by Olivia
Olivia's eyes stung with fatigue but the prospect of closing them and letting loose the menagerie of her own fearsome memories was suddenly terrifying. She sat down again. With no awareness of having solicited any inquiry at all, she asked, "What did Aunt Bridget mean by saying, 'I know why your hand stayed'? Stayed against whom?"
Ransome closed his eyes. "It is old history, Olivia, let it lie."
She felt a stab of anger. "If it is old history, then why is it not dead? Why is it allowed to desecrate lives even today?"
He pondered that for a while, then nodded. "Perhaps you are right. Too much has lain hibernating for too long." He placed another log on the fire and waited for it to catch. "There was a time when Josh could have whipped Jai to death, but he stayed his hand. You see, Olivia, Jai was only eight years old then."
Olivia sat very still. "You . . . knew him as a child?"
"Yes. I knew him as a child." There was an odd flatness in the way he said it. "We were all there that day—Josh, his mother, Bridget, myself. Something happened. Josh took out his hunting crop and gave the child a lash, just one. Then his rage lifted and he stopped. He realised what he was doing." Ransome shook his head sadly. "Now I too find myself wishing he had not stayed his hand . . ."
That scar. Against her cold, stiff lips Olivia once more felt the toughened ridges along which she had laid a hundred kisses, wanting to erase them with her love. The slicing pain of the moment returned, but only for an instant; biting her lip until she felt the salt of her blood, she extinguished the emotion. Raventhorne's warts and weals and scars were no longer any part of her life. That hibernating history, whatever it might have been, must not be revived. But then she heard a voice say, "Tell me how it happened." Was the voice hers? She couldn't tell.
"We would have all perhaps been better off with Jai dead," Ransome said heavily, "but. . ." He fell silent and looked away.
"But?" Wildly she thought, why am I encouraging this, why?
"But... he was wronged. However soulless, however cursed, however misbegotten, Jai Raventhorne was wronged." He laughed mirthlessly. "But then, Jai Raventhorne has always been wronged. He is one of those creatures of warped destiny who will always be wronged." He stared deeply into the blazing fire. "You see, Olivia, Jai was born in my house."
Whatever it was she had expected to hear, however little she wanted to hear it, it was not that. For a moment she could only stare at Ransome in incredulity. Despite the heat of the fire, her extremities felt cold.
"He was born in the servants' quarters at the back. His mother was a young tribal girl from the hills. One day my bearer found her near my gate on the verge of collapse. She was destitute and hungry and in an advanced state of," he coughed, "impending motherhood. With my permission the servants gave her shelter, and the child, an obvious half-caste, was born that very night. I remember it was raining. It was the monsoon season, you see." With fumbling fingers he pulled out a cheroot from his pocket and lit it. "Later, when she recovered, I let her stay on with her child. I don't know why I did that. Perhaps it was to salve my own conscience at what had been perpetrated upon her by one of my own kind. In any case, she worked for her keep in the gardens. She was good with her hands, I remember, good with plants and growing things, with whittling wood, toys and ships' mascots and things. I recall we bought a mascot from her once." Realising he was digressing, he stopped and coughed again. "The servants told me she never revealed her name. They used to call her malan, gardener's wife."
Unaware, Olivia's hand crept up to touch the chain around her neck. Jai Raventhorne had uttered his first cry, drawn his first breath, opened those grey eyes to first light—in a servants' quarter? Like the one in which she had seen that emaciated old woman coughing her life away? Had she died after all? She should have returned to help, but she never had. She had forgotten all about her. Was that how Jai's nameless mother had also died?
Steeped in his own bygone world, Ransome noticed neither Olivia's silence nor the whiteness of her face. "I didn't like him, you know. Even as a child there was something . . . menacing about him. He seemed to have some inner, arcane device to look inside one's mind, and it was most disquieting. Indeed, Jai never really was a child. From the day he was born he was like a. . . man. It was weird, eerie." He shivered a little as if someone had just walked over his grave. "He never spoke to me, never smiled. He only stared—accusing, resentful, simmering always with some hidden anger. I hated that stare, hated it. It made me uneasy. Finally I forbade his mother to let him near the main house when I was at home."
