The Master's Wife

by Jane Jackson

  Everyone sat. A platter of still-warm flatbread and others of cold roast mutton, white crumbly cheese, grapes and dates were brought in and set on the carpet. They were offered tea or coffee.

  Everyone helped themselves; tearing the soft bread into bite-sized pieces.

  Caseley helped herself to tiny chunks of cheese. It was creamy and mild. ‘S – ma’am,’ she corrected quickly as she remembered that Sabra only used their first names when no men were present. ‘What cheese is this?’

  ‘Feta, it is made from sheep’s milk.’

  Startled, she reminded herself that at home she happily ate cheese made from cow or goat’s milk, and decided to think only of the taste, which was delicious.

  ‘How far is it to the camp where the wedding will be?’ Robert Pawlyn asked. Caseley translated for Jago.

  ‘Perhaps three days’ journey,’ Sabra replied. ‘Sheikh Imad is providing camels for us.’

  Antonia glanced up. ‘Not horses?’

  Sabra shook her head. ‘In the desert horses are reserved for men. I have kinsmen in Sinai who breed Arabian horses famous for their speed, agility and courage. But for our journey camels are better. Sheikh Imad will bring fine beasts. He is a Tarabin, one of the royal tribes, and owns a superb camel herd.’

  While she ate, Antonia adjusted the folds of her robe. ‘I will need an additional camel for my photographic equipment. I did tell Sheikh Imad.’

  ‘Then you may be sure he won’t forget,’ Sabra said.

  Trying to remember all Sabra’s instructions so she would not offend her Bedouin hosts or disgrace herself and Jago, Caseley was careful to use only her right hand to carry bread and small pieces of cheese to her mouth. Glancing up, she saw Jago watching her. ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘No.’ He kept his own voice low. ‘It’s just – I thought I knew you. Instead –’ he shook his head. ‘You constantly surprise me.’

  ‘Perhaps you expected too little.’

  As surprise widened his eyes she bent her head to her meal. Of course she had changed. After what had happened, how could she not have?

  Yet, mired in her grief, it had not occurred to her that he, too, must have been altered by what had happened. How ironic that it had taken a voyage to Egypt for them to recognise that neither was who they had been before. Yet the bond between them, though stretched, frayed and tenuous, had not broken.

  Last night she had not expected to sleep. But a combination of exhaustion and the reassuring warmth of Jago’s body close to hers had tumbled her into deep dreamless oblivion moments after she closed her eyes.

  When she woke it was morning and she was alone. Panic had brought her upright, heart racing. Then she had heard him in the adjoining room.

  On the way downstairs he had asked for her help. Now, though apprehension and excitement churned in her stomach, she made herself take a handful of fresh dates and a few grapes. With a long demanding day ahead, she would need all her strength.

  A short while later they were preparing to leave. The servants had brought down their bags and the small, heavy chest. The trunk would remain here until their return.

  Sabra joined them. She was carrying cloaks of thick black felt with colourful embroidery around the edges and armholes. She handed one to Caseley, who thanked her.

  Taking hers, Antonia laughed. ‘Sabra, it is summer, anyone who can has left Cairo to escape the heat.’

  ‘That is true. But desert nights are bitterly cold. You will be glad of this extra layer.’

  Soon Sheikh Imad arrived and greetings were exchanged. Antonia’s smile was suddenly brighter. She laughed and fluttered, every gesture seeking attention.

  As Jago rolled her cloak and put it into the soft bag, Caseley recognised his impatience. It was a shame Antonia had no close female relative to guide her. She’d had Rosina Renfree. Her childhood nurse had stepped into the terrible gap left by her mother’s death, supported her with love and patience and become a treasured housekeeper. Rosina would have given Antonia a set-down she would never forget. But it was not her place to criticise, nor would her advice be welcome.

  Fighting sudden homesickness Caseley pulled herself together. Without Sheikh Imad and Sabra, Jago’s task would be impossible. At the camp he would have Robert Pawlyn to translate for him. But they would be confined to male company.

