The Jasmine Wife

by Jane Coverdale

  Cynthia waved him away and he hurried out of the room, pleased to escape.

  She opened the letter, read it, and for a brief flickering moment her face showed interest, then almost at once fell back into her usual haughty expression. “It seems the Maharaja of Chittipore is hosting a garden party on Wednesday. Listen to this: “‘It would please me if you can extend this invitation to the wife of our most respected Mr Fitzroy …’” How on earth did the old fool know she was here?”

  Charles placed a possessive arm around Sara’s waist and smiled upon her. He was clearly very pleased. “Oh, nothing is a secret in Madras … By now everyone knows there’s a new face in town …”

  “But why would he be so particular about inviting Sara when other girls who’ve lived here for years have never been asked? Why poor Millicent would give anything to go. It doesn’t seem fair.” Cynthia pouted, and gave Sara an almost resentful look.

  Sara wasn’t unaware of the cattiness of the remark, but again, most of Cynthia’s comments washed over her, feeling it beneath her to notice such childish behaviour. But she was a little intrigued by the unexpected invitation after all. “Forgive me, but why must I feel so honoured?”

  Charles rubbed his hands together and spoke with a kind of glee. “Well, the invitation is a compliment to me, of course, and the Maharaja would be interested in my choice of bride, it’s only natural. The natives show an insatiable curiosity about our lives. Rather pathetic really.

  The fellow’s from a little province north of here, but he always comes to Madras for the season. He’s a shrewd old thing, and well known as an eccentric … but his jewels are the best I’ve ever seen … and his palace is said to be worth a visit.”

  Cynthia’s mouth was hanging open a little, just enough to show her wet mouth and teeth. “Just one of his better diamonds would be enough to buy a small country house in England, but it pains me to see how he apes our customs. A garden party indeed! It’s enough to make one squirm. But I suppose we should go, even if it’s only to admire the old fool’s diamonds.” Cynthia had a rather raucous laugh for a well brought up young lady, and it seemed to Sara there was very little humour in it.

  Charles joined in with her laughter. They seemed to find the whole matter irresistibly funny.

  “I’m pleased you find the whole thing so amusing. I only wish you would let me in on the joke.”

  Charles became serious for a moment and, speaking slowly so Sara would get the full impact of his words, raised her chin to face him. “Because, my lovely wife, he’s extremely proud of them and it’s most important you admire them. It’s protocol. So you must admire them; he’ll consider it a personal insult if you don’t.”

  She pushed his hand away. She didn’t like it when he spoke to her in such a way. It made her feel like a naughty child who must be taught a lesson.

  “It seems like an odd thing to expect, but if it will make him happy I suppose I must.”

  “It will make me very happy also, my dear, so mind you don’t forget.

  He’s singled you out for special regard so it’s a huge compliment.

  I’m looking forward to it,” he said, unaware that Sara was not looking forward to it at all.

  Chapter 12

  The Maharaja had taken up rooms in the best hotel in Madras, a confection of gilded domed turrets and lacework balconies, once built by a successful English trader who’d made a vast fortune in the tea trade. It was looking a little shabby after many years in the merciless Indian sun but, even so, managed to impart an air of refined grandeur in the dusty landscape.

  Outside the entrance, elegantly dressed guests filed towards the open double doors leading to the cool marble corridors, which in turn opened onto the wide grassed inner courtyard filled with the Maharaja’s entourage, though his female household were hidden from view, and could only peep through veiled eyes from shuttered windows onto the splendour of the scene below.

  Tables covered with crisp white linen, laid for a lavish tea, dotted the setting, while large arrangements of brilliant flowers in extravagant vases competed in beauty with their earth-bound cousins in the gardens. Where there were no trees, huge umbrellas of richly coloured silk blocked out the sun, forming patches of shade on the armchairs placed for the comfort of the guests. The finished result was a room without walls, but so beautiful it was almost unearthly.

  “I’m glad I came after all, how lovely!” As always when she was in the presence of beauty, Sara’s eyes filled with tears.

