by Olivia
"My fault," he murmured, the metallic hardness of his eyes belying the perfunctory gallantry. "But if you find the music too fast for comfort, I would be only too relieved to stop—etiquette having been sufficiently satisfied for the benefit of your guests."
With supreme courage Olivia tacitly shook her head, loath to allow him even this minute victory. Everywhere eyes watched, tongues whispered, mouths drooled waiting for an excuse for salacious comment. In a corner Estelle stood with her gaze riveted and watchful. The exchanges with Jai Raventhorne, acrid, vitriolic and so totally fruitless, had eroded Olivia's Dutch courage and left her limp with revived injury. It seemed obscene to her that they could be dancing, casting pleasant smiles around, talking against a background of music about something that had laid so many lives in ruin. And at any moment he might mention that one subject she dreaded more than any other: her son! Against his shoulder her fingers clenched. "Why, why in the name of heaven," she whispered fiercely, "have you chosen to come here tonight, Jai . . .?"
"I have given you two reasons, I will give you a third." He had conquered his anger, his tone was conversational. For all it indicated, he might have been complimenting her on the lush display of her flower arrangements. "In marrying Freddie you have allowed him to appropriate something that I considered to be mine." He smiled pleasantly and matched her own flippancy. "For that act of stealth the Birkhursts owe me at least a drink in reparation." The music stopped. He stepped back and bowed.
Amos! Panic flared, blinding her to all other interpretations of his flippancy. With his unerring instincts about her, he had found out about Amos. Any moment now he would announce his intention to claim him, take him away from her. He had been to Kirtinagar and of course he had seen him . . . Wild conjectures chased each other around her mind stupid with terror. White faced, she stood transfixed before him on the rapidly emptying dance floor.
He was speaking again, still pleasantly smiling, still impeccably courteous of tone. "You are a whore, Olivia. I should have recognised that earlier." Fleetingly he took her hand again to skim icy lips over it. "We will not meet again. As the wife of an Englishman and the mother of a Birkhurst brat, you repel me." Throughout his few sentences, his smile never faltered, nor did the level of his tone.
A Birkhurst brat!
In a chest dangerously close to exploding, Olivia's breath gushed back into her lungs and she gasped. The sudden inhalation made her head whirl and it was with an effort that she steadied herself. But the relief at what he had just said brought the colour back into her cheeks and made her eyes sparkle with a vivacity she no longer needed to simulate. She laughed lightly as they walked side by side off the dance floor. "Oh, there will be two Birkhurst brats soon," she retorted in a rash whisper loud enough only for him to hear. "I can then repel you twice as much as I do now, and with even greater justification!"
He gave her the parting gift of a flinch, and Olivia jubilated. It was a crumb, a mere crumb, but oh, the satisfaction! "In that case, my congratulations." His recovery was swift. "Once again I thank you for your excellent hospitality, Lady Birkhurst. I wish you good night and a safe journey to your father in Hawaii."
For the second time in her life, Jai Raventhorne turned to walk out of it.
It had been an excruciating and demanding charade for Olivia and it had taken its toll on her. Her throat felt so parched that it pained her to swallow; her knees, as soft as water, were threatening to buckle under her. She longed to escape out of the room into some dark corner, but she dared not—she was still the cynosure of a hundred pairs of eyes. Underneath her exhaustion, however, lay a soaring sense of triumph, a bounding and un- ashamed elation. She had survived the acid test! She had lived through her most persistent nightmare and emerged on the other side with only minor scratches. Her will-power had endured; she had not disintegrated. Whereas Jai Raventhorne had lost forever the capacity to wound her, she could still make him flinch! It was another crumb, poor compensation for a crushed life, for the humiliating farce of her marriage, for a betrayal too vile to ever forgive, but it was better than nothing.
And he had not the whiff of a suspicion about Amos! The rest was worthless, immaterial, a mere flea bite. She would think about it tomorrow. Or not at all. The dreaded interlude had come and gone. It was over. She would never have to see Jai Raventhorne again.
