The Master's Wife

by Jane Jackson

  ‘Why?’ Caseley asked. ‘What is so particular about him?’

  ‘Apart from his being a consummate politician?’ Pawlyn enquired bitterly. ‘He is arrogant, aggressive and fiercely ambitious. Before coming to Egypt he spent a number of years in India. Arabi has no chance against a man like that. He’s simply not devious enough.’

  A few evenings later Jago entered his day cabin, yawning after coming off watch. His heart lifted to see Caseley still up. With a shawl over her nightgown, she was seated at the chart table writing her journal. In the lamplight her hair, in its single loosely plaited braid, gleamed like a ripe chestnut.

  White cotton, with a frill at the high neck and long sleeves, covered her from chin to ankle. No garment could have been more modest yet intimate. He visualised her slender body, slimmer now than before the birth of their sons – he forced the thought away as hunger warred with guilt.

  Swallowing the dryness in his throat he shrugged off his jacket. ‘How did your lessons go today?’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’ She sat up. ‘When we first started I was mentally translating into English whatever Mr Pawlyn said in French, then working out my reply and translating it back into French before I answered.’

  ‘That sounds exhausting.’

  ‘It was,’ she admitted. ‘But thanks to Mr Pawlyn’s generosity with his time I’m actually thinking in French now, so it’s much easier. I’m still not as fluent as I’d like to be, though.’

  Jago fought jealousy. Through the open skylight he had listened to the murmur of their voices. His grip on the wheel had tightened as she grew impatient with her mistakes and Pawlyn made light of them. This afternoon she had laughed.

  He loved her laugh. Rich and throaty, it was a long time since he had heard it. Now she laughed for another man. For pity’s sake, pull yourself together.

  ‘I don’t like having to depend on you to translate for me. Not because I doubt your ability,’ he added quickly. ‘Far from it.’

  ‘You are concerned about accuracy. I do understand how important it is.’

  So did he, but that wasn’t what worried him.

  ‘Which is why I asked Mr Pawlyn for extra practice.’

  Jago nodded. He had known that. Yet hearing her say so gave him a reassurance he felt ashamed of needing. ‘He has spoken highly of your progress. But I’m concerned about the strain this is putting on you.’

  ‘I offered,’ she reminded him. ‘You need me for this, and I want to be useful.’

  ‘You will be. Because of your quiet manner, strangers sometimes overlook and underestimate you.’ Irony briefly lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘A misjudgement I was guilty of when we first met, though I very soon recognised my error. However, on this occasion it will work in our favour. Your observations will be invaluable.’

  For him it had been a simple statement of fact. But seeing her eyes widen and her cheeks flush soft pink brought home to him how rarely he paid her a compliment. She had never sought them. That’s your excuse? His shame was increased by the tremor in her fingers as she turned the pen round and round.

  ‘Jago, taking into account everything Mr Pawlyn has told us, I can’t help wondering about the legitimacy of what you have been asked to do.’

  ‘I’ve been having similar thoughts myself.’ He raked a hand through his windblown hair. She had always been a valuable sounding board, asking questions and raising points that clarified his thinking. He had missed that, missed her. But how could he have admitted to jealousy of his own sons? Wary of pressing for more than she was ready to give, he was desperate to bridge the distance between them.

  ‘When William Broad asked me to undertake this mission he did so as an agent for the government. I accepted and we shook hands on it.’

  ‘Then you have no choice. You are honour-bound to fulfil your obligation. Does Mr Pawlyn know why you have come to Egypt?’

  Jago shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Will you tell him?’

  ‘What would you do in my place?’ As her gaze rose to his he saw doubt. ‘I’m not patronising you, Caseley. I never have, and never will.’ Panic stirred in him as her eyes glistened. ‘Forgive me. You must be tired. I should not –’

  ‘I’m glad you asked, truly.’ She set the pen down and drew her shawl closer. ‘Listening to him has widened my understanding. It hadn’t occurred to me to wonder what the Egyptians might want. Or why they were so angry. Of course their debt to England must be paid. But Colonel Arabi is not disputing that. So why was it necessary to send a naval fleet?’

  ‘A deliberate intent to provoke in order to justify retaliation?’

