City of Jasmine

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “Very good, Mrs. Starke,” he said, rising. “I will inform the landlord of the cottage that you do not mean to renew the lease, and I will contact the Society about arrangements for the collection of Lady Lavinia’s papers. Her estate—and by extension, you—should in no way bear the cost of packing them up and transporting them to London. I will also notify you as soon as I have a buyer for the Orinoco Green.”

  “But I don’t mean to sell Arthur,” I repeated. “He’s a terrible nuisance, of course, but I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

  He blinked behind his thick spectacles. “I don’t think you understand, Mrs. Starke. Arthur Wellesley is a common green parrot. I am speaking of the Orinoco Green, Lady Lavinia’s emerald.”

  “What emerald?”

  He blinked again. “Surely you noticed her emerald, Mrs. Starke. She wore it on a daily basis. In fact, I am given to understand it never left her person.”

  I groped back to my chair. “Do you mean that lump of green glass she used to pin in her turban?”

  His face relaxed into a smile. “I’m afraid the Orinoco Green is not glass. It is, in fact, a rather significant emerald from Colombia. Lady Lavinia acquired it on her travels in South America.” He cleared his throat gently. “I believe it was the gift of an admirer.”

  “But it can’t be real—it’s massive!”

  “Yes, and quite valuable,” he said rather sternly. “And that is why I counseled her many times to leave it in a bank vault or on our premises for safekeeping. However, your aunt was—well, she was a very headstrong lady, I think I may say without giving offence. She insisted upon wearing it, but she was not entirely unaware of the danger she courted by wearing such a spectacular jewel. That is why she had it placed in such an obviously cheap setting and wore other similar pieces with it. The thing looked like a bit of glass instead of the significant gemstone that it is.”

  I perked up my ears. “You said valuable.”

  The smile was back. “It is. Not as much as these things used to be, you understand. With the White Russians selling off all of their imperial jewels, there’s a glut in the market just now and you won’t get as much as you might have before the war. But I think I can assure you of a tidy little bit of capital that will generate a modest income. You could keep a flat in London, if you liked, although nothing extravagant,” he said, his tone firm. “Just a pair of rooms with a kitchen and a cook-housekeeper. There should be enough left for a little travel and some modest entertaining. Nothing more,” he warned.

  I was practically floating as I left his office. I ought to have been furious with Aunt Dove, but my fingers flew as I threw my things into a bag and caught the train for Mistledown. My euphoria lasted until I stepped off the train and into Wally’s arms when I promptly burst into tears. I sobbed on him all the way to the house and up to my room, where the maid poured me a stiff drink and stuck me in a hot bath. I went to bed early and didn’t get up for two days by which time I was feeling miles better, like something newborn: fragile and fresh and beginning anew, and the last time I dried my tears, I burned the handkerchief and put on my brightest scarlet lipstick. I was finished looking behind me.

  Wally and I spent weeks rambling about the countryside and gardens and talking about all that had happened. He pointed out his projects to me with a proprietary air, and I smiled.

  “You’ve done it, Wally. You’ve gone and become the lord of the manor, just like your father wanted.”

  “I have not,” he said indignantly. “I’m still the same fellow I ever was.”

  “Yes, but in tweed plus fours and talking about drains and the tenant farms,” I teased. I looped my arm through his. “I think it’s grand. You’re bringing new life to this place, and I’m rather proud of you.”

  He preened a little. “I’m rather proud of myself, I suppose. I always thought the people around here would always see me as the boy I was. But once I got down here, when Father was too sick to give orders, I just sort of rose to it. There was no more ‘Master Vyvyan’ from the staff. And when we came back from the funeral and the first one addressed me as ‘milord,’ I turned and looked behind me to see if Father had risen from the grave. I don’t mind telling you it spooked me. But I liked it. I felt like a ‘m’lord’, like I was happy to be responsible for the place.” He shook his head. “Odd, isn’t it? I only wish Father had known. It might have eased his mind to know I would take to it so well.”

