But then he pulled her close. She wanted it not to hurt – she held her breath with the effort of pushing the pain away; but her burns were raw, her bruises too fresh beneath the thin fabric of her nightdress. And he didn’t know, she hadn’t told him…
She bit her lip. She would not let Alistair ruin this. She would not. She moved towards Edward. He exhaled, clasped her tighter. It was then that she felt her skin fracture beneath his hand, weep. And it was too much. Against every other instinct, she pulled away.
‘Olly?’
‘I’m sorry.’
His face creased with concern. ‘Olly, what’s wrong?’
‘I must go,’ she said taking a step back.
‘Wait.’
‘I can’t.’ She closed her hand over the waist of her gown. It was damp, already staining. Edward stared, eyes full of confusion, worry; she knew he’d be thinking he’d done something wrong, pushed her. ‘It’s not you,’ she said, barely managing to keep the pain from her voice. ‘I swear it. I just… I’m not feeling well suddenly.’ How weak that sounded. She wished she had the words in her to tell him the truth. ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said, then turned.
She heard him call after her, but she didn’t respond. Her thoughts were fixed on getting to the bathroom, pressing a cold cloth to her skin and leaving it there for as long as it took her skin to numb. As for everything she still needed to say to Edward, about him leaving, Clara, she left the words unspoken in the chaos of her mind, promising herself she’d give them voice on the morrow.
THE THIRD DAY
Chapter Eleven
By the time the bite had entered the early morning sun, Nailah had been walking for close to an hour, across the city to the beautiful tree-lined avenues of the Quartier Grec. The houses of some of Alexandria’s oldest families lay there, nestled in gardens behind cast-iron gates. One of them belonged to the doctor the captain had told Nailah about, but she was struggling to find which it was. She came to a halt on the wide pavement, the sea of pedestrians jostling past her. She pulled out the scribbled address the captain had given her all those weeks ago. She said, ‘Excuse me,’ to a smartly dressed lady. The lady kept her eyes fixed ahead and strode on. Nailah swallowed on her dry mouth, shifting Babu’s weight in the sling. Her skin was moist with sweat.
A pair of nattering old ladies in black satin approached. Nailah placed herself in front of them, addressing them in English. ‘I’m trying to find Socrates’ office.’ She gestured at Babu, head lolling against her, breaths like shallow sighs. His body was as warm as the ceramic hot water bottles Ma’am Amélie used in winter. ‘My cousin needs him.’
The women’s eyes moved in unison to Babu. One spat superstitiously over her shoulder. ‘What’s wrong with his head?’
‘For shame, Athina,’ said the other. She lay her gnarled hand on Babu’s forehead. ‘Keep going,’ she said, ‘second left, then third right. I should warn you, Socrates isn’t cheap.’
‘I have the fee,’ said Nailah. Jahi had given her the pouch of coins yesterday, just before he left to return to his job up the coast. Her stomach turned at the memory of everything he’d said before handing the money over. By force of will, she banished him from her mind. ‘Soon be there, little one,’ she whispered to Babu as she set off. She stroked his burning head. ‘The captain’s doctor will make you better.’
It was a few minutes more before she reached Socrates’ establishment. She stared at the large villa, its lush lawns, and then down at her own faded dress, the damp circles beneath her arms, the frayed fabric of Babu’s sling. She chewed her lip. Babu coughed like a cat on a hairball, then wailed pitifully. Nailah could almost hear Tabia in her ear. Be strong, habibi. For him, please. With a deep breath she pushed the gate open. Before she could change her mind, she put one trembling foot in front of the other, up the gravel path, and followed the signs around the house to the surgery.
Her courage nearly left her when she peeked into the waiting room. Even this early, it was full, packed with the kind of finery that had used to fill the Pashas’ salon: feathered bonnets, silken skirts rippling beneath tiny waists; a flower bed of couture. Children sat in cushioned chairs, kicking polished shoes, hair thick and shiny, cheeks rounded and clean. All eyes turned to Nailah. She curled her toes, trying to hide the dirt coating them. But before she could scuttle off like the street rat she felt, the woman at the desk in the far corner stood.
