The Jasmine Wife

by Jane Coverdale

  “Try to remember, none of it is your fault. A man like that can never be a husband to a woman like you.”

  Her head snapped around but, before she had time to reply, Charles had crossed the lawn almost at a run and stood before them.

  “We would like to be alone.” His eyes flashed a warning. He’d been drinking and was on the edge of making a scene. Perhaps even a violent scene. Sabran decided for her sake, and for the other guests’, he would retreat.

  Even so, he took his time, rising from the seat in an almost provocative way, his movements as languid and threatening as a leopard before a kill, and as though at any moment he might decide to turn and unleash some of the restrained hostility he wasn’t bothering to hide. Sara, seated between them both, felt the tense electric charge of their mutual hatred. It was an awkward moment but, with a derisive smile at Charles, Sabran bowed in Sara’s direction and left.

  Chapter 13

  The next afternoon Sara attended church as usual with the rest of the British community. The droning of the sermon was smothered by the soft sigh of a giant fan pulled by bored punkah wallahs perched like gargoyles high up on the beams above, their almost naked brown bodies glistening with sweat. Back and forth they hauled the ropes, almost as listless as the more privileged people below, in a losing battle to keep out the stifling heat.

  Sara caught sight of Cynthia’s fiancé William, who had arrived from London at last and, though pale and weak, had left his sick bed to attend the sermon. She smiled at him and he rose to his feet, supporting himself with one hand on the back of the pew before slumping back again. She thought him a pleasant young man, though as weak in character as he was in health.

  Lady Palmer stood by his side; she nodded rather stiffly as she took her seat. So far that morning they’d only exchanged a few words, but enough for Sara to know the woman was angry with her for what she saw as her breach of etiquette at the garden party. She was determined, though, to ignore the woman’s scowling face, and she smiled pleasantly in her direction.

  But Sara’s smile evaporated almost as soon as it began, and panic took its place. She was all at once overcome with the feeling that she’d been in that particular church before. A black shadow moved over her senses and she was a child again, staring down at a coffin covered in a profusion of tropical flowers.

  She remembered the rising nausea as she stood in a stifling crowd, her little legs shaking with weakness, the sickly-sweet perfumes of the blooms competing with each other to disguise the smell of the corpse creeping through the lid of the casket. Even from the distance of time, she recalled clearly the dismal sound of unrestrained wailing from what must have been Indians, as no English people she’d ever met grieved in such an abandoned way. Then the firm, no-nonsense grip of an adult’s hand as she was led away.

  The clatter of the congregation standing to sing the final hymn brought Sara back to the present, and she shivered despite the suffocating heat. Surely her vision must have been an omen, perhaps even an omen for her future. She laughed at herself; since living in India she was becoming more and more superstitious. Even so, she had to crush a sudden desire to flee from the church and never look back.

  She reached out for Charles’s arm to steady herself, as though anchoring herself to him for fear of carrying out her secret desire.

  There he stood beside her, head bowed, his hands folded in front of him, his gold hair shining, an image of gentle piety. Only a bright red blush on the back of his neck and a twitch from his shoulder blades betrayed his true feelings.

  He flinched at the touch of her hand, angry with himself for having to beg her to stay with him. It was humiliating, but the alternative was unthinkable.

  He could almost hear the laughter and scorn of his friends, especially the men. To have his wife leave after only a few weeks would be unbearable. It had been pleasant arousing their jealousy and obvious desire. He glanced at her profile as she stood next to him and, despite everything, he felt a surge of pride. In the dim light of the church he thought she resembled a portrait by Raphael he had seen once in a London gallery. He admired the deep auburn tones of her hair, haloed by the sunlight streaming through the stained-glass window, and the sharp line of her black eyebrows and eyelashes against her white skin. She seemed to grow more beautiful every day, like an orchid transplanted from the binding dry dirt of a hot house into the birthright of rich black soil.

