The Jasmine Wife

by Jane Coverdale

  “Once I took an interest in an Indian fellow and accepted an invitation to tea at his home. When the hour came for the visit, he wasn’t there. I walked around the back and found him hiding in the garden. It seems he didn’t know what to buy for refreshments, so he pretended not to be home.”

  “Oh, the poor man. It must have been so horrible for him. I’m surprised you don’t show more compassion.”

  “That is not the point. They’re different, and we can never hope to bridge the gap.”

  “You must be right then.” Now she didn’t bother to hide her sarcasm, though he didn’t seem to notice.

  “I know I am.” He smiled at her and patted her hand.

  She flinched at his touch and drew back. This is the game I am expected to play, she thought to herself with a surge of bitterness. I smile and agree and in return he may grant me a favour.

  “I must continue to visit Malika; she’s getting old now and she’s alone.”

  “Malika?” He flicked his newspaper again. “Oh, your old nurse …”

  “She’s the only link with my past and with my family. I must see her.”

  Something in her voice caused him to look up.

  “You cannot visit her there, but if it makes you happy you can have her live here with us. We can find room for her somewhere, I dare say.”

  “She won’t leave my parents, not for long anyway. But she agreed she would come and stay with me for a day or two when I need her. That is, of course, if you don’t mind.”

  He bent over and kissed her dryly on the cheek in a dismissive way.

  “Well, I’ll leave that up to you. I can do no more, and I have work to do, so if you will excuse me.”

  She was too angry to reply at first. She had tried honesty; now she would act in her own way. Charles had taught her to be cunning, and to play a game she must play if she was to get what she wanted.

  “Charles, I’m going away for a few days. I’d like to see some of the country, perhaps Pondicherry … It sounds so interesting …”

  His head swung around to face her. “Go away? What for? And to Pondi, of all places. It’s full of French people. Aren’t you happy here?”

  “That’s beside the point. I simply want to go away for a few days.”

  “But you have your duties here, in the house.”

  “I’m going, Charles, if you like it or not, but I would rather you be pleased about it.”

  “I don’t like it, and I’d rather you stayed here.”

  “I plan to leave the day after tomorrow; there’s a train …”

  He wouldn’t allow her to finish. “You can’t go alone, but if you insist on this foolish plan I’ll ask Cynthia to go with you … Poor girl; it might take her mind off her suffering.”

  It was on the tip of Sara’s tongue to say that if Cynthia was suffering she hadn’t seen any sign of it. Indeed, Cynthia seemed more angry than sad at her fiancé’s death, and behaved as though the boy had purposely let her down by dying and depriving her of a title.

  “Perhaps she won’t want to come,” she said hopefully. “I don’t mind going alone … I can take Malika with me.”

  “Cynthia will want to go; she mentioned she needed a change. I’ll ask her.”

  “If you must.” She scowled, but he didn’t hear her. His mind was already on other things.

  Later, before she retired for the night, he held her face up to the lamplight, then, as though she had let him down in some way, he dropped his hand and sighed before turning away from her.

  Later, Sara drifted into her bedroom and sat down before the mirror, staring hard at her reflection in the hope of finding an answer to her misery there. Had she altered so much? She looked closer. There were changes after all. She was pale, it was true, and lately she seemed to suffer almost constant bouts of mild nausea, but there were also signs of disappointment around her mouth, and a new sadness in her eyes.

  She picked up her hairbrush and began to brush her hair, slowly at first, then, overwhelmed with her own suffering, she pulled at her hair so hard it hurt. Then, in an agony of despair, she flung the hairbrush as hard as she could across the room, where it smashed against the window shutter. There was a flurry of voices outside the window before they subsided and all was silent again.

  After a while she roused herself and moved to the window to retrieve the hairbrush. Looking through the timber slats, she could see Charles’s lamp burning away in the summer house at the bottom of the garden where he often retired to work; his shadow was bent over the desk, innocently unaware of her unhappiness.

