The Master's Wife

by Jane Jackson

  Their first class carriage was built of teak and had a footboard running the full length of the deep-buttoned dark red upholstery, a matching carpet and glass windows with shutters.

  After paying off the porters, and speaking to the guard, Pawlyn took his seat beside Antonia, opposite Caseley and Jago.

  ‘The journey will take about four and a half hours,’ he told them. ‘There will be several stops to allow people to board and leave, also for –’ he hesitated and the tips of his ears turned pink. ‘For passengers’ comfort and, of course, for food.’

  Caseley had never been on a train and was surprised by the richness of the furnishings. A loud hissing and a violent jolt made her clutch instinctively at Jago’s arm. The train started moving.

  ‘I fear you will find it a lot less comfortable than a ship,’ Pawlyn smiled at her. ‘The springing is very harsh. Also the carriages are linked by loose couplings which make the ride rather jerky.’

  Caseley nodded, still waiting for her heartbeat to slow to normal.

  ‘Egypt was the first country in Africa to have a railway system,’ he continued. The kindness in his eyes told her he recognised her unease and was trying to take her mind off it. ‘By 1877 there was a large network of main lines. But in the entire twenty-five years of its operation, the national rail company had never produced an annual report. The result was a financial nightmare. This was only one of Khedive Ismail’s many projects designed to make Egypt more European. Instead, his wild spending and even wilder borrowing plunged the country deep into debt.

  ‘Two years later the Sultan ordered Ismail to abdicate in favour of his son, the present Khedive. On June 30th 1879, a long baggage train left Cairo for Alexandria. It was packed with pictures, furniture, dinner services, rare carpets, bronze and silver candelabra, and plates of solid gold inlaid with jewels. Everything was loaded onto Ismail’s steam yacht and taken to Italy, where he is living in comfortable retirement.’

  Recalling his description of poverty-stricken Egyptians barely able to afford seed for the next year’s crops, Caseley shook her head. ‘That doesn’t seem right.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ Pawlyn agreed.

  ‘Oh, please,’ Antonia begged, ‘no more politics.’

  Seated by the window, Caseley was surprised at how quickly the city gave way to dusty sand and bare rock. Then she began to see areas of cultivated land surrounded by embankments, criss-crossed by narrow channels.

  She watched a man swing a long pivoted pole with a leather bucket on one end and dip it into a canal leading off from a river.

  ‘Is that the Nile?’ she asked.

  ‘One of its tributaries,’ he explained. ‘The river is low at the moment but in a week or so it will start to rise. By September it will fill the delta and canals and enrich the land with all the silt it carries.’

  The squares of land were filled with crops: vibrant green wild clover, rows of broad beans and onions, fields of Indian corn and plantations of date and banana palms.

  Men in loincloths or ragged blue cotton robes pulled up between their legs and tucked into a cord tied round the waist were working barefoot in the fields.

  ‘The swing bucket is called a shaduf. Over there, the vertical waterwheel driven by an ox, that’s a saquia.’

  ‘They may not have much money, but at least they have plenty to eat,’ Antonia indicated the fertile plots.

  ‘No,’ Pawlyn corrected gently. ‘The fellahin work for landowners who employ overseers. All the crops are sold. The men you see working eat only maize bread, beans and goat’s milk or goat’s cheese. Meat is a rarity for them.’

  Caseley remembered the fish, chicken and beef they had eaten at the hotel and the Consulate.

  As they headed inland the temperature increased. Even though the carriage had a double roof open at the sides to allow heat to escape she was hot, clammy and uncomfortable. Perspiration prickled her forehead and upper lip. She rested her head against the padded seatback and closed her eyes. But that made the jerky swaying even more noticeable. She felt queasy and a knot of tension was forming at the base of her skull.

  ‘Are you unwell?’ Jago murmured.

  ‘Just hot.’ Turning to him, she smiled. ‘I much prefer travelling by sea.’

  After a fifteen-minute stop during which they drank tea and made use of the facilities, Caseley felt better.