  “I think he did know. I think that’s why he wanted you down here. He knew Mistledown would get hold of you and never let you go.”

  He raised his brows. “Legacies, eh? And what of yours? Aren’t you furious with Dove for not telling you that bloody piece of glass was really an emerald that might have saved the family fortunes?”

  I shook my head. “I ought to be. But I can’t seem to muster the rage. She was terribly wrong to have lied about not having anything of value, of course, but I quite see why she did it.”

  “Do you?”

  “Not knowing about the emerald forced me out of my safe little cocoon.”

  “Cocoon?” He howled with laughter. “My darling girl, you were already learning to barnstorm. I would hardly call courting death on a daily basis a cocoon.”

  “Well, perhaps not cocoon. But it was a safe spot, just taking lessons and not doing anything in particular. She told me once she was worried I would just bump along in life and not have any more grand adventures since my marriage had turned out so disastrously. She was afraid I had soured on living a large life. I think keeping the emerald up her sleeve was her way of making certain I took risks. And we did have a grand adventure, didn’t we?”

  He smiled. “We certainly did. And what will you do now?”

  I spread my arms open wide. “Whatever I like. Another adventure, of course, large or small, I don’t care. Maybe learning shorthand. I could take a job and see if it suits me. Or I could rent a cottage in the Shetlands and learn to keep goats. Or is it sheep in the Shetlands? I can never remember.”

  His tone was decidedly casual. “Well, if you’ve a hankering for country life, you might as well stay here.”

  “Don’t be stupid. I can’t stay here except as—” I broke off. “No, Wally. You’re a dear, but I can’t.”

  “Don’t fancy life as the lady of the manor, then?”

  “Oh, I could, particularly this manor.”

  “Just not my lady,” he added lightly.

  I shook my head slowly. “No, not yours. I love you dreadfully. You know that. But it isn’t enough, pet. Not for either of us.”

  “Besides,” he said, tucking my hand in his arm, “you’re still married and I don’t fancy visiting my wife in gaol when she’s taken up for bigamy.” He paused. “Have you heard from him?”

  “Not so much as a postcard,” I said.

  “You’re being awfully brave about it.”

  “Do you think so? Then I’m a better liar than I thought.”

  “What’s the latest news from Damascus?”

  “It isn’t good. The French are insisting on a mandate and it looks as if they’ll win. Poor Sheikh Hamid,” I said, thinking of the courteous gentleman with his strong profile and love of poetry.

  “I rather wondered if you’d go back there,” he said. “You know, to have a nose around and look for him.”

  I gave him a careful smile. “No, Wally. Gabriel will know how to find me if he wishes. But I’m finished with his adventures. It’s time to find mine.”

  I stayed with Wally for the whole of July and by the end of it, I was restless. I had followed developments in Damascus, snatching up the newspaper as soon as it was delivered each morning—a fact that enraged the butler since it was his job to iron it before the ink could sully his master’s hands. But I didn’t mind if my fingers got grubby. I tore through the pages, searching for something, anything. Th
e news was never good. In the middle of July, King Faisal surrendered, and on July 25, the day after the devastating Battle of Maysalun, his government fell officially and the French regained control. The brief dream of a free Arab kingdom was over. At first I expected word from him. I gave a start each time the telephone bell went or the butler brought the post. But it was never him. I did not believe he was dead. Had I ever? I thought back to the years after the Lusitania when I had been told he was lost forever. Had I ever truly believed it? I wonder. Even now, I think there must have been some part of me, something buried in blood and bone that understood he could not die and I would not know it. Something of him would always survive in me. I was part of him and he of me, and I believed so long as I lived, something of him would endure, as well.

