Beneath a Burning Sky

by Jenny Ashcroft

  Edward took a swig from his water flask, swilling the water around his gritty, sand-lined mouth. If they could just work out how the hell Clara had been taken so fast, without a murmur. Fadil had told Edward it had been just past noon when he’d spotted Olly, alone and panicked in the street, and realised what had happened. He had followed her, thinking that the kidnappers might target her next and lead him to Clara. It was a bold move – one which Edward would never have dared to play himself – and, it transpired, a dud one. No one had gone for Olly. So after Fadil had seen her safely into the Grays’ carriage, he had carried on combing the hidden alleyways of central Alex, well into the night. Another of Edward’s men had been at it all day. But they’d found nothing. Clara had vanished.

  No. Not vanished. People didn’t just disappear; she was somewhere, they just had to find where. They had to. Edward owed her as much. He needed to get her back for Olly too. The way she’d looked last night, hugging herself in her nightgown. Bereft. Alone.

  God, he hoped she’d been all right today.

  He sucked in his breath and returned his attention to his men, barking instructions on where to continue their hunt in the morning. As he dismissed them and they led their horses away, he snapped, ‘Straighten up, soldier,’ at no one in particular, out of pure frustration. All five of them lengthened their spines. In any other circumstances, it might have made Edward laugh.

  He pelted the sand with his boot. He stared across the paddock, towards the corrugated roofs of the stables and offices in the distance, and saw Tom crossing the ground towards him, head down, hands clasped behind his back. Edward narrowed his eyes. Alistair sodding Sheldon and Commissioner Wilkins were behind Tom, leading their horses. What were they doing here?

  They met him at the paddock gate. Tom told Edward that a ransom note had been left at the Sheldon-Gray offices, marked for the attention of Jeremy, demanding a colossal amount of money for Clara’s release. ‘At least we know that she’s alive,’ Tom said, with no little relief.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alistair, ‘so you have to find her. There’s no question of Gray paying the ransom.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Wilkins. ‘We can’t be seen to give in.’

  ‘Gray wouldn’t want to.’ Alistair brushed dust from his tailored arm. ‘He’s not a coward.’

  They spoke so smoothly; it was like they’d had the words prepared. Edward caught Tom’s eye, he shook his head. He’d clearly heard it all already.

  Edward returned his attention to Alistair. ‘Have you even asked Gray what he wants?’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘You might want to, Clara being his wife and all that. He could well surprise you.’ If it was Olly gone, Edward would do anything to get her back, he didn’t care how weak that made him.

  ‘He’s in no fit state to discuss anything,’ said Alistair. ‘I saw him first thing, drunk as a bloody skunk.’ He smiled, as though to say, What can you do?

  Edward’s lip curled in distaste. Alistair never missed an opportunity to score points on Jeremy. Edward had been observing it ever since he’d been transferred to Alex from Cairo three years ago and given into his da’s entreaties to accept Alistair’s invitation to board (I know his reputation, son, but he’s written to me here, says you can be two bachelors together. He’s an important supplier, it will be awkward if you refuse…). All the snide comments about expendable employees Jeremy insisted on keeping on (You’re a soft touch, they walk all over you), export deals he might have got a better price on, the oh so concerned questions about Clara’s upsetting aloofness… how very unlike Jeremy the new baby, Angus, was (Is he the postman’s boy, old pal?). Alistair was jealous, it was obvious. But even knowing that, it seemed incomprehensibly sadistic of him to take enjoyment out of Jeremy’s worry now.

  ‘I gave him a talking to, of course,’ said Alistair. ‘Told him to pull himself together, be British.’

  ‘I’m sure he appreciated that,’ said Edward. He ran his hand through his hair. Sand stuck to his fingers. ‘Where’s this note? I’d like to see it.’

  ‘It’s in my office,’ said Wilkins. He put his thumbs in his pockets and puffed his stomach out. ‘I have the care of it.’

  Edward stared. ‘Do you? And you didn’t think to bring it now?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ said Tom wearily.

  ‘I didn’t see the point,’ said Wilkins. ‘We’ve told you what’s in it.’

