“It’s because of what happened to Sultan, isn’t it? But he assures me it was an accident …”
“I don’t happen to believe him … But there are so many other reasons, mostly for what he is doing to the Indian people. The cruel laws he seems to enjoy enforcing, his insistence on returning my beloved Maya to her husband when he knows she will most likely be murdered …”
There he stopped for a moment, too angry to continue.
“Do you think I am a fool? I’ll never let that man live in a house I love!”
His colour was heightened by an anger he didn’t now bother to hide, and only his very formal manners prevented him from raising his voice. As an afterthought he added, “And madam … I did not receive a single letter from you!”
Then he turned his face away from her. The audience was at an end.
He remained silent while she stood abandoned before him.
She watched the proud, determined tilt of his head for a moment. Then, as she struggled with her own thoughts and the truth of his words, she turned and walked away without a word.
The walk towards Lady Palmer and Cynthia seemed to take an age, aware as she was of his eyes fixed on her retreating back. In answer to the fury on their faces, she said, “I’ve done my duty. I need not speak to him ever again.”
She sat beating the air with her fan, so distracted by their parting words she hardly acknowledged the, “I told you so,” from Cynthia.
The orchestra began to play again, this time a waltz.
Sara mentally cursed Sabran. She had so much wanted to enjoy the evening, but now his insolent face and bitter words danced before her, blotting out her pleasure by increasing her distrust of her husband, and all hope of ever owning Tamarind House.
Every now and then she was made aware of his presence on the other side of the room. He seemed impossible to ignore; like a big cat, he paced the floor greeting various people with extravagant charm. She wondered why he felt it necessary to be so cruel to her when it was clear he could be pleasant when he wanted to.
Once, he engaged a very pretty Frenchwoman in conversation for at least twenty minutes, first kissing her hand in a lingering way, and, judging by her blushing face, also complimenting her on her considerable beauty. Even so, his mind seemed elsewhere. He cast Sara a furtive look and then looked away at once, before returning all his attention to the girl, giving Sara the distinct feeling he was acting out a performance for her benefit only.
Then she watched him while he at first ran an impatient hand through his black hair, flicked his cigarette into a bowl, narrowed his eyes with intent, then marched across the room towards her.
Halfway across the floor he seemed to pause and, for a moment, Sara thought he would retreat.
Then, with a quick step, he was there before her, bowing low in an exaggerated way with his hand extended. “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”
She was about to refuse with a haughty turn of her head when he took her hand and pulled her to her feet.
His grip was so tight, and the look in his eyes so determined, to argue would have resulted in an embarrassing tug-of-war with him right there on the ballroom floor. It seemed less trouble to dance with him, despite Lady Palmer’s outraged squeaks of protest.
To make doubly sure she couldn’t refuse, he tightened his arm around her waist as he led her to the floor and whispered in her ear, his warm breath coming in short sharp gusts, making her ear tingle in a disturbing way. “I’m sorry. I’m deeply ashamed, really. I was very rude. The sight of Lady Palmer’s face always makes me behave in strange ways. It’s as though the Gorgon herself has cast a spell on me.”
She wanted to laugh but she hadn’t forgiven him yet. “Is this the way you usually get ladies to dance with you?”
“Not usually, but I knew you would refuse me as I deserved. Please forgive me; I am very contrite.”
She watched him, wary and unsure.
“I did write to you, more than once. I don’t understand. My servant swears he sent them. The mail system must be very bad.”
He looked into her eyes and saw her innocence. He wondered if he should enlighten her, then decided against it. He told himself she wouldn’t believe him anyway, being so devoted to that fool husband of hers.
Soon the steady rhythm of the music combined with the movement of her body acted as a drug on her senses. She forgot she was angry with him and why. She even forgot she had a husband. After a moment the room took on a dreamlike quality, as it always did when she danced. Nothing else existed except the hot tropical night, the candlelit room and the swirl of the women’s gowns against the tempo of the music. It was as though her body was released from its weight and floated just above the ground, only his firm grip around her waist anchoring her to earth.
The change in her face was profound. He realised with a shock he had never seen her happy before. Of course, he had seen her smile and say charming things, but he had never seen her almost luminous before that evening. She turned away from him, made uncomfortable by his close scrutiny. Could she read in his eyes what he was thinking? He smiled to himself. Was it possible she was capable of such strong passions she was dangerous even to herself?
The pace of the waltz had heightened her colour, making her breath come in short gasps as he swirled her around. She almost slipped but saved herself by falling forward against his chest and clutching at his suit coat. The hard muscle beneath the jacket tensed and she coloured again before turning her head away, keeping her eyes fixed on his shirtfront. She mumbled a silly meaningless remark, then squirmed at her lack of sophistication. She began to resent him a little. It was his fault after all.
There was something about the way he looked at her that caused her to lose her balance, in both a physical and mental sense. He tightened his grip on her waist and in that moment he felt a powerful frisson of desire. He could feel the warmth of her body through the thin fabric of her dress, and for a wild uncontrolled moment he imagined the pleasure of leisurely unlacing her corset to kiss the flesh underneath. The tingle of anticipation in his chest was almost painful. She looked up at him, her mouth parted and breathless, and in return his mouth contorted with the effort of maintaining a controlled exterior. He straightened up and flexed his burning hand behind her back as if to drive the sensation away.
