The Jasmine Wife

by Jane Coverdale

  “I’ve arranged for us to leave for Tanjore as soon as I can get away.”

  “Tanjore?”

  “South of here. you’ll like the place. It’ll give us a chance to get to know each other, away from prying eyes. One is never really alone in Madras.”

  His eyes lingered on her body, taking time to appreciate her shapely form. She unconsciously crossed her arms over her breasts, at the same time experiencing a strange little flutter in her chest. It was real, after all. She really was married to this man standing before her and he had a right to look at her in that way.

  “Our honeymoon … Of course, I’d almost forgotten.” She blushed and looked away.

  “I don’t see why you’re so shocked.” He laughed, for the first time showing a touch of humour. “That’s what you’re here for, you know, to love, honour and obey.”

  She bit her lip and stared down at her hands, wondering what to do next. Then, before she could stop herself, the words spilled out. “I will love and honour you, but I have no intention of obeying you, Charles, unless I want to, of course.”

  He stared at her for a long moment as though weighing up her words and struggling with his own thoughts, then he stepped forward in a determined way and drew her to him, kissing her hard on the lips.

  It was the first time they had actually kissed with any kind of intensity, and she wasn’t sure if it was pleasurable or not; his transformation from practicality to passion came as such a shock.

  “I can’t wait. I can’t wait to have you to myself,” he breathed. She was aware of his beating heart as she was pressed almost violently against his chest. Then she felt the warmth of his fingers as they stole up the back of her neck and grasped at the strands of her hair, pulling her head back to be kissed once more.

  She gave a little gasp. It was almost as if he was another man. Then for a blinding instant she saw a little into his soul. He kept his feelings close, and only sometimes would he allow them to be seen. This was what marriage was about; she must try to understand him, and with that understanding would come a deeper love. It was such a relief, such a relief to know, deep down, she hadn’t been wrong about him after all.

  Chapter 7

  It soon became clear that, apart from the climate, there was very little difference between the life Sara had left behind and the society she now found herself marooned in. The only difference being that the codes of behaviour were even more rigid for women than for men.

  Even the regulations themselves were frozen in the earlier time of dusty Victorian rule, as antiquated as the horsehair sofa she sat upon most evenings in the drawing room of Lady Palmer’s cloying over-furnished mansion.

  At yet another gathering where it was deemed essential she attend, she looked around at the assembled guests, trying to discern signs of unease in the faces of the other women. Were they too struggling with the endless rules of behaviour imposed on them? But their faces betrayed only contentment, even pride, as they fanned themselves against the insufferable heat and watched their menfolk at play.

  Many of the women she knew had come from the lower middle classes of England and had once been part of the “fishing fleet” of the past years. They’d found husbands amongst either the minor civil servant community or the military and were now in a society they could never have hoped for in England. Here in Madras, even those from the most humble of backgrounds had at least a dozen servants who enabled them to live with total freedom from domestic servitude.

  They were proud of their new status and couldn’t help but boast of it with, it seemed to Sara, sometimes an almost vulgar display of arrogance against the Indian natives. Her compatriots were more than happy with their position, and it was unlikely they would buck the system they had so recently found themselves a part of.

  At the far end of the room a group of men were standing together, arms around each other’s shoulders and singing a faintly disreputable ditty from one of London’s faraway music halls. She tried to be indulgent as it was harmless enough, but she resented the fact that men could be silly and loud and drink too much and stumble the night away without any recriminations, while she was supposed to be restrained and corseted, as stiff and emotionless as a mummy in a tomb.

  Her face was outwardly serene, but inside her head her thoughts were in turmoil as she ran through the endless list of rules an Englishwoman in India must abide by.

  A lady must never be seen alone in the street without at least one servant. A lady must never appear too forward in the company of a gentleman or discuss politics with an air of knowing something about the subject. A lady must always defer to the opinion of the gentleman, even if she felt he was wrong. A lady must not interrupt a gentleman while he was speaking. And, above all, she must never be seen to be amused or interested in the company of an Indian man if she should ever meet one, no matter how high his status. She must always be aware any relations between the races must be kept strictly at arm’s length.

  So far, she had broken nearly all those rules, and on the first day of her arrival in India, and had been made to pay for her unconventional behaviour with sly looks of censure and haughty glares, especially from Lady Palmer.

  Sara’s head spun with it, and she experienced a familiar tightening in her throat whenever she was in Lady Palmer’s drawing room.

  Card tables, occasional tables, vases of dried flowers and tall brass buckets of peacock feathers, silver picture frames, large bronze statuettes and examples of the local bird life preserved under domed glass, their brilliant plumage ragged and dusty. They jammed up against each other and competed on the walls with damp and dreary landscapes of the Scottish Highlands, and scenes of quaint English villages brought from “home”.

