by Olivia
The answer, when it came to her, arrived like a thunderbolt. For a moment Olivia stood rooted to the middle of the narrow, crowded lane outside Mrs. Drummond's house. Of course! How could she have missed the obvious? Whatever else Jai Raventhorne might be, he was not a fool. If there was one thing he must have learned about Estelle in a hurry, it was undoubtedly that she was a compulsive blabbermouth. Whatever plot had been concocted, he must have made damn certain that Estelle knew none of the details, and what better place to ensure her silence than the house in Chitpur? The use of the Pringles' name had been wise since they lived too far away for immediate enquiries to be conducted. And, come to think of it, could there be a better reason for getting Sujata out of the way during these vital past few days?
Which meant that while she herself was on the Ganga in Jai Raventhorne's bed and arms, committing to him her body, her soul and her life, Estelle was in the Chitpur house awaiting his summons to come on board and take her place in both his arms and his bed!
Within Olivia cold fury stirred, but she strangled it at birth. The luxury of emotion was not yet to be hers; there was still so much, so much, left undone! At the Templewood bungalow an answer awaited her from Arthur Ransome—true, loyal friend that he was—promising his presence as soon as he had completed some urgent paperwork at the office, and expressing concern at the sudden "indispositions" of both Sir Joshua and his wife. Knowing that Ransome would read between the lines and realise the urgency of the situation even without knowing it fully, Olivia had refrained from elaborate explanations. But Arthur Ransome was the only one who could, and must, be taken wholly into her confidence. With Estelle's parents both stricken and disabled, she desperately needed an ally or she would go insane. She could not bear the burden alone.
Dear Lord, would she be able to bear it at all?
Just before luncheon, Dr. Humphries called again. After he had once more examined his sleeping patient—unaware of the crumbling world around her—Olivia took him downstairs into the parlour and dutifully repeated the story she had concocted for general consumption. Millie Humphries was as avid a gossip as Mrs. Drummond; between them, the plausible fabrication would have as wide a distribution as possible. The doctor himself, Olivia realised with a sinking heart, would have to be given if not the entire truth then a diluted version of it. As family physician and long-standing friend of the Templewoods, he could probably not be fobbed off with less for long. For the moment, however, the chain of falsehoods already forged would suffice to ensure a brief breathing space.
Dr. Humphries was astounded. "Great balls of fire, so Josh finally relented, did he? Well, I'll be damned!" He accepted the story without question. "I'm glad for your little cousin, my dear. India is no place for skittish young things out to have fun. So, that's the reason Bridget has taken to her bed, is it?" He nodded sagely. "She'll miss her, you know. No matter how hot their battles, that girl is the apple of her mother's eye. Well, I hope Josh knows what he's doing. Young Sturges is away on furlough, isn't he? I suppose that has something to do with it. By the way, is Josh in? I didn't see his carriage outside his office this morning when I passed."
"Yes, he is in but he's . . . asleep. In his study." Olivia gave the doctor a look that he interpreted as she had meant him to.
"Again?" He tsk-tsked and frowned. "You tell Josh from me that if he doesn't let up he's going to be in very deep waters pretty soon, although," he paused and picked up his bag, "in a way I don't blame him. He's been under great strain just lately. Mind you, it's nobody's doing but his own, the stubborn fool. He's got that blasted coal on his brain, to say nothing of his obsession with that half-breed scoundrel. Tell him from me it's got to stop, will you?"
Olivia smiled. "Don't worry, Dr. Humphries, I think he knows that already."
It astonished her vaguely that she could still smile, talk normally, plan, devise and improvise. And yet feel nothing.
The answer to her second note that morning arrived soon after the luncheon hour, not that there were any appetites to be satisfied. The tray that had been sent in to Sir Joshua had been removed, untouched, by Rehman an hour later. Olivia fed the heavily drugged Lady Bridget a few spoonfuls of soup but it was a wasted exercise and she soon abandoned it. She herself felt sick at the thought of food and contented herself with yet another cup of strong black coffee. Charlotte Smithers's reply to her note brought further relief. No, she had not borrowed Estelle's box of water-colours, Charlotte wrote. Estelle had obviously made a mistake if she thought she had. And while they were on the subject of borrowings, could Estelle please be reminded to return her silver sandals since she needed them for the panto rehearsals. No, Olivia concluded, Charlotte knew nothing either.