  Caseley gasped. ‘I cannot believe our government would be party to such a cynical scheme.’

  ‘I would hope not. But consider what’s at stake: money and national pride. Politicians always think several moves ahead. Colonel Arabi’s lack of deviousness may indeed be his downfall.’

  Caseley shivered. ‘Mr Pawlyn has worked in Egypt for several years. He knows the country and its politics. And he speaks Arabic. I think you should tell him.’

  ‘I agree. I’ll do it tomorrow.’

  ‘I doubt he’ll be surprised.’

  ‘What makes you say so?’

  She lifted one shoulder in a rueful shrug. ‘I could see he was curious about my anxiety not to make mistakes. Shall you invite him to accompany us?’

  ‘I will. Of course, he may not be free to –’

  ‘Really, Jago,’ she interrupted with a smile that stopped his heart. ‘A journalist pass up such an opportunity? He is more likely to kiss your hand in gratitude.’

  As their eyes met, he wanted to reach out and touch her. It was too soon. He forced himself to break the contact and, as he did so, heard her slide along the bench seat. He drew the log towards him. ‘Sleep well.’

  ‘You too.’

  He watched as she disappeared into the sleeping cabin, heard the berth creak as she lay down, and buried his head in his hands.

  ‘What can you tell us about the Bedouin?’ Jago asked the following evening from his usual place at the head of the table. Caseley and Pawlyn sat opposite each other. The rest of the crew were on deck.

  ‘They are a lean, hardy people with fine features and dark skin. They love poetry, and skill in recitation is highly prized in both men and women. So is musical ability. Traditionally, it is only royal tribes who herd camels, and only men look after them. Women look after the goats and sheep reared by all tribes for meat, milk and wool.

  ‘They value good manners and all older people are treated with great respect, though it’s unlikely you will have any contact with the women.’

  ‘Have you had personal dealings with the Bedouin?’

  ‘No, but I have studied their customs, just in case an opportunity ever arose. I cannot thank you enough –’

  ‘It is I who is in your debt,’ Jago interrupted. ‘So, what should I know?’

  ‘When greeting tribal elders, don’t offer your hand. Wait for them to make the first move. Always stand when speaking to someone older. They appreciate a compliment about their hospitality, or the food that’s been served. Although it is perfectly acceptable to say “I hope all your family are well”, never ask about wives or daughters. They are not spoken of in public or with strangers.

  ‘If the coffee or teapot is within reach,’ Pawlyn continued, ‘it is polite to refill the cup of the nearest older person.’

  ‘What must I avoid?’ Jago asked as Caseley listened, fascinated.

  ‘That’s easy.’ Pawlyn smiled. ‘Impatience. Negotiations are rarely direct and may take days. Never offer to shake hands with a Muslim woman. And – this is really important – never reveal the soles of your feet or touch someone with your shoe. Either is considered a great insult.’

  Caseley edged along the bench and stood up. ‘Will you both excuse me? I’m going to write this down while it’s fresh in my mind.’ Gratitude flashed in Jago’s eyes, warming her.

  Three days later,
they saw the combined English and French fleets at anchor outside Alexandria harbour, ensigns fluttering from mizzen gaffs. The British ironclads had twin smoke funnels, as well as three masts and square yards to allow them to conserve coal on the voyage by using their sails whenever the wind was strong enough.

  Caseley had gone below to wash and change into her lilac gown: a fitted, long-sleeved bodice buttoned down the front from a plain round neck trimmed with violet ribbon. The narrow skirt had a matching ruffle at the hem and tiers of ruffles down the back. She had drawn her hair back into a coil on the nape of her neck. A simple straw bonnet trimmed with lilac and violet ribbon shielded her eyes.

  Jago was at the wheel. His glance swept over her as she emerged from the companionway. He waited until she was close before speaking. ‘You look –’

  ‘Unremarkable?’ she suggested.

  ‘Is that your intention?’

  She nodded. She wanted to help him, but not to attract attention. Attention meant questions. Questions required answers and the truth – the truth was a private matter.

  ‘Only someone who doesn’t know you could think so.’

