The Master's Wife

by Jane Jackson

  ‘Don’t you get bored with always being right?’ The ironic tone of her retort showed Antonia had accepted her point.

  ‘He’s a good man, who cares deeply for you.’

  ‘But do I deserve it?’

  Hearing genuine fear beneath Antonia’s flippancy, Caseley squeezed her hand briefly. ‘He obviously thinks so. Trust him, and trust yourself.’

  Antonia blew a slow breath. ‘I’m scared,’ she admitted. ‘But I won’t let it stop me.’

  Caseley smiled at her. ‘I should hope not.’

  They arrived at the Consulate. While Jago paid both drivers, two servants came out to pick up the luggage and camera equipment. Antonia followed them inside. Caseley and Jago entered the building together. Spencer Blaine came out of the general office and stopped, visibly shocked.

  ‘You have been out in public like that? Your father will be appalled.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Spencer. Dressing in English fashion would have put us at risk of being attacked. Would you have us sacrifice our safety to appearances?’

  His face flushed crimson. ‘There is no need to be offensive. I am only too aware that you have little patience with protocol. However, we have a reputation to maintain, and –’

  ‘What is all the noise?’ Sir Douglas stopped halfway down the staircase. ‘Good Lord!’

  ‘I was just telling Miss Collingwood my concern –’

  ‘Yes, I heard. Normally I would agree with you. However, on this rare occasion my daughter has shown uncommon good sense.’

  Antonia lifted her chin and Caseley felt a pang of sympathy. Sir Douglas’s remark revealed his attitude towards his daughter. At best impatient, at worst contemptuous, it certainly helped to explain her prickly attitude.

  While respecting Antonia’s fierce devotion to her photography, Caseley hadn’t realised what it must have cost her to continue when faced with constant belittling. Robert Pawlyn had seen through her defensiveness to her courage, and loved her for it.

  Sir Douglas came down the stairs, his gaze passing briefly over each of them. He gave a brief nod. ‘Though I dislike the necessity of such disguise, current circumstances make it a sensible decision. Well, Captain Barata? Were you successful?’

  ‘We did our best, sir.’

  The diplomat’s expectant smile faded. ‘Considering the value of the gold involved, I expected a more definite result.’

  ‘As I say, sir, we did our best. Sheikh Imad graciously acted as intermediary, and Mr Pawlyn’s knowledge of the language and customs proved invaluable.’

  ‘Dealing with such people is impossible –’ Spencer Blaine began.

  ‘The Bedouin could not have been more generous or hospitable.’ Jago ignored the interruption, his gaze on the Assistant Consul. ‘We were welcomed into their tents and treated as honoured guests. The elders discussed our proposal at great length. By the time we left, opinion seemed to be turning in our favour.’

  ‘Why did you not stay longer? Another day or two might have secured the agreement.’

  Caseley remembered what Pawlyn had told her. Unexpected guests – even enemies – were welcomed for three days with no questions asked or payment requested.

  ‘Sheikh Imad had business back in Cairo. Besides, pressing for a commitment might have had the opposite effect.’

  ‘Then all we can do is hope.’ He beckoned to his daughter. ‘Antonia, here in the Consulate you are on English sovereign territory. I suggest you go up and change.’ He turned back to Jago. ‘Captain Barata, you are to carry Mrs Williamson and two Maltese gentlemen to Port Said. Admiral Seymour has threatened to bombard the city –’

  ‘I am aware of the threat, sir. We learned of it on our return to Cairo.’

  ‘Yes, but what you don’t know is that Sir Charles is out of hospital and has been called to meet with our Consul-General in Cairo, leaving me in charge. By the time you have changed your clothes, a calèche will be outside to convey you and my aide –’

  ‘With respect, Sir Douglas, I am not going to Port Said. I’m taking my wife home to Cornwall.’

  ‘It was not a request, Captain Barata. As the accredited representative of Her Majesty’s government whose business brought you here, I am giving you a direct order.’

  ‘My wife –’

  ‘Will await your swift return. The distance is not great, 121 nautical miles, according to Blaine’s calculations. You will be back in less than a week.’

