The horse began to canter forward in the darkness and Harriet felt a measure of reassurance. It was the first time he had used her first name and he had done so easily and warmly. She understood what he was saying to her, and knew he was right. He was protecting her reputation. It would suffer enough damage when they reached Khartoum and it became known that they had travelled without even a servant as chaperon. Once she was installed beneath the Consul’s roof, Raoul would be able to pay court to her quite openly.
Through the long night hours she thought of her father, but this time without pain. Africa had been his home. She had known the minute she had set foot on Egyptian soil that it would be hers. Innocently she closed her eyes and dreamed of a life that contained both the country of her birth, and the enigmatic Frenchman who had saved her life.
Raoul let out an imperceptible sigh of relief. He had not wanted to hurt her; nor had he wanted to have an hysterical female on his hands. Harriet had not let him down. She had accepted his apology for the kiss in a manner that was extraordinary in a woman. He was not accustomed to meeting beautiful women who also had the benefit of sense. From now on he would utterly forbid her to unpin her hair and he would keep a tight rein on his desires. Once at Khartoum his duty would be discharged and he could seek his pleasure elsewhere; with native girls who did not expect lovemaking to be accompanied by the bestowal of a wedding ring.
His Arabian stallion took the miles easily, leaving plumes of sand in their wake. Often Harriet raised her head, studying the handsome face with its firm jaw and finely chiselled mouth. A face that was once more undemonstrative and impassive. And would remain so, she reminded herself, until they had reached Khartoum. Held secure in strong arms, she leaned against him the excitement of the unknown once more stirring within her. Her father’s death had crushed her spirit of adventure. Now it re-awoke in full measure. Miss Harriet Latimer from Cheltenham would soon be in Khartoum, the most remote city in the world. Even in the darkness she became aware that the vegetation around her was changing. The black outline of rocks and shrubs became more numerous and as the desert dawn came swiftly she gasped with pleasure at the sight of green tabbes-grass and acacias and yellow and red aloes.
‘We are here? We have arrived?’
Her innocent pleasure was infectious. Raoul gave one of his rare, down-slanting smiles. ‘ We are nearly at Berber,’ he confirmed.
‘Berber? But where is Khartoum?’
Raoul suppressed a surge of annoyance. It seemed that Harriet’s unworldly father had told her very little of their route. ‘We are still several weeks’ travel from Khartoum,’ he said with an effort at patience. ‘Berber is the only place of consequence before it and I shall be able to procure a horse for you there.’
Harriet sat up straight, looking around her with interest. The sand still stretched limitlessly, but was relieved by scorched, burned, dried-out rocks. There were shrubs and thorn trees and in the distance the graceful sway of desert palms.
‘A horseman! Do you see?’
She pointed ahead of them and Raoul nodded. ‘ It is Hashim.’
‘Hashim?’ she asked.
‘My servant and companion. I should have been in Berber days ago. He has been waiting for me.’
‘Oh.’ Harriet was slightly nonplussed. It had not occurred to her that anyone would be waiting for him. Nor had it occurred to her that he had an itinerary to keep and that her rescue had perhaps inconvenienced him.
The distant figure galloped joyously to meet them, white teeth flashing in a dark face.
‘Effendi! Effendi! I thought you had met with grief!’
‘A little,’ said Raoul drily, remembering the grave he had left behind him. The horses wheeled close together and he slapped the Arab soundly on the back. The Arab’s embrace was more effusive and Harriet found herself crushed between the two of them and taken little note of.
At last the Arab released Raoul’s shoulders from a fervent clasp and turned to Harriet, grinning broadly and showing blackened and broken teeth.
‘Miss Harriet Latimer,’ Raoul said, suppressing a smile as Hashim enthusiastically kissed the backs of Harriet’s hands and she strove to hide her distaste.
Hashim’s bright black eyes surveyed the slender hands and noted the absence of rings. His master had not then done anything so foolish as to bring a wife back with him from his expedition.
‘Miss Latimer was travelling to Khartoum with her father,’ Raoul continued. ‘Mr Latimer died in the desert and I am therefore escorting Miss Latimer to her destination myself.’
