by Olivia
His duties as host discharged, Mooljee returned to business, his pudgy fingers once more interlocked across his paunch. "The site for this hotel—I take it that has already been decided?"
"Yes. The site is the residence of my late uncle, Sir Joshua Templewood. I intend to purchase the property."
Mooljee was even more put out. But then he knew that lately there had been some very curious goings-on in the city: Ransome's arrangement with the vulgar American, the lady mem's extraordinary burra khana, that business with the ship and now Kala Kanta's sudden aversion to Farrowsham. It was believed that the common factor in all these was this mannish, free-minded lady mem who had beauty and far too many brains but little modesty. How she was the common factor Mooljee could not fathom and this irked him too. And now with this projected sale, his nose smelt both trouble and profit. Would the Eurasian allow it? The sahib might be dead but the missy mem was not! Nonetheless, Mooljee's interest quickened further; that Templewood property was, after all, prime land.
"Ah yes, what a sad loss has been the untimely demise of your dear uncle—a fine gentleman, very fine indeed." He paused for a decent interval, wiped an imaginary tear, heaved a sigh of grief, then became brisk again. "The lady memsahib's plan is ambitious and also long term. Do I take it that she will then not be deserting us—leaving us utterly bereft—and going to lord sahib in London?" Unafflicted by codes of ethics, Mooljee had no qualms about asking openly what others wondered only in private.
"Yes, it is ambitious and long term." Olivia knew the reason for his concern and, side-stepping a complete answer, produced a purple satin-covered box from her purse. "This is my collateral against the loan. An authorised valuation is in the lining, but you are free to make your own if you wish. You will find this covers my loan very adequately. And my funds will not be long in arriving from England."
He made vehement protestations that he cared nothing for collateral. Indeed, if her honourable family's solvency could be questioned, then what was he save a miserable worm, a penniless pauper. "For Ram Chand Mooljee," he thundered, "the lady memsahib's word is enough, enough!" Nevertheless he opened the box to cast a careless glance within. He recognised the tiara immediately, for he never forgot gem stones he had once seen. It was part of a collection he had evaluated for Lady Bridget years ago and its diamonds were flawless, worth far more than the sum of the loan requested. There was no change in his remorseful expression as he snapped the box shut. "The money will be delivered to your residence in the morning." He scribbled out a quick receipt. "Will that be convenient?"
"Perfectly. Thank you."
Business satisfactorily concluded, Mooljee allowed the corners of his mouth to sag a little. "It has pained me greatly to learn of the honourable Agency's troubles with Kala Kanta. The man is a menace. I have always believed these Eurasians cannot be trusted."
She almost smiled; Mooljee, she knew, was one of Raventhorne's most loyal supporters. She got up to leave. "Problems come and go, Mr. Mooljee. One learns to keep them in proper perspective."
The money-lender's shifty little eyes gleamed with admiration. What a woman! Naturally, it was she who was at the eye of all the problems, but to be so daring as to mock the Kala Kanta himself! It was foolish, of course, but it was also worthy of applause. "I take it as said that Mr. Ransome and the charming Mrs. Sturges are fully in favour of the sale?"
"Oh yes. Fully."
It was a slight variation of the truth. Ransome, in fact, was dead against it. If he had eventually succumbed to Olivia's pleas, it was only because his great affection for her prevented him from refusing her anything. Estelle had agreed to a sale; the details she had no need of yet. She would bow meekly to Arthur Ransome's decisions. But all this was unnecessary for Mooljee to know.
"And it is the main house itself that the lady memsahib intends to convert into this hotel?"
A small smile touched the corners of Olivia's lips. "No. That would hardly be adequate. To house the hotel I have other plans."
