I would not change for thine.
Some of the timber would be turned into the shingles to repair the roofs of cottages, or fashioned into shutters. The splintered rest would be used for cooking fires. Wood was a resource used sparingly since the only other timber on the island was lengths of driftwood collected by the children along the shoreline.
Earlier that morning, a swathe of color, pink and green, caught his eye. He had looked up to see Sophia and Laura walk past the opening of the storehouse – perhaps to visit one of the elderly women who he’d just learned had not been well. Elias had stopped his work and paused in the doorway. Was Laura still mad at him? In some perverse way, he hoped so – better there be a volcanic explosion of emotion, than drowning in that Slough of Despond. If Laura needed him to be the focus of her rage instead of the now dead Selim Omar, then may his shoulders be broad enough to take it as well.
There was always plenty to do on Catallus and the physical exertion made Elias sleep better which always put him in a better frame of mind and, in this mood, he sang while he worked.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent’st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.
“Sophia tells me you’re a vicar.”
Elias looked up, the hammer in mid-arc. He forced down a smile. Laura made it sound like an accusation.
“That would make me an Anglican,” he answered, finishing the blow with the hammer. The wood separated. “I’m Methodist.”
Elias reached for a pair of pliers and began working the nail from the plank while, from the corner of his eye, he watched Laura’s expression as she decided what to make of the difference.
“But that doesn’t make you a priest?”
Elias shook his head and lowered his eyes, pulling his attention back to his task, lest the temptation to burst out laughing be overwhelming.
“Are Sophia and Captain Hardacre living in sin?”
The question was asked with such seriousness that Elias couldn’t hold the mirth back any longer. He could feel his eyes water. He wiped them away with the back of his hand.
“No. Sophia and Kit are married in the eyes of God.”
“Performed by you.” There was that accusing tone again.
“And witnessed by the crew of the Calliope,” he answered.
There was silence and Elias returned to his work. The fresh, morning breeze brought with it the tang of brine. But even over it, he could smell the warm rose scent which told him Laura still remained nearby.
“You are the most unusual man of God I’ve ever met,” she said.
Elias set aside the timber and straightened, rolling his shoulders back to relieve the ache in his upper back.
“Because I don’t wear vestments or have a church?”
He watched Laura pull her light cream shawl tighter about herself and brush a strand of light brown hair away from her brow. Instead of looking back to him, she turned away to look out across the village.
“You killed those two men.”
Elias frowned as he tried to work out which two men Laura meant. He’d killed more than two over the years.
“You mean the ones at Al-Min on the day we escaped?”
Laura nodded.
“Does that bother you?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
Elias sighed. It had been a long time since anyone made him justify his choices. He had seen too much and done too much for it to be any other way.
These six things doth the Lord hate: yea, seven are an abomination unto him:
A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood,
An heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief,
A false witness that speaketh lies, and he that soweth discord among brethren.
He had been with Kit for nigh on eight years. He’d seen all of those things, and they were an abomination to him as well.
“I’m just a man trying to bring hope and a little justice into the world, and there’s one place I look in search of answers. That’s all.”
Elias took no pleasure in fighting. Never had he started a fight but, more than once, he had found quick and unequivocal action in response had been the surest way to end trouble.
Yes, he wanted Laura to think well of him, but until she decided she wanted to know him better, Elias would keep his justification to himself. His conscience was clear – that was the one thing he was sure of.
He picked up the pliers and reached for another piece of timber. The long nail squealed in protest as he forced it through the plank. Like the wood, it, too, would be reused.
Laura remained where she was and, over several minutes, he became acutely aware of her watching while he worked. Part of him wished she would leave. He felt his jaw clench as he worked a particularly stubborn nail. Why was she still here? Why didn’t she say anything?
The nail shifted. Elias gripped the board to keep it still. He put more force on the pliers. The nail gave, but broke at the same time. Elias juggled both pliers and plank. The broken nail scored across his palm.
He bit back a curse as bright pain and blood bloomed. Elias kicked over a stack of timber in response.
“Elias!”
The throbbing of his toes equalized the sting in his hand, making him feel marginally better.
He felt Laura lay a hand on his shoulder. Elias shrugged it off. He couldn’t deal with his pain and her touch, however kindly meant. He walked a few paces away.
“You’re bleeding!”
He chanced a glance. Laura’s face showed concern which pained him even more.
“If you don’t do something about it, you’ll get sick. I’ll see what Sophia has.”
“Don’t bother.” His answer came out harshly. “I’ll deal with it.”
He strode past her down to the shore below. Salt water would do the trick although it would sting like fury – and that would still be better than being in Laura’s presence right now.
*
Laura followed him as far as the path that led down to the lagoon. Not once did he look back or acknowledge her. What was wrong with him? She was only trying to help.
“There you are! I’d wondered whether you’d gone back up to the villa,” said Sophia who had come from one of the paths that led to the cottages.
