In a flash, the child was dumped without ceremony on the ground, the coins snatched up with a savage snarl at anyone who might steal them from her and, with one final disdainful look at Cynthia, she dissolved into the crowd as if by magic.
Sabran laughed, though it was clear he was not amused. “It seems it wasn’t her child after all.”
The baby sat alone in the dust, looking around at the sea of strangers, her eyes wide and helpless, though managing to convey a real or imagined accusation in her stare. Her look failed to hit the mark with Cynthia, though drenched Sara with an overwhelming sense of responsibility.
“There must be someone? Surely she can’t be entirely alone.” Sara’s questioning looks were met by blank disinterest, though somehow it was implied that by speaking at all, the future of the child now rested with her.
In a curious way she felt it too, and at that moment she knew she couldn’t walk away. The girl child she’d seen floating on the sea had been an omen—a message, for her eyes only! The feeling was something she’d only ever read about: a lightning strike of realisation!
She crouched down to stroke the child’s velvet skin. “Poor little thing.” She hardly mouthed the words. Even so, the child let out a terrified howl.
The child sat forlorn and alone in the dust, crying as though she already knew her fate lay in the kindness of strangers, and Sara couldn’t bear it.
Then she remembered an Indian lullaby Malika must have sung to her as a child. Forgetting to be self-conscious, Sara began to sing, a lilting pretty tune in Hindi. “Nini baba nini … mera baba soja …”
The child stopped crying to stare at her, and for a few moments the chaos was stilled and everything was quiet. Even Ravi Sabran’s manner had softened a little under the calming effect of the lullaby. Now he looked at her with a genuine curiosity.
When she finished, Sara rose to her feet, brushing the yellow dust off her skirt. “Well, I’m not leaving till I find out who will take care of this child.”
At first no one came forward, then, after a few words spoken with ferocity and obvious impatience by Sabran, everyone, including Sara, jumped. A servant hurried forward and stood behind the child like a sentry, every now and then guiding her gingerly with his stick if she attempted to crawl away from the spot.
Lady Palmer had had enough. She called out, in her anger forgetting to be ladylike, “If only my husband were here … Why is no one here to meet us?”
There was an uncomfortable silence, then, as though answering Lady Palmer’s prayers, separating itself from the noise of the crowd, came a male voice, deep, familiar and reassuring.
“Move along will you? Out of the way.” His tone was calm at first, then as though through gritted teeth. “Move away at once, damn you!”
A shower of batons slashing wildly over the heads of the crowd preceded a sudden tide of hard-faced policemen in mustard serge uniforms, creating a path through which Charles emerged, his handsome face red with frustration.
In a moment he was standing before his wife.
“Sara?” There was a flash of shock in his eyes, as if he couldn’t quite believe it was her.
“Charles …” she called out, forgetting to be restrained in the joy of the moment. She fumbled with her hair, then was suddenly shy. She could say no more.
Lady Palmer pounced. “Charles … At last … Praise the Lord you’re here. Take us away at once.”
“Lady Palmer, welcome back.” His words were directed at her, but his eyes were fixed on his wife.
Cynthia slipped her arm into his and hung on tight, gazing up at him with what Sara thought were adoring eyes. “Charles! Where have you been?” Her voice had changed to a babyish lisp. “We’ve had the most dreadful time.”
“Yes, my poor girl, she’s suffered so much …” Lady Palmer clung to his other arm.
Charles hesitated, feeling besieged and unsure of which direction to take. Then he gently extricated himself from the arms of the clinging women with a stiff bow and took Sara’s hand to raise it to his lips.
“My dear Sara, I’m so sorry to be late; there was a serious incident and it couldn’t wait, not even for you.”