The spate of letters arriving daily from Estelle, and Olivia's own persuasions, finally convinced Arthur Ransome to agree to a holiday in Cawnpore. Truly, there was now no reason for him to remain in Calcutta. Having found his footing, Lubbock no longer needed assistance; neither the fabrication of the furniture nor finances presented any more problems. All things considered, Ransome should have been a man satisfied with at least this aspect of his life. He was not. On the contrary, he was still eaten away with anxieties. Try as he might, he could not rid himself of the suspicion that everything he had been watching had been a cleverly stage-managed shadow play, that the reality behind the screen was entirely different. He had, reluctantly and against his better judgement, accepted Olivia's offer for the Templewood house as part of Farrowsham's diversification plans, but he was not satisfied with her explanations, however plausible. It was not the commercial viability of the scheme that worried him. The market was already humming with interest; even the Company's top echelons were putting out feelers. Ransome's worry stemmed from a more personal cause and, eventually, he could not hold his tongue any longer.
"You have made a great deal of work for yourself with this hotel project of yours, Olivia. I wish I could believe your intentions of actually seeing it through."
It was the night before his departure for Cawnpore. They were in the Templewood dining-room sharing Babulal's final offering of an aromatic stew, more Indian than Irish but still very tasty. Tomorrow there would be padlocks on all the doors and, save two watchmen and a part-time sweeper, no servants would remain. Ransome would hand over possession to Olivia and that would be that. Another chapter of his life was concluding and the thought was making him melancholy.
Recognising his sentiments, Olivia pressed his hand fondly. "Don't worry, Uncle Arthur! Everything will turn out for the best, you'll see."
The vague reassurance did not address the point he was trying to make. He knew she had deliberately evaded it. "Olivia, before I leave I feel it is my duty to say what I am about to." He couldn't accept any more prevarications. "I hope you will take it well, for I speak as one to whom your welfare is of utmost concern. You are a woman of grit, of exceptional resilience and competence. The reputation that you have earned for yourself as an astute businesswoman is really quite enviable and I, as do many others, respect it—indeed, I more than anyone. I personally am beholden to you for life. No, don't dismiss that!" He aborted her move to protest. "To our beleaguered firm you have been a selfless supporter. But," he paused, looking for words, "you are still a woman, a wife and a mother. The world of commerce is unparalleled in its excitement, I grant you, but it is also a world of cutthroats, dirty dealings, graft, corruption and gutter moralities, to say nothing of often gutter mentalities. Of course it's much the same anywhere in the world where there are such rich pickings, but this, Olivia, is not the world for you. Your life and that of your child," he said with solemn earnestness, "must be with your husband. It is to England that you must now look for your future. Leave Willie to tackle Raventhorne as best he can. Left on his own, he will conjure up some adequately crafty devices and compromises."
It was the most frankly personal advice he had ever ventured to give her. Listening to it, Olivia filled with sadness. No longer could she keep at least part of the truth from this man she had learned to love and regard as a father. "I will not be joining Freddie in England," she said quietly. "There are too many irreconcilable differences between us to ever consider being together again."
Hearing the town's gossip confirmed so bluntly, Arthur Ransome's warm, kindly eyes dimmed. When he spoke, his throat was thick with feeling. "But there must be some grounds for a rapprochement at least for Amos's sake!" He was, of course, unaware of the supreme irony of that remark. "And also for the sake of the little one that is to be. What on earth can Freddie be thinking of! Two fatherless infants—how will you manage?"
"It is not Freddie who is to blame," she muttered inaudibly, almost blurting out the rest of the truth b
ut then realising just how foolish that would be. It would only shatter all the rest of his illusions and cause him even more sorrow. A ribbon of pain threaded through the unguarded crevices of her mind. "Oh, I will manage. As you yourself said, I am resilient."
"But my dear child . . .!" Once again unembarrassed to display emotion, he could not hold back his grief. "The load of your responsibility, the moral stresses—have you considered those? I need hardly add that, for what it is worth, you can always depend on me for any assistance, any." Overcome, he stopped. Then, in quite a different tone, he added, "I know that in our lives we must each do what we think is right. But, Olivia, I beg you, in your . . . crusade against Jai, do not lose sight of the forest for the trees." For all his confirmed bachelorhood, his lack of experience with women, Arthur Ransome was no fool. He had long sensed that there were in Olivia's life vast tracts that were hidden, tracts where trespassers would not be welcome. So far he had made his observations in silence. Even now he treaded warily, for the ground was largely unfamiliar. "Don't drive Jai too far, Olivia. Cornered, he can be uncompromisingly vicious—as I scarcely need to remind you. Jai never forgives, never forgets."