“Elias has hurt himself,” she said and pointed to where he walked, past the jetty to a small stretch of sandy beach where a group of boys sat under a tree repairing fishing nets. “He cut his hand.”
Although she and Sophia were too far away to hear, they saw Elias call out to the boys and, soon, one had taken a bucket and was wading into the lagoon to fill it with water.
“He’ll be fine,” Sophia dismissed her cousin’s concern and started heading toward the villa.
Laura watched the boy pour the salt water over Elias’ outstretched hand. One bucket and then another.
“Are you coming with me?” Sophia asked. Laura turned away from the scene and hurried her pace to catch up with her cousin. How could she be so unconcerned?
“Have you written a letter to Samuel yet?” she asked. “The Calliope is leaving for Palermo tomorrow. They can have a message on the first ship back to England.”
Laura was ashamed to admit she hadn’t. Although nearly a week had passed since their escape, it still seemed surreal, too much like a dream. Every morning, she woke startled to find herself here and not in the harem at Al-Min or in Constantinople.
“I’ll write to him this afternoon,” she promised.
A thought occurred to her. “If the Calliope is leaving, then why aren’t we going, too? Why can’t we take the first ship back to England?”
Sophia took Laura’s hand and led her to a bench carve
d into the cliff. Shade from an overhanging tree sheltered it from the worst of the approaching noon sun.
“I’m not going back to England.”
“Why on earth not?” An equal measure of alarm and surprise colored Laura’s voice. The very thought had never occurred to her. “After everything that’s happened to us, surely you’d want to be as far away from here as possible.”
Sophia shook her head slowly. “My home is here with Kit.”
After everything, she was being abandoned. Laura withdrew her hand from Sophia’s.
“I see.”
“I thought you could stay here with me until the babe is born,” Sophia added swiftly. “It could take weeks before there is a comfortable passage for you, and then you might be too advanced to travel.”
Laura swallowed down the disappointment. Of course, Sophia was right. Careful, thoughtful Sophia was always right about such things.
After a long silence, Sophia spoke. “I’ve disappointed you.”
“No! Never.” Laura shook her head to clear her thoughts, to marshal them in a way that would best explain the ache in her soul. “For so long, I never had to think about things. Everything in the harem was dictated to us; when we ate, when we slept, how we moved… and even before that, in England, you organized Samuel’s house. I just never gave thought to things – they just happened. Now everything has changed.”
Laura drew a deep breath. She held it a moment and let it out slowly. “I’m not sure I want to have the baby here.”
“Yes, of course, you’re right,” Sophia answered. “In Palermo, you’d have a doctor and a midwife. You ought to have your baby there.”
A decision had been made, one that Laura could convince herself that she’d had a hand in making. She nodded along. Yes, she would have the baby in Palermo and then leave for England.
“I’m afraid to have her on my own,” she whispered. “You’ll be there, won’t you?”
Sophia squeezed her hand.
“Of course I will.”
The heat of the late summer day seemed to descend and simmer on all of the buildings, providing no relief. Laura looked at the two dresses before her and thought about all the beautiful gowns she had originally brought with her from London. She wondered where they were, not that any of them would be comfortable thanks to her expanding waistline.
She supposed she could squeeze into the teal green dress, but the very thought of doing so in this heat made her feel nauseous.
Sophia knocked on the door. “Aren’t you ready yet?”
“I have nothing to wear!”
Her cousin laughed. “That’s the first time you’ve said that when it’s been the truth!”
Laura offered a withering look in return but Sophia didn’t seem to notice.
“I have something that might suit.” Sophia returned with a pretty blue and white sprigged muslin gown for her inspection. A cool, summer dress. It was perfect.
“It’s the first time you’ve borrowed any of my clothes,” Sophia observed.
“Your sense of style is much better since you married Kit.”
Laura paused as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She did have a habit of speaking without thinking and only realized afterwards that her words could be thoughtless.
Sophia didn’t seem the least bit offended. In fact, she laughed.
“Remember how angry I became when he tricked me into buying those fabrics from the market in Alcantara?” she said before lowering the pitch of her voice to imitate Kit. “‘Let’s just say I’m a connoisseur of the finer things, and a jewel needs a setting worthy of it.’”
She joined in the laughter. Laura recalled the moment clearly. It happened three days into their journey to Sicily. “‘I’ve saved you the equivalent of a guinea, Miss Green’,” she mimicked.
Laura’s heart swelled with love for her cousin.
“You’re genuinely happy, aren’t you, Sophia? I mean, despite everything that’s happened. Captain Hardacre – Kit – he treats you well, doesn’t he?”
Sophia placed the dress over a chair and sat with Laura on the bed. “I meant what I said – this is my home. It’s not just this place. It’s that Kit, wherever he is, is home to me. We understand each other so well, he’s tender and kind, and I know he loves me as much as I love him. There’s a special sort of togetherness between a husband and wife. We know each other’s faults, sometimes better than we know them ourselves. But most of all, I can rely on him and he on me.”
