by Jane Jackson
‘Why should you?’
‘The Bedouin have a superstitious fear of red hair. They consider it –’ she stopped.
‘Unlucky?’
As his gaze went to the thick coil high on her crown she was struck by a sudden vivid memory. The night of their first voyage together after their marriage they had gone down to his day cabin. Closing the door, he had kissed her with slow thoroughness. Then, reluctantly lifting his mouth from hers, he had taken the pins from her hair and, as the coil unwound, caught the tumbling wavy mass and buried his face in it.
She wrenched herself back to the present. ‘Worse. A mark of the devil.’
‘The princess told you this?’
‘No, Antonia did.’ His brows lifted but he remained silent. ‘I think she was warning me I would need to be careful. But Sabra said that if I cover my head the way married women do, no one will see my hair.’
‘Then surely you have nothing to worry about? Caseley, I can’t leave you here.’ She had insisted on coming. He didn’t say so. He didn’t need to. ‘If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll take you back to Alexandria and you can stay at the hotel until Cygnet returns.’
‘I haven’t changed my mind. And you can’t take me back. You need to reach the tribe as soon as possible. It was – I just thought you ought to know.’
‘Now I do. It’s of no account. How do you like your new clothes?’
‘Very much. They feel strange. But it’s such a relief to be free of –’ Corsets and tight bodices and petticoats. ‘Restriction.’
‘They suit you.’
He pulled off the black cord and head covering and dropped them on the bed. ‘Are you ready to go down?’
In the hall they met Pawlyn. Dressed like Jago, he was also bare-headed. A servant led them into a comfortable room furnished with low divans against the wall and many large cushions on a floor covered by a richly patterned carpet. Sabra greeted them.
‘Ah, my apologies, gentlemen. I should have asked you to wear your head cloths. Please do so for breakfast in the morning. The quicker you become used to them the more comfortable you will be.’
Caseley translated for Jago, ignoring Antonia’s impatient sigh.
‘Tonight,’ Sabra continued, ‘you will eat as the Bedouin do. In the camp, men and women eat separately. But Captain Barata and Mr Pawlyn must remain with us so they may learn what to do.’
They sat in a circle on a beautiful Persian carpet over which a cloth had been spread. A servant brought in a large platter of steaming rice and vegetables topped with pieces of cooked meat, and placed it in the middle of the cloth. A basin, pitcher and fresh towels were set to one side.
Caseley looked for plates and cutlery but saw neither.
‘It is customary in small groups for food to be presented on a single large dish, from which everyone helps themselves. At the wedding there may be several different dishes. Eat with your right hand only,’ Sabra said. Caseley translated for Jago. ‘This is important. The left hand is considered unclean.’ Caseley thought back to the pot of water in the small room upstairs and realised she had guessed correctly.
‘Pinch a little rice together into a small lump and lift it to your mouth.’ Sabra demonstrated.
‘You make it look so easy,’ Caseley said.
‘With practice everything becomes easy,’ Sabra replied. ‘You will see.’
Jago waited, glancing sideways at Pawlyn. When no one moved he reached towards the platter and picked up a cube of meat.
‘That’s cheating,’ Caseley murmured as she concentrated on gathering the sticky spice-fragrant rice into a ball.
‘As soon as you have picked up the rice,’ Sabra directed, ‘turn your hand over. Your palm will form a cup and catch anything that falls.’
This time Caseley did better. It felt awkward and completely wrong. But she was in a different country with different rules of etiquette.
Antonia got her rice halfway to her mouth when it crumbled out of her fingers and she caught it in her left hand. ‘This is ridiculous. We aren’t Bedouin. Surely they won’t expect –’
‘Miss Collingwood,’ Sabra cut in, ‘if Sheikh Imad was invited to dinner at the Consulate, how would you react if he put his plate on the floor and ate with his fingers? Would you be embarrassed that he didn’t know what was expected of him?’
‘But that’s –’
‘Different?’ Sabra’s tone was cool.
