought back with her, I have to dress in rags, I swear!"
Olivia laughed. "Well, it's the only face you have, sugar, and when it's not sulking it's really quite pretty, even without hybrid hair. As for your clothes, if you call them rags then the rest of us lesser mortals have to make do with sackcloth!"
Estelle refused to be comforted. "It's all very well for you," she grumbled. "You'll have London round the corner when you marry Freddie—"
"I'm not going to marry Freddie!" Olivia assured her waspishly. "And I simply won't have you spreading such a wicked canard!"
"Why ever not?" Estelle demanded. "Because of that Greg?"
"Because of no one. I just am not, so there." Grabbing her hairbrush and tucking it under an arm, she flounced out of the room extremely annoyed with her cousin. But even more annoying than Estelle's loose tongue was the grisly prospect of having to tolerate Freddie's tedious company on her ride the very next morning.
"I say, I'm looking forward so frightfully to these jolly old trips with you every day, Olivia." Even at five o'clock in the morning, Freddie could barely control his enthusiasm. "Where to, dear lady—the Tolly for breakfast?"
In the unflattering grey pre-dawn light, Freddie looked dreadful. His face was haggard and putty colored, the eyes shot with red. He was trying desperately not to yawn. Olivia almost melted, but didn't. On the one hand it was hardly the poor man's fault that he ruined so totally her day's greatest pleasure; on the other hand didn't he have enough sensitivity to see that he was not wanted?
"I usually cover about five miles every morning," she said heartlessly as they trotted side by side down Chowringhee Road. She sat defiantly astride, rather than side-saddle, as she always did, much to the displeasure of her aunt. "The idea is exercise and exploration rather than a social outing. Today I had planned to visit the fish market near Kidderpore."
Freddie paled further. "The fish market? Oh, I say Miss O'Rourke, er, Olivia . . . isn't that rather . . . extreme?"
"No, I don't think so," she replied very firmly. "I'd like to see the morning haul. Some of the fish brought in are quite exotic, I'm told, such as sharks and barracuda and giant turtles."
"But these native bazaars are diseased places, Olivia, filthy and smelly and with overflowing drains. And those hordes of naked brats with runny noses ...," he shuddered, starting to look quite sick.
His alarm was so acute that, resentfully, Olivia relented. "Oh, very well then, shall we take the horse ferry and explore the Botanical Gardens instead? I hear that the banyan tree forest is quite astonishing."
He almost collapsed in relief. Taking note of his mottled complexion, tired eyes pouched heavily with signs of high living, and the stooped shoulders that put years on him, Olivia could not but feel some sympathy for someone so bent on reaching an early grave. Inwardly, however, she reinforced her resolve; no matter how genuinely she felt for his poor mother, there was no compensation large enough to make her ludicrous proposition even remotely acceptable, even remotely.
They cantered past St. John's Church, said to be a replica of London's St. Martin-in-the-Fields, along the Great Tank in front of Writers' Building, and past John Company's headquarters and focal point of Calcutta's cosmopolitan mercantile world. The nucleus of the three obscure villages of Sutanuti, Kalikata and Govindpur, which Job Charnock, a Company agent, had selected in 1690 as a place for "quiet trade," had indeed mushroomed into an imposing, architecturally elegant centre of commerce and politics. They rode through Clive Street, where Sir Joshua and, ironically, also Jai Raventhorne had their offices. The Trident building, gaunt and grey and defiantly unadorned, stood silent in the early morning, its windows shut and only the cold metal emblem above its front door identifying it for what it was. With the triumphant return of the Ganga, the first private steamship in the country, there would no doubt be plenty of activity later. All at once Olivia felt strangely exhilarated. By the time they arrived at Old Fort Ghat past the New Wharf, her resentment against Freddie had subsided to the extent that she could actually smile at his trivial conversation.
The crossing on the ferry to Sibpur on the West Bank of the Hooghly opposite Garden Reach was very pleasant and did not take long. With their arrival at the Botanical Gardens, Olivia's mood became almost cheerful. The gardens themselves were quite splendid, with many stretches of apple green water covered with gigantic water-lilies, a special South American species now named after Queen Victoria. Founded in 1786, the gardens had as their prize display a massive banyan forest more than twelve hundred feet in circumference and soaring to eighty-eight feet at its highest, every tree in it sprouting from tendrils dropped from one central trunk. Wandering through the unique forest, listening to Freddie's chatter, Olivia realised with some surprise that he was far more entertaining a companion than she had anticipated. For one, he was a lively raconteur with an endless fund of stories about his escapades in London and at Oxford, and about his father, with whom, she gathered, he enjoyed a rather less than cordial relationship. He was, however, devoted to his mother despite his nervousness about her. "She's a bit of a dragoness, I know, but the Mater can be remarkably understanding," he confided. "It's the old boy who's the stickler, rather a dried-up prune, really. He genuinely believes that God created the world so that England could have its House of bloody Lords."
