Ryman, Rebecca (73 page)

He
coughed and looked unhappy. "Please to forgive the intrusion, Madam, but
it is to beg Madam's forgiveness that I have come. I offended Madam the other
evening." Olivia looked blank, so he continued ruefully. "I should
not have mentioned Trident's successes in your country. It was—how to say it?—a
foot in my mouth, a gross error. Naturally Madam cannot jubilate with us,
naturally! As the esteemed daughter of Sir Joshua's esteemed lady memsahib's
sister, it would be unthinkable. Please to pardon this humble, mannerless
idiot." The corners of his mouth drooped in abject penitence.

Olivia
was tempted to smile but, of course, didn't. "There is no need for an
apology, Mr. Moitra. You are, after all, a loyal Trident employee. Your pride
in your employer's achievements is understandable."

He
was even more overcome by the gracious concession. "Madam is too kind, too
kind," he murmured, then sat toying with a thought for a while before
blurting it out. "Madam is also a fine, dutiful lady who is doing much to
aid her family. I was personally very happy to learn that Mr. Ransome has been
able to dispatch his tea to England." He turned earnest, his expression
intent. "The Sarkar is my revered friend and mentor, but I do not approve
of some of his methods. It is not with disloyalty that I speak, for the Sarkar
is well aware of my opinion."

Olivia
was surprised and touched by this unexpected sympathy. Also, it provided her
with a tailor-made opening to probe. "Thank you, Mr. Moitra. Your words
are greatly appreciated. Now, would you care to join me in a cup of cardamom
tea? There is a certain matter I wish to bring to your notice."

In
no way suspicious of her motives, he nodded shyly. When the tea-tray was
delivered a moment later, Olivia opened a ledger sitting on her desk. "On
going through this, Mr. Moitra, I notice that your cargo rates are higher than
everyone else's." Aware that Willie was fortuitously out of the office,
she spoke with
confidence. "The consignment of shellac you carried on the
Tapti,
for
instance, cost us twice as much as it would have on another vessel."

Moitra
looked considerably surprised. "It is well known, Madam, that our rates
are higher because our clippers are the fastest vessels available from
Calcutta."

"That
is not entirely true, Mr. Moitra. Other lines, foreign ones, use clippers as
well. Lone Star, for instance. Captain Tucker charged us far less for that tea
than what we pay Trident."

"But
Lone Star ships do not call here regularly," Moitra protested. "Our
sailings are like the workings of clocks. Besides, our contracts are all long
term ..."

Moitra
was beginning to look puzzled. He knew, of course, that this sharp American
lady whose brain was like a man's was now holding top position at Farrowsham,
but why had Mr. Donaldson not brought up this question before? Olivia had
expected resistance but she persisted. "What I would like to know is—
would you be willing to re-negotiate lower terms with us, Mr. Moitra?"

"Oh
no, Madam." His reaction was immediate, as she knew it would be.
"That is entirely beyond my authority. Only the Sarkar can make
changes." His smile was profoundly apologetic. "I fear that Madam
will have to wait for the Sarkar's return to re-negotiate the contract."

"Oh,
I see. In that case, have you any idea when that is likely to be?" It was
tossed out so lightly, so casually, that Moitra's response came without
hesitation.

"The
Sarkar's plans are always not to be predicted, Madam." He shrugged.
"He has travelled much in England and in Europe. Three months back he was
in his rented London residence. It would be best to await his return."

"Fine.
I will take the matter up with Mr. Donaldson." A residence? For Estelle
and himself . . .? Nevertheless she felt enormous relief. Moitra's next remark,
however, startled her.

"Do
not be misled, Madam," he said, suddenly on the defensive, "For one
with so deprived a childhood, the Sarkar has no yearnings for material
possessions. He acquires residences only for business reasons."

Concealing
her surprise, Olivia regarded him thoughtfully over the rim of her cup.
"You were acquainted with him in childhood?"

"Indeed!
Had my father not found the Sarkar lying badly wounded in the gutter, he would
not have lived. The Sarkar was
only eight years old at that time. It was a white
man who had beaten him, although he would not say who. The Sarkar's hatred for
your race is therefore not entirely unjustified, Madam." Still on the
defensive, he spoke with feeling.

Another
piece of the jigsaw puzzle! "Oh, really?" she murmured.

"Yes,
Madam. My father was a renowned
ayurved,
an herbalist. He cured the
Sarkar's wounds and made him live with us for two years since he had neither
home nor family." Reticence forgotten, Moitra now wanted only to present
his beloved Sarkar in as favourable a light as he could. His efforts to make
reparation on behalf of his employer were vaguely touching.

No
family? What about his mother? For a split second Olivia's thoughts flashed to
a drawer somewhere in the house where the forgotten locket lay, but then she
dismissed the memory. How ironic that all this information should suddenly
arrive on her desk unsolicited! But old habits die hard and she heard herself
asking, "He left after two years?"

Moitra
smiled sadly. "Yes. We never knew for where. My mother was very upset.
But," his smile widened, "the Sarkar had not forgotten us, Madam, not
for one moment! Twelve years afterwards, he came back to us. We could not
recognise him. Now he had become a man, a
gentleman!
Since then, his
generosity to my family has been boundless. To me he gave a job in his new
company. I have been with him ever since." He cleared his throat and added
quietly, "Your dislike of the Sarkar, Madam, I understand, for he has
ruined your esteemed uncle. I beg of you now to understand also my love for
him."

He
rose, gave a jerky little bow, and left.