Hashim rolled his eyes to Allah, so that only the whites showed. ‘A tragedy,’ he said. ‘A truly momentous tragedy, effendi.’
Harriet was unaccustomed to servants, yet she felt sure that Hashim was displaying undue familiarity towards Raoul. She glanced swiftly up at him. He was a man who instinctively commanded respect. In repose his face was forbidding. Yet he allowed his servant to greet him as a long-lost brother. Again she wondered about him; his background, his family. It seemed the longer she was in his company the less she knew of him.
Hashim, his welcome over, wheeled his horse around and rode at their side, chattering non-stop to Raoul in Arabic. He was not a young man. His face was lean and leathery, his teeth alarmingly decayed. He wore a loose jacket of white cotton and a lungi reaching to sandalled feet. His turban was brilliantly striped and, no doubt, the reason Raoul had recognised him from such a distance. The Arabic flowed between them with ease. Her father had spent a lifetime studying the language and had never mastered it with such fluency. She was so immersed in her thoughts that Raoul’s voice startled her when he said,
‘What do you think of Berber now that you have arrived?’
She blinked. Ahead of them was a scattering of sun-dried huts and beyond a straggle of mud-brick, single-storey buildings. As they drew nearer she could see that the unmade streets were littered with refuse, starving dogs and pot-bellied children.
‘Is this it?’ Her face was incredulous, her voice aghast.
He nodded.
‘But it’s … it’s primitive!’
Raoul stifled a grin; Hashim looked affronted.
‘Khartoum is little better.’
Harriet gazed around her, unusually silent. The heat and the smells were overpowering. She felt suddenly sick. Khartoum had to be better than Berber. It had to be.
The huts were by-passed. For a second Harriet thought they were leaving Berber as rapidly as they had entered. Tired and exhausted though she was, she felt only relief. It seemed impossible that Berber could offer any suitable accommodation.
‘Will we stay long at the Pasha’s?’ she heard Hashim ask Raoul in English.
‘A day. Two at the most. I need a change of horse and must also buy one for Miss Latimer. There are stores to be replenished. We shall need some baggage camels.’
‘All is seen to, effendi. I have secured more quinine from the Pasha. Laudanum, camomel, citric acid and julep.’
‘And the rest?’
‘The brandy, cigars and soaps are already boxed and waiting only for your arrival.’
Soap! The very word made Harriet feel weak with joy. They were approaching a palm-fringed garden. The house beyond, though single-storeyed, was infinitely more substantial than the ones they had passed.
Raoul said thoughtfully, ‘This will be your first introduction to local society. For the sake of your reputation, let me make the explanations, Miss Latimer.’
His face was sombre and withdrawn, with no hint of the warmth that had been in it when he had called her Harriet. She looked beyond him to Hashim and thought she understood. Her anxiety lifted. His cool and indifferent manner was for the protection of her reputation.
A flurry of servants surrounded them as they rode in. Harriet was aware that her presence was giving rise to exclamations of curiosity and admiration. Her skirts were fingered and touched repeatedly as Raoul led her through the chattering throng and into the coolness of a courtyard. Fountain
s splashed soothingly; dark-skinned girls fluttered swiftly out of sight. They were flimsily clothed and veiled, with gold at their wrists and ankles. Harriet stared after them curiously. The servants who had taken their horse and baggage had been poorly dressed. Who, then, were these others? She had no time to ask Raoul. Eager fingers strove to be the first to have the honour of opening the doors on to a lavishly furnished room.
Harriet’s eyes, accustomed for so long to only seeing the dazzling monotony of sand and sky, blinked at the plush velvet, the gilt and the gold. However poverty-stricken the outward appearance of Berber, the Pasha lived in sumptuous splendour. He rose to meet them, a big man, his enormous girth emphasised by a scarlet silk cummerbund. His short, stubby fingers were covered in rings, his hair oiled sleekly, his moustaches long and down-curving. Behind him hung the red-crescent flag of the Ottoman Empire.
‘Welcome, Capitaine Beauvais.’ The cigar was crushed into an onyx ashtray, Raoul’s strong hand clasped between soft, flabby ones.
Small black eyes raked Harriet from head to foot with an expression that sent a shiver of distaste down her spine.
