Castles of Sand

by Anne Mather

  Alain’s eyes narrowed, and Ashley could feel the hot colour mounting up her cheeks as he considered the import of this. ‘Why should you think that, Maman?’ he asked expressionlessly. ‘What has—our guest been telling you? That it was I who introduced them?’

  ‘Oh, Alain, I know about that,’ retorted Hélène impatiently. ‘And you know perfectly well what I mean.’ Her eyes sought and held his for a moment in a challenging exchange, then she turned to Ashley. ‘Please—do not let my son antagonise you, chérie. He can be the very devil incarnate when it pleases him to be.’

  ‘I know.’ Ashley’s response was low and reluctant, and although she longed to escape from this embarrassing dialogue, she was obliged, through a sense of respect for his mother, to suffer Alain’s scathing regard.

  ‘So—’ His mother endeavoured to lead the conversation into less controversial channels. ‘Did you visit the Embassy this morning, Alain? Have you spoken with Monsieur Davidson?’

  ‘I have.’ Her son inclined his head. ‘We leave for New York on Thursday next. I shall address the committee on Friday morning.’

  Ashley listened as Hélène questioned him further, about what flight he was taking, and what time he expected to arrive in the United States, and reluctantly conceded that she did not welcome the knowledge of his imminent departure. In spite of the antagonism she felt towards him, Alain was her only link with the past, and to know herself alone in the palace, with only his mother for support, was vaguely frightening.

  ‘My son is to address a committee of the United Nations,’ Hélène explained, as Ashley shifted a trifle nervously, disturbed by her uneasy thoughts. ‘He has initiated trade negotiations between the American government and Murad, which it is hoped will raise the standard of living of our people, and provide funds for schools and hospitals and better housing.’

  ‘The benefits of oil,’ remarked Alain dryly, aware of Ashley’s discomfort. ‘Fortunately, the Americans do not share your distaste for our industry, and by this means we will modernise our methods, and educate our people.’

  ‘I—I didn’t say I found oil distasteful,’ Ashley countered unsteadily, and Alain’s lips twisted.

  ‘The uses to which it is put, then,’ he amended dryly. ‘Most particularly, the power you feel is inequitable.’

  ‘Alain, please!’ His mother sighed. ‘Let us have no more of this unequal sparring. Ashley is our guest—we should remember that. Would you treat Hussein’s governess in this way, if you had not foreknowledge of her?’

  Alain yielded the point, but his eyes were malicious. ‘You cannot alter that which is unalterable, Maman,’ he remarked inscrutably. ‘Your guest knows that, and so do I.’

  ‘You are talking in riddles,’ declared Hélène, making a sound of exasperation. She rose abruptly to her feet. ‘As I am dining with your father this evening, I suggest you escort your—sister-in-law back to her apartments.’

  Alain’s eyes flickered at his mother’s deliberate reference to their unacknowledged relationship, and Ashley made a gesture of denial. ‘Please—I’m sure I can find my own way back—’ she began, but Hélène would not hear of it.

  ‘Alain will accompany you,’ she declared imperiously, and with a farewell gesture she bade them goodnight.

  Outside in the corridor the lamps had been lit, and the shadows of evening were dark across their path. Ashley, forced to fall into step beside her escort, knew a sense of depression for the empty hours ahead of her, but although she glanced once or twice in Alain’s direction, he did not speak.

  At the doors to her apartments, however, when she expected him to leave her, he did not, standing back as the doors were swung wide for them and then following her into the spacious reception room. The doors were closed behind them, with the servants on the outside, and Ashley confronted her husband’s brother with more apprehension than enthusiasm.

  ‘Well?’ she said, making the first overture, unable to withstand the tensions of the situation, and Alain regarded her dourly before crossing to the inner door, closing it securely and thus preventing anyone from eavesdropping.

  ‘You saw Hussein this morning,’ he said, turning back to face her, and Ashley expelled her breath on a sigh.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I did,’ she conceded quickly. ‘I—we spent about four hours together.’

  ‘And?’

  Alain regarded her beneath lowered lids, and Ashley felt a kindling of emotion. What did he want from her? A written report on what had happened? Or reassurance that she had not betrayed their agreement?