Gaily, with rejuvenated enthusiasm, Olivia allowed her hostess mind to once again take over.
Now the fires did need to be doused; the rooms were turning uncomfortably close. To chase the smoke haze out of the room she sent instructions to the punkahwallahs to accelerate their efforts with the swinging overhead cloth fans. Some of the ladies were dabbing their foreheads with hankies soaked in cooling eau-de-Cologne and others were vigorously flicking their painted ivory and sandalwood hand fans across their faces. The musicians had finally gone to eat. As Olivia crossed the deserted dance floor, she caught the unexpected sight of a burgundy-clad back still standing erect and motionless next to Ransome. Loath to encounter him again, she was about to change direction when a corner of her mind picked up an odd observation. For some reason, everyone had suddenly gone very still and quiet. The flowing banter, the sound of conversation in the main salon—loud and lusty only a moment ago—seemed to be fading into untidy silences. Half-completed sentences dangled in the air; laughter, so boisterous until now, was petering out and melting into a sporadic murmur. Soon, even the murmurs were gone. A hush, thick and tangible, was suddenly upon them like a shroud. Puzzled, Olivia walked through a doorway, craned her neck for a better view of the room—and then very slowly turned into stone.
In the entrance now clearly in her vision was Sir Joshua Templewood. Next to him was her cousin. Across the deathly quiet room Olivia's gaze collided with Estelle's and held it for a moment. In the depths of Estelle's baby blue eyes was defiance, a challenging innocence, that seemed to dare Olivia to do her worst. It was evident that whatever little games her enterprising cousin had devised for the evening's entertainment were by no means played out. There were more yet to come.
Sir Joshua was in formal evening dress, perhaps still a size too big but worn with the same casual elegance that had always characterised him in happier times. A naturally large-boned man, at his peak he had towered over most. Now, once again his shoulders were squared and thrown back proudly and his head, greyer than it had been thirteen months ago, was held customarily high. There seemed to be no sign of the stoop that had so diminished his ramrod spine in recent months. Only in the oversize of his greatcoat was noticeable the loss of flesh from his body. For the rest, although his usual ruddiness had paled and the hollows of his sockets deepened, the sheer force of his personality still arrested the attention and held it without effort. He was again as he had been before, and for those who had believed him to be on his deathbed, the vision was a revelation.
Carefully now Sir Joshua unwound the rich silk cravat from his neck and handed it imperiously to John Sturges, who was standing behind him and looking desperately ill at ease. Then, with similar concentration, he worked his fingers out of his gloves one by one and neatly put the gloves in a pocket of his greatcoat, which he chose not to remove for the moment. The precise little gestures, the placid expression, the astonishing steadiness of his hands, the compelling, commanding air of confidence—all were astounding to those who had known him intimately during the preceding months.
Having completed his small duties, Sir Joshua advanced towards Olivia, who now stood rooted to a spot next to Arthur Ransome. Looking neither left nor right, he strolled casually down the centre of the room as if he were alone, as if the gaping throng on either side of him were nonexistent. Sir Joshua's steps were measured, unhurried, his expression one of supreme composure. For the very good reason that something in his eyes forbade it, nobody ventured to utter even a word of greeting. He stopped in front of Olivia, held out his arms and placed a hand on each of her shoulders. He smiled and kissed her warmly on both cheeks. "Forgive me if I have s
urprised you, my dear, but Estelle insisted that I make an appearance." He nodded approvingly. "You look very fetching in that blue, my dear, very fetching indeed."
Somehow Olivia found a voice. "I... I'm delighted that you have decided to come, Uncle Josh. We . . ." Her voice trembled and died and her frightened eyes flitted helplessly between Arthur Ransome and Jai Raventhorne, both motionless and without expression, not far from each other. Formally, Sir Joshua shook Ransome's hand. Neither man spoke, at least not in words. What passed between them otherwise could be anybody's guess. Ransome's face, as wooden as Raventhorne's, revealed nothing. The immediate formalities completed, Sir Joshua turned on his heel to walk briskly and directly up to Jai Raventhorne. He thrust out his right hand.
