Sara was aware of the gossip and, because of it, began to avoid the public places of the British, and ride further afield. She crept out of bed at dawn while Charles slept, knowing she had two hours of freedom before he awoke and she became a wife once more. Then she fled to the nearby beach for a wild gallop on the sands, or a wade through the deliciously cool waves, before any of the English community awoke and set tongues wagging again.
In the early morning mist, heavy with smoke from the thousands of dung fires, the sky was a magical turquoise washed with an innocent pink; however, she was often aware of a sense of unease, especially if she happened across the groups of holy men performing their strange rituals at the many temples lining the shores. They would look up at her as she rode slowly past, their kohl-rimmed eyes vacant and staring as they smoked long cones of ganga, their almost naked, emaciated bodies smeared with grey ash and heavy with holy beads and talismans. But, despite the ever-present faint sense of danger, she felt drawn to the place and couldn’t stay away, and every day became more adventurous with her exploring.
At the far end of the beach lay giant sun-bleached boulders littering the shoreline like monstrous marooned whales. It was there the holy men usually collected, as ancient carvings were depicted there on the sandstone rocks, and they were usually kind, and were grateful for the coins she gave. She felt no fear from these holy men, but the atmosphere permeating the area was heavy with a strange, almost mesmerising spirituality that sometimes made her feel light-headed, as if she was under a spell. Even the rhythmic flow of the waves and the touch of the caressing wind against her face seemed to overwhelm her will. It was almost as though she was being lured there by something unknown and frightening.
Because of an important holy festival in Madras, one morning the place was almost empty except for a chapatti seller who had set up nearby to catch the early morning trade, so she dismounted to take a closer look at the carvings.
What she saw made her reel back with shock.
The naked bodies depicted on the giant stones were intertwined, their long, delicately carved eyes heavy with passionate abandonment, frozen by time and stone into decaying ghosts of what they’d been in life.
A lovely girl, her rounded body as luscious as a ripe peach still, though partly eroded by wind and sand, stood on tiptoe to kiss a handsome, crumbling god with a huge erect penis. He held another girl in his muscular arms and she lay back in his embrace, hips thrust forward as she exposed her naked self with careless unconcern. Another man, on his knees before her, his face a picture of sensuous delight, was intent in giving the girl pleasure in a way Sara could never have imagined.
Everywhere she looked were images of even greater eroticism, repeated over and over, tier after tier of figures, all of them depicted trapped in the moment of ecstasy that would last till they crumbled and turned to dust, as the original models for the work had, thousands of years before.
She felt a powerful surge of pleasure shoot through her body, making her legs tremble and her face flush. She looked about, feeling sure that as her reaction was so strong it would be written clearly for all to see.
She didn’t know people did such things, but in moments of solitude she had to confess to thinking there must be more to what happened in bed between a man and a woman apart from what she and Charles did. She felt instinctively, though, that Charles would probably be repulsed by such behaviour. He was fastidious in his love-making, usually hurrying out of bed immediately afterwards and washing himself with a great deal of splashing, leaving Sara to feel dirty and ashamed when she knew, instinctively, there should be no shame.
She looked around to see the chapatti seller staring at her with an odd, almost insolent smile, and she began to feel the danger of lingering there any longer. Her first thought was to get away before she was seen. The beach was beginning to fill with people, and in the distance a rider was fast coming towards her.
She decided to stay where she was till the rider passed, in case it was anyone she knew. Pulling her horse behind the highest boulder, she stood motionless and listened, her heart pounding. After a moment the sounds of galloping retreated into the distance, so she quickly mounted her horse, pulled her black net veil over her face and began to ride away, congratulating herself on not being seen.
But she had been seen. Ravi Sabran had turned on hearing the faint sound of her horse and saw the young Mrs Fitzroy, wife of his hated enemy, riding away from what he knew to be, at least to English ladies, a forbidden area. He knew the sculptures well, and what they depicted, and couldn’t help but wonder what kind of effect they had had on her.
He dismounted with extra stealth, as silent as a hunter, and under cover of the giant boulders led his horse to the same spot she had so recently left. There was one of her footprints clearly marked in the sand and, on a strange impulse, he measured his own foot next to hers.
She had stopped a few metres away, allowing him time to fully appreciate the sight of her slim figure on horseback. He thought she looked very dashing in her green habit and black veiled hat with a green feather. He smiled to himself; she seemed to have a passion for absurdly pretty hats.
Her back was very straight, even though she was burdened by having to ride side-saddle. He thought it an unnecessary punishment to inflict on a woman; it was dangerous and selfish too. He couldn’t understand why society would go to such lengths to deny a woman an accidental pleasure by her riding astride.
One of her legs was hooked over the pommel, and her neat booted foot and slim ankle were peeping out from below her skirt. The sight of her ankle stirred in him a powerful sensation he did not want, and he crushed it at once.
He began to feel like a Peeping Tom and thought about making himself known to her, but he knew she would be embarrassed to be discovered in such a place, and he could at least save her from that.
