by Olivia
"One could say the same for Jai. He is not an ordinary man; he cannot be measured by ordinary standards."
"However extraordinary," she said with an edge, "surely all men need to conform to some basic norms of decency?"
Arvind Singh abandoned his hookah for the moment to stir his coffee. "Jai is driven by forces that are difficult to comprehend at the best of times—"
"On the contrary, he is driven by forces that are very easy to understand!" she retorted, not letting him finish. "Every one of them is identifiable as perversity, a need to destroy."
"True. But there is hate on both sides. Sir Joshua—and the English—cannot stomach that the son of a servant woman, a native tribal, has risen to beat them at their own game."
"But there are many others who have similarly risen from humble homes to be accepted. Why generous allowances for your friend and none for the English? Surely such wholesale condemnation comes from prejudice?"
Arvind Singh laughed. "I had forgotten how difficult it is to win an argument with you, Mrs. Birkhurst! The truth is that both Jai and your uncle are extreme men. Their collisions tend to be explosive and the detritus widely scattered." He stared reflectively at his cup. "Forgive me if I am wrong, Mrs. Birkhurst, but at one time I was under the impression that you had some . . . admiration for Jai. Certainly, he had a great deal for you." It was an indication of their friendship that he could make such a comment without embarrassment.
"If I did have 'admiration,' as you put it," Olivia countered lightly, marvelling at how well Kinjal had guarded her secrets, "then it was misplaced. One way or another he has caused the disintegration of my uncle and his family." Of her own disintegration, she said nothing. He would see for himself in a moment.
He spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. "Well, let us just put it all down to the misfortune of an alien presence in our country. It has produced tensions that frequently detonate, that are like lava fighting to burst through our soil. Sooner or later, the volcano will erupt."
On the whole, Olivia was relieved by the switch to impersonalities. "You mean a revolt? By the Indians?"
"Yes. The revolt will have small beginnings, but the eventual conflagration will send the entire country up in flames."
She remained sceptical. "The English presence is too strong to be dislodged like a pebble. To be successful, a revolutionary needs fire power, not mere numerical superiority."
"Suppressed anger and frustration are sometimes stronger than fire power, my dear Mrs. Birkhurst, as the French proved with their bloody revolution, to say nothing of your own country's battle for independence. Bondage, whether alien or indigenous, political or economic, benign or malicious, goes against the nature of man everywhere. But," he broke off with a laugh, "the argument is endless. Perhaps we will continue it later when my wife too is free to join in. And now," he rose, "may I be allowed to offer my blessings to the infant Birkhurst son and heir?"
"Yes, of course." Smiling steadily, Olivia signalled to the ayah to bring in the child.
"I know it is difficult to tell at this age—I never could with my own children—but which handsome parent does the boy resemble?"
"No, it is not difficult," she contradicted. "My son is the exact replica of his father."
As the nurse approached, Olivia positioned herself in a far corner of the verandah to watch from a distance, her face expressionless. Sounds emerging from the bundle in the nurse's arms told her that her son was awake and that his eyes were open. The bonnet used to cover his head had been removed according to her instructions. With an unsuspecting, benign smile the Maharaja took the child into his arms. For an instant Olivia saw him stare. His smile froze, then faltered and then faded away altogether. She turned away to gaze vacantly into the garden.
For an inordinate while there was silence, broken only by the raucous cries of the peacocks in the garden, an ugly call considering the beauty of their appearance. Out of the corner of her eye Olivia saw that Arvind Singh still held the child, his gaze incredulous and his complexion pale with shock. Then he bent his head, kissed the baby's forehead and returned him to his nurse. From his pocket he withdrew a red velvet pouch similar to the one Kinjal had given, containing the traditional gold coins offered in blessing to a new-born. Carefully he placed it inside the child's blanket. As he did so, his hands shook.
"My wife has often told me that you are a courageous woman, Olivia." He walked over to her, his agitation so great that he did not notice the informality of her first name. "I had underestimated the extent of that courage. I pray that God may forever be with you and your son." He spoke with difficulty.
Olivia's smile was metallic. "Do you consider that we will be in need of divine assistance?"
