Kitabı oku: «The Jasmine Wife», sayfa 3

Chapter 3

It was clear the blood of two races flowed through his veins, uniting to produce a man of such dramatic appearance Sara found herself staring at him in awe. He had the air of a person who was used to attention, so much so that he’d mastered the art of appearing to be unaware of the impression he was making.

He was taller than the average native Indian, and of a bulkier build, being broad-shouldered and thickset. His heavy masculinity was an odd contrast to his clothing, as he wore an almost transparent muslin kurta, through which could easily be seen the powerful contours of his chest straining against the fine fabric where it met his folded arms. A long white muslin dhoti hemmed with a wide band of gold thread hung around his waist and down to the ground in the manner of a Brahmin priest.

Standing out amongst the almost black servants, the unusual pale gold of his skin revealed at least one of his parents had European blood, though his hair was as blue-black as a leopard’s pelt. He wore it combed straight back off his forehead, falling almost to his shoulders in the style of a Mogul prince.

His European ancestry showed too in the colour of his clear light grey eyes, making the irises appear more intensely dark and hypnotic. Though there was nothing dreamlike about his expression and, despite his prophet-like clothing, he glared out at the world with ferocity from under his black winged eyebrows, and an expression that seemed to say, I defy you all!

There was something there too in the corners of his full, sharply defined mouth that hinted at contempt, but at whom or what Sara couldn’t tell.

Lady Palmer sniffed and turned away in an elaborate display of disapproval, even placing herself between him and her daughter as though his presence alone could be contaminating. Her behaviour did not escape the stranger’s notice, though, instead of being shaken by her obvious dislike, he seemed to struggle to hide his laughter.

Sara gave a slight bow of her head in his direction, hoping to initiate an introduction, but Lady Palmer didn’t attempt to even acknowledge the man.

He took a step closer and bowed. When he finally spoke, it was with a heavy accent as though English was his second language, though there was no sing-song note to his voice as with other Indian people. He spoke French with the accent of a Parisian.

“Pardonnez moi, mesdames. I apologise for the crudeness of my tactics, but, as you see, it is effective.”

Lady Palmer turned her face away from him without a word, and Sara, feeling the shame that should’ve been Lady Palmer’s, thanked him again with genuine gratitude.

A group of women in saris of gorgeous colours and wearing huge gold nose rings sat clumped together nearby, giggling behind their hands and pointing at Sara, their heads swaying like snakes as they came together to whisper their secrets. Little snatches of remembered Hindi came back to her. They were saying something about her hair and wondering if she used henna. The stranger heard them too and glanced in Sara’s direction, his eyes focused on her hair. She flushed bright pink, without knowing why, and stared down at her feet, as was her habit as a child when she was in trouble. He sensed her discomfort and smiled to himself in an unpleasant way, as though wondering how he could exploit the situation.

He appeared to reject the thought at once, feeling it was beneath him, and he raised his eyes heavenwards, as though the whole episode was nothing more than an unpleasant interlude he must endure. Then he turned to face the crowd, his palms held outwards like a prophet. “What is the problem here?”

No one seemed willing to answer now they had the chance, and after an impatient few moments he chose a quiet old man with the face of a saint and commanded him to speak.

The stranger’s face changed with the telling of the events, first showing only a raised eyebrow at the fate of the drowned man, then a sharp exhale from his rather strongly shaped Gallic nose. A slow scornful smile spread over his face as his eyes flickered towards the group of British women.

Lady Palmer held her face averted while Cynthia stood aloof, an image of picturesque innocence as she held Fanny in her arms. Only Sara seemed connected to the scene, with her purse ajar and her face flushed with guilt, showing she’d been responsible for the entire debacle. By now the crowd had turned resentful and some even shouted angry words in the direction of Cynthia, who held her dog closer to her chest.

The stranger clapped his hands and everyone stopped at once. He’d heard enough and his patience was at an end. He snapped his fingers and a servant hurried to his side. In a second the boatman was paid his due, and hurried away.

Sara felt she must say something, even if the others wouldn’t. “I’m sure Lady Palmer would be happy to reimburse you the money if you would leave your name and address.”

