Sandstorm

by Anne Mather

  'Leave us, Sofia!' Rachid commanded curtly, his eyes hard as they rested on his wife, and with a little helpless gesture she complied, leaving Abby to face her husband's wrath alone. But it was not in her nature to defy the male members of her family, particularly her father or her elder brother.

  With the girl's departure, however, Abby's momentary desire for the offensive died, and self-consciously aware of how the sunlit courtyard beyond her must be outlining the swollen fullness of her abdomen, she turned abruptly into the apartment, placing herself in a less revealing position.

  'To what do I owe the honour of this visit?' she enquired, endeavouring to sound casual, but Rachid was not yet ready to tell her.

  'I should be grateful if you would refrain from encouraging Sofia to mock the other members of my family,' he declared coldly, prowling restlessly about the exquisitely- appointed salon. 'I know she respects you and seeks your company, and I should not care to have to forbid her to visit you here.'

  'What I' Abby stared at him, irritated for once by the dark blue robes he was wearing, in deference to his father's wishes. His head was even covered by the swathe of a kaffiyeh, and the shadow of his beard showed on his jaw- line. He had never looked more alien, or more arrogant, and she felt she hated him for his unfeeling self-assurance. 'You're threatening to stop Sofia from visiting me?' she exploded. 'Oh, Rachid, do you think I'm corrupting her, is that it?'

  His dark eyes were hard and unyielding as he halted in front of her. 'Perhaps,' he conceded, making the blood pound inside her head. 'You cannot deny you have no love for Yashti, but I will not permit my sister to speak disrespectfully of her elders.'

  Abby sucked in her breath. 'You're afraid she'll exhibit some human instincts, aren't you?' she exclaimed tremulously. 'You're afraid that, like me, she'll show a little independence. Just because Yashti is content to live the life of a vegetable‑'

  'Enough!' His hand descended in a cutting gesture. 'I did not come here to discuss your opinion of my family.'

  'No, I didn't suppose you did,' she countered, unwilling to be silenced like a child. 'You'll have to forgive me if my conversation is somewhat limited. Sofia is a sweet child, and I love her very much, but her chatter does tend to be rather juvenile, and naturally I cannot help but be influenced. However, as you so seldom find the time to visit this part of the palace, I suppose I should be grateful. At least she cares what happens to me. She doesn't treat me like a leper. She doesn't behave as if the sight of me disgusted her‑'

  She broke off abruptly at this point, realising that once again she was going too far. But she was never so conscious of her appearance as she was in Rachid's presence, and in his eyes she was sure she was fat and clumsy, and hopelessly ungainly.

  The silence in the room made her apprehensive, and she cast a surreptitious glance behind her to find Rachid standing staring at her, his hands secured behind his back. It ' made her feel even more self-conscious, and she twisted her fingers together, wishing he would say what he had to say and go.

  'I understood that you would not welcome my presence,' | he said suddenly, his voice harsh and with an underlying thread of anger. 'Can you deny that you made your feelings painfully clear in London? What am I to assume from your present attitude? That your condition has mellowed your reactions to me? That cut off from all your friends and acquaintances you are desperate for anyone's company, even mine?'

  'You can assume whatever you like,' she retorted, annoyed to find she was trembling. 'You can make whatever excuses you like for not visiting me, for treating me like some shameful skeleton you'd like to keep in the cupboard. Only skeleton isn't quite the word, is it? Just the reverse. j I realise I must look inelegant to you, but‑'

  'You are talking rubbish!' he overrode her violently, tearing the kaffiyeh from his head as if it irritated him. 'And you must know it. A woman with child is the fulfilment of her destiny, and no man could turn aside from his own procreation.' His voice was raw with emotion. 'You have never looked more beautiful, Abby, and I am never unaware of it. So do not speak to me of skeletons and cupboards. Not when I am forbidden to lay my hands on you!'

  Abby quivered, aroused by his sensuous words so that she hardly knew what she was saying. 'Do you want to lay your hands on me, Rachid?' she whispered, circling her dry lips with her tongue, and she saw the way his knuckles whitened over the kaffiyeh in his hands.

