As usual, his words prompted a sense of uneasiness in her, but she replied with her customary light, safe banter. “Be careful, monsieur. I may even write about you, with all the added flourishes that will make you irresistible to female readers.”
“Added flourishes? I am insulted. Am I not enough as I am?” He held his arms out wide and smiled in a wry self-deprecating way.
“As to that, monsieur, it’s not my place to say,” she replied with the same wry manner, then laughed with an unguarded delight that illuminated her face. For a moment she looked into his eyes and held him, entranced by her own, till she seemed to rouse herself before looking away in confusion.
He was shaken by this fresh expression of her beauty, and for a moment he struggled to control his desire to cross the boundaries holding them apart and place himself in danger by declaring his admiration for her.
Just in time the waiter appeared with the tea tray, and this simple act of mundane activity dampened any lingering threat to his self-control.
All at once he leaped to his feet, his face grim. Then he bowed in her direction and began to walk away at an almost furious pace.
She called out, “But you haven’t had your tea!”
Without looking back, he answered her over his shoulder. “I must go. Forgive me.”
It seemed very lonely in the garden once he’d gone, till the parson, seeing she was alone, joined her and made polite conversation while she poured the tea, all the while wondering what had made Ravi Sabran leave so suddenly.
Chapter 22
He came the next evening at the same time, dressed as usual for his forays into the European world in an immaculate cream linen suit and fine straw hat. After an hour or so of light banter, where he was careful to keep the conversation in safe waters, he brought up the subject of her writing.
“I thought I might be of help to you, and it might amuse me also if you would read your work to me.”
“I’m touched by your interest,” she said, laughing, as she picked up the pages of her manuscript, “and I’ll do my best to amuse you.”
Her face softened into a smile as she ran her fingers over the cover. “Shall I begin?”
He nodded and leaned back in his chair, half closing his eyes so he could concentrate on the sound of her voice, but at the same time watching her attentively.
She began calmly as she spoke about the rangoli, the pretty patterns the Indian women made afresh each morning out of varicoloured dried lentils and grains or, when very poor, fine sand and pebbles, to place before their doorways in the hope of scaring off evil spirits and bringing good luck to the house. The women competed with each other to produce patterns of such intricate beauty it seemed sacrilegious to erase them every day …
She looked up, not sure if he was listening or not, but even in repose he seemed alert, like a great cat feigning sleep but always on the watch for unwary prey.
Then she read on, her tone growing cynical.
“Sometimes it is difficult to be proud of being British, especially when faced with some of the antiquated codes of behaviour one is forced to endure as a member of this marooned race. The rules for women especially have been fixed at a time one hundred years ago and have been frozen in time since, though the rest of the modern world has moved on. In our little community we are presided over by the undisputed doyenne of Madras society, who dispenses judgements with the careless unconcern of an empress.
Her body is large though her brain is small, much like a mindless predator who greedily consumes everything in its path as its blundering right, then spits out the remains after not really having tasted anything …”
She had to stop reading as Sabran was laughing so much.
“You must be careful,” he said. “If I can identify her, others must, and she might do you some damage.”
“Personally, I don’t care but …” Here she halted. Even now, after all the pain Charles had inflicted on her, she found it difficult to hurt him. “I suppose I must remain anonymous. That is, as long as I can rely on your discretion.”
“Of course; it will be our secret.”
She read on, trying to ignore Sabran’s lazy smile and perplexing gaze, and at the same time wondering why she trusted him at all.
“… though there are many here who devote their time to helping the sick and homeless in any way they can. There are, however, the type of Englishmen who seem to take pleasure in acts of deliberate cruelty towards the natives. I know of someone who kicked his servant in the stomach with such force the man had to be taken to hospital, where he later died in agony … It seems his spleen had ruptured. The courts found the servant to be insolent and only fined his master one thousand rupees, to be paid to the man’s widow.”
Her voice had begun to tremble at this point. She knew the man in question well; it was her husband’s friend, George Perry, and her own husband had intervened personally in the case, as he’d said his friend had only acted in self-defence.
Sabran’s eyes opened wide, alert to her words. He too knew of the case, and also of the public outrage at the court’s decision.
“This is not quite what I expected …”
“What did you expect?” she almost snapped at him. “That I would write about the difficulties of growing daisies in a hot climate? Perhaps you might suggest I stick to more ladylike topics.”
He was unused to people challenging him. And the fire in her eyes aroused him more than he liked, but now there was admiration of her intellect to add to the list of her charms.
Her presence began to seriously trouble him, and he made a pact that he would stay away from her. He would seek his revenge on Charles Fitzroy in a different way, a less complicated way.
But he couldn’t stay away.
He always came at the same time and after an hour or so where they each cleverly avoided any topic which might ignite any intimacy, she would pick up her manuscript and continue from where she’d left off the day before.
