Ryman, Rebecca (70 page)

Torn
between guilt and relief, Lady Bridget muttered, "Well, you must write to
me in detail, every single detail, of how you
are progressing. And, of course,
when the baby comes I will want to know
everything.
" She eyed
Olivia's stomach with a frown. "You do seem unusually large for your time.
Get Dr. Humphries to give you a thorough examination soon."

Hastily
Olivia diverted her attention. "Would you like me to also go through
Estelle's room and tidy her possessions?" Since Estelle had left, Lady
Bridget had refused to step foot inside the room. Olivia had been in on
occasion and the
jamadar
was let in daily for the sweeping and swabbing,
but for the rest of the time the room was kept locked. It was as if, with a
padlock on the door, Lady Bridget had also obliterated from view part of her
own life.

Her
aunt's expression closed. "No. Leave it for the moment. You can give her
things away to charity later."

Having
once given Olivia the responsibility of the household, Lady Birkhurst never
interfered with her running of it. Nor did she ever question Olivia's
expenditure, not even when, almost as a first compulsion, Olivia ordered a complete
restructuring and repair of the servants' quarters and compound. Freddie, of
course, was generosity itself, delighted at any cost to be rid of the tedium of
housekeeping and its finances. Despite the crippling burden that Lady Birkhurst
had laid on her conscience, Olivia thought of her warmly—and gratefully—as a
friend, an ally. Her mother-in-law's mere presence in the house gave Olivia
comfort, for, apart from Kinjal, it was only she who shared her monstrous
secret. Therefore, one morning when she received another summons, Olivia had no
idea that what awaited her was yet another blow. The conversation started
lightly enough with a suggestion that was extremely welcome.

"You
are active and intelligent, Olivia—does the prospect of working for part of the
day at our Agency House appeal to you? After all, we don't want you dying of
boredom, do we?"

Olivia
was delighted by the suggestion. "Indeed it does! I have thought of asking
you myself but hesitated in case you disapproved."

"My
dear, I have already approved of so much," Lady Birkhurst said drily,
"and this would be trivial, an act of sheer self-preservation. I shall
have a word with Willie about it. He'll hate the idea, of course. The very
thought of a skirt flapping around his precious domain will drive the grumpy
old Mother Hubbard
daft, but there's no one who knows more about trade in the East than Willie,
although he'll reduce you to tears in five minutes." She laughed. "I
shall see to it before I leave."

"Before
you leave?" Olivia paled. "Leave for where?"

Heaving
a tired sigh, Lady Birkhurst reached for a letter lying on the table at her
elbow. "This has come from our estate manager at Farrowsham. Caleb is
dreadfully unwell. He urges that I catch the next ship home." While Olivia
sat shaken by the news, deep lines of strain appeared on her mother-in-law's
face. "You see, Olivia, unlike his son whose ill health stems from
indolence and indulgence, Caleb's ailments come from overwork and
self-negligence. He is passionately involved in the estate, which is vast, and
he takes his attendance in the House more seriously than most other peers of
the realm, pompous idlers that many of them are. Caleb's body is now starting
to rebel, and no one ever gets any younger, do they?" She tapped the
letter with a fingernail. "This is already three months old. It will be
another three before I reach home."

"You
are considering departing immediately?" Olivia was dismayed. Without the
compassionate support of this infinitely pragmatic woman, how would she
tolerate the frightening trial that loomed ahead?

"I
must, dear," Lady Birkhurst said gently. "Caleb needs me now more
than ever. I have therefore decided to sail with Lady Bridget. We will be good
company for each other."

"But
that is next week!"

"Yes."
For a moment she fell silent. "I would have wanted to participate in your
coming ordeal, my dear. Sadly, I will not be able to. Have you decided upon
some satisfactory plan of action?"

"I
will leave for Kirtinagar a month before my child is due," Olivia answered
morosely. "The Maharani welcomes the idea. I will place myself entirely in
her capable hands."

"Excellent,
my dear, excellent! I am relieved that you will be with friends. I would be
beside myself with worry otherwise."

A
lump rose in Olivia's throat. "Thank you for your concern. You can never
know what your understanding has meant to me. I shall miss you."

"And
I you, dear child." Equally moved, she reached out to squeeze Olivia's
hand, her eyes moist. "But I leave in the conviction, yes conviction, that
you will do your duty by my son. Had you been a lesser person, I would have had
my doubts. I have none."

The
avowal of faith was intended to comfort and solace Olivia; the words had been
spoken out of kindness. How could Lady Birkhurst have known the even blacker
depression into which that very kindness served to plunge Olivia?

The
parting from both her aunt and her mother-in-law a week later was for Olivia
inordinately painful. Once more she felt abandoned. It was as though they were
also taking part of herself with them. Imprisoned by her circumstances, she
could do nothing. Her destiny had slipped out of her hands, if indeed it had
ever been in them at all!

"Listen
to your wife," was Lady Birkhurst's parting command to her son. "She
has more sense than you ever will." To Olivia, as she clasped her to her
bosom, she whispered, "Write to me often, child. Remember, wherever I am,
I am a friend. But I fear we might not meet again . . ." Olivia cried.

