Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  She doubled over with pain.

  All night long the storm raged. Honed knives scythed her flesh, slashing and shredding till it parted in ribbons. Memories, acid edged, cut into her mind, spreading their poison so impartially that nothing was left uncontaminated. The agony became fierce; to stop herself from giving it voice, Olivia stuffed bedclothes in her mouth but in the knowledge that the agony would cease only when her breath did. Her pain poured out spasm by spasm and yet more remained to be excavated. The more she expunged, the more her body generated. Like an open-ended cataract, her torment was eternal.

  She wanted to die.

  But death is no easy benefactor to be invoked lightly. In her body, her energies remained tireless, marvellously resourceful in their infinite variety. She was not to be allowed facile escape from the whispered echoes of love, the melancholy beckoning of ashen eyes deceptively tipped with tears, the scoring sensations of caresses given by the man who had known her but whom she had not known at all. Bewilderment, bitterness, futile fury—like grinning ghouls they lingered and waned and then waxed again reminding her of her helplessness. And in the twisted conjurings of an imagination run wild, she saw hallucinations. Estelle delightedly exploring the quaint house that amused her so; Estelle clambering up the rope ladder to receive the hand of love from above; Estelle with her flaxen curls spread across the fat bolsters and pillows of the four-poster bed. And Estelle in that same embrace, incited into a passion that would carry her too into triumphal womanhood . . .

  Trust me.

  Forgive me.

  But yes, I do love you ...

  Lies, lies, lies, all lies! The extent and finality of her betrayal were so gross, so grotesque, that Olivia could not yet assimilate them. Victim! Enmeshed in an unending skein of tangles, she could not unravel any conclusions. Which one of them was the victim, she or Estelle? Or both? The longest night of her life brought neither answers nor relief. And when the dawn finally pinked the east, all it provided was the promise of another day in hell, and beyond it another and another.

  At last she laid her head on the window-sill and wept. Who for? She could not tell. All she knew from her tears was that her body lived even though nothing else within her ever would again.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Danish Settlement at Serampore was a pretty, whitewashed town, which, from the Templewoods' Barrackpore bungalow on the opposite bank of the Hooghly, appeared even more European than Calcutta. It was from here that the Baptist Mission published their quasi-religious periodical, The Friend of India, under the inspired guidance of the celebrated Dr. Marshman, a liberal and widely respected missionary. Barrackpore, which Olivia liked, was on the other hand a military establishment, which accounted for its equally neat and orderly appearance with its cool green forests, its lovely stretches of well-tended park land and its air of quiet efficiency. They had journeyed up the river in a convoy of boats laden with baggage and servants, between banks ablaze with red, white and purple balsam, bright blue convolvulus, white datura bells and myriad creepers that festooned thick fences of aloe. Coconut and date palms, thickets of bamboo, and fernlike grasses stood tall against the clear periwinkle skies washed with winter sunshine.

  The five weeks since Estelle's flight had dulled the cutting edges of pain but had brought little other comfort. They each still remained steeped in their separate silences nursing separate wounds with whatever pitifully inadequate therapies they could devise for themselves. The once-compelling merchant prince remained a vacant-eyed husk, his mind closed to reality, a seeming stranger to the body he inhabited without awareness; Lady Bridget had plunged herself into religion, her twitching hands forever clasped around a Bible from which her glazed eyes seemed not to read a word. Olivia courted fatigue as her only salvation, her own despair buried under pretences of frantic activity. Like one's travelling possessions, what is locked inside the heart must also be transported when seeking escape through a change of scenery.

  The single decision that sustained Olivia now was that as soon as she could, she would return to her father in Hawaii.

  "I wish Bridget and Josh would join us in our evening strolls," Arthur Ransome said one day when they had been in Barrackpore a week. "An occasional outing might help divert their grief."

