The Jasmine Wife

by Jane Coverdale

  The man drove on while she sweltered in the heat for what seemed like hours, though it was only minutes. Then, when she was about to give up and ask to go back to the hotel, he raced down a dusty thoroughfare, stopping at last before a pair of tall wooden doors set into a whitewashed wall almost covered in a crimson flowering vine and bearing a brass plate announcing the residence of Ravi Sabran.

  Despite the restrained domestic nature of the clean white wall and the elegant sign, there was an air of menace permeating the atmosphere.

  A group of gaunt black-bearded men in faded weather-beaten turbans lounged about in front of the house smoking thin, strong-smelling cigarettes, or sat squatting in the dust of the street, staring with malevolent, narrowed eyes at anyone passing by. The men were from the far north near the Himalayas and had the reputation of being the fiercest fighters in India. It was well known they would die without question in the defence of the most trivial breach of honour and were to be scrupulously avoided should one ever be unlucky enough to be caught on the wrong side of them. They carried rifles heavy with silver and intricate carving and wore dusty grey cotton pantaloons and wide leather belts in the manner of eighteenth-century pirates, though these men travelled on tough little horses instead of ships. It was easy to picture them, galloping across the wide Steppes and waving their rifles in the air.

  A few of them leapt to their feet when the rickshaw pulled up and surrounded Sara and the driver, peering at her with hard curious eyes, jabbering in a dialect she couldn’t understand. Even in the bright morning sun she felt a shiver pass over her. There was something cruel and pitiless about them, even though they laughed with the appearance of good-natured banter amongst themselves, at what seemed to Sara personal remarks made about her.

  She had made the mistake of being a woman alone without her maid and, even as a European lady, it made her a target for scorn.

  There was nothing she could do, as all attempts to make herself understood were ignored. The driver seemed to sense their good humour couldn’t be relied upon to last and might turn at any time. His voice shook as he managed to blurt out the words while pointing in Sara’s direction. “Monsieur Sabran!”

  They stood back at once and, after paying the driver, who snatched at the money and hurried off, all the while looking behind him in case they should change their minds, Sara made her way to the wooden doors and rang the brass bell suspended there, while the guards laughed after her.

  A handsome servant, dressed in fresh white linen and embellished with the scarlet turban and sash of the household, opened the door just a crack, giving a tempting glimpse of a lush garden beyond. Then, seeing an English lady standing before him, her face flushed and her hat awry, he fell to his feet at once, bowing and bestowing blessings upon her. After letting out a string of abuse at the group of wild men before him for making her wait, he stood aside to let her pass, before locking the doors on the dusty chaos of the outside world.

  The servant hurried ahead of her, every now and then glancing behind to give her a broad smile, as though unable to believe she was real. She followed him through a garden, thick with coconut palms and a wild profusion of tropical flowers. The beauty of the place was intoxicating and she found herself trailing behind, drugged with the heavy perfumes from the garden, spellbound, as though she had wandered suddenly into a sultry fairyland.

  She was tempted to linger there and drink in the beauty of the place but when she saw the house she was drawn towards it like a sleepwalker. It was almost a miniature Taj Mahal, complete with turrets and windows of carved marble filigree. The effect was so light and airy it seemed as though the house had floated there. She couldn’t help but smile. It was so much a reflection of the owner. Here was the barbaric beauty of the Mogul princes combined with French elegance, an exquisite house from the Arabian Nights.

  Her arrival had created a sensation. A young boy, who’d been cutting the heads off huge orange hibiscus, stopped to first stare then ran up the marble steps before disappearing into the house, leaving a trail of blooms as he ran. “A lady has come … An English lady has come …”

  There was a series of shouts, then an echoed response coming from the depths of the house. Soon other servants appeared, staring with unabashed curiosity but bestowing blessings with warm smiles, saying as they kneeled before her,” Bonjour, madame, bonjour. Come, madam, come in, please come …”

  From somewhere within the house, smoothing her hair and adjusting her sari, appeared an elegant Indian woman in her mid-thirties. Her greeting was full of unrestrained joy as she took both Sara’s hands in hers and raised them to her forehead.

  “You are here at last … Monsieur Ravi said you would come.”

  “Forgive me for bursting in like this …” Her voice trailed off. “I should have sent a note first.”

  The woman waved away any protests. “It is an honour to have you here at last. My name is Haria. I know you are Mrs Fitzroy.”

  She turned to a servant and, speaking with great urgency, sent him hurrying away down a long marble corridor leading into the further recesses of the house.

  They moved into a type of drawing room, though the room was far from stuffy or formal like its English counterpart. There was no sense of being closed in, or of having any walls at all, and it was open to a wide terrace hung with a thick crimson bougainvillea. The floor and walls were of white marble stamped with a fine pattern of flowers worked in mother-of-pearl. Sara was never more conscious of her English background, having dressed in a cool white muslin gown, matched with a wide-brimmed straw hat. In her mirror at the hotel her clothes had seemed appropriate, but here in such a house she was as out of place as a snowdrop in a vase of tiger lilies.

