Ryman, Rebecca (115 page)

Panic
fluttered across Olivia's face, making it even paler. Weakly, she hid herself
behind her fan. "I cannot risk it, Kinjal. You
must
see that I
cannot. He relented once, he might not the next time."

"You
still cannot trust him?"

"I
have steeled myself to live without one son, but
it
Amos also
goes...!"
Scabs peeled themselves off old wounds, making them bleed
anew. How she hated Kinjal for forcing her to face herself again!

"Jai
will never hurt you again."

"No,
he will never again have the chance to!" Confused,
shaken,
pulsating with those pains that would now always be with her, Olivia stumbled
to her feet and ran out of the room.

Kinjal
abandoned the argument as worthless. As far as Jai Raventhorne was concerned,
Olivia was still beyond the bounds of reason.

There
comes a time when even pain becomes a habit. Left by herself in the aftermath
of everyone's departure—Alistair's departure!—Olivia plunged into a trough of
depression. Her love for Amos was consuming, but it could not reduce the
enormousness of her loss any more than one limb can compensate for the
amputation of another. The abundance of her grief frightened her; it was
bottomless. Amos would now never play with the one who had also occupied her
womb. She herself would forever stay in ignorance of Alistair's features, never
see her own reflection in them, always wondering, wondering. Nor would he know
or love the mother who had almost exchanged her life for his and then given him
away like an unwanted bundle donated to charity. Would he understand?
Could
he
ever? The flesh on his bones was hers; it was her blood that nourished his
veins. Yet, their destinies would unfold on opposite sides of the globe,
neither touching nor transfusing. Passing by on the same street, they would not
recognise each other, forever strangers. Over the years they would perhaps
teach themselves to think of each other as dead. But for now, it was as if she
had consigned his infant body to earth as a living entity . . .

How
could she not still hate Jai Raventhorne?

Arthur
Ransome returned from Cawnpore. Abandoning all courtly formality he gathered
Olivia in his arms. "Oh my dear child, my poor, dear child . . ." He
could say no more.

Against
the comfort of his shoulders, cushioned in the warmth of his unquestioning
love, she wept. "I have missed you. Oh, how I have missed you!"

"Yes,
I know. Estelle told me everything. Had it not been for . . . circumstances, I
would have returned earlier. But I could not force myself to do so."
Awkwardly, he patted her back, still gruff with sorrow.

She
was ashamed of her selfishness. He too had suffered a crippling loss; he was
not yet over it. He too needed to be solaced.
needed to learn to live with the
disability of an amputation. Drying her own tears, Olivia set aside her grief
to share in his. They talked of Sir Joshua, of the early days in Canton, the
halcyon years when they were young and immortal and invincible. They talked for
hours, salving Ransome's wounds with the magic balm of memories. Eventually,
they even laughed, for it was inevitable that they should also talk about Hal
Lubbock, his unorthodoxies and the business that now flourished.

They
did not talk of Jai Raventhorne.

Finally,
Ransome sobered again. "Was it wise, my dear, to send your child to
Freddie in such infancy?" If he was unhappy about her broken marriage,
this act of cruel self-denial he had not been able to understand at all.

"Wise
or not, it has been a worthy division," Olivia replied with forced
lightness. "You see, now we have one son each." Engrossed in
arranging a bowl of exquisite pink roses from her garden, she sounded casual.

Too
casual. He now knew her well enough not to be misled by her façades. "Hal
told me about those quarters. You stayed the demolitions, I believe."

"Yes.
They didn't seem like such a good idea after all."

"And
the hotel? Market rumour has it that you've shelved the project indefinitely. I
must say I was surprised."

Olivia
smiled. The cunning old coot, he was not surprised at all! "I haven't
quite made up my mind yet."

He
let the lie pass. "And what will you do with the property if you do decide
to abandon your project?"

She
snipped off another stem and stood back to examine the arrangement through
squinted eyes. "I'm not sure. Perhaps sell it. I think you are aware of
the marriage portion that Aunt Bridget was kind enough to give me."
Ransome nodded. "The money should have gone to my mother, but she rejected
it. Over the years the funds have accumulated considerable interest with
Lloyd's of London. Half of those funds have now been transferred here so that I
could clear all my loans. To be honest, I have no need for more money, but
neither do I have any need now for the Templewood property. I am therefore
tempted to rid myself of it one way or another. Would you have any objections
if I . . . gave it away?"

He
looked startled. "My dear, you are its sole owner! You are free to do with
it what you wish. But—give it away to whom? Some worthy educational or
charitable institution?"

"Something
like that."

They
shared a silent meal, talk of the Templewood house having now dampened their
abortive forays into inconsequentialities. Sweet-sour remembrances again made
them morose as spectres walked freely about their minds, reviving
long-forgotten incidents. Chains of thoughts forged in the past brought into
focus fresh links still too new to ignore. Inevitably, Ransome brought up the
subject they had been skirting so carefully all evening.