‘And who is the beautiful lady?’ Already her small hand was engulfed in sweaty palms.
‘Miss Harriet Latimer,’ Raoul replied without expression. ‘She was on her way with her father to Khartoum. Sadly, Mr Latimer’s health was not strong enough for the conditions in which they were travelling and he died.’
‘Ah.’ The black eyes sparkled like pinpricks and Harriet was aware of the overpowering smell of cologne. ‘So the young lady is without protection?’
‘Not so.’ Raoul had removed his Arab robes and stood with nonchalant ease in his shirt and breeches, allowing a small, formally dressed negro boy to pour him a large measure of whisky. ‘I shall be escorting Miss Latimer to Khartoum.’
Reluctantly Harriet’s hand was released. ‘ I think that would be most unwise, Capitaine. The young lady has just endured terrible hardships. She needs rest and recuperation before continuing south and you, I understand, intend to leave almost immediately.’
Raoul swallowed the whisky and helped himself to more. ‘ That is correct. My manservant has already seen to the necessary supplies. I shall be leaving as soon as I have procured fresh horses.’
‘Then let me suggest,’ the Pasha purred, his eyes returning again and again to Harriet’s golden hair, ‘ that Miss Latimer remains here at Berber, until she is rested. It would be a more … suitable arrangement.’
‘I do not think so.’
The Pasha’s eyebrows rose in his fleshy face. ‘But Capitaine! It would be most unseemly for Miss Latimer to continue to Khartoum accompanied only by yourself and an Arab.’
‘Not in the circumstances.’ Across the room his eyes held hers. For an earth-shattering moment Harriet thought he was going to declare her his bride-to-be and then he was saying smoothly,
‘You see, Miss Latimer and I are cousins.’
‘I had not realised the Beauvais family had English connections.’ There was rank disbelief in the Pasha’s voice.
‘Great families have many branches,’ Raoul replied smoothly. ‘And now I would appreciate it if my cousin could be cared for by your women. She needs to bathe and change. Meanwhile, perhaps we could discuss the purchase of two stallions.’
In vain Harriet tried to catch his eye. She had no clothes into which to change. Furthermore, much as she desired a bath, the thought of being led away by an army of women in such a strange and oppressive atmosphere filled her with anxiety. As if intentionally, Raoul kept his eyes averted from her pleading face.
The Pasha clapped his hands imperiously and a score of veiled and bejewelled females entered the room. The Pasha spoke to them silkily in Turkish, but his eyes rested only on Harriet as she was led unwillingly away.
Raoul, well aware of the Pasha’s intentions and the spyholes that invaded the privacy of every room, began to talk at tedious length about his horseflesh requirements. Until Harriet returned, suitably dressed, he had no intention of allowing the lascivious Pasha out of his sight.
Bracelets tinkling on their slender wrists, the dark-skinned girls led Harriet back through the courtyard and into a high-roofed room containing a bath big enough for them all. Already it was being filled by older, plumper women. Harriet’s head reeled as she tried to count the number of servants on the Pasha’s staff. There had been the uncouth mob who had guided her and Raoul to his presence, the little negro boy, the giggling, chattering girls no older than herself and now even more!
It was obvious that she was to have no privacy in which to bathe. Perfumed oil was poured into the water, flower petals scattered on its surface and then, with much good-natured laughter, the girls began to remove her garments. At first she objected strenuously, but this only increased their hilarity. Eventually, accepting defeat, she removed her dust-stained camisole and underskirt herself. Then she stepped into the luxurious, hot and scented water and unpinned her hair. It fell in a shining mass, rippling over her shoulders and down her back. There were gasps of incredulity and envy, and then she was given soap with which to wash and all the while the girls clustered around the enormous bathtub, chattering and giggling like a flock of brightly coloured birds.
The dust of weeks was rinsed from her hair. She felt clean and fresh but to their dismay adamantly refused the heavy perfumes they plied her with. In vain she looked for her clothes so that she could dress again. There were more giggles. A kaftan of fine, floating silk, delicately embroidered with silver flowers, was held out for her. Velvet slippers replaced the high-button boots. Her hair was still too wet to rebraid and so she left it hanging sleekly down her back, the tendrils around her face curling wispily. Feeling curiously naked she allowed herself to be led once more across the fountain-filled courtyard and into the Pasha and Raoul’s presence. At the door the girls hung back and Harriet felt suddenly afraid. Though they had no common language, they had been her own age and friendly. She had disliked the Pasha on sight and was now filled with a sudden dread that when she entered the room, he would be alone; that Raoul would have left in search of the needed horses.