  Caseley knew that Cornish wives often had considerable influence over their husband’s decisions. Did this apply in Bedouin society? Thanks to Sabra she would have a privileged glimpse into a very different way of life. But would anything she observed help Jago?

  Sheikh Imad motioned a servant forward. The man bowed and offered first Jago then Robert Pawlyn a neat parcel of fabric. When opened, these proved to be long, sleeveless coats of heavy, dark material bound with red and silver braid, not unlike those Sabra had given her and Antonia.

  Jago quickly asked Caseley how to say thank you in both French and Arabic, and repeated the words to Sheikh Imad with care and sincerity.

  The Bedouin nodded. Jago re-folded and rolled the coat, adding it to the bag. Then it was time to go.

  Leaving the cool, airy apartment for outside was like walking into an oven. Caseley was deeply grateful to be free of her corset and all the additional close-fitting layers required by European fashion. Yet she felt acutely self-conscious in her loose robes and head covering, as though she had come outside in her nightgown. But, as similarly dressed women passed along the street without so much as a glance in her direction, it occurred to her that she was virtually invisible. After nearly a year of sidelong pitying looks the relief was enormous.

  Six camels knelt, their legs tucked under them, in the shade of tall date palms. A length of silver chain joined the braided halter to a single rein. Two white-clad servants with blue head cloths wound like turbans and a silver dagger in the red sash at their waists each held the reins of three camels.

  The camel saddles were unlike anything Caseley had seen. Covered by several tasselled blankets woven in diamond patterns of black, red, gold and blue, they had a short round post front and back.

  A little distance away more camels knelt. One carried Antonia’s two camera boxes half-covered by fodder sacks. Two more were laden with additional fodder sacks and water pots in nets of plaited fibre. Caseley watched as more servants, similarly dressed but without daggers, hung the bags containing their clothes, tied together by the handles, over other camels’ backs. Each beast had a long-barrelled gun wrapped in cloth suspended from the front saddle post.

  That the men were armed and could provide protection was reassuring. That it might be necessary caused a tightening in her stomach.

  The gold chest was placed in a fibre sling and hooked over Sheikh Imad’s saddle, next to a leather gun scabbard.

  ‘Hold on tight as the camel gets up,’ Robert Pawlyn advised her. ‘It’s quite a lurch: back, forward and back again. But once they are on their feet and you get used to the sway it’s a very comfortable way to travel.’

  A servant brought a low wooden stool for Caseley to stand on and she hitched herself onto the blanket-padded saddle. Sabra came to her side. ‘Hook your right leg around the post and put your left foot in the stirrup. You will feel more secure.’

  Caseley settled herself, arranged her robes, then caught her breath and grabbed the front post as the camel suddenly heaved itself up.

  ‘All right?’ Jago asked.

  ‘Fine.’ Caseley looked down and wished she hadn’t. The ground seemed a very long way away.

  Jago nodded. ‘Well done.’ He spoke so only she could hear.

  ‘We haven’t started moving yet.’

  Antonia gave little yelps as her camel rose to its feet making them both glance across. Sheikh Imad was talking quietly to Sabra and didn’t look round.

  ‘I expected her to have more sense,’ Jago said, making no effort to hide his scorn.

  ‘In what respect?’

  ‘Pretending feminine weakness is the least likely way to win
his admiration,’ shaking his head he went to his camel.

  He was speaking of Antonia, but were his words a warning to her as well? She knew this was not a holiday trip. He had an important job to do and nothing must be allowed to interfere.

  Caseley straightened her back. Never in her life had she pretended feminine weakness. She had no intention of starting now.

  With everyone mounted they set off. The Sheikh’s bodyguards led, Sheikh Imad, Pawlyn and Jago were next, followed by Antonia, Sabra and Caseley. The baggage camels were on leading reins held by two servants and two more armed guards brought up the rear.

  As Antonia chattered to Sabra, Caseley was reminded of the magpies in the oak tree in the back garden of her home on Greenbank. What would Rosina and Liza-Jane say if they could see her now? How much she would have to tell them.

  An unexpected stab of grief stopped her breath. She fought it off.

  ‘Madame Barata? You are unwell?’ Sabra had dropped back beside her.