  Edward’s brow creased at this, yet another note he and Tom hadn’t seen. He looked from Alistair’s set face to Wilkins’ self-satisfied one. He felt that tingling in the nape of his neck he got when danger was near. ‘Is there something you’re not telling us?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Alistair, too smoothly.

  It was all Edward could do not to seize him by his pristinely pressed collar and shake the truth from him. He wanted to hurt him, get under that sickly pale skin of his somehow. ‘I stopped by on the Bedouin at your gate this morning,’ he said. ‘They don’t think too highly of you.’

  ‘Don’t they?’ said Alistair. ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never talked to them myself, I don’t speak native.’

  ‘Well I do,’ said Edward. ‘The woman thinks you’re a bad man.’ She’d muttered it under her breath as she’d hugged her boys. ‘She wouldn’t tell me why.’

  ‘She’s probably not all there,’ said Wilkins with a snort.

  ‘Oh, I think she is.’ Her dislike for Alistair had disturbed Edward. He’d wanted to press her further on what had caused it, but had held off. She had a sadness about her; he’d felt sorry for her, alone as she was with her sons. ‘Have you done something to upset them?’ he asked Alistair now.

  Alistair’s blue eyes hardened. ‘Such as what?’

  Edward didn’t answer. He left the notion that there were any number of things Alistair might be capable of unspoken.

  Alistair ground his teeth.

  Wilkins’ heavy breathing went in, out.

  The silence lengthened.

  ‘It’s late.’ Tom’s voice sliced through the tension in the air. ‘I want to get home, Immy’s very worried, and there’s a lot to do tomorrow.’

  Wilkins said indeed there was. He patted his stomach and nodded, but gave no indication of his plans for the day, or, indeed, of leaving.

  Alistair held out his hand to him. ‘I’ll be by in the morning,’ he said.

  Wilkins looked surprised, clearly taken aback at being dismissed. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘of course.’ He turned to his horse and made to mount. He struggled to get his foot into the stirrup without the aid of a mounting block. In the end, Tom gave him a leg-up. They all watched as Wilkins dragged his clumsy bulk into the saddle and adjusted his buttocks. ‘Till tomorrow then,’ he said to Alistair.

  ‘You know,’ said Edward, ‘I think I might well call by too.’ He gave Wilkins a measured smile. ‘I really do want to see that note.’

  Olivia had ridden past the security posts of the parade ground many times before, peering in for a glimpse of Edward training his men, ears strained to catch the bass of his northern voice. She’d never been in though and she looked around, swollen eyes curious, as Fadil led her through the rows of huts and stables. Late as it was, there was still a lot going on: stable hands lugging wheelbarrows of feed and hay, soldiers drilling in the sand paddocks, a few more idling outside a hut marked ‘Mess’. Off duty. Olivia was so busy taking it all in that she didn’t notice Wilkins’ fuming face approaching until he had ridden past.

  She turned, wanting to make sure it was really him. His jacket-straining back was unmistakable, his lolling shoulders full of such utter pomposity they could hardly have belonged to anyone else. She called out to him, but he either didn’t hear her or affected not to, and carried on towards the gate. She was about to go after him when Fadil signalled at the perimeter of the furthermost paddock. Edward was there with his colonel, Tom Carter. Oddly, Alistair was with them, a Savile-Row-suited fish out of water in this world of uniformed
men. He looked so squat and brutish next to Edward and Tom; so sickly pale beside their sun-darkened complexions. His expression was motionless as he talked. He was the only one of the three of them not folding his arms.

  Olivia dismounted, handing her reins to Fadil, and made off towards them.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re being so difficult, Bertram,’ Alistair was saying as she approached. She hung back, heart pattering, to hear what came next. ‘All I’m saying is that it’s best to keep it as quiet as we can for now. Keep the force on it small, hush-hush. There’s no sense causing a scare, or alerting the bastards doing this to our movements. And neither Gray nor I want this in the papers. Wilkins agrees…’

  ‘Wilkins is a fucking arsehole,’ said Edward.