“She knows who I am …” the man gave her a slow and almost unpleasant smile “… and where I live.” He then bowed in an almost military fashion, before turning away from her with a final blank stare.

Something in his manner drove her to make him notice her. Perhaps it was a desire not to be included with Lady Palmer and Cynthia in his obvious dislike, so she summoned all her powers to confront him.

“Well, I do not, sir.” She smiled, hoping to charm him a little. “May I have the pleasure of knowing who I am indebted to?”

He glared back at her, fixing her with his strange hypnotic eyes, and she wondered if perhaps he was a prince and she’d broken protocol by even speaking to him at all.

“My name is Sabran. Monsieur Ravi Sabran.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t a prince after all.

“And mademoiselle … will you allow me to know your name?” This time his voice was soft, almost a purr, but Sara had the distinct feeling he was being polite against his will.

“Not mademoiselle … I am …”

Before she could finish speaking, an old man rushed to his side and spoke excitedly in Tamil while pointing to the crowd.

“Excuse me, mademoiselle …” He raised a hand to stop her, and she glared; he was clearly not listening to her at all.

“This matter is not yet at an end. There is another act to this tragedy.”

As though on cue, a woman pushed her way through the remaining onlookers and stood before them, her chin raised in wild defiance, her hard eyes darting from left to right, appraising the scene before her. Her skin was almost black, with wild uncombed hair flaring around her sharp fox-like face. Though, unlike the other Indian women, she wore her faded and torn sari blouse with a flared embroidered skirt worn low enough on the hip to show a beautiful and sensuous midriff, causing a few of the men to stare at her with lustful looks, despite her fierce and forbidding appearance. Sara recalled the tales from her childhood with vague fear. The woman was a Tribal; like gypsies, they were rumoured to be child stealers. She balanced on her bare hip a tiny girl, no more than a year old and naked except for a cheap gilt bracelet around her wrist, showing someone had thought her worthy of adornment, even though the woman held the child carelessly and without love.

The child, though unaware of this last cruel blow of fate to her short life, seemed to know she was the cause of all the commotion, and sat, her body limp and hopeless, on the woman’s hip, looking around at an unfriendly world, her huge kohl-rimmed eyes too frightened for tears.

The old man began to shout once more and pointed at the baby with his stick, while Sabran listened, his hand held high to prevent interruption from anyone else.

Then, after the speech had ended, he thanked the old man with more coins and after a brief, almost disrespectful bow, turned to Cynthia, who, outraged that he’d dared to speak to her at all, clung to her mother’s arm for protection and stared back at him with her most haughty glare.

“This baby is the dead man’s granddaughter and has no other family. This woman was minding the child. He promised her a few rupees when he returned …” He added, with scorn he didn’t bother to hide, “And as there is no doubt he will not return, she thinks you should pay her for her lost earnings.”

Cynthia pouted, not looking at him but at the air above his head. “You must know what thieves these people are … It’s probably her own child and she’s hoping to profit by it,” Cynthia replied before turning away, the matter at an end.

Only a faint twitching around his nostrils betrayed Sabran’s anger at the insult. At first it seemed as though he might say something in return, but then he smiled to himself, a smile slow and somewhat sinister, as though he was imagining what kind of revenge he might inflict later and at his leisure. Sara caught his look and shivered. She felt the danger in offending him, even if Cynthia didn’t.

The woman was persistent. She came closer, holding the baby up for all to see, then made a sudden snatch at Cynthia’s gown. “Baksheesh!”

It was as though a spider had crawled on her dress, and Cynthia leaped back a step, appalled at the woman’s touch. “No! No baksheesh … You don’t deserve it, go away. Go away at once!”

Sabran spoke to one of his servants, who immediately threw a handful of coins at the woman’s feet.

In a flash, the child was dumped without ceremony on the ground, the coins snatched up with a savage snarl at anyone who might steal them from her and, with one final disdainful look at Cynthia, she dissolved into the crowd as if by magic.

Sabran laughed, though it was clear he was not amused. “It seems it wasn’t her child after all.”

The baby sat alone in the dust, looking around at the sea of strangers, her eyes wide and helpless, though managing to convey a real or imagined accusation in her stare. Her look failed to hit the mark with Cynthia, though drenched Sara with an overwhelming sense of responsibility.

