by Jane Jackson
‘When do we leave?’
‘In the morning.’
‘Perhaps there is still time. Whatever the outcome, you could not have done more. Now you must go.’
He raised her hand, his gaze holding hers. His lips brushed her knuckles and she felt a tug deep inside. ‘I miss you.’ Releasing her hand he strode away, his sleeveless robe billowing.
‘That was unkind and uncalled for, Antonia,’ Robert Pawlyn scolded, torn between wanting to offer comfort and shake her until her teeth rattled. She was disappointed, hurting. He knew how that felt.
She sobbed in a storm of fresh tears. ‘Have you turned against me as well?’
‘No. Nor will I. Though you do make it a tempting notion. I understand you being drawn to the Sheikh. He is a charismatic man. His urbane manner and fluency in French make it easy to forget he is Bedouin. But he is proud of his culture and would never betray it. The men of his tribe say they would prefer their daughters be eaten by crocodiles than marry “outside”.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘No, no buts. As a prince who may one day be elected leader of his tribe, Sheikh Imad values honour above all things.’
‘Then why didn’t he warn me?’
‘Why should he? Antonia, his engagement is none of your business. You asked to join the wedding party, remember? He kindly consented. As it happened, travelling in a mixed group provided excellent cover for Captain Barata’s mission. Although the engagement announcement was made today, discussions between the families will have been under way for months.’
‘Oh,’ Antonia said in a small voice. She wiped her eyes and nose with the end of her scarf. ‘I feel very stupid.’
He hardened his heart. Sympathy would give her an excuse to wallow. ‘You’ll get over it.’ He was brisk. ‘Now while I walk you back to the tent, we will talk of other things. What are you most looking forward to on your return to Cairo? For myself, it is a proper bath. Though I shall miss wearing Bedouin clothes. They are cooler and far more comfortable for the climate than European dress. Don’t you agree?’
‘Why can’t I ever stay angry with you?’
‘Why would you want to?’
‘I should apologise to Caseley.’
‘Yes, you should.’
‘She’ll gloat.’
‘You know better than that.’
Antonia blew out a breath. ‘She’s nicer than me.’
‘So make an effort.’
‘I hate her and I hate you.’
‘No you don’t.’
‘What would you know?’
I know you. ‘Be sure to eat well this evening. We have a long journey tomorrow.’
‘Don’t fuss, Robert.’
Fighting a grin, he watched her march away, stiff-backed, her head high.
Chapter Seventeen
Caseley woke early. Quickly covering her hair, she put on her thick cloak and left the tent, picking up an empty water pot as she passed. Outside, the air was cool and fresh. In the east, the rising sun tinted a pearl sky with gold.
She went first to the latrine, then to the well. Boys moved along the camel rows, putting down fodder for them, as several men milked the females. Caseley paused for a moment to watch a baby camel try to butt a man out of the way. He glanced round, smiling, and murmured to it without breaking rhythm.
At the well Caseley waited among women and girls. To ward off the morning chill some wore a wide-sleeved jacket over their thobe, others a long black cotton coat edged with red or blue braid. She murmured a greeting; relieved and delighted when it was returned.
When her turn came she filled the pots with care and moved out of the way before tipping a little water from one into her hands. She washed them, then with a little more in her cupped palm, rubbed her face and dried it with the end of her scarf.
As she walked back, the air was growing warmer as the sun climbed. Soon the rocks would shimmer with reflected heat. The scent of a dozen fires, roasting coffee and fresh bread made her hungry.
Back at the bayt, Fayruz had rekindled the embers. Behind her in the shadows, Casley was aware of other women moving about. Greeting Fayruz she set down the full water pots within reach and was rewarded with a smile.
Taking off her cloak she rolled it up and pushed it into the fabric bag, then returned to the entrance and sat down. Flouring her hands she dug into the bowl of dough and set to work. Fayruz brushed off the metal plate and laid it on stones surrounding the glowing embers.
Women came and went from the tents, shaking rugs and blankets then rolling up the tent wall to air the interior. Young girls carried toddlers. Boys ran to and fro, shouting to each other while they did their morning chores.