He always listened with care to the words, though every now and then he halted her to make a comment on the eccentricities of the English language or exclaimed out loud in outraged French at the injustices being endured by the characters in her stories. Sometimes it was difficult for her not to laugh at him, so involved had he become in the story, though every now and then she caught him not listening to her words but looking at her through half closed eyes with a curious expression on his face.
It never failed to unnerve her and she would stumble over the lines, or suddenly snap the pages shut as a sign she had read enough.
Later, alone in her room at night, she would reproach herself for enjoying his company too much. It was impossible to think ill of him while he was so kind to her, telling herself that surely all the gossip about him was a lie. There was no sign of the cruelty she’d seen fire up in his eyes on the day she’d visited him and he’d exacted revenge on his guards for their contempt of her.
Though there was a side to him that was a mystery to her. Once, while she was reading to him, a messenger came hurrying into the hotel garden to whisper in his ear. He stood and excused himself at once, saying he would not return the next day.
When he did appear after a few days he was more silent than usual, his face strained and almost grim, and though he tried to hide it with his usual gallantries, it seemed his concentration was elsewhere.
Later, when at last the fear of contamination was over, he came to say goodbye before she returned to Madras.
She stood before him in her travelling clothes, torn between feeling relief at the prospect of being freed from the sphere of his charm and regret at leaving her oasis of peace.
“Well, then,” she said as she struggled to keep her voice under control, “will you write to me about Prema? Perhaps this time to the post office, so I can pick up the letters myself and there’s no danger of them being lost.”
“Of course, madam.”
He seemed unable to look in her eyes, then, as she was about to climb in
to the carriage to take her to the train station, he moved close to her for the first time in weeks, as though with her leaving there would be no chance of her touch igniting what he hoped was a past desire.
“Thank you … Thank you, for a most peaceful interlude. It is as though I have been in an ashram.” Then he took her hand and kissed it and, did she imagine it, as he held it to his lips, then quickly brush his warm cheek upon it?
She snatched her hand away and stood back from him, rubbing her hand behind her back at the spot where he’d kissed it, as though to neutralise the effect it had upon her.
She hurried away, trying to ignore the almost painful sensation in her chest. She was angry with him, but even angrier with herself.
‘A peaceful interlude’, was how he thought of their time together. It seemed she was the only one who’d found their shared experience both pleasurable and unsettling.
She told herself what a fool she’d been. In a way she was glad of his indifference, it made it so much easier for her to return to Madras, and to her husband, despite her unwillingness to do so.
Chapter 23
At first she thought about telling Charles everything, then she decided there would be no point. He was still angry with her for having danced with Sabran in a public place while deliberately defying Lady Palmer, when she must have known he would object. In any case, she didn’t really believe it was any of her husband’s business. She told herself she had committed no crime and had a clear conscience, despite a faint nagging twinge of guilt.
She was relieved to find, though, his questions about her trip were brief and distracted, freeing her of the pressure to have to lie, as lie she must, but it seemed he had more important matters on his mind.
A week had passed since her return, and it appeared her marriage was entering an almost happy phase; he had missed her, and some of his former charm had returned, making her believe there was hope for their marriage after all. He agreed to let Malika come and stay for short visits and had even welcomed the old woman kindly when she was finally coaxed away from Sabran’s house for a day or two. He seemed determined to do what he could to please his wife and for those small mercies Sara was pleased.
She had even begun to think she could safely tell him about her visit to Sabran’s home without any serious consequences.
Most of all she wanted to be truthful with him, so when they were having lunch she began, taking a deep breath, “Charles … while I was in Pondi …”
He didn’t hear her; he was staring straight ahead, deep in thought, though every now and again he turned his attention back to his plate, attacking his food, sawing at it with unnecessary ferocity. Before she could finish, he interrupted her with a curse, threw down his fork with such violence it bounced off the table then landed on the floor where Shakur, who was standing behind his master’s chair, hurried to retrieve it.
“If only I can prove it’s him … but so far he’s managed to keep one step ahead of us.”
“Is something wrong?”
“That half-caste mongrel, Sabran, of course …”
A thin shiver of hate towards her husband ran down her back. “I wish you wouldn’t speak that way about him, or any human being, for that matter.”
He shook his head as though she needed to be humoured. “You know nothing about this man … and what he’s capable of.”
With extra caution Shakur placed a clean fork on the table, then hurried away to watch the unfolding scene from behind the door.
“He’s behind this armed opposition to tax collecting, I’m sure of it. So far, there’ve been no casualties, but I won’t tolerate it.”
“But surely, it’s not the time to be pressing people to pay taxes … what with the famine …”
“And this is not the time to be forcing your rather revolutionary notions on me. This is the last straw, though. It was enough that I forgave you over the dancing business. You can never visit that child again and I’ll consider it an act of treachery if you do.”
“And I have no say in the matter?”
“Not in this … no.”
