Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  "Remove it?" Kinjal was startled. "Remove it where?"

  "Wherever it is not within my reach or hearing. I would also be supremely grateful for the provision of a suitable wet-nurse of your recommendation from Kirtinagar. She should be willing to travel to England with the child. I will, of course, also bear all expenses for her subsequent return. Mary will be accompanying them, naturally. The woman will be well taken care of and will suffer no language difficulties."

  Olivia's calm matter of factness by no means deluded Kinjal, but nevertheless she was appalled. "You will surrender your child to your husband? With no thought for your own feelings? No, no, my poor friend, I will not, I cannot be party to such self-inflicted cruelty!"

  "Kinjal, I must do this!" Olivia said fiercely. "Without it my moral bargain has no meaning." For the moment she felt no pain, only impatience. There would be plenty of time later for mourning. "You see, Kinjal, what I want to do is not what I have to do anymore. The two have become irreconcilable. Between you and Estelle, who will also arrive shortly, you must not let me weaken. I have no one else upon whom to depend."

  "Curses on that moral bargain of yours!" Kinjal cried in rare anger. "It is the mother in me who rebels at the severity of this obscene penance you have devised for yourself!"

  "Devised for myself?" Olivia laughed. "Every twist of my life has been devised for me, my friend, or had you not noticed? Circumstances pipe the tune. I merely dance to it."

  Silenced, Kinjal searched Olivia's smiling face in immense sorrow. How transformed her lovely, innocent American had become in even less than a year! There was a waspish set to her mouth, thin and hard, that made a mockery of her laugh. The golden eyes, so filled once with honeyed innocence, were like frosted window panes, opaque and glassy. She seemed compulsively restless, finding it impossible to keep her twitching hands still. Where was that mellifluous calm, that gazelle grace that had given her such suppleness? And where was the innocent radiance that had once illuminated that angelic face from within like a Chinese lantern? Even the rich gloss of her glorious chestnut hair had dulled. Gone also was that beguiling openness of manner that had been her most appealing asset. Now there was unattractive smugness, a furtive need to avoid meeting even her friend's eyes squarely, and a sadly distasteful lack of honesty. It was a reversal of personality so cruel that Kinjal liquefied with inner pain and a profound feeling of personal loss.

  "Keep your child, Olivia!" she begged, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Forget Freddie, forget your satanic bargain—forget Jai Raventhorne! Your craving for vengeance corrodes only you; it tarnishes your judgement, distorts all your perspectives—and still harms not a hair of Jai's head. Take your two children away to those heavenly islands, Olivia. There you will learn to be content, to laugh again, to love and be loved, to be happy and, perhaps, to live once more in tranquility."

  Olivia was vaguely surprised by Kinjal's lack of understanding. Forget Jai Raventhorne? Now? When she was so close to levelling the score? When she had waited so long for this, the moment of final reckoning? But then she remembered that, like Estelle, Kinjal too had divided loyalties; she could hardly be expected to abandon one in favour of the other. No, she could not forget Jai Raventhorne. Life revolved around many axes, in many time cycles. There was a time to love, a time to forget. A time to avenge.

  But for Kinjal's benefit, she only smiled.

  En route on her return journey to Calcutta, Estelle said, she had made an excursion into the Burdwan jungles to visit the grave of her father. With her she had taken a marble tombstone reading:

  Here lies Joshua Adam Templewood, beloved husband of Bridget Lucy nee Halliwell, cherished father of Estelle Sarah Sturges. Born June 28, 1793 Anno Domini, died November 15, 1849, here in the wilderness under tragic circumstances. Deeply mourned in abundant love, never forgotten, always missed. "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures."

  The day Estelle had installed the headstone at the lonely grave, he would have completed the fifty-sixth year of his life.

  Olivia was pained to see Estelle again so desolate, so low in spirits. She talked instead of Arthur Ransome, making inquiries as to how he enjoyed his holiday in Cawnpore. But Ransome too, it appeared, had broken journey to visit the grave on his way up country and that subject was equally hurtful to Estelle. Considering all this, Olivia refrained from making mention of the letter she herself had just received from Lady Bridget.