The little negro boy opened the door and hesitantly she entered, her fears subsiding. He had not left her. He was still as she had left him, his white, lavishly laced shirt negligently undone, his close-fitting breeches tucked into sand-covered knee-high boots. He must have ached for a bath as much as she, but he had remained instead with the Pasha. Though not understanding why, she was grateful. The eyes, slanting under winged brows, darkened the instant she stepped into the room. In the loose, flowing kaftan she felt indecently exposed, her small, high breasts pressed tantalisingly against the fine silk.
At the sight of her the Pasha’s small pink tongue moved restlessly over his lower lip. The Englishwoman was not only beautiful – she was magnificent. In that moment he determined that however formidable the Frenchman, he would see to it that she never left Berber.
‘Send my servant to me,’ Raoul demanded abruptly.
Hashim entered, his eyes widening at the sight of Harriet dressed in the manner of one of the Pasha’s concubines.
‘My cousin needs suitable clothing in which to travel,’ Raoul said, his voice throbbing with anger. ‘Please see to it.’
Hashim turned obediently, and vainly Harriet wondered where he would obtain the kind of clothes she was accustomed to.
‘You must be hot and tired yourself, Capitaine Beauvais,’ the Pasha was saying, taking his eyes away from Harriet with difficulty. ‘A bath has been prepared …’
‘Later.’ Raoul waved a hand dismissively. ‘However, we are both hungry and thirsty.’
Harriet saw the Pasha’s eyes narrow malevolently. The man did not like Raoul and no doubt Raoul was aware and uncaring of the fact. Who was he that he could demand hospitality from a man who so clearly disliked him? The rank of captain would not warrant the sort of deference that the Pasha was showing him. Harriet’s puzzlement increased as cold meats and fresh fruits we
re brought in and set on the low table. She remembered the reference to his family name and Raoul’s reply that great families had many branches. Who were the Beauvais? Were they a family of stature? Was that the reason he was being treated with such deference?
They sat on velvet cushions to eat, the Pasha half lying, his eyes flicking ceaselessly over Harriet’s body. She kept her eyes lowered and ate gratefully, wishing that the company were different. Raoul sat beside her, as at ease on the perfumed cushions as he had been on horseback. She paid little heed to the conversation, only sufficient to understand that the local governor was absent, which was, no doubt, the reason Raoul had sought the Pasha’s hospitality instead.
Before the meal was over, there came a deferential knock at the door and at the Pasha’s command the little negro boy opened it to reveal a smiling Hashim with a cotton blouse and linen skirt triumphantly laid over his arms, and a pair of thonged sandals in one hand.
Harriet gave a cry of disbelief. Raoul remained infuriatingly unsurprised.
‘I would appreciate it if my cousin could change into her own clothes now.’ It was not a request. It was an order.
The Pasha flushed angrily but summoned two of the many female observers.
‘My cousin is of a very enterprising nature,’ Raoul continued, his dark eyes holding Harriet’s intently. ‘She wishes to see something of Berber before we travel in the morning.’
The Pasha was already rising eagerly to his feet. ‘And so my manservant will escort her,’ Raoul continued.
‘Most unsuitable … Most …’ The Pasha’s eyes met Raoul’s. At what he saw there he faltered. Beauvais’ reputation was well known in both Egypt and the Sudan. He would have as little regard for the life of a Pasha as he had for a dog in the gutter.
Harriet, not understanding, began to protest, but one glance from Raoul’s hard, agate eyes silenced her. Obediently she left the room and freed herself of the perfumed silk. The skirt and blouse were plain and serviceable. She braided her hair and pinned it securely in the nape of her neck. Smoothing the cool linen of the ankle-length skirt, she again felt like Miss Harriet Latimer of Cheltenham. The sandals felt strange at first but were infinitely more comfortable than high-buttoned boots.
African Enchantment Page 4