  ‘We talked. He told me about himself, about his life here, about his cousins.’ She licked her dry lips. ‘And I told him a little about me.’ She paused. ‘He’s obviously very fond of you, and—and I suppose I should thank you for—’

  ‘I do not want your thanks!’ Alain interrupted her harshly, plucking impatiently at the folds of his robe. ‘How did he seem to you? Are you pleased with him? Does he live up to your expectations, or were you disappointed?’

  ‘Disappointed?’ Ashley caught her breath. ‘Of course I wasn’t disappointed. He—he’s wonderful! Adorable! I—I—’ With frustration, she felt the prick of tears. ‘He’s a credit to you.’

  Alain halted in front of her. ‘You mean that?’

  ‘Yes, I mean it.’ Ashley quivered. ‘You—you’ve done a good job.’

  Alain’s mouth compressed. ‘He does not suspect?’

  ‘What?’ Ashley could feel her colour rising again. ‘That I am his mother? No! No, of course not. How could he?’

  ‘You did not ask him about his parents?’

  ‘No. He told me.’ Ashley held up her head. ‘He said they had died when he was a baby.’

  Alain inclined his head in satisfaction. ‘Yes.’

  Ashley’s lips trembled. ‘I suppose they did, didn’t they?’ she burst out suddenly. ‘His parents did die. Or at least, one of them did!’

  ‘Ashley—’

  ‘No. Why should I be silent?’ she exclaimed, her composure snapping as her nerves stretched to fever pitch. ‘The boy loves you! He worships you! Don’t you think that it’s cruel to treat him in this way?’

  ‘Cruel?’ Alain looked at her with hostility, but Ashley pressed on.

  ‘Yes, cruel!’ she declared. ‘If—if you marry—if your wife gives you a son—’

  ‘I shall never marry!’ grated Alain savagely. ‘Do not distress yourself. Hussein shall be my father’s heir, I promise you that.’

  ‘Thank you!’ But Ashley’s cry was bitter. ‘It’s nothing less than he deserves, is it? But you’ll never acknowledge that!’

  ‘Shut up!’

  Alain moved in closer to her, his eyes aroused and dangerous, but Ashley stood her ground. In the dark blue robes and concealing kaffiyeh, his tanned skin accentuating his look of alienation, she knew she ought to have been frightened of him, but she wasn’t. What else could he do to her that he had not already done? He had taken her love, and destroyed it; he had taken her body, and spurned it; he had taken the only positive proof of that love, and made her relinquish it. How could he harm her now?

  ‘You try my patience too far,’ he muttered, his hands curving above her shoulders, as if he would like to take hold of her and squeeze her until she cried for mercy. But he didn’t. His hands balled into fists at his sides as he fought the urge to touch her, and it was Ashley who reached out to bridge the space between them.

  ‘What’s the matter, Alain?’ she whispered, her hands spreading against the blue cloth. Beneath her fingers she could feel the taut muscles of his stomach, and her pulses quickened in tenor with the thudding beat of his heart. ‘Are you afraid of me?’ she taunted, tilting her head towards him. ‘Or could it be yourself that you’re afraid of? Can’t you stand to hear the truth, oh, wise one? Isn’t it neat enough for those rigid principles of yours?’

  ‘Do not do this, Ashley,’ he implored, his voice thick and savage. ‘I realise this has been a traumatic day for you, but I warn you—do not do this!’<
br />
  ‘Why not?’ Ashley’s green eyes were tantalisingly unrepentant. ‘Why shouldn’t I take my share of enjoyment?’ Her lips curved a little scornfully. ‘You may think you hate me, Alain, but you don’t, and it might be amusing to see how far your absurd principles would protect you!’

  ‘You little bitch!’ Alain’s violent interjection made her aware of how accurate her charge had been, but his next words thrust all sense of victory out of her head. ‘I did not realise you were so desperate for male companionship!’ he snapped, his expression contorted with contempt. ‘If that is all you want, I can arrange it for you. There is no need for you to prostrate yourself before me—’

  He broke off with an oath as Ashley’s nails raked his face, scoring half a dozen scratches down his cheeks, that immediately stood out in livid contrast to his dark flesh. Outlined in red, with the blood oozing to the surface, they looked far more ugly than they were, and Ashley was hopelessly contrite as she realised the enormity of what she had done.

