by Jane Jackson
‘It would not be at all wise,’ Spencer Blaine added, having waited to see his patron’s reaction.
‘Really, Antonia,’ Maud began. ‘You cannot –’
‘Sir Douglas,’ Jago leaned forward, his eyes gleaming like a cat’s in the candlelight. ‘In normal circumstances I would agree with you. But circumstances are far from normal. Unfortunately, intervention does look increasingly likely. Should this come about, having the Bedouin tribes on the English side will ensure that resistance by Arabi’s forces is swiftly quashed. Sheikh Imad’s invitation offers the perfect opportunity for me to meet tribal elders.’
‘Such a meeting is no place for women,’ Maud argued.
‘Indeed it is not. Nor will they be involved. But the invitation offers an opportunity we cannot afford to ignore. Travelling as a party of guests bound for a wedding perfectly disguises our true purpose.’
Sir Douglas put his knife and fork together. His plate was immediately removed. A fresh dish and cutlery were laid in its place as another course of strawberry jelly, pastries, almond pudding and a soufflé of rice was offered. Caseley took a feather-light honey and almond pastry.
‘I take your point,’ Sir Douglas conceded. ‘Very well, it seems I must withdraw my objection. Though I cannot like it.’
‘We should congratulate Captain Barata,’ Spencer Blaine’s sour smile would have curdled milk. ‘For someone so recently arrived he has a remarkable grasp of local events.’
‘Too kind.’ Jago’s grave bow had Caseley biting the inside of her cheek.
Blaine flushed and turned to Antonia. ‘Sir Edward’s absence in Cairo means your father cannot leave the Consulate. So if you insist on pursuing this harebrained scheme, I must escort you.’
Caseley held her breath, anticipating an outburst. But Antonia surprised her.
‘That is so good of you, Spencer,’ she cooed, smiling at him. ‘But though I appreciate your offer, you must know I cannot accept. You are my father’s right hand. How could you even contemplate leaving the Consulate, or my father, with matters in so parlous a state?’
Watching him torn between the jealousy that demanded he keep an eye on Antonia and his equally strong desire to prove himself indispensable to her father, Caseley was surprised he had not yet mastered the art of hiding his thoughts. Jago was no diplomat but he had that skill.
Even as the thought occurred, he caught her eye. Seeing the flash of amusement, she knew he recognised and appreciated Antonia’s adroitness. She looked down at her plate. If she could read him now, why had she felt so cut off from him for all those months?
The meal finally ended. Thanking Sir Douglas and bidding the others goodnight, Jago draped Caseley’s cloak around her shoulders and they left to return to the hotel.
The padded seat and back of the calèche were comfortable, the night air cool after the day’s heat. Caseley could smell coffee, roasting meat and the sea. With the driver high on his seat in front of them, the brisk clop of the horse’s hooves and creak of the carriage masked Jago’s voice.
‘What are your impressions of our host?’
Caseley glanced at him. ‘Honestly? I think Sir Douglas is out of his depth. Mr Blaine considers himself indispensable to Sir Douglas which allows him the illusion of having power.’
‘Illusion?’
Caseley nodded. ‘He is simply Sir Douglas’s echo. I doubt he has formed a thought of his own in years. He prefers others to bear the responsibility.’
Jago gave a mock wince. ‘Harsh.’
‘You did ask.’
‘What about Miss Collingwood?’
‘She reminds me a little of my brother.’
‘How so?’
‘She has the same self-absorption. I don’t understand –’ she broke off, shaking her head.
‘What don’t you understand?’ he prompted gently.
‘It’s rather sad. Mr Pawlyn clearly thinks a lot of Antonia. But while she’s friendly with him, she makes no secret of her attraction to the Sheikh. Though I see no chance of a relationship between them.’
‘Why? Because she’s English and he’s a Bedouin?’
‘No, because she tries to excite his interest in public. That is not modest behaviour, and Mr Pawlyn told me that modesty in women is of great importance to the Bedouin.’
‘So what don’t you understand?’
