The Jasmine Wife. Jane Coverdale

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^nd October. 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.”

      His face showed no emotion, though he flexed his hands behind his back as he paced amongst the potted begonias.

      “Do I know the fellow?”

      “No, he’s someone I’ve known for a long time.” She stared at her feet so he wouldn’t see her eyes.

      “I promised him my answer within the week.”

      “Does this mean you’ll accept him?”

      “The family is very fond of him, and so am I really …” but here she hesitated, then sighed, hoping to plant a little seed of doubt in his mind.

      “But he’s a highly respectable man with a bright future … so …”

      She had almost begun to believe in her fictitious fiancé herself.

      Charles left the house deep in thought, and Sara was convinced she’d never see him again.

      “Well?” Her aunt met her at the door, her uncle standing behind with a foolish smile on his lips.

      She tried to speak but no sounds came out. Her humiliation was too great. She rushed to her bedroom, her face averted, her aunt’s bitter words following her up the stairs.

      “Whatever did you do wrong this time?”

      Later, when she emerged, her face red and swollen with shame, her relations scarcely bothered to hide the fact they thought she was nothing more than a liability.

      She thought back to that evening’s long, silent, unendurable meal, the air thick with disapproval. Her uncle’s furious tight-lipped sawing of the roast, his resentful way of handing her the plate without looking at her, and how he gave her less meat than usual.

      Now there was no escaping the endless censure and, with the departure of Charles, there was nothing and no one to look forward to, just endless days of boredom or visiting her aunt’s stuffy friends and walking the pekes. She’d developed a hatred of the poor things.

      The next morning, in an attempt to recapture her lost pride, she put forward the idea of going to India by herself.

      “Hundreds of girls do it.” She raised her chin and glared, even though she knew she might have gone too far. “Why should I have to wait for a husband to take me …?”

      Her uncle was moved enough by her outburst to put down his newspaper in a way calculated to increase her fear of him. “So, you would join a shipload of common shopgirls, to trawl amongst the rabble of India for a husband? Simply because you can’t find one here … or won’t,” he added, referring to the time when she had refused what was seen as a perfectly good offer from a country parson with a generous living because she couldn’t bear the way he blew his nose then examined the contents of his handkerchief.

      For almost a week she was hardly spoken to; the outrage was too deep.

      It was while she sat, frozen with humiliation, staring down at her untouched breakfast, that the maid had entered and announced Mr Charles Fitzroy was waiting in the library.

      “Perhaps he forgot his hat?” her uncle remarked cattily as she flew out of the room. In the hallway she took a moment to tidy her hair and compose her face into what she thought was an expression of pleasant unconcern before she opened the door to face him once more. Even so, her voice came out husky and cracked. “Mr Fitzroy? I didn’t expect to see you again.”

      He was standing by the window staring out at the garden, still covered in a thin layer of morning frost, then, with what seemed an enormous effort of will, he turned to face her.

      “I’ve been thinking …” He took a deep breath and swallowed hard, unable to look at her while rolling his hat around in his hands. “Look, I can’t accept you’ll marry this other fellow. I had it in mind that you might marry me.”

      She held onto the back of a chair for support. “You didn’t mention this before,” she answered at last, her voice shaking.

      “It didn’t seem fair to ask you to give up your life here, but it seems if I wait any longer you are lost to me. Though if you love this other fellow …”

      “No, I don’t love him,” she managed to blurt out, “I never have. I was going to refuse him.”

      He took a step closer. “Are you going to refuse me?”

      She had just enough self-control to pause for a respectable time before answering, then to allow him to take her in his arms and clumsily brush their lips together.

      Then the relief, the blessed relief, to be able to announce she’d received a proposal of marriage from Charles Fitzroy, and that she’d accepted him.

      It was decided to arrange a special licence so they could be married almost at once, then sail for India together on the same day of the marriage, therefore saving the cost of a honeymoon.

      Later, when the first throes of excitement had died down, Sara examined her reasons for accepting him. She was fairly sure she loved him, of course, although it had taken her some time to realise it. He’d been lured to the house by her ever-hopeful aunt, as had many other young men before him, and placed as an offering at her feet. Knowing she was expected to encourage him, she’d felt a stubborn resentment, telling herself he was no different from all the others.

      Then, while they’d been playing tennis in the garden and he’d paused to take a breath, he was, without