Ryman, Rebecca (18 page)

"All
right, I concede that Freddie isn't, well, cerebral," she ignored his
derisive hoot, "but what he
has
more than compensates for what he
is not. Olivia will live like a queen."

With
an effort Sir Joshua drove himself to open one eye. "Olivia might not wish
to live like a queen with a king who is a brainless ninny. Besides, if I didn't
want him for my daughter I certainly don't want him for my niece. Whether half
Temple-woods or half O'Rourkes, future broods of imbecilic Birkhursts make me
shudder with alarm."

His
wife was very cross indeed. "Olivia needs to make a good marriage, Josh.
I'm not sending her back to swill horse slop again, or to marry some
foul-smelling cowhand with neither grace nor grammar. Olivia needs a decent
life with decent people in England, not all this modern rubbish Sean has filled
her head with." She prodded her husband's forearm with a finger.
"You
haven't been giving her ideas, have you?"

"No."
He turned over and Rehman attacked his stomach
with gusto. "Leave the girl
alone, Bridget. Don't try and make her into something she isn't. Olivia has
spunk and she has brains; let her enjoy herself as she pleases while she is
with us. Unless she herself wishes otherwise, let her go back when her year is
up." He turned on a side and faced her. "The girl loves and admires
her father, Bridget, and rightly so. Whether you approve or not, she is a
product of the New World. Accept it and let her return when the time
comes."

"Let
her return? You can't be serious, Josh!"

"I
am. If that is what Olivia wants."

"At
her age they don't know what they want! Did Sarah know what she wanted when she
ran away with Sean? She learned her lesson the bitter way, through suffering
and torment and terrible sicknesses—"

"Sarah
was happy with Sean," Sir Joshua said sharply. "Don't distort facts
to suit your arguments, Bridget. It was a good marriage, unfortunate but good.
Sean loved his wife. He did the best he could for her."

Suddenly
Lady Bridget's face crumpled. "And I want to do the best I can for this
child, Josh. I have to, I must. I wronged Sarah. If it hadn't been for me she
might still be alive . . ." In her distress she crushed her handkerchief
against her mouth and started to sob quietly.

Sir
Joshua quickly sat up, dismissed Rehman and put an arm around his wife's
shoulders, startled by the uncharacteristic show of emotion. "Now, now,
Bridget—I will not allow you to go through all that again. Sarah is dead and
gone and history cannot be reversed. Stop punishing yourself for whatever
happened. By marrying Olivia off to some well-heeled loon you still can't make
Sarah come back."

"No,
but I can at least make reparation, Josh," his wife sobbed. "If I
hadn't persuaded Father to cut her out of his will, to disown her, she might
have lived on in London in civilised comfort instead of dying in such penury,
and Olivia would have been brought up a lady . . ."

Gently,
he took her in his arms, his expression soft. "All that is hypothetical,
Bridget. Sean made the decision to emigrate long before he met Sarah; he told
me so when I met him in London. Sarah didn't want material comforts any more
than Olivia does, my love. She was happy to follow Sean wherever he went and in
whatever circumstances." Not knowing what else to do, he patted her back
awkwardly. "And he's not a bad sort, you know. He
might be an
idealistic crusader without two cents to rub together, but he's given Olivia an
education to be admired—"

"I
loved Sarah," his distraught wife interrupted, not listening. "I
would give anything to receive her forgiveness, but I can't! The only way I can
make my peace with her soul is through Olivia. I at least have to give her a
wedding she will never forget. And all that Sarah spurned."

"You
can't force a headstrong lass into a marriage she doesn't want, Bridget!"
He sighed and started to stroke her hair.

His
wife's head jolted up from his shoulder. "Force her?" She looked
surprised. "Oh, I won't have to
force
her, Josh! Olivia will marry
Freddie of her own free will, of course."

Sir
Joshua said nothing; he merely shook his head pityingly and reached for his
clothes. He rose from the bed, secured his towel more firmly around his girth
and started to shrug into his shirt.

Lady
Bridget blew her nose, patted her eyes dry and vacated expression from her
face. "Could he have . . . planned that meeting with her, Josh?" She
did not look at him.

His
hand paused briefly in mid air. "Don't be absurd, woman!" His rebuke
was unduly incisive. "Olivia went on the embankment on an impulse that
night."

"He
is the devil incarnate, Josh . . ." Her voice trembled.

"No.
Nothing as exalted. He is only a sewer rat, a guttersnipe, who has recklessly
stepped out of his place. Don't elevate him with false values, Bridget!"
He was visibly angered.

Lying
in her lap, her fingers plucked nervously at each other. Nothing in her face
moved except her bloodless lips. "He will do what he has said he will. His
kind never forgives, never forgets. You should have listened to Mother, Josh.
You should have killed him when you had the chance."

"Perhaps,"
he said tightly. "There will be other chances."

"And
one day he will talk . . . !" Her voice withered into a frightened
whisper. "And one day
you
will again weaken to—"

"That
will be
enough,
Bridget!" He strode up to her angrily and pincered
her chin between his fingers.
"Talk
is one thing he will never do!
That is all you need to remember." Releasing her roughly, he snatched his
remaining clothes off a chair back and stalked into his dressing-room.

Lady
Bridget stared at his vanishing back, then at the door that slammed behind it.
Her eyes were still wide with fear, but in them there was also hate.