  Charles snorted his contempt. “It must have taken an age to get all this stuff together. Why not simply hold the party indoors with the windows open? The man is simply showing off.”

  Sara chose not to reply and turned her face away. It was clear Charles was in a difficult mood and her own mood darkened despite the beauty of the day, though she recovered her spirits almost at once as fresh distractions were placed before her.

  The Englishwomen, uniform in their white silks and muslins, hiding delicate complexions under hats heavy with ribbons and flowers, moved through their exotic backdrop, trying to keep at bay the creeping evils of perspiration stains and the danger of fainting from too tight stays. The men, inconspicuous in black or grey, were a sober contrast to their surroundings, though every now and then a member of the more flamboyant militia punctuated the crowd with a flash of scarlet and gold. In the background a group of Indian musicians played an off-key, self-conscious medley of English classical favourites. Sara smiled at the charm of it and looked at Charles, hoping to share the moment, though he kept his chin up and eyes averted, determined not to notice.

  Sitting alone on a raised dais in the middle of an emerald-green sofa shaded by a pink umbrella sat the Maharaja, surrounded by a small army of servants and officials who stood behind him, getting in everyone’s way, while ready to jump to attention at his slightest whim.

  He sat heavily in the drenching heat, his limbs splayed, giving the impression that it had taken some effort to get into his present position and there he must stay till he could be moved. His plump legs, tightly bound in silk cream puttees further added to his discomfort and made him look like the cocoon of a giant caterpillar about to burst out of his skin. Despite his physical unease, he seemed to be blessed with a benevolent nature and he smiled serenely on all, tapping his little finger in time to the music, though his eyes gleamed as shrewd as a fox, missing nothing, as he took in all about him.

  His jewels were as spectacular as promised. Along with his jewels of state, sitting almost lopsided in his turban was a sapphire as large as a bird’s egg, and on the huge mound of his chest and belly lay rough-cut diamonds, emeralds and rubies, plus a generous sprinkling of gemstones from the lower orders, amethysts, zircons and topaz, all of them set in a brassy overly ornate gold filigree.

  He received his guests one by one at the faint signal of his own delicately raised forefinger, at which, his chief official rushed out into the crowd, captured a guest and brought them back to stand before him hypnotised, like a titbit to be savoured for his pleasure.

  Sara was too far away to hear what was said, but every now and then a faint, well-controlled wave of polite laughter burst forth from the crowd hovering about him. Then, when the visitor had exhausted themselves and their wit, they made a discreet backward retreat into the assembled company, where, after a proper interval, a fresh sacrifice was called for to come forth to entertain.

  “I must make it known that we’ve arrived.” Charles rushed from her side, suddenly businesslike, leaving Sara with Cynthia. Sara had never seen Cynthia so on edge and attributed her manner to the ordeal before her.

  She stood at the ready like a terrier on the scent of a rabbit, and the signal to spring came in the form of one of the Maharaja’s officials who seemed to appear out of nowhere.

  “My felicitations, my dear, most beautiful madam.” The man bowed so low his turban almost touched the ground. “His Majesty requests that you will spend a few moments of your most precious time with him.�
�� He bowed again, this time at Sara’s feet.

  “It would be a pleasure.” She nodded her head in return, and was about to move off when Cynthia sprang forward.

  “Delighted,” she said, and was gone in a flash towards where the Maharaja sat.

  “Oh!” was all Sara could say, and she blushed not for herself, but for Cynthia.

  The official was put out, but he contented himself with a sly knowing smile and a slight shrug of his shoulders.

  “It seems you have been outrun.” A cynical laugh accompanied the voice at her side.

  When she turned, she saw it was Ravi Sabran. Sara was taken by surprise and stepped back a pace. He was wearing western dress but, instead of the more conventional morning suit, he wore a loosely cut suit of cream linen, matched with a wide black-ribboned panama hat in the style of a Frenchman on holiday in the south of France. It was as though he was a different man.

