by Anne Gracie
Shortly after dawn, Rafe arrived at Baxter’s house on horseback, leading a mare for Ayisha to ride. Behind him came two local men also on horseback and a mule laden with luggage.
“Horses?” said Ayisha in surprise as she left the house.
“We will ride to Boulac,” he told her. “It’s not far, and from there we’ll take a boat down the Nile.”
The others had followed her out to bid her a final good-bye: Laila, Ali, Baxter, and the servants. Even the cat.
Everyone was a little heavy-eyed from the feast the previous night; Laila had given Ayisha a wonderful send-off, with mounds of delicious food. Afterward they sat around a fire in the courtyard, under the stars, recalling times past and telling stories, singing, and playing music, and in Laila’s case, dancing. It had been a night of laughter and of tears.
This morning Ayisha was all bright, determined cheerfulness. Faking it gallantly, thought Rafe, noting the red-rimmed eyes.
She was still dressed as a boy, but had donned clothing especially for the journey: Bedouin robes and a head cloth, fastened with a knotted rope around the crown instead of a turban. Perfect for riding, as it happened.
“Have you got your things?” Rafe asked Ayisha. The contrast between her jaunty manner and her slightly puffy eyes ate at him.
She brought forward a small bundle and he handed it to one of the guides, who added it to the baggage.
“Well,” she said in a voice that shook only a little. “I suppose this is good-bye.”
She hugged and kissed first Baxter, then Ali who’d dropped his boyish air of bravado and was choking back sobs.
“Be good, little brother, and come to me in England when you are a man,” she said in a husky voice. “And practice your writing and send letters to me often, for I will miss you.”
“I will,” he promised.
Laila was last; the two women hugged in a long, convulsive embrace. Laila openly wept.
Ayisha was the first to pull away. “Fear not for me, Laila. I seek my destiny, remember? I will suck dry the sweet orange of life. And thank you, thank you for everything.” Her voice broke, and she pressed her lips together, unable to go on.
Laila wiped away a tear with a corner of her robe. “Remember always that you are the daughter of my heart, and much—very much—beloved.”
Ayisha nodded, unable to speak. She bent and picked up the cat, buried her face in his fur, and then slipped him into her robes. Closing the robe around him, she walked toward the horse.
“What are you doing?” Rafe said. “You can’t take that cat.” She stared at him in blind bewilderment. “Why not?” Her arms tightened defensively around the cat. “He’s my cat.”
Rafe glanced at the others. “It is a long and difficult journey.”
“Tom is tough. He can survive anything.”
“Can he travel in a cage?” he asked. “Could he stand being locked up?” The animal had always looked half wild to him.
Silence. Her head was bent over her cat.
“Because the ship will demand he be kept in a cage a lot of the time. And also when we are traveling in a carriage.” He glanced at the horses. “We will spend hours on these horses today and then we will be in a boat on the river. Will he stay all that time in your robes?”
They all knew the answer. Her lower lip was trembling. She bit down on it, hard enough to make Rafe wince. The cat climbed out of her robe and set its paws on her shoulder, butting her chin with its head. Rafe could hear its rusty purring.
“He’s an old cat, Ayisha,” Rafe said gently. “Old cats don’t like change.”
She buried her face in its fur so he could not see her expression. The cat kneaded her shoulder, staring at Rafe with a baleful expression, as if it knew he was taking its mistress away. Its tail, with the missing tip, twitched.
“He is right, my daughter,” Laila said softly. “The cat is too old to change his ways.”
“Give it to Ali,” Rafe told her. He nodded to Ali.
Ali ran forward and held his hands up for the cat. “I will take good care of him, Ayisha, I promise.”
Ayisha lifted her head. “Of course I knew he couldn’t come with me,” she said with a hollow attempt at brightness. “I just . . . wanted to say good-bye to him. He is—he was my oldest friend.” With lips clamped together in a wobbly smile, Ayisha handed her cat over, and without a further word, turned and mounted her horse lithely, needing no leg up.
Rafe mounted his own horse. “Ready?” he asked her.