Olivia laughed. Indeed, the flavour of their conversation was so light-hearted that she loosened her defences. The stories Freddie told were mostly against himself. He said not a single cruel word about anyone; in fact, there seemed to be no malice in his heart. But O
livia's relief was to be short lived. It was as they were recovering their breath after a vigorous gallop and had dismounted in a clearing to rest that Freddie suddenly said, "There is something, Olivia, that I must say to you . . ."
Instantly she congealed. "Oh, please don't, Mr. Birkhurst," she exclaimed in alarm, knowing what was coming, "I . . . I'd rather you didn't!"
Whatever little chin he had firmed. "I have to, Olivia, I have to get it off my damned chest or I'll just explode!" He looked so desperately unhappy that she didn't have the heart to protest further. At least he was unaware of her conversation with his mother, which was some small mercy. "I know that I'm not much of a ... man. I suppose I really am what everyone says, a fool..." He gulped like a fish and looked at his feet. "I know I'm not worthy of ... of a single, ah, hair of your head, Olivia, because you're beautiful and clever and so ... so p-perfect that I, well, I feel even m-more of a . . . a . . ." He choked with the effort of untangling the knot of words in his throat and coughed at some length. "D-dash it, what I'm trying to say and m-mucking it up as usual is," he cleared his throat noisily to remove the croak from it, his heart in his eyes, ". . . is—will you, would you possibly by some bloody miracle, c-consider becoming my... my w-wife...?" Exhausted, he collapsed weakly onto a fallen tree trunk, almost convulsing with the effort of regaining his breath.
Olivia was riven with pity, with embarrassment. Hot faced, she sat silent for a moment not knowing with what words to wound least this hapless young man whom she found she did not entirely dislike. He seemed so defenceless somehow, so vulnerable, so utterly without physical strength, that she shrank at dashing his pathetic hopes with a single blow, as honour demanded. But, as it happened, while she stared at the ground hunting for suitable words and phrases, it was Freddie himself who came to her rescue.
"Don't say anything now, Olivia. I... I'd rather you didn't." His chest heaved with emotion. "If you refuse me out of hand I'll just be sh-shattered. Let me live in hope at least until we return from that blasted plantation. It will give me time to harden myself against what I fear is inevitable disappointment."
She sagged with relief at the reprieve, ashamed at her cowardice but grasping the device with both hands. Her eyes, however, softened. Poor, poor Freddie! "All right, but on one condition."
"Anything, anything!"
"That you will not breathe a word of your proposal to anyone, especially not to your mother and my aunt."
His hand shot out with alacrity. "Done. My lips are sealed. It will remain between you and me until . . . until you give me your answer. But in the meantime," he looked down at his feet, shuffled them and blushed, "I too have a condition."
"What?" Olivia asked in renewed alarm.
"Would you, could you, perhaps, force yourself into calling me F-Freddie?"
Olivia laughed and quickly took the hand he held out. "Agreed. As we say back home, it's a deal."
Freddie took out his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. "My God, it's a relief to have got that over with! I was sure I would . . ." He stopped and listened, his hand still.
Their peaceful privacy was being broken by the staccato sound of approaching hooves. The forest, not far from a British military encampment, was a favourite riding ground for cavalrymen, but this galloping horse seemed headed straight in their direction. Tendrils of mist hung from the trees in wraith-like formations undisturbed by the still-dormant river breezes and in the cool early morning the grass verges were jewelled with dew. A few moments later a rider burst into the clearing, reined his horse abruptly and slid to the ground before them. He was Indian, barefoot but dressed smartly in native garb with a yellow turban swathed around his head. As they stared at him in vague surprise, he bowed and, approaching Olivia, handed her a white envelope. She took it wonderingly and noticed, with a twinge of unease, that stamped on the back flap of the sealed envelope was the name Templewood and Ransome. Worried, she tore it open and quickly read the note contained within. Sir Joshua requests Miss O'Rourke's presence immediately aboard the Daffodil. The bearer will act as escort. That was all.
Olivia's hand flew to her throat in alarm. "Is my uncle ill?" she asked, handing the letter to Freddie. The rider merely shook his head; it was obvious he did not speak English. Freddie read the note, replaced it within the envelope and spoke a few words in halting Hindustani, but he was unable to elicit more information from the youth, who merely kept shaking his head.
"I think I had better go, Freddie. It must be a matter of some urgency for my uncle to have summoned me like this, especially on board his ship."