  She was aware of many pairs of eyes upon her, though when she looked around there was only a flash of colour retreating behind a door, a glimpse of dark shy eyes and a soft burst of laughter.

  Haria clapped her hands briskly and all became quiet. “Please, sit. I have sent for Prema and Monsieur Sabran will be with you in a moment.”

  “Monsieur Sabran is here? But I thought he was to be away on business.”

  “He did not leave after all. A problem prevented him from leaving.”

  “Oh! Please,” she cried, “don’t disturb him. I’ve come to see Prema only.”

  She’d planned to leave him a letter, asking about Malika and the house. She held it in her hand at that moment, though now there would be no avoiding meeting with him.

  “No. Monsieur Sabran will be very angry with me if I let you leave without seeing him.”

  “You have known Monsieur Sabran for a long time?”

  “Yes, since he was a child. I am his cousin.”

  “Oh!”

  “He took me in when I was cast out by my husband’s family.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “When Monsieur Ravi heard of my misfortune, he sent his men to find me and bring me here.” She watched Sara’s face, her eyebrows raised, as though expecting a response.

  “He must be a very kind man.”

  “I would die for him.” She said the words with such conviction, Sara had no doubt the woman meant it.

  Her face clouded as she scanned Sara’s face once more. “Then you think he is a fit person to look after a child such as Prema?”

  Sara laughed. “Oh, I see; you’re telling me these things so I’ll think well of him.”

  “Yes, I am.” She smiled. “But everything I have told you is true.”

  They laughed together, united by their secret.

  Then there was a flurry of activity in the corridor, the sound of hurried steps and whispered furtive voices, then he was before her, running his fingers through his still damp long black hair. It was clear she had interrupted him in his bath.

  Even so, he took her hand in his, kissing her fingertips, as gallant as ever. “Welcome to my home.”

  “Forgive me for not sending a note first; I had no time.”

  He swept her words aside, then
he turned to Haria, speaking in Tamil, too fast for Sara to follow. The woman modestly withdrew, leaving them alone.

  After a brief awkward silence, his words rushed out. He was still uncomfortable at being caught off guard. “Haria has taken care of you?”

  “Yes, very well. She’s been telling me how good you are.”

  “She makes me sound very dull.”

  “Dull is the last word I would use to describe you, monsieur.” She laughed.

  “Now I am intrigued.” His eyes lit up at once. “Now I must ask you what you really think of me.”

  She decided to say nothing in response, but only smiled, while in return he gave her the full power of his indecipherable gaze while he led her towards a comfortable armchair.

  He waited till she had seated herself, then he threw himself down on the settee opposite, curling his legs underneath in the Indian fashion. He was dressed for the house in a white muslin kurta and baggy linen pants narrowing at the ankle, where a thin gold bangle hung over one of his naked feet. When he saw her glance at his foot, he tucked it hastily away under his dhoti, aware that a bare foot was not an appropriate sight for an English lady. He covered his discomfort by playing with a long strand of sandalwood beads he wore around his neck, while he watched her through half-closed lids.

  “You are looking very well, better than when I saw you last. Pondi must be agreeing with you.”

  “Yes, I’m very much better. I don’t know why, but I seem always to be ill in Madras. Perhaps it’s the bad air.”

  “You are always ill?”

  “It must be a passing thing, as I feel wonderful now,” she reassured him with a laugh.

  He listened to all she said, though his face gave away nothing of his true thoughts. He pulled out a cigarette from a silver filigree box on the table and waved it before her. “Do you mind?”

  She shook her head and the delicious aroma of smoke mixed with spices crept towards her. The aroma was so seductive, for a moment she had a desire to try one herself. He took a long draw and leaned back on the cushions, lazily blowing the smoke in the air.

  “I have been with my Guru this morning; there are many things pressing on my mind. It is a great comfort to me to receive spiritual guidance, but I suppose you think Indian mysticism is a lot of nonsense, as you English say.”

  “How could I, after what I’ve experienced since I’ve been in India? I’ll keep an open mind on the subject.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, showing his French side once more. She was fascinated by his sudden changes in character; a few moments before he’d been Indian to the core with his talk of mysticism, but she also noticed his manner had changed towards her. He was cold and almost businesslike.

  She couldn’t know it, but he was angry with himself for having succumbed to her charms the last time he’d seen her. It made him feel ashamed; as he thought himself so much in love with Maya, no one could ever turn his head for a moment. He was proud of his attachment to his lover and saw his momentary slip as a weakness he would crush. He despised some men of his acquaintance who had many mistresses. He knew, as a man of power and position in India, the same was expected of him, even risking the scorn of his associates because of his devotion to one woman. But nothing could be done; when he was in love, he was in love, and he had eyes for no other woman.

  And yet there was something compelling about Sara Fitzroy. He sighed in an almost despairing way, and her head lifted up to look at him. He stared at her face in the morning light, looking for imperfections. He would not be taken in by her again. She looked less tired than when he had seen her last and gone were the blue shadows under her eyes.