  The princess’s use of her title and married name made Caseley flinch. She looked up expecting contempt or impatience, but saw only concern. Though her eyes still stung, she managed a smile. ‘No, ma’am. I – a brief discomfort. It has passed.’

  In front of Antonia, who was adjusting her head cloth, Caseley saw Robert Pawlyn riding between Jago and Sheikh Imad, turning one way then the other as he interpreted.

  Sabra nodded. ‘You came to Egypt by ship. Were you seasick?’

  ‘No. Fortunately, I am a good sailor. I love being at sea, even in a storm.’

  Sabra laughed. ‘Camels are the ships of the desert. Now you know that you can relax and be comfortable.’

  ‘I would feel more confident if I knew how to steer.’

  ‘Later I will ask one of the servants to find you a stick. Not to beat,’ she added, reading Caseley’s expression. ‘Light tapping on the neck or shoulder will make it turn.’

  ‘As my camel seems perfectly content to follow those in front I will not interfere.’ She looked around. ‘What are those enormous buildings?’

  ‘Egypt is a very old country. It has had many rulers. As is the way of men,’ Sabra’s tone was dry, ‘each wanted to be remembered. The mosque of al-Azhar is nearly a thousand years old, though it has been much altered over the centuries. It was Saladin who built the mighty citadel and part of the city walls.’ She indicated buildings on a hill behind a massive encircling wall of stone. ‘He was very clever and created bent-entrances, putting two in the walls and three in the citadel.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘To delay any army trying to storm its way in.’

  Caseley pointed to a huge square building within the complex, topped by two slender minarets and a double dome. ‘And that?’

  ‘The mosque of al-Nasir Muhammad.’

  ‘How old is it?’

  ‘More than five hundred years.’

  She looked forward to telling Jago later. Watching Sabra move forward to help Antonia, who seemed to be having trouble with her camel, Caseley realised she had been so absorbed in what Sabra was telling her, she had relaxed and was swaying easily with the movement of the animal beneath her.

  Before long they had left the city and the cacophony of braying donkeys, hawkers shouting to attract buyers, the richly dressed, the rag-clad beggars, grinding wheels and jingling harnesses of calèches, and the babble of different languages. The smells of rotting fruit, dung and smoke from charcoal fires receded.

  It was still hot and the breeze whipped up fine dust that caught in her throat. She lifted the edge of her head scarf over her nose and was instantly more comfortable.

  As they passed a small group of flat-roofed mud houses she saw women dressed in dusty black cotton and blue beads carrying pots to a well.

  Soon they were climbing along a narrow, stony track between rocky crags. The day wore on and grew hotter. Heat shimmered above the rocks and Caseley felt increasingly thirsty.

  Rounding a bend they gazed down onto what looked like a dry riverbed. Though deep and narrow, it was flat. As her camel picked its way down the steep, stony path Caseley leaned back and closed her eyes. She quickly opened them again, preferring to see where she was going. She left the rein loose and trusted her camel.

  At the bottom they stopped. As a servant caught the halter and tugged, Caseley’s camel dropped to its knees then folded its legs underneath. Lifting her leg over the saddle post she slid stiffly down, her legs shaky. A few moments of stretching and flexing loosened her up. Jago came over.

  ‘Did you enjoy your first camel ride?’

  ‘I did. If I sound surprised, it’s because I am. I was very nervous when we set off. Being perched so high with nothing to hold on to was – terrifying.’

  His smile flashed white and wry in his bearded face. ‘You looked as if you had been born to it.’

  His compliment sent a rush of pleasure through her and she felt her face warm. ‘Sabra was telling me about some of the ancient buildings. Listening to her I forgot to be scared and that helped me relax.’

  ‘You make it sound easy.’ His self-mockery, admitting to her what he would deny to anyone else, reminded her how close they used to be.

  She had told him things she had never spoken of, even to Rosina. He had revealed secrets of his own. Out of sharing those revelations had grown a bond she treasured, believing it unique and unbreakable. No matter how distant his voyages or how long he was away, she had believed she was as often in his thoughts as he was in hers. She had trusted their love, their marriage, him.