The pile of flatbreads in front of Caseley grew larger. She and Fayruz alternated dropping them onto the hotplate, flipping them over as they cooked, before lifting them onto a large platter. The smell made Caseley’s mouth water. It felt good to be hungry. It felt good to be alive.
Even as the thought formed, guilt welled up. She fought it, crushed it. Grief would not bring them back. She had so many treasured memories. They, and her sons, would live forever in her heart. She swallowed the lump in her throat, took a deep breath, then another, and knew the raw wound had begun to heal.
The babble of conversation increased. Rashida placed a dish of yoghurt and another of dates on the rug, then settled herself down next to Caseley. Greeting the older woman in Bedouin dialect, Caseley was rewarded with a pat on the arm and some delighted babble. Not understanding a word, she smiled back.
Fayruz handed her a warm piece of bread then showed her how to fold it and scoop up yoghurt. Moving to one side to allow another woman to take her place, Caseley ate her breakfast. She would not want to live like this all the time. But she would not have missed a single moment.
Zainab raised the coffee pot, but before Caseley could respond, Rashida shook her head and passed her a mug of camel milk. ‘Shukran,’ she smiled, touched that they remembered.
After breakfast, repacking the fabric bag took just a few minutes. There wasn’t a container large enough to hold all the memories she was taking home.
She carried the bag outside. She wasn’t the same person who had left Falmouth. She and Jago would hold on to the best of the past and build a new future.
‘Are you all right?’
She looked up into his concerned face and nodded. ‘Yes. I was just – I know it’s unlikely we would ever have – I wish the boys might have experienced this.’
She saw his jaw clench as he gripped her shoulder for a moment. ‘You took the thought from my head.’
The camels were brought over and it was time to leave the camp. Fayruz, Zainab and Rashida kissed Caseley. Others had crowded into the tent and added their voices, gripping her hands, their smiles and touch telling her she had been forgiven for her hair.
‘Shukran. Ma salaama,’ she said over and over again.
Antonia was not kissed. On both sides, leave-taking was polite but cool.
As they left the tent and walked to the camels, Caseley saw Sheikh Imad and his bodyguards with Jago and Pawlyn. The two servants waited with the baggage camels.
‘It has been very interesting,’ Antonia said to Sabra. ‘But I’m not sorry to be returning to civilisation.’
Though Caseley winced inwardly at the implied insult, Sabra merely nodded. ‘This life is hard for those born to it. Outsiders would find it impossible.’
Antonia moistened her lips. ‘Before we leave, perhaps I should offer my good wishes to Sheikh Imad.’ Her voice wasn’t quite steady and Caseley felt both sympathy and admiration.
Sabra nodded. ‘I am sure he will appreciate them.’
Pawlyn and Jago joined Caseley and stood on each side of her, watching as Antonia approached the Sheikh. He tucked his hands into his sleeves as he listened. She spoke in Arabic. He replied in the same language, dignified as always.
‘He’s telling her she is rare among the Europeans he has met,’ Pawlyn said. ‘An
d she is to be commended for learning the languages spoken in Egypt. Her photographs show her love for the country and its people. He wishes her happiness in her future.’ He sighed. ‘Heaven knows Antonia has her faults. But she doesn’t lack courage.’
‘You’re very generous,’ Caseley said.
His gaze stayed on Antonia as he murmured, ‘I have plans.’
‘Come.’ Jago’s hand was warm under her elbow. His touch sent a thrill through her and she leaned into him for a moment, reassured by his strength.
She glanced at him, felt his fingers tighten briefly. She saw the hunger in his eyes and a blush heated her skin. Releasing her with obvious reluctance, he bent and linked his fingers. She placed her sandaled foot in them and he boosted her onto her camel.
As she hooked her leg around the post and arranged her robe, one of the servants handed him two switches made from date palm stems. He passed one to her. Their gazes locked again. There was so much to talk about. But now was not the time. Her camel lurched to its feet and he went to mount his own.
Others were packing as they left the camp and headed up the track in single file. A while later it broadened out. No sooner had Jago moved his camel up to hers than Antonia appeared at her other side. ‘May I speak to you?’
