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  Olivia and Jai by Rebecca Ryman

  Only the deepest desire could bring them together. Only the darkest betrayal could tear them apart.

  OLIVIA—The elegant American daughter of privilege, she is seduced by the opulence of a strange and beautiful culture. But her seduction isn't complete until she meets the man who becomes her opium... her obsession.

  JAI—The tormented son of an unknown Englishman and an Indian servant girl, he is an alien in the prejudiced world of the British Raj—a dark, forbidding man Olivia can neither trust... nor resist.

  Together they explore the sensuous, exotic tapestry of India in 1848—from its riotous peasant bazaars to tiger hunts in hushed jungles... and, together they defy every convention of a time and place, swept up in a powerful blend of passion and frustration that transforms them from devoted lovers to fierce enemies.

  A SELECTION OF THE LITERARY GUILD

  OLIVIA and JAI

  She was fascinated and baffled by this strange conundrum of a man, yes; but she was not yet sure that she even liked him! He was hard, opinionated, arrogant, twisted with hate and cynicism. He believed in adventurism, thought nothing of flaunting his moral turpitude before come who may and had no scruples about achieving his ends with whatever dubious means happened to be available at the moment. Arvind Singh had professed profound admiration for Jai as a man of rare courage. In Olivia's view, however, there was nothing especially admirable about a man merely because he was foolhardy enough to challenge the gods themselves.

  All this Olivia recognized with extreme clarity. What she could not identify was the capricious, obscure, utterly illogical reason why she could not shake Jai Raventhorne out of her thoughts no matter how hard she tried. Inexorably, the world in which she lived was becoming unreal, like a fantasy. Something sly and unwanted was creeping into her life, taking her away from her roots. And somehow, at the crux of her disorientation, stood Jai Raventhorne....

  CRITICAL PRAISE FOR OLIVIA AND JAI!

  "A splendid book that should give millions of readers great pleasure." —Greenwich Times

  "Ryman, a spellbinding storyteller, captivates the reader from the first page." —Publishers Weekly

  "Has it all: history, villainy, heroism, romance." —Boston Sunday Herald

  "A first novel so sweeping in scope, so melodramatic in incident, that one realizes immediately it is headed straight for the bestseller lists." —El Paso Times

  "Good, old-fashioned, epic entertainment, told with admirable vigor and style." —Kirkus Reviews

  "You won't be able to put it down... an enthralling story of love, mystery and betrayal." —Shreveport Times

  OLIVIA AND JAI

  Copyright © 1990 by Worldwide Services Limited.

  Taj Mahal photo courtesy of Stockmarket. Inset art by Addie Passen.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 89-77952

  ISBN: 0-312-92568-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin's Press hardcover edition published 1990 St. Martin's Paperbacks edition/August 1991

  For my parents; In ever-loving remembrance

  Author's Note

  I would like to express my deep gratitude to my husband for his many accurate observations and rectifications, and for his tolerance of domestic disarray over long periods while this book was being written. My warm thanks also to caring friends and relations who donated freely of their time and thought, not to dismiss with facile praise but to compliment with painstaking and productive criticism. To others who advised with wisdom and steered the manuscript into publication, I owe a debt that will ever be outstanding.

  Special thanks are due to Mr. Thomas J. McCormack, whose often relentless but always inspired editorial guidance has resulted in a better book than I had envisaged. And for those whose formidable task it has been to question, to suggest, to correct, and to finally bring order to a chaotic typescript, I record not only my gratitude but my unqualified admiration.

  CHAPTER 1

  Calcutta, 1848

  The city sweltered.

  Monsoon clouds, pregnant with rain, growled and grunted across a swollen pewter sky. The dome of afternoon pressed down on the earth like a soggy blanket, trapping the oppressive humidity and laying low even the most fortitudinous, their bodies robbed of energy and their minds of will. Slashing across the city, the river Hooghly crawled as if on leaden feet, waiting for the gales that would whip it along and relieve it of its torpor. Not a leaf moved, not a dust devil stirred; but in the very stillness there was promise. When the storm did break it would bring with it blessed coolness and once again the earth would breathe.