Olivia broke the uncomfortable tension of the moment with a light laugh and a shrug. "In that case, we are certainly well matched. You see, Uncle Arthur, neither do I."
It was June again. For the third time since Olivia had been in India, the monsoon clouds started to gather.
Though satisfied with her general health, Dr. Humphries passed severe strictures on Olivia's continuing attendance at the office and what he called her game of ducks and drakes with the collective nerves of the city. "I appreciate your efforts to bring me patients, my girl, but with your Willie as a charge I might as well take to the asylum myself! What are you trying to do, take over the blasted Empire? For heaven's sake, woman, at least for the time being leave the acrobatics to the men!"
"But I enjoy my work," Olivia protested. "What would I do at home all day? I'd be bored stupid."
"Do? Good God, do what other women do when they're about to deliver babies. Make booties and bonnets and jams and lace doilies, that's what! Incidentally, didn't you tell me that Estelle plans to return in time for your confinement?"
"Yes. She insists on it."
"And a damn good thing too! If nothing else chains you to the hearth, I'm sure your determined cousin will. By all means return to do battle—but after your child is born."
It was, of course, salutary advice. Wisely Olivia resigned herself to it, knowing that in order to "do battle" her presence wasn't really necessary at the Agency. The front that she had now opened was located elsewhere. Also, the enforced inactivity allowed her to spend longer hours with her son. It broke Olivia's heart that, save for the servants' children, Amos did not have any little playmates. She was aware that the strange seclusion in which she kept her child was the subject of avid gossip in station. Since the time of his birth Amos had never been seen either in the park or at other children's birthday parties or, indeed, in the carriage driving out with his mother. Not even the good doctor— as Millie Humphries frequently pointed out to her friends—had ever set eyes on Amos Birkhurst's little face, except just after he was born when he had been displayed briefly to callers. Some whispered knowingly that the boy was deformed, so hideously in fact that his mother dared not reveal his person for fear of open ridicule. Others, less imaginative, put it down baldly to Olivia's intolerably hoity-toity airs. The schemingly acquired title and riches had turned her head, and her victories over that man, paltry business successes and importance in her husband's Agency even more so. The truth was, the majority averred, that milady considered her precious son too good for the likes of their modest, middle-class progeny. In that case, la-di-da—see if they cared!
Aware of the rumours, Olivia was more wounded than she was willing to admit. Within her own premises also, she lived in perennial fear. Mary Ling was a simple, trusting girl, but she too was Eurasian. How soon would she start to wonder about the child's resemblance to Raventhorne? And the rest of her staff who had seen him in such memorable circumstances at her cousin's reception, how soon would they start talking—or did they do so already? All this frightened and hurt Olivia, but she was helpless; now more than ever she simply could not afford to take risks. But once disentangled from the pernicious threads of this giant silken cobweb, she vowed to herself she would spend every moment compensating Amos for his present cruel deprivations.
To avoid the inevitable spate of morning callers, Olivia started to pass the hours before luncheon at the Templewood bungalow with Amos and Mary. She felt she could not face those who indubitably came with gossip in mind, to sniff and smell out juicy snippets of information that could then be scattered around at burra khanas to add to the spicy offerings. Others would come with possibly kinder intentions, but in her present mood of restiveness, Olivia felt she could not stomach them either. Besides, some preliminary activity had already commenced at the Templewood bungalow. A firm of surveyors had been called in to accurately measure the land, some uneven ground at the back was being levelled and a suitably qualified architect was in the process of being selected to design the Farrowsham hotel on the lines of the most modern establishments in America. Olivia had also made known her need for an experienced, possibly retired, hotelier of repute who would be competent to act as her adviser. There was no doubt that the project was gathering momentum. The interest it was generating among potential investors was prompting a daily deluge of inquiries at the Agency. If Donaldson was gratified by this favourable reaction he did not show it; dour and unbending, he remained as suspicious as ever.
