Ryman, Rebecca

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by Olivia


  "You may not appreciate it, Olivia, but I have a great deal to think about," he snapped irritably. "Do you believe that any man could think clearly with that Birkhurst biddy about? No disrespect intended."

  What he had to think about nobody could tell, but he sometimes sat up all night scribbling in his diary. "What Josh thinks about is between him and his Maker," Ransome remarked when questioned. "Neither of them has seen fit to make me privy to their deliberations! But don't worry about Josh," he added. "I have decided to sell my house and move in with him after Bridget goes. It is the height of absurdity for two lonely men to each rattle about in separate establishments. And, of course, the financial savings would be considerable."

  When Lady Bridget heard the news of Olivia's impending motherhood from Lady Birkhurst, she wept with joy, but she also began to have second thoughts about her departure. "I feel that Sarah would have wanted me to be here, by your side," she wailed tearfully. "I feel you will need me."

  Alarmed, Olivia hastily conjured up passionate reassurances. Her aunt's presence at the birth of her child would be cataclysmic! "Freddie's mother is very much here, Aunt Bridget, and I shall be very well taken care of between her and Dr. Humphries. I promise you there is absolutely no need for you to change your plans. I know how desperately you want to be away."

  Torn between guilt and relief, Lady Bridget muttered, "Well, you must write to me in detail, every single detail, of how you are progressing. And, of course, when the baby comes I will want to know everything." She eyed Olivia's stomach with a frown. "You do seem unusually large for your time. Get Dr. Humphries to give you a thorough examination soon."

  Hastily Olivia diverted her attention. "Would you like me to also go through Estelle's room and tidy her possessions?" Since Estelle had left, Lady Bridget had refused to step foot inside the room. Olivia had been in on occasion and the jamadar was let in daily for the sweeping and swabbing, but for the rest of the time the room was kept locked. It was as if, with a padlock on the door, Lady Bridget had also obliterated from view part of her own life.

  Her aunt's expression closed. "No. Leave it for the moment. You can give her things away to charity later."

  Having once given Olivia the responsibility of the household, Lady Birkhurst never interfered with her running of it. Nor did she ever question Olivia's expenditure, not even when, almost as a first compulsion, Olivia ordered a complete restructuring and repair of the servants' quarters and compound. Freddie, of course, was generosity itself, delighted at any cost to be rid of the tedium of housekeeping and its finances. Despite the crippling burden that Lady Birkhurst had laid on her conscience, Olivia thought of her warmly—and gratefully—as a friend, an ally. Her mother-in-law's mere presence in the house gave Olivia comfort, for, apart from Kinjal, it was only she who shared her monstrous secret. Therefore, one morning when she received another summons, Olivia had no idea that what awaited her was yet another blow. The conversation started lightly enough with a suggestion that was extremely welcome.

  "You are active and intelligent, Olivia—does the prospect of working for part of the day at our Agency House appeal to you? After all, we don't want you dying of boredom, do we?"

  Olivia was delighted by the suggestion. "Indeed it does! I have thought of asking you myself but hesitated in case you disapproved."

  "My dear, I have already approved of so much," Lady Birkhurst said drily, "and this would be trivial, an act of sheer self-preservation. I shall have a word with Willie about it. He'll hate the idea, of course. The very thought of a skirt flapping around his precious domain will drive the grumpy old Mother Hubbard daft, but there's no one who knows more about trade in the East than Willie, although he'll reduce you to tears in five minutes." She laughed. "I shall see to it before I leave."

  "Before you leave?" Olivia paled. "Leave for where?"

  Heaving a tired sigh, Lady Birkhurst reached for a letter lying on the table at her elbow. "This has come from our estate manager at Farrowsham. Caleb is dreadfully unwell. He urges that I catch the next ship home." While Olivia sat shaken by the news, deep lines of strain appeared on her mother-in-law's face. "You see, Olivia, unlike his son whose ill health stems from indolence and indulgence, Caleb's ailments come from overwork and self-negligence. He is passionately involved in the estate, which is vast, and he takes his attendance in the House more seriously than most other peers of the realm, pompous idlers that many of them are. Caleb's body is now starting to rebel, and no one ever gets any younger, do they?" She tapped the letter with a fingernail. "This is already three months old. It will be another three before I reach home."

