by Olivia
"Oh, you can leave the mater safely to me." In a burst of confidence, his chest expanded. "She'll damn well do as I ask."
Again Olivia dodged his arms. "Wait, I haven't finished yet! You must hear me out. I have a condition." Trying not to give in to the revulsion that lay just beneath the hard outer skin, she sounded brisk.
"A condition? Only one?" He laughed with abandon, one hand flat against his heart. "Well, lay it down, my darling—lay them all down. I accept with no questions. You think I give a damn when—"
"Freddie, please stop!" Cracks threatened the surface of her iron control. "My condition is not an ordinary one. You must listen to it very carefully and then give me your answer. It is possible that you might wish to retract your offer."
He paled. "Retract? Christ, I know I'm an idiot, Olivia, but I'm not certifiably insane! If you think—"
"It is for you to think, Freddie, profoundly and seriously," she cried, pushing him away as he leapt at her. "The reason I accept your offer is—"
"I don't give a bloody hoot for the reason!"
"... purely selfish. In fact, despicably so. First, I have to make it clear to you that I do not love you."
He looked relieved. "Oh. Is that all? Well, I already know that! I can hardly expect someone as perfect, as intelligent, as—"
"No, that is not all! Freddie, please listen—you have no idea how difficult it is for me to say what I'm trying to." Chastened, he finally took note of her chalk-faced anxiety and sobered. Olivia pulled in a long, hard breath. "I am carrying another man's child. I need to marry because I do not wish it to be born out of wedlock." She removed her eyes from his, dying a thousand invisible deaths.
This time Freddie remained still, very still. Even the rolling, protuberant eyes froze. Then he swallowed. "Another man's child? Ah, whose . . .?"
"That is not important. What you must understand fully is why I must now acquire a husband." Crushed by her inner shame, her voice dulled. "You have been kind enough to offer me your name. I want that name to be shared by my unfortunate unborn."
Stupefied, Freddie said nothing as he sat with eyes lowered, grappling with his inadequate comprehension.
"Having said all that," Olivia continued doggedly, "I want you to appreciate that if you now wish to withdraw your offer, I will not in any way think less of you, however low you might consider the woman you have mistakenly held in high enough esteem to want to make your wife." Watching his baffled, bewildered face, she filled with pity. "I will still regard you always as the kindest, most decent man I have ever met."
Olivia wondered anew at her gall, her unspeakable insolence, in matching his mother's impious proposition with one of her own! What she had dared to suggest in her search for cheap respectability was an affront to a man and his manhood, even to one as self-effacing as Freddie. If he now sent her packing, it would be what she so richly deserved. Perversely, she almost prayed that he would.
But Freddie did not send her packing. With a supreme effort he pulled himself together and mopped his brow. "This . . . man, he will not marry you?"
"No."
"Ah, why not?" His brow darkened.
"He has gone away."
"Where?"
"It doesn't matter. He will not return."
"And it is this man that you love?" He turned wistful.
"No. He took me ... by force." The first of the many lies she was to evolve now for the benefit of this essentially good man had been uttered. She felt no special stings of remorse. How thick one's skin turns in the pursuit of self-interest!
Freddie jumped up with an angry oath, his expression murderous. "Give me the name of the swine and, by gad, I'll horsewhip him within an inch of his rotten life wherever he skulks!"
Sadly, Olivia smiled—a mouse aspiring to be a giant killer! "He is not worthy of your effort, Freddie. But we stray from the point. My question remains unanswered—are you still prepared to marry me?"
He gulped again convulsively, his expression aggrieved. "Good God, Olivia, what do you think I am—one of those bloody weathercocks that swings with the wind? Of course I'm still prepared to marry you!"
"And declare a child not your own as yours?"
"Yes, dash it, yes!" He knelt before her to capture her hands and kiss them frantically. "Do you imagine that I would ever abandon you in this condition under any circumstances—do you?"
Olivia's throat tightened. Freddie's clear blue eyes, his unquestioning faith in her, his naive love—all were so guileless, so childlike. She knew that he had not yet assimilated the awesome finality of his commitment, nor the potentially terrible conflicts it might engender in him. Irrationally, she filled with resentment; why did he not reject her out of hand and force her to thus abandon this most obscene of options? Impulsively, she reached out to smooth his thinning, straw-coloured hair, ashamed of her gracelessness. "Think well, Freddie dear," she said huskily, "would you truly accept me in such scandalous circumstances?"
