The Master's Wife

by Jane Jackson

  ‘Do men not shake hands?’ Jago asked Pawlyn, his voice low.

  ‘Not with women. For a Bedouin to touch a woman to whom he is not related by blood or marriage would dishonour her.’

  Pawlyn’s expression as he looked at Antonia told Caseley he envied Sheikh Imad the warmth of her greeting.

  Gesturing towards Jago, Pawlyn and Caseley, Antonia led the newcomers forward and switched to French. ‘Allow me to present Captain Barata and his wife.’

  As Jago bowed, Caseley made a brief curtsey then said in French that she and her husband were honoured to make their acquaintance. Unfortunately, her husband did not speak French. Then, with a polite smile to Sheikh Imad she murmured, ‘Salaamu aleikum.’ His brown eyes met hers as he bowed and responded, ‘Wa aleikum as-salaam.’

  Antonia frowned at her. ‘You never said you could speak Arabic.’

  ‘A few words, that’s all. On our voyage from Gibraltar Mr Pawlyn was kind enough to teach me a greeting and how to say thank you. That was hard enough.’ It wasn’t strictly true. But she sensed Antonia liked having the advantage and she had no desire to compete.

  ‘You have a good ear, Madame Barata,’ Sabra said in French. Then she turned to Robert Pawlyn. ‘Good evening, Mr Pawlyn. Welcome back. Your articles have been much missed by those who prefer a balanced presentation of the facts to biased rhetoric.’

  As Pawlyn bowed Caseley was touched to see the tips of his ears were bright red. ‘You are too kind, ma’am.’

  ‘I’m nothing of the sort, Mr Pawlyn.’ She turned to Jago. ‘I assume it is business rather than pleasure that brings you to Alexandria at this difficult time, Captain?’

  Jago waited while Caseley translated. ‘That is so, ma’am.’

  ‘And you, Madame Barata, what do you know of the situation in Egypt?’

  ‘Before I left Cornwall I knew only what the English newspapers reported. But after Mr Pawlyn joined us I learned the situation is not as we had been led to believe.’

  Sabra studied her. ‘What an unusual person you are.’

  ‘Because I think, ma’am?’

  Sabra laughed. ‘We will be friends, you and I.’

  ‘You flatter me, ma’am.’

  ‘You will learn that is something I never do.’

  Sheikh Imad was speaking to Antonia, complimenting her on the exhibition. She beckoned him across to see his portrait. He followed, keeping a distance between them, his bearing dignified.

  Antonia said something in Arabic. He responded in French. After a brief pout she shrugged then smiled at him, clearly delighted to be in his company. Caseley heard Pawlyn’s indrawn breath and felt sympathy.

  Sabra went to Antonia and drew her away by asking about one of the photos. Pawlyn went with them.

  Sheikh Imad returned, asking Jago if his presence in Alexandria was related to the arrival of the combined French and English fleets.

  Jago held the Bedouin’s gaze as Caseley quickly translated.

  ‘Not directly, sir. I am here on behalf of Her Majesty’s government in hope of speaking to the leaders of the Tarabin Bedouin tribe.’

  As Caseley gave Jago’s reply Sheikh Imad’s brows rose.

  Jago continued. ‘Her Majesty’s government recognises the influence the Tarabin might have over the outcome should the present situation deteriorate.’

  ‘The present situation,’ Sheikh Imad spoke without inflection, ‘is that Egyptians wish to rule themselves. Colonel Arabi has given his promise to repay the massive debts incurred by the present khedive’s father. Yet the English government wants the Bedouin to fight against these people?’

  As she finished translating, Casley wondered if the Sheikh would decline on his tribe’s behalf without even putting it to them.

  She could see Jago was thinking the same. As he glanced at her, his reply showed he was facing the risk head-on.

  ‘Is it your opinion that the Bedouin might decline this opportunity to discuss their potential influence over a matter of great importance to all concerned?’

  As Caseley struggled to translate accurately, perspiration dampened her skin so her undergarments clung.

  ‘Bedouin owe allegiance to no government or country. They are free to choose whom to support.’

  ‘Her Majesty’s government is aware that commitment to the English cause may involve disruption and expense. That being so, they wish to make an offer of financial compensation in order to demonstrate good faith.’