  Sara’s own house had been adorned in much the same way when she first arrived, and Charles had confessed the furnishings were due to Lady Palmer’s influence. Within the first month, though, Sara had removed the dusty trinkets and condemned most of the heavy Victorian furniture to a storeroom. The walls were painted white and she hung curtains of a vivid turquoise blue and decorated the rooms with exquisite antiques and weavings she’d found in the marketplace for a pittance. The finished result was light and elegant and, most of all, unique, despite the objections of Charles, who declared the look a trifle bohemian. He was concerned about how Lady Palmer would react if she ever found out. But, being in the first throes of fascination with his lovely new wife, he soon adjusted to the changes, only keeping the stuffed head of a tiger in his study, and the largest of Lady Palmer’s paintings, a gloomy still life of a collection of dead animals arranged on a tartan rug after a shoot, which took pride of place above his narrow bed in the dressing room, causing Sara to emit a little shudder of horror whenever she walked past.

  A servant bearing a tray of wilting cucumber sandwiches roused her to her present world. She took a bite then put it down at once; it was warm, and tasted vaguely of rancid butter. A sudden roar of coarse laughter from the other side of the room made her flinch.

  She longed to be alone, but she knew Charles would be disappointed if she asked to leave before he was ready. He liked nothing better than to be at the centre of a gathering where he knew he was respected and admired. He was at home with his people and, for a clouded moment, Sara had a fear that she’d never feel the same way. But she told herself it was nonsense to be so uneasy. It had only been a few weeks, and there were bound to be difficulties at first, and with time she’d carve her own niche in this new world.

  Though she was beginning to wonder what she had committed herself to.

  Where was the adventure she’d so longed for? There was none in being transported across the world from one drawing room to another.

  For a wild fleeting moment she wished it wasn’t taboo to be alone with a man before they married, if only for a few hours, just to discover what happened in the bedroom before a bride was bound for life.

  To prepare her for these unknown rites, her aunt had mumbled a few incoherent words, accompanied by
torturous blushing and squirming so distressing to her, Sara had felt compelled to spare her any further agony and put a stop to it at once.

  “There are things you might not want to do,” her aunt had managed to splutter at last, “but it’s quite normal.”

  These words, accompanied by a horrified shudder, were the extent of her knowledge of the facts of life. She closed her eyes, trying to squeeze the thoughts from her brain. She didn’t want to think about what happened when she and Charles were in bed together.

  The first night of her married life she’d spent curled up on the other side of the bed, watching him sleep and wondering how he could, after such a momentous event. Somehow, she’d imagined more tenderness and care.

  She hadn’t expected the almost savage attack as he’d held her pinned down, roughly spreading her legs with his knees and forcing himself into her while she winced in pain. His panting face had loomed over her with an expression she’d found difficult to read. It was almost as if he hated her.

  When it was over at last he’d taken pity on her bewildered face. “Poor little girl. Didn’t anyone tell you what was expected of you? Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to it.”

  She felt she was being watched and looked up to see a short, florid-faced man with pale, rather protruding eyes and a thick neck on the other side of the room, leaning against the piano. He raised his glass to her and gave her a lascivious smile.

  George Perry always made her squirm, but he was Charles’s closest friend and already, Sara suspected, more than a little attracted to her. He was courteous to the point of almost being a nuisance, but it was clear Charles admired him so she took his attentions with a mild grace.

  At first she was quite willing to forgive his imperfections, till she discovered him drunk in the library one night beating his manservant over the head with his riding crop because he’d spilled brandy on his master’s trousers. When she’d called out and insisted he stop, he’d tried to make a joke about it, but ever since she could see him in no other light than that of a tyrant to be avoided as much as possible.

  All the men drank more than was good for them, and even her own husband, who had so much self-control, showed a hard light in his eye and a sharp tongue when he’d drunk too much brandy. Though it was accepted as inevitable the men would turn to alcohol. The climate encouraged it.

  Even the women betrayed flushed faces and high-pitched giggles as they sipped their gin and quinine behind their fans. More than once a lady was seen leaving the room, her legs wobbling as she was supported on both sides, being ushered out to the reviving air of the terrace, or to be discreetly sick amongst the hibiscus. Though it was considered bad form to notice it, let alone speak of it.

  This was a new experience for Sara, having never seen a woman drink even a thimbleful of alcohol before, except as a tonic when faint.

  As she watched, after an evening of slow but continuous drinking, the mood become more menacing as the men, driven by boredom, turned to a type of schoolboy violence for amusement. She’d seen it all before and wanted to leave before the games began.

  She looked up and caught Charles’s glance from across the room and beckoned with her eyes for him to come to her. Cynthia was in the middle of whispering something in his ear, but he put out a hand to halt her in mid-sentence and, frowning a little, he made his way to where Sara sat on the sofa.

  “Whatever’s the matter, my sweet? You look quite cross.” He staggered a little as he bent down to her and his words were slurred.

  “I want to go. I’m rather tired … It must be the heat.” Up close, his cheeks showed a bright red flush and his pale blue eyes had a familiar hard glitter.

  “Not yet, darling. It wouldn’t look right to leave so soon. They expect me to stay.”

  “Then I’ll have Shakur take me home.”