  Since her aunt had left, Olivia had written to her with unfailing regularity once a month but, until now, she had never received any answer. My darling child, the unexpected missive had begun,

  With your inborn compassion you will have, I know, forgiven my long silence. I have had nothing of worth for which to put pen to paper, save my love and blessings that are always yours. I rejoice to learn of your happiness, of your son and of the fulfilment I know you have enjoyed in your marriage. That you are again to be a mother I celebrate without words. I have none to express the joy that I feel.

  There followed a page from a sermon she had heard and admired at a local church service, but all that Olivia merely skimmed over. It was too depressingly full of the wages of sin, of penances and expiations, of the hellfire and brimstone that awaited all mortals in the hereafter, to make either pleasant or informative reading. What Olivia searched for was personal news of her aunt; it was contained in the final paragraphs of the letter and it twisted Olivia with pity.

  I break my one long silence, my beloved niece, to inform you of another that I am about to enter; it will be a state of such blessedness, such rewarding serenity, that I am filled with ecstasy. I have been granted residence in a convent of Our Lady situated on the Yorkshire moors. In her generous and Christian charity, the Mother Superior will administer to me next week an oath of silence whereby I will pledge my life—or whatever remains of it before I am summoned to the Great Meadow beyond—to the humble service of the Lord who is my Shepherd. Do not ever mourn for me, Olivia, or think of me as a refugee from the world. For those of us to whom the gates of the kingdom of man are forever closed, there is another Kingdom, far, far above this miserable one, where there is always rapture.

  I pray that you stay forever happy in your life. I cannot forget, even in the midst of my godly devotions, what it is that I owe to you. In my mind, I talk to Sarah every day. At last, at last, I am forgiven! Sadly, what I receive from Sarah I cannot find it in my heart to give to others. In your God-given wisdom you will understand what I mean, and in your understanding, not think too harshly of me. May the Good Lord smile upon your endeavours, dear child, whatever and wherever you might want them to be. I send my warm greetings to dearest Freddie. To you and to Amos, I send all my love. I will pray for the safe delivery of your second child. Think of me sometimes, Olivia, but never, never with grief.

  Neither her husband nor her daughter nor Arthur Ransome was mentioned. Olivia wept, mostly for Estelle, unaware that she too had received the news, but from her Aunt Maude. Neither cousin spoke of it to the other.

  Mercifully, Estelle's depression did not last beyond the first day or two of her arrival. Because she was naturally cheerful and because her sense of duty towards her cousin was strong, Estelle again forced her own feelings into the background to apply herself to the single-minded aim of making her company useful to her cousin. She informed Olivia, with much amusing detail, that she hated, absolutely hated, Cawnpore. It was dreary and dusty, the military wives more so and the civilians even worse. "All they do is complain about the mofussil all the time, ugh!"

  "Like you?" Olivia teased, glad for once at the return of trivia.

  "Yes, but they add to the drear, I don V. And I hate mahjongg. I can never remember which tile goes where, and I'm hopeless at gin and bridge and écarté and all the other silly card-games. John has his nose buried in his wretched garrison; I hardly see him." But she said that Arthur Ransome and her parents-in-law got on splendidly, and in his anxiety to make as good a host as possible, John had promised them all a trip to L
ucknow to see all those fabulous native palaces. Discreet as always, John's parents asked no questions either about Sir Joshua's death or anything they had witnessed at the reception at Olivia's house.

  Olivia was deeply touched by Estelle's return, but she was also nervous. The favour she needed to ask of Estelle was grotesque; Estelle would argue endlessly. She would also talk, inevitably, about Jai Raventhorne and there would be even more arguments then.

  With so many friends in town, Estelle spent her first week making social calls, receiving them and partying, if with subdued enthusiasm. Olivia did not begrudge her her gregariousness, knowing how badly she needed a release from her festering grief. Also, it was pleasant to have hordes of young people in and out of the Birkhurst house; the desolate rooms echoed with rare laughter. Knowing now who Amos's father was, Estelle took exceptional care never to expose the child to her friends. With what excuses she fended them off Olivia did not know, but they were evidently effective. Amos, in his nursery suite upstairs, continued to remain undisturbed.