He looked down at her, scanning her face till she squirmed. Then he leaned down to whisper in her ear, “How lovely you are. I must have forgotten.” He was genuinely puzzled. He had retained the image of her when he had seen her last on the day of their marriage and couldn’t imagine she would be any different. He remembered with a shudder the too tight mustard wool dress, the almost matronly hairstyle. That image was replaced by a face verging on beautiful, mostly due to her lovely eyes and clear pale skin. He had never noticed the shape and colour of her lips before. Surely in England they were unremarkable? Her teeth had always been good, better than most English girls he knew, but surely much whiter than before. Her fine muslin blouse showed a tantalising hint of small but perfectly shaped breasts above a slim waist, held in check by a wide black belt adorned with a bunch of fabric violets. Her dark green skirt was almost shockingly modern in the slimness of its cut, but the overall effect was of fresh elegance so far from the musty, plum velvet heaviness of the middle-class drawing room he’d left her in.
But it wasn’t just a question of her slim figure and smart clothes. The expression on her face confounded him.
Then he saw it in a flash of rare understanding. He’d left behind a doting awkward girl and was reunited with a sophisticated woman who seemed, in the year or so since he’d seen her last, somehow to have acquired a style and assurance of her own.
“You have missed me then?”
He answered her by giving a look that caused a little shiver to run up her spine, then, putting his arm around her waist, he gave her a discreet kiss on the cheek.
A flash of pride shot through her body.
He was even more handsome than she remembered, though perhaps a little thinner. His skin, once a healthy light brown with patches of high colour on his cheeks, was now burnt to a dark tan, making his thick blond hair appear almost white, and his eyes a brilliant blue. He looked tired, and for a short moment she experienced a brief burst of concern, but then it died away almost at once. His back was ramrod-straight in his grey serge suit. She knew it would take more than mere soaring temperatures to defeat him.
He turned on the crowd, shouting irritably in Tamil. They drew back at once and it was clear his authority wouldn’t be questioned.
Her arm slipped through his, bringing him back to face her once more.
“I hope the trip wasn’t too dreadful …” He could hardly look at her without his cheeks flushing a bright red.
She mumbled an answer, over-polite and on her best behaviour. “Not at all, we had good weather for most of it.”
He looked away, obviously distracted and, it seemed, a little angry.
She searched his face, wondering what could be wrong, but his attention was taken by Cynthia, who stood smiling up at him from under her forget-me-not blue bonnet that suited her eyes very well.
Sara watched his beaming face with a rising tinge of jealousy. He really did look very pleased to see Cynthia. Too pleased, perhaps?
“Your trip went well?”
“Very well. William’s family are charming, but of course it’s what one would expect from people of such high standing.” Cynthia’s eyes held his for a long moment and it seemed he was enthralled.
“I can’t tell you how devastated we all are at having you taken away from us.”
“Of course I’ll miss all my friends …” she smiled “… especially you, Charles.” Then she touched his arm with her tiny pink fan, leaving him helpless and trapped by her charm.
“Well, Charles, we’ve found ourselves in a tiny mess.” Then she made a dab at her eyes with her lace handkerchief and moved closer to him.
“You always seem to know the right thing to do.”
Sara almost laughed out loud at such obvious flattery, but Charles seemed not to notice how he was being manipulated.
“Now, my dear Cynthia, what’s all this fuss about?” Charles had to lean down to hear her as, even standing on tiptoe, her neat little head only came to his shoulder, making her seem all the more vulnerable.
Cynthia whispered into his ear, sometimes taking quick looks at Sara as she did so. He listened intently, then gave the baby a brief glance; she now sat content with a piece of dripping mango in her chubby fingers, encircled by people making half-hearted efforts to amuse her, all of them now anxious to appear to have some part in her ownership, having seen there could be money in it.
“Most unfortunate,” he murmured. “I’ll deal with it.” He clapped his hands and called out, “Shakur! Get here at once, you lazy devil!”
A manservant appeared before them, staring at Sara with a wide grin on his face, hardly taking his eyes off her except to look around at the crowd, hoping they would notice his importance.
“This is Shakur; he’s my head man.”
