‘Get your gown on,’ Alistair said. ‘She’ll be here within the hour.’
He left. Olivia stared after him. Ada helped her dress silently, first loosening her laces even though she hadn’t asked her to. Olivia exhaled as the battered, cracked flesh of her torso eased and flexed, and for the second time in years, she wept.
Mildred arrived in the Grays’ carriage, dressed in taffeta, batting the air with a new-looking fly swatter, her skin defiantly pale against the angry morning heat. She made no move to embrace Olivia, and Olivia remained silent as Alistair, apparently in no rush to go out that morning, greeted Mildred with a genial smile and showed her through to the drawing room.
Olivia followed them, her muscles tense, taut with hate. She was determined to keep herself under control, not let either Mildred or Alistair have the satisfaction of seeing her break. Don’t look at her, don’t speak to her. You can get through this. Her mouth was dry, bitter. Alistair, looking over his shoulder as he ushered Mildred through to the drawing room door, arched an eyebrow at her. The smirk playing on his lips was unmistakable.
Olivia knew he did it to provoke her, but even so, she couldn’t help the rage rising in her. She clenched her teeth, trying to contain it, but as his smirk spread, she feared she might just scream. It was then that she glimpsed Edward, leaning against the far wall of the drawing room, jaw set, arms crossed. There. His eyes flickered warmth at her. He gave her a small nod, and a breath of relief shuddered from her. Not alone, not any more. For the next half-hour, in spite of all her doubts, she kept her gaze on him: a ballast in the sea of Mildred’s outrage over Clara’s disappearance, her despair (‘She’s all I have, you know, the only family I count. What were you thinking, Olivia, leaving it so many hours before you sent for the police? You should have given word the instant you knew Clara was gone, it could have made all the difference. Imbecile gel.’), her dislike of Egypt, the foul smells, the dirty natives, the pungent food (‘I’m eating only boiled broth and taking milk of magnesia every night, I hope you do the same.’).
Olivia spoke not once. Neither did Edward. Sharing the silence made it so much easier. And with him there, Olivia could almost numb herself to Mildred’s grating voice, the venom in her words. Almost.
It was as Mildred was leaving that she turned to Edward. ‘You’re very quiet today, young man.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Jeremy’s told me you’re working hard to find Clara. So,’ she held out her knobbly hand, ‘I’m glad to make your acquaintance. I’m told Clara thought very highly of you.’
Edward looked down at her fingers. He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. He ran his tongue around his lips, placed a cigarette in his mouth, struck a match, and inhaled.
Mildred opened her mouth as though to speak, but nothing came out. It was the most discomfited Olivia had ever seen her. In other circumstances, it might have made her smile.
Alistair stared. His blood throbbed blue-green beneath skin taut with supressed rage. He said he would show Mildred to her carriage.
As they left, Edward took a final draw on his cigarette and flicked it out of the window. ‘Are you all right, Olly?’
‘Not really,’ she said, since she couldn’t lie. ‘But thank you, for being here. It meant…’ She paused, struggling for the words. ‘Well, it meant a lot.’
He shook his head. ‘You never need to thank me.’
Olivia shifted on her feet. Edward held her eye. She only realised she was holding her breath when it burst out of her in a short rush.
‘Olly,’ he began, ‘I —’
Alistair returned, cutting him off. ‘You were both very rude,’ he said, voice dangerously quiet. ‘I’d have expected more of you, Bertram. As for you,’ he turned to Olivia, ‘we’ll talk about how you behaved later.’
‘I can’t think what you have to talk about,’ said Edward.
‘Stay out of it,’ said Alistair.
Edward drew himself up, tall and tough, a sudden hardness in his eyes. Olivia thought he might have had his fill of Alistair telling him what to do.
And Alistair, who stared at Edward, a flush spreading up his neck, clearly saw it too.
Olivia couldn’t help but feel a stab of satisfaction when he was the first to turn and sweep from the room.
After the two of them left the house, though, she couldn’t settle. She sat down at the piano, played a few chords, then stood again. She tried to read. Her nerves were still jumping when Imogen arrived in a cloud of French scent, just before lunch.
