by Anne Gracie
But Mrs. Ferris was not so easily fooled. “John Company? He worked for John Company?” She meant the British East India Company; it was the name insiders used.
“No, but his father did. Please excuse me,” Ayisha said as she slipped out of the cabin. “The kitten needs to go.”
But Mrs. Ferris was waiting with more questions when they returned.
“Who did you know in Egypt—it was Cairo, you came from, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Cairo, but there are too many people to name.” Ayisha put Cleo on her bunk and climbed up herself, hoping Mrs. Ferris would take the hint.
But the interrogation went on. “Who of importance did you know?”
Ayisha rolled her eyes. “Well, there was Mr. Salt, of course,” she began, naming the consul general. “Papa knew him quite well.” She didn’t though. Mr. Salt had come to their house once when she was a little girl, with an English traveler, Viscount something, who called his employee simply Salt. Salt was a young painter then and had shown Papa some of his pictures. She’d watched them between the railings of the stairs, but she only remembered him because of his name. It seemed so funny to her to call someone Salt.
Years later Salt had come back to Cairo, all important now, as Mr. Salt, the British consul general. She’d seen him up close several times, but by that time she was living as a boy. And even if she’d been dressed as she was now, he still wouldn’t have known her unless she’d explained who her father was.
But people said Mr. Salt had slaves, so she wouldn’t have told him anything.
“Pooh, everyone knows Mr. Salt,” Mrs. Ferris said. “Who did you visit? What about—” She listed a string of names, to each one of which, Ayisha said, “No, no, no,” and played with her cat.
“Where did your father live?”
“In the old part of Cairo, overlooking the river.”
“Describe where, exactly.”
Ayisha gave a vague description.
Not vague enough. “I believe you mean that old house that has a shifting population of clerks,” Mrs. Ferris sniffed. “Well, if that’s where you lived . . .” Clearly Ayisha was a person of no account.
“I don’t know who lives there now,” Ayisha said, annoyed. “Since my parents died, I’ve been living with an Egyptian lady.”
“An Egyptian?” Mrs. Ferris said, scorn dripping from the word.
“Yes, a very kind and respectable lady who is shortly to be married to an Englishman.”
“Who?”
“To Mr. Johnny Baxter,” Ayisha told her, thinking that would silence the woman. Mr. Baxter was kind, handsome, and rich, as well as being English; nobody could disparage him.
She was wrong. Mrs. Ferris could disparage anyone. “That fellow who’s gone native?” She pronounced it “gorn native.” “A disgrace to his country!”
“He’s not! He’s a war hero,” Ayisha declared hotly. “He was badly wounded in the Battle of the Nile.”
“Then it’s a pity he went native, isn’t it?”
Ayisha jumped off her bunk and scooped Cleo up. “The kitten has to go,” she declared and stormed from the room.
“Again?” Mrs. Ferris’s voice floated out as Ayisha shut the door. “I hope that animal isn’t sickening with something. I won’t share a cabin with a sick cat.”
Eleven
Do I look all right?” Ayisha asked Mrs. Ferris that evening. “I’ll be eating at the captain’s table tonight.” The Flavia was a merchantman that plied the Mediterranean trade routes on a regular basis, carrying goods and a few passengers between England and the Orient. It was owned by an Englishman who lived in Italy, and its captain was a half Italian Irishman.
Mrs. Ferris paused in her preparations to say, “Captain Gallagher has a reputation as a sociable man with regrettably . . . democratic views.” She said the word as though it left a nasty taste in her mouth. “So at some stage he will have each passenger—of any standing, that is; not of course, servants—join him at his table. But I doubt very much you will be in his company tonight.”
She adjusted the pearls at her throat and added, “To be asked to dine with him the first night out is a signal of honor. I myself will be at the captain’s table. I sailed from England with him, and we are quite old friends. So you need not worry about that dress.” She cast Ayisha’s dress a faintly disparaging look.
