What on earth were they going to do, the two of them? What could they do?
When she returned to the house it was to find that Alistair, for no reason that he was prepared to explain, had fired her lady’s maid. The poor girl was already packed and gone. There wasn’t a thing Olivia could do to try and help her.
‘I can’t believe you’ve done this. She was my maid.’
‘Did you pay her, Olivia? No, precisely.’
A new woman was to arrive on the morrow: a Londoner by the name of Ada. Alistair claimed she’d worked for an acquaintance of his in England and needed a job over here. He didn’t answer when Olivia asked what Ada was doing in Egypt in the first place; he refused to be held to account for whatever Olivia’s now unemployed maid was going to do next. He didn’t want to be bothered with any further questions, he had a great deal on his mind.
‘What?’ Olivia asked. ‘What do you have on your mind?’
‘That’s none of your concern.’
A kitchen maid drew Olivia’s bath. Olivia was in it, sponging herself down with angry movements, when she heard Edward return (footsteps on the tiles, that northern voice; the opening and shutting of his door). Olivia pulled herself from the bath and dressed as quickly as she might, but it took so long: her stays, her stockings, the buttons on her petticoats, her gown. He was gone already by the time she raced downstairs.
She was twitching with impatience, and still fuming over Alistair’s dismissal of her maid, when she and Alistair arrived at the Sporting Club for the evening’s party. Alistair set off towards the bar, muscling in on a conversation between Jeremy, Tom, and Tom’s brother-in-law, Benjamin Pasha. None of them seemed especially pleased to see him. Tom and Benjamin particularly didn’t trouble to hide their frowns, but then they’d never been friendly with Alistair; perhaps with the Pasha fortune behind them – Benjamin with the charge of all those hotels, and Tom married to Imogen’s trust fund – they weren’t blinded by his wealth in the way everyone else in Alex apparently was. Olivia moved her gaze on, looking around the already bursting seams of the club’s pavilion, straining to catch a glimpse of Edward or Clara amidst the silk frocks and top hats. But neither of them was within sight. She blew air over her hot face. With the winds even stronger, still threatening rain, the balcony was off limits, and there were far too many people crammed inside beneath the lazy ceiling fans.
Her toe tapped in a discordant rhythm with the piano music. She began to feel silly, standing alone, and scanned the room again, this time for someone to talk to. She thought to look for Imogen, but it was Imogen’s sister-in-law, Amélie Pasha, who caught her eye and waved her over. Olivia went, without much excitement. Clara might be friendly with Amélie, but although Olivia called on her from time to time with Clara – and had been to several of the Pashas’ parties – she never sought Amélie out for herself. It was her vapid manner, the way she gossiped about who was wearing what, dining in which restaurant, not speaking to whom. Olivia struggled to understand why Clara had so much time for her. Still, perhaps Amélie would know where Clara was now.
Amélie didn’t. She was entirely concerned with the recent departure of her own lady’s maid, a girl by the name of Nailah. She went on and on about it in her thick French accent. ‘She just left, first zing zis morning, not a word as to where. Gone,’ she flounced her hands as though doing a magic trick, ‘like zat…’
‘Have mine,’ said Olivia, looking around once again for Clara’s yellow curls, Edward’s dark face. ‘I have a spare as of about five hours ago.’
Amélie sighed, said it was fine. ‘One of ze under-maids ’as already taken Nailah’s place. Such an inconvenience though, all of eet.’
More chatter followed. A great deal more. Olivia despaired of either Edward or Clara turning up. She thought she might just make her excuses after all and go home.
It was then that she spotted Clara, heading determinedly towards her and Amélie, evening gown swishing, glass of wine in hand. Olivia frowned at the purposeful, almost manic, look in her eye. What had got into her?
She took a step forward to find out. But then there was Edward, finally, coming in through the club doors on the far side of the room. He removed his hat, ran his hand through his hair, and looked around the room. Olivia thought he might be searching for her. But his eyes found Clara first. He frowned, set off towards her.
Olivia froze, statue-like, at what happened next. Edward intercepted Clara, quite smoothly, and took her by the arm. Clara’s shoulders slackened in defeat. Her eyes lost that glint. She let Edward lead her away, through the sweaty throng, out onto the stormy terrace.