‘I finally have news,’ she said as she removed her hat and tucked a black tendril into place. ‘I’m afraid Clara was definitely having an affair.’
‘Wonderful.’ Olivia dropped down into one of the drawing-room chairs with a thud.
‘I wish she’d said something to me.’ Imogen frowned. ‘I can’t think why she didn’t feel able to confide. She must have known I’d be on her side.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, I went up to Benjy’s yesterday. As I said, I had a hunch someone there might know something.’
‘I hope Amélie doesn’t know what Clara was up to?’ All Amélie ever seemed to do was gossip in her thick French accent. Friend or no, Olivia didn’t think Clara’s secret would be sacred for long with her.
‘She made no mention of it,’ said Imogen, ‘so let’s assume not.’
‘Thank God.’
‘She’s very upset actually. She said she’d like to see you, will you call?’
‘Fine,’ said Olivia. ‘But if Amélie doesn’t know, how have you found out about Clara?’
‘I had a little chat with Amélie’s staff. One of her maids, a girl called Elia, told me how, just over a month ago, the night of my brother’s ball, she went out with Amélie’s old lady’s maid, Nailah. Amélie went to bed early, a migraine, they were at a loose end.’
Olivia vaguely recalled Amélie mentioning her headache the next night, at the Sporting Club’s party. Now she was thinking, she remembered Amélie talking about a Nailah too. She just left, first zing zis morning, not a word as to where.
‘So,’ said Imogen, drawing Olivia’s attention back, ‘Elia and Nailah went to visit Nailah’s aunt, at her hut in Montazah. On their way back, they saw Clara heading down to the beach. It was after midnight, we’d have all gone home, but Clara was out, walking into the dunes with a tall, dark man.’ Imogen sat back in her chair, raising her eyebrows as though to say, Now what do you make of that?
Olivia stared. ‘Edward’s tall and dark.’
‘Yes, my darling, he is. But Elia knows who he is, he’s hard to mistake, of course. And although she wasn’t sure who Clara’s man was, she said it wasn’t him.’
‘You asked?’
‘I asked.’
‘She’s certain?’
‘Almost certain.’ Imogen’s brow creased. ‘She refused to swear her life on it.’
‘So who is it?’
‘Elia doesn’t know. But she thinks Nailah does. Apparently, even though they were far away, Nailah jumped as though she knew who the man with Clara was. Although she claimed after that she did not.’
‘Where’s Nailah now?’
‘That’s the question. Apparently her aunt died and she had to leave to look after the children. Elia hasn’t a clue where she’s gone, and nor does Amélie, which is ridiculous since one should always know everything about one’s servants. I’ve asked her to look into it.’
Olivia pinched the arch of her nose. ‘What does this all mean?’
‘That Clara’s affair wasn’t with Edward. And given all we’re hearing about ransom notes, and how worried everyone is for you, it probably has nothing to do with her being taken. A red snapper…’
‘Herring.’
‘Exactly.’ Imogen settled herself in the armchair facing Olivia. ‘I still want to know who Clara’s man was though, whether it was him that took that letter. If anyone took that letter. I’m starting to think Sofia might have jumped to conclusions there, sent us on a wild duck chase.’
‘Goose.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’
‘Is this an English sponge?’ Imogen leant forward, the folds of her peach day dress rustling around her as she peered over the Victoria sandwich, lips pursed. ‘May I take some? I’m so hungry at the moment. The worry.’
Olivia nodded. She flicked her fingers against her thumbs as Imogen lifted the fly net and served herself; she felt jumpy, pent up after the past days indoors.
Imogen held up a slice of sponge, jam oozing stickily between its yellow layers. ‘I’d like you to eat some too. Please.’
‘I think she must really be dead,’ said Olivia, without realising she was even thinking it. The words dropped like stones. Imogen sat poised at the edge of her chair, holding out the plate. ‘It’s been so long.’ Olivia’s voice cracked. ‘I can’t even imagine what’s been happening to her. How she’s been killed. It’s too awful.’
