by Olivia
"What a tragic loss, my dear Olivia!" Mrs. Smithers, once with high ambitions for her Charlotte as the future Lady Birkhurst, could barely control her vexation. "But then, we must look on the bright side, mustn't we? Somebody has to die before a title can be passed down, mustn't they?"
"Oh quite!" Mrs. Cleghorne, with similar aspirations for her Marie, agreed heartily as she dabbed her eyes. "And how fortunate to be able to enjoy a title while still so young! My sister-in-law was fifty before her father-in-law even sneezed and fifty-seven when he actually died. My dear, they almost landed in the poor-house by the time he deigned to breathe his last."
"Well, there never was any danger of the poor-house for dear, dear Olivia, was there?" Millie Humphries privately compared her present opulent surroundings with her own rather shabby medical officer's bungalow, and burned with jealousy.
"The poor-house for Olivia?" the Spin exclaimed with a malicious smile. "Why should the dear girl have crossed the ocean at all if that was the fate she envisaged for herself? What a hoot!"
Smiling graciously as she dispensed the endless tea and cakes and sandwiches, Olivia remained the perfect hostess, wondering if they realized just how little she was touched by their chatter. "Dinna listen to these cats, lassie. They na ken nothing but to mock and mewl." When everybody was gone, Cornelia Donaldson squeezed her hand in sympathy.
Olivia shrugged them all off with a laugh. "Oh, they don't worry me, the poor dears. Since Freddie expects us to join him in England by next year, I shall be gone soon anyway."
Cornelia Donaldson looked genuinely saddened. "My Willie will miss you, lassie. He might na say it, the sore-headed bear, but he'll miss you soondly aroond the office."
Olivia was moved. "Oh, but some day of course we'll be back," she lied. "In the meantime, you both will come to the christening, won't you? Freddie had wanted a grand affair at St. John's, but now, under the circumstances . . ." She left the rest unsaid with a gesture of helplessness.
"Oh aye, lass, to be sure," Mrs. Donaldson agreed solemnly. "A grand affair would na be fitting noo, would it?"
It was the last of the lies she would have to tell, Olivia thought in relief. Once the shores of India were behind her, so would also be the need for demeaning deceptions.
It was after the simple christening was over that Arthur Ransome handed Olivia a mail packet, which had arrived for Sir Joshua that morning. It was from London, and it was from Estelle!
Drugged into deep slumber (for the last time, Olivia vowed ferociously) and with his hair shorn down to the skull as the only measure that would ensure safety under the circumstances, her son had been officially named Amos James Sean Birkhurst, the ninth heir apparent to the barony of Farrowsham. There had been only six witnesses present at the Templewood home: Sir Joshua, Arthur Ransome, the Donaldsons, Mary Ling and Olivia herself. The same cherubic chaplain from St. John's who had officiated at the wedding had performed the honours. Tea was served to the guests after the ceremony, sweets and cash were distributed to the staff at both houses and then it had all been over, easily and painlessly.
Now, at the sight of her cousin's familiar but forgotten flowery handwriting on the large brown envelope, Olivia went rigid. It was as if, magically, the clock had whirled back a year and in the process whipped away every anaesthetic benefit time had given. The envelope, she noticed, had been opened by Ransome. "I considered it wise to vet the contents," he explained in a fluster, "in case the silly girl had more shocks planned for her father."
"And has she?" Olivia pulled herself together and returned the envelope to him without making any move to read the contents. For all her assumed offhandedness, she could not help a shudder of revulsion in the light of what she now knew.
"Yes. In a manner of speaking. But, for a change, the shocks are not unpleasant." He withdrew a sheet from the envelope and scanned it again. "Estelle is in England. Apparently, she has been there now for six months. Three months ago, just before this was dispatched, she was married to John Sturges." He could hardly keep the astonishment from his face. "John has since been posted to Cawnpore. They should both be arriving in Calcutta forthwith." Succumbing to his incredulity, he sat down quickly and swallowed some tablets from a bottle that had lately become an inseparable companion. His expression was one of perplexity; he kept staring at the letter as if to convince himself that his eyes did not deceive him. "She mentions nothing about. . . the rest, not a word. Perhaps she gives more information to you, Olivia." He withdrew a square, sealed envelope from within the packet and handed it to her.
