Where We Belong

by Lynn Austin

  Mrs. Worthington’s weekly etiquette lessons in their dusty drawing room were filled with taboos: Don’t eat too quickly; never eat every morsel on your plate; avoid making large gestures at the table; don’t stand with your hands on your hips or your arms folded; never read in company. She insisted that shopping was one of a woman’s highest callings, and she spent hours teaching them how to do it. Rebecca endured the shopping treks, along with the dress fittings, dancing lessons, and piano lessons, but the highlights of her week were her riding lessons at a nearby equestrian stable that Rufus found for them and her Greek studies with a wild-haired scholar named Professor Vasilakis. The professor was teaching them to read classical Greek works such as Homer, but he was also teaching them modern Greek phrases and pronunciations so they could visit Greece next summer. When the city grew cold and snowy, Rebecca and Flora planned their traveling itinerary in great detail.

  Then everything changed.

  In November of that year, 1860, Abraham Lincoln won the presidential election and seven southern states seceded from the Union. Then, on a sunny morning in April of 1861, Rebecca awoke to the news that the Confederate States had bombarded Union troops at Fort Sumter, forcing their surrender. “What does this mean?” she asked her father, who was grimly reading the latest edition of the newspaper.

  He folded it carefully and laid it on the table. “It means that war has broken out between the states. I was afraid this would happen.”

  “Will it be over by June? In time for us to sail to Greece?”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but we’ll have to postpone our plans. My investments and business affairs are going to require my full attention until this is over.”

  “What if you hired a chaperone to accompany us?”

  “I’m sorry, but it may not be safe to travel abroad with a war going on.”

  Rebecca didn’t cry easily, but she wanted to now. “We can still travel a year from now, can’t we? The war won’t last that long, will it?”

  “I don’t imagine it will. A matter of months—a year at the most. But I could be wrong.”

  He was.

  Chapter 6

  THE SINAI DESERT

  1890

  Sometime during the night, the sandstorm blew itself out, replaced by a profound silence. The sun hadn’t dawned yet when Rebecca awoke from a nightmare that included Flora and Widow Worthington. She listened to the muffled sound of activity outside the tent as the Bedouins loaded the camels and prepared to break camp to continue the journey. The aroma of kerosene and baking bread wafted inside. She dressed as quietly as possible so as not to awaken Flora and Kate, pulling on her skirt and shirtwaist over her bloomers and camisole. Sand crunched on the tent floor beneath her feet as she slipped into her sturdy boots and jacket. Rebecca untied the tent flap and ducked outside, then stumbled backward, startled. The Bedouin sheikh sat on a rocky outcropping not five feet in front of her tent, cradling his ancient rifle.

  “Oh, my goodness!” she said, clutching her racing heart. “I wasn’t expecting to find you on my doorstep!” The sheikh’s hawklike face showed no emotion at all as he stared past her at the tent. He was a formidable-looking man, like a villain from a dime novel, and he gripped his rifle as if guarding an important dignitary. Rebecca regained her footing and walked to where their cook was baking flatbread on the camp stove.

  Petersen, their young butler, was also up and dressed and preparing the folding camp table for breakfast. He hurried over when he saw Rebecca and greeted her with a bow. “Good morning, Miss Rebecca. Your tea is brewing. I hope you and Miss Flora were able to sleep through the storm.”

  “Yes, we slept well enough, in the end. How about you?”

  He gave another bow. “Don’t worry about me, Miss Rebecca.” She’d told Petersen countless times that he needn’t be so formal with her and Flora and that his deferential bow was completely unnecessary, especially out here in the desert. Her words had done nothing to change his behavior, however. She spread her hands near the stove to warm them while Petersen located a cup and saucer and the tea strainer. She’d also told him repeatedly that he needn’t wait on her, but also to no effect. He handed her a cup of blissfully strong tea, then smoothly produced a folding camp stool for her to sit on.

  Soren Petersen was as tall and thin as a birch tree, and very, very blond. It was proving to be quite a task to keep his pale skin covered during the day so the desert sun didn’t turn it as red as a pomegranate. Their agent, Mr. Farouk, had purchased a flowing white robe and burnoose for Petersen to wear over his clothing, but instead of transforming him into a Bedouin, the clothing had the amusing effect of making him look like a ghost. Petersen may have been thin, but he was quite fit and strong. Rebecca had seen him doing chin-ups on the exercise bars in their backyard when he thought no one was looking. She entrusted only him to lift and move her heavy camera equipment.