  His smouldering dark eyes bored into hers, tearing aside the gauzy threads of her defensive shield. In spite of all that had gone before, she ached for him to touch her, and her foolish expostulations melted like snow in the disruptive heat of his nearness. It was over three months since he had held her in his arms in her father's study, and shown her how weak she really was, and so much longer than that since she had known his searing possession. For whatever reason, she was remembering that now, remembering it and remembering too her own foolishness in denying that need. Right now she would have given anything to feel his hard body close to hers, and she took an involuntary step towards him, inviting his undisputed claim.

  'No,', he said suddenly, his anguished voice destroying the sensuality of the moment. 'No, Abby, I do not wish to touch you.' He ran one hand round the back of his neck, massaging the muscles there as if they pained him. 'It is not my intention to promote any further contact between us, other than that which the situation demands.'

  Abby fell back in dismay, her humiliation at being repulsed compounded by the belief that his previous words had been only a sop to what he saw as her vanity. It was obvious he had really come here to undermine her friendship with Sofia, and bitterness rose like bile in the back of her throat.

  'I think you'd better go,' she said, turning away to smooth her fingers over the delicate moulding of an alabaster statuette that supported a vase of thickly-petalled blossoms on its head. 'And you'd better tell Sofia, if you don't want her to visit me again. I don't see why I should do your dirty work for you.'

  Her voice broke on the final syllable, and his muttered: 'Abby!' was at once angered and tormented. 'I have no desire to prevent Sofia from visiting you. On the contrary, I know she finds your companionship stimulating. I only ask that you should not condone her disobedience of my father's wishes.'

  Abby bent her head, the silvery braid falling softly over the swell of her breasts. The action exposed the delicate curve of her nape, and the silky tendrils of hair that coiled there, but she was unaware of it, only conscious of her own sense of deprivation. She wished Rachid would go, before her emotions got the better of her, and although she was grateful for his indulgence so far as Sofia was concerned, she saw no reason in prolonging the interview.

  However, Rachid made no move to leave her, and she had turned her head, ready to demand his departure, when he said harshly: 'I was speaking with Nona on the telephone last evening.'

  'Your grandmother? Really?' Abby shrugged. 'What has that to do with me?'

  'She is coming home today,' he replied, with emphasis. 'And she has asked that we—you and I—should join her for dinner this evening.' He took a deep breath. 'That is why I came. Not to spy on you and Sofia.'

  Abby's nails curled into her palms. 'Of course you told her we could not.'

  'No.' Rachid's voice was grim. 'I told her we should be delighted.'

  'Then you'll have to make some excuse,' retorted Abby tightly. 'As you've just said, you have no wish to promote any further contact between us.'

  'I added—other than the situation demands,' he countered violently. 'The present situation demands that we spend the evening together. I want your assurance that you will obey me in this.'

  'Obey you?' Abby managed a ragged smile. 'Oh, Rachid, you do say the most tactful things!'

  'I do not feel very tactful when I am with you,' he retorted, breathing heavily. 'Well? Will you come?'

  Abby hesitated, but the temptation of an evening in the company of a woman she both liked and admired was irresistible.

  'Very well,' she agreed, and saw the look of
relief that crossed his lean face. 'I will meet you there at—what? Eight? Nine o'clock?'

  'Make it eight o'clock,' he agreed, unfolding the cloth of the kaffiyeh. 'Until later, then.'

  'Inshallah,' murmured Abby mockingly, and had the sadsfacdon of seeing the uncertainty in his expression.

  Abby dressed for the dinner appointment that evening with more enthusiasm than on any occasion since she had returned to Xanthia. She told herself it was because it was so long since she and Nona had seen one another, and she wanted to make a good impression, but deep inside her she knew a perverse desire to make Rachid regret what he had denied.

  Seated before the mirror in her dressing room, she studied her complexion with critical eyes. Her skin had the honey bloom of the sun upon it, and needed little improvement, but she darkened the curling length of her lashes with mascara, and applied a subtle eye make-up that accentuated their slightly upward slant. Her mouth benefited from the application of a shiny lip lustre, and she licked her lips experimentally, liking the delicate flavour.

