The Emerald Embrace

by Briskin, Jacqueline;

  Yacub stretched out next to Uisha, covering them both with a rug and reaching out for a rope.

  Stephen wrapped us in a similar manner, bracing his strong body over mine. We grasped our rope, and his arms were taut over my head.

  And then the hamseen was upon us, like some monstrous dragon, howling, shrieking, buffeting, shoving, scouring, abrading with its great rough, fiery tongue, trying to lick the flesh from us and blow our scorched, dry skeletons to some burial place far inside the Great Western Desert.

  “Hold tight, sweetheart,” Stephen shouted against my ear.

  He kissed me.

  As our gritty lips met, my fears of pursuit, the danger of the hamseen, my carnal anxieties became meaningless. My lips parted under his, and in the hot, devouring dragon of wind there was nothing but his long, hard body and his kiss.

  A great blast separated us, raising us from the ground. We struggled with desperation to hold onto the rope.

  That blast was the center of the storm. After that the power of the hamseen lessened, and soon we no longer needed to clasp the rope, though we remained, baking and stifling, under the protective rug until the hailing pebbles came in weak, futile gusts.

  When, finally, we sat up, the sun was setting. In the vivid pink light, the desert was unrecognizable. The eerie pillar of sand rose far to our north. There were no longer any wiry weeds growing. The configuration of dips and gullies was entirely different. The long, low hill was gone without a trace.

  All save one of our water bags had been punctured.

  A camel had broken loose and lay buried a few feet from the sheltering jaw of rocks. When the men dug out the animal, we saw that wads of sand were forced into its nostrils. We kept gazing at the dead creature, unable to look at each other, for we knew that if the caravan we awaited had been buried—or was even much delayed—we were doomed to a crueler, more lingering death.

  Fourteen

  We waited in that odd, skull’s tooth outcropping, peering into the glare of the desert.

  Stephen was right. The hamseen did destroy our pursuers—or at any rate there was no sign of them. And if the Pasha had others following us, they, too, had been blown away. Our enemy was thirst.

  Stephen had rationed us to a few gulps of water at dawn and dusk. Yacub taught us the desert trick of putting a piece of flint under the tongue to activate the salivary glands and thus partially alleviate thirst.

  On the third morning we finished our last waterskin. As we took turns sipping, I was positive that we would die in the semicircle of rocks.

  I said to Stephen, “I’m glad we’re together.”

  “You’ll be with me all the years of our lives.”

  “How I wish I had your courage,” I murmured.

  “It’s not courage but experience. I’ve captained enough ships, sweetheart, to have heard men give up before they needed. I’ve been becalmed, blown off course, had my mainmast shot down, and lived to tell the tale. So what’s the use of despairing? Especially now that I have my heart’s desire.”

  I reached for his hand, holding it without shame, though Yacub and Uisha were nearby.

  That afternoon, as I dozed against Stephen’s shoulder, Yacub’s cry jolted me to wakefulness. “There it is!” he exulted. “Look!”

  Heat wavered on the desert and the long line of dots on the horizon seemed a faint mirage, but soon these dots became the heads of an endless row of camels walking abreast, swaying in unison.

  By dusk the caravan surrounded us. When the four great watch fires that marked the angles of the encampment were lit, the camels lined up to make the square and the sentries patrolling, we walked around the small flat tents and exhausted groups of travelers. We had agreed that Yacub would be our spokesman, and he asked where to find the caravan master.

  The leader was a tall Arab with an exceptionally long chin and a gently courteous manner. He invited us to sit with him. I hunkered across the campfire, as far away as possible. My binding cut into my breasts with each anxious breath.

  “So there are you two men with merchandise, the boy and your lady?” the caravan master said, politely averting his gaze from Uisha.

  “That’s right,” Yacub replied, his smile gleaming in the firelight. “Auntie’s on her way to visit her brother, our uncle, in El Alamein. We travel to sell our rugs. And the lad, well, you know how boys are. He’s a bit shy, but he can’t wait to see the world. My brother’s son, my nephew.”

