Freedom's Banner

by Freedom's Banner (retail) (epub)

  Eyes as dark as his own turned upon him. ‘We have a long way to go yet, Captain Sherwood. Perhaps – who knows? – you’ll get a chance to return the favour?’ The words were spoken lightly, yet there was a certain grim purpose in them. ‘These people – they aren’t playing games, it seems.’

  ‘When Colonel Standish hears what’s happened he’ll call us off, I should think.’ There was regret in Harry’s tone. ‘He might even order us back to Cairo out of the way. There are the ladies to think of.’

  Abdo said nothing.

  ‘Bloody shame. I’d give my eye teeth to have another go at those bastards.’ He glanced again at his companion, remembered the nerveless calm with which he had beaten off the attack in the warehouse. Harry had been in enough tight corners to recognize true courage when he saw it. He’d known many a man to lose his head under less harrowing circumstances. ‘And I’ll tell you one thing. When the chance comes there’s no-one I’d rather have at my back.’

  Abdo’s quiet smile acknowledged the compliment.

  They had reached the riverbank, disorientatingly normal after the events of the past hour, with its moored dahabeeyahs and feluccas, the stalls and booths of the ever-hopeful traders. A crowd of skinny children swarmed towards them, shrieking, thin arms outstretched. Harry stopped for a moment, turned to face the other man, thrust out his hand. ‘I mean it. I owe you my life. And I thank you for it.’

  For a moment so brief it was almost unnoticeable Abdo hesitated; for the first time since they had met Harry fancied that he was disconcerted. Then his well-shaped hand met Harry’s, his grip dry and strong and, also for the first time, his smile was open and without guard.

  ‘Here’s Abdo,’ Hannah said now, drying her hands.

  The tall Nubian threaded his way along the quay, ignoring the clamour about him. Harry stood, left Hannah watching as he ran nimbly down the steps to the lower deck to greet him.

  ‘Well?’

  Abdo gravely handed him a printed wire. The five words were simplicity itself. ‘Pursue with all vigour. Standish.’

  Harry’s eyes lifted to the other man’s; simultaneously both smiled.

  ‘Harry!’ Laila leaned above them, calling down. ‘Harry, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you for hours! I want to go riding. I want to go riding now!’

  * * *

  Hannah, to her own mildly amused surprise, found herself dressing for Mr and Mrs Charles Mansfield’s reception with rather more care than usual. Against her own better judgement at the time, but on Mary’s insistence, she had packed a pretty and rather fashionable promenade gown of pale blue and white striped silk with graceful leg o’ mutton sleeves. The wasp waist and narrow skirt, sweeping to a small train behind, emphasized both her height and her slimness, whilst a foam of lace at breast and wrist softened nicely the almost boyish boniness of her figure. The ensemble was topped neatly with her favourite straw boater, ribboned and flowered to match the dress; about her hair she could do nothing, a problem with which after thirty years she had learned to live without too much despondency. At the end of her toilette she was relatively pleased with what little of herself she could see in the tiny mirror on her cabin wall. And if the corset and the ironbound boning that were necessary to achieve the fashionable shape restricted the breath and the layers of fussy petticoats hobbled her usual easy stride to a – she supposed – more ladylike pace, it was a price to be paid with a smile or not at all. She caught her own eye in the little mirror and could not resist laughing at her own foolishness.

  Harry and Laila awaited her upon the deck, Harry looking like a well-dressed pirate in his immaculately pressed light suit, wide-brimmed Panama hat, and the vicious, slender line of the unhealed knife cut on his face. He would, she thought with sudden and disturbingly affectionate exasperation, cause even more hearts to flutter than usual with this newly acquired accessory. ‘Every handsome man should have one,’ she said approvingly, indicating the wound. ‘Don’t you think so, my dear?’

  Laila clapped her hands. ‘I think he looks like a brigand! Or St George, who’s been scratched by the dragon!’

  ‘Oh, come.’ Hannah’s eyes flicked with subversive amusement to Harry’s face. ‘That’s a little far-fetched, isn’t it?’

  Laila laughed, pirouetted to Harry and took his arm. Quite unconsciously, in floating rose-pink silk and with a swathe of silken flowers in her raven hair, she put Hannah for all her unwonted exertions effortlessly in the shade – where, Hannah was ready to concede wryly, she belonged. So much for late-blooming vanity.