"I would accept you in any circumstances," he said simply. "You see, I love you . . ."
She fell silent, hushed by the innate goodness of a man who asked for so little. There was in his unambiguous nobility a selflessness that reduced her to ashes. He could not see that she was exploiting him, taking ruthless advantage of his innocence, using him. Feeling squalid and soiled but helpless in her despair, Olivia hid her burning face in her shawl. She did not repulse him this time when he took her in his arms. Instead, she laid her forehead against his shoulder and wept. "One promise, Freddie, my dear—after my child is born, if you so wish I will take it and disappear out of your life forever. Your obligation to me will be over. I want nothing from you or your family."
"You know that I can never wish that, my darling. My obligations to you and to your child will be for life. Honour will not allow me to have it any other way." His arms about her tightened protectively.
Jai Raventhorne had once complained that her love humbled him. It was now her destiny to be given a taste of the same medicine by Freddie. How black was the sense of humour of the divinities!
"No, Aunt Bridget, your ears have not deceived you," Olivia assured her incredulous aunt wearily. "I have accepted Freddie's offer of marriage."
If there were any rewards to be had for Olivia, they were all contained in her aunt's joyous face. After the anticipated fury of tears and copious expressions of gratitude to the Lord for having answered her prayers, Lady Bridget lost no time in getting down to business.
"Of course you will wear white. Sateen? No, maybe Chinese silk with pink rosettes. Josh's mother was a magpie with lace; there's yards still in the second store-room." Alive and animated, she grabbed a pencil and settled down at her bureau, her wrists still bandaged and her skin not yet restored to its normal hue. "Naturally, a layered petticoat with a band of blue ribbon. We'll have to order a veil, a long one. I like regal trains, don't you? Now, what was it that Jane Watkins said about . . .?"
Too sick at heart to interrupt, Olivia allowed her aunt her say for a moment or two, then added as gently as she could bring herself to, "We both want a private ceremony, Aunt Bridget. You are not fully recovered and a grand affair will tax your strength. Besides, people will ask questions about Estelle ..." Lady Bridget stilled and Olivia pressed on. "In any case, there is now no time for lavish arrangements at St. John's or elsewhere. We plan to be married next week."
"Next w—?" Words failed Lady Bridget and her eyes dilated. But reminded of the harsh realities prevailing, her face fell.
"The longer the notice, the more time to ask questions. You will have callers pouring in, cats with their claws unsheathed and waiting to scratch. Do you have the confidence to field taunts from any of them about Estelle's absence?" If she sounded heartless, it was deliberately so; to stem her aunt's enthusiasm might be cruel but it was also necessary.
Lady Bridget slumped back in her chair, the tears again starting to roll down her cheeks. "But I wanted to give you a memorable wedding-day, one that you would never f
orget," she whispered. "It is the least that is owed to you."
Olivia smiled. "Whatever the arrangements, for me my wedding-day will be memorable, one I am not likely ever to forget. That much I promise."
If Lady Bridget heard the bitterness in her niece's tone, she did not recognise it as such. Too euphoric to quibble about details, she dabbed her eyes dry, blew her nose and raised a beatific smile. "I told Josh long ago that one day you would marry Freddie of your own free will!"
But if manipulating her aunt had been easy enough for Olivia, the audience with Lady Birkhurst was an ordeal. "There is no need to worry about Mother," Freddie had pronounced airily. "Whatever has passed between us will remain our secret." Would it? Olivia had merely smiled and let it pass.
"A private wedding next week?"
Sitting in the formal Birkhurst drawing-room impaled again by those gimlet eyes that missed nothing, Olivia stared demurely at her feet. Freddie, however, bore the prolonged inspection through the all-seeing lorgnette with unexpected courage. "Yes, Mother," he said firmly, clearing his throat. "Lady Bridget's delicate state of health precludes anything more ambitious, and since that is so, why, ah, wait?" Red faced with effort, he inserted a finger in his collar and loosened it.
