Lord Palmer acknowledges our marriage is over, and that intermarriage between the races cannot be condoned. He knows how you tricked me into the marriage, and how you have never been a good wife to me.
He’s also aware of how you flaunted your behaviour by living in the home of a well-known enemy of the English government.
Therefore, he’s agreed to use his considerable influence to hurry the divorce through.
I don’t expect to hear from you ever again.”
According to Charles, the divorce would be finalised within a few months, as long as she didn’t stand in his way. He didn’t want the real reason to be made public, and as long as she kept quiet about it no one need be any the wiser.
“Cynthia and her parents are the only people aware of the true reason for my divorcing you, and I may as well tell you now, as you’ll find out sooner or later. Cynthia and I will marry as soon as our divorce is final. We intend to leave for England as soon as possible, and from there I’ll travel to Egypt to take up a more profitable position arranged by Cynthia’s father. I’m tired of India and don’t care if I never lay eyes on it again, or anyone in it …”
Sara laughed out loud. “Coward!” she shouted, and relieved some of her emotions at least. She knew the real reason he was so anxious to be gone from India. He wanted to escape the ever-present fear of Ravi Sabran’s revenge.
Within the week, Sara read again in the Madras Times:
“Lord and Lady Palmer are to return to England after thirty years of service. They are to be accompanied by their daughter, Miss Cynthia Palmer, a popular local beauty who will be sadly missed by the entire English community”.
There was no mention of Charles having left on the same boat. It was as though their marriage had never happened.
Chapter 39
Somehow, news of Sara’s Indian blood had become common knowledge and, to some of the English community at least, she was now a social outcast and, even though she tried not to mind too much, she knew she would never get used to people turning away from her whenever they met her in the street. Although, before her swelling body had become obvious and still able to take her morning rides, she noticed the men looked at her with curiosity and even a new insolence, appraising her face and figure with a slow pleasure that was plainly insulting.
It was safer and more enjoyable to stay at home and create a world that was both harmonious for herself and her unborn child. Soon she began to take pleasure in her pregnancy, and drifted into a pleasant dreamlike, semi-happiness, tinged as it was with deep sadness.
It wasn’t long before Lucy guessed the secret of her pregnancy, but she seemed to have a sixth sense as well as an innate delicacy and there was no need for explanations.
Sara’s need for privacy was accepted without question, and the two women became closer than ever, bound by the mutual love and admiration of the man whose name could never be mentioned.
Lucy had sworn never to reveal to Ravi that Sara was carrying his child, even though she was tempted at times to enlighten him. Her comfort lay in her belief in fate, absolving her from a feeling of responsibility.
“If it is meant to happen, it will,” Lucy said to herself when she sometimes felt a desire to take matters into her own hands.
“The gods will decide.”
At times Lucy received a letter from him. At first they were brief and imbued with a sense of his despair, though, as time wore on, his mood seemed to lighten as he talked about the life he’d made for himself.
He’d bought a vineyard in the south of France, close to where his father lived. He liked it there and found the French way of life appealed to him and, as his father was getting old and needed him now, there was no question of him returning to India for a long time. Lucy sensed, despite the overall sad tone of his letters, he had begun to find some kind of peace within himself at last.
Sara’s baby girl was born at the end of the monsoon season and was christened Lilita in honour of her grandmother. She was so beautiful Sara couldn’t tear her eyes away from her, but lay with her in her arms while stroking her pale golden skin and black hair for hours on end, unable to believe she was really hers.
On the morning of the following day she received a letter from a London publisher telling her they had decided to print The Diary of an English Lady in Madras in the form of a book and included an offer of what seemed to be generous terms, and a request for further instalments.
She was elated by the news, it seemed almost insignificant now compared to the birth of her baby girl. All at once there was happiness enough to sustain her, even despite her conflicted thoughts and the more pressing demands of daily life.
She longed to tell Ravi of the existence of his daughter, but till she felt the time was right she was determined the child must remain a secret to everyone but Lucy and the immediate household.
Malika loved the child with a passion, hardly allowing anyone else to go near her except her mother. She was the comfort and joy of her old age and gave the last months of her life a deep happiness. She firmly believed her beloved mistress had been returned to her at last in the form of this new baby and, because of this, the child was blessed, and a gift from the gods.
By now Sara’s household had swollen to six people, and she was in constant fear of being unable to support them, though with a moderately generous monthly cheque from the sale of her book, and her own private allowance, she could manage to feed and clothe them all.
There was Prema and her ayah, and Mutu and Shakur as well, as Charles had turned them both out to fend for themselves when he’d closed down his own household.
With the mysterious workings of the gossip of Madras, they had somehow found their way to her doorstep, and she could not bear to send them away. The sight of Shakur in the tattered remains of his former master’s shirt, and the once plump body of Mutu, now reduced to that of a beggar, made it impossible to send them away.
