The Jasmine Wife: A sweeping epic historical romance novel for women

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!”