  Sheikh Imad listened politely but Caseley sensed his scepticism. ‘Is this compensation a promise to be fulfilled at some point in the future?’

  Jago shook his head. ‘No, sir. Such promises are too easily given and too easily forgotten. On receipt of a firm commitment from the Tarabin made to myself as agent for Her Majesty’s government, a token of gratitude in the form of gold will be handed over to seal an agreement bound by honour on both sides.’

  ‘I see.’

  Concentrating fiercely, Caseley still had time to recognise that the Sheikh had offered neither opinion nor commitment. But at least he was listening.

  ‘I would consider it an honour and a privilege,’ Jago continued, ‘to be granted an opportunity to meet the tribal elders so I could put forward my government’s case for their consideration. Naturally they would need to be assured that I am who I say I am, and that I have the authority to act in this matter.’

  The Sheikh gestured dismissively. ‘I know who you are, Captain. Alexandria is a city of many layers. With access to reliable sources – which I possess – information is easily gained.’

  Caseley moistened her lips. Her throat was dry and she longed for a cool drink. She waited for Jago to reply. When he didn’t, she glanced at him. His expression matched the Bedouin’s for impassivity. He simply waited.

  From the corner of her eye Caseley saw Antonia and Sabra returning.

  Eventually, the Bedouin spoke again. ‘Tomorrow I go to Cairo. Two days after that I leave for the Eastern Desert to attend the wedding of one of my many cousins.’

  Then Caseley remembered Robert Pawlyn explaining that Bedouins rarely approached important matters directly.

  ‘Such an important event will bring together many of your tribe and extended family,’ Jago’s response told Caseley he had not forgotten Pawlyn’s warning.

  The Bedouin nodded. ‘Such gatherings are rare and a welcome occasion at which to exchange news and discuss current events.’

  ‘Did you say a wedding?’ Antonia whirled round. ‘Are you going, Sabra?’ The Sheikha nodded. ‘Please may I come? I would so love to photograph the women – if they do not mind. Surely they won’t? A photograph would be a wonderful keepsake.’

  Caseley recalled her wedding to Jago. It had been a very quiet, simple affair. With her father having recently died after she had managed to avert a scandal that could have destroyed the business, neither of them had wanted any fuss. Though still in mourning for him it had been the happiest day of her life, until the birth of her sons. Her mind shied away.

  Sheikh Imad shook his head. ‘I do not think photographs will be possible.’

  ‘Why not? I know they are not seen much in public. But I am a woman myself –’

  Sabra gripped Antonia’s arm and shook it lightly. Still holding it she turned to Jago, asking in French, ‘You wish to keep your discussions with the Tarabin a private matter?’

  Caseley saw Jago tense. How did she know? He nodded.

  ‘Then if Madame Barata and I were to accompany you, Captain –’

  ‘I should like Mr Pawlyn included. He speaks Arabic and French and so could act as my interpreter in place of my wife.’ Jago glanced at Caseley. He was sending her a message, but she was fighting a powerful combination of rejection and relief and could not read it.

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘And me,’ Antonia beseeched. ‘If Mrs Barata is going you must let me come too, Sabra. Please. You can’t –’

  ‘Sshh,’ Sabra said, then turned back to Sheikh Imad, still speaking F
rench. ‘Women in the party would allay suspicion. A family group bound for a wedding? What could be more innocent?’ She held Sheikh Imad’s gaze. Caseley translated quietly for Jago. The silence stretched.

  Sheikh Imad gave a single nod. Antonia squeaked with delight and clasped Sabra’s hands, thanking her. Caseley released the breath she had been holding.

  ‘I must go,’ Sabra said, and turned to Caseley. ‘We will leave for Cairo on Friday. Come to my villa tomorrow afternoon. Miss Collingwood will bring you.’

  Though it was more command than invitation, Caseley didn’t hesitate. ‘Thank you, ma’am. I should enjoy that.’

  ‘If she wishes, Miss Collingwood may take photographs.’

  ‘Oh, that would be wonderful.’ Antonia’s delight told Caseley how much the invitation meant. ‘Thank you, Sabra. Thank you so much.’

  Chapter Seven

  Caseley stood to one side watching Robert Pawlyn take his leave.

  ‘It is a superb exhibition, Antonia.’

  ‘Thank you, Robert.’