Laura wasn’t conscious of the rivulet of tears until Sophia leaned forward and dabbed at them with a kerchief.
“There will be such a man for you, Laura. But promise me you won’t be afraid of the possibility if it comes, that you will be as brave and fearless as I know you to be. Just keep your eyes open and listen to your heart. It will tell you when it’s the right time.”
Chapter Ten
Rabia wrinkled her nose. She tucked the scarf around her head and checked to see it adequately covered the lower half of her face.
Ahmed Sharrouf’s compound on Pantelleria might be adequate for a one-armed sailor and his unwashed fiends, but she was used to palaces.
She reclined once again on the litter carried by selected sailors from the galiot, up the winding paths to the walled compound, keeping her eyes on the largest structure – a two-story building that, it would appear, was barely larger than her personal court quarters at Al-Min.
Sharrouf may have had wealth, but one might as well have cast pearls before swine for all the good it did him. Instead of tiled paths, they were merely gravel. The gardens did not have a loving master’s touch.
The place certainly couldn’t compare with the Selim Omar’s palace in Turkey with its whitewashed walls so clean they glowed in the sunlight. And oh, those magnificent gardens, the elegant symmetry of the garden beds, the lush foliage and vibrant flowers of plants that were both unusual and practical.
Rabia tapped the litter with a jeweled hand. Frustrated by the slow pace, she yelled for the men to lower the conveyance. She should be in Constantinople now, returned with her young son to claim his inheritance, triumphant. She clutched her fingers tightly then released them.
No crowd ever waited at the gate of patience.
The slave oarsmen picked from the galiot to serve her staggered about as though unused to walking on dry land. Toufik ordered them to erect a tent for their ladyship’s comfort and they did what they were told, some with looks of resignation, others with ill-concealed hostility.
The chief eunuch was easy to spot from among the other men. He was already a tall man and lean, a head above most, and he wore the tall, white turban of his status proudly. His tunic was of the finest white linen, over which he wore a scarlet red satin coat embellished with a geometrical floral pattern around the hem.
Rabia waited as he made his way toward her. He bowed before speaking. They both knew everyone about them watched. The impression they made now would dictate how long they could avoid rebellion.
“The slaves of this estate express their gratitude and count their blessings that you are now their mistress,” he said loudly for the benefit of her new servants. “Your quarters are being cleaned and prepared for your ladyship.”
Rabia rose from the litter. The other men about her bent at the waist, keeping their faces averted as she passed on her way to an Italianate-style garden gazebo. The structure was shaded against the sun with carpets hung to make walls on two sides. The floor was covered in cushions for her comfort.
“Do not destroy anything inside the buildings,” she instructed. “I want to look at everything personally. Let’s see if the Sharrouf was as stupid as he was tasteless.”
“I can have all his papers brought to you, my lady.”
Rabia considered the suggestion.
“No, I want to inspect them where they lie, there may have been some order to Sharrouf’s methods. I want to understand him better before I read what he had to say.”
“Very good, my la
dy.”
She reclined on a pile of cushions and watched the men around her bring goods up from their ship. Toufik had not bothered to order them to cover themselves. Most likely, they had no clothing anyway, other than their loincloths.
Brown Mouse made an appearance with a salver of fresh fruit. Rabia took a handful of grapes and ate, keeping her face covering in place, passing the food beneath it to her mouth.
As she ate, also she feasted with her eyes on the bounty of bared flesh among the male slaves. Some of them were young and still in good condition, muscled from their labor. Some were even handsome. She felt a stirring of arousal. It had been many months since Selim Omar had called for her and other methods of finding satisfaction hadn’t been, well, satisfying. Now to be surrounded by young, virile – whole – men who were subject to her dictates and whims…
This temporary exile might have some compensation after all.
*
Laura accepted a light shawl from Sophia but kept her gaze on the sunset ahead. The golden sun stretched out its rays, turning the wisps of clouds into ribbons of peach, apricot and orange. She had a sudden urge to be thankful for the spectacle, commonplace though it was.
It had been two years since she had lingered to watch the end of the day. There were many times when the only sunlight she saw was sharp slivers of it piercing the shadows of the harem courtyards.
Now, she no longer cared if her face colored from the sun. It felt good.
Every resident of Catallus – about fifty of them, men, women and children – had gathered in the ruins atop the headland. There was no festive bunting to be had. Instead, the ship’s spare signal flags were festooned between some of the remaining upright columns of the old plaza.
The children took advantage of the long afternoon and the celebration to play among the fallen stones; some adults played folk tunes on concertina, guitars and violin. Laura didn’t recognize the songs, but everyone else did – even Sophia who sat opposite her. She wasn’t sure what language they sang; Italian, perhaps Greek.
Although she had forced herself to learn Arabic, Laura was not fluent in any other languages, apart from some French. And she was too uncertain of her command of a little bit of Italian to guess at the lyrics.
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