Read Online Monsoon Mists by Christina Courtenay - Free Book Online

way.
    ‘Bless you, sahib, may the gods send you good fortune.’
    Cloth of various kinds was the main product of the province of Gujarat and Jamie lost count of the number of sellers he passed. Mostly they offered their customers cotton – white, coloured, striped or painted – but also some silks and materials embroidered with gold or silver thread. The majority of the shops were situated on the ground floor of the houses and the shopkeepers stood in their doorways calling for customers and crying their wares. If you ignored them, they would sometimes follow you for a while to recommend their goods, presumably in the hope that you’d change your mind.
    ‘Step inside, sahib , see best quality cloth in Surat,’ they all shouted, trying out various languages and dialects if they knew how.
    This made Jamie smile, but he continued on without taking them up on their offers. He would buy a large amount for his mother and sisters if he ever returned to Sweden, but for now, he declined.
    At last he reached the bazaar, which was really just a long street, but twice as broad as some of the others. He knew that, with the exception of the hottest part of the day, it was always full of people from early in the morning until late at night, making it difficult to get through the throng. It was a wonderfully colourful scene, the multitude of wares for sale creating a patchwork of bright hues. Also present were a huge number of dogs, barking and yapping, but he’d been told these were highly valued by the Parsees, one of the ethnic groups in the city, so no one took much notice.
    Various pungent smells assailed him – spicy food, flowers, fruit and incense, as well as less savoury odours. Children with big dark eyes and black hair darted in and out between their elders, making a racket, shrieking and laughing with joy. They were beautiful, with very white teeth in their sunburned faces and ready smiles. Jamie couldn’t help but smile back at them, even when they bumped into him by mistake.
    About halfway down the street, Jamie suddenly spotted Mrs Miller alighting from a palanquin with a man holding out an impatient hand to help her. While her escort paid off the men carrying it or gave them instructions – Jamie didn’t know whether it was a personal conveyance or a hired one – the widow stood beside him with a faraway gaze as if she was deep in thought. Jamie stopped for a moment too, curious despite himself. He’d calmed down considerably since their encounter and admitted to himself that he’d completely over-reacted the other night. Andrew had since confirmed that the poor woman was plagued with suitors, so perhaps it wasn’t to be wondered at if she’d assumed he was yet another one.
    Still, she could have waited until he actually asked.
    Her escort was taking his time, perhaps haggling with their bearers. This gave Jamie the opportunity to admire the view the widow presented. There was no question she was stunning to look at and he reckoned he could safely gawp from a distance as she’d never know. The last thing he wanted was to feed her vanity, but from where he was standing, she wouldn’t be able to see him.
    But who was the man? An Englishman, or other foreigner of some sort, judging by his fair hair, but with a tanned face as if he’d spent years here. Of normal height, the man wasn’t bad looking, but nothing special either. Her lover? Hadn’t the widow told Jamie she preferred to be alone? Maybe it had all been lies, designed to discourage him from offering for her. Jamie swallowed down the irritation that rose inside him anew. He shouldn’t jump to conclusions without learning the true facts.
    In the next instant, he forgot all about their encounter in the roof garden as a flash of white sped past her and Jamie saw her arm jerk as the drawstring bag she’d been holding was snatched out of her hand. Mrs Miller opened her mouth, presumably giving a small shriek, and the man she was with turned and frowned