Excerpts

1 Ceylon 1935 A cinnamon plantation  His slight build makes it difficult to tell his age, but sitting under the hanging branches of the banyan tree he looks lonely and, as sunlight filters through the glossy leaves, it dances on his thin limbs. This boy, more wood sprite than child of flesh and blood, is the kind of child a mother longs to wrap her arms around. He selects a pebble and, with a furrowed brow, concentrates, then throws it to see how far it will go. Satisfied it's flown farther than the one before, he clambers to his feet and walks around the little rhododendron-enclosed clearing, scuffing his sandals in the twigs and leaves that crackle and splinter beneath him.  He listens to owls ruffling their feathers and shifting in the tree, watches a striped squirrel race up a tree trunk, and then he sniffs the air--citronella, burnt earth, the aroma of cinnamon, and a tang of salty ocean he can almost taste. He picks a pale apricot blossom and buries his nose in its soft, fruity fragrance. This one is for his mother.  He watches a scarlet basker flitting from one leaf to another and wishes he had brought his book of insects with him. He's never seen this one before except in the book, along with other dragonflies, damselflies and butterflies. He knows there are thousands of them in Ceylon--this place his mother calls a pearl. As a fresh breeze blows he feels it on his arms and his skin tingles. It's the best place in the world, this glittering sun-sparkled forest, and he eagerly awaits a walk with his mother, in the evening when it's cooler. She finds the heat of the day tiresome, but he knows all the shady places and there's always somewhere cool to hide. But then a change comes over him and a trace of sadness darkens his face. Although he's content playing alone, something in him longs for more, and he shivers from an uncomfortable feeling of guilt. The moment passes. When he walks with his mother, her scent wraps around him, and he enjoys calling out the names of birds for her to laugh in pretend amazement that he knows so many of them. His mother doesn't laugh enough, though it's hardly surprising, he thinks, given their circumstances. That's the phrase he hears all the time: "given our circumstances," it's probably not a good idea. Or, "given our circumstances," perhaps we'd better not. He has climbed almost to the top of the hill now, his favorite wide-open place. Here he can see for miles and if he half closes his eyes he can almost feel the ocean. He imagines the cool waves breaking over his burning skin; sees himself running on the beach as fast as he can with the wind blowing in his too-long hair; pictures the fishermen in the early evening before the sky turns pink and the sea turns lilac. He's startled by a rustle coming from the trees and stands still to listen. It's probably a toque monkey, he thinks, or one of the langurs with the very long tails. You mustn't try to befriend or feed toque macaques, his mother says. If you feed them they think you are subordinate. It means they think you are lower than they are. Sub-or-din-ate. Subordinate would be bad. Nobody wants to be less important, do they?    2 Ceylon, December 23, 1935 The 300-year-old walled town of galle It had been sweltering in the mid-eighties during the day and even now, at seven in the evening, it was still at least seventy-five degrees. Louisa Reeve's bias-cut gown in silver satin-silk had been made up in Colombo and copied from a dress she'd spotted in American Vogue. By the time the magazine reached her it was months out of date, but still, you did what you could. Galle tailors, though solidly reliable, were not modern, and everything they ran up turned a bit too Sinhalese in the execution, but in Colombo some of the tailors could copy anything. As she stood at five foot nine, the elegant flowing femininity of the style suited her and certainly made a change from the linen shirt and comfortable trousers she usually wore to ride her bicycle. Elliot came up behind her and wrapped her in a hug. "Happy?" he whispered in her ear, before running his fingers through her hair. "Hey, I've just spent ages on that." She had softened her wayward blond curls into finger waves, with an imitation-sapphire clip on one side. "Are you feeling okay?" Elliot said, his eyes serious and concerned. She reached for his hand. "I'm feeling fine, though I was thinking of Julia earlier." "Really?"  She nodded. "I'm fine." "Good. It's going to be a wonderful Christmas and you look ravishing." He turned to leave. "If you really are all right . . . I'll just check on the wine." "Are you still planning to sail on Boxing Day?" "I think so. Just for a few hours. You don't mind? Jeremy has a spanking-new dinghy and we're trying out a new-fangled trapezing harness too. He's had it made up by a local on plans sent over from England. Perfect for racing, I'm told."  