  “Why don’t you pour yourself a cup and join me, Soren?” She deliberately used his given name from time to time, hoping to break through his icy exterior and unearth the real Soren Petersen beneath his reserve, but her attempts at warmth only seemed to make him grumpier. She often wondered if his chilly demeanor was a remnant of his Scandinavian heritage, or if it had been formed within the cold, gray walls of the Chicago Orphan Asylum. “Please, Soren. Sit down,” she said when he hesitated. “I could use some company this morning. That’s an order.” She added the last to ensure he would do it, though she hated to.

  “Yes, Miss Rebecca.” He dragged over a crate to sit on and filled a battered tin cup with tea. The steam rose from both cups in the chilly air.

  “Don’t you find it amazing that the fickle desert temperatures can go from frying-pan hot during the day to teeth-chattering cold during the night?” she asked.

  “Yes, Miss Rebecca.” Petersen didn’t look or sound at all amazed.

  “Have you ever experienced weather like this, with such extreme temperatures and violent sandstorms?”

  “No, Miss Rebecca.”

  She watched Mr. Farouk scuttle around the campsite like a worker ant, yanking out stakes from the tent where he and Petersen had slept, piling their bedding and traveling supplies beside the load of goods and foodstuffs that would be strapped to the camels. Mr. Farouk reminded Rebecca of a beetle with his short, spindly legs, round body and shiny, dark hair. He and Soren were two entirely different breeds of men, as different as a wolfhound and a dachshund. She looked up at the fading stars and stark panorama slowly becoming visible in the dawning light. “After last night’s storm, I think I understand why these mountains are so bleak and barren. The wind and sand must scour them clean like a bristle broom on a brick pavement.”

  “So it seems, Miss Rebecca.”

  “What do you make of the desert, so far? Do you see any beauty here at all?”

  “No, Miss Rebecca.” Conversing with Petersen reminded her of the tedious process of drawing water from a well she’d once encountered in the Holy Land. The water had been hundreds of feet below ground, and the only way to get to it was to descend into a deep pit on narrow stone stairs that circled around and around until they eventually reached the bottom. Once there, she had to lower a bucket and rope even deeper into the ground to reach the water. By the time she finished, she was thirstier than when she began. Talking with Petersen seemed equally tedious, and she wondered if it was worth the effort.

  “Do you have any idea why the sheikh is standing guard over our tent this morning?” she asked, blowing on her tea to cool it.

  “No, Miss Rebecca. He was sitting there this morning when I got up.”

  She watched the Bedouin drivers hurry through their chores, feeding their camels and brushing off the thick layer of sand that coated the saddles and everything else that had been left outside during the night. Rebecca hoped the sand hadn’t damaged her camera or the lenses. The sheikh stood up from his vigil near her tent and studied the eastern sky as the stars gradually faded in the dawning light. At his command, all
of the men, including Mr. Farouk and the cook, dropped their work and unrolled their prayer rugs to kneel down and pray. They repeated this ritual five times a day: before dawn, when they paused for lunch, when they rested mid-afternoon, before sunset, and for a final time before bedding down for the night.

  “What do you make of their devotion, Petersen? Have you noticed how they pause to pray five times a day, every single day?”

  Petersen took so long to reply that Rebecca wasn’t at all sure he would. “I think they’re wasting their time,” he said at last.

  “Hmm . . . Do you mean to say that all prayer is a waste of time? Or is it a waste because they’re not praying to the God of the Bible?”

  Petersen stared down at the cup in his hands, slowly turning it around and around as if to keep the hot metal from burning his skin. He had long, graceful fingers—artist’s hands—although he wasn’t the least bit imaginative or artistic as far as Rebecca could tell. He had faithfully attended church with her and Flora ever since becoming their butler two years ago, but he’d given no indication during that time whether he believed a word of it or not. Rebecca had longed to question him—she’d grown fond of the young man and worried about his eternal soul—but Flora insisted they be patient with him. He would reveal what he thought and believed in his own time, she’d said. Even so, Rebecca had decided to take advantage of this moment to ask his opinion as they watched the Bedouin perform their morning prayers.