"I... see." The lorgnette swung around in Olivia's direction. "Whether these are my son's wishes or not, I take it that they are certainly yours?" How subtly she had made her point!
"Yes, they are, Lady Birkhurst."
Behind her veneer of radiant happiness and serene composure, Olivia shivered a little. However controlled Lady Birkhurst's reaction, she knew that under those tight little white curls was a shrewd brain churning away like a paddleboat wheel. No doubt the questions being tossed about in the whirlpools would be made known to her in the not too distant future, and she would have to supply the answers. It was not a confrontation Olivia considered with any enthusiasm.
Lady Birkhurst thoughtfully sucked on a jujube. "And how is Lady Bridget's mysterious tropical fever? I would have called had not Millie Humphries warned me of her husband's ban on visitors."
"My aunt is much better now, thank you," Olivia replied, grateful to be on relatively safer ground, although this too was not without pitfalls since rumours about Lady Bridget's attempt at suicide might well be about by now. "In fact she is well enough to formally call on you in a day or two in order to finalise . . . arrangements." Finalise—how sinister was the ring to that word!
"And your cousin Estelle, I understand, is en route to England?"
"Yes."
Whether privy to town gossip or not, Lady Birkhurst made no further mention of either Lady Bridget or her daughter. "Well, you may inform your aunt that I look forward to receiving her. I am relieved that she is once more on her feet. And Freddie, I presume, will soon seek an audience with Sir Joshua to ask for his formal permission?" As usual, she referred to her son in the third person.
"Freddie has an appointment with my uncle this afternoon." It was Olivia who answered. "Isn't that right, d-dear?"
Freddie beamed. "Oh, rather! Absolutely."
For a long while Lady Birkhurst stared at her finger-nails as if suddenly realising for the first time that she possessed them. Then she inched her vast bulk back against the cushions and nodded. "Well, as long as Sir Joshua and Lady Bridget have no objections, especially to the undue . . . haste," she paused and filled the significant gap by reaching for her filigreed ivory fan, "you both have my approval. I must confess, a wedding congregation of twittering old biddies matching bonnets and blouses while sacred vows are exchanged nauseates me." She smiled blandly in Olivia's direction. "I am enormously relieved, my dear, that you have finally decided to put my son out of his misery. His tiresome, hang-dog looks were beginning to quite ruin my digestive processes. I see no reason why he should pine and I should be the one to bear the consequences. I happily give both of you my blessings." A handkerchief was patted over each eye in turn and then a flabby cheek was raised upward to receive their salutations. "We will, of course," this to Olivia, "have occasion to talk at greater length later."
Olivia had absolutely no doubt that they would.
That night Olivia sat down to write to Kinjal.
You were, as always, right—a solution has been found and that handful of flesh is not, after all, to be terminated. I am tempted to plead humanity, but I cannot lie; for whatever it might be worth, my mango seed is the only proof I will ever have that, if only for one night, I was loved by Jai Raventhorne.
And to preserve that proof I am now in the process of perpetrating a vile fraud on a man who least deserves it. For the dubious, hollow privilege of having me for a wife, he is giving me his name. The wedding-ring that comes with the name will give me a pretence of that very respectability I have always boastingly despised. He asks for nothing in return. I will give him even less.
On a crisp, late-January morning, when the sky was of sapphire and the sun a brassy gold, Olivia Siobhan O'Rourke promised to love, cherish and obey the man standing by her side till death did them part, and so became the Honourable Mrs. Frederick James Alistair Birkhurst in the eyes of man and God. The brief, austere ceremony was held in the Templewood home and presided over by a cherubic young chaplain from the Church of St. John's. The bride was given away by her uncle; the best man was Peter Barstow. There were no bridesmaids and only a handful of guests.
