The Jasmine Wife

by Jane Coverdale

  She glared at him, her eyes narrowing. She had been right about him the first time. She could never like such a man. “So, you think that anyone can be bought as long as the price is high enough?”

  “Well, I’ll soon have the opportunity to find out. Here comes Miss Palmer and she looks very pleased, and, of course, closely attended by your husband.”

  His words made her start and she turned sharply to look at him. What was he implying? But his face was impassive again and his manner almost too courteous.

  “If you will allow me a few moments of your time afterwards, I would be most grateful.” He gave her a hasty nod and retreated.

  “Of course, if you wish it.”

  He took a brief look at Charles before leaving, and she couldn’t help but see the faint twitching of the muscles in Sabran’s chest matched the spark of pure hatred in his eyes. She felt a curious sensation in her body, like the fear of being in the presence of a wild animal on the end of a taut chain that might suddenly snap.

  Charles stood beside her as he watched Sabran stroll over to join some friends, followed by the sound of his rather caustic laughter from over the chatter of the crowd.

  His mirth seemed to aggravate Charles to an irrational anger. He spoke through clenched teeth. “What did that man want?”

  “Nothing.”

  Charles scanned her face, his eyes suspicious, making it difficult for her to regain her composure, until he was distracted by Cynthia, who hurried towards them as excited as a child.

  “It was too easy. All I had to say was the sapphire was my favourite shade of blue, and he said I must have it to match …” she hesitated for a moment, too breathless to go on “… to match my lovely eyes, he said. It’s magnificent, perhaps five carats; he’s sending it to me tomorrow.”

  She stopped for a moment then broke out, “But how silly I am … I should have admired the diamond on his finger; he kept waving it in front of my eyes, almost as if he wanted me to have it. Oh, if only it wasn’t considered greedy to want more than one jewel. Oh, well, next time. There’s Mother; I must tell her about the sapphire.”

  Sara watched the girl’s eyes. So Cynthia had a weakness after all. She had a passion for sparkling stones, and her pride was nothing when it came to satisfying that desire. Sabran had been right.

  Charles tightened his grip around her waist, quietly angry. She saw he was watching Sabran again, who was now lounging in an armchair under the shade of a tamarind tree, sipping a glass of champagne. She realised Charles was jealous but, instead of feeling flattered, it made her feel like one of his possessions. She tried to move out of his grasp, but he held her more firmly and muttered, “Stay where you are, my dear, please.”

  When Sabran saw he was being watched he smiled a rather mocking smile and raised his glass at Charles, at the same time managing to make it appear an insult.

  Sara felt her husband’s arm stiffen, but he showed no other outward sign of anger. When he spoke his voice was calm. “The Maharaja has asked me to introduce you. Are you ready?”

  “Must I?” Her voice shook a little.

  “Of course you must. Who knows what may come of it?”

  There was no getting out of it. It was clear Charles expected her to take a gift if it was offered.

  But all she could see was Sabran’s sure smile, so sure he would be proven right. She berated herself for a fool, but she couldn’t help it; she couldn’t bear to owe an obligation to anyone, even a Maharaja.

  In a moment she was before him and she gave him a sweeping bow.

  “No, no, my dear madam—” he seemed genuinely disturbed “—it is I who must bow before you. Thank you for coming to my little soiree.”

  “The pleasure is mine, sir.”

  “Charming.” He smiled and indicated the chair opposite him. Despite his grandeur, Sara soon felt at ease, for she could see his eyes were intelligent and perhaps even kind, though he made no secret of his interest in her.

  He allowed himself a long luxurious examination of her face and figure. He admired her white skin and dark red hair in half shadow under her wide-brimmed hat, he admired her straight back as she sat delicately upright on the edge of the chair, wearing a slim-fitting cream silk gown decorated with a dark green silk bow at her throat and wrists. He particularly liked the grace of her slim arm as it rested on the handle of her matching parasol. He nodded his approval and his entourage relaxed, as did Sara. She’d passed the first test at least.