Olivia roused herself to ask, "And the whipping . . .?"
"Oh yes, the whipping." Ransome had been speaking rapidly, compulsively, as if relieved to be jettisoning an obstruction in his gullet, but now he quietened down and spoke slowly. "Josh, Lady Templewood and Bridget had come to dinner. There were just the four of us. After the meal Bridget happened to go into the pantry to fetch something or call someone, I forget which, and came face to face with the boy. He was in the act of stealing a plate of food. Bridget was startled. When she rebuked him, he called her a vile name. Bridget slapped him and, like an animal, he went berserk. He leapt at her and dug his teeth into her hand, drawing blood. Bridget screamed. We all ran into the pantry and as Josh did so he grabbed his hunting crop. He saw the blood on his wife's hand and went blind with rage. He lashed at the boy and at the boy's mother, who had run to shield him. He cut them both badly. There was blood everywhere." Ransome was again agitated, his staring eyes witnessing the entire scene in his mind.
"Of course, the boy fought back like a rabid dog—teeth bared, throat growling, nails scratching. Hearing the commotion the other servants came running, trying to take the boy away. His mother pleaded with her son to stop, sobbing and protecting him from a second blow. Josh had raised his crop again but then, suddenly, his hand remained where it was above his head and his enraged vision seemed to clear. Poised to strike again, he hesitated, uncertain. Bridget stood in a corner crying quietly. Josh's mother, Lady Stella Templewood, leaned against the dresser observing the scene in silence. As Josh stilled his crop, she raised an eyebrow and commanded imperiously, 'Kill him, Josh. A gentleman hunter does not leave wounded prey.' She spoke as she always did, precisely, dispassionately, and with the same decisiveness with which she had fashioned her son's career and moulded his remorseless ambition into a scourge. I'll never forget that moment, Olivia, never. Or her expression. She was the most cold-blooded, self-seeking, determined and dominating woman I have ever known." He inhaled deeply and wiped his damp face with his handkerchief. "It was a moment of madness. I had to stop it. She controlled Josh totally, you know. In his daze he might have obeyed instinctively, as he always did, but I sprang up to restrain him. Was I right to do so?" He grimaced. "Today, I wonder."
He rose to stretch his legs and poured himself a drink from the decanter Rehman had thoughtfully left on a table. He cocked an inquiring eyebrow in Olivia's direction but she shook her head.
"That night mother and son both disappeared." Ransome sat down again and continued. "I had sent for a doctor. Regardless of anything else, the boy and his mother were badly cut; the wounds had to be treated. But they left before the doctor could arrive. The servants formed search-parties and braved the storm, but they could find no trace of them. Later," he shrugged, "nobody bothered very much. I must confess that I was not unrelieved. The boy was trouble right from the start; he stole, told lies, was insolent and ill behaved. I was glad to be finally rid of him. Besides, these people are tough. They are used to living violently. They run the streets in packs, biting and scratching their way through life, licking each other's wounds when the need arises. I had no doubt they would survive." He raised a weak little smile and gulped down the rest of his drink. "It seemed of no great importance at the time one way or another."
Olivia got up to douse the fire, now only smouldering embers. Carefully she put the fire-guard in place, returned the poker to its container and swept up the ashes that had
spilled out onto the carpet. Ransome watched her in silence, taking in the unhurried way in which she moved, the competence with which she brought order to the hearth. "Josh and Bridget are fortunate to have you with them in their darkest hour of need, my dear," he remarked, feelingly. "In all this miasma it is only you who remains calm and eminently resourceful."
Olivia laughed. It was the first time she had done so in a seeming eternity. The sound, even though soft, grated on her ears and appeared hideously out of place. She suppressed her laugh to contain her misplaced amusement in a smile. "But then that's understandable, isn't it?" she remarked lightly. "After all, it seems it is only I who have no axes to grind with Mr. Raventhorne, isn't that right?"
"No, it is not!" he protested. "You have had your holiday ruined through no fault of your own. Jai has not been fair to you either."
