“So you did receive my letter?”
“Of course … and I decided to help you, and get you away from Madras as soon as I could.”
“Forgive me. I was perhaps a little melodramatic.”
“I don’t think so. Madras can be a very dangerous place.”
He watched her intently with his shrewd grey eyes, but she did not see the anxiety written so clearly there.
“Yes, that is true. It’s well known as an unhealthy spot, but my doctor assures me my condition is a common one for Englishwomen and, as you can see, I’m well now.” She smiled as if to prove her point. “And I suppose happy to be here.” She gripped the side of the palanquin at a sudden lurch. “Despite you being here as well.”
“Well, thank you for your kind words.” He laughed. “But if it will please you, I’ll do my best to stay out of your way.”
He was silent for a while. Sara took a furtive glance at his averted face. She could see he was sulking.
The jungle had retreated, making the path wider, and it was bordered on one side now with crops growing in rich soil beside a muddy river. Little grass huts had begun to spring up amongst the crops, and women in bright saris carrying baskets on their heads passed them by, calling out greetings or stopping to stare wide-eyed at the unusual sight of an English lady on top of an elephant.
Without warning, the palanquin swayed sharply again as the elephant flinched at the sight of a team of oxen coming towards them.
Sara made a frantic grab at Sabran’s arm to steady herself, blushing as she did so. “Forgive me … If someone should see us … together …”
“Who will see us here?”
“It’s just that you don’t seem to understand how this might affect my reputation.”
He shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands wide. “I have no reputation at all, and I forget anyone else does.”
She tried to frown but it was no use; her defences were down at last and she laughed. “I should be angry with you, monsieur, but I’m very grateful to you for being kind enough to have the Maharaja invite me here.”
“We are still friends, no?”
“Yes, we’re friends. Now,” she said, beginning to feel almost light-headed with freedom, “can we talk about something else? I don’t want to think about Madras or my life there.” A shadow fell over her face as she thought about her husband and how she didn’t love him any more, but her present world was so beautiful, so exciting, she threw off her cares with a laugh. “I just want to enjoy myself. Can we change the subject?”
“And I have the very subject. Again, you wear one of your lovely absurd hats.”
She turned again to look at him, her face glowing in the almost iridescent light. The hat was her favourite, a very wide brim of fine pale straw, decorated with a mauve ribbon tied in a large bow under her chin. It threw a shadow over her face, giving her a mysterious charm.
“It flatters your eyes to perfection.”
“How French you are, monsieur. It’s almost as though we’re in a drawing room in Paris.”
His eyes darkened, then he gave her a look that warned her to be careful. His eyes flickered over her face and body with an expert appraisal. Her recent illness had given her a pale and delicate charm he found oddly alluring. He had great difficulty destroying an image of gathering her up in his arms and crushing her slight body against his own, her creamy throat falling back as he kissed her. The image was so intense he felt almost dizzy with it.
“Look! We are here at last.” He swallowed hard and with a huge effort forced his thoughts back to hard reality.
From a distance the palace seemed rundown, almost crumbling where it stood on a rise overlooking a river. Families of black crows had made homes in the minarets of the pale pink stone turrets. They flew in their hundreds, circling and crying mournfully, their ragged shapes giving the place a desolate air of neglect.
Though, as they came closer, the elegant lines of the building became more evident and carved archways could be seen amongst the crumbling walls, decorated with broken pieces of faded lapis lazuli, amber and turquoise.
“How very beautiful!” She wiped a small tear away before it fell. “I’m glad I came after all.”
He saw her tears and was impressed to see her so moved by beauty. That one small tear also moved him another step closer to her, even though she would never know it.
“It was built by Shah Jahan as a hunting lodge, the same fellow who built the Taj Mahal. No one could build like the Moguls.”
At their arrival the palace became instantly alive. Servants came from everywhere, bringing necklaces of fragrant jasmine to drape around their necks, and to strew the ground with petals where they walked.
