Sara picked up the child and placed her on her lap, whispering, “Perhaps Monsieur Sabran is right, and your life will be as lucky as he says he is.” The child smiled up at her, completely fearless now.
Servants appeared as silent as wraiths, carrying dishes of every kind: delicious breads stuffed with freshly made cottage cheese, fruit and nuts, plates of saffron rice piled high, bowls of dhal, fish in a rich spicy coconut sauce, each one more fantastic than the last. Maya watched as each dish was placed before them, scanning the plates, her eyes sharp now, on the watch for any flaw in the perfection.
Sabran ate with his fingers in the Indian manner, feeling the food sensuously and spooning it into his mouth with obvious enjoyment.
Sara watched, fascinated, longing to do the same but unable to do so. She felt almost silly having to use the dainty silver fork placed before her. After the mostly bland flavours from her own kitchen she ate almost with abandon.
Sabran watched her as she piled more food on her plate. “I have never seen an English lady enjoy our food so much.”
“You forget.” She spoke with her mouth full. “I was weaned on this food. You don’t know how much I’ve missed it.”
“What is wrong with your cook?” he asked. “If he is no good you can have one of mine.”
She laughed at the simplicity of his solution. For a moment she thought he was joking, then realised that he was perfectly sincere.
“Oh, it’s not Mutu, he’s a very good cook, that is, as long as it’s Indian food, but it disagrees with my husband’s stomach,” she lied, and she could see at once by his look, he knew it.
A plate of small golden puffs of pastry accompanied by a fragrant sauce was placed before them with particular deference.
“Ah!” he said. “This is special!”
With a deft gesture he pushed his thumb into the pastry and ladled a spoonful of the fragrant sauce into it.
Maya moved closer to Sabran, tilting back her beautiful head in a swanlike movement and parting her lips while he dropped the morsel in her mouth. Sara watched, fascinated, but then wished she hadn’t. It was as though she was spying on a couple making love. His hand lingered for a moment on the creamy throat as with great tenderness he brushed a stray strand of hair away. It was just a moment, but it spoke a thousand words. Sara again experienced a deep bolt of pain, a sensation so strong her head swam. She knew she would never experience that passion with Charles, and she couldn’t bear it.
Maya clapped her hands and out of nowhere a group of dancers sprang before them, though they danced only for Sabran; his presence seemed to command nothing less. They encircled him, seducing him with the movements of their long golden fingers, their jewelled feet beating the hard ground in time with the drums, sensuous hips encircled with garlands of flowers, their movements compelling and intoxicating.
He received their acclaim as his due, showing hardly a trace of emotion or pleasure, just a contented half smile and a faint flicker of interest from his heavy-lidded eyes.
The music took on a life of its own, with both the dancers and the musicians in a trance, imbuing the very air with the deep and primitive pulse of life. When it seemed the feverish pitch couldn’t be maintained a moment longer, the music halted, giving the cue for the dancers to throw handfuls of white flowers into the air. The flowers hung suspended for a brief moment, then fell to the ground in a white fragrant carpet.
Sabran looked at Sara and smiled, transporting her back to the night in Pondicherry when they had danced in each other’s arms. She could tell by the expression in his eyes he too was thinking of that night, and he turned away hastily after glancing in Maya’s direction.
At the sound of strange voices from the outer courtyard, Maya leapt to her feet, covering her beautiful face with her sari before bowing briefly at Sara and retreating. She flew through the garden as fragile as a butterfly, in a cloud of golden silk. Only the lingering fragrance of her perfume remained as evidence she had not been conjured from a dream.
Sabran tore his eyes away from the vision and turned to Sara, his voice matter-of-fact now, as though determined to keep her at arm’s length.
“We have visitors. The Brahmins will give a blessing.”
Sara rose to leave, anxious not to be seen before strangers, but Sabran raised a hand to stop her. “I want you to stay.”
He was so insistent she remained beside him, despite her misgivings.
“I want you to know what kind of man I am. I want you to see me as my world sees me, and not as the British see me. I know it’s rumoured I’m a corrupt man, but it’s not true; they say that because they are jealous of my wealth. They think it should be theirs and would like very much to take it off me.”
A crowd of men, richly dressed, stood in a silent group and one by one came forward to fall on the ground prostrate before him. Sabran’s hand, held out like an emperor, was clutched in a fervent blessing, then held briefly to the forehead, before each man was raised to his feet and blessed in return.
Costly gifts were laid at his feet, while lengths of cashmere and woven gold were thrown over his shoulders, then swept away almost at once to make room for another. An enormous pile of shawls of varying beauty and richness grew at his feet, then, at the snap of his fingers, they were carried away out of sight.
Sara whispered to him, “Why do they do this?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “They are representatives of my various charities. They do this as a sign of respect to me.”
He lifted his chin with great pride. He was a powerful man and he knew it. He also knew to show any sign of humble gratitude would be misconstrued as weakness.
His expression took on the quality of an idol, impenetrable and remote, way above the concerns of ordinary mortals, making Sara feel very small, ordinary and colourless.