Amélie, apparently oblivious to them leaving, or indeed to Olivia staring, strangely unable to move, talked on. ‘I was so sorry to miss so much of ze party last night. My migraines, you know. Eet sounds like it was quite ze night. The ’ousekeeper told me she found a lady’s shawl in the garden zis morning.’ She laughed. ‘I wonder what eet could ’ave been doing there.’
Olivia barely listened. Her eyes were locked on the swinging balcony doors. The moment Amélie paused for breath, she mumbled something about the powder room and headed straight for the terrace herself.
The wooden deck was empty. The wind swept her gown around her, rippling through the silk. She held her hand to her head, keeping her loosely pinned curls from her face. The air was hot, not at all fresh, and damp with unbroken humidity. There was no moon, and only two hurricane lamps burned in the blackness, just by the stairs down to the polo lawn. Olivia’s eyes watered, straining as she tried to see where Edward and Clara could be.
She found them finally on the far side of the deck, standing close. Clara was speaking, face raised to Edward’s. Edward was talking too, over her. Olivia moved towards them, ear cocked, but they were speaking in urgent whispers, voices blocked out by the wind. Clara shook her head, and Edward put the heel of his hands to his temple, flexing his fingers, obviously frustrated.
Olivia was almost upon them when he turned, saw her. He took a step towards her, tried to smile. ‘Hello, Olly.’
Clara’s head swivelled, but she turned away just as quickly. ‘I’m going to go,’ she said. ‘I’m very tired.’
‘Clara,’ Edward said, ‘wait.’
‘Don’t worry, Teddy. You’ve made your point.’ She walked from him, body bent against the weather, towards the steps that would take her out around the back to the carriages. As she passed Olivia, she said, ‘I’m sorry to leave, Livvy. We’ll talk tomorrow.’
‘I’ll come with you now.’
‘No,’ said Clara, still walking. ‘Please.’
‘Wait,’ Olivia said.
But she was already gone, into the night, arms hugging her satin-clad body, skirts flapping. She looked so alone.
Olivia turned back to Edward, her gaze questioning.
He said, ‘Please, don’t ask me.’
She was about to anyway when the terrace doors opened, flying against the club walls. Noisy chatter and light spilt out into the darkness.
Tom was there. He shook his head as his eyes settled on Olivia and Edward. Raising his voice above the wind, he said, ‘It’s no night to be out here.’ Then, ‘Bertram, I need you, old man.’
‘What is it?’ asked Edward.
‘Something rather strange has come up. Come, let’s to the stables. I’ll tell you as we walk.’
Edward hesitated, his eyes on Olivia. But Tom didn’t move from the door. It was obvious he was intent on waiting.
‘All right,’ said Edward. ‘All right.’ He smiled briefly at Olivia. ‘We’ll speak later.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we will.’
But later didn’t come. Olivia had barely set foot back in the club before Alistair appeared quite suddenly at her side, like a sadistic conjuror’s trick, and told her they were going home. Now.
And the next morning, when she woke, intent on speaking to Edward or Clara, and ideally both, it was to find a hastily scribbled note from Clara on the morning tea tray.
Olivia sat up in bed, reading, eyes widening in disbelief; Clara had left Alex, the whole Gray family had, gone to Constantinople. Just like that.
I have no idea how long we’ll be away, Clara wrote. Jeremy’s just announced that there’s a ship in dock and we have to be on it. I’m so sorry, Livvy, I hate leaving you like this, especially after last night. You mustn’t worry about me though, please. I’ll write again as soon as I can.
Olivia turned to Alistair, coming in from his dressing room. She asked him what it was all about, why Jeremy had taken the family away so suddenly. He told her something urgent had come up, to do with the business. Gray had to attend to it.
‘But Jeremy never takes Clara and the boys when he travels.’
‘And yet,’ said Alistair, ‘he has. Oh,’ he continued in a tone that was trying to be careless, ‘don’t plan dinner for Bertram tonight. He’s away too. He’ll be gone for some weeks.’
‘What?’ The news landed like a glancing blow to her stomach. ‘Where?’