  Leaving the mirror, she threw back the doors of her wardrobe and studied the row of clothes that confronted her. Before returning to Abarein she had equipped herself with some new clothes, suitable to both her condition and the climate, but she had to concede now that her choice had been uninspired. At the time she had felt little interest in anything, and the physical miseries of her condition had only added to her indifference. Now, however, the sickness had left her, and with it much of her apathy. There were times like now when she could even think positively, and she sighed in impatience over the balloonlike cottons and billowing silks.

  She was still standing there, trying to decide what to wear, when a young girl came bustling through from the bathroom. Suni was her personal maid, and she had been clearing up after Abby's bath, but now she viewed her mistress's robed figure with evident agitation.

  'It is almost a quarter to eight,' she exclaimed, in her own language, and Abby responded likewise.

  'I know it,' she said, the Arabic syllables tripping easily off her tongue. 'But I cannot decide what to wear. They are all so—tentlike!'

  Suni giggled, her dark face splitting with amusement. She was a pretty little thing, no more than fifteen or sixteen, Abby guessed, and since her imposed exile they had become close friends, much to Sofia's disapproval. 'It is not suitable that you make friends with a servant, Abby,' she reproved her on occasion, but Abby had replied that beggars could not be choosers, a proverb her sister-in-law chose to ignore.

  'Perhaps you could wear this,' proposed Suni now, drawing a gown of gauzy black chiffon from the rail, and Abby felt her nerves tighten at the suggestion.

  The gown was one she had had since before she left Rachid. She had not taken it with her when she made her bid for freedom, and it had hung here, in the air-conditioned cupboard ever since. It had held too many memories for her to want to keep it, bought by Rachid on one of his trips to Paris, but now she looked at it consideringly, wondering if she could wear it.

  'It is most beautiful,' Suni pressed, spreading its chiffon folds. 'And there is a fullness, here, just where it is needed, exactly as you would wish.'

  Abby caught her lower lip between her teeth. 'It's not a maternity dress,' she offered half-heartedly, but Suni made light of her protests.

  'You do not need the fullness of a maternity dress yet, my lady. That is why you find these other dresses so ugly. Please—try it on. See if it is suitable.'

  The layers of transparent material fell softly about her, and Abby turned to her reflection with anxious eyes. The gown was cut simply, its strapless bodice veiled by a gauzy cape. Ruched chiffon was gathered beneath her breasts to fall in a thousand pleats to her ankles, and its fullness was such that it only hinted at the advancing state of her condition.

  'It is perfect!' exclaimed Suni, her hands already busy at the hastily pinned coil of Abby's hair. 'And this we will leave loose, hmm? Just for this evening. I think my master will find you most beautiful.'

  Abby felt the warmth of colour in her cheeks. 'I am not dressing for Prince Rachid, Suni, just for myself.'

  'As you say, mistress,' Suni agreed, wielding the brush, but Abby doubted she believed her. Like all Abareinian women, Suni only saw her destiny in the service of the husband her parents would choose for her, but like all the women who lived in the palace, she was just a little in love with Prince Khalid's elder son.

  It was a long time since Abby had left her hair loose, and now she viewed herself doubtfully. Pushing the heavy strands behind her ears, she half turned to look at the back, and saw that it reached her waist, a silvery cascade, straight and silky soft.'Such a colour!' exclaimed Suni, clasping her hands in 1 admiration. 'My lady is so lucky!'

  'Am I?' Abby was sceptical, but she couldn't spoil Suni's pleasure by denying it, and with a smile she touched the younger girl's cheek.

  'Thank you, Suni,' she said sincerely, and the dark girl flushed with gratitude.

  To reach the Dowager Princess's apartments, Abby walked through the palace gardens, escorted by Hassan, one of the palace guard assigned to her quarters. The gardens were constantly patrolled by armed guards after dark, who kept their distance for the most part, melting into the trees when necessary to avoid intruding on anyone's privacy.

  The gardens themselves were assiduously tended by a team of gardeners, and the scent of honeysuckle and verbena clung thickly to the air. Abby didn't need to see to know there were arbours of peach and apricot trees, the luscious fruit hanging within reach of an upstretched hand, and lily-splashed pools and arching fountains, whose inner illumination added to the illusion of fantasy. There were date trees and fig trees, trellises of vines and flowering creepers, and oases of greenery beside flower beds filled with every kind of blossoming shrub.