  But in the meantime, Calcutta sweltered.

  Standing in her kitchen house doling out rations for the evening meal, Lady Bridget Templewood appeared untouched by the heat. As always, her stance was ramrod straight. The hand holding the long wooden spoon swooped in and out of the groundnut oil jar, moving with the mechanical precision of an instrument devised solely for that purpose. As she counted, her lips framed silent incantations, giving her the appearance of a vestal high priestess immersed in some esoteric ritual upon which depended the fate of the Empire. Had anyone told her this, Lady Bridget would have been flattered. She believed devoutly that even in this distant outpost of Her Majesty's burgeoning realm, as an English noblewoman she had obligations to Queen and country from which not even the kitchen house was exempted.

  The rice, lentils and green beans, all carefully weighed, had been dispensed. The potatoes—two for each of them and none for Estelle—were in the process of being peeled by the scullion. Two chickens, plucked and cleaned, squatted by the coal range awaiting dismemberment into manageable pieces. On the white marble tabletop waiting to join the sizzling onions for the vindaloo curry were turmeric paste, chillies, coriander and cumin all ground in vinegar. Hardened by the pungent flavours of the East, Sir Joshua's palate demanded sharp spices although Lady Bridget herself would have gladly done without.

  Watching his lady memsahib go through her conscientious daily rituals, Babulal stood by in silence and impassivity, but within himself he simmered. For two whole days now he had been patiently waiting for an opportunity to replenish his own family's depleted larder and he considered it scandalous that it should be so. For one, his wife nagged him incessantly. For another, if cooks in prosperous firanghi households with bulging stores had to stoop to making their own purchases, was it not a matter of shame for his entire community? Not for the first time Babulal wondered if his own meagre pickings from the daily bazaar were worth it considering how well his counterparts did for themselves in other less stringent households.

  "Memsahib, memsahib . . .!"

  The ayah's sudden scream from the compound shattered Lady Bridget's concentration. Her hand jerked and sent oil splashing all over the immaculate flagstone floor. "What on earth . . .?"

  "Memsahib, come kweek, kweek!" Still shrieking, the ayah flew through the kitchen door, the whites of her eyes rolling fearfully amidst the chocolate brown of her face. "Umrican missy mem fall from gee-gee into nullah ...!" Breaking into hysterical Hindustani, she burst into tears.

  Lady Bridget congealed. The cornflower blue of her eyes stilled with shock; incantations forgotten, her mouth rounded in horror. Dear God, if the reckless girl had really damaged herself, how would she ever face Sean again? Not that Lady Bridget particularly wished to, but that at the moment was beside the point. Mindless of greasy fingers, she dropped the ladle to clutch
at her starched muslin skirt and ran out into the compound followed by the rest of the staff. Keeping time with her feet, her mind ran wild with conjecture; what if Olivia had broken her neck, injured her spine, disfigured her face...? Shaking with fear, Lady Bridget flew around the double-storied bungalow towards the front garden, uncaring of her hemline trailing mud through the residual puddles, mentally expecting the worst. She rounded the final corner—and stopped dead in her tracks.

  Far from having broken her back, Olivia was, in fact, in the process of heaving herself out of the ditch next to the casuarina hedge that separated the front lawn from the drive. Filled with stagnant rain-water, the ditch was now churned into a viscous brown soup, much of which clung to Olivia's person. On the other side of the hedge stood Jasmine, the white mare, neighing apologetically with her saddle askew and her reins draped around her neck like streamers. Olivia's new riding cap (fresh from London and bought only last week from Whiteaway Laidlaw for a rupee and a half) was floating down the muddy stream visibly unworthy of retrieval. Worse, the groom's cheeky son—too big for his britches by half anyway—was gripping Olivia's hands in his own in an effort to help. There appeared to be equal hilarity on both sides.