“I like this dress,” Ayisha told her. She actually loved the dress. The color matched her eyes, and the seamstress had added a border of contrasting fabric around the hem. The border was a black geometrical design on a green watery background, and was interspersed with cream and pink lotuses and tiny crocodiles. Wearing it was like bringing a little piece of the river with her. She wore it with a creamy, fringed silk shawl.
She was quite certain she was invited to the captain’s table; Higgins had brought her the message from Rafe earlier, saying he’d pick her up at six and adding that it was an honor to be invited for the first night, and to wear her best clothes. But there was no point in arguing with Mrs. Ferris.
She glanced at Mrs. Ferris’s maid. “Is my hair all right?” She’d twisted a spangled greeny scarf and knotted it around her head.
“Yes, miss,” the maid said. “That scarf looks quite à la mode.”
“Woods,” Mrs. Ferris said repressively.
“Yes, ma’am,” the maid said and, with a quick half smile at Ayisha, turned back to her mistress.
There was a knock on the door and Ayisha stood to answer it, but Mrs. Ferris said, “The door, Woods,” and her maid hurried to open it.
“Mr. Ramsey to collect Miss Cleeve,” a deep voice said.
A thrill ran through Ayisha as she looked at him. She’d only ever seen him in buff breeches and boots, but dressed formally, in an elegant black coat, a brilliant white shirt, and a pale gray waistcoat, freshly shaved and with a faint smile directed at her, he took her breath away.
“You look lovely,” he said. “That dress almost exactly matches your eyes. Nothing could, of course—they are unique—but it comes very close.” His gaze dropped to her hem. “I see you’ve brought your beloved river with you. Another unique touch. Now, are you ready for dinner?”
Ayisha nodded and stepped forward. The smile in his eyes made her feel a little shy. And the dress was all right, he’d said so. And he understood about the river.
Behind her, Mrs. Ferris cleared her throat in a meaningful way and Rafe looked past Ayisha.
“Mrs. Ferris, I presume,” he said with a smile. “Rafe Ramsey at your service.”
Mrs. Ferris held out her hand and Rafe bowed over it.
“You are here to escort this girl?” she said in faint disbelief.
Ayisha bridled at her tone.
“I am,” Rafe confirmed, holding his arm out for Ayisha to take. She stepped forward and placed her hand on his arm. He covered it with his own.
Mrs. Ferris’s lips thinned. “She said you were her grandmother’s friend.”
“That is correct.”
“But I was expecting a much older man.”
He raised one dark brow. “Were you, ma’am?” he said in a manner that suggested, ever so politely, that it was none of her business. “Life is full of disappointments, isn’t it?” And he led Ayisha away.
She maintained a dignified walk until they reached the end of the corridor, then she gave a gleeful little skip. “I am so glad you were rude to that woman. She is such a—a—”
“I wasn’t the least bit rude,” he said. “I was extremely polite.”
“Yes, politely rude.” She tried to think of how to describe what he’d done. “Like a very polite wasp.”
“Is she rude to you?” he asked seriously. “Do you want me to have her shifted?”
“You can’t,” she said. “All the cabins are full.”
“If she’s unkind to you, I’ll get her moved,” he said in a voice that convinced her he both could and would.
His concern touched her. Nobody had ever worried about people being un
kind to her before. She’d faced much worse things than rudeness or unkindness; she could handle the likes of Mrs. Ferris.
“No, don’t worry. I don’t have to see much of her anyway. She’s traveling with two other ladies—they’re all widows, and she spends a lot of her time with them. And do you know, they all have maids, but the maids are sharing a cabin several decks down. Woods told me there are six girls in one cabin that’s no bigger than mine, and they all sleep in hammocks. She doesn’t like it, but I wouldn’t mind sleeping in a hammock. I’ve never done so.”
“You are not sleeping in a hammock!”
She gave him an odd look. “Only a short time ago I was sleeping outside on the ground.”
“Yes, but I promise you, you never will again.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I can. I will ensure it.”
It was an odd thing to say when he was just delivering her to her grandmother’s. How could he possibly ensure such a thing? But he had an implacable, angry look around his mouth, so she decided not to pursue it.