"Perhaps you are right, Uncle Arthur," Olivia agreed with a shrug. "In which case he has been most fair—he has left equal portions of misery for us all."
Finally, she was alone again in her room. Sheer exhaustion made her feel light-headed. She welcomed her crushing fatigue because it promised a sleep that would be dreamless. Sharp little thoughts, evoked by Arthur Ransome's reminiscences, were starting to scratch again for entry into her mind, but she did not let them in. Not yet, she whispered fiercely into her pillow, not yet! There was still work to be done, little chinks to be cemented with more fabrications, holes to be plugged, the world to be faced.
And, intent on further self-flagellation, she had to talk to Arthur Ransome again. But that night her sleep was not dreamless.
Even husks of human beings, after all the substance has been removed from within, make demands. They have to be washed and clothed and fed regardless of circumstances. The pursuit of survival is as shameless as it is persistent. Time moves, the earth spins, the sun rises and sets; the home might be a ruin but the household still has to run. And for this small blessing, Olivia was grateful. With Lady Bridget confined to her room and still compressed within her solitary self, unspeaking and uncaring, the duties of maintaining a semblance of domestic normalcy naturally fell on Olivia's shoulders. Like a sinking man chancing upon a piece of drift-wood, she grabbed the opportunity with both hands.
News of Estelle's hasty departure for England and of Lady Bridget's sudden "illness" spread rapidly. Inevitably, a steady stream of daily visitors followed. Early each morning Ransome arrived to whisk Sir Joshua off to his own home, where he would be away from prying eyes, for his condition was still pathetic. Since his presence at home during the day was not expected anyway, no questions were asked about his absence. Lady Bridget, on the other hand, was simply not allowed visitors yet, everyone was told. What alibis Arthur Ransome presented at the office Olivia didn't know, but they seemed to be adequate for the moment. For the moment. Those three words set the tone of the household now, and what was most important for the moment was to avoid a scandal that would surely take Lady Bridget to an early grave even if she survived her daughter's monstrous elopement. The daily visitors with their probing questions, their sly little observations, their expressions of deceptive innocence— all these Olivia managed, if not with ease then certainly without overt unease. Dr. Humphries, however, came under a different category altogether. Arthur Ransome agreed with Olivia that they would have to take him into their partial confidence.
There is very little in life that can shock a family physician, especially one as experienced and canny as Dr. Humphries. After Olivia had completed her recital, he merely harrumphed and remained silent for a while. A bristly red eyebrow rose minimally and he scratched his large sponge of a nose with the tip of a finger-nail. "So that's what it's all been about, is it? Well, I've had my suspicions, I can tell you that. I can't see Bridget in such a state only because of the death of some old biddy of a friend or Estelle's departure on a normal holiday." He frowned thoughtfully. "And you have no idea who the man might be?"
"No, none. Estelle doesn't seem to have confided in anyone, certainly not me. She knew I would have tried to stop her. They obviously planned the elopement with great secrecy to ensure its success."
Not for a moment did the doctor doubt Olivia's sincerity. He merely tsk-tsked in detached disapproval. "Silly, straw-headed lass! She'll regret it, of course. They all do. But often, the leisure to repent comes too late to prevent a bun in the oven—if you'll excuse my frankness—and nine out of ten times without benefit of clergy." He shook his head and pulled in a breath. "How has Josh taken it? I can see what it's done to her poor mother."
"Very badly. He's been drinking steadily. One more thing, Dr. Humphries ..." She coloured slightly. "As you can see now, there is a desperate need for total discretion on our part. For Aunt Bridget, especially, a scandal must be avoided at all costs. Even the whisper of a rumour at the moment could be added disaster for her."
He smiled a little, catching the point immediately. "My dear, doctors these days might not know much about the practice of medicine," he said drily, "but not one that I know is idiot enough to share such a confidence with his wife. Of course, how long you can keep this kind of thing under covers I'm not sure. In India, if you happen to sneeze in Peshawar, everyone hears it right down to Cape Comorin. But don't worry," his eyes twinkled, "if Millie ever learns about this, it won't be from me."
