Ryman, Rebecca (75 page)

She
remained sceptical. "The English presence is too strong
to be dislodged
like a pebble. To be successful, a revolutionary needs fire power, not mere
numerical superiority."

"Suppressed
anger and frustration are sometimes stronger than fire power, my dear Mrs.
Birkhurst, as the French proved with their bloody revolution, to say nothing of
your own country's battle for independence. Bondage, whether alien or
indigenous, political or economic, benign or malicious, goes against the nature
of man everywhere. But," he broke off with a laugh, "the argument is
endless. Perhaps we will continue it later when my wife too is free to join in.
And now," he rose, "may I be allowed to offer my blessings to the
infant Birkhurst son and heir?"

"Yes,
of course." Smiling steadily, Olivia signalled to the ayah to bring in the
child.

"I
know it is difficult to tell at this age—I never could with my own children—but
which handsome parent does the boy resemble?"

"No,
it is not difficult," she contradicted. "My son is the exact replica
of his father."

As
the nurse approached, Olivia positioned herself in a far corner of the verandah
to watch from a distance, her face expressionless. Sounds emerging from the
bundle in the nurse's arms told her that her son was awake and that his eyes
were open. The bonnet used to cover his head had been removed according to her
instructions. With an unsuspecting, benign smile the Maharaja took the child
into his arms. For an instant Olivia saw him stare. His smile froze, then
faltered and then faded away altogether. She turned away to gaze vacantly into
the garden.

For
an inordinate while there was silence, broken only by the raucous cries of the
peacocks in the garden, an ugly call considering the beauty of their
appearance. Out of the corner of her eye Olivia saw that Arvind Singh still
held the child, his gaze incredulous and his complexion pale with shock. Then
he bent his head, kissed the baby's forehead and returned him to his nurse.
From his pocket he withdrew a red velvet pouch similar to the one Kinjal had
given, containing the traditional gold coins offered in blessing to a new-born.
Carefully he placed it inside the child's blanket. As he did so, his hands
shook.

"My
wife has often told me that you are a courageous woman, Olivia." He walked
over to her, his agitation so great that he did not notice the informality of
her first name. "I had underestimated the extent of that courage. I pray
that God may forever be with you and your son." He spoke with difficulty.

Olivia's
smile was metallic. "Do you consider that we will be in need of divine
assistance?"

"Oh
yes." He sat down heavily. "Oh
yes,
you will indeed! As for my
own participation in the matter, what I will need is divine forgiveness . .
." There was deep distress in his face.

Proudly,
her chin thrust forward. "No one's participation can be given credit, Your
Highness. I have been very independent in plotting my own destiny."

He
accepted the cynicism with a rueful shake of his head. "Jai will not stay
away forever."

"So
I am assured by many, but his return does not frighten me," she retorted
with slicing disdain. "Your friend cannot reach me again, Your
Highness." She paused and hesitated; well, why not say it? "You might
or might not be aware that he has taken my cousin, Estelle Templewood, with
him."

Arvind
Singh coloured and his eyes fell. "Yes, I am aware of it. Neither Kinjal
nor I were part of those nefarious plans, I assure you. Jai's act of revenge
was loathsome, unforgivable— but, as we both know, he is a man obsessed to the
point of madness."

"He
is indeed fortunate to have a friend such as yourself," Olivia commented
with inadvertent scorn, "who can provide him with such stout
defences!"

He
rose again to come to where she stood and touched her hand. "I am also
your friend, Olivia," he said gently. "Now more than ever."

She
was instantly ashamed of her show of brittleness. "Yes, I know. Without
you and Kinjal I would have crumbled. Or died." In her sudden emotion, her
composure wavered. How she wished the name of Jai Raventhorne had not been
invoked between them!

"You
must leave India."

He
said it so abruptly that Olivia was taken by surprise. "There is nothing I
would like better but it is impossible at present. Why do you say that?"

"When
Jai returns it will be . . . unsafe for you here."

"Unsafe?"
His choice of word amused her. "Why? He can do me no further harm, I
promise!"

Arvind
Singh regarded her with sudden pity. "Oh, but he can." His face was
deadly serious. "Jai will not allow his son to be brought up a Birkhurst.
He will leave no stone unturned to take him away from you."

Freddie
was not at home when Olivia returned from Kirtinagar. Instead, she was
dutifully awaited by Mary Ling, the nurse Olivia had engaged on high
recommendation from her aunt prior to her departure for Kirtinagar. Mary was
competent, cheerful and discreet. She also had a good singing voice and played
well on the piano. To assist her, Olivia had hired Lady Bridget's old ayah, a
lazy woman but experienced and pleasant enough. One of the guest suites on the
second floor had been prepared as a nursery, with nanny's quarters and pantry
attached.

Olivia
decided to name her son Amos.

Before
her talk with Arvind Singh, Olivia had merely hated Jai Raventhorne; the
unexpected warning was now teaching her to also fear him. Arvind Singh's words
had struck terror in Olivia's heart. The need to escape this benighted city
became paramount in her mind. The question was how, how,
how . . .?

When
Freddie returned home it was midnight and he was drunk. He weaved his way
awkwardly between pieces of furniture, then sat down, legs askew, and belched.
"Welcome home, dearest wife," he slurred, squinting bloodshot eyes in
Olivia's direction. "And how is my son and heir getting along, eh?"
He guffawed.

Sitting
up in bed reading, Olivia hid her apprehensions behind a smile. She had not
seen him drunk since that awful night on the ship; she now felt a rush of
bitter guilt because this was proof not of his failure but of hers. "He is
getting along very well, thank you."