  They were walking around the parade ground watching the energetic manoeuvres of a group of soldiers. To one side of the ground stood high-roofed stalls in which some sturdy elephants were being fed on leaves and branches while the sepoys went through their daily drill with meticulous precision. "People tend to be jealously possessive of their grief," Olivia replied. Estelle's little spaniel, as abandoned as they, whined and tugged at the leash she held, so she bent down and released it. "And like everything else, grief has to be lived through before time heals it, whether one wants to be healed or not. Sooner or later, they will come to terms with their loss." How brittle she sounded, how pedantic! Would she ever come to terms with her loss?

  "I daresay they will," Ransome agreed. "But what pains me most is their seeming loss of each other."

  What he said was true. Tragedies usually served to draw families together. Estelle's desertion, however, appeared to be forcing the Templewoods apart with a vengeance. Between them now hovered constantly simmering resentments, unspoken accusations, a waste land of dead considerations and an aversion to each other's company. They rarely spoke, each confined to spaces that were mutually exclusive. It was tragic, yes, but for Olivia it was also worrisome for other reasons. In their growing distance from each other, it was to her that they both now turned for emotional strength. How could she leave them now when they both needed her so desperately?

  It was the last week of December. Christmas Day came and went, barely noticed. A luncheon invitation from the Baptist Mission was declined, as was one from the army commandant. It was left to Babulal to commemorate the occasion with a roasted guinea fowl and some hot mince pies baked with marvellous ingenuity in a makeshift oven. There were no gifts exchanged, no carols sung, no tree adorned, no indications at all of the burra din, big day, being celebrated elsewhere by enthusiastic Christian groups. Despite Lady Bridget's newly generated religious fervour, she recoiled at the idea of attending a local service where others would be present. Nobody even thought to make the suggestion to Sir Joshua.

  If the prospect of merry-making on Christmas Day was preposterous, New Year's Day was not remembered at all until the following morning. A messenger arrived from Calcutta bearing greetings from Freddie Birkhurst and his mother, reminding them that sometime during their nightmares 1848 had quietly slipped away and a new year arrived. In a separate letter to Olivia, Freddie mourned her absence from station and begged to be allowed to call on her the very instant she returned to town.

  Freddie! In the past weeks, Olivia had barely thought of him! But now, of course, she would have to. He would have to be given his answer soon. There was no ambiguity about Olivia's answer, but the prospect of comforting him with pointless platitudes, of listening to his stricken bleatings and perhaps prolonged persuasions, was unbearable. She had intended to request Arthur Ransome to book a passage for her as soon as they returned to Calcutta. Faced with Freddie's ardent letter, she decided to broach the subject to Ransome immediately. To soften her request, she compiled a litany of excuses—her father's asthma was flaring up again, he had written for urgent help with a new book, he had bought land in Hawaii and to toil on it alone would be an intolerable strain . . . Feeding this kind, sincere friend with yet another tissue of lies made Olivia feel soiled and ashamed. But despair had dulled the edges of her conscience, and a fresh storm, more relentless than any other she had known, was about to break over her head. Already the swiftly advancing gusts of panic threatened to blow her away.

  "Of course, my dear." Struggling manfully to conceal his disappointment, Ransome accepted her prevarications without question. "It is unforgivably selfish of us to want to keep you here for our own ends when you are so vitally needed elsewhere. Certainly I will
do the necessary as soon as we are back in station. You can depend on me." Visibly saddened, he said no more about the matter but turned quickly to another. He started to talk to her about his visit to Kirtinagar.

  Olivia had forgotten that he intended to seek an audience with Arvind Singh. In fact, the matter of the ill-fated coal and all the misery it had caused had become anathema to her. If she listened now with concentration it was only because Kinjal had lately been in her thoughts a great deal, even more than usual. Arvind Singh, Ransome informed her, had received him after all but with an anger that was as obvious as it was, in Ransome's opinion, justified. But at the same time the Maharaja had made it clear that he had no desire to create a continuing scandal. Since the insurance company was being obstreperous and trying to find flaws in their claim, it was up to Templewood and Ransome to make immediate compensation for the repairs of the mine as well as for the bereft family of the unfortunate watchman. Naturally, Ransome said, he had agreed. "There can be no further denial of justice even though our damages will be crippling. We might as well shut up shop," he concluded dismally. "In any case, I have lost the taste for commerce and Josh has lost his mind. By the time everything is paid off, there will be little liquidity left. And I am too old and disheartened to start all over again. After the Sea Siren went, I knew we could not rally."