Colour flooded Antonia’s face. ‘I beg your pardon.’
Releasing the breath she had been holding, Caseley murmured an explanation to Jago, winning a glare from Antonia, who clearly thought she shouldn’t have told him what had been said.
She was surprised that, despite being smitten with the educated, multi-lingual and dignified Bedouin Sheikh, Antonia had not bothered to understand the etiquette of his people.
As the meal progressed, Caseley found she was able to carry food from platter to mouth without dropping any. Her movements lacked Sabra’s neatness but at least she would not offend their Bedouin hosts.
She glanced at Jago, and the image of him sitting cross-legged on the rug wearing the clothes of a different race and adapting to different manners sent a quiver through her.
This man was her husband, had fathered her sons. Yet this past year he had become a stranger. His manner had been courteous, pleasant, and protective. But he had withdrawn from her. As she had from him...
In the way of all men, Jago and Robert Pawlyn were silently competing to be the first to succeed at eating neatly with their fingers.
Jago had loved the boys and been hugely proud of them. Though her days had been full, she had missed him during his long weeks at sea. Had he missed her? He never said so. Why would he? The arrival of children had changed both their lives as motherhood kept her at home.
Men seemed more able to accept and move on. For her, the deaths of her children had been devastating. But their loss was more bitterly poignant because of the chasm that yawned between her and Jago. ‘Caseley?’
Jago’s voice, low and quiet, brought her back.
She looked up with a start. ‘I’m so sorry. I was –’ Grieving. ‘Concentrating.’
Sabra smiled. ‘You are making good progress. Now I must tell you about the Bedouin camp. It will be very large with many bayts –’
‘Forgive me, Sabra,’ Caseley interrupted. ‘What is a bayt? I don’t recognise the word.’
‘Of course you don’t. It is I who should apologise. It is a Bedouin tent.’
‘What is she saying?’ Jago asked softly. Pawlyn opened his mouth but closed it again without speaking.
Appreciating his tact, Caseley translated quickly. Jago trusted her, she knew, but he loathed being at a disadvantage.
‘There will be many bayts,’ Sabra went on, ‘because relatives of both the bride and the groom will have come a great distance to attend the wedding. Each bayt is home to a married couple, their children, the parents of husband or wife and perhaps a brother or sister of the bride. Family ties are strong and older relatives are always looked after. Inside the bayt there is a public area where men meet and guests are received. Fabric walls keep the rest exclusively for the women.’
‘Why are women never seen?’ Antonia asked. ‘There are always Bedouin men on the streets of Cairo and Alexandria, but never any women. Are they hidden away?’
Impatience crossed Sabra’s face. ‘Not hidden, Miss Collingwood, protected. Among the Bedouin, men and women are considered equal. But certain tribes are known to be hot-blooded and quarrelsome. Disputes over land or grazing or water rights can quickly become violent. Violence is always kept away from the camp because women are valued and respected.’ She paused to allow Caseley time to translate, then continued.
‘You would be wrong to assume that because they take no part in public life, women count for little. The reverse is true. They are highly esteemed. The Bedouin have a saying: “Men can get nowhere without a woman and women can be no one without a man”. Though a woman derives her
status from her husband, he relies on her to safeguard his honour through her responsibility for their bayt, the household and domestic animals, raising their children and hospitality to guests.’
After translating for Jago, Caseley turned to Sabra.
‘Though Bedouin live in tents in the desert and we live in a house overlooking the harbour in a Cornish town, it sounds as if the responsibilities of family life are not so different.’
Sabra nodded and Caseley saw approval in her smile. ‘Hospitality is an unbreakable rule for the Bedouin. If a traveller arrives at a camp and touches the tent pole, the family must welcome him and his animals and anyone with him. This applies even if he is an enemy. The traditional greeting “Peace be with you”, which is returned, ensures his safety. He may stay for three days and nights and will not be asked for payment. The teapot or coffee pot is constantly refilled. Food is provided, so is fodder for his animals. In return, the guest is expected to be generous with conversation and pass on all the news he has heard on his travels. This is how families who must constantly move to find new grazing can keep informed of what is happening.’
