Olivia stayed with Imogen most of the day. The two of them decided, over several drinks, that Imogen would make enquiries amongst her servants and ferret out any gossip that might pertain to Clara’s liaison. ‘They see all sorts of things we don’t want them to, darling. You wait, one of them will know something.’
‘All right,’ said Olivia, taking another glug of gin. ‘But remember she could have been seeing another man entirely. And make sure you listen for other information too. I really don’t think Clara was abducted because of this adultery.’
‘Have another drink,’ said Imogen.
Olivia was half-cut by the time she finally left. Her head swam as she climbed into the carriage beside Ada. Imogen told her to come over any time; for herself, she’d call when she had news. Olivia sat silent for the carriage drive home, eyes heavy on the irregularly spaced villas and peasant lean-tos lining the road; the palms, the dust-coated pistachio trees, the donkeys grazing on sun-crisped grass. Ada said nothing either, until they pulled into their driveway, at which point she volunteered to draw Olivia a bath, and Olivia told her she could go to hell for all she cared (it was the gin, it had loosened her tongue).
A headache had come on her by the time Alistair and Edward got home, a pinched pain between her eyes that she was doing her best to overcome by lying in the garden with a cool compress on her head. She kept quite still as she listened to the distant bass of Edward’s voice in the stables, tense, waiting to see if he would come out to her or stay away, unclear, given her inner angst, which eventuality she’d like less. It was only when the silence lengthened with no footfall padding on the grass that she realised there’d never been any doubt about what she wanted. Why was she stopping herself from going to see him? It was like when she and Beatrice had used to draw cards back in London, deciding what dress to wear, book to read, café to visit (spades and clubs, the corner tearooms, diamonds and hearts, Lyons) and been disappointed at the outcome, yet gone along with the whim of the pack anyway. Life wasn’t long enough to waste with unhappy decisions.
It was Fadil who came to fetch her for dinner. He hadn’t said another word about her crying fit, but he’d been home again when she returned. It was he who had brought her the compress, asking no questions, face crinkled with concern. She managed a small smile up at him, then dropped it, remembering all the hidden truths he might know.
It was just she and Alistair in the dining room, Edward obviously having decided he’d had his fill of loaded silences and long looks served with each course, a Sheldon speciality. They ate at either end of the table built to seat fourteen, candles crackling in the silence; Olivia heard every slurp from her spoon as though it were echoing through a concert hall, every crack of her bread reverberated, each clang of her knife and fork was deafening. She managed to finish her stew but gave up on dessert. She threw her napkin on the lemon pudding, watched the syrup soak into the linen, knowing she should feel guilty at the extra laundry she had caused yet finding she didn’t particularly care.
Alistair said something. She had to ask him to repeat it since she hadn’t been listening.
He folded his own (pristine) napkin and gave her a level look. ‘I asked, Olivia, if you’re planning to meet your grandmother’s boat tomorrow. Jeremy’s told me the Excelsior’s due in port at noon.’
‘Has he? Did he happen to mention any plans to pay for Clara’s release whilst he was at it?’
‘Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.’
Olivia bit down a riposte. What was the point in arguing? ‘In answer to your question,’ she said, ‘no, I won’t be going to meet the Excelsior. And since Mildred is staying at the Grays’, I have every intention of avoiding her entirely.’
‘That’s a little childish.’
‘Is it?’
Alistair’s left eye twitched.
Olivia pushed her chair out, she said she might go to bed.
‘I’ll join you shortly,’ said Alistair, lips thinning in a smile.
‘Please don’t hurry,’ she said, and left the room.
She found Edward in the hallway, sitting at the bottom of the stairwell, smoking. His shirt hung loose over his trousers.
‘Were you watching for me to come out?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
She wouldn’t ask him about Clara, whether he’d taken her letter from the study. The questions punched in her throat, trying to force themselves out. ‘Imogen got me drunk,’ she said, since she had to say something.
He laughed sadly. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘It wasn’t a good day, Edward. It was another not good one.’