There was a distance between them she felt she could never hope to cross and, despite all her resolutions not to be affected by him, the thought depressed her. A cold feeling of isolation overtook her despite the heat, and the ever-present curious eyes began to oppress her. She was aware, too, of being watched from the upstairs windows.
She caught sight of Maya, looking down at her from behind a silk curtain, before retreating into the shadows of her self-imposed prison. It was only a brief glance, but enough to see Maya regarded her as a threat. Her look, though, was not of jealousy or hatred, but of sad resignation. As though, whatever the relationship was between Sara and Sabran, she was powerless to do anything about it.
When it came time for her to leave, Maya appeared to be as charming as ever, though the deep sadness behind her lovely eyes remained. She blessed Sara with tears in her eyes before floating from the room in her cloud of golden silk. An intense feeling of reproach flooded Sara’s consciousness as she realised with startling clarity how delicate the girl was, and how she must be protected from pain at all cost.
Some of Maya’s mood had filtered through to Sabran as well, and his eyes followed her with a marked anxiety.
When he turned to Sara he was almost grim, his manner more removed than ever. He was treating her differently, remote but very polite. “You must come to visit us again …” He held her hand while he scanned her face with his dark impenetrable gaze. “It’s pleasant for me to talk with an educated woman who is familiar with my European side … You know you are my only English friend.”
He clapped his hands and a servant rushed forward carrying a huge package.
“I want you to take this small gift. You will see how small it is.”
“I can’t … No, it’s impossible. You have given me so much already.”
“You’re being English again.” He laughed. “You don’t understand what a pleasure it is for me to give presents and, anyway, it’s an insult to refuse me.”
“It seems to me, monsieur, that being from two cultures has advantages; you can plead custom at whim.”
He clapped his hands. The servant tore off the wrapping and threw down before her a long bal
e of the green silk she had so admired. He flicked the end so a great length of it rose high into the air and floated for a moment on the breeze.
She was blinded by the beauty of the moment, but managed to find her voice at last. “I can’t take it. You must know a lady would never accept a present from a gentleman who is not her husband.”
“In our culture a gift of silk is something a brother may give to a sister; it is impossible for you to refuse.”
She felt the material as though in a dream. The lovely green silk was a present from a brother to a sister. Why, then, when she looked into his eyes, she didn’t believe him?
Chapter 26
She left the house like a child leaving a party, tired, but glutted with conflicting sensations, unwilling to let the day die.
When she returned at last to her little mock Tudor house, she decided to order a special meal, even venturing into the kitchen to see to the preparations, knowing she was breaking all the rules by invading the servants’ special domain. But she braved Mutu’s sulky looks and the curious stares of Lakshmi. Nothing could crush the party atmosphere of her day, wanting it to linger so she could share what was left of it with Charles.
Since returning from his tiger shoot, he had again been very contrite, saying he’d missed her desperately and would be careful not to drink so much in future. He’d again turned back into the charming young man she had at first become engaged to, at least on the surface.
But always there was a tension, as though at any time he might give way to one of his frightening outbursts and destroy what gains they had made in their relationship.
She sat in the shade of the veranda to wait for him, wearing the thick gold bracelet he had given her that morning for her birthday. She had decided once and for all to tell him of her day with Prema. It wasn’t in her nature to be dishonest, and she was suffering from a faint feeling of guilt for not having told him her plans before he’d left for the day. But they had had such a happy morning celebrating her birthday together, she was unwilling to ruin it with the sure threat of an argument.
It was the bewitching hour, the time before sunset when the birds settled after a final flurry of bickering before the evening light faded.
All in the house and garden were calm and the servants were taking a short nap before serving the evening meal. Everyone except Malika was asleep, but the old woman found it hard to give up her daily tasks, even though Sara encouraged her to rest as often as possible.
Malika’s visits had become more frequent now, and she often only returned to her old home for a day or so to dust the rooms and put fresh flowers on the graves. She knew she was for some in the house unwelcome, but in her mind Sara was still the little girl who had been torn from her arms long ago and who now needed protection, from who or what it was unclear. But, with the instinct of a mother, she sensed something in the house that threatened the happiness of the child she saw as her own and she would do her best to guard her from it.
Now she moved through the garden, enjoying the close of the day while sprinkling handfuls of water over the dust, her red and gold sari a glorious splash of colour against the green of the plants. The pungent smell of damp earth mingled with the scent of flowers, rising up and catching Sara in the back of the throat. Sara watched as a bright blue kingfisher hovered on a pawpaw tree heavily burdened with ripe orange fruit, dripping with juice. The bird’s iridescent wings gleamed like the silk hidden in her bottom drawer and, even though she felt a flash of guilt, she knew she could never tell Charles where it came from.
She wanted the rest of her birthday to be unmarred by argument. She hugged herself. Why was she so joyous? She felt almost like a child again. Her heart went out to the beauty of the world around her and she felt she could spend the rest of her life in India, gorgeous, wild and absurd India.
When at last Charles opened the gate in the little picket fence and came up the path she rose to her feet, an eager smile on her lips.
