by Jane Jackson
‘Sabra told you?’ he prompted. His raised glass hid the lower half of his face.
‘That the Khedive is a weak man who is determined to be on the winning side by playing the English, French, the Nationalists and the Sultan off against each other. How does she know this? Because the Khedive is her cousin.’
He was silent and she knew he was weighing up all the possible ramifications. Then he raised his glass in salute. ‘You are – invaluable. But surely you did not talk politics all afternoon? I cannot imagine Miss Collingwood bearing that with patience.’
Caseley drank. The juice was sweet and tart and slid down her dry throat like soothing nectar. ‘You’re right. She has little concern for anything except what interests her.’
‘What does interest her?’
‘Sheikh Imad. Sabra tried with great tact to warn her off. But Antonia is deaf to anything she does not wish to hear.’
‘What is your opinion of the Sheikha?’
‘I like her. She knows her position is unusual, especially for an Egyptian woman. Her wealth and status give her freedom to live as she chooses.’ Caseley drank again. ‘She envies me.’
Jago leapt to his feet. ‘Envies you?’ He frowned, incredulous. ‘If she had any idea –’
‘She does,’ Caseley broke in. ‘She was surprised that I had accompanied you and asked did I not have children. Please, will you sit down?’
Lowering himself onto the end of the trunk he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, turning the glass in his fingers. They were barely a foot apart. ‘I’m sorry. Go on.’
‘I told her I’d had two sons but they had died.’ Saying it made her want to rip her clothes and howl. But hearing the words come from her mouth was another small step towards accepting that it was not a nightmare from which she could wake. It was real and all the tears in the world would not change it.
‘She envies me because I have experienced something she never will.’ He raised his eyes to hers and waited. She knew him as a ship’s master who drove his ship and his crew hard, demanding instant obedience, yet never asking of them anything he would not do himself. She also knew him as a man of deep emotion and infinite patience.
Caseley moistened her lips. ‘All Muslim girls go through a – a procedure. Sabra said they are cut.’ She felt heat flush her face. ‘It is done so they cannot feel pleasure and will remain faithful in marriage.’ His expression had hardened to an unreadable mask. But the horror she saw in his eyes made her glad she had told him. She wanted him to understand.
‘Something went wrong and she was left with scarring that meant –’ Caseley swallowed. ‘She cannot be a wife and will never be a mother.’
Muttering a curse, Jago jumped to his feet and prowled the room. ‘She told you this to win your sympathy?’
Caseley watched him. ‘If she did, I willingly give it. But I don’t think that was her motive. Her situation makes her an outsider, as I am. Losing my mother, my limp, working for my father – it made my life very different from those of the girls I grew up with. And now – a mother without children – I am even more so. This afternoon was only the second time I have met her. Yet there is a bond – it is hard to explain.’
A knock on the door made them both turn. Jago took a folded paper offered by the servant, who bowed and disappeared down the passage. Closing the door, he unfolded the note.
‘It’s from Robert Pawlyn. He has just arrived back from Cairo and has news he believes I should know.’
‘Invite him to dine with us. Unless you would prefer to see him alone?’
‘I would not. I value your opinion. You often notice things I might dismiss as unimportant or irrelevant. The more information we have before leaving for the desert, the better.’
While Caseley bathed, Jago dashed off a note and took it down to the concierge for a servant to deliver.
Cool and fresh, Caseley redid her hair, then put on a clean shift and her newly laundered lilac gown. Servants emptied the bath and brought large copper cans of clean water. Jago was in the bath when there was another knock on the door.
A servant stood outside. Begging her pardon for the intrusion he told her Miss Collingwood was downstairs and needed to speak with her most urgently.
Caseley followed him down. Antonia was pacing the foyer. Seeing Caseley as she descended the final few stairs, Antonia hurried forward. Before she could speak, Caseley took her arm and steered her past the reception desk and curious gaze of the concierge into an empty lounge.
‘You have to do something!’ she burst out as Caseley closed the glass door.
‘Why don’t we sit down and you can tell me what has upset you?’