  On the lower deck a small escort of sailors waited, baggy trousers and shirts gleaming white, turbans of every hue tied rakishly about dark heads.

  Hannah took Harry’s other arm, very lightly. ‘Are we ready? Then off we go.’

  The House of the Waterbirds was set upon a rise of ground on the west bank of the river. The house stood within a grove of palms, was large and cool, and built about a series of courtyards in which water played and roofed colonnades threw welcome shade. The whitewashed walls were substantial, the marble floors shone smooth and beautiful. Doves perched and cooed upon the shallow, tiled roof and in the courtyard trees. It was furnished with restraint and in keeping with its setting: low divans and stools, vivid cushions and rugs, bright copper and silver, the European furniture plain and remarkably uncluttered. Greeted by their hosts and urged on into the shadowed interior to where silent-footed servants dispensed refreshing lemonade and tiny sweetmeats, Hannah exclaimed in pleasure. ‘What a lovely house! Laila, don’t you think it’s beautiful?’

  Laila flicked a lustrous glance disinterestedly about her. ‘The Winter House is better. Harry, some lemonade, please.’

  ‘You must see the garden; it is my wife’s pride and joy.’ Charles Mansfield had come up behind them, bluffly smiling. ‘We’re above the floods here, but have of course the advantage of the wonderful soil and the water. Mrs Mansfield is a passionate gardener –’ he extended an arm to Laila, who ignored it and another to Hannah, who did not ‘– come, I’ll introduce you to the other guests, and then later, perhaps, I could show you around?’

  Hannah accepted the arm. ‘How very kind.’

  He led them through a courtyard towards an archway, from which issued the hum of conversation and laughter. Beyond the arch was a terrace, paved and shaded, that commanded a magnificent view of shining river and green, fertile plain, of the huddle of mud-coloured buildings that was Luxor and of the great spread of ancient temples and monuments that lay on both sides of the Nile, the remnants of ancient Thebes. Hannah gazed around. ‘It’s perfectly beautiful.’ There were forty, perhaps fifty people on the terrace already, mostly European. The non-Europeans were, she noted with no surprise, all men.

  ‘We like it. Now, let me introduce you to Mr and Mrs Best – quite charming people from Epsom –’ he beamed at the plump little woman and her equally plump little husband ‘– it is Epsom, isn’t it? Mr and Mrs Best are on the Cook’s steamer, you know.’

  Hannah acknowledged the introduction. From the far side of the terrace Sibyl Rainsford’s eyes had brightened at the sight of the newcomers and she waved. A little way from her a handsome couple stood, apparently absorbed in their own conversation; yet the woman’s blue eyes flicked back and forth across the crowd as if looking for someone. They settled for a moment, dismissively upon Hannah, sharpened as they moved to Harry who, with Laila on his arm, was moving through the crowd behind her. Fenella Hampshire spoke a swift word to her companion, a tall, tanned, moustachioed man of about thirty, whose sleek brown head gleamed copper in the sun, laid a hand briefly on his arm, then turned and began to push through the crowd towards Harry. Hannah watched men’s heads turn as she moved across the terrace. She passed within a foot of Hannah and did not even acknowledge her; yet Hannah, who could not for her life keep a derisive gleam from her eye as she watched the ill-mannered display, fancied that a little colour lifted in the lovely, pale face and flushed the soft expanse of exposed bosom as she
passed.

  ‘Why, Captain Sherwood,’ Fenella called, her deep, husky voice pitched at a level to attract attention from every ear on the terrace, ‘whatever happened to your pretty face? Did some poor benighted husband finally catch up with you?’

  Hannah turned away, taking her host’s arm, distracting him with a smile. ‘Please, I’d love to see your garden. Would you show me?’

  Harry had murmured something, angrily. Laila had drawn closer to him, clinging to his arm, looking up at Fenella with bright eyes and lifted chin, her very smile a provocation.