  My stomach jumped with nervousness. I managed an appropriate, shyly eager smile.

  The caravan master squinted through the flames. “A fine-looking lad,” he approved. “It’s a bad way to start your travels in such a hamseen. But you’re not afraid, are you?”

  Hastily Yacub interjected, “How did the caravan get through it?”

  “Praise Allah, we were in the shelter of a hill. Nonetheless many perished. And the rest of us needed to recuperate. That’s what delayed us.” He bowed to Yacub and Stephen. “You gentlemen seem prosperous. You’ll want tents?”

  “Tents by all means,” Yacub replied.

  And he bargained about fares as one did for a sea voyage, then haggled over two Arabian camels, one for Uisha, and one to replace the smothered beast.

  As we left the caravan master, I whispered to Stephen, “We seem to be accepted.”

  “Indeed we are, my son,” he replied in a low voice.

  The caravan had about fifteen hundred camels with a driver for every dozen beasts. A camel laden with three hundred pounds can travel sixteen hours a day, and we rode that long, halting four hours at midday when the heat is at its greatest, and four hours at night.

  My palms healed and so did my bodily aches. I grew accustomed to the plaintive song of the camel drivers.

  Stephen and I kept as silent as possible. This gave me ample opportunity to go over my worries. In the vast empty desert, I didn’t fear pursuers. It was the Emerald Embrace that concerned me.

  In Islam, wrongful accusation is a terrible sin. So if a theft were reported in the caravan, no person would be accused of the robbery. Instead, all would be impartially and thoroughly searched. Let a single theft be reported, and surely the Emerald Embrace would be discovered—and inevitably it would follow that I wasn’t a quiet, dirty-faced boy but a runaway blond woman. The long-chinned caravan master, in his exquisitely courteous way, would have guards put on us, and from El Alamein we would be sent back to Cairo. Me, Uisha, Yacub, Stephen.

  If one theft were reported …

  Twice I attempted to bury the Emerald Embrace. I dug the hole. But both times when I reached into the saddlebag, prickling numbed my hand. I was unable to take the ancient gold from its hiding place.

  During those long weeks Stephen and I rode side by side, ate side by side, slept in tents less than a yard apart, yet were never alone. My sexual problems, like the horizon, lay far ahead of me, and did not seem quite real.

  The night before we reached El Alamein, sheep were slaughtered. A mutton stew simmered over our campfire. After we finished the tasty food, Uisha retired to our flat tent. Yacub yawned mightily. “God guard your sleep, nephew,” he said to me, adding in his jolly way to Stephen, “Brother, I go to my bed now. Don’t forget I take the left side. Tomorrow is a big day, and I don’t wish to arrive in the port trampled on.”

  Stephen and I were alone. He clasped my hand, saying in Arabic, “Walk a little with me, my son.”

  My mouth went dry. Did he want to make love to me? How long had it been since he had been with a woman? Of course he was hungry for love.

  “I …” My voice trembled. “Father, I’m very weary.”

  “I want to teach you the heavens, and that dune blots out the North Star.”

  He pulled me to my feet, leading me from my campfire. His hard hand terrified me. What if I felt nothing? What if that wanton, long-dead woman inhabited me? Did it matter which? He would be as repelled by my frigidity as by my lust.

  We climbed the dune and descended, our feet slipping in the
loose sand. Here, cut off from campfires and voices, we were enveloped in the soft desert night.

  “That’s the North Star,” Stephen said in English, pointing. “The sailor’s star.”

  “It always surprises me … I mean … it’s so faint.” I spoke haltingly.

  “What is it, sweetheart?”

  My throat tensed and I blurted out, “I explained before we left the Valley of the Kings.”

  “That?” he asked in a low voice as if I’d struck him. “You really think so little of me? You believe I brought you here to force you?”

  “Of course not,” I said, but then honesty compelled me to add, “Oh Stephen. It’s been so very long for you.”

  “I’m accustomed to long voyages,” he said. “I’m no rake or seducer, Liberty. I just wanted to talk to you in our own language, free of these hateful subterfuges.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly.” And then, despite the moonless dark, I could tell he was smiling. “Not that a sailor ever refuses a kiss.”