She saw him flush and bite his lip.
“Is something the matter?”
He covered his feelings with a faint smile. “Forgive me, a cramp.”
At that moment the music stopped and they unlocked hands to stand side by side, both relieved not to be touching each other. She put a hand out to steady herself against a chair, her legs weak and trembling.
A commotion at the door of the ballroom took her attention away from him for a moment, as a group of Indian musicians and women dancers, barefoot, but dressed in brilliant costumes, moved into the room and collected together.
The women removed their gauze veils to expose their midriffs and the swell of full breasts above low-cut sari blouses. Their breasts seemed impossibly round and luxuriant compared to the slight waists and full hips. Sara had always thought the classical carvings of the Indian female form were exaggerated, but now, standing before her, was the proof of the artists’ sure knowledge.
She turned to Sabran, her eyes glowing. “I’ve been longing to see some classical dance.”
He laughed out loud.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Not if Lady Palmer has her way. Look!”
The woman had hurried to her feet and rushed to where the manager of the hotel stood talking to the leader of the dancers. Her strident voice carried across the room. “Tell them to leave at once! At once, do you hear! I’ll not have my daughter exposed to such indecency.”
Sara couldn’t keep the irritation out of her voice. “What on earth is the woman talking about? She’s sending them away!”
It was true. To keep the peace, the manager was shooing the bewildered dancers from the room.
“This, I will not stand. Excuse me …”
She watched him as he made his way to the door, the crowd parting before him.
After a few brief words and a generous handful of notes to both the manager and the dancers, they returned, while keeping a watchful eye on Lady Palmer.
The whole room stood silent while Sabran presented himself before Lady Palmer.
“You will forgive me, madam, I’m sure, when I remind you, you are on French soil now and therefore have no right to tell French citizens what they may do or not do.” Then he walked away, snapping his fingers in the air as a signal for the dancers to start.
Lady Palmer’s fury stalled him. Her voice rose above the noise of the crowd. “How dare you speak that way to me? I’ll be informing my husband, Lord Palmer, of your behaviour as soon as I return to Madras!”
All of his charm evaporated at once. He turned and gave her a look that caused the crowd to hush. Lady Palmer blanched and stepped back a pace.
There was nothing left now of the European gentleman. He took some time to control himself, his eyes almost opaque with fury, his pale lips trembling. “If the dancing offends you, madam, kindly leave the room so others may enjoy it.”
This time she was unable to speak, but stood, her mouth open, as he turned his back on her.
The musicians began to play, sometimes glancing in Lady Palmer’s direction as though at any moment they might be called upon to stop, but till then were going to give their best while they still could.
After an uncertain start the dancers began to weave their magic. From her position by the open window, Sara watched, entranced by the beauty of their movements and secretly thrilled by Sabran’s stand against Lady Palmer. The woman watched him with a fury bordering on hysteria, but there was nothing she could do. Pondicherry was indeed a French protectorate. She had no power outside of Madras and all she could do was fume.
Sara felt rather than saw Sabran join her as she stood by the window. She was on her guard at once, her skin tingling in anticipation, her body attuned to his movements as he stood next to her, so affected by his presence she found it difficult to speak for fear her voice would shake.
There was a profound silence while the dancers performed, then a rush of applause. It seemed the crowd were really congratulating the actions of Sabran more than the dancers and, as though realising this, he turned to the room and bowed. There was a murmur of well-bred laughter. To many of the French in the room, the English were still the enemy of battles fought not so long ago. This was a small victory to be savoured in the Pondicherry drawing rooms for some time to come.
She felt his warm breath on her cheek as he leaned towards her. “And, my dear Mrs Fitzroy, did you feel corrupted by such a sight before you?”
She stared straight ahead, not wanting to see the expression in his eyes, knowing he would make her colour rise in her face.
“Of course not. The woman’s a fool, as you well know.”
“She believes the dance indecent,” he whispered, placing emphasis on “indecent”. “She thinks their dancing inflames passion and lures the poor Englishmen into sin.”
She wouldn’t answer him but kept her face averted.
“But then,” he continued, “the Hindus believe the European form of dancing is far worse. The idea of a man and woman who are comparative strangers locked in an intimate embrace, however temporary, is disgraceful to them. The waltz you and I so much enjoyed would be seen as provocative in the extreme.”
Her head swung around to face him, her face aflame. His eyes caught hers for a moment, then she looked away, suffering almost intolerable discomfort.
Was there a hint of devilment there?
He had a habit of turning her safe world upside down with one simple sentence. She glanced around the room at the other dancing couples. They certainly didn’t look guilty; why should she feel as if she was?
She took refuge in changing the subject. “I think I should go. I’m being observed, and I’m bound to pay for your courage in standing up to Lady Palmer, Monsieur Sabran.”
He followed her gaze to Cynthia and her mother, who were pretending to eat their meal while casting furtive looks in Sara’s direction, then he bent to whisper in her ear again, provoking a flutter of disapproval that could be felt from the other side of the room.