  ‘At Kafr el-Zayyat,’ Pawlyn said when the train was under way once more, ‘the line used to cross the Nile by means of an eighty-foot float car. But in May 1858 a special train carrying Prince Ahmad Rifaat fell off the float into the river and he was drowned. Robert Stephenson, who was Egypt’s first railway engineer, replaced the car float with a swing bridge nearly sixteen hundred feet long.’

  ‘How do you know all these things?’ Antonia asked, surprised.

  ‘I’m a journalist. I’m also naturally curious. I want – no, I need – to know as much about the country as possible if I’m to do my job properly. For instance, did you know that the Bedouin speak the oldest and purest form of Arabic? And they have a love of poetry and songs. Storytelling and recitation of old poems is a popular pastime in the evenings. Anyone – man or woman – who shows a talent for creating poetry is greatly respected.’

  Four and a half hours after leaving Alexandria, they arrived in Cairo. The train pulled into the station with a squeal of brakes, hissing clouds of steam and the acrid smell of soot.

  Jago got out first and turned to offer Caseley his hand. Gripping it tightly she stepped down onto the platform. People surged around them. An anxious group of Europeans disembarked from the other first class carriage, summoned porters and pushed their way towards the entrance.

  On the platform barefooted men carried shallow baskets of fruit, dates and golden rings of baked dough. Wealthy Egyptians wearing ankle-length sleeveless coats of blue, black or ochre over long white robes, their heads covered by spotless white turbans or head cloths held in place by thick black cords, moved along the platform followed by veiled women in head-to-toe black.

  A water-seller carried a large chased-metal jug on a leather strap, with a small handleless cup attached to it by a long chain. The air was pungent with the smells of smoke, spices, rotting fruit and sweating humanity.

  Caseley’s grip tightened and Jago turned to her. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t lose you.’ His gaze held hers.

  You already have.

  The thought sprang within her, unbidden and horrifying. She thrust it away. ‘It’s a little overpowering.’

  One corner of his mouth quirked upward in a wry grin. ‘A little?’ He guided her through the crowd towards the luggage van. Quickly, Pawlyn organised the porters and they followed their baggage out of the station building into blinding sunlight, heat and noise.

  Stalls crowded together piled high with fruit and vegetables, mounds of spices, folded lengths of cloth, sweet pastries and cooked food. Pedlars shouted, beckoning towards loaded trays hanging from a strap around their necks. Donkeys tottered by, so heavily laden that only their long ears, faces and hooves, no bigger than eggcups, were visible.

  Caseley watched, awed, as a string of camels stalked past, stately and disdainful. Once again, her head was swimming. Not just from the heat but from the impact of so much that was new and strange.

  ‘Come on, Caseley,’ Antonia said impatiently from a calèche.

  ‘Go with her,’ Jago said quietly. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

  Sabra’s house was in a quiet street. Three storeys high, the house had a box-like structure made of louvered wooden slats with adjustable openings attached at the front of the second storey.

  ‘What is that?’ Caseley asked, pointing, but Antonia had turned away and was beckoning to the doorkeeper.

  ‘It’s the window of the women’s quarters,’ Robert Pawlyn came to her side. ‘You will see them on nearly every house. The design provides excellent ventilation and views of the street while ensuring the privacy of those inside.’

  The doorkeeper admi
tted them into an airy portico, leading to a lobby. The spicy smell of cooking drifted out through an archway. Another servant, wearing a white skullcap, spotless white robe and sleeveless red jacket directed more servants to bring the luggage and led them up a shallow stone staircase to a large reception room.

  As they walked in, Sabra came forward, hands outstretched.

  ‘Ma chère Madame Barata,’ she said in French. Clasping Caseley’s hands, Sabra kissed her on both cheeks. ‘I am so happy to see you again, and to welcome you to my house.’

  ‘I – we – my husband and I are very happy to be here.’

  ‘And relieved to be off the train, I imagine. Even a camel is more comfortable, as you will see for yourself.’ Gently pressing Caseley’s hands she released them and turned to Antonia.