The head man, wearing the colours of the household, bowed before her. “The Maharaja begs you to rest. I will send refreshments to your rooms at once.”
Sabran also parted with her. “Will we meet later, or would you prefer I stay in my room in case your reputation is ruined?” He was deliberately flippant, though his eyes scanned hers with a look that made her heart race with something like joy. She crushed the feeling at once, even despising herself for what she saw as a vain and silly thought. She straightened up to meet his eyes head-on.
“I’m not afraid of you, monsieur.” She smiled, but it was a lie; she was afraid of him but she would do her best to hide it, though even now her legs trembled slightly just being near him.
“I’ll see you this evening, of course.” He bowed and kissed her hand then hurried away.
As soon as he left her side a depression began to take over her spirits once more. She didn’t want to be there after all, a stranger alone in the vast palace. How would she ever get through it?
She was shown to a suite of rooms at the end of a long corridor adjoining the apartments of the Zenana, where the women and the children of the palace lived in seclusion.
Set high into the corridor walls, filigree windows as delicate as lace screened the women from view, but allowed anyone looking out to watch unseen on whoever happened to pass below. Sara was aware of moving shadows and the sighs of soft laughter, then, when turning to catch sight of the source of the mysterious sounds, all fell silent as curious eyes gazed out above veiled faces, before darting back behind the screens.
After a fragrant bath in a small pool set into the floor of her private courtyard, a girl came with a tray of food and drink. She ate everything put before her, and almost at once fell back on the huge bed set under a domed ceiling and slept till the late afternoon, awakening to the sound of a sitar playing in a far-off room. She lay for a long time, unable to move, her head heavy on the pillow. It was as though she had been drugged with an intoxicating mixture of anticipation, scents and an atmosphere steeped with romance.
Tears sprang to her eyes without warning. Romantic the place undoubtedly was, but for her all romance was over. It belonged in the past with the girl she had once been. Now she must find comfort in other things.
Chapter 30
Before leaving her room, she paused before the gilded mirror to tidy her hair and to scrutinize her reflection. Her finely embroidered silk gown flattered her skin and matched the lustre of the creamy pearls she wore as a compliment to the Maharaja.
She made a final adjustment to the knot of white tuberoses she wore in her smooth chignon, straightened her back and took a deep breath, before going into what she saw as the usual emotional battle with Ravi Sabran.
Echoes of muffled whispers could be heard as Sara walked down the corridor towards the dining room. It was unnerving to see no one except an old man half-asleep outside the door. He hauled himself to his feet and bowed as low as he was able to, hindered as he was by stiff limbs. “Welcome, madam,” he squealed, his voice curiously high and feminine. She realised with a wrench of pity that he was a eunuch, one of the last survivors of a cruel practice from a darker age. Her heart almost broke for him as he ran ahead of her, every now and then looking over his shoulder at her, as excited as if
Queen Victoria herself had suddenly appeared before him.
She was shown to a large room with marble archways opening onto a wide stone terrace. There was a great deal of frantic activity. Servants ran back and forth carrying trays, lighting candles against the failing light and setting a long mahogany table for dinner. All of them stopped and stared with great curiosity when she entered the room, including two women who were seated on the floor in a corner of the room.
“Ah, you have come. You are very welcome, my dear Mrs Fitzroy.”
The Maharani was seated on a gaddi, an embroidered cushion of state, placed on a raised dais. The other woman sat at her feet and stared at Sara shamelessly as she walked towards them.
They had been playing the Indian game of Ganjifa, and exquisitely carved ivory cards set with precious stones lay scattered around her bare feet amongst piles of coins.