  His small joke restored the warmth between us, and I touched my finger to his cheek. He hadn’t shaved in the weeks since we’d left the Pasha’s camp, and the stubble was turning into a beard. As my fingers moved, he caught his breath.

  And suddenly I was clinging to him with all my strength, pressing my tight-bound bosom to his chest. Through layers of fabric I could feel the strong, steady beat of his heart.

  “Stephen … ah Stephen.”

  “Sweetheart,” he murmured huskily, “you don’t have to prove anything.”

  “I love you so much.”

  His eyelashes fluttered against my cheek. Slowly, I turned my lips to his. He kissed me with a tenderness that ended the last trace of my fear, and my fingertips continued to caress his beard.

  Our lips parted and our breath mingled and my body pulsated with a desire that was completely my own. The kiss ended and he pressed me onto still-warm sand, kissing my throat.

  “Liberty?” he asked. “Sweetheart?”

  “Yes, oh yes.…”

  I clasped him with a hunger that involved my girlhood worship as well as the enduring depth of my mature love. He pushed the Persian-weave robe from my shoulders.

  “Wait,” I murmured, unbuttoning my shirt, slipping my arms from the sleeves, unwinding the woven belt. When my breasts were naked and free, he kissed them and the yearning, vulnerable need grew within me. I cuddled his head. As his tongue caressed my sensitive, swollen nipples, the fire of passion sweeping me became so intense that I moaned aloud and my trembling thighs parted of their own volition.

  The night on the Hassam had been incredibly tender. Since then, though, I had become aware of each pleasure the flesh can bring. My palms slid down the hard muscles of Stephen’s back to his buttocks.

  “Liberty, ah Liberty,” he whispered. “It’ll be as sweet for us as before.”

  I felt as though a bucket of icy water had doused me. The innocence of that night had irrevocably vanished. That Liberty Moore no longer existed! My flesh chilled from the inside. My pelvic muscles tensed.

  Stephen’s burning kisses moved from my bosom to my unresponsive mouth.

  He moved to support his weight with an elbow. “Sweetheart, what is it?”

  I pulled away. Sitting up and clasping my arms over my breasts, I said, “I’m sorry, Stephen.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I … I just can’t.”

  “But a minute ago you wanted me,” he said, bewildered.

  “It’s nothing to do with you,” I said unhappily.

  “Was I too demanding? You’re so lovely. Was I rough?” His voice remained baffled—and hurt.

  “With all my heart I wanted you.”

  “Did you suddenly think of him? The Pasha?” Stephen asked carefully.

  “No.”

  “You’re sure it’s not to do with him?”

  “I’ve loved you since that first night in Washington when you rescued me from Amos Thornton.”

  “I don’t understand then.”

  “There’s nothing to understand,” I burst out bitterly. “I’m not a woman. I’m a husk.” And I began to sob.

  “It’s all right, Liberty. Everything’s all right.”

  But I knew everything was not all right. Between us there was a wall built of his misconceived jealousy and my revealed inadequacy, a wall that had never been there before. When I stopped crying, I rebound my breasts, cutting the harsh fabric deep into my body with punitive tightness.

  Climbing the dune, I couldn’t repress a shuddering sigh.

  “Don’t worry about it, Liberty,” he said. “We’ll solve the problem when we’re home in America.”

  We didn’t go home, though. When we reached El Alamein the next afternoon, a French merchantman lay in the harbor. She was bound for Marseilles.

  Marseilles was where Stephen’s aide waited.

  FOUR

  The Pharaoh’s Treasure

  One

  Before we docked in Marseilles, a man was sent ashore in the gig to alert Stephen’s aide. But the aide wasn’t at the gangplank to greet us. Instead, a very young American naval officer stepped forward, saluting Stephen.

  “Commodore Delaplane?” he asked in a tone filled with awe and respect.

  Stephen saluted back. “Aye,” he said.

  “Ensign Barron at your service. Commodore, I’ve been instructed by President Monroe to deliver this into your own hands.” He extended an envelope.