  He clenched his teeth. It crossed his mind that it would be within his rights to subdue her with a slap every now and then, but then that would be caddish, and it wasn’t considered good form to strike a woman. He knew how to manipulate her. He would withdraw his affection when it suited him. He would control her passionate nature with a blast of cold scorn that would wither her where she stood. That was easily done, and would leave no bruises, at least none that could be seen.

  Cynthia glanced at Sara from her position in the front row, though her eyes glinted with resentment through the veil of her hat. Sara knew it was because of the pearls. Cynthia’s heart had almost broken at the sight of the necklace Sara wore at her throat. They had arrived from the Maharaja at the same time as Cynthia’s sapphire, and by comparison the sapphire had seemed vulgar and crude. The stone itself seemed to condemn Cynthia’s greed by its grotesque size, and Sara could almost hear the laughter of the Maharaja emanating from the glittering depths of the jewel.

  The pearls, though, large and creamy, tied twice around Sara’s throat and yet still falling to her waist, were a magnificent piece, shown to perfection on the background of her pale green silk gown. Cynthia had almost cried with rage.

  Sara, too, was thinking of the pearls, and her fingers touched them with care, still not able to believe they were really hers. She’d protested the gift was far too grand, but the note that had accompanied them made it impossible for her to return them and, even though she didn’t like to admit it, even to herself, she was very glad.

  “I know you are not the type of lady to accept gifts, but for you to take this small token would give me great pleasure. It is an English custom, I believe, to allow the acceptance of a wedding gift, and for that reason you cannot refuse me.”

  Charles had been overjoyed at the sight of them, believing them to be a compliment to him rather than to Sara. But, despite their high value, she was very moved by the Maharaja’s kindness towards her. Now she felt the weight of the pearls around her throat, not so much as a valuable piece of jewellery but more as a talisman, a protector against misfortune.

  A messenger from the Maharaja’s court had appeared on her veranda just before nightfall and, bowing low before her, he held up an exquisitely carved ivory box, almost as beautiful as the pearls themselves, then retreated, slipping into the shadows as silently as he had appeared.

  As she’d drawn them out to admire their sheen in the setting sun, Charles had taken them from her and draped them around her throat. “I’m sorry,” he said, before kissing her with extra tenderness on the nape of her neck. “Give me another chance, and I’ll change. I love you so much.”

  His remorse seemed sincere and, despite her persistent doubts, she felt she had no choice but to try to make their marriage work. Divorce was unheard of except in extreme circumstances, and it was unlikely Charles would ever agree in any case.

  She remembered Sabran’s face as he’d said those words. “A man like that can never be a husband to a woman like you,” and for a moment she felt a flash of dislike towards him for making her listen to his bitter remarks. It was all too unsettling, and she couldn’t afford to let more doubt creep in when already she struggled to keep her thoughts under control.

  ‘A woman like you …’ It was plain he thought her special in some way; otherwise he wouldn’t bother to seek her out. If she allowed herself she might even feel a little flattered, though, always in the back of her mind, was her deep mistrust of Sabran. There was something hard and calculating in his eyes when he looked at her that made her shiver when she lay awake at night, alone with h
er thoughts, and Sabran entered her thoughts more often than she liked. And what did he mean when he referred to Charles as ‘a man like that’? It was plain he hated Charles, but was there something else? Something Sabran knew about her husband she didn’t: something that might make living with Charles impossible?

  But she swore she would be careful in future dealings with Sabran not to take him too seriously. He was clearly mischievous and vindictive towards Charles, even more so now because of what had happened at that fateful polo match, and she knew her husband, no matter what might happen between the two men in the future, would never be forgiven.

  Chapter 14

  Sara learned very quickly that marriage alone wasn’t enough for her, knowing instinctively she must find another form of fulfilment if she was ever to be truly happy. At first she was unsure how she was going to go about it, till a small twist of fate opened her to a new pleasure.

  She’d been writing to her friend Mary from the suffragette movement about her life in India. It had started very simply, with a description of the merchants who came to her home almost daily to sell their goods.