The Maharani had been a great beauty in her youth and there were signs of it still in her magnificent kohl rimmed eyes and thick raven-black hair. She sat cross–legged, her hair and body covered with a fine silk sari elaborately embroidered with gold thread. Her ears and neck were hung with enormous rough-cut rubies and she wore a pair of loose silk trousers bound with a jewelled belt. Every now and then she took a puff of a strong-smelling tobacco from an elegant hookah that wound about her body like a cobra. The trousers gave her the air of an independent woman even though she clung to the old traditions and chose to rarely leave the confines of the Zenana.
The other woman whispered in the Maharani’s ear, all the while scrutinizing Sara.
“My sister was wondering what English ladies wear under their skirts,” the Maharani said as Sara bowed before her. At Sara’s bewildered expression, she laughed. “I am only joking, of course. How lovely you are. As fresh as a daisy is the English expression, I think.
Sara managed to control her nerves enough to reply. “It’s all so unsuitable to the climate really, and not nearly as elegant as your own.”
The Maharani looked at her with narrowed shrewd eyes. “You are not saying this to please me?”
“No, but if you are pleased then I’m glad.” Sara bowed her head and curtsied and the Maharani was charmed.
The Maharani’s sister gave a sly smile. “I sometimes think some of the English ladies look as though they are trussed like chickens on the way to market.”
Sara laughed. “I think our style of clothing proves that we English are not as sensible as we might think.”
The Maharani leaned back on her cushion and inhaled deeply of her cigarette. “We should ask the gentlemen what they prefer, but I think Monsieur Sabran will favour the European style, no matter what he says or does.”
Sara didn’t know what to say, or if it was even allowed to contradict royalty, but speculation had to be stopped, no matter what the consequences.
“I don’t know Monsieur Sabran well enough to know his personal likes or dislikes. We hardly know one another.”
“Ah! You are being very English and are putting me in my box.”
“No, no, not at all. It’s just that …” Sara floundered for a while, not knowing what to say in reply, and was relieved when she heard voices behind her.
It was hard to tell if the Maharani was offended or not, her smile was so inscrutable, but she became almost girlish when the men came into the room.
“Ah! Here are the gentlemen, and I won’t be able now to invent romances that do not exist.”
Sabran wore an elegant black dinner suit of European cut, in honour of Sara’s visit. He again kissed Sara’s hand while both the Maharani and her sister giggled and nudged each other.
He seemed edgy, even nervous. She could tell by the way he kept running the fingers of one hand through his black hair, his eyes looking everywhere but at her, and again she wished she hadn’t come.
The Maharaja entered the room with great care and deliberation, as if in a moment he might topple over and never get up again. He was not burdened with as many jewels as when Sara had last seen him, being dressed in a long muslin shirt and baggy silk trousers. Even so, he managed to give the impression of a magnificent stateliness.
His face lit up when he saw her. “What a pleasure it is to look upon you.” He bowed graciously at Sara as he leant upon Sabran’s arm. “But please, no waiting for me; let us dispense with the formalities. I get so very sick of it. This is my country place; this is where I relax.”
Sara smiled to herself. To be surrounded by fifty servants instead of a hundred was a strange notion of relaxation.
“My wife and her sister have broken with tradition tonight and have decided to join us for dinner. I like to think of myself as a progressive man and ours was a love match …” he waved airily towards his wife “… and she is my only wife. One is enough!” he added, rolling his eyes with mock despair.
The Maharani laughed. “He knows I would kill any other woman who would try to take my place.”
The Maharani’s eyes flashed with such ferocity Sara almost believed she wasn’t joking, though the Maharaja was unmoved by her obvious passion.
“Once I would have been expected to have a hundred wives, but I have been civilised by your British ways. The Zenana is now only for show; instead of wives it is full of my poor relations.” He laughed heartily, as though his responsibilities were a joy to him.
He took Sara’s arm and led her towards the dining table, saving her from having to reply to such a delicate statement.
After much manoeuvring of chairs and a great deal of help from his servants, the Maharaja was at last seated at the head of the dining table. He indicated that Sara should be placed at his right and Sabran at his left.