  ‘An irrefutable fact,’ said Tom. He ran his finger along the edge of his greying moustache, eyebrows turned in on a frown. Fine-featured his aristocratic face might be, but there was a toughness in him as he said, ‘I don’t know if he can be trusted…’

  ‘Of course he can,’ said Alistair. ‘He’s the British commissioner, for God’s sake. What are you insinuating?’

  Tom was about to answer, then he spotted Olivia. His smile was tired, but as kind as ever as he said, ‘Hello, my dear.’

  Edward and Alistair’s heads swivelled. Edward’s brown eyes widened in surprise, then warmed instantly with affection, albeit a baffled kind, as he met Olivia’s gaze.

  Unlike Alistair’s pale stare, which became – if such a thing was possible – a degree cooler than normal as he snapped, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Olivia, taking the age-old best form of defence. She looked around her, playing for time. ‘Has Jeremy come too?’ There was no sign of him.

  ‘Let me ask again,’ said Alistair, voice straining with control. ‘Why have you come?’

  Olivia frowned, looking for an explanation, a fictionalised excuse eluding her.

  ‘Sayed Bertram sent for her,’ said Fadil, fibbing seamlessly (wasn’t he good at it?) as he approached with the horses. ‘To answer some questions.’

  ‘You should have got my permission first, Bertram,’ said Alistair.

  ‘Should I?’ Edward’s jaw ticked. ‘And there was me thinking I only needed hers.’

  Alistair’s eyes narrowed. For an awful moment, Olivia thought he might have started to suspect what was felt. But then he sighed impatiently and told them to hurry up and get on with it, he wanted to fetch water for his horse anyway, would Tom take him? He strode off behind Tom without a backward look, apparently too arrogant after all to imagine that Olivia might look to another, or that any man could covet what was his.

  Edward spoke briefly to Fadil in Arabic. Olivia watched him talk, the absent way he ruffled his thick hair, and felt, in spite of her fears, relief at being near him again. Safe.

  I can’t let you leave, she thought, I can’t.

  He took Bea’s reins from Fadil, sent him off, and crossed to Olivia’s side. His expression softened as he looked down at her. ‘You’ve been crying,’ he said. ‘What happened at the Grays’?’

  ‘Fadil told you I went?’ She gave him a despairing look. ‘For goodness’ sake, Edward, you don’t need to spy on me.’

  ‘Olly, I’m trying to look after you. I’m frightened for you. I’ve never been so scared in my life.’ He sighed. ‘You have to stop running around as though you’re living in bloody Hampshire. It’s too dangerous.’ His lips twitched. ‘For goodness’ sake.’

  Olivia’s own mouth moved reflexively. She could see her sad smile in the hazel flecks of his eyes. She could smell his curious mix of soap, cigarettes… something else. Moving instinctively, she took a step towards him.

  ‘Stay at home from now on,’ said Edward softly, ‘please.’

  ‘I can’t accept doing nothing, knowing nothing. I shan’t.’

  ‘You shan’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So there?’ Another small smile, quickly dropped, dragged down by the gravity of it all. ‘Have you considered that whoever took Clara might decide they want you too?’

  ‘But why would they?’

  Edward hesitated, then told her about the ransom letter. She listened, horrified, as he related Alistair’s determination not to pay. ‘You’re Clara’s sister,’ Edward said, ‘married to her husband’s business partner, there’s every chance whoever has her will come after you next.’ He broke off, frowning over Olivia’s shoulder. Alistair was coming back towards them, he was just a hundred or so yards away. ‘Stay where the staff can see you from now on,’ he said. ‘Don’t be alone if you can help it. I can’t be everywhere all the time.’

  ‘You said last night you were going to go away.’

  ‘I didn’t mean without you.’

  ‘But I can’t leave, you know that.’

  His rigid jaw suggested he didn’t know any such thing. Something had changed in him since he’d returned; he’d lost patience with the impossibility of it all, and it scared Olivia, because it was impossible. She was married to Alistair, she knew too well there was no changing that; the only variable was whether Edward stayed or left. She glanced again at Alistair, almost upon them now, and turned back to Edward.

