Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  He manacled her wrists and forced them still. "It is exactly four days." He gave no explanations.

  "Don't split hairs with me, you heartless . . . monolith!" she stormed. "I have not been able to think of anything except you . . ."

  "You think too much about me."

  ". . . and you are hardly worthy of such dedicated concentration!"

  "That is exactly what I have been trying to convince you." He walked away to settle himself on a boulder. "I am not."

  "You think it is I who have chosen this deplorable fate for myself? Do you believe I actually enjoy being tossed around like a damned skittle?" Outraged by his lack of reaction she flounced off to sit herself down on another boulder pointedly away from him.

  With his riding crop he doodled idly on the ground, not looking at her. "You have another option. Take it."

  Olivia clenched her teeth. "If you tell me once more that I should marry Freddie, I swear I'll put a hole through you with my derringer, and don't think I can't shoot straight!"

  "I doubt if even a derringer could put a hole through a monolith."

  She dragged in a deep breath and her eyes glittered. "By every normal standard of decency, Jai Raventhorne, I should hate you!"

  He roused himself to look at her. "But you obviously don't," he provided flatly. "And therein, alas, lies the rub."

  Her anger died; it seemed as pointless as it was self-defeating. "It is a rub I cannot help," she said dully. "Sometimes I feel I am truly diseased."

  He was looking not at her now but behind her as if in the unremarkable scenery of untidy fields and clotted scrub he saw something he could not drag his eyes away from. "You love me too much, Olivia. Train yourself not to."

  Olivia had seen many of his moods—of anger, of heaving restlessness, of suppurating frustrations and, yes, of immense tenderness trembling on the verge of something profound. She had known his moments of remorse, of self-flagellation, of raving dissatisfaction with himself when he had wounded her. What she saw now she had never seen before, and, suddenly, it terrified her because she recognised it for what it was: indifference. In loving him she had vowed to tolerate anything he chose to be, but among his choices she had not counted indifference. Olivia had started to include pain among her intimate and constant companions, but what she felt now, on the knife edge of his passionless apathy, was an incision in the core of her being and she almost cried out with the sharpness of it.

  "You mean train myself as . . . you have? Fill myself with insidious poisons against the world? Sustain myself with hatred as you do?" Lacerated by his cold impersonality, she became uncaring of what she said, wanting only to provoke him into something, anything, so long as he discarded that hateful curtain of nothingness that veiled his face. "Should I also be frightened in case I mislead people into believing that I am human, of flesh and blood, like everyone else? Is that what you mean, Jai?"

  Her spirited provocations achieved nothing; he merely shrugged and continued doodling. "If that is your interpretation, then yes."

  Burning tears stung her eyelids but, determined not to lower herself further by crying, she dug her nails into her palms. "It's all a game to you, I know," she said miserably. "Nothing in life really holds any meaning for you, does it, Jai?"

  He frowned and pondered for a while. "Yes, it is a game, I suppose." He sounded vaguely surprised, as if he had heard something new. "And no, nothing does hold much meaning for me." He leaned forward to balance his forearms on his knees and stared down at his boots. "I'm not sure anymore that the game is worth the candle, you know, Olivia ..."

  Her heart leapt; at last she had cracked that stony mould of indifference! His features had lengthened and in his voice there were uncharacteristic undertones of defeat. Olivia hastened to his side to kneel on the ground and rest her arms on his lap. "Then why do you continue to play it, Jai? Why?"

  Her nearness seemed to please him, for raising a hand he allowed it to wander through her hair. A ghost of a smile, barely anything and yet to her so much, touched his mouth. "How can you put up with me, Olivia?"

  She refused to be diverted. "Why?"

  "Because if there is any meaning in my existence, however insubstantial, it is this game that I play."

  Her throat tightened. "There can be other meanings—"

  "Not now, not for me!" He became animated and restless. "What has been started must be finished. None of us can be spared, not me and not even . . . you, my innocent madonna ..." In a burst of feeling he gripped her hand and pressed it between his palms until her bones ached, but she did not cry out, knowing, sensing, that he was at this moment closer to revealing himself than he had ever been before.