  She opened the shutters and stepped out into the warm night. The scent of incense drifted through the air and the stars were brilliant in the royal blue moonlight. The place was bewitching.

  She decided that she would go to him and perhaps somehow try to recapture what they had lost, or perhaps had never even had. She stepped out onto the balcony and almost fell over the sleeping figure of Mutu, who was curled up on a mat. He jumped up, alarmed at first, then, seeing it was her, salaamed, his voice husky with sleep. “Can I get something for you, madam?”

  “No! Nothing.” The moment of enchantment had fled, and she hurried back into the room. In the background she could hear soft laughter. She peeped out through the shutters to see Lakshmi, sitting by the pond in the garden, combing out her long hair and singing to herself.

  Chapter 19

  In Pondicherry Sara found, recreated in the lush tropical landscape, a charming French provincial city, clean, prosperous and ordered.

  It seemed the deception was complete, but there was an uneasiness in the air, and it struck her all of a sudden that here was a city under siege from India itself. It was as though the city was surrounded by invisible walls and those living within the walls were determined at all cost to keep the illusion alive. Smartly dressed Europeans strolled the elegant streets or gathered in groups in front of small cafés serving fresh cakes, so unlike the Indian variety, which seemed sickly and over sticky to western tastes, and where the fragrance of baguettes and freshly ground coffee scented the air.

  But again, covering everything was the fine yellow dust settling on the pretty stone buildings, turning them a pale muddy gold. The dust combined with the humidity and mildew ate away at the stones and soon cracks appeared, through which strangling vines reasserted themselves, making it clear that crude indomitable nature was never far away. The Indian inhabitants too seemed held at bay, living their lives on the outskirts of the city, or gathered together in faded and dusty coloured clumps in the corners and laneways of the polite streets. It was as though they crept through the landscape trying to pretend they weren’t really there, almost apologising for the fact they didn’t fit into this contrived setting.

  Cynthia sat in the corner of the carriage, waving her fan over her hot face and pouting under her hat. She always kept her eyes averted when travelling through the streets, as she said the sight of so many dirty people depressed her. Though even when she was persuaded to look at an unusual sight or a scene of rare beauty it scarcely had an effect on her emotions, and Sara soon realised Cynthia’s own world was more than enough for her, and anything outside of it she considered an unnecessary distraction.

  Lady Palmer sat by her daughter’s side and patted her while peering into her face looking for signs of heartbreak. Every now and then Cynthia’s peevish voice could be heard. “Stop fussing, Mother!”

  Sara could only agree with Cynthia, as she watched Lady Palmer with quiet loathing. At the last moment she’d insisted on accompanying the girls, using the excuse that it was impossible they should move amongst a foreign society unchaperoned.

  They drove through the wide gates of the Pondicherry Hotel and came to rest at the front doors of a much smaller and daintier version of the Paris Opera. On closer inspection, though, Sara was amused to see the unmistakable signs of Indian workmanship showing itself in the tiny sculptures of the elephant God, Ganesh. There he was, hidden in the corners of the building in the ho
pe he would go unnoticed, his trunk intertwined with the winged cupids of European imagination. It was unthinkable he could not be represented if there was any hope he might bring good luck on the building itself and those who stayed within it.

  The French flag flaunted itself from every turret, and the sound of music played by an unseen distant orchestra came floating from the recesses of the building.

  Sara pulled off her travelling bonnet and ran her fingers through her damp hair. The air was cooler in Pondicherry than Madras, cool enough to bring a faint streak of colour to her pale cheeks. A strong sea breeze brought a fresh wave of salt air, stirring the bronze wind chimes hanging from the hotel balcony. Her stiff muscles relaxed at last, and small tears of relief stung the corners of her eyes. She was shocked to discover how tense she’d been, accepting the pain between her shoulder blades as normal, and something she’d become accustomed to.