  The Maharaja’s eyes twinkled as he leaned closer to her. “I have a weakness for garden parties. It is a passion I learnt from the British, along with a love of your Shakespeare.”

  “Oh, and do you have a favourite play?”

  “It is the great King Lear, without question. It is tragic and violent enough to be a tale from an Indian classicist. You see I am not a total savage after all. I pride myself on being a modern man. I am not like my father, who was a complete despot. That is the word, is it not?”

  “Yes. Though perhaps you are too harsh on your father.” She began to relax a little and to lean back on the chair.

  “Perhaps, but I don’t think so. Amongst his more unsavoury practices, he had a fondness for using widows as tiger bait. He used to say there were more of them than goats and therefore they were more dispensable.”

  Sara was so incredulous she thought at first he must be teasing her, though his impassive expression showed that he was not. “He was indeed a despot, and even perhaps far worse,” she remarked, trying to contain her outrage.

  “Oh! Do not alarm yourself, my dear.” His glinting black eyes saw her cheeks flush a bright pink. “He always shot the tiger before it ate the bait.”

  “I’m very relieved to hear it.” She stared down at her hands, biting her lip and trying not to smile. Surely he was teasing her, but she dared not ask.

  Instead she swung the conversation around to the safer ground of English literature once more, even managing to extract a laugh or two from him with her observations, causing his attendants to nod and laugh in agreement even though they had no idea what they were laughing at. Sara began to feel very much like Alice in the court of the Red Queen and she was very much inclined to break out in giggles. She groped around in her mind for more topics of conversation till she fell into an uncomfortable silence once more.

  He was clearly waiting for her to speak but, seeing she said nothing, he prompted her. “Do you like jewellery, my dear?”

  “Well, yes, sometimes, as long as it is of a simple design.” She moved her parasol against the glare of the sun.

  “What do you think of this ring; do you not think it is very beautiful?” He held his plump hand in front of her face. On his forefinger a gigantic crudely cut diamond set in old gold flashed in the sun. For a moment she was hypnotised by an alluring seductive power and her eyes followed his hand unwillingly as he waved it before her. She had to pull herself away from the stone’s magical force before regaining her composure.

  Her voice showed only a polite interest though it shook a little. “Is it a family piece? It seems very ancient.”

  He flinched, clearly taken aback. “There is nothing of mine you admire? Come now, here is simplicity itself, an emerald to match your … if I may say … your beautiful eyes …” He tapped a large and roughly cut emerald on his belly with his fingertips. “Come, come … Something to remember this occasion by.”

  So the compliment was a standard one. It was disappointing but it made it easier now to refrain from weakening. She kept her eyes averted. She could never say, ‘Perhaps the emerald’, not now. She pretended she hadn’t heard him and stared into the distance.

  “This is such a beautiful afternoon. I do believe the memory will stay with me forever.” She moved a little on the chair as if to indicate that she was ready to leave.

  He tried to read her face, frowning as though trying to squeeze a memory from his brain. “You remind me of someone. I’ve seen your face before.” Then, regaining some of his regal charm
, he exclaimed, “I must have seen you in a dream, that’s it!”

  She laughed at so outrageous a remark; there was nothing she could do except wish to be gone in case she should succumb to the lure of his jewels. This time when she changed position in her chair, he took the hint.

  He struggled for a moment with his ungainly weight then called for his retainers, who rushed to his side. After a comic struggle where Sara had to look down to hide her smile, they managed to haul him to his feet.

  “You must come to the palace for a long visit; you’ll want for nothing.”

  She curtsied as she had when presented to an ageing Queen Victoria at the debutantes’ ball on the night of her coming out. He was charmed.

  “Your Majesty is most kind, most generous. Thank you for the great honour you have bestowed upon me.”

  “The honour is mine.” He stood and held out his hand to her and there was a faint gasp from the crowd. Sara retreated with as much grace as she could, hoping that she wouldn’t trip up on her skirt.