  He admitted to very much liking the dark mole on the base of her neck and her black winged eyebrows, contrasting against the mass of dark auburn hair, even her almost too slim body, usually considered so unattractive by Indian standards, he admired for her elegance, but he said to himself she was nothing special after all, despite her cool charm.

  Sara couldn’t help but be aware of his close scrutiny and she began to fidget with her gloves again. “I couldn’t come before now. Lady Palmer doesn’t look kindly upon you so, as you know, my visit must remain a secret. It seems you have made some enemies.”

  He shrugged his shoulders again. “So be it.”

  “Is that what those fierce-looking men outside are for, to protect you?”

  His mouth twitched very slightly at the corners and his eyes showed he was not pleased by her remark.

  “They are some of my polo team. When we are not practising, they guard my house. It gives them something to do.”

  This time she couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “You play polo with these men?”

  “They are the best, and they are fearless. They will play to the death.”

  She began to fidget with her hands; she didn’t want to be reminded of that day on the polo field. “Even so, they are very unpleasant men. They frightened me.”

  “They frightened you?” His head jerked up at once. Suddenly his eyes were hard.

  “They were horrible to the poor man who brought me here and, I think, insolent with me.”

  “They dared to be insolent with you?”

  “I think so; perhaps I was imagining it.”

  He rose at once. “Would you care for some refreshments?” he asked in a very formal way.

  “Yes, I suppose so.” She felt a faint dissatisfaction with him. He could at least apologise.

  “Will you excuse me for one moment?”

  “Of course.”

  While he was gone, she thought about Lady Palmer and Cynthia, and how she hoped she could lie convincingly when they asked her about her day. She would say the driver had refused to stop and insisted on taking her to a silk merchant where he could make a commission. She made a mental note to stop and buy something to throw them off her scent. It would never do to return empty-handed.

  She looked around, smitten again by the beauty of the house, admiring the high marble arches supported by their delicate pillars and the wide terrace overlooking the sea.

  She watched a young man who was employed as a punka wallah to keep the house cool. He lay on his back on the terrace, the string of a giant fan tied to his ankle. He waved his leg back and forth as he sang a song to himself. She tried not to think about how Charles would have reacted to the sight in her own home.

  Sabran came back into the room and sat before her. “I have ordered something I think you will like.” He was so severe she wondered what could have upset him.

  “Then I’m sure I will.” His cool manner was making her nervous, and she longed for the sight of Prema to change the mood.

  “Prema will join us for tea?”

  “She is being bathed.”

  “Of course …” The distance between them was almost unbearable.

  “Oh, before I forget …” She reached into her purse and held out a thick handful of notes.

  “I want to give you something for her upkeep. I feel she is really much more my responsibility than yours. You can’t think how guilty I feel.”

  He looked at the money as though she had offered him poison. “Please, do not insult me.”

  “But that’s ridiculous. I want to help.”

  “I will not take it.” He spoke with such conviction she put the money away at once, lest the sight of it offend him further. In a way she was grateful for his determination not to take the money. It had cost her a lot to save it, snatching a few coins here and there from the housekeeping, and secreting it away in her underwear drawer. She had discovered something else about Charles since her marriage she didn’t like. He was mean with money; that was, he was mean with her. She was supposed to account for every note while his gambling had increased with his marriage, though his losses were shrugged off as something men did as a matter of course.

  She searched her mind for something to say while Sabran continued to watch her through the curling smoke of his cigarette. If he was uncomfortable in her presence, he sho
wed no sign of it.

  To cover her own confusion, she turned to the pattern on the richly embroidered cushions of the settee. “How lovely!” she said without really seeing it.

  “Yes, the Moguls had a fascination with love.” He smiled almost dreamily. “I’m told those embroideries are three hundred years old … I found them in Rajasthan.”

  She held up a cushion to examine it more closely. What she had thought was a conventional design was an illustration of ardent lovers, their intertwined limbs forming an abstract pattern.

  “Oh!” she said, dropping the cushion as though it burnt her hand.

  He was reminded of the time he’d watched her at the forbidden sculptures on the beach, and he changed the subject to save her embarrassment.

  “Now, what is that letter you have clutched in your hand? Is it for me?”

  “No, well, yes, it is, but now, as I …” She put the letter away in her purse. “It was an explanation, the reason why I want your house, and also a request.”

  “You cannot take Prema back. Maya has become very fond of her, she treats her with special favour, and I too believe the child has brought me luck. It’s true that charity brings its own rewards, but business has never been better.”

  “How cynical you are, but I suspect you’re trying to hide a soft heart.”

  “Then, madam, you do not know me very well.” He fixed his strange grey eyes on hers and she felt a shiver run down her back. “Everything I do with a benefit in mind, though my Guru says that taking Prema into my home will bring mixed blessings.”

  His face darkened as his brows shot together with an unpleasant thought.

  “He says she is a messenger from the gods, who brings great changes.” He changed his position in his seat. “Deep happiness, but also great suffering.” When he said the words Sara could see he was shaken by the prophecy, even though he spoke as though unconcerned.