  She knew men strayed. Living in the same house as Rosina and Liza-Jane, who knew all the town gossip, how could she not? But never once had it crossed her mind that Jago might.

  Her throat painfully raw with unshed tears she turned away, swallowing hard. She would not cry. That would provoke questions she could only answer with lies because the truth was too private and painful.

  She had seen what happened to betrayed wives who complained about their husbands’ actions. They forfeited their dignity, only to be scorned and blamed. As if a man’s decision to break his marriage vows must be his wife’s fault. Besides, tears would make her appear weak. Though battered by grief and wounded by loss, she was not weak. She would take a breath, then another. Her heart would continue to beat, and she would go on living.

  ‘When you get used to it, it is not so hard,’ she said.

  Sabra called, beckoning them towards food the servants were laying out, and the moment passed.

  Caseley crossed the dusty ground, aware of Jago close behind.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Seated in shadow cast by a jutting rock, they ate a picnic lunch of bread, cheese and dates. Sheikh Imad, Jago and Pawlyn sat a little way away, talking in low voices.

  Antonia kept looking across, visibly irritated. ‘They’re not being very sociable.’

  ‘For Captain Barata and Mr Pawlyn this journey is not a social occasion,’ Sabra reminded.

  Dragging her gaze from Jago, Caseley saw two of the bodyguards sitting one on either side of the group, their backs to the cliff. The other two, each carrying a gun, had positioned themselves high in the rocks so they could see anyone approaching from either direction.

  Two of the servants were walking away, apparently searching the sandy wadi floor.

  ‘Sabra?’ Because the three of them were alone, Caseley was comfortable using the Sheikha’s name. ‘What are they looking for?’

  ‘Wood.’

  ‘Here?’ Antonia’s voice rose in disbelief. ‘There isn’t even a blade of grass, let alone a tree.’

  ‘True,’ Sabra agreed. ‘But rain does come, though it is unpredictable, sometimes very little, sometimes too much. Then this bare ground is covered with grass, flowers and small bushes.’

  ‘That must look very beautiful, though it’s hard to imagine right now.’ Shielding her eyes, Caseley looked up. The sky wasn’t the cornflower blue of a summer sky at home. It had the brutal glare of hammered steel.


  ‘After the rain sinks into the ground, the vegetation quickly dries out.’ Sabra nodded towards the returning servants, each now carrying an armful of scrub and twigs. She spoke to one. Dropping his armful he pulled two dry brown palm fronds from the pile. Taking the dagger from the scabbard on his belt he stripped off the ragged leaves, then handed the long, flexible stems to Sabra, bowed, and picked up the scrub again.

  Sabra offered one of the sticks to Antonia and the other to Caseley. ‘Gentle tapping,’ she reminded.

  ‘Thank you.’ Caseley wasn’t sure she would dare use it, but it would have been discourteous to refuse.

  The men stuffed most of scrub into the nets. With the rest they lit a small fire, boiled water, and brewed tea sweetened with hard sugar cracked off a cone and flavoured with torn mint leaves. Served in small, thick glasses, it was surprisingly refreshing. Then aware of a need that had become more pressing during their meal, Caseley turned to Sabra.

  ‘I need to – Where should –?’

  ‘I was about to suggest it.’ The Sheikha led her and Antonia a short distance back down the wadi to privacy among the rocks.

  Out of the shade the heat was intense, radiating off the rocks and burning her head and shoulders. Caseley was grateful for her loose robes. Covering her from head to toe, they were more modest than the fashionable figure-hugging gowns well-dressed Cornish women were wearing. The loose layers allowed air to reach her body and offered a freedom of movement she wasn’t used to. They were, she realised, ideal for this climate.

  As they walked back to the camels she saw the three men returning from the far side of the track and guessed they had answered a similar call.

  ‘Can we not wait for an hour or two, until the sun is lower?’ Antonia asked.

  Sabra shook her head. ‘We still have some distance to travel and Sheikh Imad will not wish to arrive late.’

  ‘Surely he could arrive whenever he wished.’

  Sabra shook her head. ‘To do so when his party includes strangers would insult his hosts.’