‘You have said enough,’ Jago’s tone was cold.
‘Please?’ Antonia kept her eyes on Caseley. ‘I owe you an apology.’
‘At last,’ Jago muttered. Not bothering to hide his disdain, he dropped back to ride with Pawlyn. In front, with two of the guards riding ahead, Sheikh Imad and Sabra were deep in conversation.
‘I spoke in haste,’ Antonia said. ‘Hearing the news – I was hurt. I know that is no excuse. But ... the trouble is ... I don’t fit in. My mother died when I was a baby. My nurse, Hamida, raised me. She taught me Arabic. My father indulged my interests but had no time for me. I hoped to win his approval by doing well in my studies. He was more concerned with my skill as a hostess. Because I wanted more than to be simply a decorative dutiful wife, I was – am – disapproved of.’
Antonia’s defensive self-absorption would not have helped, Caseley thought. But nothing would be gained by saying so. ‘You and I share similar backgrounds,’ she said. ‘My mother was my father’s second wife. His first wife and son died in an epidemic. My mother was killed in an accident when I was twelve. After that, my father devoted all his energy to the business. I think it was the only way he could cope.’ Had it not been for Rosina she would have been desperately lonely.
Antonia nodded, but Caseley sensed it was simply a reflex. She hadn’t been listening. Her next words proved it.
‘When I met Sabra and Sheikh Imad I was fascinated. They seemed so sophisticated and European, and yet so exotic. I thought maybe – Then the chance to attend the wedding – but the camp –’ she shuddered. ‘The way they live is not at all like I imagined.’
‘Sheikh Imad can move between European and Bedouin life because he is a man. Sabra’s wealth and position allows her far more freedom than most women. But it is still much less than his. While we were at the Bedouin camp she visited many of the women in their bayts, but not once did she approach the men.’
‘I had such dreams –’ Antonia shook her head. ‘I feel very stupid.’ She looked up suddenly. ‘Do you think I’m a coward?’
‘Accepting the reality of a situation is common sense, not cowardice. And you know you aren’t. If you were, you’d have given up photography long ago. But you didn’t. Despite the difficulties and criticism, you worked to develop your talent. That demonstrates courage and commitment.’
‘Thank you.’ Antonia smiled. But it quickly faded and she raised troubled eyes. ‘What will I do now? Marry Spencer Blaine? Join the ranks of women I have no respect for?’ She shuddered. ‘I can’t. I’d die of boredom. He is so hollow. But my father is determined. Yet if I don’t, what’s left?’
‘Only you can decide that,’ Caseley said. As Jago returned, Antonia turned her camel away.
‘Did you receive the promised apology?’
‘Not exactly.’
Jago snorted. ‘Why am I not surprised? I have not forgotten her attempts to undermine you. As I told you before, she’s jealous.’
Caseley’s laugh broke. ‘Why would she envy me?’
‘You have a husband who would give his life for you; and will do anything to win back your esteem and affection.’
As day faded into evening, they continued the pattern established on their journey to the camp and during their stay. The three women laid their camel saddles, blankets and cloaks on one side of the fire, the men on the other.
In the look Jago sent her, Caseley read frustration and impatience. But respect for Sheikh Imad and Sabra kept him silent as they settled down for the night. Caseley was torn. She yearned for the comfort of his arms and the warm strength of his body. But though his declaration of love and commitment made her quake with relief, each time she relived them, a new uncertainty gnawed at her.
As a girl, managing the house and daily walks between house, yard and town had kept her slender. Happiness in her marriage and the birth of two children had rounded her figure and the contours of her face. Jago had adored her transition from girl to woman. But grief had pared her to the bone.
When they first met, he had taken her breath away. Handsome, broad-shouldered and hard-muscled from the physical demands of shipboard life, his half-Spanish heritage gave him a patrician air while from his Cornish ancestry he had inherited immense stamina and a tender heart none but those closest to him even suspected.
Now, still lean, he had the solid strength of oak, yet moved like a cat. The silver that threaded his black hair added distinction. The creases at the outer corners of his eyes were deeper, scored by hours spent scanning the horizon on long voyages.
