A strange current of something like pain shot through her body.
She wasn’t sure what that feeling was—apprehension perhaps?—as she had planned to ask him when she could visit him, despite being told she could not. She knew, though, she must see the child and be sure of her happiness till she was old enough to find it herself. She felt with absolute certainty she owed it to the old man who had drowned, and nothing or nobody would stand in her way.
Servants bearing trays of fragrant food and long cool drinks milled about, paying particular attention to Lady Palmer, who was relishing her role as queen of the proceedings. A small gilt trophy waited on a stand at her side to present to the winner, and Charles had assured her that this time it would be presented to him.
Cynthia leaned back in her chair, waving her pink lace fan against the heat. She looked cross and bored, and every now and then cast a resentful eye in Sara’s direction. She felt it was wrong any other girl should share the limelight with her, especially someone she saw as being of inferior rank, and even possibly more attractive than herself.
A military band played, first marching across the field then back again, giving the signal for the game to begin.
The British team rode out first, cantering across the field in their immaculately pressed khaki jodhpurs and jackets. They stopped before the dais and raised their mallets to pay their respects to Lady Palmer and in return receive her regal blessing. Cynthia roused herself for the first time that day, leaning forward and gripping the arms of the chair in her excitement.
“Make sure you beat them, Charles! You must! It’s a matter of honour.”
“I will!” he called back. “I’ll make sure I do!”
Charles blew Sara a kiss, then took off his white helmet and bowed his head in her direction. She thought he had never looked so handsome, with his white-gold hair shining in the soft evening light.
“Good luck, darling!” she cried and threw him the tuberous she wore in her belt. He kissed it and placed it in his buttonhole, before cantering onto the field with his men.
Ravi Sabran and his team rode out next. All the men except Sabran wore wide baggy pants and a type of gaily embroidered waistcoat over loose muslin shirts. Thick turbans were wound around their heads and chins to act as a helmet, giving them the look of wild marauding Arabs.
Their fierce black eyes darted everywhere, keen to start, and determined to win.
They performed a ferocious race around the field first, raising their mallets high in the air like bayonets, then, pausing in front of the rotunda, gave a hasty salute, before galloping away onto the field to a loud roar of approval from the Indian crowds.
Only Sabran had dismounted, swinging down from his fine Arab stallion with an easy unhurried grace. A servant rushed forward to hold the reins while he made his way to the dais.
Lady Palmer received him with a cursory impolite nod, but Sara rose from her chair and walked down the steps to meet him. From behind her back she heard the words, “Mrs Fitzroy, totally unnecessary!”
Up close she could see his white linen open-necked shirt and jodhpurs were spotless and perfectly tailored. She wondered where such things could be bought, as everything she had seen made in Madras so far had a shabby half-finished look. She experienced a faint feeling of disdain, thinking the man was most likely vain as well as arrogant.
She caught a hint of the musky scent of sandalwood rising from his clothes, bringing back vividly the sudden memory of her father, when, as a child, he had lifted her in his arms for a playful kiss. The memory was so powerful, for a moment she almost forgot where she was and had to rouse herself to face him.
It was difficult to see if Sabran smiled or not, but she felt he didn’t. His eyes gave him away.
Like the rest of his men, he wore his white turban wound around his head and neck like a Bedouin. Only his eyes were visible, reminding her of the eyes of a falcon she had once seen on a visit to Scotland, being trained to kill sparrows on command. They were wary and at the same time alert, and perhaps even pitiless.
He unwound the scarf from his face. There again was that strong nose and firmly carved red mouth, and the same expression she remembered from their first meeting, giving the feeling she was standing before a great prince who had lowered himself to speak to one of his subjects.
“Madam Fitzroy. We meet again.” He slowly raised one corner of his mouth in a kind of smile, but it was enough to encourage her to step closer to him.
“Monsieur Sabran, I had hoped to see you. How is Prema?”
He seemed a little insulted by her question, almost snapping his answer.