Antonia drew herself up. ‘Don’t patronise me!’
Caseley flinched. ‘That was not my intention. I am simply concerned that your hasty arrival and obvious distress might provoke gossip.’
‘You’re right.’ In another of her lightning changes of mood, Antonia touched Caseley’s arm. ‘I should not have spoken so. But how can I be calm when my whole future is at stake?’
Caseley sat down on the nearest chair and gestured to the one beside her.
Reluctantly Antonia sat, then leaned forward to confide, ‘My father has learned of the bad feeling between Sabra and the Khedive.’
‘How?’
‘From Spencer, who else? Horrible little man. Though how he would have heard ... Still, I daresay such information could not remain secret for long. The point is my father has decided I am not to visit the Sheikha any more, which is ridiculous when only days ago he was praising the usefulness of the connection. He says my unconventional behaviour and choice of friends are causing people to question my loyalties. What people? Most of the English have gone. He must mean Maud. I never liked her. Now he announces that he wants me to marry Spencer. He says it will put an end to gossip. Well, I won’t. Nor can he make me. But Caseley, he is forbidding me to attend the desert wedding. You must ask your husband to speak to him. I can’t miss it. I just can’t.’
Battered by this impassioned torrent, Caseley leaned forward and touched Antonia’s knee. ‘Try to be calm –’
‘Calm?’ Antonia’s voice climbed an octave. ‘Have you any idea what –?’
‘Hush, Antonia.’ Hearing herself use the same tone she had used to discipline her sons, Caseley felt her heart stutter. ‘Do you want the hotel servants spreading your private business all over the city?’
‘No, of course not. But –’
‘You are upsetting yourself for no reason.’
‘How can you say that?’
Ignoring Antonia’s muted shriek, Caseley continued evenly, ‘You could remind your father that my husband is acting on behalf of the British government, so he must go with Sheikh Imad to meet the tribal elders. Jago needs me with him because I speak French but he doesn’t. Neither of us speaks Arabic, but you do. That being so your presence is vital to the mission. As Mr Pawlyn speaks both those languages it might be better if you do not mention his presence in the party. But that must be your decision.’
Antonia’s tension drained away, her anger and anxiety softening into a relieved smile. ‘Of course. That’s perfect. I have to go because Captain Barata needs me.’
‘And I will welcome your company, not simply as another Englishwoman, but to advise me on protocol when we meet the Bedouin women.’
‘But I don’t know anything about Bedouin life.’ Seeing Caseley’s surprise, Antonia lifted one shoulder. ‘Why would I? Sheikh Imad’s education means he is practically a European.’
Recalling the Sheikh’s adherence to cultural rules forbidding him even to shake hands with a woman, Caseley doubted that. But she decided it was more diplomatic not to comment.
‘My own father had very strong views and never hesitated to voice them,’ she told Antonia. ‘So I sympathise with your situation. My advice would be not to argue. Tell him you understand his concerns. But as a diplomat and Sir Charles’s deputy, he will surely want to do whatever is necessary, regardles
s of his personal feelings, to persuade the Bedouin to take England’s side.’
Antonia clapped her hands. ‘That’s perfect! I should have thought of it myself. But if he says anything more about me marrying Spencer –’
‘You tell him you appreciate his anxiety –’
‘For himself and his reputation, not my happiness.’
Caseley ignored Antonia’s bitter words. ‘However, as the desert trip is of national importance, would he not agree that personal matters ought to be set aside until your return?’
Antonia nodded quickly. ‘He cannot argue with that. Oh, that is such a relief. I’d better get back. Thank goodness I came. You have helped put it all in perspective. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Jago was putting on his coat as Caseley re-entered their room. ‘Where did you go?’
‘Downstairs. Miss Collingwood arrived in a highly agitated state. She and her father have fallen out. He said she cannot attend the Bedouin wedding and wants her to marry Mr Blaine. She wanted you to speak to him – to her father, not Mr Blaine.’
‘And say what?’ He adjusted his cuffs.