  While Sabra greeted Antonia, Caseley quickly repeated what the Sheikha had said. His gaze on the two women, Jago gave a brief nod, murmuring, ‘Thank you.’

  Sabra offered her hand and he bowed over it. Then he stepped back to allow Pawlyn to take his place.

  ‘Your refusal to accept the English government’s claim that Egypt isn’t capable of running her own affairs may cost you dearly, Mr Pawlyn,’ Sabra said. ‘Should you not be supporting your government’s position?’

  As they were still speaking French, Caseley was able to whisper a translation to Jago. How would she manage if they switched to Arabic? Even as the thought occurred she realised Sabra’s courtesy would not permit that while she and Jago were present.

  Pawlyn tipped his head to acknowledge her point. ‘There are more than enough correspondents doing that, ma’am. In my opinion, the job of a journalist is to report both sides of a situation.’

  ‘In these difficult times some would call that treason.’

  ‘As an Englishman I believe in the principle of free speech. As a journalist I hold truth more important than political expediency.’

  Sabra smiled. ‘You are either very brave or very foolish.’ She turned from him. ‘Sheikh Imad has sent Bedouin clothing for each of you.’ She signalled another servant, who brought the neatly folded garments first to Caseley then Antonia, then to the men.

  ‘You each have an ankle-length long-sleeved thobe, which simply means garment. The long, sleeveless, open robe is an aba and can be wrapped loosely across the body while sitting or riding.’

  A length of lightweight black cloth to cover Caseley’s head was embroidered in tiny red cross-stitches, whereas the stitching on Antonia’s was blue.

  ‘The red embroidery signifies you are a married woman,’ she explained before Caseley could ask. ‘And now you will be shown to the guest rooms.’

  ‘Ask her where you will be,’ Jago murmured to Caseley, taking the folded garments and leather sandals the servant placed in his arms.

  ‘In the women’s quarters upstairs,’ Sabra replied to Caseley’s enquiry.

  ‘Tell the Sheikha I am honoured by her kindness in inviting us into her home, and have no wish to offend. But I would appreciate it if we could remain together.’

  Even as Caseley’s heart soared, painful memories lurked like assassins. She shut them out. That was then. This was now.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sabra’s gaze remained on Jago while Caseley translated. Caseley knew that, despite his courteous choice of words, he expected his request to be granted.

  ‘But of course, Captain Barata,’ Sabra agreed at once, the perfect hostess. She gave quiet instructions to the servant in Arabic.

  ‘A meal will be served in an hour. I ask that you all come down dressed in your Bedouin garments. Tonight is an opportunity for you to get used to them.’

  Caseley translated quickly. Jago bowed to Sabra. ‘Please tell the Sheikha I am most grateful.’

  Pawlyn was shown to his room, along a passage on the same floor.

  ‘If you will go with Anwar, Captain? Madame Barata will join you as soon as I have explained to her and Miss Collingwood certain details of how their robes should be worn.’ Her polite nod dismissed him and she looked to Caseley, who quickly translated. Jago bowed and followed the waiting servant up a further flight of stairs. Caseley turned to focus on what Sabra was saying.

  ‘Though some Bedouin women veil their faces, many do not unless strangers enter their camp.’

  ‘Sabra?’ Antonia interrupted. ‘Do you think Caseley’s hair might be a problem? I have heard that the Bedouin are superstitious and regard red hair as a sign of the devil. They think the same of blue eyes.’

  How strange she would know that, Caseley thought, yet know so little of Bedouin life and customs.

  Sabra smiled. ‘As Caseley’s eyes are green I do not think we need be alarmed. As for her hair, it is not the shade most people think of as red, but coppery-bronze. Besides, it is customary for a married woman to wear an additional scarf folded into a broad band tied across the forehead.’ She turned to Caseley.

  ‘You will find one with your robes. If you loop the long scarf under your chin and tuck it into the top of the band, your hair will be completely hidden. I see no cause for concern.’

  Caseley wanted to believe Antonia’s critical remark was well-intentioned. But she was also aware Antonia was jealous of Sabra’s friendliness towards someone who was a newcomer to Egypt with no connection to the resident English community.