“The child is well, of course!”
Even so, he took her hand as she skipped lightly down the last step, then raised it to his lips in the French manner, while bestowing on her one of his enigmatic looks.
He took her in at a glance. He thought she was looking thinner, and not quite as blooming as when she’d first arrived in India. There were faint mauve shadows under her eyes, and a hint of something like depression concealed in their beauty.
Then, as though performing a role, his manner changed to that of the perfect French gentleman. “What a very charming hat you are wearing, madam, absurd but charming.”
“Well, thank you, monsieur. I was under the impression it was fashionable. Forgive me.” Then she laughed to show him she didn’t care what he thought, and he laughed too, forgetting for a moment he didn’t like her.
A loud disapproving cough caused them both to look around to see Lady Palmer, her lips firmly pressed together, shaking her head and making it clear she was displeased.
Sara pulled a face only Sabran could see, making it plain she had no intention of obeying the woman, and that one simple act made him like her a little bit more.
“I want to visit Prema. When can I come?”
Her voice was low and soft, with a slight husky inflection. He decided he liked that too, as for him the sound of a woman’s voice was more important than her beauty.
“I will be away for a week or two, but then you can come … Are you brave enough to visit the home of the notorious Sabran? I think you are not supposed to be speaking to me … Your behaviour will be all over Madras by nightfall.”
“I will come nonetheless. I must.”
Lady Palmer’s voice rang out, impatient now. “You are holding up the game, Mr Sabran. Kindly finish what you have to say to Mrs Fitzroy and go.”
Sabran wanted to ignore her, but even his dislike of her wasn’t enough for him to disregard the privileges due to a lady.
“Allow me one moment, madam.” He smiled at her, and Sara could see even Lady Palmer was momentarily dazed by his charm.
He called for his servant to come forward and bring the beautiful stallion. “I want you to meet Sultan. He is a prince amongst horses.”
After touching the animal very lightly on the foreleg, he performed a delicate bow in Sara’s direction. She was bewitched.
She couldn’t help herself and, on an impulse, kissed the lovely creature’s neck, laying her face against his silky flank, while relishing the powerful pulse of life under the warm skin.
She let her guard down for a moment and sighed aloud in her pleasure.
“Oh, he’s lovely. I wish I could ride him. You make me jealous.”
He was taken aback by the expression of pure joy lighting up her face and, he had to reluctantly admit, making her beautiful. He was momentarily transfixed by her long slim fingers and fine wrist, circled by a thin gold bangle, as it lay on the animal’s neck.
“You are not afraid?”
He frowned as he studied her face, his interest in her piqued a little.
“No, of course not,” she almost scoffed. “I love to ride. It was almost my only pleasure at my hideous boarding school, and the only time I could really escape, except in a book. Though I was always in trouble for being late bringing my mount back … but … oh, I want a horse just like this … Perhaps you could advise me where I could buy one so I can ride
every day …”
“You will never find a horse like this one. He has Manipuri blood as well as Arab. The British mock the strain as being half caste; they much prefer the thoroughbreds, so perhaps your husband will think the breed an unsuitable choice for an English lady.”
He was being sarcastic again; she could tell by the faint malignant glow in his eyes. “I always play the last chukka with him; he never loses.”
Sultan was led away to await his turn in the game. His step was as light as a dancer, and Sara watched his proud arched neck and high step with pure envy.
A bugle rang out, signalling the start of the game, and Sabran turned to leave, giving her his customary low bow.
She put out a hand to halt him, and Lady Palmer let out a loud protesting snort.
“Forgive me, monsieur, but I must know … is it true? Was polo first played with the heads of captured enemies?”
He laughed. “Such an unladylike question, madam, but history says it was the women who played the game first. The men would toss a head to them after a battle to keep them amused.”
“That’s horrible. I don’t believe you. A woman could not possibly be so barbaric.”