He brushed past her on his way to the door and, as she caught the trace of cedar cologne from his skin, she smiled and watched his retreating back in the mirror. Even after twelve years of marriage she thought him still a truly handsome man, with short curly brown hair, lively green eyes and a charm that drew the world to him. He never had to try too hard. Friendship came quickly and easily to him and there was always a buzz when he was around. She had friends too, though it took her longer to get to know people and she didn't have Elliot's direct way. She loved working people out though, trying to understand what made them tick and, for her, once she made a friend, it was usually a friend for life.  She leaned out of the top-floor window and gazed at the blue sky and the shimmering turquoise seas surrounding Galle. The present tilted and the moment she had named her daughter, Julia, rushed back. Standing in this very spot, she'd held her for one precious hour until tears had blinded her vision. When had she died? Before or during the birth itself? To be born without life. What did it mean? These were the questions still haunting her. Just one more day and Julia would have been christened at the Anglican All Saints' Church--the very place she and Elliot had been married and she herself had been christened. Even now, over two years later, the past claimed her and, guilt-ridden, she felt there should have been something she could have done, or not done. She closed her eyes and pictured a heady sun-drenched day. Julia playing on the beach with the dogs, Tommy, Bouncer and Zip, the runt of the litter, all of them coated in glittering sand, damp from the sea and smelling of salt, and her little girl shrieking with laughter. She pictured her collecting shells and running, running and tripping over her feet in haste, desperate to show off her precious bounty, only to forget about it moments later. And then, oh so real, she imagined gathering her daughter in her arms after her bath, smelling the trace of baby shampoo in her hair, all apple and mint. She sucked in her breath and, allowing the dream to retreat, returned to the present. All that remained for her to do was to ensure the staff were in place and none of the flowers were wilting. She walked out onto the veranda, took a match and a taper, and then lit the external oil lamps and the citronella candles to repel mosquitoes. On the tips of her toes, she checked a lampshade where a red-vented bulbul had made its nest, and made sure the lightbulb had been removed. She heard the tchreek tchreek of the parent bird as it kept watch. "It's all right, little one," she whispered. "The bulb won't be replaced until your chicks have flown away." The garden surrounded the veranda, where the pink hibiscus blooms scattered in the breeze, and she loved to sit and listen to the dawn chorus while everything glowed in the early sunshine.  She went back indoors to the living room, glancing up at the eighteenth-century wooden beams of the grand colonial house, where concealed lamps spread a golden sheen. She'd painted the room herself in orange and the door frames in turquoise: a look that startled some, addicted as they were to the regulation cream colonial walls, but she adored the brightness. Two dark-wood ceiling fans rotated the air and in one corner an indoor palm patterned the high wall with shadows. "I Only Have Eyes for You" was playing on the gramophone. Their home at ground level housed the kitchen, the part-time housekeeper's room, the main living areas and the offices. The guest bedrooms and two bathrooms were located on the next floor, along with Louisa's sewing room. Then on the top floor there was her and Elliot's bedroom, their bathroom, plus an airy private living room, a sun-filled peaceful space opening out on to a roof terrace. At the back of the garden another building housed the servants' quarters, though some lived locally in Galle itself. A little later and, as the last of the guests arrived, Louisa and Elliot were standing together in the main entrance hall to greet them. She glanced up at the skylight, through which acres of sun streamed during the day. The plantation shutters at the bank of windows fronting the house had been left open, though the windows themselves remained closed against insects. She hoped that from outside the glittering lights cast a welcoming warmth. She wanted all their guests to be happy on this glorious shining evening, and a bubble of excitement ran through her. One of Elliot's friends arrived. Jeremy Pike was the son of a well-to‑do rubber planter and had known Elliot back in Colombo. A well-dressed, neatly mustached man, he often spent a few days at the family's summer residence in Galle and he and Elliot were frequent sailing partners, though Louisa had never gotten to know him well. He was what they called a man's man. After him an elderly couple, friends of her father, started commiserating about the oppressive heat when, behind them, she spotted a tea-planter couple getting out of a Daimler.  "Ah," Elliot said. "That's good. The Hoopers have come." Louisa watched the slight figure of a dark-haired woman in a violet dress walk slowly to the door with her tall husband. The woman was very pretty with hair that seemed to fall naturally in ringlets, and eyes a perfect match to the color of her dress. She carried a baby wrapped in a lacy shawl and when she stumbled slightly the elderly ayah following behind reached out a steadying hand. The man placed his arm around the young woman's shoulders and Louisa thought how protective he seemed.  Elliot stepped forward to welcome them, a broad smile on his face. "Laurence and Gwendolyn, how lovely that you made it."  Louisa stretched out her hand to the man and then his wife passed the baby to the ayah before coming to Louisa for a kiss on the cheek. "I'm so happy to see you again," she said. Louisa smiled. "It's been months since we met up in Colombo."  "Tea at the Galle Face Hotel, wasn't it? I loved looking out across the ocean and imagining Galle itself in the distance. And now here we are."  "You hadn't had the baby yet, then." Gwen shook her head. "Gosh, no. It really has been too long." "Well, I'm more than happy you're here now. What do you think of Galle?" "I love it. I was here once before, when I first moved to Ceylon, but it's been ages. The town is so sleepy, I can't wait to explore tomorrow morning." "Would you let me show you around?" Gwen nodded. "If you have time?" "Lots of time, and I know the place like the back of my hand." "You've lived here all your life, haven't you?" "Except when I was at boarding school in England. I spend an awful lot of time cycling around. As you've probably noticed, we're on a promontory and totally enclosed by the sea wall on three sides, so it's very safe."  "I'd love to see it properly." "Then that's settled. You must be staying at the New Oriental Hotel here in town?" Gwen nodded. "Then I shall call for you. Shall we say eight? Early is best before it gets too hot and sticky." "Terrific. This is a little break for us. My mother is over from England and she's looking after our son, Hugh, but we'll be back in time for Christmas Eve dinner." She smiled up at her husband, who began to speak, but Elliot interrupted. "What say you, Laurence . . . to a shot of a rather good malt?"  As Laurence nodded his agreement Elliot clapped him on the back. "We'll leave you two women to it," he said with a wink at Laurence and then quickly touched Louisa on the hand. "That okay with you?" She gave him a look that the others couldn't see, and hoped he wouldn't drink too much. But no, surely the gambling, and heavy drinking, were firmly in the past. Then she turned and smiled at Gwen. "What's your baby called?" she asked. "Alice. She's six weeks old today, so too young to leave behind." She glanced around. "Let me point you in the direction of a room where you can leave Alice to sleep." While Gwen and the ayah settled the baby, Louisa wandered through the house. As she mingled with her guests, she sniffed air laced with a trace of lemon polish and the fresh scent of blossom from the pongam tree in the garden. She'd displayed swathes of its branches dotted around the house in large floor-standing ceramic vases. Early to bloom this year, the small flowers were pale purple and a favorite of hers. She had invited some of her father's friends, as well as her own, and had included many of the merchants from around the citadel that was Galle. A few were now on the veranda, wearing their best clothes, and gathering close to the citronella candles. The sound of their laughter trickled through to the hall. The nice thing about Galle was the way at least some of the British mingled with the Muslims, the Buddhists, the Burghers and the Hindus. It was a genuinely multinational, multi-faith place. There were lots of other lovely things too, like the enchanting maze of straight and narrow backstreets where she knew everybody by name, the smell of fresh ginger or mint tea on a sparkling morning, and the many goats, cows and lizards she encountered on her walks. She'd enjoy showing it all to Gwen. Excerpted from The Sapphire Widow: A Novel by Dinah Jefferies All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.