  She picked up her new clothes. ‘Please excuse me. I need time to practise.’ Leaving Antonia with Sabra, she followed a waiting servant up a second staircase. Indicating a door, he bowed.

  ‘I trust you will find everything you need, madam,’ he said in perfect French. ‘But should you require anything at all, please ring the bell.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He bowed again and silently retreated.

  Closing the door behind her, Caseley looked around. The room was spacious and airy. As at the hotel, the large bed was covered, not with the blankets she was used to at home, but with a thick, soft quilt. She lifted one corner and was surprised at its lightness, then realised the quilt, mattress and pillows, all covered with crisp white cotton, were stuffed with feathers.

  A large chest of dark wood with a carved lid stood at the foot of the bed. In one corner was a tall, vase-shaped hamper made of woven palm fibre. Two elegant chairs upholstered in rose pink velvet flanked a hexagonal table inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Their bags sat on top of the trunk that had been placed against the wall.

  Compared to their bedroom back home the furnishings seemed sparse. But the louvred slats blocked the sun’s glare and air flowing in cooled the room. Where was Jago?

  Laying the neat block of folded garments on the bed, she peered through an archway and saw a room with a porcelain slipper bath half full of water on which rose petals floated, and a wooden stand with several towels folded on it.

  Through another arch was a smaller cubicle. Relief made her smile as she saw a smooth stone seat on stone supports, beneath which was a large removable earthenware pot with sand in the bottom. Beside it, against the wall, were two more pots. One contained sand, the other water. After a moment’s uncertainty she guessed the sand was an alternative to ash from the cooking range. Was it the custom here to use water instead of the squares of newspaper they relied on aboard Cygnet?

  Back in the bedroom she crossed to a door in the opposite wall and found herself in a room identical to hers. Beyond an archway she heard splashing. After a moment, Jago came out. Naked to the waist, he was wiping his bearded face and the back of his neck with a towel. His hair was wet and tousled. She glanced away, oddly shy, but still saw his broad shoulders and the dark hair that covered his chest and disappeared beneath thin white cotton trousers tied with a drawcord.

  ‘There’s a separate lavatory as well as the bathroom.’

  She nodded. ‘My room has the same.’

  He grinned. ‘Luxury compared to Cygnet’s facilities.’

  ‘I won’t hear a word against Cygnet’s facilities,’ Caseley said. ‘Though I do miss a bath.’

  ‘Go,’ he
smiled. ‘Enjoy it while you can.’

  Returning to the bedroom she took a clean shift from her bag, scooped up the garments and leather sandals from the bed, and went to the bathroom, hanging everything over the rail as another need took priority.

  A few minutes later, she eased hot feet out of her ankle boots then stripped off her stockings and layers of clothing. Tugging the clinging shift away from damp skin she pulled it over her head and dropped it on the pile, then stepped into the tepid sweet-scented water.

  Bending her knees she slid down so it covered her shoulders and released a blissful sigh. She wished she could wash her hair. But even in this heat it would take too long to dry.

  After soaping and rinsing she stood up, stepped out onto the cool stone tiles, and dried herself.

  She unfolded the purplish-black garments. Over her clean shift she put on the loose, long-sleeved thobe, then the sleeveless open robe trimmed with red and gold braid. Slipping her feet into the sandals she scooped up her discarded clothes and returned to the bedroom.

  As she entered, Jago turned and they studied each other. Over the white cotton thobe, his aba was the colour of sand. Held in place by a thick black cord, a length of white cloth covered his hair, the long ends hanging down on his chest.

  ‘You look – different,’ she blurted. It was like looking at a handsome stranger.

  ‘I was thinking the same.’

  Laying her discarded clothes on top of the carved chest she sat on the bed, but immediately got up again and moved to the louvred window.

  ‘What is it?’

  She turned to face him, forced the words out. ‘I think – perhaps it would be better if I didn’t go.’

  His features tightened but his voice remained calm. ‘Why?’

  ‘The last thing I want is to cause trouble.’