  Lady Bridget's short-lived relief turned into annoyance and her lips thinned. Even so, she waited. It was unthinkable to castigate kith and kin in front of the servants no matter how hideous the crime and how grave the provocation. Clapping aside the insolent lad, she stalked grimly towards the site of the mishap. "Are you hurt, Olivia?"

  With a final heave Olivia swung out of the ditch and onto the swampy lawn. "Only my pride, Aunt Bridget." Her grin beneath the drying mud on her face was rueful. "Damn! I was so doggone sure she'd be able to do it again!"

  Lady Bridget blanched but decided to ignore the sotto voce expletive. In all fairness, the child's barbaric speech had improved considerably. And one could hardly expect miracles in eight weeks as one might with a decently brought up English girl. "Can you walk?"

  "I think so. I reckon only my knees are bruised and I've had worse, believe me." Rising unsteadily to her feet, Olivia lifted her dripping skirt to examine the extent of her injuries. "Bucktooth always says that knowing how to fall is the name of the game. Being a rodeo man himself, I guess he should know." She laughed, gave her aunt a dazzling smile and started to wring out her skirt.

  Lady Bridget was neither amused nor dazzled. In fact, she shuddered. Pointedly, she refrained from asking who Bucktooth was apart from a rodeo man, whatever that might be. Engaging her attention entirely was the horrifying sight of Olivia's bare legs at which she tried desperately not to look, knowing that that was an exercise in restraint not shared by her servants. Never having before seen a white mem's legs—not even sure that they possessed them—they stared openly. Astonished at the sudden revelation, the groom's son almost fell backwards into the ditch himself.

  Lady Bridget leapt into action. "Go up immediately, Olivia, and get Estelle's ayah to pour you a hot bath. I'll be with you as soon as . . .," she looked around and realized to her dismay that Babulal was no longer part of the audience, ". . . as I've finished with the stores." Grimly, she positioned herself between the knot of ogling onlookers and Olivia's bare knees.

  "Mama, what's happened . . .?" A highly alarmed Estelle came running down the portico steps followed by her yapping King Charles spaniel puppy. Catching sight of Olivia she broke off, stared, then doubled up with loud laughter. "Ooh, I told you so, didn't I? I fold you it was a fluke—Jasmine would never be able to take that hedge again! Well, that should learn you, Miss Devil-May-Care, and oh my, you do look a proper sight!" Holding her sides she hooted.

  "That's enough, Estelle!" her mother snapped. "I fail to see anything funny in this deplorable exhibition! Now help your cousin up the stairs and see to her bath, will you? Take out the iodine tincture, the bandages and cotton wool and send to the pantry for some boiling water. I'll be up in a few minutes." Clapping her hands together she briskly rattled off orders. "Come on now all of you, back to your posts juldee, juldee, chop, chop. Rehman, get the water boy to carry up four buckets from the hammam. You there, stop staring like an ape and see Jasmine back to the stables. If she's hurt that foreleg again it's your hide sahib will want, I promise you. Ayah, take missy mem's clothes to the dhobi this instant for a boil wash."

  Wasting no more time, Lady Bridget hurried back to the kitchen. No doubt that wretched Babulal had already stuffed his turban with whatever he could lay his hands on for that disgustingly large brood of his. And if the level of port was further reduced, Josh would be livid. It was his second to last bottle and the replenishments ordered a year ago for Estelle's ball were not due for another two weeks. Thankfully, Olivia's injuries were minor. They could wait a few more minutes.

  As Sir Joshua often had occasion to remark, there was nothing ambiguous about his wife's priorities in life.

  "I thought it was understood, Olivia, that riding out in the heat of the day was inadvisable, and even more so without an escort?"

  Scrubbed back into pristine respectability, Olivia reclined on a chaise-longue in the upstairs parlour. Her skin shone pink with the effort, her tall, coltish figure encased again in a feminine calico, this time of apricot and olive green. The offending knees were not only covered but also swabbed, medicated and bandaged. On a cushioned towel behind her head, her heavy chestnut hair fanned out like a mane, giving her even more the look of an unbridled filly. The soiled riding habit had been dispatched to the dhobi house in the servants' quarters, the mutilated cap had been joyously claimed by one of the gardeners and the groom had confirmed that Jasmine's foreleg was in no way damaged. But that was by no means the end of the matter. Lady Bridget was far from having had her say.