‘Is this Babu Rayoud we have here?’ she asked briskly, crossing the room. ‘You must be his minder, Nailah?’ She didn’t wait for Nailah to reply. ‘Captain Bertram told us to expect you,’ she looked Nailah up and down, ‘although he didn’t mention how you came to be acquainted.’
Nailah coloured. ‘I used to work for friends of his,’ she said, using her job at the Pashas’ as an excuse, even though she was as sure as sun meant day that whatever the reason for the captain’s interest in Babu, it had nothing to do with her prior employment. She doubted he even knew she’d worked at the Pashas’; she and the other maids had used to stay well hidden when they watched him: smoking, talking, so relaxed. Although that was before Ma’am Gray’s sister had arrived. He’d changed after that. Nailah remembered the first night she’d ever seen them together, at a party in early spring, long before that big May ball; she’d found herself studying Ma’am Sheldon: skin as smooth as yoghurt, wavy brown hair, and cheekbones that looked like they could slice meat. Her husband had stared at her, half like he was afraid she would break, and half as though he wanted to break her himself. Ma’am Sheldon had ignored him, stuck to the captain’s side instead, slanting eyes flicking up at him, his down at her. Nailah had thought, What is he doing? What can he be thinking? She was sure she wasn’t the only one wondering it: Benjamin Pasha’s steel-witted older sister, Imogen Carter, had had watchful eyes on them both too.
‘And now he’s sent you to us,’ said Socrates’ assistant, bringing Nailah back into the moment. ‘I’m Maria. Tell me what’s finally brought you.’
Nailah explained Babu’s malaise, his high fever, the constant vomiting.
Maria nodded sagely and led Nailah into a room with a bed, desk and chair in it. The curious stares of the other patients followed them. ‘I’ll send Socrates in,’ said Maria, pouring water from a jug. ‘You must drink,’ she said, handing Nailah the glass, ‘we don’t want you passing out.’
Nailah wasn’t sure she’d dare.
Maria made to go.
‘The payment,’ said Nailah, then flinched at the bluntness of her words. Maria turned, obviously confused. ‘I just want to check the cost,’ said Nailah. ‘I’m sure I have enough, but —’
‘No. No payment.’
‘What?’
‘Captain Bertram is seeing to your account.’
‘He’s paying?’
‘No,’ said Maria, ‘someone else, although the captain didn’t give a name. I must say Babu’s a lucky boy, to have such attention.’ She shook her head, as though it were beyond her, and left.
Nailah was too stunned to call after her, to ask more. She reached for her water with a shaking hand, swallowing hard on each sip. Who was this person funding Babu’s care? Why were they doing it?
What did they know?
Ignorance prickled her palms with moisture.
The door opened. A middle-aged man with a pointy beard and round spectacles strode in. ‘Yassas,’ he said wearily. He looked at Nailah. ‘Or should I say, as-salaam? Bertram has told me to take special care of you, so let me see what I can do.’
For the next half-hour Nailah did her best to answer Socrates’ probing on Babu’s health, the regularity of his fevers. As the minutes ticked by she felt herself begin to relax, soothed by Socrates’ unalarmed approach, the assured way in which he prescribed Babu’s treatment.
‘He’ll get better?’ she asked, clutching a bag of bottled medicine and a herbal fever balm. ‘He’ll be well?’
‘He’ll never be like you or me,’ said Socrates, head tilted to one sid
e as he studied Babu from the doorway. ‘Whoever delivered him went to work on his skull. I suspect he was also starved of oxygen.’ He sighed. ‘There are some wrongs that even medicine can’t right. But we’ll help him live as good a life as he can. Come fortnightly, we’ll see how he gets on.’
‘Thank you,’ said Nailah, tears of relief filling her throat.
‘Now, now.’ Socrates reached out awkwardly and then dropped his hand, obviously thinking better of it. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
‘I hope so.’ Nailah couldn’t take it for granted. But whatever the roots of this strange generosity, however long it might last, she could only be grateful for it. What was done was done. The past was dead. For the time being, little Babu at least could benefit.
The soles of her feet stung as she walked them both home. She crooned over Babu, stroking him with the hand not holding Socrates’ bag of bottles. He began to cry, weak mews, and she picked up her pace, anxious to get him into their room, the first of his medicine into him, a cold compress on his head.