Sara encouraged Malika to rest, and to enjoy her days in retirement with the baby, but the labour of decades was not easy for her to give up, and she seemed to take pleasure in her role as maid to her beloved mistress.
Though the day came when she didn’t appear as usual to help brush Sara’s hair, and it was clear at once there was something wrong.
The doctor confirmed Malika had suffered a stroke, and that there was nothing he could do. For a brief moment Malika opened her eyes and seemed to be very alert and in full command of her senses. She put out a hand and touched Sara’s face, speaking with a deep tenderness. “I will see your mother again, and I will tell her of her granddaughter.”
She slipped away without a struggle, seeming to almost welcome death, and, to Sara’s great comfort, she was without pain to the last. She’d often spoken of her desire to be buried in the garden next to the grave of Sara’s mother, and this was done. Now there were four graves, side by side under the giant tamarind trees.
The coming of the wet season brought on a listlessness that threatened to drag Sara’s spirits down as heavily as the afternoon downpour. Every evening she wandered through the garden, which was fragrant in the moonlight and cool after the day’s rain. But, instead of being comforted by the beauty of the night, she was tortured by thoughts that refused to go away. She thought of the failure of her marriage and of her fatherless child.
She fretted over her love for Ravi, and her desire for him, a desire that seemed to grow stronger every day, despite not having seen him for over a year. She tortured herself with the thought that one day she must make a decision about her future, and many times she took up a pen to write to Ravi and tell him about the child.
But afterwards, after staring blankly at the page for some time, she would tear it up and return to pacing her room once more.
She sometimes visited her cousin the Maharani, but had to leave her daughter behind in case they should tell Ravi, and even though the old couple would beg her to make her home with them, she refused, despite her loneliness. Apart from her secret child,
it was Tamarind House that held her. The house had a hold on her emotions impossible to break, and every time she returned, even after a short visit to the outside world, it seemed the spirits of her long-dead parents were waiting to greet her, and envelop her once more with a sense of peace.
Then came a powerful change in her spirits and, even though there was no apparent reason, she began to bathe and dress with extra care, even changing into a fresh gown every evening before slipping the Maharaja’s pearls around her neck and the emeralds in her ears. There was expectation in the air, even though the hot inky-blue nights were sure to be the same as any other.
Before beginning her nocturnal wanderings in the garden, she would scrutinise her reflection in the mirror above the sideboard. Her eyes seemed larger in her face, and there was a new understanding in her eyes, a maturity gained through suffering. As a final touch she always applied kohl, making her eyes larger still, but darkened now with an air of exotic mystery. Then she would recall, with vivid clarity, how she had always worn it for Ravi, and how they had made love in the Maharaja’s palace; it seemed so long ago.
As usual, before retiring for the night, she lingered in the summer house as her mother had done, leaning back in the old cane chair, her eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the birds settling in the trees and the sweet baby laughter of Lilita coming from the open nursery window.
It was as though she was waiting for something, but for what she had no idea. She had almost despaired of ever seeing Ravi Sabran again, till that night, just as evening had fallen, a new noise, the sound of urgent footsteps, separated itself from the others.
She leapt to her feet, her hand to her heart, straining to recognise the shadow standing in the doorway. The faint lingering scent of sandalwood came first, and then she was sure.
At first both of them were hesitant. He approached her, almost with stealth, as though drawn inevitably towards the soft glow of her now radiant face, lit as it was by candlelight. His own eyes remained fixed on hers, as though she might all of a sudden take fright and leap away like a startled animal.
But she was mesmerised by his strange light grey eyes and unable to move, and she remembered how in the past he had always brought something with him, something indefinable and magical. On her part her senses were so intensified it felt as though she was almost disembodied and floated in a shimmering silvery haze, enveloping both him and her. Only once before had she experienced such a sensation, and she remembered it was the night when they had made love for the first time in the Maharaja’s palace.
The impact of his sudden presence was almost as overwhelming as the day they had first met: the day of her arrival in India. The straight black hair that once hung to his shoulders was trimmed almost to the point of being civilised, though even the European cut and French tailoring of his cream linen suit couldn’t disguise the strange, mystical and complex man he was underneath. She was struck afresh by his power, the leopard-like movements, the sense he kept his body and soul only just contained in the outward trappings of a sophisticated man. It struck her she would always be a little in awe of him and that was dangerous, but she was alive again, her flesh was warm again, and she was willing to take any chance just to be with him.
Then the light caught his face and she could see him clearly. He was only a man after all, a man who had suffered and come through the storm with signs of that struggle in clearly etched lines around his mouth and a new painful understanding in his eyes. It seemed his old cynical arrogance had been replaced with something else. He was proud still and the regal manner was there, but there was compassion now to moderate that pride.
She put out a hand to steady herself and to clear her head, finding hard reality in the feel of her book, placed only moments before on the little garden table. She had dreamt of this moment for so long and now she found it difficult to utter a word.