  "You are considering departing immediately?" Olivia was dismayed. Without the compassionate support of this infinitely pragmatic woman, how would she tolerate the frightening trial that loomed ahead?

  "I must, dear," Lady Birkhurst said gently. "Caleb needs me now more than ever. I have therefore decided to sail with Lady Bridget. We will be good company for each other."

  "But that is next week!"

  "Yes." For a moment she fell silent. "I would have wanted to participate in your coming ordeal, my dear. Sadly, I will not be able to. Have you decided upon some satisfactory plan of action?"

  "I will leave for Kirtinagar a month before my child is due," Olivia answered morosely. "The Maharani welcomes the idea. I will place myself entirely in her capable hands."

  "Excellent, my dear, excellent! I am relieved that you will be with friends. I would be beside myself with worry otherwise."

  A lump rose in Olivia's throat. "Thank you for your concern. You can never know what your understanding has meant to me. I shall miss you."

  "And I you, dear child." Equally moved, she reached out to squeeze Olivia's hand, her eyes moist. "But I leave in the conviction, yes conviction, that you will do your duty by my son. Had you been a lesser person, I would have had my doubts. I have none."

  The avowal of faith was intended to comfort and solace Olivia; the words had been spoken out of kindness. How could Lady Birkhurst have known the even blacker depression into which that very kindness served to plunge Olivia?

  The parting from both her aunt and her mother-in-law a week later was for Olivia inordinately painful. Once more she felt abandoned. It was as though they were also taking part of herself with them. Imprisoned by her circumstances, she could do nothing. Her destiny had slipped out of her hands, if indeed it had ever been in them at all!

  "Listen to your wife," was Lady Birkhurst's parting command to her son. "She has more sense than you ever will." To Olivia, as she clasped her to her bosom, she whispered, "Write to me often, child. Remember, wherever I am, I am a friend. But I fear we might not meet again . . ." Olivia cried.

  Sir Joshua was not among that vast throng that saw the ladies off at wharfside. "Look after him, Olivia," Lady Bridget blurted out impulsively as she was about to embark. "Protect him, do not let him be hurt more. I fear that when . . . when that man returns ..." She stopped and said no more, but the fear remained in her eyes as, with supreme dignity, she turned to negotiate the gangplank.

  When that man returns . . .!

  The Farrowsham Agency House, started by Caleb Birkhurst in 1815—two years after Parliament revised the Company's charter to abolish all monopolies save that of tea—was a thriving concern. It was run by Willie Donaldson, a tall, angular Scotsman spare of both flesh and words, who had been with it since its inception. He had come to manage Farrowsham by dint of hard work, honesty and canny business sense; he ruled with an iron hand and remained fiercely protective of the Agency's interests and reputation. Freddie's disinterest Donaldson saw as a boon and, by similar token, received Olivia's induction into the firm with something less than enthusiasm. Two weeks after she had joined, however, he grudgingly revised his estimation. He saw that she had potential, and in recognition of it he appointed one of his most experienced and trusted Indian employees, Bimal Babu, as her aide.

  Olivia was, Donaldson conceded to his wife, Cornelia, very dif
ferent from what he had expected of a young mem. She didn't gossip or chatter idly, she was singularly well informed about some commercial matters and unashamed to profess ignorance of others and seek guidance. Most gratifying, she didn't volunteer daft opinions or throw her weight about as one might expect of an owner's wife, and she was a rapid learner. "She's na anybody's fool, my love," he told his wife. "And she's na a silly little chit with oats instead of brains. Aye, she's a bonny lass too. Of course she's American but that's na the puir lassie's fault. What I canna figger's, hoo she came to settle for our Freddie, by God I canna."

  For her part, Olivia took to Willie Donaldson instantly. He was gruff, sometimes blunt to the point of rudeness and swore like a whore, but he was bright as a new penny and one always knew where one stood with him. Eager to be tutored, she started to learn much from him.