  For a moment the dark shadow of his hat covering the top half of his face created the illusion his eyes were rimmed with black kohl such as the Indian women wore, giving them an impenetrable density as he looked back at her. Sara was transfixed for a moment, and so caught by his gaze she was silent at first. But the illusion evaporated the moment he took off his hat with a flourish and bowed low before her. His eyes were as sharp as ever.

  “Monsieur Sabran …” She wavered a little before his still poise. Her voice was calm despite her inner turmoil.

  Her voice dropped to almost a whisper, but she couldn’t meet his eyes. “I wrote to you to express how sorry I was about your beautiful Sultan, but I received no reply.”

  She looked up and saw the momentary flash of pain in his eyes, but it seemed he was determined not to succumb to any sign of weakness in front of her.

  “I received no letter, madam.”

  His voice was very cold, and it unnerved her a little.

  “How strange. I wrote weeks ago. My letter must have been lost.”

  “Well, things don’t always run smoothly in Madras. Indians are not as efficient as you British would like them to be.”

  “I’m not very efficient myself …” she smiled “… I can hardly expect anybody else to be.”

  He didn’t reply but continued to look at her in his enigmatic way. She was almost impatient with him now.

  “And the child is well?”

  “Very well. I saw her myself this morning, and I gave strict orders to indulge her as much as possible.”

  She could see his mouth twist slightly at the corners, as though he was trying to control a smirk.

  “I was hoping I could visit her … We had planned … before that awful tragedy …”

  His face blanched once more and it was clear he didn’t want to be reminded of that day. “It will not be possible … I may be away for some time …”

  “Oh …” She was very disappointed, and a little hurt, and he saw it in her eyes, but since he’d seen her on the beach he’d thought about her more often than he liked, and he’d sworn he would crush any feeling before it took hold.

  “I have a horse now myself, a beautiful little creature I’ve named Pansy … I ride often …”

  “I know,” he said without thinking.

  “How did you know?”

  She thought she saw him flinch, but he regained control almost at once.

  “Oh, nothing remains a secret in Madras for long. You must know that by now. I’ve heard the gossip, how the young Mrs Fitzroy exposes herself to all kinds of dangers by riding alone … in places considered not suitable …” he added with a touch of devilment.

  He saw her blush, first with a secret discomfort, then with mutiny in her eyes.

  “And do you think I’m being foolish to want to have some freedom? Some time alone from …?” She almost said, ‘my husband’, but stopped herself in time.

  “No, of course not. From what I know of women, they are much more capable than they are allowed to be. Their lives are blighted by ridiculous rules …”

  She was intrigued by his comment and wanted to discuss it further, but they were interrupted by a voice at his side, and secretly both of them were a little relieved.

  “Ravi, my dear, you must introduce me to this lovely creature. I’ve been admiring her from afar.”

  For Sara, it seemed to call Ravi Sabran ‘my dear’ was strange in itself, even brave, knowing how proud he appeared, though the lady’s eccentric appearance was even stranger. Her eyes were very bright and heavily made up and applied in a hurry, judging by the smudges of kohl on her face. Her ears and neck were adorned with garlands of amber and turquoise beads, falling down to her waist over a dress long out of fashion, and in a colour not flattering to her sallow skin. Though Sara could see at once the woman’s charm lay in being totally unaware of the effect she created, as she beamed in a friendly way from under an almost battered black hat.

  Sabran took the woman’s hand and kissed it warmly. “Lucy, my dear, I thought you were out of town.” His voice was almost boyish as he greeted her. Then he became more formal as he gestured in Sara’s direction. ‘“This lovely creature”’, as you call her, and I would be a cad to disagree, is the wife of Monsieur Charles Fitzroy. This is Madam Fitzroy. Madam Fitzroy, this is Madam Lucy McKenzie.”

  It was too late to hide the expression of surprise on the woman’s face, and the subtle looks that passed between her and Sabran, but she recovered her composure, at least outwardly.