‘The desert.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s some nationalist activity hotting up. He’s gone with Fadil to investigate. I don’t want you going out on your own any more. I mean it, Olivia. Not even to plod around on that horse. I’ve told you how I hate it. Stay in. These are dangerous times.’
‘No they’re not,’ she said, too distraught at everything unfolding to bite her tongue. Besides, the lie was so blatant she couldn’t help herself. Tension might exist under the surface in Alex – she’d heard countless tales of the riots in the streets when Britain seized power in ’82, the chants of ‘Egypt for Egyptians’; that kind of thing didn’t just disappear – but it was firmly buried. No one worried over it. All anyone spoke about was how safe things were now the Empire had Egypt in hand. Good old Blighty. ‘You’re trying to scare me,’ she said. ‘You want to keep me here like a prisoner with this rot. What the hell is going on?’
‘Rot?’ He came and leant over her, his face so close she could see his greying stubble, the ticking muscle in his cheek. ‘Rot?’
And then he taught her never to say the word ‘rot’ again.
A family of Bedouin arrived that afternoon, a mother and two boys, and set up their canvas home at the front gate. It was hardly an unusual arrangement. Many Bedouin pitched their homesteads outside British villas in Ramleh; the villa owners let them make use of their water pumps, their well-irrigated grass to graze their goats, and in return the Bedouin were pleasingly humble and grateful.
This mother and her boys were different, though. There was a guardedness to them, the mother especially. And the way they stared…
‘Give them nothing,’ said Alistair over dinner, ‘not even a sip of water. They’ll move on soon enough.’
They stayed, a welcome diversion in the lonely days that followed. Alistair grew gradually more enraged by their presence, and Olivia warmed to it in equal measure.
She gave them the odd sip of water.
She watched the mother from her window, taking in her sad smile as she talked with her sons, the graceful way she moved: shelling peas, stirring stews on the fire, gathering sticks. She wondered what her story was, what had brought her to Ramleh in the first place. If she had any Arabic, she might have asked.
But since she didn’t, she kept quiet.
The hours blurred into endless mornings, boiling afternoons, and tortuous nights. May slipped into June, and not a word came from Edward, only a short wire from Clara confirming they’d arrived safely in Turkey. (Staying at the Grand Jumeirah STOP Hope you are keeping well STOP). Olivia was hurt, almost more than she could believe, by them both disappearing so suddenly. She didn’t know whose absence upset her more: Edward’s or Clara’s. Clara who she had truly started to believe she could rely on again.
She had no idea how to reach Edward, but she wrote to Clara. Why did Jeremy take you all away? What were you and Edward talking about at the Sporting Club? What’s wrong? She riffled through the post, brought each morning on a silver tray, searching amidst the calling cards and dinner invitations for Clara’s looping hand. Eventually a letter arrived, its envelope coloured with exotic postage stamps. Olivia tore it open with impatient hands, eyes moving down the page eagerly. But as she read, her face grew heavy and the hope went out of her. For although Clara had written at some length – about the chaos of Constantinople, how sorely she missed Olivia, her own desire to return to Alex – she shed no light on why Jeremy had taken her away in the first place (I’ve asked of course, but he’s not giving me straight answers – apparently, we’d both be better keeping out of it. In all honesty, Livvy, he’s in such an odious mood I’m happy not to push him more for now. You must stop fretting too, about everything. You have enough to contend with, and I’m fine, absolutely I am. Now I must just tell you about what Ralphy said this morning…); there was no mention of Edward in the letter. Olivia read it over and over, desperate to spot some hidden reference to him, a few lines explaining what had happened at the Sporting Club. A small clue she’d somehow missed. When she knew the paragraphs by heart and was still none the wiser, she wrote again to Clara. Won’t you please trust me? What were you both discussing? Clara’s response – a short but sweetly worded missive telling Olivia how desperate she was to return, that she hoped Olivia wasn’t too lonely, was looking after herself, getting out and about – once again ignored the question.
The unknowns tortured Olivia, sharper with every day. What was Clara hiding? What did Edward know of it?
When were they ever going to send word of their return?
Tomorrow, she told herself, word will come tomorrow.
