He looked at her, squeezing his rag free of soapy water. His slender limbs moved with such quiet dignity Olivia became even more conscious of her own agitated state. She shifted her weight. She should say something to him, stop being so rude. It wasn’t his fault he’d overheard her and Alistair after all. ‘I’m sorry if my husband and I embarrassed you last night,’ she blurted, then gaped as she heard her own, entirely inappropriate, words. Colour rushed into Hassan’s cheeks, turning them mahogany. Olivia hurried to talk away his discomfort with garbled expressions of gratitude for his help yesterday. ‘You were really rather kind… Meant a lot…’ She trailed off.
Hassan looked to the floor.
Olivia tried to think of something to fill the silence. Perhaps she should address the surly footman, make Hassan feel less singled out. She turned to him. ‘Thank you too…’ She broke off, realising she didn’t know his name.
He stood, waiting.
What was his name? She wasn’t sure she’d ever known it. Beads of awkwardness prickled in her armpits.
The footman raised an eyebrow. Finally, he said, ‘It’s El Masri, Ma’am Sheldon.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She squinted apologetically in the sunlight. ‘Well, I’d best get on.’
‘Has there been any word of Ma’am Gray?’ El Masri asked as she set off. ‘We’re not being told anything.’
‘Neither am I,’ said Olivia.
‘We were all questioned first thing,’ El Masri said.
‘I’m sorry I could not help,’ said Hassan quietly. ‘I feel I have let Ma’am Gray down.’ He swilled his cloth in the bucket. ‘I wanted to ask, Ma’am Sheldon, did you manage to speak to the soldier you were looking for?’
‘No.’ Olivia frowned at the mention of Fadil, remembering Edward’s surprise when she’d told him he’d been in the street. She wondered if he’d found out yet what Fadil had been doing there. ‘I hope someone will speak to him. As I’ve said, no one’s talking much to me.’
El Masri raised an eyebrow in a way that suggested he wasn’t surprised. It was an insolent gesture, his observation all the more vexing for being right on the mark, and Olivia was tempted to give him a jolly good dressing-down. She would have, but her silent ‘jolly good’ distracted her, reminding her of Clara. Was her tendency for extreme Britishness in times of stress catching? Or hereditary? Had their mother done it? Or maybe it came from their father’s side, although Olivia couldn’t imagine her witch of a grandmother saying jolly anything…
Oh God. Her chin dropped as remembrance struck her.
There was a rapping at the upstairs window. She turned towards it, mouth agape. Jeremy opened the glass and asked her what she was hanging around outside for.
‘Never mind that,’ she said, ‘when’s my grandmother’s ship due?’ With everything else going on, she had all but forgotten Mildred was coming.
Jeremy blanched, grey eyes widening; it had clearly slipped his mind too. He shut the window and disappeared. Olivia arrived at the front door just as he opened it.
‘She’sh docking the day after tomorrow,’ he said. He was swaying on his feet, his waistcoat buttons were mismatched in their holes, and he had a fleck of what looked like butter on his cheek. Ralph stood moon-eyed by his side. From somewhere deep in the house, Angus was screaming. ‘I told Clara I didn’t want her.’ He frowned. ‘Can’t she shtay with you?’
Olivia stared. She’d never seen Jeremy in such a state. She was used to watching him stride into functions in pristine tailoring, head high, eyes sharp; a magnet for attention. (Much more so than Alistair, whose best attempts at charisma always fell short of convincing. Olivia was certain Jeremy’s popularity irritated him, the veritable salt in the wound after Clara chose Jeremy instead of him. She’d noticed he was especially violent after time in Jeremy and Clara’s company.) Still, no one would want to know Jeremy now – he had unravelled overnight. The extremity of it shocked Olivia, especially given the discord Clara spoke of between them. But then she had said things were different once…
‘Olivia?’
‘What?’
‘Mildred. Can’t you take her?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Olivia had no intention of even speaking to her. ‘Jeremy, have you been up all night?’
Jeremy sighed. ‘Hard to shay.’ He beckoned Olivia in. ‘Drink? Brandy? Gin and it?’
She ignored the offer, tempted as she was to accept. And much as she yearned to seize the moment and press Jeremy on why he’d taken the family to Constantinople, what it was that had had him so afraid for Clara, she didn’t. She’d clearly get no sense out of him, and besides, Ralph was there; she didn’t want to upset him further by bringing it all up. ‘Who’s with Angus?’ she asked instead.