  Caseley laid her hand on Jago’s arm, feeling rigid muscles vibrating with barely suppressed fury. ‘The sooner you go then the sooner you will return. I will wait for you at the hotel –’

  ‘No.’ Jago and Sir Douglas spoke together.

  ‘You cannot stay there alone,’ Jago said.

  ‘I would not hear of it,’ Sir Douglas added. ‘You will remain here with us. Antonia will be glad of your company. As for the threatened bombardment, I believe it may yet be called off. Messages have been exchanged between Colonel Arabi, the Khedive and Admiral Seymour.’

  ‘It is most unfortunate,’ Spencer Blaine broke in, ‘that the Admiral’s personal servant was killed while they were both ashore during the trouble a few weeks ago. By all accounts the Admiral took it very badly.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Blaine,’ Sir Douglas said. ‘Whatever the Admiral’s personal feelings, he is an Englishman and will not allow them to influence a matter of such international importance.’ He bared his teeth in a brief smile. ‘There is no cause whatsoever for alarm. The forts are all along the shoreline. We are in the centre of the city. We will be perfectly safe.’ He turned to Jago. ‘Your trunk is upstairs. You will oblige me by leaving as soon as possible.’

  Caseley opened the trunk. ‘Will you change?’ Her headband and scarf hung over the bed’s brass foot rail.

  Jago shook his head. ‘No, I’m safer like this. I’ll change on board. Is there is a clean work shirt and trousers in there?’

  She took them out, rolling them together, her movements deft despite the tremor in her hands. Sir Douglas might say there was no cause for concern. But his smile had betrayed fear. Had Jago seen it? If she asked, he would worry.

  ‘I suppose I should be grateful,’ Jago growled bitterly. ‘At least he didn’t commandeer Cygnet.’

  Take me with you. She clenched her teeth to stop the words escaping. There wouldn’t be room. Cygnet was not built to carry passengers. If Nathan gave up the mate’s cabin to Mrs Williamson and took the sea berth in Jago’s day room, the other two gentlemen would have to sleep on the benches in the saloon. Don’t go. He had no choice. Refusal could cost him his ship. Her throat was dry, swallowing painful. She moistened her lips.

  ‘Comandeer Cygnet? First he would have had to get past Nathan, Jimbo and Hammer.’

  ‘And Martin. Remember Santander? Fire in the fo’c’sle yet he held off that mob, and him only a boy.’

  ‘I’ll never forget it.’ Picking up the striped bag containing the two felt cloaks, she added his rolled shirt, trousers and clean underwear. ‘May I ask you something?’

  ‘Anything.’ He opened the leather drawstring purse, pressed a gold coin into her hand.

  ‘I have no need of it, Jago. I am Sir Douglas’s guest.’

  ‘Take it anyway. There may be something you want.’

  You. Come back safely. ‘Jago, the berth in your sleeping cabin – why did you have it made narrow, again?’

  ‘When Philip was born I knew you wouldn’t be able to sail with me any more. What I hadn’t realised was how much I would miss you. In my sleep I would reach for you and find only space. So I told Hammer to alter it. Why?’

  ‘When I drew back the curtain and saw –’ she shook her head.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I felt – I thought you wanted to wipe away any sign that I had ever been with you.’

  ‘I did.’ He cupped her face between his hands, his mouth gentle on hers. ‘I could not bear the constant reminder of all the times you had shared it with me. I wanted you there even t
hough I knew you couldn’t be. What kind of man is jealous of his own children? But I was.’ He held her away from him and the crease between his brows deepened. ‘I thought you would understand.’

  ‘I do – now.’ She should have realised. Had it not been the same for her? Every time he went away on a voyage their bed felt vast, cold and empty. But that was before.

  Once more he drew her close, rested his cheek against her temple. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered and she felt a muscle jump in his jaw.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Everything.’ He tilted her chin. His lips brushed hers then lingered.

  Hunger, rigidly controlled, prowled behind the tenderness and drew its echo from her. She buried her hands in his hair and poured her whole heart into the kiss.

  With time so short, holding him, needing him, knowing he felt the same, was both comfort and torture.