  ‘Promise me you won’t disappear like you did last month,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to not know when it’s the last time I’m seeing you. I’ve had too much of that.’ Her eyes welled for the second time that night. She rubbed them impatiently with the heel of her hand. ‘I couldn’t stand it. Not with you.’

  ‘And you won’t have to.’

  She wanted to ask what that meant; whether it was that he’d say goodbye or wouldn’t go after all. She hoped desperately that he would not go. She knew how unhappy being here made him, she’d have to be blind not to see it. It would be a selfish kind of relief to have him promise to stay, but a comfort nonetheless.

  As it was, she didn’t have the chance to find out, nor to tell Edward, as she’d meant to, about Clara’s missing letter. Alistair was upon them. All she had time to do was hurriedly ask Edward if he’d be at dinner. When he replied no, he needed to go to Tom and Imogen’s, talk to Tom some more, she said, ‘Meet me later then, in the garden?’

  Before Edward could answer, Alistair barked at them both to get a move on; his horse stomped on the spot, hoof turning the ground. With a sigh, Olivia turned to Bea, pulling herself into the saddle. And much as she yearned to seek Edward’s eye for his silent response, she dared not look at him. Not with Alistair there.

  She simply had to hope he’d come.

  Alistair took his time that night, it was as though he could sense Olivia’s desperation to be away. As she lay in bed, she could think of little else but when Edward would be back from Tom’s, or if he was home already, out waiting in the garden. Her legs twitched with her need to find out. But Alistair sat by the dressing table, silhouetted by candlelight, talking, talking; his finger moved back and forth through the flame of a candle, stroking it. He’d had several brandies at dinner; he spoke mainly of Clara. ‘She was very beautiful,’ he said, ‘still is, of course. Back then though, that season Jeremy and I met her, every man in London was mad for her. Jeremy most of all, I think. I used to see the way he looked at her, how he held her when they danced. I danced with her too, naturally. But,’ he flicked the flame, ‘she was too wilful, you see. Stubborn. Not the right woman. Not for me. I let Jeremy have her in the end. It was my choice, of that I assure you…’

  Olivia stopped listening.

  At length, Alistair fell silent. He cocked his head to one side, and smiled slowly at her across the room. Rising, he came to stand by her side. ‘You do look like her,’ he tipped the candle, ‘in certain lights. If you put on some weight, coloured your hair yellow…’

  ‘Stop it, Alistair. Please.’

  He raised an eyebrow, entertained by the request. But he didn’t stop.

  In the end, she ceased fighting to make him, and hated herself for it.

  It was approaching mid
night by the time he finally fell asleep. Moving carefully, gritting her teeth against the fresh pain, Olivia went to the bathroom to wash him from her. She averted her eyes as she rubbed lavender on her burns. She had no wish to see Alistair’s handiwork pockmarking her body. Gingerly, she pulled a loose cotton gown over her head.

  She was half afraid, as she crept outside, that Edward wouldn’t have been able to come. Or that, late as it was, he would have given up on her. But he was there at the bottom of the lawn, standing on the rocks. He cast a lean shadow in the darkness as he stared out across the sea, towards the bobbing lanterns of night fishermen. He had his hands in his pockets; his shirt rippled in the cool wind blowing in from the desert. Olivia thought, He could be anywhere else, any place at all. But he’s here for me. He’s waiting for me.

  Her mind moved to Alistair upstairs, so peacefully asleep; the things he did… She stared across at Edward, Edward, who gave her more than she’d ever imagined possible, yet who she might be about to lose – and who she’d convinced herself she could never be with in the way she wanted because of fear, and vows, forced vows, to a rotten man.

  Suddenly, it made no sense. None.

  She set off towards him. The grass crunched beneath her bare feet.

  He turned as she approached, and took her hand, helping her step up. He made to release her, but she held on to him. He looked questioningly down at her. She met his gaze: her eyes in his eyes. The sea lapped the rocks. He took a step towards her, raised his hand, the one not holding hers, and tentatively, as though she could do such a thing as protest, reached out and cupped her face.

  She closed her eyes, let her cheek sink against his palm. Finally. He released her hand, and ran his arm around her waist. For a second, she felt pure warmth spread through her.