She returned to the subject of Mrs. Ferris. “Don’t you think it’s strange that Mrs. Ferris doesn’t have her maid in her room? Wouldn’t you rather share a room with your maid than a stranger? What if I was a bad person? Or snored?”
“Yes, but she wouldn’t want to pay the same for her maid as for herself. The price of the cabin ensured you’d at least be of the moneyed class, which is much more important to women of that ilk.”
She laughed. “Poor Mrs. Ferris. She’s been cheated, hasn’t she?”
He gave her a quizzical look. “Why?”
“Someone from the moneyed class?” She laughed again. “I haven’t a bean to my name. Though I do have a royal cat, so that will have to do. Mrs. Ferris isn’t fond of cats, but she’s been all right about me keeping Cleo in the cabin.”
“And does Cleo—excellent name, by the way—does she mind having Mrs. Ferris in the cabin? She struck me as a cat of very decided opinions.”
“Who, Mrs. Ferris or Cleo?” Ayisha joked. “You’re right, she is a kitten of strong feelings. You should have seen the fuss she made about being bathed.” She told him all about it.
“And where is Miss Cleo now?” he asked. They reached the dining room and he opened the door for her.
“In her basket on my bed,” she said as she passed through. “Glowering through the bars and yowling every now and then to make her disapproval known. But she’ll get used to it. She’s young. You can get used to anything when you’re young.”
Rafe didn’t say much at dinner. He was watching Ayisha enchant Captain Gallagher and two young officers, Lieutenants Green and Dickinson. There were seven others at the captain’s table: Mrs. Ferris and her two friends, Mrs. Wiggs and Mrs. Grenville; a young vicar, Reverend Payne, and his wife—newlyweds who’d visited Jerusalem on their honeymoon.
Her enchanting the two officers wasn’t a surprise; apart from being beautiful, she was the only unmarried female under fifty at the table.
But the captain was in his fifties, too, a happily married man and a proud grandfather. Rafe had discovered all this since he sat down. Ayisha had asked the captain all about his family and soon elicited the information that after siring seven sons himself, his pride and joy was his third grandchild, the first girl to be born to his family in three generations, his little principessa.
Rafe sipped his wine, sat back, and watched Ayisha, fascinated. It must have been years since she’d sat at an English-style dinner table, but nobody would have guessed. She ate with unself-conscious good manners and seemed totally relaxed. And her conversation was fresh, not practiced or limited to banal mundanities.
“What surprised you most about Jerusalem when you got there?” she asked Reverend Payne and his bride. They surprised themselves with their answers, and a conversation about travel and expectations and nice and nasty surprises developed in which everyone could join.
She had a knack for getting on with people. How much of that had been developed in the streets? Was it a form of defense? Disarm people so they would not attack you. Or offer you odd jobs.
Mrs. Ferris was less impressed, he noticed. Having comported herself as “most honored guest,” she grew increasingly lemon-lipped as the conversation flourished, yet not around her. Finally irritation got the better of her. She leaned forward and said in a cool voice that cut across the conversation, “Miss Cleeve, my friends and I have been wondering where you got that extraordinary dress? The color is unexceptional enough, but the cut, and that border, with crocodiles—it’s . . . extraordinary!”
Ayisha looked up, and from the look in her eye, she was ready to do battle, captain’s table or not. “I like this dress,” she declared.
Rafe decided it was time he contributed to the conversation. “So do I, it’s unusual and elegant. And Mrs. Ferris, I think the color is exceptional. To find a fabric that matches Miss Cleeve’s eyes so beautifully—that’s the extraordinary thing, don’t you think?”
At that, everyone naturally looked at Ayisha’s eyes. The two soldiers joined in, enthusiastically agreeing that Miss Cleeve’s eyes were indeed beautiful.
Mrs. Ferris got more lemon-lipped.
Miss Cleeve took a sip of wine and from over the top of her glass the beautiful eyes gave Rafe such a look of mischief that he was hard put to keep a straight face.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Ferris’s friend joined the fray. “The fabric is a perfectly ordinary eau de Nil color.”