  ‘Oh—I’m sorry!’ she exclaimed, as he pulled off the kaffiyeh and used it to dab blindly at his cheeks. Without its enveloping folds, he seemed more approachable somehow, and her sense of guilt increased when she saw the spots of blood on the cloth. ‘You shouldn’t have said what you did,’ she protested, as he gazed at her with hostile eyes, and clasped her hands together helplessly when he turned towards the door.

  ‘Alain…’ she cried appealingly, taking an involuntary step after him. ‘Alain, please—won’t you say you forgive me?’

  ‘How can I ever forgive you, Ashley?’ he demanded harshly, and she knew as the door slammed behind him that he was not just referring to the scratches on his face.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ASHLEY did not see Alain again before he left for the United States. He had no reason to come to her apartments, and as she was not permitted to leave her rooms without an escort, there was no opportunity. Besides, she doubted Alain would want to see her after what she had done. She could imagine how embarrassing those scratches would be to explain, and although she consoled herself with the thought that he had deserved them after what he had said, she nevertheless suffered a sense of compunction every time she considered the implications of her action. Still, it did mean that she faced his proposed departure with more equanimity, realising that by the time he returned she might have gained more confidence.

  Her days slipped into a routine. Mornings she spent with Hussein. She had adapted quite easily to calling him that, and although occasionally she recalled her name for him, generally she managed to remember that the pre-cariousness of her position rested on her keeping to the rules—Alain’s rules. Her relationship with her son was as satisfactory as she could make it. At least there was no friction there, and she really believed that Hussein looked forward to the time they spent together. Of course, with Alain’s departure, Hussein became more reliant on her for diversion, and Ashley determinedly ignored the thought that she was only second-best. For the moment, it was enough that she was seeing her son every day, sharing his work and his play, and contributing something to the developing depth of his character.

  He was an intelligent child, but she had known that straight away, and although his schooling up until now had been conducted by his uncle and his grandfather, he could read and write in both English and Arabic, and could speak a little French also through Princess Hélène’s tuition. His mental arithmetic was less accomplished, although he had been taught now to use an abacus, and could flip the silver beads along swiftly as his fingers ran ahead of his brain. Ashley had to teach him that it was quicker to do simple sums in his head, and although he would have argued, the watching eye of Muhammed stilled his protests with a glance.

  Muhammed was often present when Ashley was giving Hussein his lessons. He never said anything. He never interfered. He was there, she was sure, to report her behaviour to Alain on his return, and to ensure that her association with her son did not go beyond the bounds of a pupil-teacher relationship. But Hussein liked him and admired him, and Ashley had to admit that she preferred Muhammed’s silent appraisal to that of some of the other guards, who seemed to regard her with a mixture of insolence and contempt.

  Lunch was served to her at half past one, after she had returned to her own apartments. She ate alone, finding the spicy ingredients of some of the dishes she was offered rather more than she could stomach, and then she rested for a couple of hours before taking a late afternoon swim in her own pool.

  The evenings were the longest, accentuating as they did her extreme isolation here, and even Nuzab’s company she found was preferable to hours spent alone, gazing at the tapestries on the walls. She had brought books with her, of course, and she read, and prepared lessons for Hussein, but she was lonely, she couldn’t deny it, and she wrote long letters to her friends in England, describing the palace in great detail.

  Princess Hélène did not contact her again, and she assumed that her behaviour towards Alain had alienated his mother, too. It was ironic, as she had liked the Frenchwoman, and had hoped they might become acquaintances, if not friends. But Nuzab delivered no further messages, and Ashley was forced to the conclusion that curiosity and nothing else had prompted her earlier kindliness.

  When she awakened in the morning, however, and anticipated the hours ahead, she knew that in spite of everything it was worth it. Just being with her son gave her a sense of fulfilment she had never experienced before, and she determined that when Alain returned she would do her utmost not to provoke him again. She wanted to stay here. Already a week had gone by, and she could not bear the thought that they might dismiss her at the end of the month. She must stop thinking of Alain as an adversary, and treat him more as an employer, at least until her position here was more secure.