  “The man who sells semi-precious stones arrives around five o’clock every Friday. He is a most strange man, and you will find it difficult to believe but he brings with him a mesmerising aura of something otherworldly, despite the practical nature of his profession.

  His hair is long and matted, and dyed a bright orange henna, which is known to be an auspicious colour and therefore may win him favour with the gods. His eyes are blackened with kohl, making him as frightening as one of the demons from Indian mythology, even though he is always kind and gentle. His fingernails are long, yellow and curved, and on these hideous claws he displays his goods, which are usually rings adorned with various jewels.

  He sits himself down cross-legged on the veranda like a yogi, leaning his back against the post as, one by one, he opens the lacquered boxes that contain his treasures. It is useless to say one doesn’t need anything, and it is rare that he will leave without selling some small thing. I bought one of his rings, made of a rich deep coral; he rubbed it with great vigour on his, I must say, rather greasy hair, to pass on a sacred blessing; he believes in his power so fervently that it is almost impossible not to believe him. Now I am afraid to take the ring off, in case I bring bad luck on myself …

  Then, there is the tailor who comes to make sari blouses for the female servants … He manages to take their measurements without touching their breasts or waists; he stands at least six inches away from them and blushes profusely, but so far all the blouses fit perfectly … He has the face of a saint, but also an odd deformity … a tiny extra finger on each hand, though he uses his misfortune to his advantage to pull the tape measure through … and leave his hands free to hold the cloth … He is the sweetest man I have ever met …”

  She wrote too of the plight of the untouchables, who were considered so low in caste that even to have walked in their shadow was to cause that person to be unclean, and of the remarkable Jains, a people who were so afraid of killing even an insect by mistake, they screened their mouths and lamps with muslin, and went to their homes at sundown and stayed there till dawn, for fear of stepping on even an ant.

  Her friend Mary was delighted with the letters, and suggested they be sold as a series of stories, or as a book, and would look for a publisher for her. They were to be called The Diary of an English Lady in Madras.

  So far she hadn’t told Charles, but instinctively she felt it was best to keep her plans secret, for in the letter she’d finished that morning she wrote a damming criticism of the English community and their attitudes towards the Indian population. The country had been in the grip of a terrible famine that had wiped out thousands of people, yet taxes were still being demanded from the barely recovering farmers to swell the coffers of the British government.

  Only the night before there had been an argument with Lady Palmer herself, who had very little sympathy for the victims of the famine, saying if the people were so hungry, why didn’t they slaughter the sacred cows and eat them?

  But Sara had stood up to her, outraging Charles and some of the others at the gathering by suggesting it made much more sense to keep the cows alive.

  She remembered her father telling her the cows were sacred for a very practical reason. They wandered freely amongst different families for many years, providing milk for children who would otherwise have nothing. Their milk could be turned into cheese to add protein to vegetables, and their dried dung was used for housing and fuel for cooking.

  She finished by suggesting that, instead of criticising the Indian people, Lady Palmer, because of the grand position she held in society, might consider doing something practical to help. Her comment had caused gasps of outrage from some of the guests and furtive mumbles of support from others.

  But she had made herself obvious, and had left under a cloud, and Charles had been cool towards her ever since.

  Chapter 15

  Lucy McKenzie opened the front door herself, an act unheard-of in a household of servants, but the warmth of her welcome made Sara glad she’d come, despite Charles insisting she do otherwise. Though, since the night when she had outraged Lady Palmer with her contrary opinions and felt so ostracised by most of the English community, including her own husband, she’d felt driven more than ever by a desire to seek out new worlds to help fill the widening void in her life.

  She had to admit to feeling a little hurt and confused as to why her telling of the facts should be so roundly opposed, but at the same time she felt an odd perverse pride in her banishment because of her firm belief she was on the side of right. In regard to her own husband, though, there were more profound feelings to contend with. There was a deep sense of indignation that Charles felt it was more important to agree with Lady Palmer over his wife, even though he must know the woman was wrong. It made him appear weak in her eyes now, and the thought was so troubling it seemed almost insurmountable.