"Yes, perhaps." Olivia thrust Estelle's letter into her purse without reading it. Later, she intended to burn the envelope unopened.
There was no letter from Lady Bridget, and one from her Cousin Maude to Sir Joshua gave only expected news. Ransome read it with care in case there was in it something that might agitate his friend further. "Maude writes that Bridget's religious zeal continues," he said for Olivia's benefit. "She spends hours with her Bible and her rosary, Maude says, and appears to think or talk of little else but sin and absolution. But, Maude feels, Bridget has yet to find peace." Fingering his chin, Ransome saddened. "Maude makes no mention of Estelle except to say that she has seen her. I fear that it is not all sunshine and light, as Estelle would have us, particularly her father, believe." He scanned Olivia's ungiving face, then asked with a trace of anxiety, "Would you ever be able to make your wayward cousin welcome, my dear?"
"Why ever should I not?" Olivia countered. "Whether or not she has been forgiven by her mother and father, who am I to sustain grudges? I have no axes to grind, remember? As a matter of fact, on reflection, Estelle's return will be a boon. I will shortly be gone and she can start discharging some of those filial duties that have been neglected for so long. And damn well start clearing up some of those sorry messes that she left behind."
Not for the first time Ransome sensed Olivia's bitterness— that steady, all-pervasive anger that seemed to lie so close under the skin and seep through once in a while like a festering sore. Goodness knows, she had just cause for resentment; had it not been for the girl's quick thinking and determined labour, the scandal would have blown their world even higher. That he understood well, yet there was much that baffled him about her. But, silent in his discretion, he did not question her.
Olivia knew that her glib assurance to Ransome was false; under no possible circumstances could she ever make Estelle welcome again. For more than one reason, her cousin's return filled her with dread.
"An earlier sailing, Your Ladyship?" The next morning Willie Donaldson received her request with astonishment. "Any special reason for the sudden change of plan?"
"No. It's just that the sooner we are away, the sooner we join His Lordship in London."
That Donaldson appreciated and understood. "Och, aye. I reckon'd that. Well, I'll make inquiries but I doot if an earlier sailing can be arranged." He shook his craggy head. "I hear Miss Templewood returns shortly from England as Mrs. John Sturges. Och, that should gladden Your Ladyship's heart for shure!"
It did not surprise Olivia in the least that the news had spread so fast. Knowing Estelle's expertise in disseminating information, she had no doubt her cousin had already written to all and sundry. She marvelled anew at her brazenness, not in what she had probably written but in what she positively had not! "Yes, it surely does," she replied with a grim nod. "And now, tell me Mr. Donaldson, have you made any progress with this American who is considering leasing my house?"
Donaldson's face fell. "Och aye," he said glumly. "His agent here tells me the man's keen on the place and a five-year lease would suit him well." He struggled for a moment, then added warmly, "But is it wise to give up the manse to this unknown cotton farmer, probably a bloody uncouth boor who canna tell glass from crystal? Na disrespect to your country, lass." In his distress he dropped his formalities. "After all, the valuables in the house will belong to the bairn some day and he may wish to make his life in India."
The
prospect of drastic changes in a household that he had served so diligently for decades was causing Willie Donaldson untold grief, Olivia realised. For a moment she did not know how to respond, saddened that even this blameless man should not be left unhurt one way or another. "Nothing of value will remain unlocked in our absence, Mr. Donaldson," she soothed him gently. "I am storing everything in the strong-rooms, for which you will retain the keys until such time as our . . . future plans can be formulated." She was lulling this good man with false hopes; neither she nor Freddie nor Amos—especially not Amos!—would ever return to India to live in that mansion again. "In the meanwhile, please finalise the details of the lease with this man's agent."
They went on to discuss other matters needing attention before her departure. She would have to leave on the Lulubelle if an earlier sailing was unavailable. (Oh, how she prayed that it would not be!) Freddie's generosity to her was lavish, as was evident in all the copious arrangements he had made for her continued support. Olivia had no intention of accepting any part of the Birkhurst bounty, but she made no mention of that to Donaldson. He would not understand and there was no point in upsetting him further. It was as she was leaving the office that he suddenly broached quite another subject after much hemming and hawing.