  She and Hussein were at the kennels one morning when they had an unexpected visitor. Already Isis and Osiris had come to regard Ashley as a friend, and the exuberance of their welcome no longer filled her with alarm. On the contrary, she had become almost as enthusiastic about them as Hussein, and she sometimes wished she had a pet of her own to keep her company.

  Tariq it was who came strolling into the enclosure as Ashley and Hussein were playing with the dogs, and the two Afghans raised their proud heads doubtfully as he slapped a riding whip against his booted calf. Today he was wearing riding clothes, a well-cut silk shirt and breeches, but the inevitable haik concealed his hair, and flowed protectively over his shoulders.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Conway,’ he greeted her politely, although there was arrogance in the way he moved and spoke. ‘Hussein.’ He bowed his head towards his nephew. ‘So this is how lessons are conducted in the West. I wonder what my brother will say when I tell him so.’

  Ashley straightened in some embarrassment, aware that several strands of hair had loosened themselves from the knot at her nape, and that her flowered smock was crumpled and a little dusty. But she had not expected to meet another member of the family, and she had been anticipating taking a cooling shower before sitting down to her solitary lunch.

  ‘Good morning, Prince Tariq,’ she responded now, as Hussein scrambled to his feet. ‘We—er—we’re not having a lesson at the moment, as I’m sure you’re aware. Hussein and I were just giving the dogs some exercise.’

  Tariq’s somewhat thin lips curved sardonically. ‘Hussein?’ he echoed. ‘Do you not mean Prince Hussein?’

  Ashley could feel the hot colour running up her cheeks at his deliberately insolent words. He was endeavouring to humiliate her, and she realised he had not yet forgiven her for what she had said to him in the car on the way from the airport. But, instead of getting angry, she forced a polite smile.

  ‘Your brother, Prince Alain, agreed that I should call Hussein by his given name,’ she replied smoothly. ‘Can we help you, Prince Tariq? Is there something we can do for you?’

  Tariq’s mouth tightened. ‘You have a ready answer, do you not, Miss Conway?’ he averred, as Hussein looked from one to the oth
er of them in some confusion. ‘Yes, I have a reason for being here, but I will tell it in my own time, and not in yours.’

  Ashley expelled her breath unsteadily. It seemed it was impossible to achieve any kind of harmony with this family. Always she came up against aggression, of one kind or another, and she objected to Tariq’s making Hussein a party to his antipathy.

  ‘Miss Conway likes to play with my dogs, Uncle Tariq,’ the boy inserted now, interrupting their silent hostilities. ‘She says that in England, children keep their pets in their homes, and sometimes even allow them to sleep on their beds!’

  Tariq’s dark eyes glittered. ‘I trust you are not advocating such behaviour to Hussein, Miss Conway,’ he remarked coldly. ‘Here we are more particular about with what—or with whom—we share our beds!’

  Ashley was tempted to say: ‘Are you?’ but she didn’t. Instead she inclined her head politely and said: ‘Naturally, I was not suggesting anything of the sort. It is not a practice of which I approve. I was merely explaining to Hussein that different people do things different ways.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Tariq nodded, ‘that most definitely is true.’ He paused. ‘Here, for instance, it is almost unheard-of for a boy of royal blood to have a female governess, whereas in England women do all manner of strange things, do they not?’

  Ashley moved her shoulders. ‘Women are—freer, in my country,’ she agreed levelly.

  Tariq’s lips curled. ‘Freer—and more independent,’ he asserted. ‘But with little respect, I fear.’

  Ashley refused to be drawn. ‘You are entitled to your opinion, of course,’ she conceded. ‘But I am sure you didn’t come here just to discuss women’s rights.’

  Tariq looked angrily at her, but once again Hussein interposed. ‘Is Uncle Alain back?’ he asked, tugging Tariq’s sleeve with sudden perception. ‘Is that what you came to tell us, Uncle Tariq? Or did Grandpapa send you here?’

  ‘Your grandfather did not send me here, Hussein,’ his uncle retorted reprovingly. ‘I am not my father’s messenger.’ He held up his head with youthful hauteur. ‘As a matter of fact, I come with an invitation for Miss Conway, from my mother, the Princess Izmay. She invites you to dine with her this evening, Miss Conway. Is nine o’clock acceptable to you?’