  The air of gaiety was infectious, and even Lady Palmer was moved to exclaim, “How very jolly!” as she bustled about giving orders.

  For Sara, there was an almost physical sense of a weight being lifted off her shoulders. She wanted to open her arms to the sky and laugh out loud, at the same time crushing the guilty thought that her joy was due entirely to being away from Charles.

  Later that evening, Sara stood at the door of the dining room in a feverish daze of excitement. She allowed a calm moment of observation before exposing herself to the society of Pondicherry, who’d gathered in elegant groups around the supper tables. Even in those brief few minutes she could see they were different to the English set she was accustomed to. Here was a slight air of recklessness, a touch of disregard for what was proper. The women’s gowns exposed more flesh and the men seemed less stuffy than their English counterparts. She noticed a few of them taking furtive looks in her direction, making her unconsciously cover the swell of her breasts above her low-cut gown by pretending to play with her locket.

  Standing slightly apart from the crowd and leaning against the open balcony door stood Ravi Sabran, smoking a slim Turkish cigarette and watching her as she entered the room. He seemed absorbed in listening to the orchestra and was slowly tapping his fingers against his leg in time to the music, though his expression was anything but relaxed.

  Sara felt something had seriously displeased him, though he was trying to keep his expression as impassive as ever. Each time she’d met him, it seemed she was shown a different aspect of the man. That evening he was dressed in the role of a cultured European gentleman, and even his skin appeared a paler shade against the severe black of his dinner suit.

  He wore his hair slicked straight back from his forehead, showing his thick black eyebrows in greater relief against his skin. To the outward world he was as elegant and cultured as any other man in the room, but to a discerning eye there was no comparison. He appeared to have been tamed for the evening, whipping back his more exotic guise to walk amongst the common herd.

  She felt no real surprise to see him standing there. It was almost as if she had willed it to be so. She’d had no real idea about how to go about finding him in a town unknown to her, but somehow in her heart she’d known he would find his way to her.

  She was about to cross the floor to speak to him when, feeling a sharp tug from Cynthia’s hand on her arm, she pulled herself up in confusion. For a moment she’d forgotten. Charles would be certain to find out, and Lady Palmer would inevitably make sure he did.

  “If you go over and speak to that man, I’ll never forgive you,” hissed Cynthia, steering her to where Lady Palmer sat watching both girls with her ever vigilant eye.

  Halfway across the room Sara stopped, asking herself why she should be rude to a man who’d only ever been of service to her, despite his scathing manner. His only real lapse had been on the day of the garden party, and even then his words had proved in some ways to be prophetic.

  Every day of her life she was forced to be polite to people she didn’t like at all, so why couldn’t she extend the courtesy to someone, she had to admit, she had a sneaking admiration for? Besides, she needed him as a friend and, above all, she wanted his house and his servant for herself. She pulled her hand from Cynthia’s grasp.

  “Don’t be such a snob, Cynthia. He would think me impolite if I don’t.”

  Her path across the room seemed endless. Behind her were the audible gasps of Lady Palmer and Cynthia, and ahead was Sabran’s insolent smile. She knew she had never looked so elegant, and at least in that regard she need not feel any shame, though she couldn’t help but feel self-conscious with so many eyes upon her.

  People stood aside as she made her way across the floor, her heels making the little click-clacking noises on the parquetry more obvious than they should be, as the orchestra chose that moment for a lull in the programme.

  From Sabran’s point of view, he saw a tall slim girl with high cheekbones and dark reddish hair and, even though she seemed much paler and thinner than he’d last seen her, her delicate appearance made her, in a way, lovelier still. She moved with a slow deliberate grace, her head erect as she held her skirt in her right hand in case she should trip. Her mauve chiffon gown draped over the hips and bunched behind, making her waist seem impossibly tiny. For him, though, the line of her long neck where it met her bare shoulders was the most beautiful feature of her body. For a brief moment he visualised what it would be like to make love to her, then he stopped himself from going any further. He thought he must have drunk too much wine and, anyway, he didn’t trust her. He’d been fooled into believing her interest in the child was genuine but she was, after all, no different to every other Englishwoman he’d met.