As servants moved around the group, one carrying the basin, another the ewer, to carefully pour water over greasy fingers then offer the towel, once again Caseley told Jago what had been said.
‘I hate this,’ he muttered.
‘I’m sorry –’
‘No, I don’t mean ... You are doing your best. I know that, and I’m grateful. It’s just – I dislike intensely the fact that it’s necessary.’
As tiny cups of bitter coffee and small sweet cakes were served, Sabra told them how several bayts might travel together; an extended family linked by lineage or marriage.
The meal ended. Hoping she would remember everything she had learned, Caseley thanked Sabra and wished her and Antonia good night. As she walked upstairs with Jago, rubbing the back of her neck where intense concentration had tightened the muscles, exhaustion broke over her like an Atlantic wave.
As she entered the bedroom she realised the clothes in which she had travelled from Cairo had disappeared. The servants must have taken then away to be laundered. Jago’s coat, trousers and shirt had also vanished.
As Jago disappeared through the arch she took her nightgown and went into her bathroom. Exchanging the dark robes for her white cotton nightgown, she washed her face and hands and cleaned her teeth in the fresh water that had been brought while they were downstairs.
Returning to the bedroom she laid her robes on the chest, and sat on the edge of the bed. As she removed pins, her coiled hair unwound and fell down her back. She picked up her comb.
Jago padded in on bare feet wearing his nightshirt. The long, loose white cotton had a plain round neck slit to the chest. It resembled his robe apart from the cuffed sleeves.
No, it didn’t. His robe would be seen in public. Only she saw him like this.
He held out his hand for the comb. ‘May I?’
His request made her eyes sting. She didn’t know whether to be glad that he wanted to or sad that he felt he needed to ask. Yet whose fault was that? How could she forgive what he had done? But if she could not, what future did they have?
Not trusting herself to speak she handed him the comb. Sitting behind her he drew it carefully through the thick waves.
‘What is your opinion of Antonia Collingwood’s connection with the Sheikh?’
Relieved and grateful for conversation that was not personal, she thought for a moment. ‘I am not sure there is one. Her interest in him is plain. His manner towards her at the hotel was courteous. He allowed her to take that photograph. But his dignity and reserve make him difficult to read. I’m astonished that she has lived here all her life yet knows so little of Bedouin customs.’
‘You shouldn’t be. She sees everything in terms of how it affects her. Be careful, Caseley. She is jealous of you.’
Caseley turned her head quickly, wincing as the comb caught and pulled her hair.
‘Be still,’ he murmured, gently disentangling the comb.
‘I cannot imagine why she should be. What makes you say so?’
‘Observation. With Sabra, I’m reserving judgement.’
‘Jago, we are strangers to her yet she welcomed us into her home.’
‘Exactly, and I cannot help wondering why. I do not question her generosity, only her motives. She is a woman of many faces.’
Startled by his remarks, she was shaken by the realisation she couldn’t instantly dismiss them. What he’d said echoed thoughts she had felt ashamed of, even as they occurred. Having been open about her dislike of her cousin, Khedive Tewfiq, perhaps it wasn’t altogether surprising for the Sheikha to show interest in new English arrivals, especially as the English currently controlled Egypt’s finances.
Now they were alone there was so much that needed saying. But Caseley didn’t know where to start. She was exhausted, her energy sapped by the heat and travelling. Questions clamoured and anxiety nagged. The silence stretched. Then, too tired to worry any more, she let it all go. They were here. He had asked to share her room so she would not be alone in a strange place. For now that was enough.
When he had finished he dropped the comb on the quilt then, surprising her yet again, divided the thick fall of hair and quickly plaited it into a loose braid. As she turned to thank him he started to get up. Without conscious thought she laid her hand on his arm, then quickly withdrew it. She didn’t want him to leave. But Louise Downing’s triumph still haunted her, still hurt.
She couldn’t – she wanted – she didn’t know what she wanted.