By
pumping Ranjan Moitra, Olivia had got the information she wanted—that Jai
Raventhorne was unlikely to return in a hurry. The rest of the information had
come gratis. Olivia was astonished, and pleased, at how little it had affected
her. Where once it would have whipped her emotions into an inferno, it now left
her with no reaction at all. It was a small triumph but it was significant;
truly, she had dismissed Jai Raventhorne from her life forever.

Once
more the rains came.

And
again the leaden skies swung low, obliterating the sun but soaking up the
intolerable humidity like a sponge. The heat was crippling. For Olivia the
punishment of the oppressive weather became a penance. The weight of her belly
pushed down into her sensible shoes, making her ankles bloat, and every effort
seemed too much. It was no longer possible to go out in public even in
carefully designed clothes; she had to stop work. Also, it was time to escape to
Kirtinagar.

"But
why Kirtinagar?" Freddie asked, dismayed. "I don't trust those native
quacks. Surely Dr. Humphries should be in attendance."

When
Olivia explained to him the reason, he fell silent. Then, with a curt nod, he
walked out of the room. Olivia's eyes brimmed. Whether or not her sins would
some day be visited upon her child, they were destined certainly to be visited
upon her blameless husband.

"Don't
worry about Josh," Ransome assured her when she expressed concern about
him. "I shall be with him. But tell me, my dear, is it necessary to
undertake this trip now? Would it not be better to leave it until after your
child is safely born?"

"I
am in excellent health, Uncle Arthur," she reassured him gently. "The
journey will in no way endanger me. You see, the Maharani is keen to hear all
about the first women's rights convention held last year in Seneca Falls in
America. My father has sent me copies of the speeches made by Lucretia Mott and
Elizabeth Cady Stanton, which the Maharani anxiously awaits and wishes to
discuss. Also," she smiled at his perplexity at the elaborate lie, "I
need to be away for a while. Calcutta sometimes depresses me."

He
seemed surprised. "But why? God has given you a good life, my dear child;
be happy in it. It is time you stopped carrying burdens not your own. Suffering
by proxy is noble, but your own life beckons. But yes, if you need a respite
then of course you must go."

Her
own life! It seemed that she had almost none left and whatever little there was
had long since ceased to make sense.

To
which sentiment Kinjal reacted strongly when Olivia repeated it to her a few
days later. "Your life makes perfectly good sense to
me,"
she
scolded, very cross. "What makes even better sense is for you to now be
serene, to rest mind and body so that your baby is born happy. Whatever remains
of your term is to be used as you wish. You have no obligations to anyone here,
only to yourself."

It
was good to be back in Kirtinagar. The place made no demands, called for no
pretences, required no alibis to be manufactured. Here, at last, she could be
free—free even from herself.

The
weeks that followed were for Olivia sublimely blissful. If her mind flowered in
the freedom given her of thought and action, so did her body. With the simple
yoga exercises that Kinjal taught her, her physical aches and pains diminished.
The tensions melted away and, gradually, she began to feel marvellously well.
With the library once more at her disposal, Olivia spent long, carefree hours
reading about Hindu philosophy and the astonishing knowledge of the ages that
was part of India's complex heritage. No one, not even Kinjal, busy with her
own affairs and with her two children, intruded on her privacy. Arvind Singh,
now totally immersed in the repairs to his mine, was as discreet, as
unquestioning, as his wife. If he was aware of Estelle's elopement with his
friend, he never mentioned it. In any case, for herself Olivia had stopped
caring; it was all dead history and, like all things dead, worthy only of
burial.

What
Olivia enjoyed greatly were the hours spent with Kinjal's son and daughter.
Tarun, twelve, was a serious, sombre-eyed lad whose education as heir apparent
was the consuming passion of his parents' life. Tara, the girl, was nine.
Cheerfully extroverted, she lacked any trait that could even remotely be called
serious, although she too was subject to an education schedule as arduous as
her brother's. All in all there was a normalcy, a cleanness, about Kinjal's
household that made Olivia's days idyllic. For the first time since she had
come to India, she could do what she had done so rarely: laugh. With all
restrictions removed, she could roam freely, absorbing the flavours of a rural
India of which
she knew little. She walked miles, watching farmers and fishermen and weavers
toil at their labours, and was once more struck by the harmony of an
environment that was true to itself. Life here was like an ocean; waves rose
and waves fell, but none disturbed the oneness of the larger space to which
they all belonged.

If
only she could live on like this, free and unfettered! She had seldom been so
content even in America. Tomorrow existed only when it arrived and, for the
moment at least, there were no hard realities. She wished it could go on
forever but, of course, it could not.

Olivia's
baby was born at midnight.

Outside
the elements were wild. The monsoon storm roared through the trees, flattening
them like blades of grass. Inside, there was the fury of another storm as
whipping pains marked the end of Olivia's transient paradise, gained only to be
lost again in the imminent creation of another life. The waves of pain, cutting
in their sharpness, struck in rhythms, ever-accelerating rhythms, that crushed
her mind to pulp and shredded her body into ribbons. Something living tore and
clawed and punished her flesh in tempestuous temper, determined not to leave a
single fibre of her being undestroyed. Repeatedly Olivia screamed, and
repeatedly it was Kinjal's soothing voice that reached out to her midstream in
the river of her torrential pain.

"Hush,
hush
... it will not be long now. Breathe deeply, push hard,
harder
..."

The
savage hammer blows continued. Swimming in and out of blood red mists, Olivia
pushed harder and ever harder, gasping with agony and liquefying into sobs.
Cool hands swabbed the sweat slicks off her face; expert fingers poked and
pried and pulled. Around her there were sounds that melted and merged into a
symphony of whispers, of sloshing water, of confabulations clothed in urgency.