"Oh yes." He sat down heavily. "Oh yes, you will indeed! As for my own participation in the matter, what I will need is divine forgiveness . . ." There was deep distress in his face.
Proudly, her chin thrust forward. "No one's participation can be given credit, Your Highness. I have been very independent in plotting my own destiny."
He accepted the cynicism with a rueful shake of his head. "Jai will not stay away forever."
"So I am assured by many, but his return does not frighten me," she retorted with slicing disdain. "Your friend cannot reach me again, Your Highness." She paused and hesitated; well, why not say it? "You might or might not be aware that he has taken my cousin, Estelle Templewood, with him."
Arvind Singh coloured and his eyes fell. "Yes, I am aware of it. Neither Kinjal nor I were part of those nefarious plans, I assure you. Jai's act of revenge was loathsome, unforgivable— but, as we both know, he is a man obsessed to the point of madness."
"He is indeed fortunate to have a friend such as yourself," Olivia commented with inadvertent scorn, "who can provide him with such stout defences!"
He rose again to come to where she stood and touched her hand. "I am also your friend, Olivia," he said gently. "Now more than ever."
She was instantly ashamed of her show of brittleness. "Yes, I know. Without you and Kinjal I would have crumbled. Or died." In her sudden emotion, her composure wavered. How she wished the name of Jai Raventhorne had not been invoked between them!
"You must leave India."
He said it so abruptly that Olivia was taken by surprise. "There is nothing I would like better but it is impossible at present. Why do you say that?"
"When Jai returns it will be . . . unsafe for you here."
"Unsafe?" His choice of word amused her. "Why? He can do me no further harm, I promise!"
Arvind Singh regarded her with sudden pity. "Oh, but he can." His face was deadly serious. "Jai will not allow his son to be brought up a Birkhurst. He will leave no stone unturned to take him away from you."
Freddie was not at home when Olivia returned from Kirtinagar. Instead, she was dutifully awaited by Mary Ling, the nurse Olivia had engaged on high recommendation from her aunt prior to her departure for Kirtinagar. Mary was competent, cheerful and discreet. She also had a good singing voice and played well on the piano. To assist her, Olivia had hired Lady Bridget's old ayah, a lazy woman but experienced and pleasant enough. One of the guest suites on the second floor had been prepared as a nursery, with nanny's quarters and pantry attached.
Olivia decided to name her son Amos.
Before her talk with Arvind Singh, Olivia had merely hated Jai Raventhorne; the unexpected warning was now teaching her to also fear him. Arvind Singh's words had struck terror in Olivia's heart. The need to escape this benighted city became paramount in her mind. The question was how, how, how . . .?
When Freddie returned home it was midnight and he was drunk. He weaved his way awkwardly between pieces of furniture, then sat down, legs askew, and belched. "Welcome home, dearest wife," he slurred, squinting bloodshot eyes in Olivia's direction. "And how is my son and heir getting along, eh?" He guffawed.
Sitting up in bed reading, Olivia hid her apprehensions behind a smile. She had not seen him drunk since
that awful night on the ship; she now felt a rush of bitter guilt because this was proof not of his failure but of hers. "He is getting along very well, thank you."
"And what is my son and heir to be christened, dear heart?" He tried to stand up, failed and folded back with an oath. "Not after me, I take it, his one and only father?"
She winced at the cruel taunt. "I thought we might christen him Amos James Sean, if that is acceptable to you."
"Amos, eh? Well, I'll be damned—the bearer of burdens!" He chuckled and Olivia realised he was not as drunk as he pretended. "In that case I'd better have another dekko at the little . . .," he hiccupped, apologised and hiccupped again, ". . . b-bastard . . .!"
She was flooded with pain, her own and his. "He is asleep now. Of course you will see him in the morning if you wish." He groaned, clutched his temples, staggered to the bed and fell heavily onto her lap. "Oh, 'livia, 'livia—do you know what agony it is to love and not be loved ...?" Laying his head against her breast he groaned again and passed out.
Yes, I know, Freddie dear, I know. I wish I could make it better for you but I can't, I can't. . .
