The Jasmine Wife

by Jane Coverdale

  They were warm and welcoming in a way Sara had not so far met with in Madras. They laughed loudly, ate hugely of the food put before them and smoked Turkish cigarettes or little bidis, the Indian cigarettes made out of temburni leaves wrapped in tobacco, filling the room with a rich and spicy fragrance.

  Someone had brought bottles of French wine, which enlivened the conversation further, becoming chaotic and sometimes fiery, with a lot of interrupting and much shouting. Every now and then someone would mention Ravi Sabran and ask when he was expected, and sometimes reveal little anecdotes about his behaviour, like the time he’d sent the nuns at the convent six dozen bottles of French champagne for Christmas, and enough money to feed the children of the convent for a year.

  She learned he’d been educated at the Sorbonne and had spent at least ten years in Paris, living on the Left Bank, which explained his accent and his urbane charm.

  All of the little snippets of gossip were in a way admiring and amused, and Sara could tell that even these more sophisticated and cultured members of Madras society were intrigued by him and his exotic charm.

  To hear these indulgent comments about Sabran were in some ways pleasing, though in other ways again disturbing. It was a relief to know he was respected for his kindness and generosity and appeared to be not as evil as he had been painted by the British community, though she was not ready yet to fall under his spell as these people had. He had not replied to her letter, and she was beginning to feel slighted and ignored. It was frustrating too that she cared what he thought of her when he should have no power over her at all. Even so, she waited almost anxiously for him to appear and to see how he behaved when amongst his friends.

  Lucy never bothered to change out of her old sari, and no one seemed to notice; she milled about, forcing food, drink and conversation on everyone. When it came time to leave, everyone swept out in a rush of laughter and clatter with promises to see each other the following week.

  Sara had never been so amused in her life, and it was while she lingered after the others had gone for a more intimate moment with her new friend the sound of a door slamming broke into their chat, and a young girl rushed into the room while tearing at the ribbons of her bonnet. She was out of breath from laughing, and at first didn’t see Sara on the sofa.

  “Oh! Excuse me! Mother, you didn’t say you had company.”

  She stood before them and dropped a little curtsy, giving Sara a chance to take in the girl’s features. She was extremely pretty in her fresh white muslin gown, her dark eyes glowing with an inner joy, and Sara was charmed. Sara remembered Lady Palmer’s remark about her being extremely black, yet her skin was hardly darker than her own.

  “Allow me to introduce my daughter, Belle. This is Mrs Fitzroy, my dear. What have you been doing to make yourself so hot?”

  “How do you do, madam?” She gave her mother a quick kiss, then threw herself down on the sofa next to Sara.

  “I’ve been playing tennis with Harry Scott. He’s coming for tea in a moment; do you mind, Mother?”

  “Not at all. Now, please sit down and behave yourself.”

  “I know Harry, and his parents; he’s a sweet boy.” Sara had met both him and his parents at one of Lady Palmer’s interminable soirees. Though she’d liked the boy at once, she’d felt an instant chill from his parents. They were both narrow-minded and suspicious, and very superior in their attitude towards anyone they considered of a lower station than themselves, and she couldn’t imagine they would approve of their son’s connection with the McKenzies.

  Belle flushed pink when Harry was shown into the room; she was clearly infatuated with him, and it troubled Sara to know the girl would surely be hurt.

  “Belle! You didn’t wait for me!” Then he stopped and stared, his smile fading at once. “Mrs Fitzroy! I didn’t expect …”

  He seemed agitated to find her there but sat opposite her and tried to make a show of good manners, even though the atmosphere in the room had changed. The boy fidgeted and squirmed, unable to stay still in his seat for the short time he stayed, and soon found an excuse to leave.

  “I just remembered I have to go. I’m sorry, Belle. Excuse me, Mrs Fitzroy.”

  “But you said you wanted tea …”

  “I’m sorry, Belle … I’ll come back later …”

  “I’ll see you out, Harry.”