He spoke first and, for the first time since she had known him, he seemed a little unsure. “You are looking very beautiful this evening … Why are you dressed so? You’re not waiting for anyone, are you?”
“Well, yes I am …” she murmured, then turned away to hide her faint smile, her face hidden in shadow, while his eyes followed the glint of the emeralds as they danced in the candlelight.
His black eyebrows drew together in a frown. It was plain he was confused. “But I heard … Lucy said … You and your husband …”
“Yes, all that is over now … over forever …”
He took several steps closer, only a few inches away from the creamy skin on the back of her neck, so close he could breathe in her fragrance. The bulk of his shoulders overshadowed her, and again she experienced the prickling rush of his warm breath on her skin as he whispered, “There is no one else?”
“No … no … of course not.”
She felt him let out a sigh of relief, then a hurried stream of words.
“I couldn’t come to you any sooner, not until I had lost the desire for revenge. Do you understand? I couldn’t come till I had found peace. I had to wait … till Maya …” There he hesitated, then placed his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him, to look into her luminous, almost pleading eyes, while emphasising his words.
“She will always be with me, but not as it was. I know you will not mind that … but now life has returned to me. Now I have seen you, we must never be parted again, never. I know now I am nothing without you.”
In a moment she was in his arms, her head against his chest as he kissed her hair and told her over and over how he loved her.
There was so much she wanted to ask him. Why hadn’t he written to her? Had he missed her? Was he tortured by thoughts she might be suffering without him? Was he tortured by thoughts of her? But all of that seemed unimportant now. There was time for that later, sweet endless time.
She knew in her heart they were always meant to be together. He talked of finding peace and she understood, for she had found peace too, now that he was there before her.
“Forgive me, Ravi,” she murmured, in between kissing his face, his mouth, his hands, “for everything I once said to you … I have always loved only you … I have been waiting for so long … Forgive me … forgive me …”
It took some time to tell him about their baby; she had made several starts, but somehow no words seemed enough to speak of such a momentous event, then when all was quiet in the house she took him by the hand and led him upstairs to the nursery.
Lilita slept in the middle of the room under a mosquito net in a cot that had once been her own. He didn’t ask why she had led him there.
It needed no explanation, he understood at once, and some of the pain and guilt still written on his face fell away as he picked up the child with an exclamation of wild joy, before turning to her to cover her with kisses.
They married under a bower of jasmine in the garden of her family home, on a clear and fragrant morning, amongst the lilting sounds of birdsong, and she became the most radiant and happiest of wives, Madame Sarianna Sabran.
The air was filled with the ghosts of the past, but it seemed they were at peace now and unlikely to haunt her, except with thoughts of what might have been.
The scent of Attar of Roses, her mother’s favourite perfume, filled the air around her, startling her at first, then, looking around at the bright morning, she felt sure the fragrance must be coming from an earth-bound soul.
A little shiver ran down her back as she thought of Maya, the beautiful fairy-like Maya. She had always been a wraithlike soul, but would she torment them forever with her tragic death? Then she stole a glance at her beloved Ravi, holding his exquisite daughter, a tiny fragile thing in his powerful arms. The baby, who wore a garland of tuberose around her head, began a happy gurgle as she played with her toes, causing Ravi to laugh too, and Sara felt a surge of hope, knowing life, as ever renewing and certain as the seasons, would overcome what had gone before.
For her marriage, as a sign of love and gratitude, she wore the Maharaja’s pe
arls, as the Maharaja himself proudly gave her away in front of a crowd of loyal friends.
Standing alongside with her ayah and Lucy was little Prema in her white muslin gown and bouquet of flowers, who had indeed been an omen for the future, but, like the meaning of her name, an omen for love.
Her grandmother’s emerald earrings she wore for tradition and family, and as she slipped the green stones into her ears she felt a curious and instant connection with her once secret past; it was a powerful sensation and it gave her a renewed strength to know that they were worn now with a certainty that her own future would be different.
There would be no more secrets and no more lies; she could face what lay before her with pride in her family, and absolute belief in her love for the man by her side. Their love had been tried in the cruellest of ways, but had survived to be stronger than before, and more precious for what they had endured.
About the Author
Jane is an Australian writer who has worked as a mural painter, scenic artist, graphic artist, and art director in theatre, television drama and commercials, films and music videos. She has also written several film scripts.
Jane has travelled widely in Europe, Asia, America, Russia and India while working on various film projects, but it was India and her people that inspired her to write her first historical romance novel, The Jasmine Wife.
She divides her life between the hill town of Leura in the Blue Mountains outside of Sydney, and Tuscany, Italy.
www.facebook.com/authorjanecoverdale
About HarperImpulse
HarperImpulse is an innovative, award-winning digital imprint. In the five years since launch, we have continually hit digital bestseller lists, hosted the UK’s first online romance festival, published into over ten countries and grown an exciting stable of commercial women’s fiction authors.
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