"Good evening, Jai."
"Good evening, Sir Joshua."
The hush in the room deepened perceptibly, like a fog, all-encompassing and impenetrable. There had never been a single occasion when the two men had come face to face, at least in public, and the effect of the confrontation now was electrifying. Nothing in Raventhorne's body seemed to be moving, not even his breath. Only a small muscle beneath his right temple twitched; the pale, staring discs of his eyes were blank as if they perceived nothing. He neither looked down at the hand proffered nor made any attempt to take it. For a few more terrible seconds Sir Joshua's hand remained suspended, unacknowledged and disdained. It was only when, with an indifferent shrug and no noticeable loss of confidence, he dropped it finally to his side that Raventhorne spoke again. He used the same tight tones as he had done before, but now he spoke quietly. "I think you must know, Sir Joshua, that what is between us cannot be redeemed by a handshake."
Sir Joshua appeared to consider that with singular concentration, then he nodded. "No. It cannot," he agreed. "Not now. Particularly not now, but then Estelle does not see that."
Had Olivia not been standing close behind her uncle, she would not have heard the exchange made in almost inaudible undertones. Something at last flickered in Jai Raventhorne's soulless eyes, a spark of amusement, a flash of contempt. In her peripheral vision, Olivia saw Estelle recoil and nervously reach out for her husband's hand. Abandoning his casual, almost cordial manner, Sir Joshua suddenly turned businesslike, a man of purpose. Removing one of his gloves from the pocket of the greatcoat he still wore, he flicked it swiftly across Raventhorne's face.
"Tomorrow morning at the Ochterlony tower. Promptly at six. Ransome and Sturges will be my seconds. Choose whatever weapons you wish."
From the riveted crowd there was a collective gasp, undoubtedly of delight. It had been many months since Calcutta had witnessed a duel that promised to be as worth-while as this. Worth-while? Why, this one promised to be sensational! Suddenly, detaching herself from her husband, Estelle ran to her father and flung herself at him. "No! Papa, you swore that you believed me!" Her anguished whisper was fierce as she clutched both his lapels in her trembling hands, her face horror-struck. "You swore that you did, you gave me your word!"
"Take her away, John." Save for a curt glance and an effort to detach himself from Estelle's grasp, Sir Joshua paid her scant heed.
"But sir...!" Shocked, his son-in-law made no move to comply, unsure as to how serious was his father-in-law's command or, indeed, the rest.
"Take her away, John!" Sir Joshua did not raise his voice but there was a hard glint in his eye and there was no mistaking the ring of authority in his command. With the trained reflexes of a soldier used to obedience without question, John firmly grabbed his wife by her arms.
Estelle resisted violently and promptly burst into tears. "You lied to me, Papa, you lied to me! You know I told you the truth, you know I could never fabricate—"
"Let go, Estelle!" John interrupted sharply, speaking for the first time. "Do as your father says."
Estelle let go and turned her tear-stained, despairing face to Olivia. "Stop him, Olivia, he mustn't..." The rest of her sentence dissolved in a fresh burst of sobs and then John, looking perfectly wretched, was marshalling her away hurriedly through the nearest exit.
No one else dared to intervene. If the frightened and fascinated onlookers had understood little of Estelle's confused exhortations to her father, what they did understand was that high drama was about to be enacted and they were damned if they were going to miss any of it. The compacted excitement in the room was intense, bouncing back and forth, up and down, against the walls and ceiling like water sloshing around an inadequate container. Through the flurry of Estelle's enforced removal, Raventhorne had remained silent. But now, as everyone's attention focused on him, and Sir Joshua's challenge awaited a response, he became mobile again. Casually he turned and strolled back to the fireplace. Balancing an elbow on the mantelpiece, he crossed his ankles in a stance of intended insolence. The curve that slashed his hard mouth open did not even pretend to be a smile, but it was audacious.
"No."
The single syllable was said mildly, even amiably, and Sir Joshua stiffened. "You refuse to offer me satisfaction, sir?"