  “A newlywed, ah, that explains the radiance. Please accept my congratulations.” She seemed to cool almost at once, and her previously friendly manner became more remote. “You are English? I must say I am surprised. I thought you were French at least. You look so different from the usual crowd one meets around here.”

  “You could not have given me a higher compliment. No one wishes to look like everyone else, especially me. I have a truly perverse nature. Is that very wrong?” Sara’s smile was so open, and totally without guile, Lucy was charmed.

  “Then if you truly want to set yourself apart,” Lucy said with a look of merriment in her eyes, “I invite you to visit me and my daughter. You can show her what a truly elegant young lady is like. We are at home every Wednesday afternoon. Sometimes even Monsieur Ravi condescends to join us, but he is so wicked and so popular with the ladies, I discourage him as much as possible.”

  “You are trying to shock Madam Fitzroy. You will scare her away.”

  There was a challenge in his voice that was unmistakable and he watched Sara with veiled eyes.

  He was unnerving Sara again, and her voice was a little unsteady when she spoke. “It will take more than Monsieur Sabran to keep me away. I look forward to our engagement very much.”

  Lucy gave her address and paused for a moment, as though waiting for Sara’s reaction. “It’s not a popular address. In fact, Blacktown is considered almost disreputable, but for me that is its charm.”

  “I admit to being a little bored with the attractions of so called White Town. It’s a horrible name, don’t you think? I want to see something of the real Madras … So far I might as well have stayed in England.”

  “Then I will try to make it interesting for you. I’ll see you on Wednesday around two then. I must go and eat something … I’m starved …”

  And with that Lucy floated away through the crowd, her funny black hat bobbing up and down as she made her way towards the food table.

  “Will you accept Lucy’s invitation?”

  Sabran was watching her intently again, and Sara felt a shiver run down her back as he leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “She is regarded as dangerously bohemian in certain circles.”

  Sara’s memory was pricked. ‘McKenzie …’ The very same family Lady Palmer had warned her against.

  She was on her guard at once and raised her chin to glare at him before snapping open her parasol. “I do have a mind of my own, you know, and I’m not so gullible that other people will influence me when I don’t want them to.”

  He opened his eyes
wide, holding one hand over his heart. “Forgive me, madam.”

  She watched him closely through narrowed eyes, hoping he might let slip something of his true personality. “What do you mean when you say I allowed Miss Palmer to outrun me?”

  He frowned with his head on one side, appraising her. “You really don’t know?”

  “Why would I pretend otherwise?”

  “Well, you know that she hoped, by getting to the Maharaja first, she’ll have the first pick of his jewels?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He half closed his heavily lidded eyes and examined his nails. “Well, if she admires a jewel, he’ll have to give it to her; it would disgrace him otherwise.”

  “So that’s why …” Sara blushed again with deep shame. How humiliating it would’ve been if she’d done as Charles had insisted and admired the Maharaja’s jewels. She felt she’d be no better than a common prostitute.

  “All the English ladies do it. That is, all the ladies who have the chance to do it … It seems they are hypnotised by precious stones and lose all self-control when confronted with them.”

  She glanced at his own jewelled hand. “It seems you’re a victim of pretty stones yourself.”

  “Ah! This …” His voice softened as he held the jewel up to the light. “This is a token of undying love, and for this reason I can never take it off.” For a moment he was lost in thought as he contemplated the ring, and it seemed he had almost forgotten she was there. She was affronted and wanted to jolt him back to life.

  “And what makes you think I would sell my principles for a mere bauble?”

  He swung around to face her. She’d succeeded in getting his attention at last, and for the first time he saw how much lovelier her eyes were when lit with an inner fire.

  His voice took on a mocking parody of the English upper classes. “A young lady should never accept a gift from a gentleman unless he’s her betrothed.” Then, with more than a tinge of sarcasm, “You have been very well brought up, though I think when you’re confronted with a ‘“mere bauble”’, as you put it, worth five years of your husband’s wages, you won’t find it so difficult.”