‘That as neither you nor I speak Arabic, but she does, we need her. I thought she might be able to help me with advice on Bedouin culture.’
‘Of which she knows nothing.’ He was scathing.
‘What makes you say so?’
‘Observation.’ Impatience compressed his lips as he shook his head. ‘I do not like you being drawn into Miss Collingwood’s dramas.’
‘I did not ask for it.’
‘I know that. But be wary, Caseley. It is in your nature to be kind. I would not like to see you taken advantage of.’
She wished she could tell him he was imagining things. But from what she had seen of Antonia’s erratic emotions, she didn’t think he was.
As they left their room, Robert Pawlyn emerged from his. Exchanging greetings, they walked downstairs together.
In the candlelit dining room tables were laid with crisp white cloths and napkins, gleaming glassware and silver cutlery. Jago held her chair while she sat, and she looked around while he and Pawlyn discussed wines. Not many tables were occupied. Caseley wondered if this was because so many people had left the city. Used to country hours and shipboard mealtimes they were eating comparatively early. Perhaps the other guests – if there were any – preferred to dine later.
While the wine was poured and a fragrant clear soup served, Pawlyn asked after Antonia. Caseley told him of their visit to the Sheikha’s villa. She described the airy comfort of the house and the colour and tranquillity of the garden. To no one but Jago would she ever speak of the confidences she and Sabra had shared.
When the waiter left, Pawlyn told them how anti-foreigner and anti-Christian feeling was creating an atmosphere of increasing tension.
‘Cairo is a powder keg,’ he said quietly. ‘All it needs is a spark to light the fuse. The ruling Turco-Circassian elite view the nationalist cause with contempt. They cannot or will not accept that their oppression and misrule are responsible for the surge of support for Colonel Arabi. Sir Auckland Colvin, the English Financial Controller, is absolutely furious. He expected his draft budget to be adopted. But the Egyptian government has its own ideas so they ignored it. Now he is vowing that if the Nationalists should ever come to power he will do all he can to ruin them.’
‘Wasn’t he against any armed intervention by England?’ Jago asked.
Pawlyn nodded. ‘He was. Now he’s in favour of it. He claims to have the correspondent of the Pall Mall Gazette in his pocket. The paper will print whatever he wants in return for exclusive information. This is the newspaper read by most English MPs and they are being given a distorted picture of the situation here in Egypt.’
‘The Sheikha said as much,’ Caseley said.
‘How would she know?’ Jago asked.
‘The Pall Mall Gazette and the Times are telegraphed back to Cairo,’ Pawlyn explained, ‘and translated into French, English and Arabic. Egyptians are bewildered, hurt and furious at the bias and outright lies being printed.’
He fell silent as their soup plates were cleared and the fish course was served. ‘Europeans make a grave mistake in assuming they are intellectually superior to every other race,’ he said when they were once more alone.
‘Peasants working in the fields are not capable of governing themselves,’ Jago pointed out. Caseley recognised his tactic of offering an opinion he didn’t necessarily hold in order to provoke a response.
‘Are farmers in rural England or the slum-dwelling poor in cities who work in factories any more able?’ Pawlyn replied. ‘Don’t they rely on their countrymen who have the benefit of education to govern on their behalf and in their best interests? Why then should it be any different here?’
‘You make a fair point.’
‘Will you excuse me?’ Caseley rose from her chair. Both men immediately stood. ‘I need to pack.’
‘Shall I –?’ Jago began.
Shaking her head, she touched his arm lightly. ‘Please, stay and enjoy your coffee.’ She knew they would talk more freely without her there, and she needed some time alone.
Chapter Ten
The following morning Caseley was sitting in front of the mirror. She had released her hair from its loose braid and was brushing it out when a momentary faintness made her head swim.
Resting the brush in her lap she closed her eyes and willed it to pass, dimly aware that the splashing in the adjoining room had stopped. She tried to draw in a deep breath, but the rigid cage of her corset made it impossible. Her shift was damp and uncomfortable against her skin. Outside it would be hot, and Cairo would be hotter still.
‘Caseley?’