“So he can gaze at your lovely face,” said the Maharaja with great gallantry. “It is a bad combination, to be both French and Indian, the two races most obsessed with love.”
“All races are obsessed with love, even the British.” Sara spoke without thinking and all eyes were upon her, especially Ravi Sabran’s, who gazed at her with a thoughtful intensity that unnerved her.
“But you are not British through and through, my dear Mrs Fitzroy, not with your exotic looks,” the Maharaja insisted. “You are Spanish perhaps, or Italian. I have seen Italian ladies who look very like you.”
“I’m not really sure about my background; my aunt said my mother had Spanish blood, but I have never met any other relations.”
The Maharani was horrified. “Only one relation! You can have some of mine. I am drowning in them!”
There was a burst of laughter from around the table and Sara smiled, beginning to feel at home amongst them.
“My parents died when I was six years old. It’s most strange … Did you know Monsieur Sabran owns their old house … the same house I lived in as a child? My parents are buried there.”
The Maharaja looked at her and then at his wife, who seemed to sway ever so slightly in her seat. When she spoke, her voice seemed to shake a little.
“But Monsieur Ravi owns the Radcliffe house. Surely you aren’t William Radcliffe’s child?”
For an instant Sara wavered between fear of what they would reveal about her parents and a desire to know more. Her voice almost trembled when she spoke. “You knew my father?”
The Maharaja nodded, silent now, still staring at her with his mouth open.
“How strange … Yes, I’m his daughter, but in England I was brought up as an Archer. I don’t know why, but I fear my family were hiding a dreadful secret.” She laughed again, but with increasing discomfort.
“Your mother’s name was Lillian?” The Maharani was almost standing, with her hand held over her heart as though she was in pain.
“Then you are Sarianna? Little Sarianna! Yes, you are she, I can tell by your hair; hers was lighter, but it is the same hair!”
Sara was alarmed now. “Yes, that was my name. Malika is the only person who calls me by that name. Did you know my mother?”
Sabran too was alert to the events unfolding before him, followi
ng the conversation with his eyes. “Sarianna?” He almost breathed the name, rolling the word on his tongue. “It suits you.”
The Maharani stared at Sara more closely now. “Yes, I can see the resemblance.” She seemed to pull herself together with a great effort then settled back into her seat. “Yes, I knew your mother. Not well, but she was most charming.”
She looked across at her husband, who sat with his fork halfway to his open mouth, and something seemed to pass between them.
“Yes, she was most charming,” he murmured, as though to himself. “It was a great tragedy when they died.”
“Then there’s nothing you can say about them?” Sara frowned. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Again there was silence, while looks passed between them all.
“There is nothing I can tell you about them,” the Maharaja said at last, “except they were more in love with each other than anyone I have ever known, and we were most upset when we heard about their deaths. Perhaps that is why I liked you at once. I could see the resemblance without realising it.”
He waved a hand at no one in particular, then changed the subject, though it seemed to Sara he was more attentive and courteous to her than before, and in some curious way there seemed less distance between them.
The conversation turned to lighter things and the Maharani seemed to recover her spirits as the night wore on, though she looked at Sara often with a sad frown on her brow. Once she was heard to mutter, almost inaudibly, “Poor child, poor orphan child …”
Sabran was mostly silent all evening, allowing the Maharaja to talk without interruption, though Sara could feel his eyes upon her even though his face was in shadow. The first evening in the palace was an uncomfortable one and Sara was glad to retire early, pleading exhaustion as an excuse, though she slept badly, haunted till dawn with wild uneasy thoughts.
Living in the little palace in the jungle was as though living on an island where her every desire was fulfilled. It was so easy to forget her life with Charles outside the walls and it was almost as though her marriage hadn’t happened. Sometimes, just for a brief moment, she would remember, then she would throw the memories off and immerse herself in the much more agreeable present.
The Jasmine Wife Page 25