  Reluctantly he drew away, and tucked a fallen curl behind her ear. ‘Stay safe, querida. I’ll be back as fast as Cygnet can bring me.’ His voice grew rough. ‘Don’t come down until I’ve gone. I can’t – I hate leaving you.’

  Somehow she held her voice steady. ‘Fair winds, Jago.’

  Seizing the bag, he walked out.

  She heard his footsteps on the stairs growing fainter. A cold breath whispered across the back of her neck and her skin tightened in a shiver.

  Wiping her eyes, she pulled herself together. He’d be back in just a few days. Then they could go home. To what? The house with all its memories would be waiting for her. It had not changed. But she had.

  The horror and sadness of those final weeks had obscured everything that was happy. Crushed by grief, all she had been able to think of was her loss. But even the most violent storm eventually passes. Black clouds part and the first golden shaft is a promise of the sun’s return.

  She tucked the coin deep into the folds of her headband, bathed her face and tidied her hair, then crossed the upstairs hall to a drawing room where a tray of tea and a plate of dainty pastries sat on a low table. Even on the brink of potential invasion routine had to be maintained and appearances observed.

  ‘There you are,’ Antonia said. ‘Come and have some tea.’ Obeying her father she had exchanged her thobe and headscarf for a stylish gown of pale blue silk with lace-frilled three-quarter length sleeves. Her hair was gathered into a simple chignon on her nape, a style that would be easy to manage. Perhaps Robert Pawlyn’s proposal had already begun to have an effect.

  ‘I was just telling my father about your famous flatbreads.’ She handed Caseley a cup and saucer. ‘You must be quite expert after all that practice.’

  ‘I enjoyed learning something new.’ Raising the cup, Caseley sipped. She missed Jago already. Though they had seen little of each other at the camp, she had known he was there. Now he wasn’t. She was alone again.

  Sir Douglas bit into another pastry, dropping crumbs down his waistcoat. ‘I wish my daughter might take more interest in the domestic arts. A sensible young woman knows that this is the route to contentment. But I fear she is a lost cause.’

  Antonia glanced away but Caseley saw her embarrassment and anger. Though his complaint was clearly not new, that he would voice it to a relative stranger revealed the depth of his frustration.

  ‘With respect, Sir Douglas, if I had Miss Collingwood’s talent, I should want to spend every spare moment trying to develop and perfect it.’

  ‘Would you, indeed? I wonder what your husband would think about that?’

  ‘As he has found my fluency in French of great help to him over the past week, I believe he would encourage me.’

  ‘Hmph,’ he snorted and turned again to his daughter. ‘I trust that having insisted on taking all that expensive equipment you brought back some interesting photographs?’

  ‘Fewer than I would have liked. Bedouin women are very modest and shy. As their guest I could not insist. But I did take one that shows the way they dress.’ As Antonia’s gaze met hers, Caseley read a plea that she would keep their secret. ‘I also took some wonderful images of the camels we rode. They belong to a very valuable herd, so we were privileged to have use of them.’

  ‘Perhaps while Mrs Barata waits for her husband’s return, she could help you in your dark room.’

  ‘I think not.’ As her father’s brows shot up, Antonia looked at Caseley. ‘Father has never been in there so he has probably forgotten it is little bigger than a closet. There is barely enough room for me. And to anyone not used to them the smell of chemicals can be very upsetting.’

  ‘I much prefer fresh air and would be more hindrance than help.’ Caseley understood why, fighting a constant battle to be taken seriously, Antonia didn’t want to share. ‘I shall look forward to seeing the finished prints.’

  After a brisk knock, Spencer Blaine put his head round the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Sir Douglas said irritably.

  ‘I took Captain Barata to Mrs Williamson’s house. Mr Theotakis and Mr Roussos were already with her. They left immediately for the harbour and should arrive there at any time.’

  ‘Good. That is one less concern.’

  ‘Mr Theotakis said there are only a handful of doctors at the European hospital. He insisted we should consider leaving. Naturally, I told him it was out of the question. But he continued to press, reminding me that the French have closed their Consulate. No doubt this is purely a temporary measure –’

  ‘Why are there so few doctors, Mr Blaine?’ Caseley interrupted. It was clear the aide wanted to follow the French example. But he wouldn’t risk his position by suggesting it.