He ran his hand through his hair. His dark, thick hair. He shook his head and sighed. ‘I had one of those myself. I couldn’t get hold of Wilkins.’
‘Do you think he’s hiding something?’
‘Perhaps. But I have no idea what.’
‘No,’ said Olivia. She stared down at him. He looked so tired. His handsome face was drawn with anxiety. ‘You’re desperate to find Clara, aren’t you?’ she said.
His forehead creased. ‘Of course I am, Olly.’
She nodded, made to pass.
‘Olly,’ he said, ‘about last night, in the garden…’
‘Please,’ she said, ‘I can’t talk about that.’
His frown deepened, but he didn’t push her. He swivelled his legs to let her go, not taking his eyes from her.
Her skirt brushed his knee. She caught her breath.
Chapter Fourteen
Out on the horizon, the moon sprayed the Mediterranean with light, but the water lapping the walls of the Eastern Harbour was inky, shaded by the city buildings. Kafele cut a lone figure in the distance; slight and lithe, and dressed as he was in wide trousers and a cloth shirt, legs dangling in the sea, he could have been mistaken for a fisherman. It was the way he was staring out across the bobbing long-tail boats, towards his beloved Constantinople, that gave him away as something else. Ambitious. Nailah could hear his thoughts, see the pictures he was painting of the palaces and churches they both yearned to visit.
She hung back, smoothing her hair with trembling hands. She’d been able to think of little else all day but seeing him, finding out what it was he’d discovered. But now the moment had finally arrived, she was nervous to know. Be strong, habibi. For you. Nailah set off. As she approached Kafele, he jumped to his feet on the cobbles, quick as a gecko. His slim chest was hard beneath his loose shirt; all that lifting of crates. She realised she preferred him in his street clothes, reachable and part of her world. It made the idea of their future seem a little less improbable.
‘How are you?’ he asked. ‘How’s Babu? I couldn’t stand to see you like that earlier, you both looked so beaten.’
‘I’m not beaten.’ Nailah gave a determined laugh, as much for her benefit as Kafele’s. He didn’t laugh back. In fact he frowned. ‘I’m not,’ she said, ‘not yet. And nor is Babu. He took some bread and milk earlier.’
‘What about Jahi?’ Kafele stepped closer. ‘What was he doing at your house yesterday? He should have been at work. What did he want?’
Nailah didn’t answer. ‘What have you found out about Ma’am Gray?’ she asked instead.
Kafele’s frown deepened. ‘Nailah, has Jahi had…?’
‘Please,’ Nailah interrupted. ‘I don’t want to talk about Jahi.’
Kafele sighed. At length he nodded, said they should sit.
Nailah dropped down on the wall beside him. She took off her sandals and placed her feet with his in the water. The water rippled darkly around their toes. She stared down at their bare skin, so close. She could hear her own breath going in, out. Kafele took her hand. At his touch, she felt an echo of the worry she’d experienced in the alleyway yesterday, but it was a quieter emotion than what had gone before; the shiver of content which ran through her was stronger. She did her best to focus on that, push her lingering unease away – for what could she do about it anyway – and slowly, tentatively, she
dropped her head on his shoulder. Their reflections spread out before them: her exhausted features mercifully obscured by the aquatic mirror, Kafele’s fine face somehow enhanced. If she could have, she would have stayed with him like that all night.
But before a minute passed, Kafele broke the spell. ‘What did Jahi want?’ he asked again. ‘I’ve never seen him in town during the day before. What’s happened?’
Nailah moved her foot in a watery circle, feeling the dirt lift from her, the nibble of a fish. There was so much she might have told Kafele now. But in the end, all she confided was Jahi’s threats to send her away.
Kafele’s shoulder tensed. ‘Where does he want you to go?’
‘He didn’t say, I don’t think he even knows yet.’ She swallowed hard. ‘He says he might take the children.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’ It was a lie, and it hurt to speak it, but the truth would have been harder. ‘I can’t go, Kafele, and I can’t lose the children. I don’t think I could stand it.’
‘You won’t have to.’ Kafele inhaled sharply. ‘What’s Jahi thinking? You belong with me, and they with you.’