‘What it is that Sheikh Imad and Sheikha Sabra have in common with Miss Collingwood. I can understand her wanting a connection with them. Their rank gives them considerable status, which obviously enhances hers. But how does acquaintance with her benefit them?’ She felt his arm, strong and powerful, against hers.
‘Perhaps they find Miss Collingwood’s opinions of interest?’ Jago lowered his voice still further. ‘I would expect her to have been warned against repeating anything she hears in the Consulate. Perhaps she was. But either she has forgotten, or chooses to take no notice.’
Caseley looked quickly at him. ‘They are using her?’
‘I am reserving judgement. But I’m glad of your opinion. Your comments are astute.’
The calèche drew up outside the hotel. After he had paid the driver, Jago drew her arm through his as they walked up to the entrance.
Caseley’s heartbeat quickened as her nervousness returned. This would be the first time they had shared a room – a bed – since...
On board Cygnet she had lain alone in the tiny sleeping cabin and he had used a sea berth hidden behind a sliding panel in the day room.
She had insisted on accompanying him. It would be reasonable for him to think she wanted to resume their married life. Was that what she wanted? Yes. No. She missed being physically close to him, missed his knowing familiar touch, the taste and caress of his mouth, his passion and gentleness.
She ached with loss and loneliness. But her mind filled with images of him touching Louise Downing the way he had touched her, awoken her to the joys of physical love. She wasn’t stupid. She had known she wasn’t the first woman he had made love to. But in her naivety she had believed that when they married she would be the last.
Louise’s triumphant face filled her vision and her yearning turned in on itself, desperately trying to hide.
‘Caseley? Are you unwell?’
His tone held concern. But was it for her or for himself and the mission? She hated him, loved him. She wanted to batter him with her fists for hurting her when she had already been hurt beyond bearing. She swallowed the sob threatening to choke her.
‘Just tired.’ She avoided his gaze. ‘It has been a long day.’
As they entered the reception area Robert Pawlyn was at the counter. He turned and saw them.
‘Pawlyn,’ Jago greeted before the other man could speak. ‘Would you care for a nightcap?’
‘I –’
‘Allow me to escort my wife to our room, then I will meet you in the lounge.’ Handed their key by the concierge, who wished them good night, he turned to Caseley as they walked upstairs.
‘Pawlyn will have learned more about the situation here. And I daresay you will welcome a little solitude. I’m aware of the strain you’re under, Caseley.’
She looked at him and quickly looked away. What strain was he referring to? Grief? Their fractured marriage? Her part in the task ahead of them? All were draining, all demanded strength she didn’t have. Laughter and tears made her throat tight.
‘Thank you,’ was all she could manage.
He unlocked the door and pushed it open. The lamps had been lit and were casting a soft, welcoming glow. The bed had been turned down.
‘Translating for me with the Sheikh and Sheikha, then this evening’s dinner party, will have left you exhausted. You must be longing for sleep.’ Giving her a gentle push he remained on the threshold. ‘If I take the key with me I won’t have to wake you to let me in.’
Relief and gratitude warmed her smile. ‘Thank you.’
A muscle jumped in his jaw. ‘Goodnight. You won’t be disturbed.’
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nbsp; Everything about him disturbed her. ‘Goodnight, Jago.’
For a moment neither moved. Caseley sensed a new tension in the air. Would he –? Should she –? But the moment passed, the gulf between them too wide. As she turned away he quietly closed the door.
She undressed quickly and put on a nightgown. After washing her face she unpinned and brushed her hair before braiding it into a loose plait.
Turning out all but one of the lamps she climbed into bed. The fresh sheets were cool, the mattress and pillows soft. Thoughts and images tumbled through her mind, so much to think about. She slid into sleep.
Chapter Eight
When Caseley opened her eyes it was morning. At home she often woke during the night and prowled the house, ravaged with sorrow, tortured by anger, loneliness and a sense of having been abandoned. During the voyage that pattern had been broken, first by exhaustion, then by the ceaseless movement of the ship.