  Now, as she stood on the forbidden doorstep, smiling back into the warm embrace of Lucy McKenzie’s welcome, she felt an instant connection, and the promise of something she had been seeking.

  “I saw you from the window, and you could have knocked me down with a feather. I was sure you wouldn’t come. As you see …” Lucy brushed her hands on her admittedly rather shabby sari “… I haven’t changed yet. Forgive me.”

  “What a charming house.” Sara had been admiring the gay wide blue shutters thrown open to catch the afternoon breeze. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all week.”

  The older woman enfolded Sara’s arm in hers and led her into a studio at the back of the house, overlooking an enclosed courtyard thick with a lush overgrown garden.

  In one corner of the room an easel was set up to catch the light, where an almost finished portrait of an Indian prince in full regalia and jewels of state stood next to a table of tubes of oil paints.

  “I forgot the time. I always do when I’m working.” She pulled a few stray hairs and pinned them into a knot. “What a fright I am.” She laughed gaily, and Sara laughed with her.

  “I didn’t know you were an artist.” Sara moved closer to admire the work. “It’s very good. You are clever.”

  “It’s very fashionable now for the royals to have their portraits done, but not so fashionable to pay me on time.” She laughed again, as though not being paid was a fresh source of amusement, and reached for a cigarette while settling back in an armchair by the window. “Please sit.” Sara took a seat opposite her.

  “You don’t mind if I smoke?”

  “Not at all, I rather like it. It seems to suit you somehow.”

  “How very wicked of you to say so, Mrs Fitzroy. I can see I’m already a bad influence on you.”

  Tea and refreshments were put down before them by a girl in a bright blue sari, who flashed a joyful smile at Sara before departing.

  “I deplore the habit of dressing servants in that dreary brown cotton. I mu
st be surrounded by colour. Otherwise, it is so depressing. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Charles insisted his own servants be dressed in the cheapest brown cheesecloth. Now it seemed small and mean, and she made a pact with herself to change the practice as soon as possible.

  “Excuse me for asking, my dear Mrs Fitzroy, but are you quite well? You seem a little pale … The heat is not too much for you, I hope?”

  “Not quite as well as I would like. Not very ill, just a little nausea every now and then, that’s all.”

  “Oh, I hope you will not be a jasmine wife, like some of the other English ladies who come here.”

  “What do you mean? What is a jasmine wife?”

  “Well, they fade fast, or become ill and wilt like jasmine does almost as soon as it’s picked, or their marriages fade just as quickly because of the strain. India is such a harsh place.”

  Sara looked into Lucy’s eyes. Did she know something? They were shrewd, but sympathetic too. She longed to tell her what was bothering her, but she knew she would not. She was far too proud.

  As though reading Sara’s mind, Lucy gave her a sudden beaming smile.

  “But, my dear Mrs Fitzroy, that term can never be applied to you. You are no wilting flower. There is something regal about you and, may I say, even defiant. You will never be crushed, though you may at times be trampled. You will bloom as long as you have a little nourishment, but it must be love of an exceptional kind, not a half-hearted lukewarm love, and you must return that love with the same passion, otherwise …”

  Lucy’s large glistening eyes held a warning, almost a prophesy, and Sara felt a little chill run down her back. She wondered at the woman’s insight. It was as though she had spelled out her own secret thoughts, and she couldn’t hold Lucy’s gaze for fear of exposing herself too much.

  Then she felt an urge to unburden herself just a little, but they were interrupted by the door opening, and in trooped a gay little group of people, who took over the drawing room with a lot of loud chatter and mutual greetings. Amongst them there was an Indian poet who was translating Indian love poems into English, a French nun who was working with the poor in the slums, and a Scots naturalist and activist who was documenting the decline of the Indian tiger.