He refused bluntly to propagate the canard that Lady Bridget had been struck down by some rare, mysterious tropical fever that might be contagious, but agreed to help as far as not denying the rumour if someone else started it. He promised, however, that he would confirm that he had forbidden her visitors for the present. Well, so much for Lady Bridget's enforced withdrawal from the world, Olivia thought, envying her bitterly; Sir Joshua's, on the other hand, was easier to explain. His recent business troubles had taken a heavy toll on his health, and now added to that was his wife's serious condition. That he was also pining secretly for the beloved daughter who had never before left his side was also natural. If he was drinking heavily, well, it was small wonder. In his shoes, any man would.
Her own situation Olivia had no time to consider, or made sure she had no time to consider. As she went through her onerous daily chores—making as much work for herself as she could—she charmed visitors, parried questions and devised new lies and excuses. Always smiling till her jaws felt numb, she observed herself in wonder. She should be sick of being a pillar of strength, of being noble and virtuous and selfless and resourceful, as everyone never tired of telling her. After all, she too had been bereaved; she too had been abandoned, deceived and discarded. Behind her patently cultivated façades too lay a living hell that should be charring her to ashes. She should be sick of pretending to be invisible.
She should be crying. Oh dear God, how very much she needed that!
But no tears came. Within her she was a desert, vast and empty and parched, devoid of any but the most elementary signs of life. Inside she seemed to have almost withered and died. What she should be feeling was grief, anger, bitterness and hate, but all she felt was fatigue. One small blessing kept her away from rank insanity: the steady flow of mail packets from her father, from Sally and her boys, from Greg—from all those who held meaning in a life that was remote but not wholly forgotten. The letters became the pivot of her days, securing her tenuous hold on reality, reassuring her that apart from this world there was another to which she would return one day when all this was over.
Over? No, that was the wrong word; it would never be over. The escape vital to her salvation was not from this world of her doom but from herself, and that would never be. In the meantime, in one of his letters her father wrote, "By the way, you mention that you have not met any young man so far who has impressed you. It is possible that this is no longer so, and I await your response anxiously."
The bitter irony of the inquiry should have made Olivia weep. It didn't. Instead, it left no impression whatsoever.
The laughable charade being played for the benefit of the society that Lady Bridget fe
ared so much could hardly continue indefinitely. But to flee suddenly into some distant oblivion was impossible, for it would merely set wagging those very tongues that Olivia was trying so frantically to still. But ten days after Estelle's elopement, when the travesty of their lives had stretched their nerves to the breaking point, Arthur Ransome decided that the need to escape was now acute.
"To hell with them all," he said in a rare burst of temper. "I will make arrangements to spend a few days in the Barrackpore house. We can leave early next week as soon as I have tied up some loose ends at the office."
Olivia guessed what those "loose ends" might be but she didn't ask any questions; she no longer cared one way or the other. "Yes. That would be fine. For what it might be worth, we do need to get away."
Physically, Lady Bridget had recovered but her mind still seemed to be a blank. She spoke little and cried not at all, at least not in anyone's presence. Refusing to leave her room, she sat brooding for hours, eating only what was absolutely essential for survival and responding to no stimuli that Olivia could produce by way of conversation. Clearly but gently, Olivia explained to her the cruel facts of their subterfuge and what had been told to Dr. Humphries. Lady Bridget listened with an appearance of intentness, but since she made no comment it was difficult to tell how much she had assimilated. She never mentioned Estelle, and showed no reaction when her name was spoken. Neither did she ever mention her husband. Outwardly she seemed serene but her eyes remained vacant, as if not in the same dimension as the rest of her body. Only her hands moved constantly, nagging at each other in her lap in some nervous frenzy of inner restlessness.
On Dr. Humphries's advice, Sir Joshua's articles of daily use had been removed from the master bedroom into the second downstairs guest-room. "Both he and Bridget need privacy from each other at the moment," Dr. Humphries had said. "In any case Bridget hates the smell of liquor and I don't want my patient asphyxiated with those damned fumes Josh carries around with him like a perambulating distillery."
