Historical Jewels

by Jewel, Carolyn

  “Yes, Foye.”

  He frowned. “Even in English, to you I am my lord or Lord Foye, understood?”

  She nodded. There were too many ways she could reveal herself. Too many.

  “When you reach Iskenderun, ask for Mr. Hugh Eglender at the British Consulate. He’s a personal friend of mine and will assist you in private, if need be. If he’s not there, then find him at home, Bayt Salem, in the hills above Iskenderun. Tell him everything that’s happened. Leave nothing out.”

  “My lord.”

  Foye leaned toward her, adjusting effortlessly in his saddle. “Take this.” He folded the fingers of her extended hand over a small purse he drew from his pocket. “There’s enough in there to purchase your passage to England if it comes to that. Not just money, but gemstones. Eglender will assist you in that as well.”

  “My lord.” She took the purse and tucked it into her sash. With a bow of her head, she rode to the Druze captain of Foye’s hired soldiers. Her first official task as Pathros. She relayed the relevant parts of what Foye had told her. The captain listened attentively, nodding when she’d finished, seeing not a woman disguised as a boy, but Pathros, the infidel dragoman employed by Lord Foye.

  How strange it was to be Sabine Godard no longer. What sort of person would Pathros be during this journey? What behavior was most likely to keep the others from looking past the surface? Not craven, she decided. Pathros would be as much like Foye as was possible. Outwardly calm. Dependable. Aloof from her countrymen, an attitude easily explained by their different religions. Brave. Decisive.

  What other qualities did Foye possess that she had not yet guessed?

  She was quite certain she would learn the answers in the hours and days to come.

  Chapter Eighteen

  For the first hour on the road, Sabine was too nervous about the possibility of capture by Nazim Pasha to think about much but staying on her horse and keeping up. They all trusted their horses to find the way in the pre-dawn dark, but it was Foye, riding at the point, upon whom everything depended. He rode at the head of their party, standing out on account of his size and his English clothing. No one protested that he set a pace that would have ruined English-bred animals.

  When Sabine had made the Aleppo-to-Kilis trip, she had been with Godard and traveling with Nazim Pasha’s entourage. They had taken two days to cover a distance Foye intended for them to complete in a day. At this pace, the thirty-rive miles between Kilis and Aleppo meant a long, hard ride that would continue well into the afternoon.

  As dark turned to morning with no sign of pursuit from Kilis, she relaxed enough to start analyzing her situation.

  While she understood and wholeheartedly agreed with Foye’s decision to disguise her as a boy—a brilliant ruse, she thought—she was profoundly unsettled by everything to do with it. The experience made her a foreigner in her own body; riding astride, the way her clothes fit, and perhaps most of all, the way others reacted to her.

  As Sabine Godard, she had sometimes been dismissed as inconsequential or uninteresting, but she had never been invisible as she was now. Men, particularly young men, always noticed her. They bowed to her and opened doors and generally behaved as if she were fragile and in need of protection. There were times at some gathering of Godard’s when her choice of action was to remain silent or leave; she knew there were times when her opinions were not welcome, whether she was expert in the subject at hand or not. Those same men who expected silence or her absence would hold a chair for her, and if she were to stand whilst they were seated, they stood, too.

  As it was now, she was being shaped inside and out by the sort of person she was and by the expectations of those around her. It made no difference that she was not used to riding at the pace Foye set. Everyone, including Foye, expected her to keep up and gave no thought at all the possibility that she could not. Indeed, there was no reason for any of them to believe she could not.

  The differences between being Sabine Godard and being Pathros were fascinating. Being one who served rather than one who was served was not so very different from her relationship with Godard. She must pay attention to Foye much as she had to Godard, though without the benefit of years of a lifetime’s acquaintance. She could do this.

  When did Foye need her near? What actions on her part were to be expected as a matter of course? A dragoman often provided more than translation, and in this case, she was, so she surmised, something in the nature of a replacement for Barton. Therefore, she must not only translate for him but foresee his personal needs, carry his bags, see to his clothes and hygiene as well.

  She must do all this while, as Foye had so indelicately phrased it, she walked and rode as if she possessed bollocks. There was a whole series of hierarchies among the men of which she had not previously been so aware as she was now. Not only the hierarchy of class as one saw, for example, in the precedence of the English drawing room or the Turk’s divan, but of servant and served, and most fascinating of all, a hierarchy of maleness that at times crossed the lines of class.

  Full morning arrived with no one having asked how she was or having called a halt because she had wiped her brow or said that she was thirsty, which in any event she did not dare do. She stayed near Foye when she could, watching him when she was not fully engaged with the challenge of the road.

  Conversation, when there was any, was either between men who spoke a dialect she did not, or in Arabic that often included the use of words and phrases she soon understood to be crude in nature. This was a very different use of the language than she was familiar with. Less formal. Less elegant. Very much to the raw point. The verbal equivalent, she thought, of walking as if one possessed bollocks. She tucked away her new words and phrases for future reference.