She started, and met Jago’s gaze in the mirror. ‘Good morning. I won’t be long.’ Putting down the brush she gathered her thick hair into a twist on top of her head. Exposed to the air, her neck felt cooler. She could do this. She was stronger than she looked, stronger than she felt.
‘There’s no rush. Pawlyn has ordered three calèches for nine o’clock, so we have plenty of time for breakfast.’
The thought of food made Caseley’s stomach lurch. She swallowed hard and drew another slow breath. Calm. Be calm.
‘Are you all right? You’re very quiet this morning.’
She had to pull herself together. He could not afford to be distracted by concern about her.
She put all her effort into a convincing smile. ‘Having Mr Pawlyn in the party will be very useful.’
‘His fluency in French and Arabic will take the pressure off you.’
‘Yes.’ Caseley stood up, shook out her skirts and buttoned up her lilac jacket. In one way it was indeed a relief. At the same time it made her feel redundant. She gave another bright smile; saw his eyes narrow.
‘Caseley –’
‘We ought to go down. It won’t do to keep everyone waiting.’
He caught her hand. ‘You must tell me if –’
I’m scared? How selfish would that be when he needed to focus on the task ahead? How much attention and understanding could he spare when his mind was already engaged elsewhere? He might say he wanted her to confide, but he didn’t, not really.
‘I’m just a little nervous, that’s all.’
‘It would be strange if you weren’t.’ He drew her hand through his arm. ‘Is it the train?’
She nodded, grateful to be offered a ready-made excuse.
‘Pawlyn is a seasoned traveller. He will smooth our path.’
Forty minutes later, they stood in the shade of the portico while servants loaded their luggage and the trunk containing the chest of gold into calèches.
Antonia had arrived with her tripod and camera cases. She rode with Caseley in one carriage. Jago and the trunk were in another. Pawlyn was in the third with the rest of the luggage. Leaving the hotel, the carriage turned onto a wide boulevard that would take them to the train station.
Antonia’s gown was a ruffled and swathed confe
ction of pale blue silk with satin trim, and a small bustle worn with a matching hat. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright with excitement.
‘I can’t believe we’re actually on our way. I’ve looked forward to it so much. I scarcely slept last night. You’re very quiet this morning. I see you took my advice. That is a much more suitable dress, though I’m not sure about that colour with your hair. I can’t wait to see Sheikh Imad! It’s going to be such an adventure. I plan to take lots of photographs. Are you ever going to speak?’
Tempted to point out she’d had little opportunity, Caseley smiled. ‘I was enjoying your pleasure.’
Antonia gripped her gloved hand. ‘This is my opportunity, Caseley. Being with Sheikh Imad, away from my father and Spencer, we’ll have time to talk and –’
‘I don’t think –’ As Antonia glared at her Caseley wished she had kept silent.
‘What don’t you think?’
‘That the Sheikh will have the free time you are hoping for’.
‘Why not?’
‘He’ll be an important guest at the wedding.’
Antonia waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’m fully aware of that.’
‘So he will be expected to spend time with his relations and friends. He will also be having meetings with the elders of the tribe to discuss the political situation.’
‘I daresay. But there will be interludes when he is free and we can be together,’ Antonia said confidently. ‘Why else would he have invited me?’
He didn’t invite you. You pleaded. It was Sabra who persuaded him. Caseley clenched her teeth to stop the words before they spilled out.
‘I’m sure you mean well, but really you’re worrying over nothing. You don’t know Sheikh Imad like I do.’
‘As you say.’ Anything Antonia did not wish to hear she simply ignored.
A few minutes later they drew up outside the station. Fronted by lawns, flowerbeds and a fountain, the long imposing building of dark red and cream brick had arched windows and a massive central portico with fluted columns supporting more tall arches.
Pawlyn took charge as a dozen porters swarmed around the calèches. He chose six and dismissed the rest. Jago escorted Caseley and Antonia and they were soon on the platform, tickets bought, watching the porters load the trunk, their luggage, and Antonia’s camera equipment into a baggage compartment at the end of the third class carriage.