  Hannah moved away. This was Harry’s war. She wanted nothing of it. ‘How absolutely charming.’ The path from the terrace led through a perfect jungle of exotic plants to a small clearing in which a pool clothed in lilies glimmered in the sunshine. Beyond, through palms, the Nile glistened. Each turn of the path brought a new and artful surprise: an ancient statue, a pebbled pool, a tiny summerhouse, a brilliantly blooming bed of shrubs. They nodded and passed pleasantries with another couple who paced the paths. Above them the talk and laughter, which had abated a little, grew loud again. Hannah glanced up. Fenella Hampshire had rejoined her attentive companion, who leaned towards her, one hand possessively upon her bare arm. She shook it off with an impatient gesture, yet smiled her bright and glittering smile up into his face, and he, hastily, reached for a chair upon which she could settle, lovely as a butterfly in blue and silver. What fools men could be, Hannah found herself thinking tartly, when it came to a pretty face. She watched for a moment longer. Fenella’s new swain was offering her lemonade, tempting her with a tiny cake. She took it, bit into it with shining teeth. Turned her head to look back onto the crowded terrace; and for a moment from her vantage point below Hannah glimpsed a flash of real hatred that hardened that pale, beautiful face and distorted it almost to ugliness. She did not have to follow the direction of the cold blue eyes to see at whom the look was directed. Hannah turned away. If anyone knew how to handle the dangers of a woman scorned it must surely be Harry Sherwood. And if he did not, why, it was certainly none of her business anyway. ‘I’m sorry?’ Her companion had asked a question and was waiting.

  ‘I was suggesting tea – down in the colonnades there, do you see? Overlooking the river. It’s the coolest place in the garden at this time of day.’

  * * *

  It was an hour or so later, after a pleasant interval spent with the Rainsfords and the MacDonalds, that Hannah noticed that Laila had disappeared. She stood on the terrace, scanning the thinning crowds. In the shade of the portico, Harry was deep in conversation with three or four other men. The Mansfields, who had proved such engaging hosts, were in another group seated about a fountain. Others, in couples or in larger groups, were scattered about the terrace, but there was no sign of Laila.

  Nor of Fenella Hampshire.

  The realization filled Hannah with unease. She looked again, more,carefully. There could be no doubt; neither was there. Fenella’s escort stood, ill at ease, with a middle-aged woman who talked animatedly at him whilst he too, Hannah noticed, was searching with his eyes for his missing partner.

  Hannah strolled to the edge of the terrace. The sun was dipping in a magnificently blazing sky. She was hot now, sticky and tired, the train of her dress dragged behind her like some monstrous, heavy tail, holding her back. The corsets and bones that constricted her body had chafed her sore. All at once she wanted nothing but the cool deck of the dahabeeyah, her loose, unconventional clothing, their small, safe little brotherhood of discussion and laughter.

  Far below her, upon one of the marble benches in the now-deserted colonnade where she had taken tea with Mr Mansfield, she saw them: silver and blue, and rose pink, fair head and dark, the prettiest of pictures, Fenella’s straw hat with its decoration of dove’s wings laid upon the bench beside her.

  Hannah, unmindful of ceremony, lifted her skirts in both hands and hurried to the steps that led down to the path.

  It took what seemed an age. At each turn of the path she glimpsed them; saw Laila’s distraught attempt to rise, saw the strong, white hand that held her back. Saw, as she got closer, the expression of malice on the fair face as Madam Mischief did her worst. Hannah could not disguise her coming; as she saw them so she knew Fenella saw her. That she would arrive too late to prevent whatever devilment the other woman had in mind was obvious from the first. When, hot and breathless, she reached the end of the colonnade, it was to see Fenella Hampshire walking towards her, the setting sun gleaming upon the spun gold of her hair, no fold of her dress displaced, her charming hat swinging by its ribbons from her hand. Hannah watched her. As she approached she neither slowed nor quickened her even stride. Her smile was tranquil, the gleam in her eye spiteful. She nodded as she passed, as if acknowledging an acquaintance upon the promenade at Brighton. ‘Good evening, Miss Standish.’ And she was gone.

  Laila sat as if struck to stone, the ivory tone of her skin paled to the colour of the marble upon which she rested.

  Hannah sat beside her. Took the girl’s cold hand in both of hers. ‘Laila? Laila my dear, what is it?’

  Laila shook her head.

  ‘Laila – whatever she said – ignore it. She’s a wicked, mischievous woman.’

  ‘If you please,’ Laila said, without looking at her, ‘I should like to leave. Now.’

  Hannah looked at her helplessly.