This morning she felt calmer. Nerves frayed by the importance of translating for Jago had been soothed by the balm of sleep, the comfort of his proximity, and the knowledge that whatever happened while they were here she would not have to face it by herself.
Then she realised she was alone. His side of the bed was cool. She listened but heard no sound from the adjoining bathroom. She sat up quickly. Her feelings towards him were painfully confused, yet when he wasn’t there she missed him. Her gaze fell on a folded note on the nightstand.
Gone to the harbour. Will return in time to escort you to breakfast. As ever, Jago.
She stared at the phrase As ever. He had used those same words in his note of condolence after her father died on the day that they returned from Spain. He told her later that with so much unsettled between them, so many questions still needing answers, he had not dared speak of love. Instead he had chosen those words hoping to reassure her that his feelings for her had not changed and never would.
Was that why he used them now? Despite the hurt, she loved him still. How could she not? He had been – was – her world. He had awakened her as a woman and given her two precious sons. He was an integral part of her life, of her.
But the day the boys died their marriage changed for ever. There was no going back. But what lay ahead? Emotionally, as well as physically, she was in unknown territory.
She washed and, leaving her lilac gown lying on the ornately carved wooden chest, put on a clean shift, drawers, stockings and her white kid boots, then her corset, camisole, flounced petticoat and a tiered skirt of white spotted muslin.
Sitting down, already uncomfortably warm, she brushed her hair and twisted it into a coil high on her crown to allow air to the back of her neck. Lastly, she put on the white, long-sleeved, swallow-tailed jacket trimmed with a sash and bow of holly green ribbon.
She had just fastened the last button when she heard the key turn. The door opened and her heart gave an extra beat. He was back: she was safe. He placed his hat on top of another tall chest, concern in his gaze as he smiled.
‘Good morning. How are you?’
‘I’m very well, thank you.’
‘I’m truly glad to hear it. Are you ready to go down?’
She nodded. There were shadows under his eyes and the crease between his brows had deepened. About to ask him if everything was all right, she held back. Of course it wasn’t.
‘What?’ he said as she walked out into the passage. He might be tired, but he missed little.
Caseley waited while he locked the door, keeping her voice low as she replied. ‘I was thinking that in a few days we will be leaving for the desert with £20,000 of England’s gold to persuade people, whose loyalties are unknown, to fight against Egyptians who simply want the right to govern their own country.’
‘This is the world of politics,’ he said dryly. ‘For all its unpredictability and physical danger I prefer the sea.’ He cupped her elbow as they walked downstairs.
‘What are your plans for this morning?’ she asked.
‘Why? Is there something you wish to do?’
‘The hotel has a laundry service –’
‘Of course, you want to collect our washing from Cygnet.’
‘You should have woken me.’
He shook his head. ‘You needed sleep.’
‘It would have spared you a second visit to the harbour.’
‘It’s no trouble, Caseley. We’ll go directly after breakfast. Then I must call in at the Consulate. A note was waiting when I went down this morning.’
The sun was already hot, the air only slightly cooled by an on-shore breeze as they took a calèche to the port. As they drew closer, gulls soared and wheeled overhead with mournful cries. Caseley was reminded of Bonython’s yard by smells of coal smoke, sawn timber, boiling pitch and rope.
The crew paused to greet her then returned to their repairs and cleaning. Jago remained on deck talking to Nathan while she went below and gathered their dirty linen, stowing it all in a pillowcase. Then she folded his work shirts and her navy skirt and jacket into another.
‘Do you want to come with me?’ he asked as they headed back towards Midan Muhammad Ali.
‘Thank you, but I think not. Sir Douglas will prefer to see you alone. I’ll deal with this,’ she indicated the two stuffed pillowcases at her feet. ‘You haven’t forgotten Miss Collingwood is taking me to Sheikha Sabra’s villa this afternoon?’
She could not read the look that crossed his face. ‘No, I haven’t forgotten.’
He escorted her into the hotel and handed the pillowcases to the concierge, who instantly summoned a servant. As their laundry was born away with promises of careful handling and swift return, Jago returned to the waiting calèche. Collecting the key, Caseley went up to their room.