  ‘Most of them left after the riots in June. They took their families and possessions so it is unlikely they will return.’

  Realising she had been handed a lifeline; Caseley swallowed the last of her tea and lowered the cup to its saucer.

  Blaine turned to Sir Douglas. ‘I came back via the telegraph office. There are no new messages from Cairo. Mr Pawlyn was there and asked me to tell you he would be coming to see you shortly.’

  Sir Douglas chewed and swallowed the last of his pastry. ‘I wonder what he wants.’

  Antonia blushed pink. Caseley placed her cup and saucer carefully on the tray and rose to her feet.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, I shall go to the hospital.’

  Reaching for another pastry, Sir Douglas froze. ‘Why? Are you ill?’

  ‘No. I am perfectly well, thank you. I intend to offer my help.’

  His shocked expression mirrored that of his aide. ‘A hospital is no place for a lady.’

  ‘Indeed it is not,’ Spencer Blaine echoed.

  ‘I appreciate your concern. But surely we should be thinking of patients who have no one to tend them?’

  ‘Mrs Barata, I must protest. You are not a doctor. Nor are you a nurse.’

  She thought of her father, of her sons. ‘You are mistaken, sir. I have considerable nursing experience.’

  ‘Be that as it may, until your husband returns I am responsible for your safety.’

  ‘What safer place can there be than a hospital?’ Caseley maintained her smile with an effort.

  ‘You are a stranger here, Mrs Barata,’ Blaine’s condescending smile made her hand itch with the desire to slap him. ‘Given the current level of tension, for an Englishwoman to venture onto the streets is the height of folly. Nor can we spare anyone to accompany you –’

  ‘I would not expect it, Mr Blaine. I am fluent in French and dressed like this with my head covered no one will know my nationality. Now, you must excuse me.’

  As Caseley went to the door, Antonia jumped up and followed.

  ‘Try and talk some sense into her.’ Sir Douglas did not try to hide his impatience. ‘It is too bad. I have enough to do without –’

  ‘You aren’t going because I didn’t want you to help me, are you?’ Antonia’s question drowned her father’s complaint.

  ‘No, I’m going because I can be useful. And because if I don’t keep busy while Jago is
away I shall go mad.’

  ‘I have no experience of illness.’

  And I have too much. ‘Truly, I didn’t expect you to come with me.’

  ‘I have to be here when Robert arrives.’

  ‘Of course you do.’ Looking into Antonia’s troubled face, Caseley touched her arm in reassurance. ‘This is the most important day of both your lives.’

  ‘One of the servants will show you the way. It’s not far.’

  Chapter Twenty

  The hospital was a long two-storey building with a cornice edging the flat roof and a tall, arched entrance. As they reached the grounds, Caseley turned to the woman servant Sir Douglas had insisted went with her and thanked her in French and Arabic. The woman nodded and hurried back the way they had come.

  A large, airy foyer with deep windows and square columns supporting the ceiling was thronged with people. She caught snatches of French, German and other languages she couldn’t identify. The men wore suits. The women’s dress varied. Some wore European fashion; others wore long, dark skirts and high-neck long-sleeved bodices, their hair covered by printed headscarves.

  Catching sight of a tall, thin woman in a long grey habit and white apron, her hair covered by a white cloth fastened at the back, Caseley crossed to intercept her.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said in English. ‘Are you a nurse?’

  The woman nodded. ‘I am Soeur Jeanne.’

  ‘I understand you are short of staff? I should like to offer my help.’

  Drawing her back against a wall so they did not impede people hurrying to and fro, the woman’s gaze flickered from Caseley’s scarf and thobe to her sandals.

  ‘Why you are dressed this way?’ Soeur Jeanne asked in heavily accented English.

  Caseley switched to French and saw the nurse’s relief. ‘My husband and I attended a Bedouin wedding in the desert. When we returned to Cairo we learned there had been unrest here, directed at English people. Our hostess advised us to remain in Bedouin dress.’