She nodded, unable to speak.
“Good-bye, good-bye,” the others called.
She waved back, smiling, her eyes blind with tears. Ali ran alongside the horses, the cat having jumped from his arms to the top of the wall. It sat, as his mistress disappeared, watching her with slitted golden eyes.
Two minutes away from home, just as Ayisha managed to get her tears under control, they passed a dusty-looking black-clad man, his face bruised from a recent beating. He stared up at Ayisha, his jaw dropping, and his eyes narrowed with dark fury.
“By God, it’s that villain from the river.” Rafe started forward.
She held up a hand to stop him. “No, leave it. I will handle this.” In Arabic, Ayisha called out to him. “Uncle of Gadi, greetings. I hope your aches and pains are terrible indeed. May they get worse! As you see, I am leaving with the Englishman. He has much gold. You will get none. My mother cursed you with her dying breath. It is all you deserve.”
He cursed her and raised a fist, then glanced fearfully at the Englishman.
She laughed. “Still a coward, eh? You asked me once how I escaped you that night.” She paused until they had almost passed him. “I was under the bed all the time, right under your nose, just this far from your feet.” She held her hands six inches apart. “And you know what, uncle of Gadi? Your feet stink!”
Her tears disappeared. She kicked her horse into a gallop, shouting back to Rafe, “Race you to Boulac, Englishman!”
The winds were fair and they made good time to Rosetta.
They didn’t disembark there, as many did, to make the short trip to Alexandria overland, via the lakes, but took the longer route by sea. Rafe had spoken to the captain, who told him it wasn’t a good time to pass through Alexandria, better to go direct to the port. As they still had plenty of time to board the ship, Rafe agreed.
Ayisha had a mischievous look on her face when he told her of the change of plan. “Not a good time, my foot,” she said. “You only agreed after you heard there were no horses for hire, and you’d have to ride a donkey from Rosetta to Etka and again from the Lake of Akoubir to Alexandria. I know!”
He grinned. “Well, but my legs are too long for riding a donkey. It would look ridiculous. And I would feel like a monster.”
In the days since they’d left Cairo, she’d cheered up a great deal. She had seemed to enjoy the trip, pointing out things of interest and odd curiosities, and appearing cheerful and positive, but Rafe knew much of it was an act.
Whenever she thought herself unobserved, her bright expression faded, and several times he caught her watching the land slipping by with unseeing eyes. Something was worrying her, and it wasn’t just going to a strange land—though God knew, that was intimidating enough.
“Your grandmother will be so delighted to see you,” he told her once.
“Yes, I’m sure she will be,” she said politely, sounding anything but certain. “And I, her.”
“Higgins will endeavor to procure you a single cabin,” he told her another time, thinking she might be apprehensive about the voyage. “It will depend on the other passengers,” he explained. “You might have to share a cabin.”
She looked at him with an odd expression.
“With another lady, possibly several ladies,” he added hastily, and she’d laughed.
Finally, they approached the ancient city of Alexandria from the sea and sailed around to the western harbor, where their ship waited. Rafe, having been here a short time
earlier, pointed out the local places of interest: the Isle of Pharos, where the ancient Pharos lighthouse, one of the seven wonders of the world, had once stood and which was now occupied by a massive fifteenth-century fortress. There were a number of Roman remains, including Pompey’s Pillar, and between the buildings they saw the tip of Cleopatra’s Needle pointing upward to the sky.
“And there is Higgins, awaiting our arrival,” Rafe observed, seeing the figure of his valet frantically waving, standing with a small flock of porters.
“Excellent timing, sir,” Higgins said, directing the porters to the baggage. He turned to Ayisha as he ushered them toward the ship. “Miss Cleeve, how have you enjoyed the journey?”
“It’s been fascinating, thank you, Higgins,” she said. “But please call me Ayisha.”
“Miss Ayisha,” Higgins agreed, with a quick glance at Rafe. Rafe nodded. Higgins would be the best one to teach Ayisha how to talk to servants. He was sure she wouldn’t listen to him nearly as well.