  Touched and unsettled by the compliment, she crossed to join Robert Pawlyn at the weather rail while Jago guided Cygnet past the anchored ships and through the harbour entrance made narrower by a long, curved breakwater. On the left was a tall lighthouse surrounded by a rampart and gun batteries.

  ‘That’s asking for trouble,’ Pawlyn murmured.

  Caseley looked at him. ‘What is?’

  ‘Egyptian soldiers are reinforcing the batteries. You see those earth ramparts? They’re new.’

  ‘As a squadron of foreign ships has anchored within gunfire range,’ Jago said, ‘you can hardly expect the Egyptians to do nothing.’

  ‘Nor do I. The Egyptians have every right to strengthen their defences against a foreign aggressor. But I doubt the admiral commanding the English fleet will see it that way.’

  Intercepting the fierce glare Jago directed at Pawlyn, Caseley remained silent. Jago cared enough not to want her upset by talk of gunfire. He cared enough to pay her compliments. Why, then, could he not have cared enough to –? She pushed the thought aside. The past could not be changed, only accepted and learned from. But what lesson was she supposed to draw from her husband’s unfaithfulness?

  Her vision blurred and she blinked until it cleared. Between the lighthouse and the city was a complex of buildings set in gardens shaded by trees.

  ‘That’s the Khedive’s palace, Ras-el-Tin,’ Pawlyn said. ‘It translates as “garden of figs”.’

  Ahead of them the city curved in a semi-circular panorama of flat-roofed terraces, domed mosques and slender minarets gleaming in the afternoon sunshine. Jetties and quays stuck out like fingers into the turquoise water.

  Despite the sea breeze, the air was very warm. It would be hotter still on shore. Caseley breathed in the smells of salt water and baked earth. Threaded through them, faint and subtle, she caught the fragrance of flowers, spices and coffee.

  The formalities were quickly dealt with, through a combination of Pawlyn’s rapid Arabic and the smooth transfer of folding money from Jago’s palm to that of the uniformed customs officer.

  ‘I asked him to order two calèches,’ Pawlyn said. ‘They are very comfortable but seat only two people. I am not obliged to notify the Consulate of my return, but it’s a courtesy and will enable me to learn what has happened while we’ve been at sea. I don’t know Sir Charles Cookson, who is British Consul here in Alexandria. But I’ve met his deputy, Sir Douglas Collingwood, on several occasions. Our acquaintance might smooth the path for you.’

  ‘You’re a very useful man to know, Pawlyn.’

  ‘It’s the least I can do. Were it not for you I might still be kicking my heels in Gibraltar.’

  At Jago’s request, Caseley followed him down to the day cabin. ‘Pack a change of linen for us both,’ he said. ‘Though we made excellent time, you have been without proper facilities for nearly four weeks. You will welcome a bath and a soft bed with clean sheets.’

  ‘I haven’t complained, Jago.’

  ‘You never do. That’s why I want to give you comfort.’

  His words were ambiguous, her head full of images she both feared and craved. So she focused on the job in hand, putting underwear and nightclothes for them both into the battered leather portmanteau.

  Jago stripped off his salt- and sun-faded shipboard clothes and washed. While he dressed again, putting on a clean shirt, maroon cravat, dark trousers and polished black shoes, she wrapped soap, flannels and toothbrushes in clean towels and stowed them in the bag, then added her journal. He raked a comb through his thick hair, passed it to her and put on a dove grey single-breasted coat.

  He turned, devastatingly handsome. Even as she yearned for him, anger flared, leaving her shaken.‘Ready?’

  Struggling for composure she nodded and put on her hat. ‘What are you going to do about the gold?’

  ‘It will remain on board for now.’ He picked up the bag.

  Leaving Nathan to supervise minor repairs while Martin went ashore to buy food and arrange for fresh water, Hammer carried the box of photographic equipment to the first of the two carriages each drawn by a single horse.

  Settling onto the buttoned leather seat, Caseley looked around as they followed Robert Pawlyn’s calèche through streets crowded with people. She saw anxious-looking men in European suits, bearded Jews with black hats and side locks, uniformed Egyptian soldiers, and Arabs in long robes and head cloths. Women hurried by in pairs, swathed in blue or black. Some drew their scarves across their faces as the calèche passed. Others were already veiled so that only their eyes were visible.