“Well, madam …” he looked directly into her eyes, unsettling her again, and causing her to step back a pace “… I disagree; in the game of love many a man has been left feeling headless and beaten at the amused whim of a beautiful woman … such as yourself.”
At first she felt a little thrill at the compliment, then she was angry at herself for allowing her thoughts to drift that way; he was being predictable and was now a disappointment to her. She remembered her husband’s words, and how he had laughed at her for succumbing to Sabran’s false charm. She would not be taken in again.
“I think you are playing a game with me, monsieur, and you insult my intelligence.”
He raised his eyebrows at that; he wasn’t used to a woman questioning a compliment. “And you, madam, insult my honour; I never say what I don’t mean.”
He was confused by her answer. He had meant what he said, and in return he expected her to flirt with him, as a Frenchwoman would, but instead she only raised her chin and gave him a haughty stare.
He was tired of the sport already. She was as he’d first thought, a strait-laced Englishwoman, not worthy of his faint interest.
Lady Palmer’s voice rang out again. “Monsieur Sabran, please … We are here to watch a match …”
In response, he turned his head in a slow, insolent way to see the British team riding in impatient circles in the centre of the field. Charles had dismounted and stood with his arms folded over his chest. He was obviously trying to contain his fury, and Sabran knew it was because of his wife more than being held up for a minute or two.
This pleased him. There were the fading traces of a mocking smile on his lips as he turned back to speak to her. “I must go. It seems the gentlemen are anxious to be beaten.”
“You are very sure of yourself, monsieur.”
“Not so sure as you might think; the Brahmin said it was an inauspicious day for me … He didn’t want me to play, but perhaps if you wish me luck it will change the course of destiny?”
Again, there was the flirtatious touch in his words she so distrusted, and her voice was almost cold when she spoke. “I will wish you luck, of course, but I want my husband to win, naturally.”
Her answer angered him, and he felt driven to win all the more.
Then he laughed at himself. Why should he want the approval of this woman? She was nothing to him. It amused him, though, to … what was the English expression? … to put the cat amongst the pigeons.”
He wrapped the scarf of his turban around his face, sprang onto his horse without looking back at her, then galloped onto the field. There was a rumble of hooves followed by a sharp thwack, a cloud of dust, and the game was underway.
Chapter 9
Later, when she was home at last, Sara did what she rarely did. She poured herself a large glass of brandy and drank it almost at once. Men did it all the time to blot out an unpleasant memory, and she thought perhaps it might work for her …
The game was exhilarating, her heart was racing with the thrill of it, rising to her feet and cheering as the teams thundered past, vying for the ball with a recklessness bordering on insanity.
Sabran’s men were especially fearless. They rode their tough little ponies as though they were charging into a battle of life and death, and more than once she could see fleeting signs of alarm on the faces of the British team as their opponents hurtled towards them.
Charles rode well, with an equal determination and skill, as did his team, but she could sense he alone was driven by a desire to win beyond what was normal. They had come to the last chukka and the teams were equal, then Sabran had the ball, and was racing towards the goal with only a minute or two left.
The beautiful Sultan dashed past the dais, his mane flying.
Sabran’s eyes were fixed on the ball, glowing with the knowledge of certain victory. He raised his mallet high to strike what was a sure goal.
Charles thundered alongside, the flanks of his horse dangerously close.
Too close. Then, as she watched, her heart skipped a beat, knowing with a terrible certainty something disastrous was about to happen.
She caught a glimpse of Charles’s face as he flew past her, his mallet raised to attack, and his expression frightened her. He was smiling, but it was a cold smile and twisted with a furious intent.
Then it happened. Charles’s mallet caught between Sultan’s forelegs and the horse fell with a horrible shriek.
Sabran was down, lying in the centre of the field, his turban unwound and his face almost as white as his once immaculate shirt. She leapt to her feet, a trembling hand on her heart and, before she could stop it, committed the unforgivable act of screaming aloud.