  ‘I’ll see you on Friday, then.’

  Though Antonia’s eyes shone in her flushed face and her smile was wide and warm, Caseley knew it was not for Robert Pawlyn, but for the man who had just left.

  ‘Will you excuse us for a moment?’ Jago drew Pawlyn away.

  It was nearly seven. Caseley wanted to go upstairs for a few minutes’ quiet before they had to leave for the Consulate and dinner with Sir Douglas.

  ‘Miss Collingwood –’

  ‘Please, you must call me Antonia. I feel we are already dear friends. I can hardly believe it!’ She pressed her clasped hands to her full bosom. ‘To be invited to the wedding of Sheikh Imad’s cousin is such an honour! You must be so glad you are here.’

  Caseley could have pointed out that it was Jago’s presence and the promise of gold that had secured the invitation, but she had no wish to burst Antonia’s bubble of happiness.

  ‘I do wish more people had come tonight,’ Antonia sighed.

  ‘Your father told us that many Europeans have already left the city.’

  ‘Others have stayed.’ Antonia made no effort to hide her impatience. ‘I have gone to a lot of trouble over this exhibition. Some support would have been nice. I know what it is. They didn’t come because they disapprove. I have worked hard to develop my talent and they are jealous.’

  Egypt may be on the brink of war. Surely that is a more likely reason for their absence? Surprised by the depth of Antonia’s self-absorption, Caseley changed the subject. ‘I must apologise for not being able to change for dinner tonight. I don’t have another gown with me.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. You don’t have time, anyway. You and the Captain will be the only guests, apart from Spencer, and Maud of course. There will be no ceremony. No one will even notice.’

  Abandoning her resentment Antonia released a contented sigh. ‘I wish there might have been more visitors. But at least Sheikh Imad and Sheikha Sabra came. And I have something wonderful to look forward to. What an adventure it will be! I know Sheikh Imad said I might not be able to photograph the women. But I shall take my camera anyway. I must go. Maud will be driving the servants to distraction.’

  She started towards the door then turned back. ‘She has my father in her sights as husband number three. Fortunately, he has been too busy to notice. Now she’s losing patience. I wish she had left with the others.’

  She pirouetted in a circle with outstretched arms. ‘But nothing is going to upset me tonight. I’m going to a Bedouin wedding with Sheikh Imad. Isn’t that romantic?’

  Maud Williamson’s handshake was brief, her smile practiced, her blue gaze condescending.

  ‘How do you do, Mrs Barata. I hope you are comfortable at the hotel?’

  No ceremony, Antonia had said. Clearly no one had informed Mrs Williamson. Her fair hair was drawn back in a complicated coiffeur decorated with silk flowers and a jewelled aigrette. Her magenta silk gown was of the very latest fashion. Edged with lace, the low neckline revealed soft white flesh. Around her throat she wore a cameo pinned to a black velvet ribbon. Elbow-length sleeves ended in deep frills and ribbon bows, and over her flat ruffled skirt horizontal folds of pale pink silk were gathered to form a bow on top of an enormous bustle.

  ‘Very comfortable, thank you,’ Caseley replied politely, aware her simple hairstyle and lilac day gown had been assessed and found wanting. Maud turned to Jago.

  ‘Captain Barata. I’m delighted to meet you. Though I fear you will find our society sadly lacking as so many have departed.’

  ‘Then it’s as well I have no time for social life, ma’am,’ Jago said.

  She laid a slim, pale hand over his, her manner both arch and playful. ‘All work and no play –’

  ‘Gets the job done.’ Jago’s smile matched hers for insincerity. ‘As I’m sure Sir Douglas will agree.’

  ‘Quite so, Captain.’ She turned back to Caseley. ‘My dear Mrs Barata, I see you are limping.’ Her expression was all sympathy. ‘Have you suffered an accident?’

  Caseley realised she was paying for Jago’s rebuff. ‘Not recently.’

  ‘My wife was a child at the time, Mrs Williamson. We rarely notice unless it is remarked on.’

  His hand at her waist was comforting. He was protecting her and she was grateful. But no one else could hurt her as he had, because no one else mattered as he did.

  A servant approached with a silver tray holding wine glasses of sherry and Madeira. Jago took sherry. As Caseley smiled and shook her head, the servant bowed and returned a moment later with a small tray on which stood a crystal tumbler half-full of cloudy liquid.