During their absence the bed had been made, the bathroom cleaned, and fresh towels hung on the rails. Her lilac gown had vanished. She tugged the bell-pull. A servant reassured her it would be returned the following morning.
Though she appreciated the efficiency, it meant she had only the dress she was wearing which was very plain for a visit to the Sheikha. Still, fretting would not bring it back any sooner.
Removing her jacket, she dipped her facecloth in cold water and bathed her face, throat and the back of her neck. Allowing the water to evaporate on her skin, she sat down at the table and began a letter to Rosina. After assuring her they were safe and well, she described the people she had met and everything she had seen since their arrival.
Rosina would share the letter with Liza-Jane and Ben, and they would be fascinated by her descriptions of the different clothes, buildings, food and people. She had completed two closely written pages when she heard footsteps in the passage.
She turned on her chair as the door opened and Jago strode in, coldly furious.
‘Sir Douglas is demanding that Cygnet should carry the family of a banker friend of his to Cyprus.’
‘But you can’t –’ She stopped herself.
‘Of course I can’t. He’s well aware that we leave for Cairo in two days. He proposes I allow the mate to take command in my absence.’
‘Do you doubt Nathan’s ability?’
Jago shook his head. ‘Not at all. Though being a man short will make it a demanding voyage.’ His rage released, he was already calmer. ‘I don’t like it. But as Colonel Arabi has ignored calls to stop reinforcement work on the forts along the waterfront, at least Cygnet’s absence would remove her from potential danger. And the banker is offering a substantial sum.’
Caseley remained silent. He was talking to clarify his thoughts. The knowledge that she was valuable to him in business as well their domestic life had drawn them closer. He had talked more to her since they embarked on this journey than in a long time. Had he tried? Would she have heard?
A wave of misery gathered and broke. She wrenched her thoughts away from a path too painfully familiar.
‘Caseley? Are you –?’
She made herself look up, made herself smile. ‘I’m fine.’
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nbsp; As the words left her lips she sensed the change in him: a slight but definite withdrawal. Was it relief? Her denial of anything wrong avoided a scene that might have become uncomfortable, emotional. Or had she missed an opportunity?
This wasn’t the time. But when was? Did he know she knew about Louise Downing? Would he not have said something? Why would he? Perhaps he considered it none of her concern. How could he think that? She was his wife. Theirs had been a marriage of love, not an alliance made for money or property.
She had believed them united, two become one. But how could she hold that thought with secrets and deceit driving a wedge between them? She dragged her attention back to the present.
‘What will you do?’
He raked a hand through his hair. ‘Go and tell Nathan. While I’m on board I’ll plot his course for Cyprus. He can use the sea-berth in my day room. The banker can have the sleeping cabin. His wife and ch – family must cope as best they can in Nathan’s cabin. Even with unfavourable winds the voyage should take less than a week.’
‘Will you have lunch first?’
‘I’ll have something on board. What about you?’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘I’ll ask the concierge to arrange for something light on a tray. Don’t fight me, Caseley,’ he warned as she opened her mouth. ‘If you wish to enjoy your afternoon with Miss Collingwood and the Sheikha, you will need your wits about you. You will do better if you have eaten. I don’t want to be worried about you.’
How could she argue? He held her gaze until she nodded.
‘I’ll see you later.’ He left for the harbour and Cygnet.
Caseley sat down again and picked up her pen. But instead of writing she stared into space, her thoughts in turmoil. I don’t want to be worried about you. How was she to interpret that? He had not wanted her to come, yet never failed to show consideration. She should be grateful. Indeed she was.
Was it merely good manners? A gentleman by birth, he had been raised to treat women with courtesy, and she was his wife. Yet how was he able to focus on professional demands as if – as if he had put their tragedy behind him? Logic might say that was the only thing to do. But logic took no account of grief. Looking forward felt like betrayal. Yet looking back was torture. A knock on the door jerked her back to awareness.