‘I saw Sana this afternoon. She said she’s seen you talking to Greta Sarafaglou.’ Nailah hadn’t intended mentioning it, she’d tried to brush Sana’s taunts off. ‘Greta’s father’s rich, of course, she could go with you wherever you want.’
‘Nailah, hush.’
‘I could understand.’
‘Nailah.’ Before Nailah realised what was happening, Kafele pressed his lips against hers. She turned rigid with shock. She very nearly wrenched away. It was too much. I need to believe we should have something left to wait for. But then he moved closer, saying that he was hers, and that was all there ever would be, and her bones seemed to soften within her, her worries retreated. His lips found hers again, and her feet became liquid in the sea, seeping into it. She no longer wanted to tell him to stop. In that moment, she couldn’t think why she should.
In the end, it was him who pulled away. Nailah stayed where she was, leaning towards him, mouth ajar.
‘Never speak like that again.’ Kafele’s amber eyes bored into her. She could see nothing but them. ‘Greta was passing a bill on from her father, she means nothing. She never could. My life’s with you. Jahi can go hang before I’ll have it any other way.’
He seemed to mean it. But Jahi had been so determined the morning before, Nailah had no doubt he’d meant it too. She scrunched her forehead, her thoughts a mess. Her skin was firing from Kafele’s touch. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘when I’m with Jahi, I feel as if I’m losing who I am.’
‘You can’t. I would never let you.’
She nodded slowly.
‘Look.’ Kafele spread his arm, the one not holding her, out to encompass the sea. ‘There’s a whole world waiting for us. We’ll leave this place one day and go to it. You’ll forget Jahi and Sana and all of this, I promise. You’ll be too busy to remember, visiting museums, staying in fine hotels.’ He took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘We’ll make it happen yet. We’ll see sights, you and I, they’ll make our eyes burn with wonder.’
Nailah could feel the burning even now, but it had nothing to do with wonder. She blinked the tears away; she had enjoyed Kafele’s story, she liked the fiction, and she didn’t want to crack the warmth created by his hold with her melancholy. She gave him her best attempt at a smile. And as they sat in silence, feet floating, she tried to imagine herself in rich clothes, holding his hand as they explored the Parthenon, the Champs Élysées, the Tower of London.
But her thoughts pulled her back to Ma’am Gray. It was no use, she couldn’t wait any longer, she had to know what Kafele had found out. Gently, not wishing to pull him from his fantasies too quickly, she asked him to tell her.
He sighed, coming back to join her on the rough stone wall. ‘People aren’t keen to talk, they’re afraid to get involved. A British woman, missing.’ A shadow crossed his face. ‘It’s safer, Nailah, to stay out of it.’
Nailah knew that he was warning her for her own sake. But for the first time she considered the risks she might have exposed him to by drawing him into it all. She was about to say as much, apologise, when he carried on talking, silencing her.
The officer outside the mosque had been Captain Bertram. He’d been asking after a man by the name of Garai Aziz. ‘Garai’s a supplier of mine,’ said Kafele. ‘I’ve spoken to him myself now.’ He sighed. ‘It seems he works as an informer, although he’s asked me to keep that to myself. He’s been on British pay for years, tells them about any discontent, brawls, all the insolent things us nationals get up to.’ An unfamiliar note of bitterness crept into voice. ‘They pay well, apparently. Garai says the captain’s asked him to help find Clara Gray, that he’s certain someone from the city has her.’
‘How does the captain know that?’
Kafele shrugged. ‘Garai might have found a lead, though.’
‘What? What kind of lead?’
‘Garai didn’t say very much. He wants to look into it before he goes to Bertram, make sure it’s real. It’s so strange, you see.’
As Kafele talked on, Nailah studied their submerged feet, mind snapping to piece together the implications of all he said. He fell silent; it took her a moment to realise he had.
‘Nailah,’ he said, ‘you have to tell me. Why do you care so much about all of this?’