“There must be someone? Surely she can’t be entirely alone.” Sara’s questioning looks were met by blank disinterest, though somehow it was implied that by speaking at all, the future of the child now rested with her.

In a curious way she felt it too, and at that moment she knew she couldn’t walk away. The girl child she’d seen floating on the sea had been an omen—a message, for her eyes only! The feeling was something she’d only ever read about: a lightning strike of realisation!

She crouched down to stroke the child’s velvet skin. “Poor little thing.” She hardly mouthed the words. Even so, the child let out a terrified howl.

The child sat forlorn and alone in the dust, crying as though she already knew her fate lay in the kindness of strangers, and Sara couldn’t bear it.

Then she remembered an Indian lullaby Malika must have sung to her as a child. Forgetting to be self-conscious, Sara began to sing, a lilting pretty tune in Hindi. “Nini baba nini … mera baba soja …”

The child stopped crying to stare at her, and for a few moments the chaos was stilled and everything was quiet. Even Ravi Sabran’s manner had softened a little under the calming effect of the lullaby. Now he looked at her with a genuine curiosity.

When she finished, Sara rose to her feet, brushing the yellow dust off her skirt. “Well, I’m not leaving till I find out who will take care of this child.”

At first no one came forward, then, after a few words spoken with ferocity and obvious impatience by Sabran, everyone, including Sara, jumped. A servant hurried forward and stood behind the child like a sentry, every now and then guiding her gingerly with his stick if she attempted to crawl away from the spot.

Lady Palmer had had enough. She called out, in her anger forgetting to be ladylike, “If only my husband were here … Why is no one here to meet us?”

There was an uncomfortable silence, then, as though answering Lady Palmer’s prayers, separating itself from the noise of the crowd, came a male voice, deep, familiar and reassuring.

“Move along will you? Out of the way.” His tone was calm at first, then as though through gritted teeth. “Move away at once, damn you!”

A shower of batons slashing wildly over the heads of the crowd preceded a sudden tide of hard-faced policemen in mustard serge uniforms, creating a path through which Charles emerged, his handsome face red with frustration.

In a moment he was standing before his wife.

“Sara?” There was a flash of shock in his eyes, as if he couldn’t quite believe it was her.

“Charles …” she called out, forgetting to be restrained in the joy of the moment. She fumbled with her hair, then was suddenly shy. She could say no more.

Lady Palmer pounced. “Charles … At last … Praise the Lord you’re here. Take us away at once.”

“Lady Palmer, welcome back.” His words were directed at her, but his eyes were fixed on his wife.

Cynthia slipped her arm into his and hung on tight, gazing up at him with what Sara thought were adoring eyes. “Charles! Where have you been?” Her voice had changed to a babyish lisp. “We’ve had the most dreadful time.”

“Yes, my poor girl, she’s suffered so much …” Lady Palmer clung to his other arm.

Charles hesitated, feeling besieged and unsure of which direction to take. Then he gently extricated himself from the arms of the clinging women with a stiff bow and took Sara’s hand to raise it to his lips.

“My dear Sara, I’m so sorry to be late; there was a serious incident and it couldn’t wait, not even for you.”

He looked down at her, scanning her face till she squirmed. Then he leaned down to whisper in her ear, “How lovely you are. I must have forgotten.” He was genuinely puzzled. He had retained the image of her when he had seen her last on the day of their marriage and couldn’t imagine she would be any different. He remembered with a shudder the too tight mustard wool dress, the almost matronly hairstyle. That image was replaced by a face verging on beautiful, mostly due to her lovely eyes and clear pale skin. He had never noticed the shape and colour of her lips before. Surely in England they were unremarkable? Her teeth had always been good, better than most English girls he knew, but surely much whiter than before. Her fine muslin blouse showed a tantalising hint of small but perfectly shaped breasts above a slim waist, held in check by a wide black belt adorned with a bunch of fabric violets. Her dark green skirt was almost shockingly modern in the slimness of its cut, but the overall effect was of fresh elegance so far from the musty, plum velvet heaviness of the middle-class drawing room he’d left her in.