“Eau de Nil,” Ayisha repeated, clearly delighted. “Water of the Nile—my eyes are eau de Nil. Thank you, Mrs. Grenville. What a lovely compliment.”
Mrs. Grenville gave a half-genuine smile, then glanced at her friend guiltily.
Rafe spoke again. “Miss Cleeve’s luggage was lost in an accident, so she was obliged to purchase everything locally and at short notice. I think she’s done remarkably well, don’t you? I shouldn’t wonder if clever accents like that border start a new fashion in London.” He sat back, knowing his own fashionable appearance gave such an opinion credibility.
“She lost her maid in the same accident, presumably,” Mrs. Ferris said tartly.
“No, of course not,” Ayisha told her. “My maid took up another position with the wife of a wealthy merchant.” Her eyes dared Rafe to correct the lie.
As if he would. Rafe said in a cool drawl, “The girl did quite well for herself, but of course it was on the eve of our departure, and she quite left Miss Cleeve in the lurch.” He swirled his wine around in the glass and added, as an afterthought, “I understand you ladies each have personal maids traveling with you . . .” He smiled gently at Mrs. Ferris’s friends, each of whom immediately offered poor Miss Cleeve the use of their maid whenever she should need her.
Mrs. Ferris had no option but to join in or appear ungenerous. “My maid, Woods, shall assist you in her spare time,” she said, through lips that had almost disappeared.
After dinner Ayisha and Rafe walked on the upper deck. It was dark, the breeze was warm and balmy, and they strolled in silence. The only sound, apart from the constant splash of waves, was the creak of timber, the snap of the sails in the breeze, and the rattle of ropes.
Ayisha held her arms out wide, leaned into the breeze, and inhaled extravagantly. “This air is so fresh. I don’t think I’ve ever smelled anything so deliciously clean.”
Rafe smiled but said nothing. With her hands holding on to the ends of the shawl, it looked like she had wings and was braced to fly out over the sea. The wind plastered the fabric of her dress to her body, and the faint light of the crescent moon caressed each hollow and curve.
Lithe, slender, unfettered femininity.
His mouth dried.
Small, but definite breasts, nipples upthrust in the cool air. Strapped down for so many years, now set free.
He stepped away and looked into the darkness, at the dark, silky waves, at the stars and slender, crescent moon.
For the duration of this trip she was—s
he had to be—like that sliver of moon, out of his reach. He was honor-bound not to touch her. Lady Cleeve had entrusted her granddaughter’s safety and welfare to him. Compromising her on the journey home was not part of their agreement.
Nor was it his desire; though she was all of his desire.
Causing speculation about them traveling together would only cause her harm.
He wanted to win her for himself, wanted her to choose him freely, for himself alone, not be forced to wed him for the sake of propriety.
She knew nothing of his background; the earldom meant nothing to her. Perhaps she thought him rich. Once she got to England she would see that while he was comfortably off, there were many men much richer.
He didn’t think she’d care; at least he hoped she wouldn’t. But she ought to have the choice.
“I shouldn’t have provoked Mrs. Ferris,” he said. “She’s the sort who would spread malicious gossip.”
She shrugged. “You can’t stop women like that talking. And if they don’t know anything, they’ll just make it up. Besides, she started it—or rather the captain did. She as good as told me I was too shabby and obscure to merit an invitation to the captain’s table on the first night, and so her nose was out of joint from the start.”
She yawned. “Don’t let’s ruin this beautiful night talking about her. Tell me about the first time you went on a ship—a proper ship, not on a river or a lake—like this one, going to sea, to another country.”
“That would be when we shipped off to Portugal.”
“We?” she asked, moving closer.
“All of us: Gabe, Harry, Luke, Michael, and me. My friends,” he explained. “My closest friends. The finest friends a man could have.”
“Will I meet them in England?” The wind blew the skirt of her dress against his leg. It wrapped around his thigh, softly.
“You’ll meet Harry and Luke. Not Gabe. Gabe married the Princess of Zindaria, so he lives there.” He would take her to Zindaria one day, he thought. And then caught himself up on the notion. His insides lurched as he realized where his thoughts, his desires, were taking him.