  As the morning wore on, the sensation of trousers and robes instead of a riding habit and parasol began slowly to seem less absurd to her, and through a process of observation of the other riders and frank experience she learned the different carriage required of her when sitting astride. She became Pathros. A native youth who had been riding astride all his life. With bollocks between his legs and a vocabulary to match. Morning transformed to the full heat of summer. The silk wrapped around her bosom was tight and damp with perspiration, but thank God, Foye had thought of it, because riding without any restrictive garment beneath her clothes would have been disastrous. She could, bound as she was, almost forget the existence of her bosom.

  As they left the foothills of the Taurus Mountains, the terrain flattened out. Vineyards and olive orchards, with their distinctive gray-green-leaved trees, predominated the vegetation. Everywhere she looked the colors were pale green interspersed with reddish soil and outcroppings of steel gray rock. The sun beat down, baking the land and sapping her of energy. Her throat was dry, and before long, she’d done as Foye and the others did, which was to wrap a length of cloth around the lower part of her face to avoid breathing and swallowing the dust kicked up by the horses.

  Whenever she looked down at the reins, she was startled to see nut brown skin. Her hands were too feminine, she thought. Soft and useless. She ought to have gloves to hide their shape. In her costume, she was no different from the other natives here, aside from her apparent youth. The others were grown men. She had no beard or mustache, no eyes that looked with a distant gaze. And yet she was one of them.

  No longer was she the only woman in the company and subject to the care of men. She rode astride as they did, with the same kit, the same sort of saddlebags. The very view from her native saddle was subtly altered. She could do as she liked, spit or curse or scratch herself, and no one would think twice. So long as they did not notice her soft hands. So long as she did not give away her gender.

  Sometime around ten o’clock they ate their morning meal: a handful of olives, a sharp cheese, dry bread, and a mouthful of water, all consumed while riding. No one questioned Foye’s decision to press on or looked in any way out of sorts, tired, or angry.

  Conversation
ceased as the heat beat down. The air around them smelled of dust sweaty horses, and men. A constant drip of moisture ran down her back and along her temples. When she thought no one was looking, she wiped at her hands and face with the sleeve of her kaftan and examined the fabric for smears of brown. No telltale smudges that she could see.

  Shortly after noon, Foye called their first full halt. Half an hour, Sabine translated for him, for them to feed and water their horses and prepare a larger meal than the one they’d eaten on the move. They moved off the road to a spot where olive trees offered shade and where, at the head of a spring, someone had erected a carved stone fountain. Water poured from the mouth of a roaring lion and splashed into a fluted basin. They dismounted, each of the men looking after their horses first. Sabine stayed mounted until Foye turned around to look.

  “Is it best,” she asked in English and in a soft voice so as to avoid being overheard, “to have all my weight on this leg?” She tapped the leg in question.

  “Keep your torso forward,” Foye said in a similarly low voice. “Press down with that leg and swing the other around and down. Then slide free of the stirrup. If all goes well, you will end on your feet. If not, laugh, curse if you know how in their language, and dust yourself off.” He looked tired and tense. “If you fall, I cannot help you up. Further, they will expect you to assist me, Pathros, so please don’t delay.”

  “I understand.” To her surprise she did not bumble her dismount. There was no humiliating fall and no need to curse her clumsiness. Another success in establishing herself as Pathros. She stood beside her horse and fumbled to unfasten her saddlebag and kit as the others had already done. Foye and the soldiers made use of the fountain to bathe their hands and faces, which Sabine did as well when her turn came. The coloring on her skin stayed fast.

  The Mohammedans among them made their prayers and set to cooking. Foye untied his rug himself after she’d secured her mare near his chocolate brown stallion, but she made a point of spreading out his rug beneath one of the olive trees. Foye had already seen to watering his horse and was now feeding the animal. He made a point of working slowly so that she would see how it was done.

  She did her best not to be hopelessly fumble fingered with the gear, but the truth was, she had never had to do such things by herself. There had always been servants to help her dismount from her horse, to look after her mount, lay down a rug for her, and see that she was settled in a shady spot. Nor had she ever handled a saddlebag full of gear on her own. Her own, far lighter bag, yes. But not one filled with the various supplies of the road. So many ways for her to betray herself, she thought. So many habits of dependence ingrained.

  Her next difficulty was to avoid showing her shock and discomfort when the others, having secured their horses, walked a distressingly short distance from their stopping place to relieve themselves. Foye went further away to secure his privacy. What was she to do? Stand there with her eye closed? Pathros would hardly be shocked by the sight.

  She had pressing needs of her own but lacked a penis to so casually expose. Unlike the others, she required privacy. She headed for a largish sort of olive tree about twenty yards away. Farther than anyone else, including Foye, had gone for the business. On the far side of the trunk, she kept her back to the others and finished as quickly as she could.

  On her return, the men had a fire going and were preparing a communal luncheon of rice with lentils, bread, and cheese. Foye had unwrapped the cloth around his face. She joined him underneath the olive tree where he’d settled himself. He sat with his back against the trunk, forearms atop of his bent knees so that his hands dangled down.

  “Are you all right?” he asked without looking at her.