  She trembled yet dared not make any other move that might snap that elusive filament of his thoughts. "I am not spared even now," she whispered, barely audible.

  He dropped her hand. It felt numb. "I am helpless, Olivia." His eyes stared at her, wild and unseeing. "And yes, I am insane . . ."

  "Then let me share in that insanity, Jai," she implored, each nerve in her body straining to reach him. "Whatever its cause, your torment is half mine, yet you persistently keep me in the dark." Welling with love, she encircled his neck with her arms and pressed her lips into the hollow of his throat. "Give me a place in your life, Jai . . ."

  There, it was out! She had at last vocalised her plaint. There could be no retreat now. Brazen or not, the words could not be unsaid.

  He did not reply immediately, but he did not push her away. Instead, his fingers traced the line of her spine and in their tips Olivia felt the entire load of his longing. When he spoke it was with difficulty, as if he were having to prize every syllable out with a pair of forceps and it hurt him. "You have a place . . . in . . . my heart. You must know that ... by now."

  It was the closest he had ever come to telling her that he loved her. For a whole moment the world stopped. Nothing in it moved, not even a hint of life. Like a fossil destined to live forever in its stone grave, for her the instant petrified into immortality.

  But then, impatiently, he stirred as if in annoyance with himself. "I must go."

  In her daze Olivia was seized by terror. "Go? Go where?"

  As always, he unlocked her fingers gently from behind his neck and, kissing each of her hands, stood up. "To the Customs house," he said with a lift of a quizzical smile at her stricken expression. "Donaldson is sending a consignment that will ensure your Freddie's continuing prosperity. I want to make certain it contains only what its documentation says it does."

  She knew he mocked her extravagant reaction, but it didn't matter. Not today! He had not used the word love, but he had thought it. She had seen it in his mind as clearly as if it were emblazoned across his forehead! For all its inadequacies, this would still be the diadem in her treasury of jewelled moments.

  "How suspicious you are of your clients!" she remarked, blissful again. "You know that Freddie's agency doesn't dabble in opium."

  "At one time or another, they all dabble in opium."

  "Even though it is a Company monopoly?"

  "Because it is a Company monopoly! Those with monopolies have more to sell, and avarice feeds upon itself."

  "You mean they allow opium to be smuggled out to Europe?"

  "Some do. For a price."

  "How?"

  "Concealed in cargo, with couriers, through ships' crews—a thousand different ways. Europe too has its addicts, its stinking opium dens. Where do you think they get their supplies? There are no poppy plantations in England!"

  "In that case, the traffic is enormous. Single-handedly you want to take on the whole world ...?" she cried in protest despite his darkening face.

  Suddenly the clouds broke and a smile of genuine humour broke through like a hesitant ray of sunshine. "No, only half the whole world. For the present that is enough. Now come, or I shall miss my appointment, and possibly one more London den will have triumphed." Olivia did not argue; the idea of poor Willie Donaldson, a man of unimpeachable eth
ics and reputation, being an opium smuggler was laughable. But Raventhorne's obsession with the nefarious trade was not open to reason. She wondered briefly about that obsession. Could it be that opium was also smuggled out in tea chests and that was the source of his enmity with her uncle . . .?

  "The day after tomorrow are the immersions that mark the conclusion of the Durga festival." He spoke again with a switch of topics. "Would you like to see them?"

  Olivia gave a small gasp of delight. "Yes, oh yes! Where are the images immersed?"

  "Up and down the river at the various ghats. They take place mostly at night and are very colourful." He took her hand and held it for a while, his face solemn. "Can you get away without inconvenience?"

  Inconvenience! Did he still not know that merely to be with him she would willingly walk through fire to the ends of the earth? "Yes. Inconvenient or not, I will get away."

  "Very well. My carriage with Bahadur will await you on the night at the corner of your lane."

  "At what time?"

  "They will be there soon after dark. Come when you can."

  Anxious that no detail be overlooked and the precious appointment missed by default, she asked, "Do you know my uncle's house?"