He pushed back the quilt, lay down and drew her down beside him. ‘You’re safe, Caseley. Go to sleep. We have an early start tomorrow.’
He heard her quiet sigh. Within minutes her breathing had deepened as exhaustion claimed her. Through the layers of fine cotton that separated them he could feel her body’s warmth. He breathed in the unique scent of her skin and a hint of summer roses.
God, he missed her. Ached for her. As her husband he had every right to use her how and when he wished. Yet he could not, would not. More than once, frustration and need had tempted him to press. But fear held him back: fear that she would acquiesce from duty, not desire. Fear she would turn her face away, denying him her mouth and her steady open gaze. Fear that if he used her in such a way something precious and fragile would be irreparably broken.
Experienced with women, he understood the value of patience. Their wedding night had been a long slow journey of delight that had given joy and profound pleasure to them both. He wanted that again. He wanted his wife, the only woman he had ever loved, would ever love. Rather than risk widening the distance between them he would wait for her to come to him.
Louise had been a willing source of relief. She knew the rules and he was financially generous. But it was Caseley he thought of; Caseley he longed for.
His nerves were twitchy and his gut felt full of rocks. But he could wait. He would wait. She had overridden his objections and insisted on coming. That gave him hope.
Chapter Twelve
Stirred and aching for her, Jago got up before Caseley woke. He forced himself to leave, returning to his bathroom. He opened the door to a quiet knock and found a servant with two large ewers of water, hot and cold.
Washed and dressed once more in her robes, Caseley pinned up her hair and covered it with the scarf. Tying the folded band across her forehead, she drew one end of the scarf under her chin and tucked it into the top of the band.
Hanging her towels over the rail she went back into the bedroom. Jago was dressed and waiting for her. This morning he wore his head cloth, held in place by the doubled black woven cord. One end of the white cloth hung to his chest. He had slung the other across his chest and over his other shoulder.
He was both familiar and a stranger. Once again she felt a quiver deep inside as his gaze raked her from head to foot.
She moistened dry lips. ‘Can you see my hair?’
> He shook his head. ‘Pawlyn was telling me yesterday that among the Tuareg it is men, and not women, who cover their faces. In some tribes only a husband may see his wife’s hair. I find that rather appealing.’
Caseley recalled the previous night and his gentleness with the comb.
‘You always liked my hair,’ she murmured, aware only after the words were out how much sadness and yearning they held.
‘I still do. Are you ready?’
‘Almost.’ She moved around the room, wrapping her toiletries in the dry towels she had brought, quickly folding then rolling their nightwear and packing it all into the large striped cloth bag Sabra had provided. She placed it next to the small iron-bound chest containing the gold.
They started down the stairs. ‘I’m glad you are here,’ he said. Her spirits soaring, she glanced at him as he continued. ‘Without you to translate for me I’d be completely in the dark.’
‘I’m sure Mr Pawlyn would –’
‘No doubt he would. And will, once we reach the Bedouin camp. But I prefer – you have an eye for detail. Our home is testament to that. You notice things, especially about people.’
‘Are you expecting trouble?’
His hand rested briefly on her shoulder, a gesture of reassurance, and she welcomed it. ‘No. As Sheikh Imad’s guests we are under his protection. Yet it would be foolish to discount the possibility that others know the real reason I’m there.’
‘How could they?’
‘News travels fast in Falmouth. Why should it be any different here, especially with so much at stake? I may be seeing threats where none exist. But it will do no harm to be cautious.’
As they reached the bottom of the stairs a servant appeared and led them into the room where they had eaten the previous evening. Sabra, Antonia and Robert Pawlyn were already there sitting on the carpet. Pawlyn scrambled to his feet as Caseley walked in with Jago behind her. As greetings were exchanged, Caseley saw Antonia’s gaze dart from her to Jago and glimpsed envy.
Antonia saw a man and his wife coming to breakfast after a night spent together. Was she imagining herself with the Sheikh? Did she not realise that an image could be misread, that assumption was not reality?