  “I don’t know,” Petersen finally replied. “What do you think of their religion, Miss Rebecca?”

  “Well, they are correct in believing there is only one God, not many. But after hearing the Muslims describe what their god is like and what he requires of believers, I must conclude that they don’t know the same God I do.”

  Petersen’s ice-blue eyes met hers for a moment, as if asking for an explanation.

  “Look at it this way,” she said. “Suppose I asked, ‘Do you know John Smith?’ and you said, ‘Yes, I know him very well.’ But then as we talked about John, and I described him as being tall and thin with red hair, and you said, ‘No, you’re quite wrong. John is short and fat and bald,’ wouldn’t it be clear that we aren’t acquainted with the same John Smith?”

  “It seems so, miss.”

  “Their god is quite different from ours. Nevertheless,” she said, gesturing to the bowing men, “we Christians would do well to stop what we’re doing and pray throughout the day as they do, don’t you think? After all, the Apostle Paul did counsel us to pray without ceasing. But back to my question, Petersen. Do you think all prayer is a waste—?”

  “Good morning, good morning!” Flora’s cheery voice interrupted before Rebecca could finish. “My, just look at that sunrise. What a glorious sight!” She pointed to where the predawn sun was painting the sky with wide brushstrokes of pink and mauve. “And we didn’t get buried alive in the sand last night after all, so we have a lot to be thankful for this morning, don’t we?”

  “Yes, Miss Flora.” Petersen had leaped to his feet at the sound of her voice and was hurrying to fetch a folding stool and cup of tea for her. When she was seated, he carefully lifted the camp table with the breakfast that the cook had prepared and placed it between Rebecca and Flora.

  “Thank you, Petersen. This looks wonderful,” Flora said. “You’re welcome to sit down and eat with us, you know. No need for formality out here in the Sinai Desert.”

  “I must pack your things, Miss Flora.” He opened the pot of date honey for her when he saw her struggling with it, then said, “Shouldn’t your lady’s maid be helping you?”

  Flora smiled up at him. “I’m letting Kate sleep a little longer, the poor dear. The storm kept her awake last night.”

  “It kept all of us awake, miss. She is no exception.” Petersen looked as if he would like to throw back the flap and yank the sleeping maid from her cot. Instead, he gave a little bow and silently picked up the crate he’d been sitting on, stomping off with it so Kate would have no place to sit when she did get up. Rebecca saw him rounding up all the other camp stools, too, and stacking them near the tethered camels, aware that Kate wouldn’t go near the cantankerous animals by herself. He returned to the tent and carried the bulky photography equipment to the waiting caravan as well, then did the same with his neatly rolled bedding and traveling bag.

  “Why do you suppose Petersen hates Kate so much?” Rebecca asked as Flora passed her the date honey. The sticky syrup tasted wonderful drizzled on the cook’s freshly-baked flatbread.

  “He doesn’t hate her. Hate is such a strong word. But I do wonder if he might be a trifle jealous of her, don’t you think?”

  “You mean because he had us all to himself for more than a year before we took in Kate?”

  “Yes. And because she came to us for quite different reasons than he did. He hasn’t trusted Kate since the day she robbed us.”

  “Petersen does have a very rigid sense of what crime and punishment should entail,” Rebecca replied. “I think he would have preferred that we send Kate to jail. Or to some dark, dank prison. Even to the gallows. I believe he still would prefer it.”

  “I don’t think it’s as bad as all that. Petersen is very protective of you and me, that’s all. It’s his nature. He can’t help himself.”

  “Who says we need protection?” Rebecca said, frowning. “Haven’t the two of us done just fine all these years? When have we ever been afraid to travel by ourselves?”

  Flora smiled. “You’re right, Becky. We’re quite fearless, aren’t we? We don’t need Petersen, and we really don’t need Kate, either. No one needs a lady’s maid or a butler in the Sinai Desert.” She laughed and leaned closer to add, “The truth is, Kate and Soren need us. Isn’t that why we brought them along?”