But it wasn’t just a question of her slim figure and smart clothes. The expression on her face confounded him.

Then he saw it in a flash of rare understanding. He’d left behind a doting awkward girl and was reunited with a sophisticated woman who seemed, in the year or so since he’d seen her last, somehow to have acquired a style and assurance of her own.

“You have missed me then?”

He answered her by giving a look that caused a little shiver to run up her spine, then, putting his arm around her waist, he gave her a discreet kiss on the cheek.

A flash of pride shot through her body.

He was even more handsome than she remembered, though perhaps a little thinner. His skin, once a healthy light brown with patches of high colour on his cheeks, was now burnt to a dark tan, making his thick blond hair appear almost white, and his eyes a brilliant blue. He looked tired, and for a short moment she experienced a brief burst of concern, but then it died away almost at once. His back was ramrod-straight in his grey serge suit. She knew it would take more than mere soaring temperatures to defeat him.

He turned on the crowd, shouting irritably in Tamil. They drew back at once and it was clear his authority wouldn’t be questioned.

Her arm slipped through his, bringing him back to face her once more.

“I hope the trip wasn’t too dreadful …” He could hardly look at her without his cheeks flushing a bright red.

She mumbled an answer, over-polite and on her best behaviour. “Not at all, we had good weather for most of it.”

He looked away, obviously distracted and, it seemed, a little angry.

She searched his face, wondering what could be wrong, but his attention was taken by Cynthia, who stood smiling up at him from under her forget-me-not blue bonnet that suited her eyes very well.

Sara watched his beaming face with a rising tinge of jealousy. He really did look very pleased to see Cynthia. Too pleased, perhaps?

“Your trip went well?”

“Very well. William’s family are charming, but of course it’s what one would expect from people of such high standing.” Cynthia’s eyes held his for a long moment and it seemed he was enthralled.

“I can’t tell you how devastated we all are at having you taken away from us.”

“Of course I’ll miss all my friends …” she smiled “… especially you, Charles.” Then she touched his arm with her tiny pink fan, leaving him helpless and trapped by her charm.

“Well, Charles, we’ve found ourselves in a tiny mess.” Then she made a dab at her eyes with her lace handkerchief and moved closer to him.

“You always seem to know the right thing to do.”

Sara almost laughed out loud at such obvious flattery, but Charles seemed not to notice how he was being manipulated.

“Now, my dear Cynthia, what’s all this fuss about?” Charles had to lean down to hear her as, even standing on tiptoe, her neat little head only came to his shoulder, making her seem all the more vulnerable.

Cynthia whispered into his ear, sometimes taking quick looks at Sara as she did so. He listened intently, then gave the baby a brief glance; she now sat content with a piece of dripping mango in her chubby fingers, encircled by people making half-hearted efforts to amuse her, all of them now anxious to appear to have some part in her ownership, having seen there could be money in it.

“Most unfortunate,” he murmured. “I’ll deal with it.” He clapped his hands and called out, “Shakur! Get here at once, you lazy devil!”

A manservant appeared before them, staring at Sara with a wide grin on his face, hardly taking his eyes off her except to look around at the crowd, hoping they would notice his importance.

“This is Shakur; he’s my head man.”

As a mark of the position he held, Shakur wore one of his master’s cast-off shirts over his long dhoti. His thin neck stuck out of a frayed collar that was too big for him, but somehow he presented himself with a dignity impossible to ridicule.

He bowed again, pressing his palms together and touching his forehead in a blessing. Sara liked him at once. He grinned at her, showing large perfect white teeth.

“Is this lady the new madam, sahib?” He moved his head from side to side in time with his high sing-song voice.

“Yes, this lady is my wife, and mind you don’t forget it.”

Sara softened the moment with a smile.

“How do you do, Shakur?”

“I am well, madam.” He seemed to study her face with obvious delight and blessed her fervently once more. He admired the fine bones of her hands and wrists, her white skin and her hair … a very auspicious colour … the colour of dark saffron threads.

Sara smiled again with genuine kindness, and he blessed her once more before stealing a hasty look at Lady Palmer and visibly shuddering.

Charles seemed irritated again and took charge. “Enough! Shakur, get the luggage and I’ll see you back at the carriage.”