"There
are some rather strange rumours about regarding Jai Raventhorne. Perhaps you
have already heard them?"

"No.
I no longer involve myself with business matters." Then, because she could
not suppress the question, she blurted out, "What kind of rumours?"

"They
say he is pulling out from Calcutta."

In
the act of pouring the coffee, Olivia's hand stilled. "Pulling out?"

"Yes.
That is to say, he is said to be turning over Trident to Ranjan Moitra."
He accepted the cup she offered and stared at her hard. "The consensus is
that he has not been able to stomach his humiliation at the hands of . . .
Farrowsham. He's lost too much face to be able to show what's left of it in the
business district."

Olivia
rose abruptly from the table and picked up the pair of secateurs with which she
had been trimming the rose stems. "And do you subscribe to that too?"

"No."
His hard look turned sharper. "Jai might be a bad loser, but he doesn't
give a fig for public opinion. He might be foolishly sentimental on occasion,
but he is not a weakling. One reverse would not make him renounce everything he
has struggled over years to achieve. There is some other explanation for his
surprising decision." His eyes bored deeper. "From Estelle I learned
about this . . . extraordinary kidnapping of your son. Could it perhaps have
something to do with that?"

She
managed to look successfully surprised. "No, of course not. Why should
it?"

"Yes,
why should it?" he echoed. "I was hoping you might be able to answer
that. It was a dastardly act, no matter what the provocation. I confess, I was
shocked, quite shocked, that Jai could have turned his villainy towards an
innocent child."

With
a cluck of irritation, Olivia pulled out all the roses from the bowl and
angrily started to rearrange them. "He killed his father as surely as if
he had pulled that trigger himself, destroyed Aunt Bridget's life, sought to
demolish that of an innocent half sister—and you still say that you are shocked?"
She laughed.

"His
hatred against them was justified," Ransome said with quiet stubbornness.
"For what he did to poor deluded Josh I will never perhaps find the
generosity to forgive Jai—but, in all conscience, he was not the sole
perpetrator."

"Maybe
he considers his hatred against me justified too!"

"No
doubt. But what justifies
your
excessive hatred against him, Olivia . .
.?" he inquired softly.

He
had never approached this, her tallest barrier. But Olivia knew that he was
aware that it existed. Still not prepared to lower all barricades, she shrugged
and answered with marked coldness, "The justifications are self-evident.
He has damaged beyond repair many whom I too loved."

Reminded
of his own severe losses, he turned morose again. "He too is damaged
beyond repair, Olivia. I somehow sense it. Jai, it seems, has disappeared. At
least, no one at Trident is willing to reveal his whereabouts even if they do
know them. His houses are padlocked, many of his personal staff have been
dispatched back to their villages. The
Ganga
sailed in yesterday but he
has not been aboard. The gossip about his vanishing act gets more bizarre by
the day. Pennworthy tells me there was little else talked about at the Chamber
meeting yesterday." He hesitated as if about to add something more but
then changed his mind and fell silent.

The
roses finally arranged to her satisfaction, Olivia picked up the delicate
Wedgwood bowl and placed it at the centre of the dining table at which Ransome
still sat nursing his coffee.

"Well,
if he has disappeared," she said with studied indifference, "let us
hope this time the disappearance is permanent."

At
last I abandon India!
Olivia wrote in her long-forgotten diary.
I shed
my shackles. The banyan tree can throw down no more roots.

The
black leather-bound diary had once been her constant companion, her nightly
confidant. But now, for almost two years, it had lain discarded in a bottom
drawer and rediscovered only during the assiduous process of cleaning. In her
sudden surge of liberation, Olivia again felt the need to share her sense of
release with someone, anyone, even a lifeless notebook.

The
George Washington,
Willie Donaldson assured her with great relief, was a
modern vessel, a clipper that plied under an American flag with an American captain
and crew. It was well
provisioned, had comfortable living space and plenty of portholes for fresh air
in the cabins. The vessel was scheduled to dock in Calcutta harbour sometime
within the next two weeks. She would then sail shortly for the Pacific and
touch Honolulu in record time. With her own affairs already more or less in
order, there was little left for Olivia to do except to finalise the
appointment of a suitable governess for Amos. Most of the inventories had been
completed in the mansion, the strong-rooms sealed and locked, and the neatly
labelled bunches of keys handed over to Donaldson for safe keeping. This time
she had bowed to his wishes; the mansion would not be let and some of the old
retainers would remain to see to its maintenance.

"Surely,
one of the bairns will want to return some day and enjoy the rewards of Caleb's
endeavours," he had protested in support of his bid to preserve the
sanctity of the manse. Olivia had not argued. Yes, perhaps one day Alistair
would return to India. She had no right to tamper with his inheritance. Now
there remained only the problem of the Birkhurst jewellery to be settled. But
that, Olivia decided, she would tackle later.