  Rachid's grandmother awaited her on the terrace overlooking a sunken Italian garden. The elderly princess looked absurdly small in her fan-backed chair, bony fingers glittering with jewels curved clawlike over the arms. She was wearing a gown of crimson brocade, also glittering with sequins, but her greying eyebrows belied the tinted darkness of her upswept hair. Abby guessed she must be at least seventy, but she had hardly changed since she last saw her, and she felt a wave of reassurance when the old lady's carefully made up features relaxed into a welcoming smile.

  'Abigail,' she said, ignoring the honorary title bestowed upon her grandson's wife by his father. 'Come here, child. I'm so glad you decided to come home.'

  As Hassan bowed and withdrew, Abby mounted the shallow steps to the terrace, and only then did she glimpse the shadowy figure who was standing to one side of the old lady's chair. In a dark-coloured European suit, Rachid had not been immediately visible, but as she approached he moved so that the lamplight illuminated his dark features.

  Abby did not look at him. She concentrated her attention on his grandmother, bending to kiss her on both cheeks in the continental fashion, drawing back so that the old lady could see her more clearly.

  'You haven't changed a bit, Nona,' she said, hoping they would not notice the tremor in her voice. 'Did you have a good journey? How are Miriam and her husband? I expect they were sorry to lose you.'

  'Hah, Miriam fusses too much,' declared the old lady good-humouredly. 'She would have me get up at midday, and rest all afternoon. Too much rest hardens the arteries, that's what I told her. No matter if that husband of hers thinks he's God's gift to medicine.'

  'I am sure Alex thinks no such thing,' Rachid interposed brusquely. 'He is concerned for your welfare, that is all. And you would have it no other way.'

  'Hmm.' His grandmother sounded less convinced, but she allowed the topic to drop, turning instead to Abby and the coming baby. 'Come,' she said, patting the chair beside her, 'sit by me for a moment. I want to hear what's going on. Why does Rachid tell me you're staying only until the child is born? Surely this can't be true.'

  Abby glanced up at her husband, and felt a disturbing thrill of satisfaction when she enco
untered his smouldering gaze. Obviously her appearance had surprised him, and she wondered if he remembered the dress and the memories it evoked. The temptation to find out was overwhelming, but his grandmother had asked a question and she had to answer it.

  'I think perhaps—Rachid believes we are not—compatible,' she confessed innocently, hearing his sudden intake of breath at her audacity. 'He—he has his life and I have mine. After the baby's born—who knows?'

  'I have never heard so much rubbish!' Nona was shocked but still coherent. 'A child does not beget itself, Rachid. How can you talk of incompatibility with your child growing in Abigail's womb?'

  Rachid's features were taut with frustration, but short of calling his wife a liar, he was obliged to suffer his grandmother's verbal castigation.

  'No firm decision has been made, Grandmother,' he stated grimly, when he was allowed to get a word in. He turned burning eyes on his wife. 'Abby is a little—imaginative, due no doubt to her condition. For myself, I take full responsibility for what has happened, as you say. And so far as I am concerned, Abby is free to live here for as long as she wishes.'

  'Alone?' murmured Abby, in an undertone, which she knew he could hear, and she saw his knuckles whiten before he pushed them into the pockets of his jacket.

  Impatient with the conversation, Nona left her chair to lead the way into her living apartments. Following her, Abby was supremely aware of Rachid's dark gaze boring into the pale skin of her shoulders, but she endeavoured to ignore it, essaying an intense interest in her surroundings.

  Like her apartments, Nona's rooms were spacious and high-ceilinged, with veined marble floors and soft jewel- coloured rugs. There were couches, but mostly her guests preferred to sit on the enormous squashy cushions that flanked a low terrazzo-tiled table. Bronze lamps cast a mellow light over dishes of nuts and sweetmeats, and the sugary confections that Abby knew from experience clung to her teeth, and in deference to Nona's nationality there was a tray containing a bottle of the dry sherry she enjoyed before dinner. Despite the household's conversion to Christianity, alcohol was still regarded with suspicion, and it was this as much as anything which added to its alien unorthodoxy.