Ryman, Rebecca (11 page)

"I've
ordered American ice, Josh, for the sherbets and the white wines. The Bassetts
served their wines warm and they were a laughing-stock, remember? Well, how
much will we need, four maunds?" The grunt that issued from behind the
newspaper could have indicated anything, but his wife chose to take it as an
affirmation of her estimate and neatly ticked off an item on her list.
"And I've asked for a hundred bearers for the serving. Do you think that
will be enough?"

"Quite
enough, dear." Had she said two or two thousand, his response would have
probably been the same.

"Will
you wear your maroon or your navy blue? I've had them both cleaned and pressed
just in case."

"Good."

"And
you must tell me, what do these native princes drink? Isn't alcohol against
their religion or something?"

This
time she had her husband's total attention. "As far as I
know," he
said, setting aside the newspaper and concentrating fully, "Arvind Singh
appreciates a good Scotch as well as the next man. Keep the Glenmorangie aside
for him, will you? It's not an old whisky, but Willie Donaldson recommends it
thoroughly. I've been informed that His Highness will bring an entourage of
twenty-five. They won't touch the beef, of course, or the pork. Neither will
Das and his bunch. Make a separate table for them with plenty of fish, fowl and
vegetables."

Lady
Bridget's lips thinned in disapproval. "What a silly fuss, Josh! The more
you pander to them, the larger the swell of their heads."

Sir
Joshua returned to his newspaper. "Arvind Singh is an investment, Bridget.
Let's leave it at that."

"And
that man Das? Vain, dressed-up toad that he is?"

His
expression thoughtful again, Sir Joshua fingered his whiskers as he stared out
of the window. "When one wishes to catch a monkey, my dear, one has to
employ all one's resources," he said softly. "Das is a resource, no
less, no more. Besides, he is a money-lender, a rich one at that. He has his
uses." He smiled. "They all do, my dear, they all do."

With
her head spinning with exhaustion, her feet throbbing and her nerves torn to
shreds, Olivia prayed only for the great day to come and go. Save for its
lavish dimensions, there was no reason why this
burra khana
should be
any less boring for her than the others she had been subjected to. The sole
silver lining she saw was that the benign hand of fate had withdrawn Freddie
from station and borne him away to his north Bengal indigo plantation. Even so,
she decided glumly, the evening for her would be a penance.

But
in her pessimism Olivia was to be proved wrong. During the course of Estelle's
coming-of-age festivities she was to have an encounter destined to change the
direction of her life.

Each
year Estelle's birthday missed the last of the monsoons by a hairbreadth.
Consequently, it was amidst a glorious post-rains sunset of scarlet and orange
and purple that the carriages started to arrive in an endless procession. Smart
gentry in their best bibs and tuckers spilled out onto the manicured lawns
massed with banks of flowers. Pale faced and shivering with excitement, Estelle
took her place in the receiving line together with her parents
and Olivia. Her
spectacular blue gown suited her well, and in the middle of her elaborate
coiffeur (subject of another fierce battle) nestled the priceless diamond tiara
given to her by her parents as a birthday gift. The cosmetics on her face were
heavy (the fight to have them even more so), but she looked enchanting as she
dispensed curtsies, kisses and handshakes, and gave and received compliments
with the perfect poise of the adult she considered herself to have now become.

For
Olivia, this evening her aunt's will had prevailed. She had not been able to
avoid wearing the shimmering aquamarine sateen specially ordered for her by
Lady Bridget at enormous cost. The beautiful gown had a waspish waist that
necessitated the ultimate horror, whalebone stays. Her aunt had also insisted
on lace gloves, high-heeled gold sandals and long stockings. To her pained
protest that nobody would see the stockings anyway, Lady Bridget had snapped,
"Well, I should hope not!", closing the discussion. But however
self-conscious she felt, Olivia would not have been human not to feel some
thrill at what the mirror offered. Brought up in wholesome cottons, sensible
shoes and no-nonsense underwear, she blushed at the vision of unaccustomed
elegance that confronted her, especially at the exquisite emerald necklace and
pear-drop earrings her aunt had loaned her to wear through the evening.
Secretly twirling and twisting before the full-length mirror, Olivia could
almost hear Sally MacKendrick's admiring gasp. "Why Livvie honey, you look
fit to be eaten by the Queen, pips and all, I do swear!"

Estelle's
fervent plea to her had been to keep an eye on Mrs. Drummond. "If Mama
were to be rude to her in front of my friends, I'd die, just
die,
Olivia."
But, as it happened, Lady Bridget's mood was expansive. The Governor-General,
His Excellency Lord Dalhousie and Lady Dalhousie had sent their regrets since
they would be out on tour, but they had also sent a handsome silver creamer
engraved with their crest as a gift for Estelle. In her pride at the honour,
Lady Bridget radiated impartially in all directions, one of which happened to
be where Mrs. Drummond sat. The unexpected smile of approval she received quite
confused the lady; in her nervousness she promptly downed two more glasses of
claret in rapid succession.

As
per her aunt's stringent instructions, Olivia grimly and dutifully circulated.
The lawns, both front and back, now thronged with guests and the crush was
considerable. The happy clink of glasses sounded across the easy laughter and
the hum of well-bred conversation. An inordinate number of bearers, in
starched
turbans, white liveries and red cummerbunds, scurried to and fro with their
splendid array of refreshments. Although Olivia could not remember the names of
all those to whom she had been introduced, she exchanged pleasantries and made
small talk with finesse, staying well away from the two topics her aunt had
proscribed—politics and commerce.

"You
ride exceptionally well, Miss O'Rourke, that too astride, which is unusual for
ladies here. I see you often in the mornings."