She hardly heard him when he spoke again. “By the way, we’re expected for dinner tonight at Lady Palmer’s.”
Sara pushed her plate away, her appetite gone. “I don’t want to go. Perhaps it isn’t safe for me to go out in society yet.”
He was unmoved. “I’ve been looking forward to it.”
“I don’t feel very well. It’s better I stay home.”
It was true; she wasn’t feeling as well as she had when she was in Pondicherry. The old feelings of faint nausea and headache had returned, leaving grey shadows under her eyes and a new pallor to her skin.
“If Lady Palmer wants us to attend, we must; there’s an end to it.”
“Really, Charles, is it so very important? Tell them I have a headache.”
“I’ll do no such thing. You’ll enjoy it when you get there.”
“I won’t. I loathe their parties.”
He softened then, seeing her pale, almost pinched face. “Please, darling, do this one thing for me. It’s important. I’m sorry I spoke to you that way. Forgive me. I’m under a lot of pressure at the moment … And wear something pretty, darling, something bright to give you a bit of colour. You know, a wife can work wonders for her husband when it comes to promotion. You can employ your many charms on Lord Palmer, as you do me.”
He threw down his napkin and went to her, kissing her almost tenderly.
“It’s time you got to know one another.”
“What if he doesn’t like me? The rest of his family don’t.”
“Don’t be silly, they love you, and of course he’ll like you; make him like you. It’s the least you can do for me.”
Charles’s words were of no use. She didn’t care if Lord Palmer liked her or not. She had rarely met a more unpleasant man. Even so, she made the customary polite effort to be civil.
“How long have you lived in Madras, Lord Palmer?”
He was a small man, at least two inches shorter than his wife, though he pushed his barrel chest out aggressively in an effort to make himself appear bigger. Sara had found herself alone with him and had made an effort to open the conversation. He’d shown no signs of doing so and the silence was painful, at least for her. He seemed content to stare ahead and grunt every now and then while taking large gulps from his brandy balloon.
“Thirty years this monsoon and, if you ask me, that’s thirty years too long.” He threw back his brandy while rocking back and forth on his rather small feet.
“Oh! Then you might remember my parents … I’ve been longing to talk to someone about them. You see, I’ve only just discovered the name he used here … My father was William Radcliffe.”
“Radcliffe?” He stared at her for a moment with his mouth hanging open.
“Radcliffe? Of course, I remember now … died in the typhoid epidemic of sixty-five … or was it sixty-six? Bad business that. You’re not his daughter, are you?”
His face had turned bright red, and he coughed two or three times as he played with his necktie.
“It appears so,” she said, shaken by his manner.
“I thought your maiden name was Archer?”
“Well, yes, it was. That is, my father was an Archer as well … but he changed his name to Radcliffe, for reasons I can’t say.”
“Radcliffe? Radcliffe’s daughter?” He examined her features once more. Then a look of pure distaste came into his eyes. The intense scrutiny was crudely done and without any concern for her feelings.
At last he gave her a stiff little bow and stepped back a little, just a little, but enough for her to feel uncomfortable.
“Of course, I didn’t get the connection when Cynthia said Charles had married a Miss Archer.”
This time there was no escaping his change of attitude towards her. Sara felt a rising discomfort.
He scanned her features again, his small eyes narrowing. “Yes … you are very like him. I remember
him quite well …” His voice was cold now.
“You knew my father? How wonderful!” She couldn’t hide her delight, despite his manner. “Oh, please tell me something about them … anything … you see, I was sent away when they died …”
“Yes, yes of course.”
He had decided he didn’t like her, and she knew it was because of her father. She could see that clearly now, though she would not be put off and she persisted. “It would mean so much to me.”
“Perhaps I’m not the right person to talk to. You see, often we didn’t see eye to eye about things …”
“Oh …”
“Your father was a very unusual man … He took a keen interest in the community, especially the Indian community.” He spoke the word “Indian” with a tinge of contempt. “He stirred up feelings a bit around here, and not everyone agreed with all that he said and did. Set him apart a bit, talked a lot of nonsense.”
Sara faltered. “What nonsense?”
“He was of the old school, from the days when relations with the Indians was actually encouraged … Soft on intermarriage … That’s all done with these days, thank God. We got nothing for it but a lot of half-caste brats … and in the end he paid for it too, with his life.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She too drew herself away a little, her anger rising.
“All those cursed Indians he had visiting the house … He probably caught the disease off them …”
He pulled his watch out of his pocket and glanced at it, before looking around the room, making it clear he wished to be elsewhere.
Sara didn’t care; she hated him now and wanted nothing more than to be as far away from him as possible. Even so, she asked one more question.
“And my mother; do you remember her?”
“We didn’t really move in the same circles. Never met her, I’m afraid. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He gave her another stiff little bow and hurried away.
The Jasmine Wife Page 21