On
Friday morning a courier arrived from Kirtinagar. He brought an unexpected
invitation from Their Highnesses. A tiger shoot had been arranged for the
weekend now upon them. Sir Joshua, Lady Bridget and their family were cordially
invited to join the royal party. The extreme shortness of notice was profoundly
regretted; the tiger, a troublesome man-eater, had been resighted only the day
before and the expedition hurriedly organised. It was begged that Sir Joshua
would overlook and forgive the inadequate notice and give Their Highnesses the
pleasure of offering the Templewoods their humble hospitality. It was
emphasised that Sir Joshua's renowned and expert marksmanship would prove an
invaluable asset to the hunt.

In
the family everyone reacted as expected. Sir Joshua was immensely flattered,
Estelle was indifferent, Olivia was frankly thrilled and Lady Bridget was
furious. "I wish you would occasionally listen to me, Josh," she
flared. "I've been telling you for days about Lady Birkhurst's kind
invitation to luncheon on Sunday. I wouldn't dream of sending regrets at the
eleventh hour for this thoughtless last-minute summons!"

"Damn!"
Sir Joshua sucked in his cheeks as he pondered. "Saturday evening is our
meeting with the insurance underwriters. There's no question of my not being
present." He tapped the letter. "The old boy has something up his
sleeve; I smell it. By Christ, I'd like to find out what it is!"

Lady
Bridget's anger soared higher with the profanities. "If you want to go
running because he snaps his royal fingers, then cancel
your
appointment
and take Estelle with you. Olivia and I will certainly not cancel
ours."

"You
never listen to anything
I
say either, Mama!" Estelle warmed to the
fray. "I'm spending Sunday with Charlotte to practise some new carols her
brother has brought out from England. Even if I weren't, I'd rather stay here
on my own than go on another silly shoot. Last time I was bitten half to death
by midges."

Nobody
paid her any attention.

"There
is a motive behind this," Sir Joshua mused, still lost in his own
introspections. "They're wily fellows, these princes, and touchy as all
hell. I can't refuse out of hand; he'll take umbrage and instantly sense slights
where none are intended."

"Well,
he should have given us more notice then!" Lady Bridget cried.

Her
husband appeared not to hear her as he suddenly snapped his fingers, having
arrived at a solution. He turned to Olivia as she sat in discreet but breathless
silence. "Arvind Singh has our written proposal. I'd give a great deal to
know how it has been received. The man seemed to take quite a shine to you, my
dear. Would you be interested in going for the shoot? One member of the family
is better than none, unless Estelle reconsiders."

Estelle
merely rolled her eyes and left the room, but Olivia's heart leapt. "Oh,
indeed I would ..." Catching her aunt's enraged expression she hastened to
add, "that is if Aunt Bridget doesn't object."

"Aunt
Bridget
does
object, and most strenuously! Josh, I think it's wicked,
utterly
wicked
of—"

"I
cannot risk Arvind Singh's displeasure; it's as simple as that." He waved
all the rest aside and stood up. "The native mind is known to take offence
all too easily, all too easily." He started towards the door.

"And
what if Lady Birkhurst also takes offence all too easily?" Lady Bridget
demanded, hand on hip.

"Tell
her the girl has fever or something; you women are good at alibis. Now, I can't
keep the man waiting any longer ..." Muttering to himself he disappeared
in the direction of his study.

"Well!"
Indignation robbed his wife of further speech.
"Well. . . !"
Flouncing
out of the room she went in search of Estelle with a view to expending her
wrath on her. How dare Estelle accept an invitation from anyone without the
prior sanction of her mother!

Unnoticed,
Olivia remained where she was, trying hard not to reveal her own jubilation at
the utterly unexpected reprieve contained in the Maharaja's eleventh-hour
letter. But underneath her jubilation there was perplexity. Like Sir Joshua,
she smelled a motive in the invitation; unlike him, she had an uncomfortable
instinct that it had nothing to do with the coal . . .

If
her journey through Bengal was hot and tiring and the road appallingly rutted,
Olivia barely noticed; it was her first venture outside Calcutta and she was
enthralled. The Empire's majestic capital was a British creation and as such
many of its trappings were European—the architecture, its political and commercial
life styles, its social ambience, the thinking patterns of its mercantile
complexes and the dominating influences of the all-pervasive East India
Company. Cocooned perforce within these narrow boundaries, Olivia had seen
little enough of the true colours and character of the land. Even her brief
glimpse of the Bengal countryside out of a moving carriage window she therefore
found captivating.

The
passing panorama was mostly of paddy fields, lime green and washed clean by the
rains. In between were palm leaf-thatched mud huts tucked amid bamboo groves,
clusters of banana trees and tracts of water covered with proliferating lilies.
Farmers, wearing wicker hats, stood in ankle-deep water transplanting the paddy
plants in neat, geometrical rows. In the ponds, fishermen trapped sweet-water
shrimp in baskets. Women and children worked alongside the men, and in one pond
a group of boys had devised an impromptu ball game with a coconut shell. The
Templewood carriages with their armed outriders were an impressive sight, but
the interest they created among the villagers was brief; with no more than
perfunctory wide-eyed stares they continued undisturbed with their labours.

Very
different from the rustic simplicity of the rural area was the walled palace of
Kirtinagar, Olivia's destination. At the gates of the royal complex she was
received by an imposing posse of mounted guards who then ceremoniously escorted
the carriages inside. The landscaped gardens that formed the setting of the
palaces—for
there appeared to be more than one—were beautifully maintained with their
cascading flowers, mango groves and shady forest areas of banyan, peepul and
gulmohar,
this last aflame with orange blossoms. The carriages swept up
elegant driveways to a portico, on the white marble steps of which, surrounded
by a positive army of aides and attendants, the Maharaja waited.