  She heard French, Italian, Arabic and other languages she didn’t recognise, and saw donkeys almost hidden beneath their burdens. A group of sailors wearing straw hats laughed and nudged each other, pointing at unfamiliar sights.

  They turned onto a wide street with flagstone pavements and tall elegant buildings on either side of a central area, with a double avenue of trees down each side providing shade. At one end was a large circular fountain. Further along, two open pergolas with onion-shaped roofs reminded Caseley of bandstands.

  The driver pulled up outside a three-storey white villa with deep windows and a pillared portico. Jago helped Caseley out of the carriage, then picked up the portmanteau as Pawlyn took the box and his own bag.

  ‘This is Midan Muhammad Ali. He was the first hereditary viceroy of Egypt. That’s his statue,’ Pawlyn indicated with a nod. ‘Before the square was given his name it was known as Place Des Consuls because of all the diplomats living and working here.’

  As they approached the entrance, an armed doorman bowed. Pawlyn spoke to him in Arabic. The man replied, bowed once more, and stood back to allow them in.

  ‘Hamid says Sir Edward Malet, the Consul-General, is in Cairo,’ Pawlyn explained. ‘And Sir Charles Cookson is in hospital. Apparently Sir Douglas Collingwood is in charge during Sir Charles’s absence.’

  Caseley saw Jago frown. ‘Mr Broad promised to send a telegram the day we left Falmouth. I must hope it arrived and we are expected.’

  They stepped into a cool, airy lobby with white walls, a black and white tiled floor, and green palms in polished brass and copper pots. On the left, a wide staircase curved round to a broad landing edged with a balustrade. On the right was an open door. Caseley heard male voices and a middle-aged clerk appeared. His expression of polite enquiry changed to a smile of surprised recognition.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Pawlyn. We thought you’d left us.’

  ‘Only briefly, Mr Everleigh, and I’m glad to be back. Is Sir Douglas available? Captain Barata and his wife have just arrived. They sailed from Falmouth and are expected.’

  ‘I’ll just –’

  He didn’t get a chance to finish as a plump man of about thirty hurried into the hall, radiating self-importance. He had long side-whiskers and thinning brown hair. A bon
e-coloured suit emphasised his high colour. ‘Thank you, Mr Everleigh,’ he flicked a dismissive hand. ‘You may return to your desk.’

  As the clerk retreated, Jago caught Caseley’s eye. Sharing his amusement she bit the inside of her lip.

  ‘My name is Blaine. I am Sir Douglas’s aide. Good day, Mr Pawlyn.’ He nodded coolly then turned to Jago, offering his hand. ‘Captain Barata, welcome to Alexandria. I hope you had an uneventful journey?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Allow me to present my wife.’

  ‘Mrs Barata.’

  ‘Mr Blaine.’ His handshake was brief and weak. Caseley guessed it would also be damp and was glad of her gloves.

  ‘Mr Pawlyn, I don’t think –’

  ‘I’ll wait here.’ With a cheerful smile Caseley guessed was designed to rile the pompous Mr Blaine, Pawlyn carried the box towards the downstairs office.

  After an instant’s hesitation Blaine turned towards the wide staircase. ‘Please follow me. Unfortunately, Sir Charles is unavailable. He was taken to hospital last week. This is a very difficult time –’

  ‘So I understand.’ Hearing the thread of impatience in Jago’s voice, Caseley hoped the aide had the sense to recognise it. ‘Please convey our good wishes for his speedy recovery. I understand Sir Douglas Collingwood is acting for him?’

  Surprise and chagrin chased across Blaine’s face. ‘That is correct.’ He paused outside a door and knocked. As the occupant called ‘Enter,’ he opened the door and led them in.

  ‘Sir Douglas, Captain Barata has arrived. With his wife.’

  Caseley heard the note of disapproval and sighed. In Falmouth widows took over management of their husband’s businesses and young unmarried women worked in offices. Mr Blaine’s manner betrayed him as a bigot who believed the only proper place for a woman was at home. Where she would be now if only –