  Even in her apathy, Olivia was vaguely surprised. "But surely your funds cannot be that low—what about reserves?"

  "Reserves are what we are living on now. Few are willing to trade with us for fear of being blacklisted by Trident. Nobody wants to endanger his investments by risking Raventhorne's wrath when he returns." He smiled. "My dear, if the East can make men monarchs overnight, it can also turn them bankrupt just as fast."

  When he returns...!

  Olivia heard the phrase but it was too grotesque, too unreal, to leave any mark on the surface of her consciousness. Instead she was overcome with renewed anger at the sheer waste of it all. So much heart-break, so much destruction, so many lives laid in ruins. In fulfilling his own misbegotten destiny, Jai Raventhorne had ensured that no strand of their existences should be left unbroken.

  It is not your war, Olivia. Don't get caught in the cross-fire.

  That night Olivia cried again. She cried quietly, seeing for the first time how neatly and methodically she had devised her own perdition. She had heard warning bells; she had not listened. She had seen signs and omens and portents; she had not recognised them. She had instead hurtled headlong towards a disaster she had not tried to divert but he had. No, neither Jai nor Estelle was her true betrayer. She had betrayed herself. And in doing so she had denied herself even the solace of having someone else to blame. Time—she needed time, or did she? Ironically, what was rumoured to be a healer for everyone else was for her a fraudulent quack, for it would bring her no curative balms, this Olivia now knew with growing certainty. Just as Jai Raventhorne had, time too was preparing to abandon her totally.

  Since she had learned the shameless truth, Olivia had avoided her uncle. The compassion she felt for him was minimal and she found it difficult to camouflage her contempt. But whatever her personal feelings, courtesy demanded that she make known to him her decision to leave his home and hospitality. Lady Bridget, she decided, could be informed later, when her frame of mind improved sufficiently to allow her to receive the news with coherence.

  Olivia's chance to talk to Sir Joshua came one afternoon when he surprised them all by announcing his decision to go fishing. Since Arthur Ransome's legs were again painful, it was Olivia who offered to accompany her uncle to the fishing grounds on an upper reach of the Hooghly where bhetki and rahu fish abounded. The path led through a forest of sal, and the region was known for its prolific spotted deer and bison. With his rifle tucked under an arm and his deerstalker snug over his head and ears, Sir Joshua silently navigated the long march ahead of Olivia. Behind them, with the equipment, came Rehman and two other servants. As she walked, enjoying the quiet and the scenery, Olivia formulated in her mind the conversation to come. She would, of course, be blunt; there was no point in shilly-shallying. And no matter what her uncle said, she would not be dissuaded from her decision to leave.

  Oddly enough, it was Sir Joshua who provided her with an opening. As he started to assemble his fishing-rod on a low promontory that was their destination, he spoke without looking at her. "I am glad that you decided to accompany me, m'dear. I have been meaning to express my gratitude for everything you have done for us. I have not been unaware of your selfless efforts in that direction."

  His speech was slightly slurred and his voice sounded strained, but apart from that he appeared unusually normal. "The misfortune that has befallen us belongs to us all," Olivia responded stiffly. "I deserve no special gratitude."

  He shook his head. "Arthur tells me that it is entirely due to your resourcefulness that we have been spared a scandal. Bridget," he paused to swallow, "would not have been able to survive that."

  "Would you have?" she asked with an edge of sarcasm.

  Carefully, he slid the bait up the hook. "In India one learns to improvise one's own means of survival." He stood up, circled the line about his head and cast expertly in midstream. "I have. Bridget has not."