  The girl followed him, her face showing her confusion, leaving Sara to feel responsible for having ruined their afternoon.

  “I think he’s afraid I might tell his mother I’ve seen him here. I won’t, of course.”

  Lucy’s expression looked for a moment unusually bleak. “In a way I wish you would, and put an end to Belle’s hopes once and for all. She’s totally deaf to everything I say. Their engagement is a secret, and against my own wishes, knowing how it is bound to end. Harry’s family objects strongly to Belle because of her colour, even though Belle assures me Harry doesn’t care about such things. I know, though, his parents would be terrified their grandchildren may be born black. ‘“A touch of the tar brush”’ I believe is the vulgar expression.” For the first time, bitterness crept into Lucy’s voice and Sara was moved to a deep sympathy.

  “It’s all so ugly, and I’m sorry for it, but the world in which we live is a cruel and narrow place. Especially the small and petty world I inhabit, presided over by Lady Palmer and people like her.”

  Lucy looked at her now with a new interest, and realised too, by the tone of her voice, the lovely Mrs Fitzroy might well be suffering oppression of a different sort, though almost equally suffocating.

  They were interrupted when a maid entered the room with a note. There was silence while Lucy read the message.

  “Oh … I am disappointed. Monsieur Sabran apologises for not coming today. How strange, he never misses our day together if he can help it. He sends his regards to you in particular, Mrs Fitzroy … He says business prevents him from coming, as he will be leaving town for at least a month … Even so … so unlike him.”

  He was avoiding her. Sara knew it instinctively, and for the rest of the visit she couldn’t crush the feeling that he had somehow insulted her, and she was more affected by that insult than she should have been.

  Chapter 16

  Sara woke to find Lakshmi standing over the bed. She couldn’t be sure, but she had the feeling the girl had been there for some time, and the uncertainty made her feel uneasy. She always felt a little uncomfortable around Lakshmi, having the feeling that somehow the girl didn’t like her. Not that she ever showed her dislike. That would be unthinkable.

  She moved about the house on her tiny, silent feet, performing her tasks with an uncommon grace of movement, rarely smiling or laughing as the other members of the household did.

  Shakur said it was because she was from Kashmir, where as a small child she had been found alone in the streets by a soldier and taken as booty back to Madras to be sold as a servant. It wasn’t surprising she had no taste for humour. No one knew her real name, or if she had family, alive or dead.

  That morning she had taken a bunch of tuberose and woven them into her thick black plait that fell almost to her knees. She was seldom seen without her hair tightly plaited in this demure fashion. Though once Sara had come across her in the garden as she was combing her black waves as she sang to herself, a strange high-pitched melody as beguiling as a swaying cobra. Her heavy-lidded eyes lay half closed as she anointed the waist-length coils with the deep musky fragrance of patchouli oil. There was something so sensuous about her movements, so voluptuous, it seemed impossible she had never known the touch of a man’s hands on her body. Though Sara had seen her when the men in the house made any kind of suggestion to her. She sprang to her own defence like a wild animal, making sure that they never dared to do it again. They could only watch and desire her from afar.

  She came close to the bed with the breakfast tray. “Good morning, madam,” she said in her sweet, sing-song voice as she pressed her palms together in her
usual greeting.

  “The sahib has left for the day … He said not to wake you.”

  “Thank you, Lakshmi. You look very pretty today; are those new earrings?”

  “Yes, madam.” Her hands flew to the fine gold drops hanging in her perfect ears, and a soft smile crossed her lips.

  Sara knew Indian women loved gold, but still, she wondered how the girl could afford such fine things, but then, she had nothing else to spend her money on, having no family to support.

  “Did he say what time he’d return?”

  “He will not be home for lunch. He said he will visit Miss Palmer as she is not feeling well.”

  “Oh.”