As he watched her, he could see she had somehow become aware of his unseen presence. She began to look nervously about, like a startled fawn sensing a predator on the air; her horse made little restless movements, which she calmed with gentle pats on her neck and soft words of reassurance.
Then, all of a sudden after taking a final quick look about her, she broke into a wild fearless gallop, her skirts billowing behind her, leaving him to struggle with all kinds of conflicting feelings, including disappointment at having let her go without speaking to her. He wanted to hate her; he must hate any woman who had chosen to marry such a man as Charles Fitzroy.
But now his hatred had been replaced with something else, but he wasn’t sure what or how strong that feeling might be. He was familiar with lust, but this was different; he only knew she disturbed him in a way that might be dangerous.
He made a silent pact though to crush those feelings. He needed a clear head if he wanted to exact his revenge on Charles Fitzroy, and he would not allow any signs of tenderness to stand in his way.
Chapter 11
Almost a month had passed since the polo match, and the social events continued unabated, so even in her home the constant presence of the servants made intimacy between her and Charles difficult. The walls were thin, and it seemed ears were alert for any sound uttered from the mouths of their masters.
The meals were gruelling affairs, as they were watched closely by the retinue of servants waiting behind every chair and in every corner of the room. Their voices seemed loud and artificial in such an environment, and the clinking of cutlery and glass in the painfully silent room made conversation difficult and stilted. Though in a way Sara was grateful, for the constraints imposed on them hid what really lay beneath the surface: Sara’s unspoken distrust of her husband.
Their honeymoon too had been postponed more than once because of bad weather down south, though it seemed Charles was in no hurry to leave Madras, despite Sara’s desire for a break in their gruelling social engagements.
He relished the company of his friends and followed steadfastly the pattern of his life before he was married; the only differenc
e being, now he had the added advantage of a lovely wife by his side.
“I’m a lucky man,” he murmured as they entered Lady Palmer’s drawing room. “There’s no one here to equal you.”
She looked at him with wonder mingled with apprehension. Remarkably, there was no sign of dissipation on his face from the almost constant heavy drinking, only a faint grey shadow under his blue eyes, and a slight pink flush on his cheeks that seemed to even improve his looks.
She knew she was looking her best. She could always tell, by the silent nod of approval he gave her, combined with a proud squaring of his shoulders as he glanced around the room to see if others had noticed how well she looked. He had recovered from his disappointment at finding her so attractive, and instead took an interest in how her good looks and charming manner could promote his career.
She had left London with six oak chests, packed with twenty sets of the finest lawn underwear, two dozen embroidered silk nightgowns and fifty gowns still packed in their tissue paper, along with a dozen pairs of fine linen sheets, one hundred and twenty Scottish crystal glasses, and a Worcester dinner service for twenty places.
Her evening gowns and day dresses in various shades and fabrics were commissioned from an unknown French dressmaker who had set up a small boutique in Chelsea, an area much frowned upon by her aunt as being disreputable and totally forbidden.
Sara hadn’t really cared about fashion before, having always been a bit of a tomboy, and had heartily disliked the complex ritual that went into turning a healthy female body into a trussed-up confection of frills and whalebone that prevented her from doing all the things she liked to do, such as riding or playing tennis.
But these gowns were different; they suited her newly slim body and brought out in her an innate femininity, and a desire to be well dressed for the first time in her life.
Her dresses were modern, in the style and colours of the fashion the women of the Chelsea artist community chose to adopt and didn’t conflict too strongly with the beliefs of the new Rational Dress movement who believed in freedom from constraint for the female body.
The end result meant her wardrobe was striking in its simplicity. Where other girls appeared at a dinner or ball dressed in heavy silk gowns with leg-of-mutton sleeves adorned with abundant lace and absurd bustles, Sara would wear a gown of simple cut, with tiny puffed sleeves and a low curve to the neck and shoulders. She favoured almost straight skirts, showing the natural shape of her hips, shocking Madras society with her non-existent bustle. Her corsets were of the new French style and made of silk, and so light she was barely aware she was wearing a corset at all, making it possible to dance longer than anyone else without feeling faint. She wore little jewellery, usually the heavy fringed earrings or a simple gold chain necklace and engraved locket containing the miniature of her father as a young man. Her dark auburn hair was brushed to a deep glossy shine and held with a pair of gold filigree combs of Spanish design once owned by her mother. She held her chin high, showing the curve of her beautiful neck, and walked with an unusual elegance, moving from the hip with long slow strides. There was something in her walk that made men look, even though there were other, perhaps prettier, faces in the room.
Charles found himself bewitched by her beauty, even though he often declared her taste a little unconventional. It was while he’d watched her dress for dinner that he’d commented on the fact she rarely wore any colours other than white, green, mauve and black.
It had taken her some time to answer him, as she knew the real answer would not please him. They were the colours of the Suffragette movement and a symbol of her secret growing support. The white was for purity, the green for hope and the mauve for dignity. She knew he would not be sympathetic, but she had hopes he would change his mind when he knew more about the movement.