Gently, she disentangled herself, fetched a damp cloth with which to wipe his face, changed him into his pyjamas and tucked him into bed. She lay down next to him and cradled him in her arms like a child, his head cushioned on her shoulder. Later, still not sober, he woke to claim her with that same mindless fierceness he had shown on their wedding night, thrusting into her brutally and repeatedly, threatening to tear her apart with his frustrated passion. She neither refused him nor did she complain. Not yet fully healed after the birth of her child, her body revolted and exploded in pain, but she did not cry out. Fists and teeth clenched, she suffered the assaults wordlessly. He too, after all, had demons riding his back; who better to help him expel them than she?
When he was finally done and had fallen again into snoring slumber, she rose quietly. She had begun to bleed. Doubling over with the pain, she hobbled to the bath-room to wash and medicate herself. She crept back into bed and gave in to exhausted sleep.
When she woke in the morning she was alone. She got up, quickly removed the blood-stained bed sheet so that he would not see it and went in for a prolonged bath. When she returned to her bedchamber, Freddie was sitting by the window. On the table before him were a tea-tray and a folded newspaper. Neither had been touched.
Concerned at the blankness of his expression, Olivia asked quickly, "Freddie? Are you not feeling well?"
His pale, washed-out blue eyes swivelled in her direction. They were still shot with tiny red veins, and his skin looked horribly pasty. "I went up to see the baby. He reminds me of someone." His tone was as flat as his expression. "Tell me now who his father is."
"No! It is no longer of importance, Freddie. I—"
"It is of importance to me." With a shudder, he buried his face in his hands. "I cannot forget that you have lain with another man, Olivia, and that the living, breathing proof is now here, in my house, a constant reminder of that act!"
His muffled words sounded like the cries of a wounded animal. In an effort to lessen his anguish, she knelt down and put her arms about him. "I have never lied to you, Freddie; I never deceived you. I told you the truth, Freddie, and I gave you the freedom to refuse me . . ."
"I have never had the freedom to refuse you, Olivia!" Huge, grotesque tears spilled down his hollow cheeks. "My love for you has never permitted that." He refused to be consoled and shook her off roughly. "I know nothing of babies, dammit! It was all so . . . unreal, so far away, but now," a spasm tore through his hunched body, "now, it's suddenly here, in front of my eyes. It mocks me, taunts me, forbids me to forget that you have borne the fruit of another's loins . . ."
The scope of his hopelessness defeated her, as did the awareness of her own inability to redeem it even marginally. She was struck again by the enormity of his sacrifice, the injustice of her demands on him. In fierce remorse, she grabbed his hands and kissed them. "I can't bear to see you like this, Freddie! What is done cannot be undone, but I would do anything, anything, to help reduce your torment. I can never forget your kindness, your—"
"Kindness!" Wrenching his hands free, he exploded. "Kindness, fondness, friendship, gratitude . . .! It is not kindness that I have given; it is my heart, my love, my life. In return what you give me at best is gratitude, at worst. . . pity. No, don't deny it, I have seen it in your eyes. You feel you owe me, it is a debt you repay, which is why you tolerate my presence in your bed. I repel you, Olivia, admit it!" He halted his feverish pacings and, as she opened her mouth to protest, held up a hand. "No, don't lie, Olivia. Don't pretend with me anymore. A chap senses these things—a gesture, a grimace, a frown here, an unaware expression there . . ." He broke off to slump again in a chair, his face once more dull with despair. "He didn't take you by force, did he? You gave yourself willingly because you loved him, still love him."
It was the end of his innocence, an innocence she had snatched away from him. "I do not love him, Freddie, have never loved him, never, I swear to you." Frantic to salvage at least some of his broken illusions, she showered him with scraps of solace. "And I do care for you, deeply and sincerely. Oh, if only I could cut open my heart and prove to you how bitterly I regret that one transgression . . . !" Choked and ashamed, she could not go on.