  ‘Citron pressé, Madame?’ he said softly.

  Caseley took it gratefully. ‘Merci beaucoup.’

  Watching Jago exchange pleasantries with Sir Douglas and Spencer Blaine, while Maud Williamson spoke quietly through a fixed smile to Antonia who made no effort to disguise her irritation, Caseley was suddenly overcome by doubt. What was she doing here?

  A dark-skinned Egyptian wearing a spotless white robe with a scarlet sash, a scarlet brimless cap and white gloves announced dinner. He stood by the dining room door as they filed in and took their places at a long table set with a snowy cloth, crystal glasses and silver cutlery. Down the centre shallow bowls of lilies perfumed the air, flanked by silver cruets and multi-branched candelabra with beeswax candles that cast a gentle flattering light.

  Her chair was held and she sat. Another servant carried a silver tureen to the sideboard. Why had she demanded to come? She was in mourning, not only for her children but for life as she had known it.

  A small eggshell-thin bowl decorated with hand-painted flowers was set in front of her. She was relieved to see that it contained not the thick brown soup she dreaded, but a clear consommé. She picked up her spoon. Not too hot; the soup was delicious. The first mouthful loosened the knots in her stomach, making the second easier to swallow.

  Would it not be more sensible for Jago and Robert Pawlyn to go without her? But with Sabra and Antonia in the party, how could she back out?

  He caught her eye. Seeing his concern she pulled herself together and smiled to signal all was well.

  ‘Naturally,’ Sir Douglas said, leaning back to allow a servant to remove his empty bowl, ‘we have discussed with the French how best to protect the Suez Canal.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Jago pretended puzzlement. ‘As I understand it, both the French and the Canal Company are of the opinion that the only danger to the Canal lies in intervention.’

  ‘Exactly. And the likelihood of intervention increases with every day that Colonel Arabi continues his reinforcement of the gun batteries in the forts.’

  Spencer Blaine nodded. ‘The British government appealed to the Sultan to order the work stopped.’

  ‘Just a few weeks ago, Arabi announced in the press that he would guarantee public order.’ Anger reddened Sir Douglas’s fleshy face. ‘And what happened?’

  ‘A
riot,’ said Spencer Blaine.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Blaine,’ Sir Douglas snapped. ‘I think I can manage.’ He turned to Jago. ‘An argument between a Maltese and a donkey boy attracted a crowd and things got out of hand. But instead of taking control, the police were nowhere to be seen. So what started as a mere scuffle exploded into a full-scale riot. Proof, if it were needed, that Arabi makes promises he cannot keep.’

  ‘Perhaps I have it wrong, but is it not the case that the police could only be called out on the orders of Alexandria’s civil governor?’

  Sir Douglas looked at his aide, clearly expecting him to deny Jago’s claim. But Blaine, helping himself from the proffered dish of lamb cutlets and green peas, appeared not to have heard.

  Jago continued. ‘As I understand it, the governor’s background is Turco-Circassian. So he has no sympathy whatsoever for the nationalist cause. He is very much the Khedive’s man and, I am reliably informed, hopes to take Colonel Arabi’s place as minister of war. In those circumstances, one might be forgiven for thinking he had every reason to let the riot continue.’

  Frowning, Sir Douglas opened his mouth to respond, but Antonia spoke first.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Papa. Enough of politics. Surely we can enjoy one meal without talk of riots and guns and threats?’

  ‘Antonia is right,’ Maud said at once.

  Ignoring her, Antonia continued. ‘I have some wonderful news. Sheikha Sabra came to my exhibition late this afternoon.’

  ‘Good of her, I’m sure,’ Sir Douglas dabbed his mouth with his napkin then raised his wine glass. ‘If I weren’t so busy –’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you would have.’ Antonia’s tone contradicted her words. ‘But never mind that, Papa. Sheikh Imad was with her. He has invited us to attend the wedding of one of his cousins out in the desert.’

  ‘Us?’ her father said.

  ‘Yes. Captain and Mrs Barata, Mr Pawlyn and I.’ She beamed with pride and excitement.

  ‘Why would he invite you?’ Sir Douglas demanded. ‘Not that it matters, as you cannot accept.’