As a mark of the position he held, Shakur wore one of his master’s cast-off shirts over his long dhoti. His thin neck stuck out of a frayed collar that was too big for him, but somehow he presented himself with a dignity impossible to ridicule.
He bowed again, pressing his palms together and touching his forehead in a blessing. Sara liked him at once. He grinned at her, showing large perfect white teeth.
“Is this lady the new madam, sahib?” He moved his head from side to side in time with his high sing-song voice.
“Yes, this lady is my wife, and mind you don’t forget it.”
Sara softened the moment with a smile.
“How do you do, Shakur?”
“I am well, madam.” He seemed to study her face with obvious delight and blessed her fervently once more. He admired the fine bones of her hands and wrists, her white skin and her hair … a very auspicious colour … the colour of dark saffron threads.
Sara smiled again with genuine kindness, and he blessed her once more before stealing a hasty look at Lady Palmer and visibly shuddering.
Charles seemed irritated again and took charge. “Enough! Shakur, get the luggage and I’ll see you back at the carriage.”
“At once, sahib!” Shakur bustled around long enough to ensure that his importance had been acknowledged before hurrying off, saying as he left to anyone in his path, “Move along, move along, will you,” in a peculiar imitation of his master’s voice.
Charles had taken Sara’s arm to lead her away, but was distracted by the sight of Sabran, who’d retreated to talk to someone in a waiting carriage standing apart from the chaos of the wharf.
Charles was clearly very put out and flexed his hands behind his back as though trying to control his fury. Sara followed his eyes to where an exquisite girl with a face from a fairy tale was looking out of the window of the carriage, but when she felt herself being observed the vision modestly drew back with such haste it was almost as though she hadn’t existed at all.
Sabran let go of the girl’s hand and threw Charles one of his enigmatic looks.
Sara looked up at Charles’ face, trying to read his expression. His lips were white against his high colour, and his bright blue eyes seemed almost glassy as he stared back.
“Oh, do you know them, darling?” The endearment sounded odd to her ears, but it got his attention. “The gentleman was most helpful. I don’t know what would have happened if he hadn’t come along when he did. Charles, we must thank him.”
“I think referring to Sabran as a gentleman is perhaps too generous. However, you weren’t to know, my dear. We must leave, now.”
“But Charles, something dreadful has happened …”
He wouldn’t look at her, but kept his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance.
“Yes, I know … Cynthia told me …”
“Then you’ll understand how we are responsible …”
“Not responsible, surely … but I’ll arrange for one of my men to take the child to the nuns. We can’t adopt her ourselves. It would cause trouble amongst the servants. You’ve forgotten how strict the caste rules are here. Anyway, as soon as the real mother realises there’s no money to be had, she’ll turn up. I’ve seen this sort of thing before.”
He took her hand and held it firmly. There would be no more nonsense. Lady Palmer and Cynthia had made their way to the carriage, still surrounded by curious onlookers. They gave her furious impatient glares but, even so, Sara resisted, not being able to tear herself away from the child playing in the dust.
“Charles, we must do something …”
He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Lady Palmer would never allow her in the carriage. We must leave at once.”
“Pardonnez moi.”
Charles swung around to face Sabran, who stood before them with an air of barely controlled irritation. He’d been a witness to the scene between the couple and had been waiting for an opportunity to interrupt.
“Fitzroy.” He said the name as though it cost him a great deal.
Charles gave a curt nod in return. “I believe my wife has reason to be grateful to you. I want to reimburse you for your trouble.”
Sabran ignored the offer with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I do not want your money.”
Sabran stared curiously at Sara, then back to Charles. His face showed a faint glimmer of surprise, then a half smile of what she felt sure was derision, accompanied by an exaggerated, almost sarcastic bow, waving a hand before her like a courtier, and dazzling her eyes with a huge rough-cut yellow diamond set in heavy gold he wore on his wedding finger.
Usually she couldn’t bear jewellery on a man, thinking it effeminate and a sure sign of vanity, though on his hand the primitive cut of the stone seemed only to add to his air of mystery, as a sorcerer might use a wand to hypnotise his victims.
