The Jasmine Wife

by Jane Coverdale

  She rose and curtsied as the Maharaja began to make his very slow and dignified exit. The Maharani too chose that moment to make her excuses. “I go where my husband goes.” Her face was impassive, but Sara could see she too was deeply offended.

  “Make him pay”. The words spun around and around in Sara’s head. She was almost blind with fear, and all she could think of was Ravi being dragged before Charles for questioning, and how humiliating it would be for him. He would be sure to react and give Charles a reason to have him imprisoned. She had to get out of the room and away from Charles or it would be impossible to hide her feelings from him any longer.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I must speak to the Maharani about something …” Charles had risen to kiss her on the cheek and she caught the expression in his eyes she dreaded. He would try to make love to her and she wouldn’t be able to bear it. She would have to lie about being indisposed. The mere mention of her menstrual cycle was enough to make him blanch in horror and hurry away to the narrow bed in his dressing room.

  A few minutes later she joined the Maharani in her private apartments.

  She stood at the open doorway, unsure now if she would be welcome.

  “I must apologise for my husband. He seems to have an irrational hatred for Monsieur Sabran, and it doesn’t seem fair you have to lie to hide your association with him.”

  The Maharani picked up on her bitterness and smiled in a way that showed she understood. “I would say anything to protect Monsieur Ravi … and perhaps your husband has another reason for hating him so much.”

  Sara blushed. “I’ve never given my husband a reason for jealousy … that is not till …” She stared down at the floor and bit her lip.

  “There’s no point hiding your love for him from me. It’s written on your face for all to see when you look at him.”

  “Please don’t say such things, because, even if it’s true, it can never be.” Saying the words out loud added a finality she’d never really considered before. Deep in her heart she had hoped there would be a chance all obstacles could be overcome, but even a few hours in the company of Charles had been enough to convince her how desperate her situation was.

  The Maharani beckoned her to sit beside her on the settee, before taking Sara’s hand in her own. “Before I met my husband I was deeply in love with a young man who was not of my caste. I thought I would die if I could not have him. But, as you see, I did not die. Neither will you.”

  Sara turned her face away; she had broken down at last and was sobbing into her hands. “I would rather die … I hope I die.”

  “Don’t be unhappy, my dear. You’re so young, and there’s so much ahead of you yet.”

  “If that’s true, then why do I feel my life is over?” she wailed like a woman bereaved. “My husband will never allow me to leave him, and I can never love him again.”

  The image of Ravi when she saw him last rose up before her, taunting her, causing her to writhe as though in pain. Though, even in the midst of her torment, she tried to tell herself she had been seduced by his exotic charm as if she had been entranced by a character from the Arabian Nights. He was a mere figure from a picture book; she would soon forget him, she must forget him. In her agony she pounded the cushions with her fists and sobbed, crying his name aloud, not caring now what the Maharani thought of her.

  “It can never be.” The Maharani was firm now. “You must stay with your husband. He would never give you up to Monsieur Ravi. Your husband will have him thrown into prison for the rest of his life, or worse. You must think of him, and you must think of Maya. She will kill herself if he ever leaves her, I’m sure of it. The gods will punish you both.”

  “The gods won’t have to punish me,” she sobbed. “I’m suffering enough already. I’ll never see him again, never!”

  She allowed herself only a few more moments of grief, then she wiped her eyes and made a decision. She would never look back. It was far too painful. His name would never be mentioned again, either spoken aloud or whispered to herself in her moments of longing.

  The night before she was due to leave, Sara visited the Maharani and the Maharaja again in their private apartments. She was filled with apprehension, knowing she might be offered a parting gift and she had nothing of value to give in return except a silver tobacco case that had once belonged to her father. It had taken a great deal to think about giving it up, so dear it was to her, and her hand trembled at the thought of parting with it.

  The Maharaja looked at the tobacco case for some time without saying a word, giving Sara the impression she’d made a dreadful mistake. She chewed on her bottom lip and waited. The gift was too poor for a man of such importance.

  After a while she felt compelled to say something in her defence. “The case belonged to my father; it isn’t valuable, but you can see the pattern is very interesting.” She traced the design with her finger, wishing he would speak and put her out of her misery. “I believe it’s very old …”

  At last he looked up. She was amazed to see signs of tears in his eyes.

  “I know this cigarette case. I have seen him use it in past times.” He turned to the Maharani, though she only gave him a cautious warning look in return.

  Sara picked up on their signals at once. “Why won’t you speak to me about my parents? Forgive me, but if there’s something I should know …”

  The Maharaja looked at his wife. “We must tell her.”

  “Tell me what? Please, don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “We wanted to tell you, my dear Mrs Fitzroy, from the first night you were here, but we were afraid you would be angry. Monsieur Ravi said we must tell you the truth for your own sake.”

  “What does Monsieur Ravi know that I don’t?” She was frightened now and finding it difficult to remain calm.

  The Maharani made herself comfortable on the settee beside her, crossing her legs and taking out one of her strong cigarettes. She took a deep breath and blew out the smoke with a great sigh. “Did anyone ever tell you anything about your mother’s family?”