“You’re home at last …”
“Yes.”
Her smile died on her face as he strode past her into the house, making straight for the brandy cabinet. He took a glass and was about to pour a drink when he noticed a faint smear around the rim. He called angrily to Shakur.
Shakur came into the room at a snail’s pace, his face fixed into a stiff, unhappy grin as he smoothed his clothes and tidied his hair. Sara felt for him as he stood with his head bowed. He knew he was in for a storm and he stood as limp as the flowers on the lawn outside the window, preparing to weather it, only hoping the inevitable tongue-lashing would not be too severe.
There was something sad and touching about his appearance. He was wearing one of his master’s cast-off shirts and the sleeves were too long as well as being frayed about the cuffs and collar. He loved the shirt so much and had it washed so often it was almost in tatters.
“What is your job in this house, Shakur?” Charles asked coldly.
“To look after you, sahib”
“Do you think giving me a dirty glass is part of that job?”
Shakur stared at his feet. “No, sahib.”
“I should have you thrown out to beg … There are plenty of others who would be only too glad to take your place …”
Charles paced back and forth, holding the glass up to the light, savouring his words and enjoying their full impact.
Shakur fell to floor, lying prostrate, his voice muffled with fear.
“Oh, please, sir …”
Sara could only watch and wonder at the change in the person she’d once thought she loved. The blue eyes she had once thought so attractive now seemed mean and cold, and even cruel.
“Shakur has been very busy today; he’s been doing some things for me …”
Charles turned on her, his face white and pinched. She realised then, his anger was not for Shakur but for herself.
“Is something the matter?” She raised her chin, hoping to stare him down.
“Is something the matter?” he echoed. Then, remembering Shakur on the floor at his feet, he spat, “Get out!”
Charles watched, unbending, as Shakur almost crawled out of the room and shut the door. Then he turned his cold wrath towards Sara.
“And how was your day?”
“I went into town.”
“You did nothing else?” His face was close to hers, threatening and ugly, so close she could see the little beads of perspiration on his upper lip and smell the brandy on his breath.
At first she thought of lying to protect herself from his wrath, then her rebellious spirit surged within her as she was overwhelmed with the injustice of her situation. She glared back. “Yes, I went to see Prema as it was her birthday! I was going to tell you, and I would have this morning if you weren’t so unreasonable!”
The skin around his throat turned a deep red as his temper rose. “So, your interest in an Indian brat was enough for you to throw all sense of decorum to the winds … to defy all I’ve said about you visiting that man …?”
“Why should it matter? I wasn’t alone with him … and even if I was alone with him … what would it matter?” She busied herself with tidying the books on the piano, hoping such an everyday action would somehow calm him and herself.
“Do you want to know how I found out? Well … do you?” he asked, not giving her time to answer. “I found out from Lady Palmer.” He savoured the words and spoke them slowly.
“She saw you riding out of his driveway. His driveway! How do you think it makes me feel? My wife! Associating with that … that … half-caste! And that’s not all. Riding through the streets of Madras alone! Do you imagine you are invisible?”
“I wouldn’t have gone behind your back if you didn’t make such a fuss of it … What harm is there in me visiting a child I have an interest in?”
She was shouting now, and beside herself with anger, but it was more than that; all of her restrained resentment began to spill over.
“What you want from me is impossible! You wan
t me to be nothing but a simple adornment to your life! Well, I want a life too!” Tears ran down her cheeks, more from frustration than anything else. She began to feel sick and sat down, still trembling.
“For God’s sake, calm yourself. The servants can hear everything.”
“I don’t care! You’re a tyrant! And I can’t love you! I can’t love you! Not as you are! If our marriage is to survive, you will have to treat me with respect! I visit Prema because I want to! And I will continue to do so, regardless of what you say!”
“Is the brat the only reason you visit?”
“How dare you? I have never been anything other than faithful to you! If only you would trust me!” She spat the words, though at the same time guilt surged within her.
Then, in a brief reflective moment, she saw clearly that it was Charles’s behaviour driving her towards Sabran, as well as Sabran himself, who seemed to value her and her opinions more than her own husband. It was no wonder she wanted to be close to his world and to bask in the warmth of his admiration, for she was sure he admired her, even if he didn’t desire her. But, more than anything, it was being with Sabran that made her realise there was more to love than what passed for love in her own home.
She was quieter now, and could even speak calmly. “If you’re really so unhappy with me and I with you, perhaps we should think about a divorce.”
He spun around to face her. “So you can make a fool of me? No! Don’t ever speak of it again.”
“Is that the only reason you won’t let me go?”
He put his arms around her, hoping to soften her mood, but his touch only gave her a feeling of revulsion.
“No, I do love you, you know, but do you have to be so damned unreasonable?”
“Love!” She gave a kind of grim laugh. “If you loved me you would allow me some freedom.”
A soft knocking made them both swing around and stare at the door.
“What do you want?” he shouted.
The sweet voice of Lakshmi came from beyond the door. “Sahib … I have a note for sahib.”
The Jasmine Wife Page 23