  Stephen broke the wax and read the letter, his tanned face intent. He was clean-shaven and wore European clothing, fawn trousers too loose for him and a jacket that stretched too tight across his broad shoulders, an outfit borrowed, like the razor, from the French captain.

  I, too, wore European clothes. On the voyage Uisha and I had cut and sewed the dress and pelisse from pink Egyptian cotton hastily bought in El Alamein’s souk. An April breeze tugged the narrow skirt against my legs, and men stared admiringly at me.

  Yacub, too, drew attention in his outlandish pantaloons and tasseled fez.

  But it was Uisha who attracted all eyes. She had a new habarah and veil. What had made her anonymous in Islam here was exotic and alien. I moved closer to her, putting a reassuring hand on her arm.

  Stephen looked up. “President Monroe wishes me to negotiate with the French Maritime Department for naval bases in Martinique. Before we return home, we must visit Paris. That was your original destination, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Don’t you still want to meet with that scholar about your father’s work?”

  In Islam I had nearly forgotten my urgency to restore Father’s reputation. But I was back in the West. And on this sunlit, busy Marseilles wharf it became important again. “Monsieur Champollion,” I said.

  “So then this detour suits you?” Stephen spoke with the meticulous courtesy that had characterized his relationshp with me since my unwilling rejection.

  A stout merchant bustled between us. In the momentary pause I knew I should tell Stephen I would take the first available passage to Washington, that I would free him of his promises, but I couldn’t. “Yes,” I replied. “Paris is perfect.”

  Paris was a city of magnificent cathedrals, high houses that shouldered close to one another and graceful mansions set behind lacy wrought-iron fences.

  Paris was a lively, exciting city. Once again a Bourbon king sat on the French throne: Louis XVIII (brother to poor Louis XVI, guillotined during the revolution) had returned with the other aristocratic émigrés. The Terror and after it the fifteen long, war-ravaged years of Napoleon had ended. Everyone was intent on pleasure. Theaters and operas were crowded, as were the restaurants in the Palais-Royal arcades. April being the end of the season, society was regaling itself with one final flurry of balls and galas.

  My first day in the city, I dispatched a note to Monsieur Champollion. But the messenger returned with word that the Egyptologist was in Grenoble, delivering a lecture.

  Ste
phen rented a lovely house in the elegant Faubourg St. Germain. It came with all the furnishings, including a cook, chambermaid, laundress and two footmen.

  “I’m going to be kept busy at the Maritime Ministry,” Stephen said as we strolled the graveled path of the garden. The lawn was bright with clumps of daffodils. “You must spend your time gathering a trousseau.”

  “I’ll buy materials. Uisha and I are both handy with the needle.”

  He stopped walking and looked steadily at me, a faint redness marking his cheeks. “I insist you order whatever you need at the best couturiers.”

  “But I can’t spend your money.”

  “Why not? Soon all I have will be yours.”

  He continued to stare at me. His face was determined, flushed—and improbably handsome. I should have said that our marriage only too obviously would be a parody. Yet I nodded. “It’ll be wonderful to shop here.”

  He smiled. “You’ll need a ball gown.” He gave me a thick, creamy card. “We’re invited to a state ball at the Tuileries Palace next Friday.”

  I went on a buying spree. Oh what clothes I bought! The latest fashions had wider sashes that started below the bust yet reached the bottom of the rib cage, accentuating a small waist like mine. The narrow skirts were looped up in front to show a daring amount of ankle, and necklines were embarrassingly low, as revealing as my harem bodices. The Parisian ladies half hid their shoulders and bosoms with the gauziest of scarves.

  I ordered recklessly. Three pretty morning frocks, a rose silk supper gown, a riding habit of blue velvet. For the ball, I went to Monsieur Sancerre, the most celebrated designer in Paris, ordering a sea-green satin.

  I bought slippers, charming bonnets, gloves, a pearl gray merino coat with a layered cape collar, frothy armloads of convent-stitched lingeries and a dozen pairs of real silk stockings.