  “No, not even my aunt had any idea where she came from, she often became angry when I asked questions about her.”

  “I do know …” The Maharani hesitated for a moment, as though what she was about to say would cost her a great deal of pain. “I know everything about her. You see, your grandmother was my aunt. She was a very great princess from Hyderabad.” As she spoke she seemed to grow in stature, her pride was so evident. “That means you are a princess also.”

  “A princess? Surely not … You must be mistaken …” She began to tremble and had to support herself on the arm of the chair.

  Ravi Sabran’s words filled her brain, soft and echoing. “It is indeed fate that has brought you back to India.”

  The Maharani took her hand and held her eyes with her own, and for the first time Sara felt she was looking at a true reflection of herself.

  “There was a terrible scene when your grandmother Lilita married an officer from the English army, a Major George. My family spoke of it often, how she was an outcast from both the British and the Indian community. She defied her own parents to marry this Englishman.”

  Sara shook her head in disbelief. “Is this true? How can you be sure?”

  The Maharaja took her arm and placed it in his own. She was glad of it, as her legs still shook oddly. “I will show you the proof, come with me.”

  There, on the wall above their bed and adorned by a wreath of marigolds, the Maharani pointed to a small painting of two people from a time many years before; it showed a lovely girl in wedding attire, almost weighed down with precious jewels, seated next to a tall, smiling, blond English officer. Sara examined the portrait and, real or imagined, could see something of herself there. It was barely noticeable, but surely there was something about the shape of her eyebrows, almost exactly the same as her own, and the shape of the mouth …

  “They were in love and would not listen to reason. They had one daughter only befo
re your grandmother died in childbirth barely a year after. That child was your mother Lillian, named after her dear mother, but of course her name was the safe English version of Lilita.”

  “It must be true then, it must be true.”

  “Yes, yes, it is true, and her family have never forgiven Major George for taking her away, only to die. Then he married again to an English lady, and Lillian was brought up as an English child. She was very like her father Major George, except she had hair the colour of a raven. This picture was returned to our family by Major George’s new English wife; she wanted no reminder of Lillian’s mother. Lillian in turn married a charming Englishman, Radcliffe, and moved to Madras, is that not so?”

  “Yes, that is so, but why didn’t they say that my mother had an Indian family? It was wrong of them not to tell me. My aunt must have lied about my mother having Spanish blood.”

  “She lied to protect you. She knew how you would suffer, like your poor mother, even though her skin was as white as yours and it was never actually known by the English community she had an Indian mother. There were rumours, and it seemed that was enough for some members of the English community to treat them as outcasts.”

  “But it’s such a small thing … so unimportant … I will never understand why … and yet my mother, my beautiful sweet mother, was an outcast. Yes, I saw it in Lord Palmer’s eyes.”

  “Your own father’s family disowned him also because he married an Anglo-Indian girl. It made no difference to him at all. He was proud of it, and even wrote to your grandmother to say so. It seems your grandmother wrote back to him and said if he married your mother she would have nothing more to do with him. I know it broke his heart.

  “My poor father … He must have suffered terribly, to be cast out from his own family because of a stupid prejudice, then to die so young …”

  “Now you can understand why they kept your background a secret.

  It was to protect you, but I believe if your parents had lived they would have told you. Do you mind very much? Are you ashamed to be one of us?” The Maharani watched Sara’s face for a sign that might betray any hidden feelings, but there was none. There was only joy and relief.

  She threw her arms around the Maharani and kissed her. “I’m proud, very proud. I’ve found my family. I had no one and now …”

  She thought back to all those years of silent rejection. Her uncle’s suspicious stares when he thought she wasn’t looking. Her aunt’s strict manner, and her defence of her when Sara was accused of all kinds of misdemeanours from laziness to lying. How often had she heard her fellow Englishmen on the subject of the Indian race? “You can’t trust them, a lying, thieving lot on the whole. An Englishman’s honour is everything to him. They could never hope to understand that.”

  She wiped the tears from her eyes. “So much is clear to me now, so clear.” Though, even as she said the words, she knew she would be forced to make a painful decision. She looked to the Maharani for the answer, searching her eyes.

  The Maharani answered at once. “You must never tell a soul, least of all your husband.” She spoke the words “your husband” with an undeniable contempt. “He will not take this news well, I think.”

  “I’m not sure if it will matter much any more what my husband thinks. I don’t plan to stay with him any longer than I have to. You must have suspected we are not happy.”

  “Are you sure, my dear child? It is a big step you are planning.”

  “Even so, there seems to be no choice.”

  Sara’s problems seemed insurmountable now and, of course, if she told Charles the truth of her parentage the result would be terrible and immediate. She needed time to think and absorb such momentous news, and she needed money, to start life afresh. For the moment, the lies and secrecy must continue.