  So I did not weep again—not when I packed up, not when I took Arthur Wellesley and boarded a ship out of Portsmouth; not when we put to sea and the salt air blew in my face, carrying me far from England and into the waters of the Red Sea. I did not even weep when I went onto the deck late one afternoon when the long golden light stretched over the deck and shimmered the sea to brilliance. I wore a dress made of the green silk Rashid had chosen for me in Damascus, the colour he promised would bring out the green in my eyes and make me irresistible to men. In one hand I carried Arthur in his ridiculous Damascene cage. In the other I carried a wooden box from Bali, carved with flowers. I set Arthur carefully on the deck and looked around, but no one was about. The dressing bell for dinner had just sounded and everyone was busy with their ruffled silks and pearls. There was no one to disturb us.

  I stood a long moment, watching the golden shimmer of the sea. I thought of Aunt Dove, with her brilliance and her own magnificent sparkle, and it seemed like as good a time as any. I opened the box and threw her ashes to the wind, watching the feathery grey cloud scatter over the sea. Most settled on the surface of the water, hesitating, then drifting gently into the depths. But some were caught on the wind, skimming gently out to sea, far from the Arabian coast, mingling with the perfumes and spices of fabled lands.

  “I think she would like that, Arthur,” I said. He flapped a little, but his expression was solemn.

  “I think talking to birds is a sign of incipient mental breakdown,” drawled a bored, high-pitched male voice.

  I turned to see another passenger approaching. He wore an eyepatch and walked with a stick and his hair was entirely white although his skin was remarkably firm for a man so old. He carried a battered attaché case in his free hand.

  “And what if the bird is a better conversationalist than the other passengers?” I retorted.

  “Then you ought not to be travelling alone, dear lady. I think you need to be under someone’s care.”

  From under the bushy white eyebrows, the eye that stared at me was a brilliant forget-me-not blue.

  “I think I can take care of myself,” I replied.

  “I’ve no doubt of that,” he answered softly, dropping the affected voice.

  I swallowed hard against the tight knot of joy in my throat. “Have you really lost an eye or is that part of the disguise?”

  He glanced around, then flipped up the eyepatch, winking.

  “The limp is real, though. Bullet to the thigh at Maysalun,” he said with a rueful grimace.

  “You’re getting too old for that sort of thing,” I told him. “I read about the battle in the newspapers. I’m sorry.”

  He smiled thinly. “No more than I am. They had a chance, you know.”

  “I know. How is Hamid? And Rashid? And Aysha, and oh, all of them!”

  “They’re well. They send their regards. Hamid is philosophical about the whole mess. He says change is slow in the desert, but it will come in time.”

  “Have you finished there?” I asked. “Really finished?”

  “I have,” he said, his expression resigned. “The French got their way this time, and the powers-that-be will go back to the conference tables and draw the maps again and make new kings. But they shouldn’t. And I’ve lost the taste for meddling in other men’s wars.” His tone was light, but there was a dark edge of bitterness to his words. He would regret much of what had happened there for the rest of his life, I had little doubt.

  “So since I last saw you, you’ve been in a war and got yourself shot. Perhaps you’re the one who needs a keeper.”

  “Yes, I think I do. Tell me, where are we bound?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I haven’t the faintest. I caught up with you just as you were boarding at Portsmouth and barely made it onto the ship myself.”

  “And it’s taken you a fortnight to find me? It isn’t that large a ship, you know.”

  His expression was grave. “I thought you might like a little time to yourself.”

  “You mean you had second thoughts.”

  “Well, it did occur to me I might not be welcomed with entirely open arms.”

  I tipped my head. “I ought to pitch you overboard. You promised me the True Cross and all I got was a wrecked plane and a decrepit parrot for my troubles.”

  “And the heart of the Cross,” he said blandly.

  I blinked. “What the devil to you mean? Gabriel—”

  He held up a finger. “Colonel Clutterbuck, please. That’s my current alias.”

  “Clutterbuck? I will call you no such thing. It’s absurd.”

  He huffed a sigh. “Is that any way to talk to a veteran of the Crimean War?”