‘I… I’m scared about Ma’am Gray.’ She thought of Ma’am Gray’s smile, her yellow hair. The way she used to hold her baby so tight, one arm around the older one, like they were her only friends. Nailah had heard her weeping one day in the drawing room, she supposed with Ma’am Amélie, although she hadn’t been able to see. It had been a rainy February afternoon just before Ma’am Sheldon arrived. ‘I can’t stand what Alistair’s done to her,’ Ma’am Gray had said, her voice echoing out into the hallway, ‘but I suppose I’m glad, in a strange way, too. Because now she’s coming, and I’ll see her again. I’ve been so alone, you see.’ She’d taken a shuddering breath. Nailah had backed away from the door, unseen. ‘So desperately, horribly alone.’
Nailah looked up at the stars, imagining Ma’am Gray’s God looking down. Were his eyes pointed on her? What could he see? She said, ‘I want to know if there’s a chance she’ll be found.’
‘You swear there’s no more to it than that?’ asked Kafele.
‘I swear.’
Kafele studied her a moment more. She strained her cheeks, just managing to keep her expression level.
He nodded. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘all we can do now is hope. If this lead of Garai’s comes to something, perhaps it will be enough to get Clara Gray home.’
THE FOURTH AND FIFTH DAYS
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning, Olivia waited in her bedroom until Edward left. He turned his horse, tipped his hat. She tried not to wave.
She waved.
She stayed in and drifted around the stifling house; she couldn’t summon the energy to fight Alistair and overcome Ada to go out. She knew too that Mildred’s ship was due to arrive within hours, that Mildred would be at the Grays’ house by lunchtime – she didn’t want to risk running into her. Images of naughtiness, Gus’s features, and Clara’s horribly broken body plagued her. At times it was as though they were pressing into her soul, slowing her mind, and it was all she could do to breathe.
She wondered if she was becoming hysterical. Imogen, who dropped by despite saying she wouldn’t until she had news, said Olivia should try to stop worrying, she must hold on to hope. Clara had been gone so little time, it hadn’t been a week, not even close. Imogen was going to call at her brother Benjamin’s house, see if someone there knew something about Clara’s affair. Clara was always visiting, after all.
That evening Edward sat on the veranda whilst Olivia lay on the lawn. She heard the crackle of his cigarette, the creak of his chair. She sensed he knew she’d withdrawn from him, she wondered if he’d pull her up on it, ask her
what she suspected. She thought, He will if he’s got nothing to hide.
He didn’t pull her up on it. He didn’t speak to her at all.
It was only she and Alistair again at dinner that night. Alistair told her that she should eat or she’d become unpleasantly skinny. He said she should invite Mildred to call, he’d been to see her at the Grays’ that afternoon, she was upset by Olivia not having come to meet her at the ship, feeling slighted. Olivia said she’d rather stick pins in her eyes than speak to Mildred, and Alistair smiled as though he thought it an intriguing idea.
Edward was on the stairs as she went to bed. Her skirt brushed his trousers. He swivelled his legs. She caught her breath.
The next morning, she waited in her bedroom until he left. He turned his horse, tipped his hat. And so it went on.
Edward was worried about her. He could think of little else as he galloped across the desert on yet another morning’s hunt for her older sister. She’d turned so pale, so melancholy. She never went out, Fadil had told him. Ada said she’d stopped swimming too. She rarely talked, and every time Edward felt he might speak to her, say something that meant something, there was Alistair, hovering, watching. He had a new steeliness to his eye, like he had started to work things out. Edward cursed, thinking about it. He wasn’t concerned for himself, he didn’t give a damn for Alistair’s good opinion, but he worried for Olly. Little as she’d done – and God knew she was still innocent of any adultery – Edward wouldn’t put it past Alistair to punish her for a feeling. There was every chance Alistair would keep Olly locked in their marriage, make her life ever more miserable that way. But what if he went a step further, cast her out? The scandal would be colossal. She’d already borne so many years of cold shoulders, Edward didn’t want another day of them forced upon her.
If she left Alistair, braved the inevitable condemnation, it had to be her choice.
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