  Chapter 33

  Sara was dressing for dinner in her room at the Royal Hotel in Ooty, enjoying a pleasant moment alone with Malika as she brushed her mistress’s hair before containing it in its usual heavy chignon. They were talking of a shared memory of the past when Charles burst in and they both flinched, as though guilty of some offence. At first it seemed as though he might be angry at finding them behaving in such an informal way with each other. They both knew he disapproved of familiarity and expected an outburst of anger, though his eyes went at once to the emeralds lying on the dressing table.

  “Sara, my dear …” He waved Malika away and she fled, dropping the hairbrush as she ran. She stopped and glanced at it lying on the floor, thinking he would abuse her for her clumsiness. But he stooped to pick it up and went to Sara, smiling as he did so.

  “Clever little minx,” he said as he helped fasten the earrings in her ears, then raised her face to the light to admire the way they emphasised the green lights in her eyes. “They must be worth a fortune. It’s as though they were designed for you.” Sara crushed a desire to laugh, and to blurt out that they’d been designed for someone very like her. The earrings had been impossible to refuse, having been worn by her own grandmother on her wedding day.

  “I’m glad I please you at last, Charles.”

  “You do please me, very much.” He cleared his throat as though embarrassed. “Listen, I want to be a better husband to you. I feel I’ve let you down and I intend to make up for it.”

  For a moment he looked at her with such intensity it was almost possible to believe him. “There’s something else … I don’t like it about myself … but …” It took him some time to blurt the words out. “I admit I’ve been terribly jealous of your friendship with Sabran … terribly jealous. It may have made me dislike him more. But can you blame me? You seemed so damned impressed by him.” He took her hand and held it, his eyes downcast. “Try to forgive me.”

  She couldn’t look at him, her heart was so heavy with guilt, but it was all too late now.

  “You should have trusted me. I wanted to love you.”

  “You make it sound as though you don’t any more.”

  “And do you still love me? I never seem to make you happy.”

  “I do love you. I love you madly.”

  “Even if you should discover something about me you may not like?”

  His face clouded over for an instant, but he spoke with absolute certainty. “You could never do anything wrong, I know that much.”

  But Sara persisted, burning at that moment to tell him of her mother.

  “Charles …”

  He didn’t hear her, so engrossed he was in his plans for their future.

  “From now on everything will be different. Oh, and when we return home,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “you’ll be pleased to find Lakshmi gone.”

  “Lakshmi’s gone?”

  “Oh, she was a bit difficult, I’ll admit.” He poured himself a brandy from the decanter on the side table and swallowed it in a gulp.

  “Don’t worry, darling. I found her a good place.”

  “But Charles, couldn’t it have waited till we got back? I would’ve liked to say goodbye at least, and to make absolutely sure she’s happy.”

  “She had to go. She caused too much trouble amongst the men. You were right after all, but I felt we had to keep her because of Lady Palmer. You know what she can be like.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  He took her in his arms and kissed her with more than usual passion, then pulled back to smile at her. His blue eyes were clear and unclouded by guilt.

  The seed of suspicion had proved to be unfounded after all. She was convinced at last he could never have had anything to do with Lakshmi.

  “I’ve got you someone else.” He smiled. “She’s a quiet little thing. You’ll like her. What’s her name again? Nagma.”

  Sara felt her anger rising. She was beginning to hate him again. “I don’t want anyone else. Malika’s enough for me. She’s all I want.”

  “Malika’s getting old; you need someone younger.”

  “I wish you’d asked me first.”

  “You were away, a
nd the girl was looking for a place. She’ll make an excellent ayah when you have a son. Which, my darling, I hope will be soon.” He took her arm, but she resisted.

  “Surely it’s up to me who I choose as a servant?”

  “Well, this was a favour to George. She wasn’t getting on with his household. You know how these things work.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, it’s nothing to get upset about. If it means that much to you, I’ll ask George to take her back, and you can get someone else. Now, come on, I’m hungry!”

  He was already thinking of something else, but for Sara none of this mattered now. She had laid her plans and would leave as soon as she returned to Madras. She would take her jewels and sell them and set up a house somewhere on her own. It would be too scandalous for Charles to endure, and then he’d have to give her a divorce.

  Cynthia was waiting at the dining table when they came downstairs. She could barely contain her excitement. She whispered through clenched teeth, “There’s that Sabran person over there by the window. Who does he think he is?”

  Charles glared across the room, instantly on the alert but saying nothing.

  Sara’s hand flew to her throat. Surely he hadn’t come to see her. She felt her head swim as the colour drained from her face.

  Cynthia prattled on regardless, unaware of the pain she was causing. “He’s behaving as though he has a perfect right to be here … in a hotel meant for us English alone. God knows it’s the only time we get away from them.”

  Sara looked up and caught Sabran’s glance from the other side of the room. His eyes were full of meaning. He sat with one arm over the back of his chair while he smoked a fragrant cigarette, surveying the room through his half-closed eyes. When their eyes met, he gave her a glance that meant he wanted to speak to her and she knew if she didn’t he would come to her, and the consequences would be disastrous for them both.

  “I must go and speak to him, if only to be polite.”