The Jasmine Wife: A sweeping epic historical romance novel for women. Jane Coverdale
Lady Palmer gave a haughty toss of her head. “And most appropriately named. We try to pretend this place doesn’t exist, though I suppose it’s a necessary evil. Catholics and Muslims and God knows what else!”
Sara thought it wise not to respond by keeping her face averted, and only turned when Lady Palmer poked her on the arm with the end of her parasol and pointed to a group of pretty painted houses facing the river.
“That very vulgar house with the bright green shutters belongs to the McKenzies, an Anglo-Indian family. We don’t socialise with them.” She placed extra emphasis on ‘them’.
Sara gave Lady Palmer an enquiring look, but the woman shuddered, raising her hand at once to dispel any further questions.
“When you see them, you’ll understand. The mother and daughter are very black. Even though the father was a Scot, dead now, mercifully, the mother is Indian, and as ugly as a gnome. You may see them in the street, but it is best to ignore them if they attempt to speak to you. The girl in particular is most annoyingly present in English society, despite all efforts to discourage her.”
Sara made a mental note to be sure not to snub them if she did somehow meet the marooned family in question, while her dislike of Lady Palmer rose to new heights.
Sara scanned the scene before her with fresh interest. Each house they passed might perhaps have been the home she’d lived in as a child, though none of them provoked even a hint of recognition. The house she remembered had a wide veranda with tall white columns and stood in a lush garden. None of the houses she passed were large enough, and gardens were almost non-existent in such a crowded place. It seemed an impossible task.
They’d come at last to the high stone walls of Fort St George and stopped at the southern-most entrance. A sentry saluted and raised the boom gate to allow them to pass.
“You’ll always be safe here, my dear.” Charles acknowledged the sentry with a haughty nod. “White town is for English Christians only, and no Indians are allowed to enter except for the tradesmen and, of course, our servants.”
Sara looked behind her at the busy streets and felt a strong pang of longing. It seemed they were leaving life itself behind, and entering a kind of well-preserved tomb, dedicated to a country thousands of miles away.
Inside the fort was a tidy world of chalk roads and white timber and stone houses of varying sizes, according to the social status of the people within, and bordered with prim English flowers and well-watered lawns. They passed a pretty white church surrounded by struggling rose bushes, and low wide windows open to the outside air, though hung with thick shutters capable of deflecting a typhoon. A middle-aged parson in a flat black straw hat, about to enter the church, stopped for a moment and waved.
Lady Palmer called to him, and Sara was amused to see how quick he was to respond to her summons. After the initial greetings, Sara was introduced.
“You’ll have a new face in church this Sunday, Mr Hobson. Mrs Fitzroy, Charles’s wife.”
The little man squinted up at her through horn-rimmed spectacles.
“Welcome to our little parish, Mrs Fitzroy,” he chirped. “I think you’ll find our activities will keep you as amused as if you were back in England. We have tea with the other wives every Wednesday at three, you will be very useful in taking the bible readings with the converts Thursdays at ten, and there’s the sewing group where we make articles to sell for charity, which I’m sure you’ll be able to attend …”
Sara nodded and smiled and, despite doing her best to listen to the man, she found herself unpleasantly reminded of the suffocating rituals that made up most of her life in England. It might not be so easy to escape the stuffy air of parsons after all.
Despite longing to see her own home, lunch at Lady Palmer’s at least put off the inevitable moment when she and Charles would be alone, for better or worse. She sensed he was feeling the same, as he didn’t even attempt an excuse when Lady Palmer insisted they join her for lunch.
The Palmers’ white stone palace was more like a public building than a home, standing with majestic grandeur in the centre of a neatly manicured wide green lawn, and towering over the surrounding houses of lesser public officials.
A pack of excited pugs ran down the front steps to greet them and, for the first time, Sara saw signs of genuine affection spreading over the proud features of Lady Palmer as she bent to kiss their wet, snuffling noses.
Lady Palmer presided like a queen over her staff of at least one hundred servants and, even while claiming she loathed being back in Madras, it was plain being able to command such power over so many was a huge comfort to her.
A group of servants hovering at her elbow looked at each other as though longing to escape.
Sara hid a smile. While Charles sipped his tea his mind was elsewhere, till he burst out, not being able to contain his thoughts any longer, “I thought Sabran was a bit thick with the compliments towards you, Sara, my dear.” Charles mimicked Sabran’s heavily accented tones, “‘It’s not often we have such a charming addition to our barbaric shores.’” I almost laughed out loud.”
Sara squirmed in her chair. What a fool she was, so easily taken in by a bit of fake charm.
“It was a remarkable coincidence though, Charles, his grandmother having the same name as the baby. Surely you can see that?”
“He most certainly made that part up. He probably already knew the child’s name, and I believe he was flirting with you. What a cad the man is.”
Sara was silenced for a moment, then she spoke up, a little fever in her heart telling her he was being unfair.
“He’s a Frenchman after all. Perhaps he thinks it’s expected of him.”
“Well, half a Frenchman anyway; the rest of him is pure Indian! And with all it implies.” His voice was raised just a little, but enough to show how deeply he felt.
“He was being kind … taking the baby …”
Her words were wasted. Charles was listening to something Cynthia was saying about Paris, but he patted her on the arm as though it should be the end of the matter. Sara was glad they had changed the subject as she wasn’t sure she could contain her temper, though there was no escape from the persistent thoughts buzzing around in her head like a trapped fly.
I should have taken the child … I should have taken her … The old man meant me to take her …
Lady Palmer drew herself up and pursed her lips. “No one knows where Sabran gets his money, but he’s most vulgar … He bought a house that rightfully belongs only to those of English blood.”
“I believe he bought it just to irritate us.” Cynthia sniffed.
Sara roused herself at last to respond. “You’ve been to his house? Is it far from here?”
“I most certainly have not been to his house! And I wouldn’t go even if he asked me … but those who have been there say it’s terribly common, and that he has all kinds of dreadful people staying there … Indians and God knows who else.”
Sara couldn’t help herself. “Well, it is India after all.”
Cynthia pursed her lips and looked for a moment remarkably like her mother.
“Even so, he has a bad reputation. They say he keeps a group of dancing girls … to entertain him day and night.”
The girl looked so excited by the lewd possibilities, Sara laughed out loud. “Surely you exaggerate. He must sleep some time. Poor man, he must be exhausted.”
Lady Palmer rushed to defend her daughter. “My daughter does not exaggerate!”
Charles