Another hurdle cleared. And another brick placed in position in the edifice of illusion behind which the Templewoods could shelter themselves briefly in peace. Peace? She almost laughed at her strange choice of words; would there ever be peace again in this house for any of them?
"Oh, Christ. . .!"
Before Olivia's eyes, Arthur Ransome shrivelled. His colour turned puce and, unable to breathe momentarily, he opened and shut his mouth like a fish out of water. Bubbles of cold sweat speckled his forehead and his expression was horrified. It was only after he had gulped down two pills from a bottle in his pocket that he seemed able to speak again.
"Why didn't you summon me earlier?" With a shaking hand he returned Estelle's letter to her. "I had no idea, no idea at all . . ."
They were in the garden sitting on an iron bench by the embankment wall, away from the house. "I didn't want to alarm you any more than you would be later anyway. I know you had urgent business to attend to, with Uncle Josh incapacitated."
He groaned and covered his face with his hands. "Poor Josh, poor Bridget ... oh God! How will they ever be able to survive this?"
Olivia's expression remained stony. "Before you see them I think you must know everything I have been doing. That is why I brought you out here so that we could talk in private away from the servants."
With clinical precision, Olivia proceeded to give him a blow-by-blow account of her activities that morning. She presented her account with neither ornamentation nor any comment of her own. Ransome heard her through without interruption, looking increasingly ill as the sordid saga of lies and deception continued and he realised all the ramifications of what had transpired. "We will have to discover which ship sailed for Europe yesterday," she concluded. Yesterday? Was it only twenty-four hours since the world had come to an end? How extraordinary! "I hope there is one or we will have to concoct fresh explanations."
In spite of his daze Ransome nodded, having taken her point with alacrity. "Yes. I will see to that. One of our consignments was billed aboard a Danish schooner. It was due to sail yesterday. But is it certain that Estelle wasn't seen by anyone before she sailed?"
"I'm sure she wasn't," Olivia said calmly. "I think Raventhorne must have covered all her tracks well." With what admirable sang-froid she had said his name!
The full horror of their situation finally began to dawn on Ransome. "That Jai, even Jai, could have perpetrated such an evil, such an obscenity . . .!" His features contorted with repugnance.
"He could because he was driven into a corner. Both you and Uncle Josh know it better than anyone else." Olivia was astonished at what she had said—she could still find words in his defence? For a moment she seriously doubted her sanity.
Ransome's shoulders sagged. "Yes. He was driven. He has always been driven. Retaliation, heaven knows, is justified, but not like this, not like this!"
"There are no rules in wars of attrition, Mr. Ransome," she said with disdain. "If you do not bar holds, then why should you expect your adversaries to?"
"I don't know," he muttered unhappily. "Perhaps I didn't expect them to. God knows there is enough blood on everyone's hands already."
"Yet some of the guilty will remain unpunished!"
"No," he said forcefully shaking his head. "No! Can you envisage
a punishment worse than this for us?"
"Perhaps not," Olivia said evenly. "Nor for the innocent."
He looked even more wretched. "The innocent! Yes, it is foolish, innocent Estelle and her mother who will suffer the most."
She let it pass, too spent and weary for verbal fencing. It was too early for anger. Or, maybe, too late.
"I must go to Josh and Bridget." With painful slowness Ransome rose to his feet. He looked dreadfully ill. "I have no words for their comfort, only meaningless platitudes, but I must make the motions." He paused to take her hand and press it. "It is you who are a pillar of strength to us all, my dear child. May the good Lord bless you for bearing with such sanity a cross not of your own making."
Olivia smiled.