  When she reached Charles’s side he could barely contain himself. “The old boy never stands for anybody; you must have impressed him pretty much, I think.”

  “He did invite me to stay at his palace.”

  “I don’t know if that’s much good to you … And a gift … Did he offer you a gift?”

  “No. He did not.”

  “You did admire his jewels as I asked you to?”

  “We spoke of his jewels. Of course it was impossible not to.”

  She looked away so he wouldn’t see her eyes.

  “That’s very odd. Perhaps it will come tomorrow … That’s it, it will come tomorrow … He wouldn’t dare to insult me.” He broke off, his thoughts diverted again. “Look at that upstart, Sabran … lolling about with the Maharaja. Look at them, as thick as thieves, and they probably are.”

  Sara watched the two men, their heads lowered. Someone had placed an armchair for Sabran by the side of the Maharaja, an almost unheard of honour for someone not of royal birth.

  Sara blushed to the roots of her hair and was grateful her large hat hid her face from theirs. So Sabran knew the Maharaja well … too well. She was glad now she’d stood her ground.

  They both stared in her direction then fell back into deep conversation. They were talking about her. It was quite plain. She felt her cheeks burning again.

  Charles noticed it too and it drove him to an unreasonable anger.

  “Really, Sara—” his neck flushed a deep red “—I tried to warn you. Now Sabran thinks he can speak to you any time he feels like it. Absolute impudence of the fellow! You really must try to be less friendly to people who aren’t worth your time. You know he isn’t received, and if you’re observed talking to him at functions like this you’ll find yourself out in the cold. And I saw you speaking with that disreputable McKenzie woman. She’s most definitely not the sort of person I want my wife to associate with, and I saw you curtsy to her—curtsying to a damned Indian, for God’s sake!”

  Her head snapped around to face him. She hadn’t forgiven him yet for attempting to make a fool of her.

  “If people are so petty and snobbish, then I don’t think I care to be a part of the English community.”

  “You don’t mean that!”

  “Of course I do. I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”

  Charles spoke his next words with deliberate care so she would get the full impact of his meaning. “I don’t think you quite understand, my dear. When you married me you married my life. These people are my life, as well as all the rules that bind us together, and I expect you to observe those rules to the letter.”

  She stared at him incredulously, almost choking with regret, and before she could stop herself the words came tumbling out. “I can’t believe how pompous you are. Surely you’re joking.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of joking about something so important to me.”

  In a white flash of self-realisation Sara realised what a fool she’d been. She’d married a man she hardly knew, and probably never even loved. She could see clearly now that it had been her desire to return to her beloved India that had deliberately blinded her to his faults, and now she was paying for it. Her hand flew to her throat and for a brief wild moment she had a vision of her future. She felt if she acted at once perhaps it wouldn’t be too late to save herself from what she felt was a dreadful mistake.

  The bitter words came out with a rush. “Well, then, perhaps this marriage was not meant to be after all, and we should reconsider our commitment to one another.”

  Except for a touch of white around his mouth, he showed no emotion. His face was as impassive as ever, though he scanned the crowd nearby, hoping no one had noticed their lapse in etiquette.

  “You’re tired. I’ll forget you said that.”

  “I’m not a bit tired. And I don’t want you to forget it.” She left him while he stood rooted to the spot, afraid someone might have witnessed their public spat.

  “How dare he? How dare he!” She was almost crying with frustration and fled to a quiet corner of the garden and flung herself down in the shade of a large parasol, glad to be alone at last. When she was offered a glass of champagne she took it, despite a look of disapproval from Lady Palmer, who’d been watching her hurried exit from Charles’s side from afar, and swallowed it almost in a gulp.