All manner of thoughts had flown through her brain. Was this strange and powerful man, who seemed to be exempt from the fate of ordinary mortals, going to be struck down before she had the chance to know him?
In a few moments, though, he had staggered to his feet, his hands covering the anguish on his face, then a few minutes later, as the crowd fell silent, a group of men collected to screen the act that was to follow. A gunshot rang out, and the poor screaming creature was hushed at last. Then, when the curtain around the scene lifted for a brief moment, it revealed the awful sight of Sabran, almost crazed in his pain, bent over the horse’s body, his face hidden in his beloved’s neck. From her position on the dais, she saw his body shake violently, and she knew he was trying to suppress his tears.
Then he leapt to his feet and threw himself at Charles, clearly wanting to kill him. It took four men to pull him away, while Charles stood before him, arms wide as if to declare his innocence, but with a look that was both taunting and threatening.
With an enormous effort to exert himself, Sabran insisted on finishing the last chukka, playing now with an even greater ferocity, his face white with rage, his black hair flying unbound, till his team won, and Charles had to bear the humiliation of watching Sabran take the cup from Lady Palmer without a word, then throw it contemptuously to the crowd, at the same time announcing he would never play with an Englishman again.
Even though the warmth of the brandy had numbed her senses a little, she paced the room, her hands over her ears, trying to block out that horrible sound and the expression on her husband’s face as he’d raced towards the ball.
There had been a lot of dust, but it had cleared for just a brief moment as they’d thundered past her position on the dais, and she’d thought she’d seen Charles lean wide to deliberately trip the horse, even though he’d sworn he had slipped in his saddle and the accident was unavoidable. She began to think she must have imagined it, but still the horrible thought nagged at her.
No one questioned it except Sabran. Charles was known as a gentleman, and sadly horses died sometimes, but now she watched her husband with a caution she hadn�
��t felt before, searching for signs that might betray his guilt, even though his behaviour didn’t alter when the subject was mentioned. He remained impassive, at times almost chillingly blank; the only comment he made about the whole event was that of course he felt bad about the whole thing, but half-caste horses had no stamina, and Sultan had stumbled due to exhaustion.
Chapter 10
When Sara married Charles, she felt it was for life; the line, “to forsake all others”, she took for granted, though after only a few weeks of married life there was an ever-widening breach between them she had not yet been able to heal. On her part there were the events on the day of the polo match to overcome, and the constant battle she had with those suspicions that clouded their relationship. The image of Sultan on the day of his death continued to haunt her. The powerful glossy flanks she had caressed so fondly were not those of a weakling bred purely for his beauty, and she knew beyond doubt that Sabran would never risk losing his favourite horse by pushing it beyond its limits. It was clear to her Charles was looking for excuses to somehow lessen his guilt in the matter, but most of all it was his comment about the horse being half-caste that troubled her the most, as she suspected it was a veiled sneer directed at Anglo-Indian people like the McKenzies.
She had written to Sabran offering her sympathy, and asking again when she might visit Prema, but had received no reply, and she assumed that, as the wife of Charles Fitzroy, he had no wish to ever lay eyes on her again.
Though something good had come out of the horror; she had bought a beautiful mare and had her stabled in a nearby field so she could ride in the cool of the day, giving her the exercise she craved. But most of all it gave Sara freedom, and the solitude she needed.
She had expected Charles to object, and suspected he’d only agreed because he sensed she still had doubts about the part he had played in Sultan’s death. He only asked that she should stick within the confines of White Town, or to the main roads of Madras to avoid any trouble with the Indian men.
He felt it gave him added status to have a wife who rode well, and who looked so beautiful in her riding habit. There was something aristocratic about her when on horseback, raising her above the other women in his community. But this fact soon began to have repercussions, and jealousies began to form, first whispered in the drawing rooms then spoken aloud, especially by Lady Palmer, who saw the lovely Mrs Fitzroy as a threat to her well-ordered standards of behaviour.
The Jasmine Wife Page 9