"I gather from, ah, bazaar talk that Your Ladyship has been, ah, advancing funds to Templewood and Ransome?"
"Yes, that is correct." She continued to fill her portmanteau with papers that she was taking home for perusal.
"I also learned something I canna believe, I just canna: To raise the loan Your Ladyship pawned a diamond bracelet with that stenchified bloody crook Mooljee?" His sallow cheeks showed two high spots of bright red.
"You can believe it, Mr. Donaldson," she replied, unperturbed. "It is quite true. He gave me the best terms. My funds from Lloyd's of London have not yet arrived; when they do, I will retrieve my bracelet."
He was aghast at the easy admission. "But to pawn Birkhurst jewels—it's the talk of the bloody town! If Lady Birkhurst heard, she'd be scandalised, bloody scandalised! In all my years with Farrow ... why you dinna ask me for...," he spluttered into shocked silence.
She showed no sign of remorse. "First of all, Mr. Donaldson, it isn't Birkhurst jewellery; it is mine from my mother's portion. Talk of the town or not, I can do with it what I wish. Secondly, you know that I will not touch Farrowsham's funds to help my uncle's firm. And thirdly," she pointed out not unkindly, "are you forgetting that now I am Lady Birkhurst?"
That night Olivia sat down to write a letter to Kinjal.
Estelle will be back shortly! Her return terrifies me for reasons I can tell you and only you—she will want to see Amos and she cannot, she must not! Therefore, once again I turn to you for help, my dearest, truest friend. I beg you to take care of my son for as long as my cousin chooses to remain in Calcutta—or until I sail, whichever is expedient. I will send Amos to you as soon as I receive your answer.
But even before receiving Kinjal's answer, Olivia knew what it would be. With no questions asked, no explanations demanded, no conditions stipulated, Kinjal wrote only one sentence. Send Amos whenever you wish.
There were no sailings to the Pacific prior to that of the Lulubelle, and three days after Amos had been fortuitously dispatched to Kirtinagar with Mary Ling and the ayah, Estelle returned to Calcutta.
Already desolate at being without her son, Olivia received the news in abject depression. The ship had docked in the early morning. By afternoon, while she was at the Agency, Olivia had received a note from her cousin asking, imploring, her to come immediately. "I am dying, just dying, to see you again, my beloved Coz. Fly here the instant you see this." Olivia's anger revived; she did not grace the note with a written answer. Instead she merely asked the Templewood coachman who had brought the letter to inform missy memsahib that she would come as soon as her day's work at the Agency was done.
Of course there was no way that a meeting with Estelle could be avoided altogether, but by the time Olivia forced herself to face the prospect, it was well into the evening. She had used the intervening hours well. Ironing out all the sharp-edged creases in her emotions, she had come to a pragmatic conclusion. She had survived the past agonising months somehow; she would also survive Estelle's return.
The moment the carriage rumbled up to the Templewood porch, Estelle came flying down the portico steps. Throwing herself into Olivia's arms, she exploded with noisy tears. "Oh, Olivia, my darling, darling Coz . . . how I have missed you!"
Olivia detached herself from the suffocating embrace. "Have you? Well, welcome home, Estelle. And my congratulations. Where is your John?" She felt proud of the ease with which she could actually smile.
"In Madras with his parents," Estelle gulped, still tearful. "They disembarked en route to see an ailing relative . . . oh, Olivia, there were times I thought I would die without you to talk to . . ."
"But you obviously didn't." Olivia removed Estelle's restraining hand from her arm. "Where is Uncle Josh?"
"In the back garden with Uncle Arthur." Saucer eyes swimming, Estelle again grabbed Olivia's hand. "How awful Papa looks! I couldn't believe it, he's lost pounds and pounds . . . "
"Weight isn't all that he's lost, Estelle." Olivia surveyed her coldly. "Come on. Let's go and join them in the garden." Without giving her cousin another chance to protest, she walked away.