‘The nanny,’ said Jeremy. ‘Whashecalled? Whashecalled? Whashecalled?’ He clicked his fingers in time with the words.
‘Sofia,’ said Ralph.
Jeremy ruffled Ralph’s hair. ‘That’sh my boy,’ he said. ‘I tried to quieten Gus earlier, but he gives me sh… sh… short shrift. Looks at me like he wants to punch me in the fasche.’
‘All right,’ said Olivia, taking Ralph’s chubby fingers in hers. ‘Let’s go to the nursery.’
‘That hushband of yoursh said anything more about Clara?’ Jeremy asked as they left.
‘Not a thing,’ said Olivia.
Jeremy let go of an expletive. Olivia pulled Ralph’s hand, picking up her pace.
Sofia was changing Angus’s napkin when they arrived at the nursery. Her glasses were balanced on her nose, her bosom strained against her apron as she gripped thrashing legs with one hand and fastened the safety pin with the other. She had another of her cigarettes in her mouth, the glowing end of which teetered above Angus’s raging form. ‘I’m watching the ash,’ she said to Olivia through the side of her mouth.
Olivia took the cigarette and stubbed it out.
Sofia continued dressing Angus, apparently oblivious (or possibly just immune) to the cacophony of his wails. ‘There we go,’ she said, finishing. She picked him up and held him out to Olivia. ‘Hold him a while, agapi mou. You could both do with a cuddle. And I could do with a rest.’
‘Oh no.’ Olivia took a step back. ‘I don’t think so.’ She wasn’t used to holding babies. No one she knew back in England had had them, and Gus wasn’t exactly one for being passed around.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Sofia, bundling Angus into Olivia’s arms.
She nearly dropped him. His screams became even more incensed. ‘Hush,’ she said, since that was what women were supposed to say to crying babies. He stared up at her, brown eyes helpless with fury. She rocked up and down, every muscle in her body tense. ‘Do please hush.’
He didn’t.
She asked Sofia what she was doing wrong.
‘Worrying.’ Sofia collapsed into a chair. ‘Although we’re all doing that.’ She pinched her hooked nose and shook her head. ‘You need to relax, Mrs Livvy,’ she said at length. ‘Babies are like animals, they sense our fear.’
‘I’m not sure what I can do about that,’ said Olivia. Even so, she tried to force herself loose. It seemed a small enough thing that she could give Clara, this effort to comfort her son. ‘Shhh, Gus.’ Awkwardly, she kissed his head. He smelt sweet, his dark curls were soft. ‘Hush now,’ she said, more quietly.
It took a minute more, but slowly Angus’s crying subsided. He rested his head on her chest and closed his eyes. A sigh shuddered through his hot little body.
‘There,’ said Olivia.
‘There,’ echoed Sofia. She smiled sadly. ‘I think he must like your smell. You and Mrs Clara wear the same scent. It was your mama’s, you know.’
Olivia nodded slowly. She’d bought it on an impulse at Fortnum’s just before she left London, thinking to make herself feel better. It was Clara who’d told her it was their mother’s favourite.
‘It was a bad business,’ said Sofia, ‘the way your mama and papa went, what that woman did to you after…’ She took off her glasses and tipped
her head back. ‘I can’t stop thinking of it all, how we hoped your mama and papa would come back. The waiting.’
‘I remember it,’ said Olivia. ‘The hope, at least.’ It had taken her years to accept that there was no point. That her parents, who’d ridden out from Cairo on an archaeological dig, never to return – killed, so it was supposed, in a sandstorm – weren’t going to miraculously reappear and whisk her away from her cold stone school.
Sofia sighed. Then, gathering herself, she replaced her glasses and sat up straight. She nodded at Ralph, who was sitting motionless and staring next to the toy box. ‘This will be different though. I’ve told Ralphy here that his mama will be back before he knows it, maybe even as soon as tonight. Isn’t that right, Ralphy?’
He nodded silently.
Sofia asked Olivia if she’d been to the bookshelves yet.
‘No,’ said Olivia, eyes on Ralph’s sad face. ‘I was about to go.’