For Olivia her wedding-day was also the day of her death. She felt nothing. The dull rhythmic thumps of her heart indicated that she was alive, but to her they held no credibility. Nevertheless, as is the bounden duty of every bride, she looked radiant. The white organza hastily rustled up by Jane Watkins was of lovely design (with side seams secretly let out during the night) over a full, layered petticoat. The late dowager Lady Temple-wood's Brussels lace had been fashioned into an exquisite train with diamante and a deluge of pink satin rosettes. The bride's jewellery, much admired by all, was of diamonds: tiara, three-strand necklace of graded marquis-cut brilliant whites, Christmas tree earrings and a bracelet. A walnut-sized solitaire, a wedding gift from the besotted groom, was on the third finger of Olivia's left hand just above the narrow gold band for which she had sold her soul. The solitaire was only a small part of what lay stored in endless velvet-lined boxes in the Birkhurst mansion strongroom, the collection of pigeon blood Burmese rubies alone alleged to be worth a king's ransom.
None of Olivia's new possessions brought her any pleasure or pride. She was an impostor, a confidence trickster who was extracting bounty under false pretences. Even her magnificent dowry from her aunt, which included her own mother's rejected share, Olivia could not look upon without shame and embarrassment. Apart from the cascade of ornaments, she was also to have a sizable bank balance with Lloyd's of London. She was overwhelmed, but her aunt had cut off her protests with passionate determination.
"I have waited twenty-four years for this moment, Olivia, twenty-four years—I will not allow you to spurn this as your mother did! This is my bridge to Sarah, my atonement for what she suffered. Are you going to deny me her forgiveness when there are no other means by which I can obtain it?"
"No, Aunt Bridget, but—"
"It was I who forced Father to disinherit Sarah when she ran away with Sean. It was I who forced her to live in America where deprivation and penury ate into her health so that she died while bearing that still-born son she wanted so much." Her face twisted with anguish and her eyes turned wild. "I killed her, Olivia, can't you see that? As sure as I know my own name, I killed Sarah!"
Shaken by the raw agony on Lady Bridget's face, Olivia did not have the heart to protest more. For the first time, she saw the depths of her aunt's long suffering, the incisiveness of her continuing guilt. Lady Bridget was a proud, intractable woman; it could not have been easy for her to say all this now. Without a word, Olivia capitulated. Drying her tears and regaining control of herself, Lady Bridget now handed Olivia a black tin box together with its keys. "And this," she said, again composed, "was to have b
een Estelle's. This too I give you now." Like a clean slate, her face was wiped of all emotion.
But this Olivia could not let pass unchallenged. "I will not touch Estelle's portion, Aunt Bridget," she said evenly. "It is unfair of you to offer it to me. One day when Estelle returns—"
"She will not return. Estelle no longer exists." It was said very calmly, with no sign of the passion that had convulsed her only a moment ago.
Neither do I exist! Olivia wanted to shout, but no one seems to have noticed! Somehow she restrained herself. In any case, she was too dejected to do more battle. Silently, she took charge of Estelle's dowry, privately appointing herself merely its caretaker. Her own mother might have turned her back on her portion, but Olivia could hardly see Estelle allowing her pride to deprive herself of such bounty!
The wedding breakfast, over which a transformed Lady Bridget presided with a return of some of her erstwhile spirit, was as lavish as the ceremony itself had been meagre. Encased in a stiff morning suit two sizes too large, Sir Joshua perambulated among his guests in a daze that gave him the fortuitous defence of absent-minded dignity. Ransome never left his friend's side, quick to step in when a lapse of memory or an unwitting gaffe occurred. The handful of guests included Willie Donaldson— Freddie's agency manager—and his wife, Cornelia, and the Humphrieses, the Pennworthys, Peter Barstow, Hugh Yarrow, senior accountant at Templewood, and Ransome, whose wife was away in England. The exclusivity of the occasion had already caused much gossip in station and the Spin, for one, had been heard sniffing, "Mark my words, there's something fishy going on there. I can smell it."
And then, of course, there was Lady Birkhurst. Enthroned on the largest chair in the room, quite spectacular in her steel grey satin and ostrich feathers, she sat in silence observing the proceedings with regal detachment. During the ceremony she had shed a discreet tear or two—whereas Lady Bridget had wept openly—but afterwards, dry eyed and hawkishly attentive, she had kept Olivia constantly in her vision, watching, watching, watching. Olivia's perpetual smile ran stakes through her jaws, her throat undulated with her ever-present nausea and her eyes were glassed over with the shine forced into them, but not for an instant did she dare let her façade slip.