  “Yes, thank you.” She tilted her face to look at him, safe in her staring. No one would think that odd of her. The back of his head rested against the trunk, his squared-off chin pointed slightly up. His eyes were closed, and his lashes made dark shadows on his cheeks. His cheek slanted too sharply down, then straightened out only to make an ungainly angle toward the centerline of his face. The hook of his nose formed the prominent feature of his silhouette. There was nothing remotely handsome about him, and yet she felt a pang just looking at him.

  “You’re doing well, Pathros,” he said. He moved his, head, eyes open just wide enough to show the brilliant blue of his irises. Their gazes locked. He didn’t say anything, just continued to regard her instead of averting his eyes. Her stomach bottomed out, and her chest felt fluttery, lighter than air. She was relieved to learn she could still react this way to Foye. She might have stared at him forever, but one of the Janissaries called out that the meal was ready.

  When she returned with the two copper bowls she’d dug from their saddlebags, she handed one to Foye and sat down with the other in her bands. She had two new curses for her repertoire as well. Her stomach rumbled.

  “Pathros.” Foye leaned over and pulled on her arm before she could take a bite.

  She swung her head around to see his warning glance at her legs. She was sitting, by habit, as she always sat. That is, with her legs folded to one side, her knees primly together. She adjusted her position before anyone noticed what she’d done. The others sat either cross-legged or with one or two legs up and an arm thrown over the knee if they’d finished eating. She elected the cross-legged position and dedicated herself to emptying her bowl.

  When they were done, she washed out the bowls and packed them away. The Janissaries were done, too, and were now making coffee from personal supplies of beans they roasted over the fire. Sabine watched, concentrating on the steps in case she should find she was expected to make coffee for Foye one day. Not that she had the accoutrements. But one never knew.

  Foye grabbed the heavier of his two saddlebags, lifting it as if it weighed nothing. From it, he took out a pistol, much larger than the one already hidden in her sash. “Keep this on your person, Pathros.”

  Sabine took the weapon and examined it. She had, of course, never in her life handled a weapon like this one. The principle, she expected, would not be much different. “My lord,” she said.

  Foye leaned to her again. “No different than with your little weapon,” he said. She nodded while he showed her, his fingers so deadly deft, how to unload it and then load the pistol. “Like so.” Foye handed the gun back to her. “Now you do it.”

  With the scent of roasting coffee beans in the air, she loaded and unloaded the gun while he watched, again and again until he was satisfied. The gun felt heavy in her hand; she would never be as dexterous as Foye. She was used to her lighter, and less effective, weapon.

  Their gazes met again, and though she had looked at Foye time and again since he’d come to Buyukdere, she was aware of him in a way she hadn’t been before. Despite her men’s clothes, her shorn hair, and new name, she was viscerally aware that he was a man and that she was not. There was a great deal more than just kissing that could happen between them, and for the first time she actually felt that truth. For the first time, she actually felt the possibility of that more. She saw it in his eyes.

  He dug in his saddlebag again to take out a box of ammunition and hand it to her. “By the way,” he said, “I buried your braid out there among the olive trees.”

  “Oh.” She was afraid of what might happen if she looked at him again and dared only a glance at him. His mouth was twisted in an ironic grin. “I’m glad that’s done.”

  “I sang a mournful dirge as I did.”

  How like him to distract her from whatever it was that had just happened between them. She returned his smile. “That was kind of you.”

  They were safe enough speaking English, so long as she was appropriately deferential to Foye. That wasn’t difficult. He was a nobleman after all, and just now he intimidated her. The gentleness of his manners from Buyukdere had disappeared somewhere between then and now. She wondered if he was aware that he behaved differently. He must be; he was too intelligent not to be. A line between them had been erase
d, and she wasn’t sure where, if anywhere, a new one might be drawn. She was a boy and not a boy. His servant and not his servant. Female and not female. And when she looked at him, her stomach leaped off the end of the world.

  Everything changed.

  She was safe with him and not at all safe.

  “You’re doing well.” He held her gaze again, and Sabine didn’t know how to look at him anymore. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. A brown-faced boy? A woman who did not interest him? Or one who did? Or perhaps nothing at all. She kept her head down. Did he even love her still? Had that changed with everything else?

  “We will come out of this,” he said. He kept his voice low, though it was unlikely anyone would overhear, and even if they did, that they would understand. “I promise you, I’ll see you through this.”

  The intensity of his voice made her look up. “I know that.”

  “I’ll get us back to England and we’ll be married.” He laughed softly. “I swore I never would. I told Lucey I was prepared to be the very last Marrack. I knew that for a lie when I said it, but I planned to marry a much older woman. Not some pretty young thing like you.”

  “There’s time for you to change your mind,” she said.

  “I shan’t,” he replied. “I find you suit me very well now.” He was sitting very informally, with one knee up and an arm dangling off his knee. His boots were covered with dust, as were hers, for that matter, and he, too, had a line of sweat running down the side of his face. The cloth he used to wrap around his lower face was loose around his neck. “Before long, you and I will be sitting in front of the fire at Maralee House remembering what an adventure we had.”

  “Telling our children about it,” she said without thinking.

  Foye didn’t reply. His gaze stayed on her.

  “Forgive me,” she said. Her cheeks burned hot. “I spoke out of turn.”