The
speaker was a rotund young man with a goatee and humorous brown eyes. His name
was Courtenay or Poultenay; Olivia couldn't remember which. "Thank you.
Yes, I do enjoy exploring the town—not the native quarters, of course,"
she clarified quickly in case it was somehow passed on to her aunt. "I
restrict myself to the White Town and the embankment."

He
raised a questioning eyebrow. "Oh, but you shouldn't! The true heart of
India beats where the natives live. The bazaars, the gullies and alleyways are
far more interesting than this dreary part of station."

Taken
aback, Olivia surveyed him with interest. "You know them well?"

"Oh,
indeed. I share a chummery with friends in Neeloo Dalai Street." Noting
her look of astonishment, he laughed. "You see, Miss O'Rourke, I belong to
that happy, exclusive band of Europeans who are said to have 'gone native.' We
don't serve by standing and waiting, but not even Milton could fault the
salutary service we perform for the European community. Were it not for us
renegades, what on earth would you ladies talk about?" He laughed again,
obviously content in his alleged notoriety.

"When
you say 'gone native,' " Olivia asked, lowering her voice with a hasty
look over her shoulder as she warmed to him, "what exactly do you
mean?"

He
pinked and his lips twitched. "I regret that such information you will
have to extract from one of the ladies, Miss O'Rourke. I'm in enough trouble as
it is."

By
which Olivia presumed it was something to do with Indian mistresses and
suchlike and was much intrigued. She would have dearly liked to pursue the
matter, but, catching Lady Bridget's hawk-eye across a jasmine bush, she
regretfully excused herself to move on to her next duty. Privately, however,
she decided to include Mr. Courtenay or Poultenay in her diary the next day as
her accolade to a rather intrepid young Englishman.

In
her shimmering beige taffeta cuffed with café au lait lace, Lady Bridget looked
intimidatingly regal. Her fair hair, streaked only lightly with grey, was
coiffed with such perfection that not even the breeze dared to disturb a single
strand. Hers was that effortless elegance that only those who are rich and have
never been otherwise can carry off with grace. She patted the chair next to her
and Olivia seated herself. The conversation between her aunt and her
surrounding friends was about hill stations, the frantic need each summer to
flee the blazing heat of Calcutta, and the woeful dearth of any suitable hills
to retreat to in this part of the country. "From Rawalpindi," mourned
a Mrs. Dalrymple who obviously came from there, "Murree is a hop, skip and
a jump. One can abandon the burning plains to be within viewing distance of
snowy peaks in the Himalayas in no more than a
day!"
She fanned herself
vigorously. "But where does one go from here, I ask you,
where?"

"Well,
there's always the sea," Lady Bridget replied a trifle coldly. It was all
very well to curse Calcutta oneself; no such liberty could be allowed a newly
come northerner bent only on finding fault. "Many consider the beaches of
Puri, for instance, far more invigorating than the hills. I must say, I do
myself."

Which
successfully put paid to any further comments Mrs. Dalrymple might have been
intending on the subject. Sitting next to Mollie Bassett on her right, Olivia
picked up her whisper to Betty Pennworthy seated on Mrs. Bassett's other side.
"It's the heat that does it, you know. Makes them, well, more
ardent
than
we English." They were staring at a knot of Indian gents dressed in
awkward broadcloth frock-coats and stiff shirts, looking dreadfully gauche and
self-conscious.

"You're
not speaking from
personal
experience, now are you, lovie?" Mrs.
Pennworthy giggled and jabbed her neighbour with an elbow. "If so,
do
tell.
I hear a toss in the hay native style can be very, well,
spicy!"

Mollie
Bassett squealed. "Ooh,
Betty!
Not in front of Arabella and our
innocent Olivia, to say nothing of," she dipped her voice,
"Bridget!" Holding her sides, she fell about with laughter.

"You
don't have to worry about me, ducks," sniffed Arabella Winter drily. A
spinster, she was known universally behind her bony, angular back as "the
Spin." "I used to teach biology in Middlesbrough—there's not much
I
don't know about our bodily functions. It's young Olivia here you're shocking
out of her wits."

"Not
at all, Miss Winter," Olivia hastened to assure her,
equally drily.
"Believe it or not, we Americans too have our bodily functions."

There
were more helpless hoots all around and a shocked "Tut, tut!" from
one or two despite the exclusively female company. Just then Estelle hurried up
to claim Olivia and drag her behind a tree. "There's something I have to
know this
instant."
She looked flushed and flustered. "It's
about John. He
kissed
me, right behind the stables, and put his tongue
in my mouth. Is that. . .
normal?"

"No.
If it were normal, he would have kissed you on the
mouth,
not behind the
stables," Olivia said, grinning.

Just
at that moment Sir Joshua appeared to grab Olivia's arm. "Can you spare a
few moments, my dear? There is someone I especially want you to meet and be
charming with."

There
was a curious urgency in his voice. A fine film of sweat shone on his forehead.
Delighted at the reprieve from boring conversational duties and a possible
chance of some stimulating talk, Olivia agreed with alacrity. As Sir Joshua
guided her with rapid strides across the lawn, there was a spring in his step
that spoke of high excitement. They walked to a far corner of the garden where
a secluded seating arrangement had been improvised overlooking the river. As
they approached, a small cluster of men leapt aside to reveal a seated figure.
The figure rose and stepped forward.

"Your
Highness, may I present my niece by marriage, Miss Olivia O'Rourke. She has
arrived only recently from a country I know Your Highness admires greatly, the
United States of America. Olivia, my dear, His Highness the Maharaja of
Kirtinagar. He is one of those royal gentlemen who are held in high respect by
my own countrymen."