Sir Joshua and Ransome sat on either side of a wrought iron table sipping iced beer and gazing silently in opposite directions. As Olivia and Estelle joined them, they rose. Ransome muttered some monosyllabic inaudibilities in greeting and Sir Joshua nodded as Olivia kissed him on a cheek. She seated herself next to Estelle and wondered what might be considered appropriate topics of conversation at a family reunion as unwanted and as bizarre as this! Had any dialogue already taken place between father and daughter? Certainly there was no way of telling from her uncle's facial blankness, the vacancy of his eyes and the customary slouch of his shoulders. As usual, he sat immersed in silence, making no contribution to the conversation. Sombre faced and shifty eyed, Ransome merely fidgeted with a key chain, saying little and looking extremely ill at ease.
As it happened, nobody's conversational expertise was unduly needed to fill what might have been hideously gaping silences. Estelle took the lead in keeping the small talk flowing smoothly. "You could have knocked me over with a feather, darling, when I heard you had actually agreed to marry Freddie!" She laughed a shade too loudly. "But then, I always did maintain that you would, you know, Coz—truly I did. And my, my—Lady Birkhurst already! Oh, it's all turned out so ... so perfect, hasn't it?" She clasped her hands and beamed.
"Yes. Perfect." Olivia said.
"And oh, Olivia . . . why did you not bring Amos with you? Could we fetch him now, this very instant? I don't think I could bear to wait until tomorrow." She pouted appealingly. Despite the coat of cosmetics, she looked again like a little girl, but now not innocent—merely indecent.
"Amos is away. He is with friends."
"Away?" Estelle's face fell. "But you knew I was returning; could you not have kept him back at least awhile?"
"I'm sorry, the arrangements were made before we learned about your return," Olivia lied with practiced ease. "But I will try to bring him back before you leave for Cawnpore. How long do you propose to stay?"
"John has to report for his new duties in a month. He refuses to consider staying longer." She gave a very wifely sigh. "Oh, husbands!"
A month! She would have to be without Amos for a whole month! Olivia filled with dismay. Somehow, she forced herself not to react and asked instead, "And how is Aunt Bridget? Well, I hope? You bring no letters from her?"
For the first time ripples appeared in Estelle's smooth façade. Her eyes dropped, as did her smile, and she looked fractionally uncertain. Then, she nodded. "Yes, Mama is well." She said no more.
During the banal exchange, neither Sir Joshua nor Arthur Ransome had offered any comments. But now, all of a sudden, S
ir Joshua chose to speak. "So you see, Arthur, how the divinities mock the hand that stayed?" He threw back his head and roared with laughter. There was in his non sequitur and his merriment something grotesque, and jarring; embarrassed, they all stared. Still chuckling, he got up and wove his way back into the house. Ransome's eyes followed him until his ungainly form in its ill-fitting clothes disappeared from view; there was compassion and misery in those eyes.
"What an odd thing to say!" Estelle exclaimed with an unsure laugh. "Whatever could Papa be thinking of?" Without waiting for anyone to vouchsafe an answer, she plunged into a voluble account of her explorations in London, garnished lavishly with characteristic emphases and superlatives.
A creeping sense of unreality started to disorient Olivia. She had the odd feeling that they were all on a stage mouthing fictional dialogue in a mystery thriller; the surprise ending would suddenly burst upon them and it would bear no relation to what they were saying. Or, they were involved in a party guessing game in which there were too many red herrings to find the true answers. Listening to her cousin's inconsequential chatter, Olivia felt an overwhelming sense of déjà vu; the clock again moved back and she was once more perched on Estelle's bed munching ginger biscuits and sharing fantasies. It seemed incredible to her that they could all be sitting here, in the Templewood garden, pretending that nothing had changed, that their lives were still intact, that there had been no shattering diversions of their desired destinies. They were pretending that they were whole people again.
Almost whole, but not quite.
Estelle's exuberance was forced, a camouflage for twisting turbulences underneath. Her voice was too shrill, her laughter too affected, her gestures laden with artifice. Below the caked black kohl streaked with dried tears, her eyes shone with too bright a sparkle. The stylish fuchsia velvet gown with its daringly dipped neckline provided a veneer of chic, but the sophistication she tried so hard to project could not conceal the nervousness she was not yet clever enough to suppress. The truth was that Estelle was profoundly unhappy.