  Farrowsham did not involve itself in the China Coast trade and had never touched opium, for Caleb Birkhurst was a man of stern Christian principles where drugs were concerned. What he had built his fortune on was plain and simple salesmanship. If Britain's industrial revolution had left her hungry for markets overseas, then this was where expertise was needed. In this he was not alone, of course, but he was certainly one of the most successful. Exported out by the profitable shipload was the endless wealth of the Orient: cotton, jute, shellac, spices, oils and essences for the European perfume industry, furs, gems, wool and a dozen other cargoes, and, of course, indigo from Farrowsham's own spreading plantations. The export figures for indigo in that year, Donaldson told Olivia, totalled about ten million pounds, and a healthy proportion of that could be attributed to Farrowsham's production. Returning shiploads brought British goods that filled the coffers even faster with imports of agricultural machinery, printing shop equipment from inks to paper, hand tools, books, medical materials, a host of sophisticated consumer goods and, most important of all, cloth from Lancashire's textile mills. There was no way in which Indian hand looms could compete with the prolific might of Britain's machine-made fabrics. To crush the indigenous industry further and make vaster markets for manufactured cloth, a duty had been imposed on hand-loom products with the result that imports from Britain sold for less in the shops. Soon, save for the very poor, everyone in India was wearing British cloth, dooming local production, even the exquisite muslins of Dacca, to obscurity. In addition, Farrowsham also invested money for Company employees since they were forbidden direct involvement in commerce. "Farrowsham was one of the first to mop up savings of Company blokes," Donaldson said. "Nae a man alive could juggle borrowing and lending rates like old Caleb, the old buzzard, may God bless the man." He chuckled. "I was a mere wee lad then but, God's truth, it was bliss to watch him rake in the shekels. Farrowsham stood firm even during the upheavals of the Thirties. By God, we made it faster than anyone, save of course Trident." He made a sour face. "But then that devil's pup Raventhorne has feet in both camps, dinna he?"

  Mention of Raventhorne and his agency brought no change to Olivia's expression. "Do you have many dealings with Trident?" she asked casually.

  "Oh, aye. We lease their warehooses, book all our cargo in those bloody clippers of his since they're the fastest there are. He's a thieving cutthroat with rates but he delivers on the damned nose, I canna deny that." He paused and scowled. "For what he's done to your uncle and Ransome, I'd horsewhip the skin off his bloody butt, and I reck'n someone will some day. I hold no brief for that Lucifer's seed, but with us he's been a man of his word. Noo," he shuffled his papers and returned to immediate business, "like I was saying, Caleb bought the hinterland properties in thirty-eight. Before then, a daft Company rule forbade Europeans to buy land in India. Since then . . ."

  The matter of Jai Raventhorne was laid aside for the moment.

  Since Freddie usually slept until noon, Olivia sometimes lunched with her uncle and spent time ensuring that the household ran well under Rehman's devoted supervision. With the Templewood and Ransome offices not far from the Agency on Old Court House Street, she also contrived frequent visits to Arthur Ransome. She was astonished to learn from him one day that he was having difficulty selling his house.

  "But why? Surely the property is on prime land and valuable?"

  He gave her a curious look. "Templewood and Ransome have become pariahs, my dear. People fear that anyone who trades with us or helps us in our travails will be punished by Trident, as I had explained to you once earlier."

  Olivia now recalled a brief conversation she had had with Ransome in Barrackpore to which she had then paid scant attention. "But that is absurd!" she exclaimed indignantly. "What more can he possibly want from you? Has he not done enough harm already?"

  "There is still something he wants." Ransome spoke without anger. "Our name plate. He will not rest until we are driven into the bankruptcy courts. That he has avowed."

  "Raventhorne wants to drive you out onto the streets?" She was appalled that this evil man's vindictiveness should be so total.

  "Yes," Ransome said simply. "Oh yes. He wants us to end where he himself began, you see. I suppose you might call that poetic justice." He laughed a little. "And it appears that he will succeed. With Josh now incapable of business, our credit is no longer considered good. Even Pennworthy's bank will not discount our bills since there is no incoming. Besides, Trident banks with Pennworthy and he too has to guard his interests. In the meanwhile, one errant consignment of our tea lies rotting. It arrived here in Calcutta instead of going directly to London from Canton, due to a shipping error. Nobody now is willing to transport it to London for fear of reprisals when Raventhorne comes back, and neither will the domestic wholesalers touch it."