  Rebecca took another bite of bread. “Yes, but those poor dears had no idea what they’d volunteered for, did they?” She and Flora were still laughing when Kate crawled out of the tent looking cross and bedraggled, her red hair tangled from sleeping.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest. She packed enough fire and grit to fill a girl three times her size. Rebecca thought of the lessons in grooming and ladylike deportment that Mrs. Worthington had once tried to drum into her, and she smiled at the irony of their erstwhile lady’s maid needing a lady’s maid herself.

  “We’re simply enjoying the morning,” Flora said. “And this wonderful date honey. Come and have some with us.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Oh, but you will be later on. We have another long journey ahead of us today.”

  Kate huffed and rolled her eyes. “How do those stupid camel drivers even know where they’re going?”

  “Now, you mustn’t call people stupid, Katie, dear,” Flora said, wagging her finger.

  “Look at this place!” she continued, undeterred. “There’s nothing but rocks and more rocks! No roads or signs to mark the way, just miles and miles of nothing! What if we’ve been lost all along, and they don’t want to admit it? How do we even know we’re going in the right direction? Who knows where they’re taking us?”

  “You’re right, we don’t know any of those things,” Rebecca said. “We simply have to trust them and Mr. Farouk.”

  Kate threw her arms in the air. “Well, that’s just great! We could all die out here, and nobody would even know or care!”

  She would be pretty, Rebecca thought, if she weren’t as bristly as a wire brush. “Have some tea, dear. There must be another cup around here someplace.” She heard a whooshing sound and turned to see that Petersen had pulled down the center pole of his tent, causing it to collapse with a rush of air. He emerged from beneath the canvas with the pole in his hand, looking as though he would like to beat Kate over the head with it.

  “There you are,” he growled. “It’s about time. Is everything packed inside your tent? We need to start moving before the sun gets too hot.”

  She glared at him, her chin raised in defiance. “Pack
it yourself if you’re in such a hurry.”

  “That’s your job, Kate. One they pay you very well to do, remember?”

  She huffed in disgust. “I’d rather work in the shirtwaist factory again than with you!” She whirled around and stalked back to the tent.

  “That factory probably fired you!” Petersen called after her. “Probably for good reason!” Kate disappeared inside, hurling the tent flap closed as if slamming a door. A shower of sand cascaded from the sloping roof. “I know it may not be my place to say this,” Petersen said as he watched her go, “but she shouldn’t be so disrespectful.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Rebecca said with a smile. “Perhaps we should send her home immediately. All by herself. Across the desert.”

  “It would serve her right, Miss Rebecca.”

  “Actually, I think she would prefer to go home,” Flora added with a laugh.

  Rebecca heard men shouting and stood to see what was going on. The Bedouin had finished their prayers, and the sheikh and Mr. Farouk were embroiled in an argument. The sheikh gestured wildly as if he was about to knock the little man over like a bowling pin. But what worried Rebecca was that he kept pointing to her tent and waving his rifle. She hurried toward them, but the sheikh stalked away before she reached him. “What’s going on, Mr. Farouk?” she asked the little agent.

  “Is nothing, miss. Not to worry.”

  “I clearly heard you arguing. And why was the sheikh sitting outside my tent this morning with his rifle?”

  “Not to worry. I take care over him.” He bowed repeatedly as he backed away, hurrying off to help the drivers finish loading the caravan. In their haste, the men tied one of the crates of chickens upside down, and there was a furious squawking and flapping of feathers as the birds righted themselves. One of the drivers helped Rebecca climb aboard the crouching camel, and it swayed to its feet, pitching her backward momentarily as it straightened its front legs, then leveling out again as it rose on its rear legs. This was nothing at all like riding a horse. For one thing, Rebecca sat perched ridiculously high above the ground. And camels were much grumpier than horses. No one could possibly make friends with one, she suspected, even their own drivers. The swaying motion as they walked reminded her of sailing on a very stormy sea. Poor Father would undoubtedly become seasick riding one. And camels smelled much worse than horses, too. Even so, she and Flora were accustomed to riding them, having done so on their travels in the past. Petersen and Kate were having a much harder time, especially since they didn’t have a goal to accomplish at the end of their journey as she did. The anticipation of discovery, the joy of uncovering a long-hidden mystery, didn’t beckon to them the way it did Rebecca.