The Jasmine Wife: A sweeping epic historical romance novel for women. Jane CoverdaleЧитать онлайн книгу.
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