Jane Coverdale - The Jasmine Wife

Sometimes at night when she lay in bed rigid with cold, her life in India came back to her in strange little bursts of disconnected memory, flooding her with longing, and enveloping her with warmth.

In a candlelit room with dark wooden floors, she lay in a small white bed under a billowing tent of mosquito netting, while she listened, wide-eyed and sleepless, to the sounds of the night invading the room on a warm perfumed breeze.

Sometimes, she shivered at the sudden scream of a cornered animal, and the horror of the whimpering that came soon after, then an ominous lingering silence. Or, the most terrifying of all sounds, the haunting chant from a nearby temple, where the worshippers were known to practise the forbidden rites of the goddess Kali, who wore a belt of human skulls around her waist and brandished a bloody knife above a decapitated head.

She knew about Kali, all the children did, but, despite her terror, she relished the bloodthirsty image with a curious delight.

Then, a suspicious rustle in the bushes beneath her window: a bandit perhaps, come to rob the house, or a python, gliding its way across the terrace to eat one of the hens.

Though to chase away her fears, in the corner of the room came the peaceful breathing of a sleeping figure, ever present and comforting, her beloved ayah, Malika, and she would fall back to sleep at last.

Then, more happily with daylight, the screech of her pet peacock, who followed her everywhere. The feel of cool fabric on her warm face as she ran laughing through sheets of luminous silks as they hung floating from between two coconut palms; the sounds of laughter, and music; a band of musicians wearing brilliant blue turbans, the plaintive wail of a sitar, and food, always food, of every kind, aromatic and delicious, spread on a long table placed under a shady arbour, surrounded by people, their faces blurring into each other, but all of them, it seemed, were happy and caring. It felt too she was the centre of their care, and she felt safe and, most of all, loved.

A young sailor coiling a rope looked up and gave her a curious stare, bringing her back to the present. Sara straightened her spine and began to pace the deck again; the waiting had become almost unbearable. A trickle of perspiration ran from beneath her wide straw hat, down her throat and into the neck of her white muslin blouse. Her skin beneath her bodice was slippery with sweat, so she would have to keep her arms firmly pressed against her sides in fear of the dreaded stains under her armpits flooding into even wider crescents. She thought how much cooler she’d be if she hadn’t been wearing a corset, and it was tempting to throw it overboard as she had done with the huge cane bustle her aunt’s maid had packed with her luggage. It would have been more sensible to just have given the bustle away, but she’d thought as a symbol of her new freedom it deserved a much more dramatic send-off.

She’d thrown it overboard at dawn, and watched it hover for a long moment on the waves, refusing to sink, and taunting her for her mutinous behaviour, till it floated almost out of sight and sank at last.

The young sailor smiled at her now in an admiring way, then strode along the deck, his wide baggy pants flapping lightly in the breeze, his linen shirt open at the neck, and Sara thought how pleasant it would be to wear such clothes. Her own long legs were encased in cotton bloomers and hidden by the thinnest layer possible of petticoats. She gave a furious little kick of protest under her skirts, but she knew to throw away her petticoat as well would be a step too far.

She recalled her aunt’s constant refrain over the years beating into her brain like a mantra. “Whatever you do or wherever you are, do not let your standards drop for a moment. People will judge you by how you maintain your appearance. A slovenly exterior shows a slovenly will.”

Sara laughed to herself. She had already let her standards slip and was surprised by how little she cared. Clearly it was other people who seemed to mind.

The hated curling irons too were abandoned almost as soon as the ship had been out of view of the shore, and her hair had improved dramatically ever since, shining with a new life and colour now it was allowed to be as it was meant to be.

She reached up to smooth the heavy chignon held in a wide tortoiseshell comb and tucked a few loose strands under her hat. It was difficult to be neat in such weather, but she consoled herself with the thought that perhaps Charles wouldn’t notice … Men usually didn’t notice such things, but then, he was always so immaculate himself and he couldn’t abide untidiness in others.

Dear, dear Charles … Her face took on a faraway look as she cupped her face in her hands, her elbows on the rail. She hadn’t seen him for over a year, not since their hasty marriage on the day he’d left to return to India.

They had planned to have their honeymoon on board the ship, but when Sara’s aunt became gravely ill on the day of her marriage, Sara had no choice but to stay to nurse her till she died. But, even after her aunt being long buried, Charles wrote asking his bride to wait a little longer before joining him. His letters told of typhoons and outbreaks of hostilities amongst the natives, or cholera amongst his staff, then, finally, the need to wait till the end of the monsoon.

She’d decided she wouldn’t wait a moment longer, regardless of disease or bad weather, when at last, when more than a year had passed, Charles’s letter arrived and freed her from the home where she’d begun to feel she would never escape.

“You must take a passage on the Charlotte , leaving Liverpool on 22 ndOctober. My friends Lady Palmer and her daughter Cynthia will accompany you. Unfortunately, Lord Palmer must stay in England for a few months longer, which means I am in charge here … a very good sign for my career. They’ve been in Paris shopping for Cynthia’s trousseau, after having become engaged to a young man who will be in time, a Baronet.”

He was clearly impressed with Miss Palmer, and he proved it with the following lines.

“I cannot stress enough the importance of you becoming friends with them both, my future may depend on it, and the long voyage will give you that opportunity …”

Sara’s thoughts drifted back to the world she’d left behind. The solid two-storey, red brick house near Hampstead Heath, set securely amongst pleasant oaks and a garden full of snowdrops and bluebells: a safe world of middle-class respectability, where no hint of worldly passions would ever be likely to enter.

After visiting on a regular basis for some weeks, Charles had come to the house to say goodbye before returning to India, and everyone assumed he’d come to ask for her hand. When he suggested a moment alone with her in the conservatory, her aunt could barely contain her excitement and rushed forward, taking both his hands in hers in a way to show he was already a member of the family. “Of course, my dear boy,” She smirked and winked till Sara thought she would die of shame. Though even she fully expected he’d ask her to marry him then.

But it came to nothing. He took her hand and held it for a moment, then said something about how he’d miss their amusing chats, and how he’d hoped she’d find time to write to him in India.

A terrible attack of panic overtook her. He was going to leave without asking her to marry him!

She thought of India, and how much she longed to go there, so she defied convention and took matters in her own hands. She swallowed her pride and prepared to lie.

She blurted out, “I’m sorry, I won’t be able to.”

He was clearly taken aback.

“I may be married soon, and it wouldn’t be appropriate to write to a single man.”