But from Jai Raventhorne there was only silence.
One of the few callers Olivia genuinely welcomed was Hal Lubbock, fast developing into an India hand of confidence. For Olivia, even his unbridled vulgarity came as a touch of the home that was now only a mirage, and she found it vastly refreshing. One morning he arrived with a not unexpected tidbit of news. "This gah Raventhorne, ah'd shure lahk to know what makes him tick. Heard what he's doin' with that old shipwreck?" Olivia told him that she had not heard. "Nuttin'. Would yuh b'lieve it? Nuttin'!" Added to that, he proceeded to tell her with much astonishment, he had removed the guards from the site and made it known that anyone who wished to help himself to a piece of the Daffodil was welcome to take what they wanted. As a consequence, the river site was swarming with scavengers, like flies around a rotten carcass, picking the ship to its bones. "Can yuh beat that, my'am? Ah guess someone could figger it aht—ah shure as hell cahn't!"
Yes, she could figure it out. Whatever might have once been mounted on her prow, the Daffodil remained a symbol of the man Raventhorne hated; that he was now dead made no difference. Lubbock would have been shocked, had he known it, at just how accurate was his analogy of that carcass.
Were it not for the dutiful letters Olivia forced herself to fabricate each week to her family, and for those that arrived in return with gratifying regularity, she would no longer have thought of America. Home, family and future had simply ceased to hold meaning for her. Now there was only the present. He was thinking, her father wrote, of registering Amos's name at Yale, "unless Freddie considers Oxford or Cambridge more fitting." A nursery annex for two was half erected right next to the beach. Sally was busy stitching little swim-suits. A trip was planned to San Francisco this coming summer, perhaps one to England next year to make the acquaintance of Freddie and his family. No doubt by then she too would be there with both her children. The Sacramento farm had been bought up by Greg, who was now married to a Mexican girl and they were about to become proud parents. Dane and Dirk were learning about India from her father; they also wanted to know if it was true that as an English lord's wife she now had to wear a crown, even when she went to bed.
And then, one fine morning, like a messenger from heaven, an angel from the gods, Kinjal arrived!
Olivia was overwhelmed; for a moment or two she could not speak. Before the rains damaged
the roads seriously, Kinjal explained, she had decided to spend some time in Calcutta so as to be on hand during Olivia's second confinement. Also, it would be a good time to complete rituals before the mother goddess at the Kali temple in fulfilment of a vow she had taken for the continuing health and prosperity of her family. Olivia knew that Arvind Singh maintained a permanent residence in Kalighat on the canal known as the adhi Ganga, the half Ganges, a tributary of the Hooghly and also highly sacred to Calcutta's Hindus. It was now almost a year since Olivia had last seen Kinjal; however active their correspondence, to be once more face to face with her dearest friend, her true confidant, brought for Olivia a resurgence of a joy such as she had not savoured in months. There was so much news to be given and received, so much to be talked about, oh so much!
Kinjal had brought with her generous gifts for her friend and for Amos. Now almost a year old, bursting with boyish energy and undiluted enchantment, Amos was much admired, cosseted and cuddled, and allowed rampant liberties with which to show off all his newly acquired accomplishments. In between, they exchanged volumes of news and talked and laughed until their throats ran dry and their voices cracked. Tarun and Tara, Kinjal told her, were once again with their grandparents in the north. Arvind Singh was totally preoccupied with completing repairs to the mine and with ubiquitous State duties. Relieved of household responsibilities and the onerous burdens of being a conscientious Maharani, if only temporarily, Kinjal seemed marvellously relaxed, her mood reposeful and receptive.
Which was why, that afternoon, Olivia decided to stir a subject she had not meant to until much later. In a way, she dreaded the moment, but what she had planned had to be said sometime and now seemed a better time than later. "You have already done so much for me, Kinjal dearest, that I am ashamed to confess there is still one favour I have to beg of you. Had you not come, in fact, I would have written to plead for your presence." The strangeness that had come over Olivia's face stopped Kinjal from premature intervention. She waited. "As soon as my baby is born, I request you to remove it from my proximity."