  Olivia sighed. "The heat doesn't bother me, I promise you, Aunt Bridget. And I do know the station well enough by now not to need an escort."

  "The heat you are used to is not tropical heat, Olivia. Here, it can ruin delicate white complexions and produce dreadful skin ailments." Even as she said it, Lady Bridget faltered. Olivia's robust, glowing complexion might not be of a hue suitable for Europeans but it looked anything but delicate. "More to the point," she added quickly, "you could have met with an accident elsewhere and been at the mercy of the natives."

  From the window seat where she was occupied with a water-colour still life of a fruit bowl she regularly depleted, Estelle snorted. "Olivia has the best seat Papa says he's ever seen on a woman. She only fell off because she was being pigheaded."

  Her mother withered her with a glance. "I know Olivia rides well, but that is irrelevant. No respectable European woman here invites trouble by venturing forth on her own!"

  "Well, where she comes from they teach women to look after themselves," Estelle retorted hotly. "They don't tie them down with their mama's apron strings."

  Before the familiar argument could blossom further, Olivia hastily intervened. "I only rode down to the embankment, Aunt Bridget, and I had no intentions of staying away long."

  "I have never doubted your intentions, dear child," her aunt sighed, "only your methods. In India it is unsafe to be on one's own if one is a woman. A white woman here is an object of curiosity to the natives. They stare, make impertinent remarks and start entertaining ideas far beyond their station." She spoke with studied patience, wondering how often she would have to repeat her warnings to the headstrong girl.

  Struggling to sit up, Olivia balanced herself on an elbow. "The natives stared far less than I would have if one of them had suddenly turned up in the middle of Sacramento! In fact, the villagers were most kind. I was watching this snake charmer with his cobras and they gave me a stool to sit on. They also gave me some very sweet tea in a clay pot." She met her aunt's eyes without flinching. "It was delicious."

  It was Lady Bridget who in fact flinched. Drinking tea in clay pots with filthy peasants? Ye gods, what would the child think of doing next! She simmered with slow anger; what a mess, what an appalling mess Sean had made of Sa
rah's lovely child! Given the right upbringing in England, the girl could have had the world at her feet. Lady Bridget's anger melted and instead she was filled with pity. She rose to sit on the chaise-longue beside her niece and took both her hands in hers.

  "Our life here must appear strange to you, my dear. I do understand that—especially in view of your own . . . unconventional upbringing. But in the colonies we must remain aloof, a little distant from the masses. Superior civilisations can survive only in exclusivity—you do see my point, don't you, dear?"

  It was a variation on a theme Olivia had heard incessantly since she had arrived. As always, it left her unconvinced. "From what little I've read, it would seem that superiority is a relative term, it—"

  "What is true in theory is not always the reality, Olivia!"

  "Perhaps, but Papa says that an old civilisation such as this—"

  "Your father is an idealist." Lady Bridget's mouth crimped as if having said a word not to be repeated in front of children. "And he has never been to India. No matter how old, this is a pagan country. Its culture reeks of superstition, of savage belief abhorrent to all true ..." She stopped. Once again she was being drawn into an argument she considered futile and irrelevant. Olivia had an annoying habit of using logic as a weapon; it was not a habit Lady Bridget approved of in women. There was right and there was wrong, and word juggling could not make them otherwise. She stood up to indicate the termination of the debate. "Anyway, to return to the point, I would be obliged if you would not ride out again on your own. That stable-boy is an impudent, disreputable lout but at least he can keep pace with a horse and return with a message in case you have trouble with the natives."

  Estelle giggled. "If Olivia has trouble with the natives, I'd give my sympathies to the natives! She'd just take out her derringer and shoot them dead straight through the heart, wouldn't you, Coz?"