  At once she felt dizzy. The cloying heat combined with her wildly beating heart sent the champagne straight to her head. She closed her eyes to shut out the image of Charles’s shocked face. It was all too much to think about; she needed time to plan what she’d do next. It was impossible to go back to England, to be pitied and scorned as a failure, and there was no home to go back to now. Her uncle had already slipped into a comfortable life as a widower, and in his last letter he had hinted that he was already contemplating marriage with someone else.

  She wondered if it was not too late to have her dowry returned, though she’d seen no sign of it since her marriage. Charles seemed to consider her money his and would dole out her allowance almost resentfully.

  Her mind was busy calculating how much ready money she had left in her bank account, and how long she could hope to exist on it, when a shadow fell across her face and the air around her was infused with the fresh scent of sandalwood soap. Even without opening her eyes she knew it was Ravi Sabran who stood at her side. The Englishmen she knew all smelt slightly stale and unwashed, or heavily tinged with the odour of tobacco, all except for Charles, who always used bay rum cologne especially imported from Barbados on his hair and body. He was almost obsessive about it and had dozens of bottles of it sent at one time in case he should run out.

  “Pardonnez moi. May I?”

  She snapped open her eyes and moved over to make a space beside her on the settee. Sabran leaned back to light himself a cigarette, then let one of his arms rest with casual ease over the back of the seat, his golden-brown hand almost touching the skin on her bare neck. A shiver of electricity seemed to shoot from his hand and down her spine and to hide her discomfort she kept her eyes down till she could control her emotions. She stole a glance at his crossed legs, where the muscles of his thighs showed prominently through the thin fabric of his cream linen suit. It was obvious the polo kept him fit, despite his conscious efforts to appear indolent and inactive. He blew a cloud of fragrant smoke into the air and she watched, fascinated, as he savoured the tobacco with an unhurried sensuous pleasure. He looked at her through half-closed heavy-lidded eyes as he picked a tiny fleck of tobacco off the tip of his tongue.

  “It appears I must offer you an apology; you have won our bet.”

  “I’m sure you think me a greater fool than ever,” she snapped, forgetting to be distant in the heat of the moment. “What woman isn’t who turns down a fortune because of false pride? I’m sure I’ll be made to regret it. Now, more than ever,” she added under her breath.

  A waiter appeared with more champagne. She took another glass and gulped it down. He watched he
r, trying to fathom her mood. It was obvious something had upset her.

  “If it’s any comfort to you, the Maharaja never wears his top-class stuff to these functions; they are rubbish really. The sapphire the very cunning Miss Palmer managed to pilfer is flawed. If it is cut, it will probably shatter. He’s very shrewd, you know. He knows what’s going on.”

  “Well, if he’s so clever, why does he let them get away with it?” she said tartly.

  He laughed, throwing back his head with a cold and cynical delight.

  “Well, he must make a public show of his wealth; otherwise he would be shamed in the eyes of the world. However, it amuses him … It amuses him to see them scramble for his jewels. It is the only comfort of a man whose pride is wounded by having to submit to foreign rule. Acceptance of the gift leaves them at a disadvantage, and he has the upper hand.”

  “Then I’m glad at least I wasn’t a subject of his entertainment. My pride is worth much more than I lost!”

  She spoke with such passion he was taken aback. Then he saw the signs of tears in her eyes.

  He could feel other eyes upon him, and he looked up to see Charles Fitzroy watching them both from the other side of the garden. It became clear in a flash. There had been a quarrel. He looked at her averted profile and saw her clearly for the first time.

  He admitted to a very faint attraction because of her unusual style of beauty, having never seen a woman with that shade of hair before, especially paired with the dark eyebrows and white skin. But the attentions he paid her were due mainly to a desire to irritate Charles Fitzroy as much as possible.

  The child, too, he had used as a tool to humiliate Fitzroy. Another waif meant nothing; his household already was full of them. But now he was forced to change his opinion of her. She’d proven herself a woman of principle and character, and he softened. She sat trembling with restrained passion, twisting her hands together and biting her lips in an effort to stop her tears. Before he could stop himself, he found himself speaking, quietly but precisely.