  It was, Olivia realised instantly, an absurd question and Raventhorne looked fractionally startled. Then he began to chuckle as he bent down to cup his palms into a foothold so that she could mount Jasmine. "Who in Calcutta does not know the house of Sir Joshua Templewood?" By the time she was in the saddle and the girth tightened to his satisfaction, once more his mood had changed. As he stood stroking Jasmine's neck absently, his pearl-sheened eyes had dimmed to move away from Olivia into some incalculable distance. If there was any identifiable emotion in his drawn features, it was sorrow. "You deserve so much better than I can ever give you, Olivia. I wish—"

  "Don't!" She leaned over to place a finger across his lips. "Don't wish, it is bad luck. Let whatever comes, come. I can bear it."

  He said something under his breath and turned away towards his own mount. It was only when she was half-way home that Olivia identified in a delayed reaction the few words he had mumbled. "I pray that I can too."

  For the moment they made no sense. For the moment.

  It was Dassera day.

  Tomorrow the immersions would start. Scores of those exquisite images of the ten-armed goddess that Olivia had seen being lovingly fashioned in Kumartuli would be consigned to the river Hooghly, held in Bengal as sacred as the mighty Ganges. Today, in thousands of Hindu homes the final day of the ten-day celebrations would be dedicated to devout worship of Durga. There would be feasting and singing and chanting, and gifts would be exchanged, new clothes worn, alms distributed and maunds of sweets eaten. Even in the White Town there were reverberating sounds of revelry from the intermittent Indian dwelling-places: drum beats, cymbal clashes, chanting voices, tingling bells, the raucous laughter of children. In the Templewood house the enormous contingent of servants had constructed their own altar in their compound and installed in it an image of Durga.

  "Oh, the noise, the noise!" Lady Bridget clamped her hands over her ears and shuddered. "I do wish they would keep their blasphemous heathen rites to themselves. Why should all of us be afflicted?"

  "The festival comes only once a year, Aunt Bridget," Olivia pointed out. "For them it is a great occasion and it means much."

  "Thank the Lord it is only once a year! But if it's not one festival it's another. It's a wonder we're not all struck deaf."

  Because of the holiday declared for the Indian staff, Sir Joshua had gone off with Arthur Ransome to pay Dassera visits to all their Hindu suppliers, agents, retailers and associates, as was the custom on this auspicious day. In exchange, baskets of fruit and sweets had been arriving at the house since the morning from those Hindu merchants of means with whom Templewood and Ransome did business. Estelle, as usual, was out. Olivia, tiring of her aunt's constant and tedious carping, took her book into the garden to read in peace, if that was the word that could be used considering the frantic impatience with which she awaited tomorrow night. The novel she was reading, Wuthering Heights, had been sent to her aunt from England by her Cousin Maude. It was, wrote Cousin Maude, creating a literary sensation in London. Although a poignant and daring love story, it had been written by an unknown spinster named Emily Bronte, the cloistered, unworldly daughter of an impecunious Yorkshire clergyman. Olivia's choice of reading was therefore fortunate; the book was so gripping, so moving and written with such beauty and passion that she could hardly bear to put it down.

  She sat beneath a spreading acacia tree, to a branch of which she had tied her beautiful blue Vanda orchid. The creeper had now taken root in the bark to spill over with lovely cerulean blossoms framed by shining bottle green leafage. Suddenly, from the kitchen end of the garden, Babulal approached to shyly fold his hands in respect and then lay a marigold at her feet. Would the missy mem, he asked hesitantly, do them the great honour of participating in their worship rituals tonight after supper? It was the final and most auspicious day of the festival.

  Olivia was touched. It was a simple request and came from the heart. She didn't even think to refuse it. Knowing that her aunt might make an unnecessary fuss if asked for permission, she decided to accept the invitation anyway and make her apologies later to her aunt should any be required. In her diffident but rapidly improving Hindustani, she accepted Babulal's invitation with pleasure.