She swam, but she no longer went alone. Her new maid, Ada, perched on the rocks, the brim of her sunhat just failing to conceal the staring tilt of her eyes. As Olivia made her way back to the house, Ada would trail her steps, helping her bathe, dress. Then she’d follow Olivia downstairs, ask her what the plans were for the day. Everywhere Olivia went, everywhere, Ada went too: an unshakeable five-foot shadow, an ever-vigilant, brown stuff-skirted gnome. Olivia became nauseatingly sure that Alistair had hired her as a spy.
Tomorrow, she told herself, one of them will send word they’re returning tomorrow.
Imogen started calling. She’d arrive after lunch, a flurry of bright silk and coffee-coloured skin, filling the emptiness left by Clara. She told Olivia stories of her mother, how the two of them had grown up together: Olivia’s mother, Grace, the daughter of a British archaeologist, and Imogen and her younger brother, Benjamin Pasha, the children of an Egyptian general and an Anglo-French lady. ‘We spent all our days together. Grace even came to live with us after her poor parents, your other grandparents, died of typhus. I think Benjy fell in love with her a little. He was only thirteen.’ Imogen sighed. ‘But then your papa arrived from London and swept Grace off to Cairo to go digging for treasure. It was years more before Tom came and whisked little old me off my feet. I almost gave up hope of ever finding anyone. And I missed Grace terribly. I used to visit all the time. Oh, how she adored you two, her girls. The way you used to be, Olivia. You would give away smiles, you know. And you were never seen before you were heard. I was so worried after you left for England…’
Olivia was quiet with Imogen at first, listening much more than she talked; in the nearly three months she’d been in Alex, she’d only ever spoken to Imogen at parties and dinners, mostly with Clara, Tom or Edward there too. She’d known – from Imogen’s gentle enquiries into her health, how she was finding life in Alex – that she worried; Edward had told her that Imogen had tried as hard as Clara to find her after she was sent to the nuns. Olivia wasn’t sure why she’d kept her distance all this time, never taking Imogen up on her invitations to come around to lunch or dinner, always fielding her questions with caution.
Perhaps it was the idea of how much Imogen cared and all she knew, when she, Olivia, remembered not a bit.
In any case, as the afternoons passed, and Imogen talked on in that lilting way of
hers, Olivia found herself relaxing, chatting more. Never about Alistair of course (she’d gone back to it being easier to pretend nothing was real); and she didn’t trust herself to mention Edward either, or her confusion over the strange closeness she’d witnessed between him and Clara at the Sporting Club. But she did enjoy talking about life back in England, the good bits at least: the couple of years when she and Beatrice had lived with Beatrice’s aunt in London – walks in Regent’s Park, boating on the Serpentine, toasted buns for tea, all of that. She liked reliving it.
Edward had been right about that.
And when Imogen listened, laughed, Olivia almost forgot he was gone, Clara too. Then she’d remember with a thud.
‘Why did Jeremy take her away, Imogen?’ Olivia asked it time and again. ‘What is all this secrecy?’
‘I don’t know, I really don’t. I keep wondering why Edward’s gone too. I’ve asked Tom, but he’s being very vague.’
Tomorrow, Olivia told herself, one of them will come back tomorrow.
She kept riding, in spite of Alistair telling her not to. She went to the same field Edward had taken her. Ada stood awkwardly on the grass, brown skirt as stiff as a board in the breeze. Olivia felt empty, seeing her tiny figure there where Edward should be. She rode harder, faster, trying to race the feeling away.
‘A little slower, why don’t you, Mrs Sheldon?’
‘I’m not going to fall.’
‘You might, Mrs Sheldon. I don’t want you hurting yourself.’
Olivia kicked her heels in.
Tomorrow. One of them will come back tomorrow.
The second week of June became the third, then the fourth. She wrote again to Clara: the same questions, but this time no letter came in response. The heat built, Olivia swam, Ada watched, the Bedouin mother tended to her sons, Imogen called.
‘Nearly a month they’ve been gone,’ Alistair said as Olivia undressed for bed one night at the end of June. ‘A month, when Gray and I agreed a fortnight was all that was necessary.’
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