  Puzzled, Olivia was on the point of asking a question but then she stopped. Whatever the import of his mysterious pronouncement, it was now outside her interest. Firmly, she returned to the purpose of her excursion with him but worked her way up to it with tact. "You say you are grateful for what you consider I have done for you. In that case, would you see your way to some repayment?"

  He looked surprised but nodded. "If it is within my power, you shall have it."

  "It is well within your power. I would consider your gratitude genuine if you would make your peace with Aunt Bridget. That would be more than adequate repayment for me."

  Sir Joshua went still. For a while he sat motionless, then his chin slumped to his chest and he shook his head. "What you ask is not within my power," he muttered. "Had you asked for the moon I would have given it more easily."

  Olivia regarded him with anger—was there no end to his obduracy? "I don't pretend to understand the complexities that are between you, Uncle Josh, nor would I consider it my position to ask. But surely the time for false pride and petty grievances has passed? It would please Aunt Bridget if you—"

  "You are mistaken, Olivia," he cut in harshly. "Nothing will please her anymore. I must now do what I have to do."

  That pronouncement Olivia did not even try to understand. Each one of them had to lead his or her own life; it was not for her to rush in where she was not required. Frustrated, she dropped the subject. "I wanted to tell you, Uncle Josh," she said instead in a flat monotone, "that I would now like to return to my father. He has written that he has need of me in Honolulu."

  Briefly, his hands trembled around the handle of the rod, but he said nothing. A little ashamed at the brusqueness with which she had made her announcement, Olivia plunged hastily into the fabrications she had already given to Arthur Ransome. He listened in silence, his staring eyes glued to the spot where his still-slack line pierced the water. "Would it be easy," Olivia concluded with some gentleness, "to book passage on a boat sailing to the Pacific?"

  He looked vague again. "The Pacific? I should imagine so. Arthur would be able to answer that better." He frowned, then said suddenly, "She has not said so but Bridget wants to return to England. I can sense it. Could I impose on you one more time to ask you to wait and accompany her to England? I would arrange for you to proceed home from there, although the route would be circuitous." His expression was anxious, the half smile apologetic. Olivia's colour drained, and inadvertently her expression became one of horror. To wait? Why, that was impossible! Observing her reaction, Sir Joshua's shoulders drooped. "Yes, I know it is an imposition," he muttered. "You have already given us so much of yourself. I should not have asked."

  Inwardly, Olivia dissolved with sudden shame. They did stil
l need her—how could she turn her back on them now like the daughter they once had? But she had to, she must! How ironic that had her uncle also asked for the moon she could have given that more easily! Panic trickled through her veins in icy little dribbles. Which way was she to turn? The storm she had sensed brewing was now a reality—a grim, living reality.

  In her womb she was carrying Jai Raventhorne's child.

  The mail packets that awaited Olivia from Hawaii on their return to Calcutta were gratifyingly bulky. Apart from letters, they also contained generous gifts for everyone to mark the Christmas season. Impatient for news of home, Olivia quickly disbursed the presents, then withdrew to her room to read the letters. Astonishingly, together with her father's, there were also letters from Sally and her boys. They too were in Hawaii . . .?

  Skimming over the main body of her father's letter, Olivia reached the concluding page knowing instinctively that this was where the crux of his news would be. I know it will not surprise you, he wrote finally in his firm, unhurried handwriting so reminiscent of the man himself,

  that Sally and I have finally decided to marry. I am sure you have long suspected that one day we might, and our mutual decision has been made in the secure knowledge that you will approve and be happy for us. The boys, bless their cotton socks, are delighted. I have been as much a father to them since Scot died as Sally has been a mother to you. You must know, my darling daughter, that your mother's place in my heart is secure and always will be so. Nobody can ever take that away from me. But you know, my sweet, there comes a time in a man's life when the sight of a cold stove, a darkened house and one pillow on the bed starts to hurt like a knife wound. The heart yearns for joys shared, for . . .