She did not doubt that he loved her. But would he still find her desirable? She felt herself blush beneath her long robe, and dreaded that he might not.
The following morning Caseley noticed the camels constantly turning their heads and sniffing the air. She knelt to roll up her cloak and push it into the striped bag. ‘Sheikha? Why are the camels doing that?’
Sabra glanced up from her own packing. ‘They are probably anxious to get home.’ She smiled. ‘As I’m sure you must be.’
They made an early start, and instead of stopping at midday, Sheikh Imad insisted they keep going.
During the afternoon, Caseley’s camel became restless. She tapped its shoulders with her stick to keep it moving. Jago came alongside.
‘Something feels wrong. If we were at sea, I’d say I could smell a storm.’ He shaded his eyes with one hand. ‘But here, if there are signs I can’t read them.’
Caseley looked up. The cloudless sky resembled polished pewter. Heat pressed down like a weight on her head and shoulders. When, at last, the narrow wadi widened into a stony plain bounded by low hills, the intensity of her relief surprised her.
She became aware of a sound. Barely audible, it was low and continuous, different from the wind. She looked round.
‘What is it?’ Jago asked.
‘I don’t know. Can’t you hear it?’
Before he could answer, the bodyguard at the rear shouted a warning. Sheikh Imad glanced back and abruptly changed direction towards the low hills edging the valley’s sides, slapping his camel’s rump with a stick.
Sabra had seized Antonia’s rein. Robert Pawlyn’s camel broke into a run to remain with them. The servants towing the baggage camels were urging them on with shouts.
Responding to Sheikh Imad’s bellowed order, the bodyguard at the rear started towards Caseley and Jago.
Unsettled by all the shouting, Caseley’s camel jerked its head violently and swerved sideways. Thrown off-balance, the rein torn from her hand, she tumbled from the saddle. Her camel bolted after the others racing towards rising ground.
The breath knocked out of her by the fall, she looked along the wadi. A low rumble vibrated through the ground. The
valley floor seemed to be moving. She blinked to clear her vision, then realised she was seeing tongues of foaming debris-laden water hurtling towards her.
Fighting the scream that rose in her throat she scrambled to her feet, and saw Jago jump from his camel. It galloped after the others. Staggering as he landed, he managed to avoid falling and ran towards her.
Seizing her hand he looped her arm around his neck and wrapped his other arm around her waist. ‘Are you hurt?’
Her heart was hammering wildly. She felt light-headed from the shock of her fall.
‘Caseley?’ As he hauled her to her feet, she winced. Her hip and shoulder ached where she had landed on them and her grazed hand stung.
‘N – nothing broken.’
He took most of her weight to spare her crippled foot as they ran towards higher ground. But the flood was quicker. A few yards from safety the brown-grey water poured over their sandals, splashing up their legs, soaking the bottom of their robes.
The force was terrifying. Their wet robes dragged. Caseley bit her tongue to stifle a scream as she fought to keep her balance. Stones and debris slammed against her ankles. The pain made her eyes sting. She clung to Jago. If he let go, the water would sweep her away.
He waded the final few steps, grunting with effort as they stumbled up the rising slope. When they were well clear of the water he stopped, panting, as they both looked back.
Gasping for breath, held hard against him, she could feel the rapid thunder of his heartbeat. Her own was even faster. The flood swept by with a hissing roar, carrying broken tree trunks, date palm fronds and scrubby thorn bushes ripped up by the roots.
Caseley was mesmerised by the power of the silt-laden torrent that stretched the width of the valley floor. Above the tumbling racing water a fine mist cooled the air.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ His voice was hoarse.
Her heart still hammered wildly. She felt queasy from shock and reaction to their narrow escape. She nodded, forcing a smile. ‘J – just b-bruised.’ Her teeth chattered. ‘I’ll b-be all c-colours of the rainbow tomorrow.’ His strength gave her comfort. His body against hers kindled a kaleidoscope of vivid memories; powerful, passionate, tender. Despite the heat, her skin tightened in a shiver. ‘Thank you. If the water had reached me before you did –’