As they drew closer to their quarter, the broad streets narrowed, cracks appeared in the houses, rust on the balcony railings; the air soured with sewage. Nearly there. Nailah hurried through the marketplace, deaf to the vendors calling the bargain prices of bruised onions and overripe tomatoes. She crossed the road, dodging donkey-drawn carts, and picked up her skirts as she stepped over a fetid puddle. Her heart lurched as she saw Kafele coming towards her, a crate balanced heavily on his shoulder. He was in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, the same grey one he’d been in yesterday and which she’d saved a year’s pin money to buy. He only had two suits; seeing him in them always made Nailah ache for how high he was reaching.
He brushed past her. ‘Meet me at Eastern Harbour after dark,’ he said. ‘Get Cleo to watch the baby. I have news.’
Nailah carried on walking. Her blood thundered within her.
Chapter Twelve
A world away from the Turkish Quarter, Olivia watched from her window as Edward left the house that morning, her thoughts full of the night before. She wasn’t sure how long after she’d run from him her regret had set in; all she knew was that by the time she’d found herself slumped on the tiled bathroom floor, flannel pressed to her, she had wished she wasn’t alone. That he was there to help her.
She should have let him be.
And she should have told him about Clara’s missing letter. She had been wondering, through her sleepless night, if its contents could have anything to do with the naughtiness Clara had spoken of. She pressed her forehead against the warm pane, half-tempted to run down in her nightclothes now and talk to Edward about it. But it wasn’t the time, not with Alistair still munching his marmaladeless bread in the breakfast room.
She ran her fingers along the shutter, picked at a fleck of paint. Edward stopped to talk to the Bedouin mother and her boys, all gathering figs at the gate. Olivia wondered whether he was questioning them about Clara. She hoped not, they seemed ill-equipped to be sucked into the whole sorry mess. The boys were little more than children; aside from their – astutely conceived – dislike for Alistair, they behaved like sun-baked innocents, running around in frayed trousers, fishing and diving in the sea. Their mother, meanwhile, carried a grief in her cloaked features that made her… fragile. Olivia wished they shared a language, she was more and more curious to talk to her. As it was, the pair of them communicated only in gestures.
She waited. At length Edward turned his horse, caught her eye, and touched his fingers to his cap. Olivia raised hers in a wave. The mornings had felt empty without their small ritual these past weeks. She’d been annoyed at herself for sleeping through the moment yesterday; she was relieved they’d carried on today, that neither of them had tried to forget it was what they did. In spite of everything.
He disappeared onto the road, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust behind him. Olivia turned to dress. Whatever Edward might say about danger, she was intent on getting out of the house again without alerting anyone to her movements. She had to talk to Sofia, find out what she knew about the contents of that letter.
Before long, though, the sharp rat-a-tat-tat of Ada’s knuckles sounded on the bedroom door.
‘I’m fine,’ Olivia called.
The door opened purposefully and Ada’s beady eyes appeared around it. She shook her head at Olivia’s riding habit. ‘No, no, no,’ she said.
‘Yes, yes, yes.’
‘You ain’t riding today, Mrs Sheldon, Mr Sheldon said so.’
‘Did he indeed?’
‘’E did,’ said Ada. ‘I’ve pressed your violet two-piece.’
‘I wish you hadn’t.’ Olivia buttoned her skirt, fingers stumbling in her haste, and pushed her toes into her boot, hopping on one foot as she pulled it on. ‘If only you’d mentioned you were planning to do that, as most lady’s maids would, I could have stopped you.’
‘You’re expected at Mrs Carter’s,’ said Ada.
Olivia shook her head. ‘I have other plans.’
‘No, tea at nine, Mr Sheldon said.’
‘Nine?’ said Olivia. ‘Who has tea at nine? Rest assured, not me.’ She frowned. ‘And this will have been Edward’s idea, not Alistair’s. Edward had dinner with Imogen and Tom last night, he obviously worked it all out then. Alistair’s just making sure I go.’ She ground her teeth. It wasn’t the prospect of seeing Imogen that displeased her. In fact, it would be good to talk to her; she felt she might go mad if she didn’t get everything off her chest. But she didn’t like the way she was being managed into the meeting, or Edward and Alistair working in cahoots to control her movements. Frankly, she loathed the thought of Edward speaking to Alistair at all. Out of all the potential men involved in Clara’s disappearance, Alistair was riding high on Olivia’s list of suspects, right alongside the nationalists, perhaps Jeremy, great-girthed Wilkins at a shot, everyone, in fact, except Edward. Edward was bottom. Olivia wanted to keep him there. But it was bloody hard to peg him and Alistair at opposite ends of the spectrum when they plotted together like this. ‘I’ll drop by on Imogen later,’ she said.