‘Will you stay with us for a while?’ asked Ralph. He reached into the toy box for the Holmes book Clara had mentioned him liking. ‘We could read, or if you think that might be dull, we could do something else?’ He widened his eyes imploringly. ‘Anything you want to do, we can do it.’
‘All right.’ Olivia smiled down at him. ‘Book first.’
Sherlock Holmes became snap, which became Holmes again, which became lunch in the garden, which became just stay until Gus goes to bed since he’s so happy in your arms. It was dusk by the time Olivia finally extracted herself from her nephews with promises to return the next day. She was trying to believe Sofia’s continued assurances that Clara might be back by then, but there had been no word from anyone all day; it was getting harder and harder to hold faith. As for thoughts of where Clara might be, what she might be going through… it hurt too much to wonder.
Before going to the study, Olivia went in search of Jeremy. Since the last she’d seen of him was several hours ago, wandering aimlessly around the rose beds with a bottle in his hand, she doubted he’d be in a fit state to interrupt her, but even so, she wanted to check. He was stretched out on the veranda floor, no more than a foot away from a comfortable-looking chair, mouth open, dribble snaking down his chin. Olivia sighed at the thought that he’d already given up.
She was exhausted from her strained day in the nursery, her ever-rising fear, and nervous as to what she might be about to find amongst the bookshelves. Her hand trembled as she eased the study door open and approached the shelves of expensively bound volumes. She scanned the second to top shelf and pulled out the books at either end. She flicked through each one impatiently, then turned to the next.
Nothing.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Slowly now, taking her time, she went through the volumes again. She turned each one upside down and shook it rigorously. Still, nothing. She went through them once more. Nothing. She was still pondering the meaning of it when she heard footsteps coming down the corridor. The door handle turned. Thinking fast, Olivia dropped into Jeremy’s chair and began thumbing through one of the books she had scattered over the desk. Chest tight, she raised her eyes as the door jostled open and Jeremy fell through it.
‘Whatsch are yoush doing in here?’ His mouth stuck as he spoke.
‘I want something to read to keep my mind off things,’ said Olivia, hoping Jeremy was too far gone to hear the breathlessness in her voice. Jeremy glanced down at the book in her hand and frowned in confusion. It was a copy of Mrs Beeton’s tome on household management. She pushed it to one side. ‘I’d best get on,’ she said, rising.
Jeremy caught her arm as she walked past. His touch was surprisingly strong. ‘I like you, Livvy. I alwaysh have. I told Alistair, you know, that he should never have brought you here.’ He shook his head, trying to push the haze of inebriation away. ‘Don’t meddle. For your own shake, shtay the hell out of it.’
Chapter Ten
Fadil was in the front garden when Olivia returned home. He was dressed in the same oversized khaki trousers that he always wore, a cracked leather belt holding them up; his withered arms were sinewy with muscle beneath his shirt sleeves, and his wrinkled face was coated with a sheen of sweat to match Olivia’s own, as though he too had just been galloping. He took Bea’s reins whilst Olivia dismounted. Olivia looked around for Edward, assuming he must be home too. But the leafy grounds were still, quiet; only the sad singing of the Bedouin mother preparing supper at the gate could be heard. Olivia and Fadil were alone in the dusk.
Olivia ran her handkerchief across her forehead, staining the white linen ruddy with dust. ‘Have you been following me, Fadil?’
He tilted his bald head to the side.
Olivia asked, ‘Does that mean yes or no?’
Another head tilt.
She narrowed her eyes. ‘I saw you there yesterday,’ she said, ‘on the Rue Cherif Pasha, just before Clara went.’
‘Sayed Bertram has told me, Ma’am Sheldon.’
‘Did you see Clara being taken?’
‘No.’
‘Did you see anything?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing at all that might be useful?’
‘No, Ma’am Sheldon. I am sorry.’