She’d caught his flicker of surprise, and even distaste also. She was shocked to see that the man didn’t admire her and might even dislike her.
“I’m here to tell you, madam, I will take the child! That is the end of the matter!” he announced.
Then, bowing again briefly in Sara’s direction, he snapped his fingers at his entourage. “Come!”
“Forgive me, monsieur, but I’m not so sure.”
At first there was a faint gleam of pure white teeth, a polite but failed attempt to cover a snarl, then, while his dark enigmatic eyes swept over her with now unconcealed dislike, he snapped his fingers and his entourage sprang to attention again.
Charles took her hand to lead her away.
“I think the matter is decided at last, my dear.”
“But the old man wanted me to take her!” She touched her heart with the tips of her fingers to emphasise the truth of her words. “I’m sure of it! And he died at peace because he believed, somehow, that I would take his granddaughter.”
There was an uncomfortable silence at her public display of passion, including Charles, who felt compelled to step in and restore order.
“My dear girl, you’re letting your imagination run away with you. Let Monsieur Sabran take her. At least, with him, she’ll be at her own level.”
Again, it took all of Sabran’s self-control to ignore Charles and speak to Sara with a calm voice. “The English have taken everything else from us. You must at least leave us our children.”
Sara stared. There was nothing more she could say, realising the truth of his words.
“But you must come to visit her often,” he said in a softer tone. “You will always be welcome.” His thickly accented voice poured over her like heavy silk. He glanced at Charles to see how he would take the invitation and was clearly pleased to see him bristle and clear his throat again.
“To make certain I’m not ill-treating her,” Sabran added, laughing softly.
“Now!” He slapped his hands together, and everyone jumped again.
“I must go, and so must you. That’s the end of the matter”.
While still dazed by his sudden display of charm, Sara watched as a waiting attendant picke
d up the child and held her dangling at arm’s length.
“Don’t be a fool! Give her to me!” Sabran almost snatched the child from the servant, gave Sara a final bow, then, with a dismissive look at Charles, marched away with the child, who was now crying loudly, tucked under his arm like a parcel, with his entourage hurrying along behind.
Sara had to hide her smile as she said goodbye in return. Then, as an afterthought, she called out, “Wait! What’s her name? Does anyone know anything about her? Anything at all?” She looked around at the remaining people, who stared back at her with vacant eyes.
Sabran stopped in his tracks; the baby had wet herself and left a damp patch on his clean linen. He turned and glared at Sara, his patience obviously reaching an end.
Charles hissed at her, “For goodness’ sake, my dear girl … How obstinate you’ve become. Lady Palmer is furious; please try to understand my position.”
“Just a minute, Charles, please … forgive me. It’s not a lost puppy we’re talking about, she’s a child!”
She held his gaze with her lovely eyes and, despite everything, he softened.
“You’re right, of course. She must have a name, Monsieur Sabran …”
“She must, I suppose.” He muttered a string of words in French, spoken too quickly to make out, though Sara was sure they were not flattering to her.
“What do you think of Prema?” He held his face in a tight grimace. “It was my grandmother’s name. Will that do?”
“Prema! It can’t be! It can’t be!” She swayed and for a moment she thought she might faint.
Sabran put out a hand to support her, but Charles moved quickly, at the same time giving a warning look. Sabran dropped his hand, though not without his mocking secret smile.
“The old man called out that name, just before he …” Her voice faltered, husky now with suppressed tears. “He did! It was Prema! I’m sure of it now! It must be a sign, it must be …”
“Prema … is that your name?” She bent down to gaze into the child’s eyes and the baby turned her head and gave a half smile as if to answer.
“It is!”
Sara stared at Sabran, her face shining, asking him to share in her astonishment and the absolute marvel of the thing. His eyes flashed with what she thought was a touch of alarm.
The Jasmine Wife Page 5