“I wasn’t able to get you a single cabin, I’m afraid, miss,” he said as he guided them to the gangplank. “There were only three berths still available: two men’s berths and one ladies’. I was able to obtain one of the staterooms for Mr. Rafe but only because—”
“Miss Ayisha will take the stateroom,” Rafe told him. “I will take her berth.”
“Mrs. Ferris won’t like that, sir,” Higgins said.
“Who the deuce is Mrs. Ferris?”
“The lady whose cabin Miss Ayisha will share. It was the only other berth available.”
“It will be nice to have another lady to talk to,” Ayisha said placidly. “Please, Higgins, could you show me the way?”
“Of course, miss, we’re all on the same deck. There’s only twenty passengers.” He directed Ayisha toward the stairs.
“Higgins, when does the ship leave?” Rafe said, not moving.
“In two hours, sir,” Higgins replied. “The tide will turn then, and the ship will depart.”
“Excellent,” Rafe said. “Two hours will be plenty, I’m sure.”
“Plenty for what—” Higgins turned, but Rafe was halfway down the gangway. He shouted something after Rafe, but the wind was picking up and Rafe didn’t catch it. Long strides took him toward the city. He knew exactly what he wanted, and he even knew the Arabic word for it.
“Sir, sir, the captain is dependent on the wind and tides,” Higgins bellowed. “What if he leaves early?” He started to follow, but his master was already almost at the city entrance.
“He always does this.” Higgins turned a gloomy face to Ayisha. “Some last-minute idea. And what if he misses the ship, eh? Then where will we be?”
“Tossing a coin over a stateroom?” Ayisha suggested with a smile.
Higgins looked appalled. “Oh no, miss, you’d have to take it. I couldn’t possibly.”
He eyed her garb and then said diffidently, “However, miss, since Mr. Ramsey has taken himself off for a while, may I suggest you use his cabin to change into your lady’s clothes? It might be best if Mrs. Ferris didn’t see you dressed as an Arab boy.”
Ayisha glanced down at her attire. “I suppose so.” She wasn’t particularly looking forward to being turned into a lady.
“Excellent, here is the key to Mr. Ramsey’s cabin. The number is on the tag. It’s the best of the cabins—the owner’s private quarters, and on the same level as yours. I’ll fetch your baggage and meet you there, miss. Oh—and I’ll get a bath sent up, too.”
Ten
Ayisha didn’t want to move. When Higgins said a bath, she’d expected a bucket of water—it was how she’d washed for the past six years, except for the days when they took the washing down to the river and went in and bathed in their robes.
This was a tin bath, large enough to sit down in—an unexpected treat. And the warm water, even better. But the soap . . . she sniffed again. Ali had said it smelled good enough to eat, but this wasn’t the same smell. This smelled of . . . jasmine? And something else. She must ask Higgins.
But her fingertips were getting wrinkly, proof that she’d stayed in too long. She took a clean pitcher of water, stood up, and rinsed the soap off herself, hair and all. She stepped out of the bath feeling clean and—she sniffed her skin—delicious.
Higgins had thought of everything; there were even towels. She wrapped her hair in one and dried herself with the other.
The stateroom was a superior cabin and very ingeniously designed, with a bed big enough for two built into the corner of the ship, with drawers built in under it. The open side of the bed had a low enclosure of rails, like a child’s cot, to prevent anyone in bed from falling out in rough weather, she supposed.
Everything was fixed to prevent it moving in case of storm; a small desk-cum-table was lowered from the wall and several chairs hung on hooks, to be taken down when necessary.
The cabin was quite luxurious and even had a separate, though tiny room for washing, and next to it a Bramah’s water closet with a saltwater flush.
“Everything of the most modern and convenient,” Higgins had declared proudly, obviously a little disappointed his master was not there to be impressed, too.
It was the best cabin on the ship, Higgins explained. It had been fitted out for the ship’s owner and his wife when they traveled and was not normally available for passengers, Higgins told her, with a smug look. He’d done well to get it.