"Oh, absolutely!" Under his breath he made a sound that might have been a laugh. "That, as you might recall, Sir Joshua, has always been the single purpose of my life."
Nobody even tittered. Closed into thin slits, Sir Joshua's shining brown eyes registered no reaction to the taunt. He shrugged and, with continuing calm, dug his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat and extracted a blue velvet packet. "Very well. In that case, we might just as well settle the matter here. We have enough witnesses." Swiftly he removed his coat, tossed it back into Ransome's arms and started to unroll the blue velvet.
Raventhorne's expression turned watchful, but he did not alter his posture. "Here?"
"Why not? As good a place as any other, wouldn't you say?"
Slate grey in their wariness, Raventhorne's eyes moved down to stare hard at the careful, loving delicacy with which Sir Joshua's adroit fingers unwrapped his possession. The palms of both hands now cradled the glinting metal of his twin Colts. Tossing the velvet wrapping over his shoulder, he half smiled, but it was Raventhorne who spoke. "I do not usually come to dinner-parties equipped to duel, Sir Joshua. Had I been forewarned," he shifted the weight of one foot onto the other and laced the fingers of his hands, "I would certainly have dressed with greater care."
Taking no cognisance of the mockery, Sir Joshua nodded. "Oh, I appreciate that. Therefore I have come equipped for both." He went down on a knee and slid one of the revolvers along the carpet. It spun with the accuracy of a well-aimed missile to stop just a fraction before the toe of Raventhorne's shining black shoe. "You may verify, or have verified by your chosen second, that it is loaded in all chambers and is in perfect firing condition. If you wish, you can test it yourself."
The tremor that swept across the room was undulant, like an earthquake. Fevered murmurs hummed in the air like swarms of bees. Huddled against each other in a corner, a group of ladies stuffed dainty lace handkerchiefs in their mouths, almost fainting with anticipation. Only one, however, had the gumption to actually do so. Tight lipped, her husband looked the other way and it was left to two young cavaliers to leap forward and hurriedly carry her out of the room. The call of chivalry completed, they returned equally hurriedly without any loss of entertainment. If there was to be bloodshed, nobody wanted to miss it, no sah! The remaining ladies valiantly sniffed courage out of their ammonia vials and silently vowed not to swoon, at least not until it was all over.
The revolver, in the meantime, continued to lie at Raventhorne's feet. He had not given it the courtesy of even a glance.
"Well?" Sir Joshua's whip-lash query rang with impatience.
"No, Sir Joshua. I commend your thoughtfulness, but I do not fight with borrowed weapons." His expression was alert, but his manner was still casual, as if in his offensiveness he merely played a game.
"Pick it up, Raventhorne," Sir Joshua commanded evenly.
"No. I do not fight with broken-down old crocks either!"
Nothing changed i
n Sir Joshua's face. The ruthless self-discipline of decades appeared to make him impervious to Raventhorne's continued barbs and taunts. Under the circumstances, his control was admirable. "Whether you do or not, I intend to kill you, Raventhorne. I hope that much, at least, is clear to you."
"By all means try." Raventhorne's lip thinned in a sneer. "If you have the accuracy left. And the guts."
"Oh, I have both the accuracy and the guts!"
Raventhorne laughed. It was a strange sound, neither full throated nor a chuckle, more an expression of continuing scepticism. "You know as well as I do, Sir Joshua," he said softly, "that you have never had the guts to kill me. Nor will you ever have. Not even now."
Sir Joshua frowned. "You are wrong, Jai," he said, enunciating with great care. "It is not the guts that have been lacking. But whatever the lack, it cannot prevail now. That you must already know." He inhaled; it was almost like a sigh. "Very well, then. If this is the way you choose to die, so be it. To give you a fighting chance, I will count up to three—"
"For God's sake, man!" A figure leapt out of the hypnotised audience to position himself between the two adversaries. It was Barnabus Slocum. His forehead dripped sweat and his pendulous jowls quivered with pious indignation. "You can't shoot an unarmed man in cold blood, Josh! Have you taken leave of your senses? Dammit, sir, it . . . it's illegal!"