Olivia gave him another long look. He met it without waver, but then he was hardly one to be cowed by the force of a stare. He’d been a soldier longer than Olivia had been alive, first with the Egyptians, then the British ever since the ’82 invasion. Edward had told Olivia that Fadil could have stayed on with the Egyptian Army if he’d wanted to, it had been kept running by the Protectorate, just with British officers in charge. But, He never wants to serve with Egyptians again. A band of nationalist soldiers took against him in the early eighties, when he refused to help them in an uprising. The men locked his wife and children in a hut and set fire to it. I tell you, Olly, there’s evil on every side…
Fadil had been Edward’s man for years, first during the war to extend the Sudanese border, then in Cairo, now here. Edward said he was a great soldier, indispensable in a crisis. There was one story in particular that had stuck in Olivia’s mind, about Fadil guiding Edward’s company past a hostile troop of Sudanese, just feet beneath them in the dunes. It had turned her rigid with fear to hear it. She’d wanted to beg Edward never to go into the desert again (she hadn’t, they’d been at dinner, Alistair with them; all she’d said was, ‘Oh for goodness’ sake’). She knew Edward relied on Fadil, she supposed she was touched by him giving his right-hand man over to her guard, but the covertness of how he’d gone about it unsettled her, as did Edward’s believing such a babysitter necessary. Did he really think she was next?
She took a deep breath, inhaling the emptiness of the garden, her terror for Clara, the unknowns crowding her mind, so noisy they made her want to scream. When she swallowed, her throat felt sore and tight. If she hadn’t been so sure she never cried, she might have been afraid of bursting into tears. She wanted to go somewhere, but she didn’t know where. In the absence of a place to move to, she stayed still and it was lunacy, madness, that she was where she was, standing in the shadow of a house she despised, in Egypt, Egypt, the home of a man to whom she’d pledged her life out of cowardice, the place he did the things he did night after night. And Clara vanished, Jeremy making his slurred threats, Mildred coming the day after tomorrow, and Edward, Edward, not hers, never hers…
‘I’m not all right,’ she said, even though Fadil hadn’t asked if she was. ‘I have to go inside, you see,’ she said, giving him another explanation he hadn’t asked for. ‘There’s nowhere else. I can’t stand it.’
Fadil’s eyes crinkled in an expression that might have been compassion.
‘Am I being overfamiliar? I am, aren’t I? I’ll be telling you about the nuns next.’
‘The nuns?’
‘At the convent.’
Fadil nodded as though she was making perfect sense.
She laughed, not nicely, a jarring, strangely pitched, gasping sound. In a matter of moments, without rea
lising it was happening, without allowing it, Olivia was crying. Sobbing. She stared at Fadil, horrified, snorting and wailing, the tears pouring from her. It had been years since she’d last cried; she barely understood what was happening to her: the gasps in her throat, the release in her eyes. She shook her head helplessly, trying to get herself under control, but she couldn’t, and the frustrated attempt just made her cry even harder.
‘Come,’ said Fadil. ‘I’ll take the horses. Why don’t you go and sit in the garden, watch the sea. You like it, I think, our beautiful Mediterranean.’
She sniffed and wiped her nose with her gloved hand, horsehair sticking to her damp skin. ‘I’m not going into the garden,’ she said, and as a single calming breath shuddered through her, she knew where she needed to be.
She’d known all along, of course.
Edward stood in the parade ground’s furthermost paddock, his five best lieutenants before him. He clenched his jaw as, one by one, they ran through their fruitless day’s search for Clara: their trawl of taverns and boarding houses, the miles of farmland stretching up the coast. He nodded tightly, feeling his impatience grow with every passing minute. As the last man tailed off, silence descended. The lieutenants eyed one another. Edward bit down the urge to tell them what a bloody useless lot they all were. He looked to the rapidly darkening sky, calming himself. They’d slogged all day, his men, they were trying their best. Edward could hardly blame them for coming up with nothing; his own search of the desert border hadn’t been any more successful.
He’d spent hours riding between settlements, interviewing the local fellahin. His scorched skin was tight from the sun. But no one had seen anything. The dunes were so damned vast, that was the problem, and the coastline and city so full of hiding places. They had no idea if they were even searching in the right places. Were they looking for a captive – in which case they should focus on spots with access to shelter and fresh water – or a body? They needed a lead. Edward’s only hope was that one would come from the Turkish Quarter. He’d tracked down an informer of his, a merchant by the name of Garai Aziz, at dawn. Garai had proven himself adept at sniffing out all sorts of things in the past: potential agitators, murmurs of ill-feeling. Edward had left him in no doubt that this was his most important job yet, and that the reward for his help would reflect that. If he could help.
Beneath a Burning Sky Page 12