  It was on their first quiet evening at home together that Estelle asked, as Olivia knew she would sometime, "So, what's all this about a hotel? Are you seriously considering the idea?"

  "Yes."

  "But how extraordinary! What made you think of such a project?"

  "It will be, I hope, a good investment for the future."

  "Well, I suppose in a way it's rather sad. I was born in that house, you know." Estelle stifled a yawn, perhaps to avoid any relapse into nostalgia, and said with a quick shiver, "I don't ever want to live there again. It is Uncle Arthur whom I trust to make all my decisions now." She swallowed another yawn. "But I would have thought the house too small for a proper hotel. Surely you should have more rooms to offer."

  "Yes. We will. We plan a new construction."

  "A new construction? Oh my, how grand! Where, in the garden?"

  "No. In the servants' compound."

  Estelle aborted a third yawn. "You mean, you plan to pull down all those quarters?"

  "Naturally. How else do we make enough space for a new building?"

  "Well, yes, I suppose that is sensible." She went on to describe, with some relish, a hotel in London where she had eaten with Jai. "It was terribly grand, you know, with hot towels and fancy soaps and a menu card as long as a yardstick. And the food was French, all a la this, that or the other. I even tried the escargots," she made a face, "but they were delicious." She spent a moment or two describing more of the gustatory delights, but then something began to scratch at the back of her mind. Frowning, she seemed to be trying to mentally put it into focus; then suddenly she saw it. "Those servants' quarters," she said slowly, "Jai was born in one of them. His mother lived in it with him for eight years."

  "Was he? Oh yes. I had forgotten."

  Estelle's expression changed. "He ... he might not want those rooms demolished, you know. I told you how strange he is about everything to do with his mother."

  "Well, he's unlikely to be consulted in the matter."

  Very gradually understanding dawned. Estelle sat up very straight, no sign of sleep now in her alert eyes. "That isn't what this . . . hotel is all about, is it Olivia? Is it to wound Jai that you seek to destroy those quarters?"

  Olivia shrugged off her questions. "Sentiments, his or anyone else's, are of no value to me. I see the hotel as a sound business project for Farrowsham, that's all."

  "Do you? Well, I don't believe you," she said, acutely distressed. "Uncle Arthur told me about the sale of the Daffodil and about that figure-head. Even though I knew how you had hit upon its significance to Jai, I had not intended to bring up the subject. You see, Olivia—despite what you have assumed—I have not and cannot forgive Jai entirely, not when Papa's grave is still so fresh. I was glad that you could force Jai into making even this minimal reparation. But that was only a matter of money. This, what you do now, is . . . inhuman."

  "Humanity and sound business propositions sometimes don't go together, as under other circumstances your brother would be the first to agree."

  "Neither do humanity and exploitation!" Estelle cried. "You bought Papa's property only to exploit Jai's irrational weakness, Olivia, admit it—a weakness you happened to learn about from me. It's so . . . cruel to hit him where he is least defended!"

  Olivia raised an eyebrow, amused. "My dear, where else would you expect me to hit him—where he is fully defended? Have you not heard what he is attempting to do to Farrowsham?"

  Estelle was immediately downcast. "Yes. Uncle Arthur told me."

  "And do you consider I should sit back and let him demolish poor, blameless Freddie's company?"

  "No, but there must be other ways of retaliation. If you like, I could perhaps—"

  "Intercede? Plead for charity? No!" Incensed, Olivia took care not to show it. Tedious debates such as this she had expected; it was to other, more vital matters that she wanted to turn now. "He attacks Farrowsham to punish me for having married Freddie—no, don't say anything, Estelle, just listen." She pounced before Estelle could interrupt. "You must see that I cannot allow that, I must fight back. I don't have the resources he has, nor the physical force. To retaliate effectively, I must make use of the only weapon available to me—information. And it must be used accurately. Mine will be." She raised her heavy, cumbersome body off the settee and stretched the stiffness out of her limbs. "And now, would you join me in a glass of hot milk? Before we retire to bed there is something I wish to tell you."