“At once, sahib!” Shakur bustled around long enough to ensure that his importance had been acknowledged before hurrying off, saying as he left to anyone in his path, “Move along, move along, will you,” in a peculiar imitation of his master’s voice.

Charles had taken Sara’s arm to lead her away, but was distracted by the sight of Sabran, who’d retreated to talk to someone in a waiting carriage standing apart from the chaos of the wharf.

Charles was clearly very put out and flexed his hands behind his back as though trying to control his fury. Sara followed his eyes to where an exquisite girl with a face from a fairy tale was looking out of the window of the carriage, but when she felt herself being observed the vision modestly drew back with such haste it was almost as though she hadn’t existed at all.

Sabran let go of the girl’s hand and threw Charles one of his enigmatic looks.

Sara looked up at Charles’ face, trying to read his expression. His lips were white against his high colour, and his bright blue eyes seemed almost glassy as he stared back.

“Oh, do you know them, darling?” The endearment sounded odd to her ears, but it got his attention. “The gentleman was most helpful. I don’t know what would have happened if he hadn’t come along when he did. Charles, we must thank him.”

“I think referring to Sabran as a gentleman is perhaps too generous. However, you weren’t to know, my dear. We must leave, now.”

“But Charles, something dreadful has happened …”

He wouldn’t look at her, but kept his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance.

“Yes, I know … Cynthia told me …”

“Then you’ll understand how we are responsible …”

“Not responsible, surely … but I’ll arrange for one of my men to take the child to the nuns. We can’t adopt her ourselves. It would cause trouble amongst the servants. You’ve forgotten how strict the caste rules are here. Anyway, as soon as the real mother realises there’s no money to be had, she’ll turn up. I’ve seen this sort of thing before.”

He took her hand and held it firmly. There would be no more nonsense. Lady Palmer and Cynthia had made their way to the carriage, still surrounded by curious onlookers. They gave her furious impatient glares but, even so, Sara resisted, not being able to tear herself away from the child playing in the dust.

“Charles, we must do something …”

He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Lady Palmer would never allow her in the carriage. We must leave at once.”

“Pardonnez moi.”

Charles swung around to face Sabran, who stood before them with an air of barely controlled irritation. He’d been a witness to the scene between the couple and had been waiting for an opportunity to interrupt.

“Fitzroy.” He said the name as though it cost him a great deal.

Charles gave a curt nod in return. “I believe my wife has reason to be grateful to you. I want to reimburse you for your trouble.”

Sabran ignored the offer with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I do not want your money.”

Sabran stared curiously at Sara, then back to Charles. His face showed a faint glimmer of surprise, then a half smile of what she felt sure was derision, accompanied by an exaggerated, almost sarcastic bow, waving a hand before her like a courtier, and dazzling her eyes with a huge rough-cut yellow diamond set in heavy gold he wore on his wedding finger.

Usually she couldn’t bear jewellery on a man, thinking it effeminate and a sure sign of vanity, though on his hand the primitive cut of the stone seemed only to add to his air of mystery, as a sorcerer might use a wand to hypnotise his victims.

She’d caught his flicker of surprise, and even distaste also. She was shocked to see that the man didn’t admire her and might even dislike her.

“I’m here to tell you, madam, I will take the child! That is the end of the matter!” he announced.

Then, bowing again briefly in Sara’s direction, he snapped his fingers at his entourage. “Come!”

“Forgive me, monsieur, but I’m not so sure.”

At first there was a faint gleam of pure white teeth, a polite but failed attempt to cover a snarl, then, while his dark enigmatic eyes swept over her with now unconcealed dislike, he snapped his fingers and his entourage sprang to attention again.

Charles took her hand to lead her away.

“I think the matter is decided at last, my dear.”

“But the old man wanted me to take her!” She touched her heart with the tips of her fingers to emphasise the truth of her words. “I’m sure of it! And he died at peace because he believed, somehow, that I would take his granddaughter.”

There was an uncomfortable silence at her public display of passion, including Charles, who felt compelled to step in and restore order.

“My dear girl, you’re letting your imagination run away with you. Let Monsieur Sabran take her. At least, with him, she’ll be at her own level.”