So she made up a lie about wearing her mother’s favourite colours as a tribute to her memory. Black she wore for elegance, and also as a sign of eternal mourning, for the parents she would never see again.
But now, as she thought about the evening ahead in Lady Palmer’s drawing room, she began to feel she’d fallen into a kind of trap, and the pressure from Charles to be perfect at all times was beginning to be a burden. She was bored with it all, and at the same time overwhelmed with the realisation that the life spread out before her would not be enough.
A hand on her arm shook her back to reality.
“Sara, you really are the deepest daydreamer.”
“Charles! I’m sorry, it must be the heat.”
“Well, buck up, my dear. There are some ladies I want you to meet.”
She almost groaned aloud but managed to disguise it with a cough. She had already overheard some of the ladies in the bedroom next to her own, where they had retired to cool down after their journey. Over the general chatter and giggles, one voice in particular had a way of carrying through walls.
“It’s safe …” Cynthia giggled “… I saw her go downstairs a while ago.”
“And just who is she? I’ve heard she’s not like us at all.”
Then Cynthia’s careful response. “Well, at least she’s a lady, though not exactly what I would’ve wanted for dear Charles, but I suppose once he was trapped into it, he couldn’t withdraw. He did mention to me she’s changed so much she wasn’t the girl he’d married, but you know what he is, so very honourable …”
Sara, listening from the next room, couldn’t help but be disappointed, because there had been times when she had really liked Cynthia. It was impossible though they could ever really be friends. Sara knew she was not as girlish and carefree as other young women, and sometimes lamented that her harsh early life had blunted that side of her. Lately, though, she’d begun to take a certain pride in being a little apart from the crowd and, despite the safety of acceptance, she didn’t care to become part of it, especially if it meant she must lose her individuality.
“Here she is … my wife, the loveliest girl in Madras …” Sara cringed as Charles introduced her to the women who had earlier maligned her. She hated it when he spoke of her that way; it made her feel like one of his possessions.
“I’ll leave you ladies to your nonsense,” he said before leaving her, and those words too made her flinch.
The expressions of the girls were not hopeful as their eyes made swift calculated darts over her face and figure, and one of them, a plump girl with round vacant eyes, opened the conversation with the mention of a name Sara would prefer not to think about.
“We all saw you at the polo match, Mrs Fitzroy, talking with that Sabran fellow. You must be careful of him, no matter how pleasant he pretends to be.”
Before she could reply, another girl, introduced as Milly, and of equally bland appearance interrupted her. “All the Indian men want a white woman. It’s common knowledge. So you must never make eye contact with any of them, in case they lose control, and you know …” Here she rolled her eyes and giggled, before lowering her voice to a whisper. “And our wicked Monsieur Sabran is the worst of all … The things one hears about him, enough to make one’s hair curl … You can’t imagine …”
Sara looked around for an escape route. She had never been interested in gossip, especially now, when she knew most of it in her present circle was centred around herself.
“No … I can’t imagine … He seemed perfectly charming to me.”
“Well, the rumour is he keeps at least three women, and not all of them Indian … They say he has a French actress in Pondicherry …”
Charles appeared again to rescue Sara from any more unlooked for sensational intimacies, although she had to grudgingly admit she was just a little curious about what the girl was about to say about Ravi Sabran’s romantic affairs.
Charles took her arm in his, claiming ownership with the same determination with which he dealt with every other matter he felt was under his control and drew her away, whispering something about the garden, and his desire to kiss her, when a small white hand grasped his coat slee
ve.
He swung around to attention with just a faint tinge of irritation in his voice. “Sara and I were just about to take a walk in the garden …”
“Oh, no, you don’t, I haven’t finished with you yet … I need you to explain something …” Cynthia gave Sara her most charming smile and took a firm hold on his arm.
“You must excuse me stealing Charles so much; it’s just that he’s always been such a help to me in the past, and you know how I’ve come to rely on him for all manner of little things …”
She had a habit of dropping her lashes over her blue eyes, then holding his gaze with a coy half smile. Her look seemed to have the desired effect and he was transfixed, and Sara wondered what might have been the outcome if Cynthia’s fiancé was not a rich man, and the eldest son of a Baronet.
Sara laughed. “No, please, take him. I was brought up to share.”
Cynthia was put out; it wasn’t the reaction she was hoping for, and she gave Sara one of her hasty up and down looks, then turned away.
In doing so she bumped into a servant who had appeared before her holding a letter and Cynthia took the opportunity of venting her anger on the man, showing the usually hidden side of her character. He’d stood on the hem of her gown, and she tore it away from his touch with a look of utter distaste. “Now I’ll have to change.”
There was a cold warning in her tone that spoke of future punishment, and the man picked up on it at once. He almost prostrated himself before her. “Forgive me, memsahib … but this letter is very important. The messenger said it must be delivered at once.”
The Jasmine Wife Page 10