For a moment Freddie stared down at her upturned face and into her stricken eyes filled with tears of supplication. Then, taking both her hands, he raised her and kissed her lightly on a cheek. "In many ways, Olivia, I am a fool, I admit it. But, my dear, the heart has an intelligence of its own. With the very best will in the world, I do not believe you." Smiling strangely, he turned to go. "I do not believe you."
After that day Freddie never returned home sober. Nor did he ever go up again to see Amos.
Sublimely unaware of the eye of the storm into which he had been born, Amos flourished. Happily, the world and its sorrows were not yet upon him, his limited universe beginning and ending with his four hourly pleasures at his mother's breast. Full of energy and fierce of temper when crossed, Amos continued to grow bigger and more delightful with each passing day. His large grey eyes, alive with curiosity, were never still; when amused, his laughter rang out with lusty vigour to fill the cavernous Birkhurst mansion with good cheer. For Olivia, he was the focus of her existence, her very reason for it. He was flesh of her flesh, her life's blood, her everything.
"He gets his unusual colouring from my Irish grandmother," Olivia explained to Mary Ling. "She too had mother-of-pearl eyes and ebony hair—isn't that something?"
With time the glib lies became easier, except that Mary Ling was somewhat more gullible than the daily stream of callers who came bearing gifts and piercing, inquisitive glances. But this situation too Olivia resolved with the same resourcefulness (deviousness!) that was now second nature to her. Awake, Amos was not presented for inspection under the excuse of tetchiness or stomach disorder; when asleep, he was shown off from a safe distance, his hair secured under a close-fitting bonnet. If a tendril or two did manage to escape, the Irish grandmother never failed to come in handy. On the whole the charade came off well enough. It was only when Dr. Humphries made his unavoidable professional call that Olivia panicked and did something that later disgusted her. She drugged Amos with a tiny lick of opium. "Hmmm! Healthy little blighter, isn't he?" was the doctor's sole comment as he threw a few perfunctory glances at the bonneted child, apparently satisfied. Olivia prayed fervently that Amos would never need Dr. Humphries in an unguarded emergency.
She despised herself for her shoddy little subterfuges, appalled at the moral weakness that forced her to indulge in them. But then, with poor Freddie's reputation hanging by a thread anyway, she knew that she dared not experiment with whatever radical ideas she might have once had. And now with Arvind Singh's unexpected warning striking further terror in her heart, bravado was out of the question.
Olivia's most frequent and most welcome visitor was, of cour
se, Arthur Ransome, delighted when asked to be Amos's godfather. "Bless my soul!" he exclaimed the first time he saw the child. "Never thought he would be quite so small!"
"Babies usually are, Uncle Arthur." Retrieving Amos with a laugh, she was vastly relieved that he, who had known Raventhorne so well, had noticed nothing. The suspense, however, with which she had awaited her uncle's comments as he had peered and poked at her sleeping son (once more dosed with opium and securely bonneted despite Olivia's revulsion of the ploy) had been acute. Notwithstanding his air of vagueness, there were times when Sir Joshua's perceptions seemed alarmingly lucid. But his interest in Amos was mercifully minimal and his observation offhand. "Very fine, very fine. Bridget will be delighted," was all he said.
It was from Ransome that Olivia heard of Freddie's renewed acquaintanceship with the Golden Hind. The news was distressing but hardly a surprise; Freddie's daily drunkenness, his ghastly pallor and his long absences from home each day were testimony enough. Genuinely concerned, Olivia tackled him firmly one morning. "You promised me you wouldn't, Freddie, you gave me your word ..."
He groaned and cradled his head. "It's too early, dash it, for—"
"It's not too early. It's almost noon. In any case, this is the only time I can see you during the day." She softened her tone. "Freddie, what are you trying to do to yourself—to us?"
"I am trying to forget something I need not to remember!" He emphasized each word as if speaking to a backward child.
Olivia stared, attempting to equate him with the man he once was and twisting with familiar angst. "You need only to accept, Freddie," she said, again miserable, "to trust, to believe me and in me."
He shrugged. "I cannot force myself to accept or trust or whatever, any more than you can force yourself to love." He held his head again and winced. "I told you it was too early for an argument! I think I'll go back to bed." He walked unsteadily out of the room.