  Sara rose to her feet, but Charles leaned close to her face and spoke through clenched teeth, forcing her back onto the settee. “I said not now. Lady Palmer would be offended. If you’d put yourself out a little you might find you enjoy it.”

  A voice rang out from the other side of the room, causing them both to start. “Choose your mounts! We’ll have some practice before the match.”

  Charles laughed, his anger fading at once. His eyes were no longer stern and he patted her arm as though to appease her, before leaving. She watched him as he made his way towards his waiting friends. He’d forgotten her already.

  A few moments later the male servants were called from the anterooms and assembled to be chosen for the teams.

  Sara rose and left the room, hurrying towards the relative peace of the terrace. At least there she wouldn’t have to be a witness to the humiliations that were bound to follow.

  A favourite game of the men was to ride their servants around the room in a pretend game of polo, where, as they became more excited, the drunken riders beat their servants as they scrambled about the floor chasing the ball. Sara wondered why she didn’t find it as funny as the other spectators obviously did, their heads flung back in uncontrollable hysterics, with even the women shouting from the sidelines and betting on the winners.

  Cynthia followed her out onto the terrace, her usual controlled self, though her eyes showed an eager curiosity disguised as concern. “What are you doing out here by yourself, Sara? Are you unwell?”

  Sara didn’t turn around, unwilling to reveal the bright tears smarting in the corner of her eyes. “I just can’t bear to watch. It’s all so humiliating.” She wasn’t in the mood to speak and disliked being disturbed, especially when she felt she might betray her emotions to Cynthia’s gossiping tongue.

  Cynthia slapped Sara’s arm with her fan, as was her habit. It was meant to be playful, but there was a real reproach in the slap as well.

  “You sound just like my governess! They’ve little enough to amuse them, and the poor boys are so far away from the usual pursuits of gentlemen.”

  “Well, that’s my point …” Sara almost snapped, forgetting her strict training and unable now to hide her resentment. “It’s beneath them to behave in such a way.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake … It’s only a game, and the servants enjoy it too. You’re too severe, come and join the others. Poor boys … If they could have a little fox-hunting, perhaps … It only seems fair, now that the tigers seem to have all but disappeared.”

  Sara thought about replying but felt nothing she could say in defence of tigers would have any effect except to annoy. She merely smiled, then collected her cashmere shawl from the seat beside her. “Tell Charles I’m going home.”

  She left at once, leaving Cynthia to wonder why Charles would’ve thought it necessary to marry someone so unsuitable, and who seemed to take pleasure in ruining everyone else’s fun.

  Chapter 8

  The polo match was held in the coolest part of the afternoon, as the sun’s rays cast long mauve shadows across the sparse, almost bare expanse of grass that had been hacked out of the always encroaching jungle.

  A raised dais stood in the corner of the field, decorated almost too lavishly with garlands of brilliant flowers and bunting representing the colours of the British Empire. A line of cane armchairs had been set up on this dais for the chief dignitaries, first amongst them being Lady Palmer and her daughter. Sara too had a place of honour, raised high above the other guests, as the wife of the captain of the British team.

  She would have preferred to be amongst the crowd below, who had set up their own picnics under the shade of trees or under festive little tents, but Charles was keen to show Sara his horsemanship, and also to display his beautiful new wife to as many people as possible.

  All the women had dressed in their best, including Sara, who wore a dress of the finest embroidered white linen, matched with a rakish straw hat turned up at the front and trimmed with a wide green ribbon. The brim cast half her face in shadow, but the heavy gold-fringed earrings she wore gave her topaz eyes a glow, as though lit by candlelight. The earrings had once belonged t
o her aunt and, even though they had sometimes had a difficult relationship, she felt near to her when she wore them, and missed her despite everything. Especially now, when after only a short few weeks of marriage she was ridden by confusing thoughts. She shook her head as though trying to push away her nagging doubts, and the earrings danced. She told herself it was best not to think about it and turned her attention back to her surroundings.

  In the distance just beyond the field, she could see the teams of polo ponies waiting with their individual handlers. The thoroughbred horses of the British were on one side and the Arabian horses belonging to the Indian team on the other. She could see a curious ceremony taking place in front of the Indian team. A Brahmin priest was giving a puja for luck, and the acrid sweet fragrance of incense wafted through the air towards her, lifting her spirits and making her heart race with the thrill of it all. The Englishmen stood to one side, hands on hips or pacing back and forth, waiting for the ritual to be over, and even from that distance she could feel their contempt for such primitive behaviour. After the strange events on the day she’d arrived in India she could feel no such contempt, only a faint sense of apprehension, and a fresh wonder at the mystery of India.

  A man with long black hair, wearing a white shirt and cream jodhpurs, walked with long, almost languid steps to where the puja was being held.

  He bent his head to be given a garland of bright marigolds and receive a blessing, then he straightened his back, combed his hair back from his face with his fingers and wrapped a white turban around his head and face.

  She knew it must be Ravi Sabran. There could be no one else in Madras with that proud tilt to his chin and air of impending drama.