“On no account must you speak to the wicked Sabran; your honour is not safe with him.” He straightened up with a shrug of contempt. “It’s as though you are in purdah.”
She turned on him. “You can’t possibly compare my life to purdah. I’m perfectly free to do as I want.” Though, even as she spoke, she was aware of her own hypocrisy.
“Then you will come to visit Prema while you are in town?” His dark eyes swept over her and she thought she detected a faint trace of eagerness there, despite his cool manner.
She glanced to where Cynthia and Lady Palmer sat watching her with apparent unconcern, though she knew they were scrutinizing her every move.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ll come tomorrow if I can, and I want to tell you something about the house.”
He too lowered his voice in response, as though they were a couple of conspirators. “A secret? I love secrets. But why can’t you tell me now?” He was teasing her, and for a moment he looked almost boyish. “I can’t bear to wait when a secret is before me.”
“No, not here. I wish to tell you in private. It’s very important and I don’t want to be interrupted.”
“I will send someone to bring you to me.”
“No, no, please, no one must know. I’ll come to you.”
This time he laughed out loud. “So you are free to do as you want, as long as it remains a secret.”
He wanted to tease her again but stopped when he saw how shaken she was by his words. She stared down at her hands, not wanting to meet his eyes. He had hit upon a raw nerve.
“The carriage men outside the hotel know where I am. Just ask for my house. You will find it at the end of Rue des Fleurs. Everyone knows where I live.”
“Of course, everyone knows where you live, monsieur.” She laughed. “I expect nothing less.”
A secret and inscrutable look came into his eyes as she gazed up at him, her face lovely in the candlelight, and made prettier still by the laughter in her eyes.
“I think I shall leave now. I have lingered too long. Au demain.”
This time he couldn’t meet her eyes. In fact, he seemed angry with her again.
Sara, watching him leave, saw he didn’t bother to say goodnight to anyone else in the room. He swept past the pretty Frenchwoman he had devoted so much time to earlier in the evening, while she looked after him with obvious disappointment.
And, as always after every meeting with Ravi Sabran, Sara felt the usual conflicting emotions of attraction and aversion. He was indeed a strange man.
Chapter 20
It was not possible to visit Prema the next day after all. Shops had to be visited and calls had to be made where Sara could not be excused, and it was not till late in the day she could send Sabran a note of explanation. She received a note in return, saying that he would be leaving town on business for a few weeks, and doubted he would see her for some time; even so, he had left orders with the household to expect her.
She breathed a sigh of relief. It would be so much easier if she didn’t have to see him. It was useless to pretend he wasn’t an unsettling presence and clearly a dangerous man to know, though she regarded him as such an exotic creature and so unlikely ever to be a part of her everyday life it was almost as if he wasn’t real.
Her encounters with him had the magic she felt when she opened a copy of the Arabian Nights and spent a few guilty moments with a hero of fiction. Though in one respect he was more real to her than her own husband.
His words had hit their mark again and made her aware of her own weaknesses, more than any of her husband’s incessant criticisms. He had shown her how she had failed herself, and how at t
imes she had been timid and unsure when she should have gained strength from her marriage. She swore that from that time on she would not allow her husband’s petty tyrannies to pull her down. Never again would her heart sink when he walked into the room, never again would she allow him to hurt her with his words. From that time on she would fight for what she wanted.
Two days passed before she had the chance at last to steal away from the claustrophobic company of Cynthia and her mother. It was almost as if Lady Palmer suspected something. It seemed she was everywhere, watching Sara with suspicious eyes whenever she left the room.
It was only when some ladies invited them all on a shopping expedition to a favourite milliner could she find an excuse to remain behind, pleading she was unwell. Lady Palmer’s sharp eyes scanned her face, ready to contradict, but then unexpectedly relented. She could be excused just this once, as there was very little space in the carriage for both ladies and their purchases.
Almost as soon as they were out of sight, Sara left the hotel and asked to be taken to the Rue des Fleurs.
“Monsieur Sabran’s house … Do you know where it is?”
“Monsieur Sabran, yes, yes …” The man grinned, pleased to have such an important fare, before heading off down the main street of Pondicherry, looking about and waving at the passing shopkeepers while nodding towards his passenger in the back seat, while she tried to hide under her parasol. It seemed he was determined to make her as conspicuous as possible.
“Is there no other way?” Sara called out. “Can we go a quiet way?”
He turned to look at her, at the same time pulling up his tiny horse just as Lady Palmer and Cynthia were coming out of a hat shop on the other side of the street. She ducked out of sight, all the while feeling very silly, but it was already too late. She peeped from behind her parasol and saw Lady Palmer staring in her direction with her mouth wide open as though in the middle of a shout, with her hand raised high in the air.
It would have been easier for Sara to pretend she’d changed her mind and was hurrying after them, but a spark of rebellion urged her to call out to her driver, “Quick! Quick! Move on!” The driver gave the horse a light touch with his whip and soon Lady Palmer’s large, outraged figure shrank into the distance.
The Jasmine Wife Page 18