‘No,’ said Ada, her voice as firm as Sister Agnes’, Olivia’s old headmistress. ‘If you don’t go straight to Mrs Carter’s, I shall ’ave to send word to Mr Sheldon. We don’t want that.’
‘You’ll tell on me?’
‘If I ’ave to.’ Ada squared her slight shoulders. She actually looked as if she was preparing to get into a fight. ‘You’re going to Mrs Carter’s, Mrs Sheldon.’
‘I beg to differ,’ said Olivia, even as Ada crossed the room and began unbuttoning her skirt. Olivia wrenched herself away, tussling with Ada in an unseemly fashion, one foot still half in her boot. ‘Get off, Ada, for goodness’ sake. What’s come over you?’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Sheldon. I don’t like it no more than you do, but these are bad times and I’ve ’ad my orders. We can do it the easy way or the ’ard. Which one’s it to be?’
Olivia sat in stony silence as the carriage trundled towards the Carters’ home. Ada’s set expression bumped around opposite her.
‘It’s better this way,’ said Ada across the silence. ‘Mr Sheldon would’ve been ever so angry.’
‘Oh do be quiet,’ said Olivia. Then, silently, He’ll be angry whatever I do.
The Carters’ grounds weren’t manicured like Clara’s, although the wildness had a beauty of its own. The villa glowed white in the sunlight, beds of wild jasmine and desert flowers surrounded it. Imogen waited on the lawn like an exotic butterfly, dressed in a lemon gown that set off her coffee skin and glossy hair perfectly. There was barely a whisper of grey in its blackness, but today there was a new heaviness in her beautiful face, and shadows of fatigue beneath her sphinx-like eyes.
‘Oh, my darling,’ she called, as the carriage pulled to a halt. ‘I’ve been so worried. I called on you yesterday, but you weren’t home. I thought you must be at Clara’s, but it didn’t feel right to go there.’
Olivia climbed down from t
he carriage. Imogen gave her a pained look, then said, ‘Come here, do,’ and pulled her into her arms.
Olivia stiffened reflexively at the unexpected intimacy, but then relaxed within the instant as another instinct took over, one which made her sink into the sweetly scented embrace, lean her cheek on Imogen’s silken shoulder, and close her eyes. Warmth seeped through her. And although Imogen’s clasp made her torso ache, even through the protective padding of her gown and stays, she didn’t pull away. And nor did Imogen. It had been months since Olivia had been held so close, for so long. Not since she had said goodbye to her friend Beatrice on the damp, blustery morning she’d married Alistair. She had been dressed in thick ivory silks then, veil whipping around her bonnet. Her gown had crushed against Beatrice’s black one as they embraced and Alistair tapped his foot impatiently by the carriage. ‘Don’t let him change you,’ Beatrice had whispered in Olivia’s ear.
It felt like something that had happened to another person.
In Imogen’s arms, though, as Olivia relived that goodbye, suddenly, out of nowhere, another recollection came prodding: half-formed, more like a shadow… Olivia held her breath. She couldn’t quite grasp it. A warm chest, that scent, a kiss… She clenched her eyes. She could nearly feel it.
But then Imogen let her go, and the almost-memory retreated. But it didn’t disappear, not quite. It nestled deep in the cage of Olivia’s ribs, waiting: a friend.
‘Are you all right?’ Imogen’s brow creased. ‘You’ve gone very pale.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Olivia, reorienting herself. ‘Fine.’
‘Of course you’re not. How could you be? But I won’t go on about how sad this all is. Sympathy only ever makes us feel worse than we already do. For now we must concentrate on finding Clara.’
‘You believe we will?’
‘We have to. Now let’s go through, I have breakfast ready on the veranda. I’m sorry about dragging you here at this hideous hour.’
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