"And
what is my son and heir to be christened, dear heart?" He tried to stand
up, failed and folded back with an oath. "Not after me, I take it, his one
and only father?"

She
winced at the cruel taunt. "I thought we might christen him Amos James
Sean, if that is acceptable to you."

"Amos,
eh? Well, I'll be damned—the bearer of burdens!" He chuckled and Olivia
realised he was not as drunk as he pretended. "In that case I'd better
have another dekko at the little . . .," he hiccupped, apologised and
hiccupped again, ". . .
b-bastard . . .!"

She
was flooded with pain, her own and his. "He is asleep now. Of course you
will see him in the morning if you wish." He groaned, clutched his
temples, staggered to the bed and
fell heavily onto her lap. "Oh,
'livia, 'livia—do you know what agony it is to love and not be loved ...?"
Laying his head against her breast he groaned again and passed out.

Yes,
I know, Freddie dear, I know. I wish I could make it better for you but I
can't, I can't. . .

Gently,
she disentangled herself, fetched a damp cloth with which to wipe his face,
changed him into his pyjamas and tucked him into bed. She lay down next to him
and cradled him in her arms like a child, his head cushioned on her shoulder.
Later, still not sober, he woke to claim her with that same mindless fierceness
he had shown on their wedding night, thrusting into her brutally and
repeatedly, threatening to tear her apart with his frustrated passion. She
neither refused him nor did she complain. Not yet fully healed after the birth
of her child, her body revolted and exploded in pain, but she did not cry out.
Fists and teeth clenched, she suffered the assaults wordlessly. He too, after
all, had demons riding his back; who better to help him expel them than she?

When
he was finally done and had fallen again into snoring slumber, she rose
quietly. She had begun to bleed. Doubling over with the pain, she hobbled to
the bath-room to wash and medicate herself. She crept back into bed and gave in
to exhausted sleep.

When
she woke in the morning she was alone. She got up, quickly removed the
blood-stained bed sheet so that he would not see it and went in for a prolonged
bath. When she returned to her bedchamber, Freddie was sitting by the window.
On the table before him were a tea-tray and a folded newspaper. Neither had
been touched.

Concerned
at the blankness of his expression, Olivia asked quickly, "Freddie? Are
you not feeling well?"

His
pale, washed-out blue eyes swivelled in her direction. They were still shot
with tiny red veins, and his skin looked horribly pasty. "I went up to see
the baby. He reminds me of someone." His tone was as flat as his
expression. "Tell me now who his father is."

"No!
It is no longer of importance, Freddie. I—"

"It
is of importance to me." With a shudder, he buried his face in his hands.
"I cannot forget that you have lain with another man, Olivia, and that the
living, breathing proof is now here, in my house, a constant reminder of that
act!"

His
muffled words sounded like the cries of a wounded animal. In an effort to
lessen his anguish, she knelt down and put
her arms about him. "I have never
lied to you, Freddie; I never deceived you. I told you the truth, Freddie, and
I gave you the freedom to refuse me . . ."

"I
have never had the freedom to refuse you, Olivia!" Huge, grotesque tears
spilled down his hollow cheeks. "My love for you has never permitted
that." He refused to be consoled and shook her off roughly. "I know
nothing of babies, dammit! It was all so . . . unreal, so far away, but
now," a spasm tore through his hunched body, "now, it's suddenly
here,
in front of my eyes. It mocks me, taunts me, forbids me to forget that you
have borne the fruit of another's loins . . ."

The
scope of his hopelessness defeated her, as did the awareness of her own
inability to redeem it even marginally. She was struck again by the enormity of
his sacrifice, the injustice of her demands on him. In fierce remorse, she
grabbed his hands and kissed them. "I can't bear to see you like this,
Freddie! What is done cannot be undone, but I would do anything, anything, to
help reduce your torment. I can never forget your kindness, your—"

"Kindness!"
Wrenching
his hands free, he exploded. "Kindness, fondness, friendship, gratitude .
. .! It is not
kindness
that I have given; it is my heart, my love, my
life.
In return what you give me at best is gratitude, at worst. . .
pity.
No,
don't deny it, I have seen it in your eyes. You feel you owe me, it is a debt
you repay, which is why you tolerate my presence in your bed. I repel you,
Olivia, admit it!" He halted his feverish pacings and, as she opened her
mouth to protest, held up a hand. "No, don't lie, Olivia. Don't pretend
with me anymore. A chap senses these things—a gesture, a grimace, a frown here,
an unaware expression there . . ." He broke off to slump again in a chair,
his face once more dull with despair. "He didn't take you by force, did
he? You gave yourself willingly because you loved him, still love him."

It
was the end of his innocence, an innocence
she
had snatched away from
him. "I do not love him, Freddie, have never loved him, never, I swear to
you." Frantic to salvage at least some of his broken illusions, she
showered him with scraps of solace. "And I do
care
for you, deeply
and sincerely. Oh, if only I could cut open my heart and prove to you how
bitterly I regret that one transgression . . . !" Choked and ashamed, she
could not go on.

For
a moment Freddie stared down at her upturned face and into her stricken eyes
filled with tears of supplication. Then, taking both her hands, he raised her
and kissed her lightly on a
cheek. "In many ways, Olivia, I am a fool, I
admit it. But, my dear, the heart has an intelligence of its own. With the very
best will in the world, I do not believe you." Smiling strangely, he
turned to go. "I do not believe you."