  She had proved herself unworthy by not fulfilling his original faith in her, despite her being married to a man he despised. Against all his feelings of dislike, he admitted to having a secret grudging admiration of her, but she had ignored his letter in a most arrogant way and was now not entitled to any particular consideration.

  He straightened up when she stood before him and bowed with the grace of a courtier. It was clear the ballroom had brought out the most elegant of his manners.

  “Madam Fitzroy.” He spoke her name with a faint tinge of scorn that made her instantly on her guard. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

  She was disappointed in him. It clearly wasn’t a pleasure at all. He was barely polite, his strange grey eyes darting from left to right, avoiding looking at her, as though wanting to get the civilities out of the way as soon as possible.

  “Your husband is not with you?”

  “His work keeps him in Madras.”

  “You must find it very difficult to be apart.” He seemed sincere, but his eyes were mocking.

  She chose to ignore what she knew to be a provocative comment.

  Then his voice took on a new level of iciness. “When I last saw you at the Maharaja’s garden party, I made an unfortunate remark. I must apologise; it was none of my business. Now I can see you and your husband are very well suited.”

  She was hurt by his tone, but she wouldn’t allow him to see it. “I must see Prema, if you will allow me. Is she well?”

  “She is very well and here in Pondi. My Guru has recommended I keep the child with me. He considers her an omen of some sort.”

  “How very strange, and so superstitious; it doesn’t seem the action of a modern man at all.”

  “Not so strange if you understand India, madam.”

  He was looking over her shoulder. Something had taken his attention.

  “You left town with no forwarding address,” she said, furious at his lack of interest.

  He returned to looking at her, and she almost lost courage under his cold glare.

  “My dear Mrs Fitzroy … I think you are playing games with me … I wrote you my address and again I received no reply.”

  There must be some mistake. I have received nothing from you, and my servant swears it also.” She bit her lip, puzzled. It occurred to her that perhaps Sabran himself was lying, though
she could see no reason why he should, even though Charles had almost convinced her Sabran was avoiding her for vindictive reasons of his own.

  He lit another cigarette while his eyes flickered over her body with, it seemed to her, an insult in every glance.

  “But then, I have met English ladies like you before. You arrive in India full of pity for all you see around you, then become hardened within a week. I knew at once how it would be with you.”

  She was almost too angry to say more but, reminding herself she must tell him of the house and how much she longed to buy it from him, she composed herself to speak.

  “It’s not that way with me at all. I long to see the child, and all I need is an invitation.”

  “I await your pleasure.” He was behaving like the perfect gentleman but his expression showed he was not convinced, and she must try harder.

  She took a deep breath and began again. “I’m very glad to have met you here, monsieur. You see, I have a great favour to ask of you.”

  She held her head on one side and bestowed upon him her most winning smile. He thought her teeth were very good for a European lady and, unlike so many of them he’d met who bared their teeth like neighing horses, her full top lip curved charmingly upwards, revealing flashes of white as she smiled.

  He bowed low. “I can never refuse a lady any favour. Name it.”

  “I wish to buy your house in Madras, monsieur, you call it Sans Souci, but I know it as Tamarind House. You see, it was …”

  He was on the alert at once. “I left the old name plate, it seemed a shame to remove it … but before you say anything else … will your husband live in the house with you?”

  “Of course …”

  “Then my answer is no. I will not sell the house to you, not under any circumstances. And it will always be so!” He was already moving away from her.

  She put a hand on his arm to stop him, and he gave her a hard look that made her take her hand away and step back a pace.

  “But I heard the house may be for sale.”

  “It may be; I haven’t decided yet. But I will never allow Charles Fitzroy to live in it.”