Ryman, Rebecca Read Free

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
Sarah'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?"
    "Indeed!"
her mother exclaimed with cutting displeasure, and inwardly Olivia groaned; the
giddy girl was really the limit! "If your cousin does carry a weapon, Estelle,
perhaps it is because she is not aware that India isn't quite the Wild West
yet, nor by England's grace is it likely ever to be. In the meanwhile, I would
prefer you not to meddle in matters that in no way concern you." Sweeping
out of the room she slammed the door behind her.
    Olivia
glared at her cousin. "I wish you would stop championing my causes with
such unnecessary fervor, Estelle! Your efforts always seem to end up making
even more trouble for me—and for yourself. Now she knows I have a derringer and
she's livid."
    "Oh,
fiddlesticks! Mama bullies you the same as she does me, and I just don't think
we should stand for it." Her blue eyes, so much like her mother's, showed
no sign of repentance.
    "She
doesn't bully either of us," Olivia said sharply. "She has her
principles like everyone else, that's all." That she considered some of
her aunt's principles absurd she had no intention of telling Estelle.
    "Principles, huh!" Estelle
pouted and gazed thoughtfully at an orange. "It's all very well for you. You'll have to suffer
them only for a year; I have to put up with them for life!"
    "Only
if you choose to remain a