Sir
Joshua was not among that vast throng that saw the ladies off at wharfside.
"Look after him, Olivia," Lady Bridget blurted out impulsively as she
was about to embark. "Protect him, do not let him be hurt more. I fear
that when . . . when
that
man returns ..." She stopped and said no
more, but the fear remained in her eyes as, with supreme dignity, she turned to
negotiate the gangplank.

When
that man returns . . .!

The
Farrowsham Agency House, started by Caleb Birkhurst in 1815—two years after
Parliament revised the Company's charter to abolish all monopolies save that of
tea—was a thriving concern. It was run by Willie Donaldson, a tall, angular
Scotsman spare of both flesh and words, who had been with it since its
inception. He had come to manage Farrowsham by dint of hard work, honesty and
canny business sense; he ruled with an iron hand and remained fiercely
protective of the Agency's interests and reputation. Freddie's disinterest
Donaldson saw as a boon and, by similar token, received Olivia's induction into
the firm with something less than enthusiasm. Two weeks after she had joined,
however, he grudgingly revised his estimation. He saw that she had potential,
and in recognition of it he appointed one of his most experienced and trusted
Indian employees, Bimal Babu, as her aide.

Olivia
was, Donaldson conceded to his wife, Cornelia, very
different from
what he had expected of a young mem. She didn't gossip or chatter idly, she was
singularly well informed about some commercial matters and unashamed to profess
ignorance of others and seek guidance. Most gratifying, she didn't volunteer
daft opinions or throw her weight about as one might expect of an owner's wife,
and she was a rapid learner. "She's na anybody's fool, my love," he
told his wife. "And she's na a silly little chit with oats instead of brains.
Aye, she's a bonny lass too. Of course she's American but that's na the puir
lassie's fault. What I canna figger's,
hoo
she came to settle for our
Freddie, by God I canna."

For
her part, Olivia took to Willie Donaldson instantly. He was gruff, sometimes
blunt to the point of rudeness and swore like a whore, but he was bright as a
new penny and one always knew where one stood with him. Eager to be tutored,
she started to learn much from him.

Farrowsham
did not involve itself in the China Coast trade and had never touched opium,
for Caleb Birkhurst was a man of stern Christian principles where drugs were
concerned. What he had built his fortune on was plain and simple salesmanship.
If Britain's industrial revolution had left her hungry for markets overseas,
then this was where expertise was needed. In this he was not alone, of course,
but he was certainly one of the most successful. Exported out by the profitable
shipload was the endless wealth of the Orient: cotton, jute, shellac, spices,
oils and essences for the European perfume industry, furs, gems, wool and a
dozen other cargoes, and, of course, indigo from Farrowsham's own spreading
plantations. The export figures for indigo in that year, Donaldson told Olivia,
totalled about ten million pounds, and a healthy proportion of that could be
attributed to Farrowsham's production. Returning shiploads brought British
goods that filled the coffers even faster with imports of agricultural
machinery, printing shop equipment from inks to paper, hand tools, books,
medical materials, a host of sophisticated consumer goods and, most important
of all, cloth from Lancashire's textile mills. There was no way in which Indian
hand looms could compete with the prolific might of Britain's machine-made
fabrics. To crush the indigenous industry further and make vaster markets for
manufactured cloth, a duty had been imposed on hand-loom products with the
result that imports from Britain sold for less in the shops. Soon, save for the
very poor, everyone in India was wearing British cloth, dooming local
production, even the exquisite muslins of Dacca, to obscurity. In addition,
Farrowsham also invested money for Company employees since they were forbidden
direct
involvement in commerce. "Farrowsham was one of the first to mop up
savings of Company blokes," Donaldson said. "Nae a man alive could
juggle borrowing and lending rates like old Caleb, the old buzzard, may God
bless the man." He chuckled. "I was a mere wee lad then but, God's
truth, it was bliss to watch him rake in the shekels. Farrowsham stood firm
even during the upheavals of the Thirties. By God, we made it faster than
anyone, save of course Trident." He made a sour face. "But then that
devil's pup Raventhorne has feet in both camps, dinna he?"

Mention
of Raventhorne and his agency brought no change to Olivia's expression.
"Do you have many dealings with Trident?" she asked casually.

"Oh,
aye. We lease their warehooses, book all our cargo in those bloody clippers of
his since they're the fastest there are. He's a thieving cutthroat with rates
but he delivers on the damned nose, I canna deny that." He paused and
scowled. "For what he's done to your uncle and Ransome, I'd horsewhip the
skin off his bloody butt, and I reck'n someone will some day. I hold no brief
for that Lucifer's seed, but with us he's been a man of his word. Noo," he
shuffled his papers and returned to immediate business, "like I was
saying, Caleb bought the hinterland properties in thirty-eight. Before then, a
daft Company rule forbade Europeans to buy land in India. Since then . .
."

The
matter of Jai Raventhorne was laid aside for the moment.

Since
Freddie usually slept until noon, Olivia sometimes lunched with her uncle and
spent time ensuring that the household ran well under Rehman's devoted
supervision. With the Templewood and Ransome offices not far from the Agency on
Old Court House Street, she also contrived frequent visits to Arthur Ransome.
She was astonished to learn from him one day that he was having difficulty
selling his house.