The timber lining of the cabin was painted white, and the brass hinges and handles, hanging oil lamp, and other fittings gleamed with a recent polish. Two windows over the bed, looking out the back of the ship, and a large porthole on the side wall let in plenty of light.
The ship had been a warship but was converted by the new owners, and though some of the cannon ports had been kept for guns in case of pirates, many now were fitted with windows—portholes—to let light and fresh air into passengers’ cabins.
She shook out the dresses she’d bought. Rafe had been very clear that she was not to worry too much—just get some clothes to travel in. She’d be clothed in the latest fashions once they got to London. “Half a dozen dresses or so and the usual feminine folderol,” he’d told her.
The trouble was she had no idea what “the usual feminine folderol” was. And six seemed an enormous number of dresses to her. Still, it had been such a long time since she’d had anything new, she was happy to take his purse and spend his money. She’d put on one of Laila’s all-over robes, and veiled, she’d had a lovely time, choosing fabrics and haggling over prices to her heart’s content.
She’d never done that sort of thing before, and it occurred to her she could have slipped into anonymous women’s garb before this, but her concentration had been so wholly on not appearing female that she’d never done it.
The seamstress had boggled with amazement when she took off the outer robe and showed herself to be a boy, and then took off her outer boy’s clothing and revealed herself to be a girl. She told the woman to say nothing, but she knew gossip would eventually spread.
It didn’t matter anymore; she was going to England.
She looked at the dresses spread out on the cabin bed. In the short walk to Rafe’s cabin she’d passed several Englishwomen, a Frenchwoman, and a few more whose nationality she hadn’t been able to identify. None of them wore dresses quite like these. Hers, she decided, were prettier.
The Cairo markets were wonderful, and she’d bought shoes and scarves and shawls, but there were no European-style dresses to be had anywhere, so Ayisha had chosen the fabrics and taken them to a seamstress. She’d never made Frankish dresses before, the woman told her, but she was sure she could manage.
So Ayisha had drawn some pictures and described what she wanted—going on vague memories from six years ago and glimpses of Englishwomen in the street—and the seamstress had done her best.
They were very simple. Two days were not enough to make anything complicated, so they were all basically the same design: simply cut, with wide e
nough skirts to move easily, a plain, round neck, elbow-length sleeves, and tied under the breasts with a ribbon or a cord. But the seamstress had added extra little touches that made each dress special: a band of contrasting fabric, a fringe, some beads. Ayisha was thrilled with everything, even the underwear.
She wasn’t at all sure what English ladies wore under their dresses. When she was a little girl she’d just worn a chemise, but she was sure ladies must wear more than a chemise. But there wasn’t time, so she’d just bought short, cotton Turkish-style pantaloons that ended at the knee, and some simple cotton chemise-like garments.
It was getting late, so she donned a wheat-colored dress with a pretty pattern of green leaves and blackberries, and slipped her feet into the red leather Turkish slippers she’d bought. She loved these shoes with their contrasting black design and red tassels on the toes.
She opened the door to the washroom and peered at the reflection in the small, round looking glass, but it was screwed into the wall at head height and she couldn’t see much.
She combed her ragged hair and pulled a face at her reflection. She looked like a boy. She should have bought some sort of lady’s hat, to hide how short her hair was. Would it grow to a respectable length before he met her grandmother? She hoped so. Maybe a scarf . . . Hadn’t Rafe said in England ladies wore turbans?
She was looking through the half dozen scarves she’d bought when there was a knock at the door. “It’s Higgins, miss.”
She flew to open it. “What do you think of my new clothes, Higgins?” She twirled so he could see.
Higgins looked her over gravely, then nodded. “Very nice, miss.” His gaze wandered to her hair and a crease formed between his brows. “Miss, if I could be so bold—”
“I know, it’s my hair, isn’t it? I didn’t think to buy a hat, but Ra—Mr. Ramsey said that in England some ladies wear turbans, so I thought perhaps . . .”
“Only the older ladies wear turbans, miss,” Higgins said. “Many of the younger ones are wearing the more fashionable short crop these days.”