Imogen set the plate down on the table, a dull clink of crockery on wood. She walked over, crouched in front of Olivia, and took hold of her forearms, moving her head this way and that until Olivia relented and met her gaze. Up close, she saw how tired Imogen’s eyes were. There were bruised pockets beneath her lids. For all her activity, her busy talk, she was exhausted with fear too. It brought no comfort to Olivia.
‘I won’t let you give in to this despair,’ Imogen said. ‘I won’t. It’s doing you no good. We need to keep going, find out what’s happened. Clara might yet be alive. Perhaps we should go back to her house, see if we can find any more clues.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Olivia noncommittally. She couldn’t face being at the Gray house, not at the moment: Clara’s absence felt too real within its walls, and besides, she had by now imagined so many variations of clandestine meetings between Clara and Edward there, that even with this new information, she couldn’t think of its winding corridors and nooks without wanting to retch.
‘You need to snap out of this stupor,’ said Imogen. ‘I hate seeing you like this. What about the polo tomorrow afternoon?’
‘What polo?’
‘The semi-finals, the British Officers’ League.’
‘They’re playing?’
‘Tom says they can’t cancel, he’d call it off if he could. Why don’t you come, darling?’
‘How can I go to watch polo with my sister almost certainly dead? Why would I?’
‘Because it’s doing you no good staying here. Everyone will be there. Edward, he’s the captain of the team, Tom.’
‘I’m not going to the polo.’
‘Then go and visit Amélie, find out about this Nailah, work out who Clara’s man is. Do something, darling.’
‘I hear you have a polo match tomorrow,’ Olivia said to Edward as she passed him on the stairs that night.
His forehead creased. ‘I’d forgotten all about that.’
‘But you’ll play?’
‘I don’t know if I can get out of it.’ He looked up at her, eyes reflecting the light of the candelabra on the window sill. She could smell his familiar scent, that something warm she had never been able to identify. ‘I’ll still have men hunting though, Olly. No one’s giving up.’
The unspoken Not yet hovered in the air.
‘I’m going to visit Ralph and Gus in the morning,’ Olivia said. ‘I owe it to Clara. I thought I might take them for a ride, get them out of the house.’
‘Where to?’
‘Amélie Pasha’s asked me to call. We’ll go there, they can play with her boys.’ Imogen was right, she couldn’t just sit at home. And Amélie might well have discovered Nailah’s whereabouts by now. Olivia hoped so, she was increasingly desperate to know who Nailah had seen Clara with in the dunes. She felt a morbid curiosity to visit the bay herself. ‘We’ll go to the beach after,’ she said impulsively. She looked at Edward, hard. There was a part of her that still needed to test him. ‘It’s been a while since I went to Montazah.’
He didn’t even flinch. She felt a beat of relief.
‘Fine,’ he said, ‘I’ll come with you. The polo’s not until three. I did have some business in town in the morning, a man I need to meet, but I’ll send Fadil instead.’
She shrugged with forced nonchalance, then made to carry on up to bed. He caught her arm. She turned to face him and nearly doubled over at the intensity in his gaze. She stood motionless, her thoughts alive with the night’s looming pain, the complete unbearableness of life as it stood. Edward shook his head, as though he knew at least some of what was running through her mind.
‘I miss you, Olly.’
‘You’ve never had me,’ she said, reminding them both. ‘Not yet.’
THE NINTH DAY
Chapter Seventeen
Nailah’s mother was back from touring with her band of singers and dancers. She had come the night before, just as Nailah returned from the harbour with Kafele. Nailah met him there every evening now. She lived for the hours they spent together, her head on his shoulder, watching the fishing boats bob in the shadows of the city’s buildings: Alexandria’s stone heart. They would talk of a hundred small things, the two of them, just as often saying nothing at all. She had still been light with his kiss, undressing for bed, when her mother’s deep show-woman’s voice had vibrated through the rickety floorboards, announcing her arrival as though she were stepping on stage. ‘My dear heart, my darling love,’ Isa had called. ‘I am here at last, your umi has arrived.’ Nailah had gone running downstairs to hush her before she woke the children or the men in the house. She had made her wait until after breakfast to bring out her gifts, the usual trinkets: cloying scent, cheap rings and bracelets.