  “Gabriel, all the veterans of the Crimean War died decades ago. Now, what do you mean I have the heart of the Cross?”

  He grinned. “I told you I took it from the Cross when I first discovered the thing. It shows a decided lack of curiosity on your part that you never asked where I stashed it.”

  He paused, waiting, and I stamped my foot. “Don’t play games, you maddening man. Where is it?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Oh, very well, but you’re a disappointment to me, you really are. I would have thought you’d have discovered it ages ago.”

  He put down the attaché case and bent over Arthur’s cage, unscrewing the gaudy finial. The thing was in three parts, and he deftly freed the top and bottom bits leaving a centre-piece with a cavity of sorts. He gestured for me to hold out my hands and as I did so, he upended the middle bit. For one agonising moment, nothing happened. Then, with an audible sigh, the thing slid free and into my hands, a single enormous piece of crystal. Embedded within was a piece of wood the size of a man’s hand. It was jagged at the edges, and deep within the grain of the wood was a dark stain. Blood? Rust from a nail that had been forged in a blacksmith’s fire in Jerusalem?

  I could scarcely hold it steady, my nerves were rattling so badly. Here in my hands was the single most valuable thing I had ever seen, would ever see. And Gabriel had risked his life to give it to me.

  “It’s yours,” he said. His voice was quiet, almost reverent. “I will write a letter as to its provenance and I will detail everything that happened. There will be doubters, of course, but I think you should be able to convince quite a few people as to its authenticity. And when you have, it will be easy enough to find a buyer. My word isn’t worth much,” he added with a wry smile, “but you could get corroboration from Gethsemane and Herr Doktor Schickfuss if you needed.”

  I did not take my eyes off the heart of the Cross. “I can’t use your testimony. You are a ghost, remember?”

  He shrugged. “I will come clean and tell the whole story. It will be a nightmare, of course, particularly once my parents get hold of me. And there will most likely be a bit of detention involved, but no matter.”

  “Detention is a nice word for prison,” I reminded him, watching the setting sun brighten the gold setting of the crystal.

  “Only until we get it all sorted,” he assured me. “The government won’t want m
e spilling my guts about what we got up to during the war. I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

  I finally looked at him. “After you killed John Halliday? I hardly think so.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t kill him, pet. He got damned lucky. He was picked up by a caravan less than a mile from where he landed while I had to walk all the bloody way out of the Badiyat ash-Sham. I tracked him down in Baghdad. He was hiding out in some filthy hovel in a room he rented under an assumed name.”

  “You didn’t kill him?”

  His solemn gaze never left mine. “No, I didn’t. Now, I’m not saying I left him without a few bumps and bruises. After all, I owed him a little,” he added, widening his eyes innocently. “But I didn’t kill him. I decided that would have been unsporting. Besides, I may no longer work for the Vespiary, but I didn’t want them dragged into any of this. They’ve enough troubles without arranging favours for me. It was simpler just to take what I went for and leave him alive.”

  My heart began to drum in my chest, a slow, heavy rhythm. “Gabriel, did you find—”

  He lifted a brow. “Did I find? Oh, you mean this?” He reached into his attaché case and drew out a familiar goatskin bundle—a little the worse for wear after all of its travels. Gabriel had the instincts of a showman. He unwrapped it slowly, drawing out the anticipation as I peered over his shoulder.

  At last, he folded back the final layer of the wrappings and lifted the Cross. I saw a flash of gold and jewels, but before I could look at it properly, he took a moment to restore the heart to its home, fitting the crystal into the open setting at the centre of the Cross. Carefully, he handed it to me.

  I looked down at the relic in my hands. It was a piece of history, the wood that been part of the most famous execution in all of the world, stained with what might well be the blood of Christ. This relic had passed through the hands of kings and bishops; it had been carried in triumph before armies and witnessed the passing of ages. It was the single holiest artefact in all of Christendom, and it was mine.