  Sara’s head fell heavily back onto the pillow and she sighed from deep within her chest. A sly, enigmatic smile crossed Lakshmi’s lips, and Sara was driven to an unreasonable anger, though she managed to hide it with a forced half smile. It was unfair on the girl to be so peevish.

  “When will the weather improve, Lakshmi? It’s so hot!”

  “Soon the monsoon will come, madam, and everything will be green again.”

  Another long despairing sigh escaped her. She was unhappy for many reasons; the honeymoon she had so long waited for had been cancelled. An invitation had arrived the day before their planned departure, announcing Cynthia and William’s wedding within the week. It appeared William had rallied enough to fulfil Cynthia’s wish to be married before the monsoons might delay their trip back to England.

  “Must we go?” Sara had asked, though all the while knowing what Charles’s answer would be. “Is it so very important we attend? Surely, as it’s the only time we have for our trip, we could be excused.”

  He pulled away from her, puzzled she should ask such an impossible favour. “How can you say so? Of course we must attend; Cynthia would never forgive me.”

  “She knew we were planning on leaving for our honeymoon; she might have waited just another two weeks till we returned. Sometimes I think Cynthia just wants you to dance attendance on her.”

  He didn’t hear her, as he was already thinking of something else. “I believe she’s making a great mistake in marrying William. She needs a man to take care of her, not a milksop. The boy’s a weakling; mark my words, Cynthia will be a widow before long.”

  As it turned out, Charles was proved right in one respect, as within a week William was dead.

  It seemed that because of his efforts not to disappoint Cynthia, after dragging himself out of bed while still in the throes of a raging fever, he collapsed and died a day before the wedding, only just cheating Cynthia out of widowhood, and the much longed-for title, by twenty-four hours.

  Lakshmi’s sweet sing-song voice roused Sara from her thoughts again. She daydreamed often now and slept as though in a coma in the afternoons, something she’d never done before, then woke irritable and restless. It seemed she was almost constantly suffering from a mild headache and nausea that left her feeling tense and out of sorts.

  “What will madam wear today?”

  The girl’s footsteps were so soft they were never heard until she was by Sara’s side. Her heavy-lidded eyes were cast down as usual, playing her role as the dutiful servant, though behind the eyes there was something else, something unreachable.

  “Just a plain muslin, thank you, Lakshmi … I don’t think I’ll go out. It’s far too hot.”

  Sara watched her as she walked towards the wardrobe, her every movement charged with a seductive slow grace. The curve of the back above the gently swaying hips, the slim brown arms covered in bangles, the tiny waist and the hint of roundness in her belly.

  As her eyes followed the girl around the room, Sara was overcome with a familiar lethargy and a vague unhappiness, though she tried hard to convince herself it was only the weather making her feel that way.

  When Lakshmi left the room after placing the gown on her bed she felt more comfortable, and wondered at the girl’s power to unsettle her.

  After a moment, she roused herself to leave her bed and lock her bedroom door, then she crossed the room to stand before the cheval mirror.

  Was she as appealing to men as Lakshmi was?

  She raised her arms above her head and took off her lace nightgown.

  Was she desirable? She wasn’t sure. Her breasts were high and firm, though, she had to admit, not large, and her nipples were a rosy pink against the pale skin. Despite her occasional days of illness, her complexion was still clear and luminous, and people often remarked on her apparent good health, making sly insinuations about the benefits of married life. Again, she was overcome with painful thoughts. If only there was someone to ask. If only the subject could be mentioned.

  She flushed as she remembered the events of the night before. She had been thinking of the sculptures she had seen on the beach, and how much pleasure the women seemed to be having, and while Charles was making love to her she had begun to move her body and, as she moved, she had felt pleasure for the first time, losing herself in a delirious ecstasy till Charles had snapped at her, “Don’t! Don’t do that! It’s disgusting!”

  “What’s wrong?” she could barely whisper.

  “Only dirty women do that … Surely you know this.” He pulled away from her as though reviled by her touch. She watched as he lit a cigarette, blowing out the smoke in furious short puffs.