‘I should have bought this one some herbs,’ said Isa, frowning at Babu in Nailah’s arms. She held out her hand to his forehead. ‘He’s feverish.’
‘He’ll be all right,’ said Nailah, even though she was worried herself. After six days of blessed health, he had taken a turn overnight. He was refusing to eat, his skin was clammy with sweat. She knew she should take him back to Socrates, but she was reluctant to go again so soon. She didn’t want Captain Bertram to think they were taking advantage. She didn’t want to remind him of their existence at all.
She held Babu closer. She felt Isa watching her.
‘I saw Jahi last night,’ Isa said. ‘I caught him as he was leaving that grand house of his. We didn’t talk long, he had an errand, although he wouldn’t tell me what. But I hear he has plans for you. Plans I don’t much like the sound of.’
‘Sending me away?’
‘What else? What business does he have deciding what’s what for you? My daughter.’ Isa shook her head. ‘I told him he was going too far…’
‘Was he very scared, Umi?’
Isa sighed. For all her posturing, she knew as well as Nailah did that she’d never have the nerve to stand against Jahi, not when it came down to it. Throughout Nailah’s childhood, she’d watched her mother tell Jahi to mind his own business, only to fold at a look, a word, then toss her head, go to pack her bags for a tour, leaving Nailah to be scolded for any number of sins: staying out in the street too late, not scrubbing the floors, speaking too freely with the stallholders at the market. (You must mind your izzat, Nailah, your honour, it’s all you have.)
The only person Nailah had ever seen Jahi bend to was Tabia. He’d always listened to her. It was she who’d convinced him to let Nailah apply for her job at the Pashas’. (‘I knew from Isa how you wanted it,’ she’d told Nailah, ‘so I talked to Jahi. He can be a stubborn man, my brother, but he came around in the end.’ She’d hugged Nailah. ‘I did it as much for me as you, habibi, for now I have you close by. And,’ she smiled sadly, ‘I won’t have to worry about you alone in the slums any more.’) Jahi had often been at Tabia’s when Nailah visited, calling in on his breaks from work. His face would soften when Tabia spoke; there were times when he’d even laugh. Nailah closed her eyes, seeing them all together. Before.
‘He feels responsible for you,’ came Isa’s voice, pulling Nailah back
to the present, ‘he always has. For your cousins too. Like a father.’
‘A father?’ Nailah shook her head. ‘What do any of us know of such a thing?’
‘He’s coming tonight anyway, after he’s finished work.’ Nailah felt a slither of dread. ‘He says he needs to keep an eye on you. Why, Nailah? What’s he so worried about?’
‘I don’t know what Jahi’s thinking at all.’ Nailah set Babu down on his mat, pulled a bowl of dirty potatoes towards her, and began scrubbing them. Bracing herself, she asked, ‘Did he mention if he’s decided where to send me?’
‘I don’t want him to do it.’
Nailah jumped at Cleo’s voice. She was staring at them, coiling her hair round and round her finger. Nailah could have pinched herself for speaking so carelessly. Cleo had been so quiet that she had all but forgotten she was there.
‘I want us all to stay here,’ said Cleo.
‘Hush,’ said Isa. ‘None of you are going anywhere, and nor am I for the time being.’
‘You’re not?’ Nailah was surprised. Isa’s visits were usually so fleeting: a day, maybe two. She felt relieved that she was staying longer, although she wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as though Isa ever did anything other than sleep and preen when home. Perhaps some part of her still wanted to believe she could depend on her mother. ‘How long will you be here?’
Isa shrugged her turquoise-clad shoulders, silver beadwork tingling. ‘We’ll see.’
Silence filled the room. The scraping of Nailah’s knife on the potatoes formed a steady rhythm against Babu’s disjointed breaths and the click of Cleo’s nails on her teeth.
Cleo got up and walked to the window, standing on tiptoes to peer out. ‘Can I go for a walk?’ she asked.
‘Babu’s too ill to be taken out,’ said Nailah. ‘I don’t want you going alone.’
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