Evening came and went. Arthur Ransome remained closeted in the study with his friend, solacing perhaps only by his presence. Olivia did not join them. Instead, she sat patiently by Lady Bridget's bed, knowing that her aunt's time for awareness was fast approaching. Her consciousness could no longer be kept deadened with sleeping draughts. Reality, however harsh, could not be held at bay for very much longer. Estelle had gone, possibly forever. Her mother and father had to learn to live with that. However deep the submerged grief, it had to be brought to the surface, allowed full play and then controlled so that the healing process could start. The "healing" process! Olivia considered that with amusement; after an amputation, was anyone really whole ever again?
Lady Bridget moaned, softly at first then with gathering strength. Now and then she thrashed her head from side to side, fingers clawing at the air, lips forming and unforming jumbles of sound as her drugged brain groped for reason. Disfigured and puffy, her face looked like that of a stranger. Her condition was pitiable, her immediate future would be even more so, but Olivia watched with impassivity, wanting only for the crisis to come and then go.
And when it did come, she was ready for it. As if with the release of an invisible spring, Lady Bridget suddenly shot into a sitting position and screamed. Gripping her shoulders on either side, Olivia pushed her down again and held her there. "Hush, dear, hush. I'm right here beside you."
With enormous force Lady Bridget flung off the repressive hands and screamed again. "My baby, oh my little baby . . .!" Sobbing hysterically, she sat up again and, rocking herself back and forth, relapsed into incoherent animal-like whimpers, her face between her hands.
Forcing steel into her heart, Olivia retreated to sit down again. It had to come; however cruel, it had to. Nothing could be more brutal than to deny her this, her legitimate grief. Lady Bridget screamed again and there was something maniacal in the sound. Olivia felt her skin erupt in goose pimples and her hair stood on end, but she didn't move from her seat. The door opened suddenly and, wild faced, Ransome and Sir Joshua stood framed in the doorway with a whole tribe of servants behind them.
"Bring her back to me, Josh, bring my baby back . . . have pity, oh have pity . . .!" Lady Bridget held out her arms beseechingly towards her husband, tears pouring out of her demented eyes.
Sir Joshua stood still for a moment, then went and sat down on the bed and took her hands in his. "Bridget..." He could say nothing more.
Behind him Ransome shut the bedroom door, then limped to the window and stood silently in front of it. Lady Bridget's pleadings turned into incoherent gibberish as she threw herself back on her pillow and started to pummel it savagely. It was not a pretty sight; Sir Joshua merely sat and stared at her in stupefied silence as if he could not fully understand what was happening. Ransome, unable to bear her agony, made a move towards the bed but Olivia stopped him. "Leave her be, Mr. Ransome. Let her expend whatever must be expended. It is the only way she will accept it later."
Ransome's hands dropped. Features twisted in shared pain, eyes glistening and dim, he nodded and then returned to the window. On the bed Lady Bridget's intolerable convulsions continued, her sobs huge and turning hoarse. Olivia felt her own eyelids smart with the tears she knew she must not shed yet. The effort to hold them back burned her throat, and sharp finger-nails cut deep cracks in the palms of her clenched fists, but her iron control remained intact. Like a man in a dream, Sir Joshua blinked in bafflement, as if uncertain who the woman he faced was. He again groped for her hand. "Bridget . . .?"
She recoiled as if stung. Hysterical and crazed, she cowered back into the bed-clothes and, without warning, started to scream. "Don't you come near me, do you hear? Don't ever come near me again, Josh! It's you, you, I hold accountable; it's you who has invited this . . . this putrescence on my baby, you and your—"
"Be quiet!" In his lightning return to sanity he straightened and towered above her, vicious and ugly in his own unleashed rage. "There will be no more accusations hurled, Bridget, not one word more!"