  Then, after a while, he turned to her, his manner softening. “I suppose you can’t be expected to know. If your mother were alive, she might have told you … Good women can’t know any pleasure from this … That’s for men. For you it’s only for creating children.”

  Then he had kissed her on the cheek and murmured that he forgave her.

  She had lain there for hours after he had gone to sleep, frozen with shame and anger, and again feeling there should be no shame.

  In her heart Sara felt that the enjoyment of sex must be normal, or was it only regarded as normal for members of the Indian population? The idea was ridiculous, of course, but even amongst her women friends from her female emancipation group, the act of sex in itself was never discussed, only the importance of having fewer children. No one had ever mentioned that secret part of a man’s anatomy, even when she had attended a banned meeting on birth control, and it was suggested that half a lemon inserted high into the vagina was an effective way to prevent pregnancy. This proposal had been met mostly with horror or wild giggling, and at the same time created great difficulty in imagining there might be any pleasure involved after such a procedure.

  Her aunt’s comments about sex came back to her. “There are things you might not want to do, but it is perfectly normal for them.” It was plain she meant good women were not meant to enjoy sex, and it crossed Sara’s mind she would be thought a bad woman because she wanted to enjoy it.

  Bad women were heard of and sometimes seen, wandering around the streets of London and the alleyways of Madras, poor, painted and sad, so it was clear, sex was not a happy choice for them.

  She thought then about Ravi Sabran and his illicit relationship with the wife of another man. He was shameless, apparently, even proud of his love. He flaunted it, and also made no secret of his admiration of women in general. The images of the sculptures on the beach came back to her again, inflaming her body and causing a shiver to run down her back. Did Ravi Sabran do those supposedly wicked things? His own heavy-lidded eyes and slow sensuous smile were depicted there on the sculptures so plainly he might have posed as a model for them. Did he use his lips and tongue in the same way as those men? She thought of his firm red mouth and sudden flash of white teeth, and the way he had picked the tiny shred of tobacco off his tongue as he had watched her at the garden party, so slowly, so languidly, through half closed eyes …

  Then she roused herself, a little shocked at how her mind had followed such a wanton path. It was all so pointless really, and she was even more unhappy to think she might never know what it would be like to experience passionate mutual bliss, or even if it existed at all.

  She slip
ped back into her nightgown and dropped down into the cane chair by the window to stare bleakly out at the borders of limp flowers, fast being bleached of colour as the morning haze became a harsh white glare.

  In the background, amongst the clattering of pots and pans, she could hear the servants chatting in the kitchen, their voices rising and falling; every now and then an explosion of laughter would suspend their chatter. In a brief attack of paranoia, she wondered if they were laughing at her.

  Soon Mutu would want to see her about the menu for the day, and she found herself sighing again. His cooking was atrocious; that was, his cooking of English food was atrocious, but Charles didn’t seem to mind it. He had often said that they were lucky to have a cook at all, as most Indians were vegetarians and were revolted at the thought of touching red meat.

  Charles insisted on plain food, as he said his stomach couldn’t bear anything else.

  Sara wondered at his apparent enjoyment of his meals. He rarely looked up from his plate as he chewed, but sometimes stared into the middle distance with a vacant, half smile of pleasure on his lips. She toyed with her food, pushing it around the plate and piling it into the edges to create the illusion that she had eaten more than she actually had. She often left the table hungry, though without any desire to eat. She’d become even thinner, while he’d become heavy, especially around his once trim waist.

  She recalled the disaster of the day before, when Mutu, as usual, had waited on her for his daily orders.

  When he’d seen her anxious face as she sat planning a menu that would be suitable for her husband, he’d leapt in to help her.

  “I will have some fresh meat, madam … I have asked for a young goat to be slaughtered this morning.” Mutu said the words as though he thought the event a happy one, though Sara knew he was a strict vegetarian.