  Estelle knew that Olivia would not now allow her to reopen the subject. Unhappily, swallowing the remainder of her comments, she nodded. The breach between them was still not fully healed. As it was, she had said far more than she had intended. But there was something about Olivia that was now beginning to frighten Estelle. She saw that her cousin's attitude was not entirely unjustified. Jai was behaving shockingly with her, going berserk; yes, she had to retaliate, perhaps even with cruelty— inhuman as it was. What frightened Estelle was not what Olivia plotted to do; it was the openly malicious pleasure she seemed to derive from doing it.

  Half an hour later, however, having listened intently to Olivia about quite another project, Estelle was devastated. "To England?" she gasped. "You will do this for Freddie after the way he has treated you?"

  "Don't delude yourself that my motives are noble, Estelle! I do it for my own salvation, for the way I have treated him."

  "But how can Freddie dare to expect—"

  "Freddie expects nothing. For all I know, he doesn't even expect fatherhood! I do this of my own free will because I must. From you, Estelle, I beg a very special favour: You must ensure with Kinjal that I never lay eyes on my baby. It is upon both of you that I depend to see to its care before it can be safely taken away to England. And whatever happens, you must promise that my baby's birth cry," an ache, a mere shadow of one, streaked across her face and was then gone, "is not within my hearing. That I could not bear. It will make me falter and I mustn't. No, don't cry, Estelle! To succumb to emotion now is to make it even more difficult for me. But if you feel that you cannot help—"

  "Of course I can help! And of course I will!" Eyes pouring tears, Estelle flung herself at her cousin and hugged her. "Oh, Olivia, how can you even consider such a monstrous sacrifice!"

  Olivia put her arms around Estelle's heaving shoulders and stroked her hair. "I do not see it as a sacrifice. My loss will be Freddie's gain, and that of my baby. This child, at least, will not have to live deprived of a father. And now, also promise me that you will not talk of this again. Not until the time comes. Argument might convince me otherwise, and I know that would be wrong."

  Still sobbing, Estelle nodded tacitly. Her one little seed of brattish discontent—with what malignant fecundity it had germinated this seemingly infinite forest!

  The following day was a Friday. Olivia gave the order for the demolitions of the Templewood servants' quarters to commence on the coming Monday morning.

  Whatever Estelle's rea
ctions, she now chose to keep them to herself, but young Mordecai Abrahams was delighted. A Jew from Cochin and a building contractor by trade, Abrahams had secured this highly lucrative and prestigious commission through the good offices of his brother, Sol, who was employed at Farrowsham as a messenger. Sol had warned his brother that, unlike plenty of other mems, this one could not be hoodwinked easily with inflated bills and false expenses. Besides, she knew their language well, which meant he had to be careful what he said to his men in her presence. Most important of all, he was to obey her every instruction implicitly. Which is why, when Olivia instructed Abrahams to announce far and wide that the demolitions would start on Monday, he instantly dispatched runners all over Calcutta so that the news became known in every locality. He had no idea why she should issue such an odd instruction. But he did know that all white people were partially sankhi, eccentric. If that was the way of their world, considering what she was paying him, who was he to argue?

  There was still no word from Jai Raventhorne. Not a hint, not a whisper. But Olivia was not worried. The bait had been cast; she knew it would be taken, but not until the very last, when her already jittery nerves were at the snapping point. The vast quadrangle where hordes of children had once played and crowded families lived crammed into inadequate, unhealthy space still showed signs of life, although not human. Rats, bandicoots, and scavenging cockroaches scuttled about searching for scraps no longer available. The drain that had nauseated her that significant Dassera night two years ago had long dried, but the stubborn stench still lingered. To Olivia's right was that dismal cell in which the old woman had lain coughing her life away, now no doubt dead, cremated to ashes and forgotten. To her left, adjoining the erstwhile cow shed, was the quarter that Arthur Ransome had once pointed out to her as where Jai Raventhorne had been born. In appearance it was no different from the others. Dark, dank and with a small, slatted window, it had a brick floor pitted with rat burrows. Desolation seeped in slimy green fingers through the cracks in its walls, the residue of many monsoons. The smell in Olivia's nostrils was of decay, of death, as in a foetid catacomb. Ironically enough, this decrepit tomb had also been a womb from which new life had emerged.