Next to Olivia, Ransome went rigid, even his breath forgotten. In great, gusty heaves Lady Bridget fought for air, silenced by the whip-lash command but only for a fraction of a second. The venom in her eyes, which never left her husband's face, matched the venom in his. Between them, all at once, there was such abhorrence that Olivia was stunned. With slow, deliberate movements Lady Bridget sat up again. "No, Josh," she hissed, lips pulled back in a snarl, "I will not be quiet! Not now, not anymore." Each word she spoke was spiked with poison, her eyes wild with hate. "You think I can ever forget what I saw in you that day? That look that bore the seed of this evil, this . . . malignancy? I know why your hand stayed! I saw everything that day, Josh, everything." The pupils of her eyes dilated and sparkled. "You cheated me out of my life, Josh. Can I ever forgive—"
The sound of the flat of his palm against her cheek was as sharp as a rifle shot. Balanced on the edge of her bed, Lady Bridget fell back with a gasp and the unspoken words rattled and then died in her throat. For a split second no one moved or could move. Then, with a shocked oath, Ransome forgot his affliction and hurled himself at Sir Joshua. "For Christ's sake, man, have you gone clean out of your flaming mind?" He gripped both arms and tried to pinion them to Sir Joshua's sides.
With effortless ease Sir Joshua shook off Ransome's hold. He advanced a step, hand still stretched out, as if to repeat the blow. Insane wrath was creased into every line of his face as he stood and stared at his cringing wife nursing her cheek with a palm. Suddenly his shoulders slumped; his trembling torso stilled and his face crumpled. Visibly he receded into himself, his colour fled and he lowered his eyes. "I'm . . . sorry. Forgive me . . ." Dazed again and once more swaying on his feet, he awkwardly shambled out of the room. Lady Bridget moaned, pressed her face into her pillow and quietly started to weep.
It had been a scene of harrowing rawness, its ugliness never to be forgotten. Olivia felt physically sick. What animals Jai Raventhorne had made of them all! And how flimsy were their veils of pretence!
Gratefully, Olivia accepted Arthur Ransome's offer to stay another night. In his level-headedness, his sense of perspective and proportion, she saw the sane balance that she herself needed so desperately to sustain. Also, his presence was vital for other selfish reasons; how long before her own pretences shredded in their flimsiness? His presence was a barricade between two parts of herself—one thinking and feeling, the other mechanical. Soon, the dividing line between them would start to dissolve; she would begin to feel again, and the prospect filled her with dread. Therefore, like a child dragging its feet on its way to school, she welcomed even a brief span of remission.
After a meagre meal of soup and Welsh rarebit, they sat in the formal drawing-room by a blazing log fire while Rehman, an expert masseur, pressed comfort into Ransome's gout-ridden legs. Lady Bridget had refused even a mouthful and, once more mildly sedated, lay alone in her room flitting in and out of her solitary nightmares. Sir Joshua remained in his study, drinking. But tonight not even his staunchest friend and supporter had the heart to protest. "Let him drown in it as best he can," Ransome said with sad resignation. "He will never need it as much as he does now, poor devil."
For a while they talked
only of trivialities as a means of keeping away the yawning silences during which insidious little thoughts pounced. It was after Olivia had sent Rehman off to prepare the bed in the downstairs guest-room that the subject could no longer be ignored. "He is using that misguided child as a means of reprisal," Ransome said in a voice still quivering with shock. "It is an abomination he has perpetrated, Olivia, an abomination!"
"Estelle is no longer a child. She knew what she was doing."
She said it but despised herself for it. Her cousin's pinched, achingly unhappy face swam before her eyes; Estelle had desperately wanted to talk to her. It was she who had turned her away. Estelle had pleaded silently for her help; it was she who had been unwilling to provide it when most needed. Would their fates have been any different had she listened to Estelle? Now she would never know and it was the not knowing that would be the most difficult to live with. If she had persisted with her uncle and persuaded him to let her do that wretched panto, would Estelle have taken a step of such extreme rebellion? If, if, if! Angrily, Olivia snapped the serpentine line of her unwanted conjectures— what did if's and but's matter now when he was gone, gone, gone!
She got up. "I think I will go to bed now, Uncle Arthur. Perhaps you should too. It has been a . . . strange day."
Drawn together by a shared affliction, they had unconsciously slipped into a less formal mode of mutual address. The "Uncle Arthur" brought a flush of pleasure to his cheeks. "Yes, that it has, that it has. The day has revived too many memories for me, opened too many wounds for me to entertain thoughts of sleep. But by all means go to bed, my dear. I'll sit here for a while."