  Laila stood. ‘Now,’ she repeated.

  * * *

  Harry was enjoying himself. The talk had turned to horses, and a small bottle of real Scotch whisky had appeared. ‘Best little filly I ever saw,’ one of his new acquaintances was saying, ‘ran the legs off the rest – won by a mile and made me a fortune.’

  Hannah touched his arm. ‘Harry.’

  He stepped reluctantly to one side, one ear still on the conversation. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Laila. She’s –’ Hannah hesitated ‘– she isn’t feeling too well. I think I should take her hack to the Horus.’

  ‘Ah.’ Harry’s disappointment was as obvious as a boy’s. ‘Right – I’ll say my goodbyes and join you –’

  ‘No.’ Hannah shook her head firmly. ‘There’s no need for that. We have the men to escort us back. You stay. We’ll see you later.’

  Harry made one more small effort. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course I am. Stay as long as you like.’

  His hesitation lasted only a moment longer. ‘Right. If you need me send Abdo, or one of the crew.’

  ‘I will.’

  Laila awaited her at the front door, still silent, still with that frozen, stricken look of sickness upon her lovely face that caused the other departing guests to glance at her in curiosity. ‘Is the young lady all right?’ their hostess enquired anxiously.

  ‘I must say she looks quite unwell. Are you certain she wouldn’t like to stay? We have plenty of room.’

  Hannah shook her head again. ‘You’re very kind but no, thank you. I can take care of her.’

  Laila spoke not a word on the way back to the river. Nor for a long time did she speak once they were safe back aboard the Horus. At Hannah’s suggestion, she changed into a cooler and more comfortable robe whilst Hannah did the same, and called for tea. When Laila reappeared on deck looking like a subdued child in rust-coloured silk, there were tear stains on her cheeks, and her eyes were red.

  ‘Now,’ Hannah said at last, settled beside her on a long, cushioned sofa and reaching for her hand, ‘what did she say that was so very terrible? Tell me.’

  * * *

  Harry much enjoyed his evening. He had not realized how long a time it had been since he had last been in exclusively male company. With the rest of the guests gone and Mrs Mansfield, with much appreciated tact, retiring to her bed with a book, he, his host and two or three others sat on through the dazzling sunset emptying the bottle, talking war and politics, discussing the latest, wildest rumours about the true fate of General Gordon. It was fully dark by the time he returned, whistling softly as he walked to
the dahabeeyah.

  He saw as he came to the riverbank that the Horus was almost in darkness. Her mooring lights hung stem and stern, a lantern lit the gangplank and another burned on the upper passenger deck. The air had turned cooler and a faint breeze stirred the waters of the river, flapped the furled sails of the dahabeeyahs and feluccas that lay at anchor. He leaped lightly onto the plank, swung his way onto the boat, ran up the steps to the upper deck two at a time.

  ‘Harry.’

  Hannah’s voice stopped him in his tracks. He peered into the darkness. She was sitting in a chair just out of the circle of lamplight. Her voice sounded strained. He took a step towards her. ‘Hannah? Is that you? Is Laila all right?’

  There was a moment’s silence. Hannah took a breath he could hear. ‘Harry, could you spare me a moment? I need to talk to you.’

  Baffled but not overly concerned, he walked to where she sat and perched on the seat beside her, elbows on knees, hands loosely linked as he peered through the darkness at her. ‘Well, of course. What is it?’

  Since she had finally succumbed to Laila’s hysterical pleading and seen her and her nurse safely escorted to the house of Ali abd Ela, Hannah had sat for hours anticipating this moment. She had examined and discarded a dozen ways to tell him what had happened. The longer she had turned it over in her mind, the more it had become clear to her; and the more she had come to understand what this might mean to Harry. Her anger at his own stupidity, which had set off this chain of events that could become a scandal that almost certainly would destroy him, had long since evaporated. Who knew what had driven him to betray his own secret, and to one so untrustworthy?

  Hannah stood up, smoothing her gown with flat, nervous hands, turned from him to lean against one of the supports of the awning. She could not bear to watch his face as she spoke.

  ‘Laila was not ill this afternoon.’ Her voice was quiet and perfectly calm, she kept all emotion at bay as she spoke. ‘She was – very upset. Mrs Hampshire had been extremely abusive to her.’ She paused.