  When Raventhorne comes back. How Olivia was beginning to detest that ever-recurring phrase!

  "I had no idea things were so dismal for you," she said slowly, greatly upset by the extent of his dejection. Her own spirits plummeted. "Can you think of no solution to your troubles?"

  He shrugged. "Perhaps there are ways out, Olivia. Ten, even five years ago, I would have fought tooth and nail but now I no longer have the energy. Or the will. I'm beginning to feel my age, and that's no help." He got up to stretch his stiffening legs. "We've had a damn fine life, Josh and I, and I have no regrets. We've made enormous sums of money and we've spent enormous sums of money. Now perhaps it is time to pack it in. There are younger men, better men, coming into the tea trade. Indian tea will some day prosper and there will be no need for the China Coast. Gone will be the excitement, the adventure, the thrilling sense of conquest. Tea will become just another crop, and I don't much fancy being a farmer. Maybe Josh is right, maybe steamships will be de rigueur soon and the sailing vessels will vanish. Life will become routine, humdrum, and I for one want no part of it. Frankly, it appalls me . . ."

  Olivia's own depression turned into flaming anger. There was nothing Raventhorne had left untainted, undiseased, in his masterly plan of wholesale destruction. For the first time she truly appreciated the aptness of his accursed symbol; he had indeed done the Lord Shiva proud!

  Over the following weeks Olivia saw in the city how ubiquitous were the reminders of Jai Raventhorne. Reminders, that is, quite apart from the one within her that supped on her blood and lived off the very breath of her lungs. Almost daily she passed the Trident offices with their blank façade and mocking windows. One day, she again saw Raventhorne's dun gelding with white stockings being ridden by one of his minions across Tank Square. Farrowsham's own ledgers abounded with mention of Trident, and bills and receipts bearing Raventhorne's sprawling, arrogant signature were plentiful. In Raventhorne's absence, Trident was managed by his trusted and loyal lieutenant, a Bengali called Ranjan Moitra, a dapper young man always immaculate in white dhoti, shirt and shawl, with open sandals on neatly kept feet. Moitra visited the Farrowsham offices regularly. Olivia had yet to speak to him but he never failed to bow low to her whenever their paths did cross.

  One morning when Olivia was on her way to John Company's offices in Writers'
Building to obtain some information for Donaldson, a beautifully ornamented palanquin passed by her. Fleetingly, through a break in the curtain covering the doorway, a face peeped out and Olivia halted in her tracks; it was Sujata's! For an instant their eyes locked. Then Sujata's kohl-laden gaze dropped to the slight mound of Olivia's stomach and remained there. The ruby red lips curved in a derisive smile and across her face flashed a look of such venomous dislike that Olivia stood transfixed. The palanquin passed on but that smile—so ugly and so knowing—troubled Olivia through the rest of the day.

  If her work at the Farrowsham Agency provided Olivia with much needed mental stimulation, it seemed to upset Freddie increasingly. "What do I do with myself while you're gone?" he grumbled churlishly at dinner one night. "I miss you when you're not here."

  "But I'm gone only while you're asleep, dear," Olivia pointed out with patience. "More or less. I like to keep Uncle Josh company occasionally or he lunches alone."

  "Well, I lunch alone too!"

  "Not often, Freddie. And I'm always at home in the evenings."

  "Even so, I do miss you," he insisted stubbornly, then turned wistful. "Do you ever miss me, Olivia? Tell me truthfully, do you?"

  She spent the next half hour assuring him that she did, and the better part of the night trying to prove it. Freddie's sexual appetite, Olivia had discovered, was prodigious. Many of his demands when locked in passion revolted her, but with grim stoicism she fulfilled them through the simple expedient of divorcing her mind from her body. She trained herself to pretend she was someone else and thought of the act of copulation only as a street bitch might do, forcing herself to turn as promiscuous, as wanton, as her husband demanded. The growing round of her stomach made the act even more distasteful, but she performed it dutifully, like a penance. With many protestations of love Freddie always declared himself satisfied, but Olivia knew that he pretended, too, and that the gathering dissatisfactions festering unknown to him within his body would not remain unexpressed for long.

 

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