"Of course." His face fell. "Perhaps I should come as well?" he asked hopefully. "I could be of some assistance in a crisis."
Olivia hesitated. Her uncle's latest disaster might be common knowledge, but considering his opinion of poor Freddie it would be unwise to make him privy to whatever else had happened, as something obviously had. She shook her head. "I think not, Freddie, although it is kind of you to offer. It might be a . . . private matter."
He accepted that with his characteristic good humour. "Right ho, until tomorrow then? Same time, same place?"
Olivia sighed. "Yes, I guess so."
At the river bank to which the youth guided her, a dhoolie boat waited. Another youth stepped out from the trees to take charge of her horse and a third helped her onto the boat. The Daffodil, having arrived only recently from England, was anchored close to the opposite shore, being unloaded and refurbished for the return voyage scheduled two weeks from now. Through the silent journey across the Hooghly, Olivia's thoughts raced; what new calamity had necessitated this early-morning summons? As the creaking, bobbing row-boat threaded its way between the hulks of scattered vessels, there was another thought in Olivia's mind; it was of poor Freddie's final muttered words to her as he mournfully helped her mount Jasmine: "In my own inept fashion I do love you, Olivia ..." She sighed heavily; there was something essentially decent about Freddie, for he had so few pretensions.
They seemed to weave their way interminably among schooners, cutters, men-of-war, Royal Navy frigates and sloops before the dhoolie showed some signs of arriving at a destination. Out of the diaphanous vapours shrouding the river a hull loomed ahead and the little row-boat slid alongside. A wooden stairway threaded on rope snaked its way down and dangled in front of them. Two Lascars, gripping either side of the ladder, helped Olivia climb her way on board. It was her first visit to a ship since she had arrived in India and, in spite of her worry, her spirits soared. There was something elating, intoxicating almost, about the smell of water and grease and jute and holystone and lingering salt that went with seagoing ships, something that spelt adventure and derring-do.
It was only when she was half way up the ladder that a tear in the mist and a sudden shaft of buttery sunshine through it dazzled her with a sharp, metallic explosion of light. Olivia shut her eyes in a swift reflex and by the time she opened them again, an instant later, what she had seen mounted on the prow had registered in her consciousness.
It was a golden trident.
"You frightened me out of my wits—I thought something terrible had happened to my uncle!" Olivia's immediate reaction was one of chagrin.
"Sadly, no." Still holding her hand in the clasp that had pulled her aboard, Jai Raventhorne smiled acidly. "As far as I know, your uncle is in bed with health quite unimpaired."
She snatched her hand out of his. "You had no business playing such a despicable trick on me!"
"I have as much business as you have to traipse the countryside with that idiot loon in tow. Do you have to make such a spectacle of your hunt for a husband?"
Breathing heavily, furious now, Olivia leaned back against the rail and crossed her arms. "Why should any spectacles, as you call them, I make be your unwanted concerns? Evidently, your genius for espionage exceeds those alleged social graces you seem so proud of!"
"Espionage, hah!" He threw his arms in the air, spun on his heel and walked off in a huff. "It hardly needs genius
to follow your blatant cavortings," he flung back over his shoulder.
"And why need my blatant cavortings worry you, pray?" Striding after him, still angry, Olivia struggled with parallel elation at so unexpectedly meeting him again.
He stopped and turned to glower at her. "They need not but they do!" he snapped. "For whatever my sins might have been."
"Might have been?"
He breathed in deeply and combed his hair with impatient fingers. "Are you going to stand there wasting time in petty argument or do you want to see my ship?"
Olivia suddenly remembered where she was—aboard the Ganga! Anger fizzling, she felt a rush of renewed exhilaration; she was actually on the Ganga with Jai Raventhorne! "I want to see your ship, of course," she murmured meekly enough.
"I thought you would. As first visitor aboard you should be honoured. She only docked at midnight."
"Oh, I am honoured," Olivia assured him lightly as they walked side by side down the deck and she looked around with avid interest, "even though I have no idea why I should be so singularly privileged."
"Haven't you?" His churlishness returned as his pace increased. "For a girl as intelligent as you I find that remark unforgivably stupid."
Heavens, he was in an odious humour this morning! But she was in no mood to retaliate. His unexpected proximity, the daring of his ruse and the personal risk she faced in being here at all, scuttled all taste for debate. Besides, there was much that was exciting to see. "So, this is the refitted clipper causing so many waves in town!"
He scowled. "I don't see why. I much preferred her the way she was. Well, will you have breakfast first or be conducted around?"
He was so certain of her coming he had even arranged breakfast? "I would like to be conducted around," she said with suitable docility. "I wouldn't want you to think I'm not duly appreciative of the honour."