  Somehow, evening came, the creeping hours made less intolerable for Olivia by Emily Bronte's riveting story of love and despair and terrible tragedy. The cold supper of meats and salads served was well in tune with Lady Bridget's silent mood since neither Estelle nor Sir Joshua had returned in time for the meal. As soon as it was over, Olivia set off as discreetly as she could to fulfil her promise to Babulal.

  The sudden realisation that she had never yet set foot in the servants' compound came as a vague surprise to Olivia. Lady Bridget herself seemed to have a strange aversion to it; she neither spoke of it nor showed any concern over what might be its condition. To Olivia's knowledge, she certainly never visited it. Her own lapse made Olivia feel guilty; what little heed they all paid to those who worked hard to keep them in such comfort! Even though the compound was visible from the kitchen window, she was now astonished by its vastness. The compound was rectangular, lined on three sides by single-storied rooms, perhaps thirty altogether. At the far end was the washerman's house and behind that a water tank. Next to it stood the cow shed housing the milch cattle and the resident milk man who supplied their daily requirements. Olivia had often encountered the milk man at the pantry door making his morning deliveries. That the Templewood domestic staff was extensive Olivia already knew; what surprised her now as she was ceremonially escorted around the settlement was the number of women and children in the community.

  Even in the modest environment, this evening there was gaiety and a blaze of light and colour. Everyone wore shining new clothes, no doubt those that Lady Bridget and Sir Joshua had distributed this morning as traditional baksheesh on Dassera day. Focus of all the jollifications was the altar, gaudy but cheerful, that had been constructed in the centre of the court-yard. The idol had been lavishly decorated with tinsel and bright silk vestments, a red sari and blouse and impromptu shining jewellery fashioned out of gold braid. Each of the ten arms of the goddess held a different item and one foot rested on a lion's head since the lion was her carrier according to mythology. Trays of flowers, sweets, fruits and nuts rested on the altar as offerings. Oil lamps and incense burners nestled in between. A Brahmin priest, hired for the night at considerable cost, it was proudly told to Olivia, sat singing vesper hymns and chanting mantras. Above the altar was an orange canopy on top of which had been fixed a metal trident.

  Olivia was charmed. As guest of honour, she was given a chair, the only one in sight since everyone else squatted on the ground. Piety shone out of dark, glistening faces as the rituals proceeded, and there was a spontaneou
s, unspoken sense of joy that was very touching. Even though Dassera was a Hindu festival, all the Muslim servants on Sir Joshua's staff participated with equal enthusiasm. Rehman, the chief bearer, looked entirely strange in a checked shirt and bright green lungi as he happily stirred a gigantic cauldron on the verandah from which spicy aromas arose and wafted. Olivia barely recognized the normally impassive face and the stiff form that she was used to seeing only in characterless white uniform. The prayers concluded, a tray of sweets was passed around the congregation as a blessing from the goddess. Olivia took a piece of what looked like pistachio fudge and smiled to herself. She wondered how many of the ingredients for the feast being prepared tonight had been abstracted from her aunt's larder, but she could not help feeling satisfied that they had. Opening her purse she took out a handful of coins without counting them and placed them in the tray of sweets as her own contribution towards the modest but moving occasion.

  By the time she returned to the main house, Sir Joshua had come back, eaten and closeted himself in his study. Lady Bridget had retired, perhaps to continue fretting about Estelle, who had not yet returned home from wherever her wilful wanderings had taken her today. After a moment's uncertainty, Olivia sought out her uncle in his study.

  "There's something I'd like to talk to you about, Uncle Josh. It's about Estelle and I feel you should listen."

  "Estelle?" Looking up from the figures he was scribbling, he seemed faintly alarmed, perhaps at the seriousness of Olivia's expression. "Why, is she ill?"

  "No. She is in perfectly good health, at least physically." His stare became blank, indicating that he had no idea what she was talking about. Olivia grabbed his momentary attention and quickly continued. "I know and understand your recent preoccupations, Uncle Josh, but Estelle doesn't. Since she's had very little attention from you lately, she's convinced herself that you no longer love her."

  "No longer love her? Bless my soul, what an extraordinary notion!" He looked vaguely unsettled.