by Anne Mather
There was a sudden stir outside the building as a low black limousine drew up at the row of sliding glass panels. Someone of importance was evidently arriving, and Ashley took a step forward, straining to see if it was Alain.
But the young man in flowing white robes who stepped from the limousine was not her adversary, and Ashley’s shoulders sagged. Her arrival had been evidently over-looked, or else she was expected to make her own way to the palace, and she bent to pick up her cases again, as the newly-arrived entourage swept into the lounge.
‘Miss Conway? It is Miss Conway, is it not?’
Ashley straightened in some confusion at the use of the name she had agreed to assume for obvious reasons, her suitcases tugging from her wrists, her lips parting in sudden bewilderment. The young man she had seen arrive had halted in front of her, and it was he who was addressing her, a polite smile tilting the corners of his mouth.
‘I—why, yes, I’m—Miss Conway,’ she admitted uncertainly, then started as the young man issued a stream of instructions and her suitcases were almost wrenched from her hands.
‘I must apologise for not being here to greet you, Miss Conway,’ he added, his dark eyes missing no aspect of her appearance, she was sure. ‘But, as sometimes happens in your country, there was a snarl-up of traffic, and we were unavoidably delayed.’
‘You’ve come to meet me?’ Ashley could hardly believe it. So much ceremony!
‘But of course.’ The young man bowed, and she noticed the deference of the eyes that watched their little tableau now. ‘I am Tariq Anwar, youngest son of my father, the Prince Ahmed, and uncle to your charge, Prince Hussein.’
‘I see.’ Ashley expelled her breath rather unevenly. She remembered now. Alain and Hassan had had a younger brother, but seven years ago he had been little more than a schoolboy. And he had called her son Prince Hussein. This was something she had not even considered.
‘You will come with me?’ Tariq gestured towards the limousine waiting outside, where her cases had already been stowed. ‘My father is waiting to speak with you, and tomorrow you will meet your new charge.’
Ashley’s mouth was dry as she accompanied Tariq outside, and climbed into the back of the spacious limousine. Two Arab servants, guards, she supposed, climbed into the back with them, and seated themselves on pull-down seats in front of them. Like Tariq, they also wore the flowing djellaba, and for the first time she wondered whether her son would be dressed in similar clothes. Tariq seated himself beside her on the wide leather rear seat, then with a snap of his fingers they set away, driving smoothly out of the airport complex.
The airport itself was situated on the coastal strip, and as they drove along the wide tarmacked road that led to Khadesh, Ashley could see the surf-edged waters of the ocean creaming along a rocky shoreline. The sea was tinged with the dying rays of the sun, and with the silent depths of the water on one hand, and rolling sand dunes on the other, she knew a momentary fear of what lay ahead of her. She was on Alain’s territory now. There was no turning back. And with evidence of the esteem in which his family was held in this country all around her, she knew herself the alien and the interloper.
‘I trust you had a good flight.’ Tariq was speaking to her now, and Ashley forced herself to concentrate on what he was saying.
‘Oh, yes, thank you,’ she assured him politely. ‘The only turbulence was as we were coming in to land.’
Tariq nodded. ‘There is often a wind off the ocean,’ he affirmed. ‘You may find you are glad of it. It blows as a gentle breeze at Kom Shar, and tempers the atmosphere.’ He grimaced. ‘It is not like the hot wild wind that blows off the desert. Sirocco? You have heard of it, perhaps? It is sometimes called khamsin.’
Ashley inclined her head. ‘I have heard of it, yes.’
‘It has been known to drive people to distraction,’ Tariq remarked carelessly. ‘But not you, I am sure, Miss Conway.’
‘I hope not.’ Ashley didn’t quite know how to answer him. It was ridiculous, but all she could keep thinking was that this young man was her brother-in-law, and that the man he was taking her to meet was the father of the man she had married. It was incredible—and not a little frightening.
‘I think you must be something special,’ Tariq continued, much to her embarrassment. ‘When my brother, Prince Alain, went to England, it was with the intention of establishing our nephew at a school in London.’ He paused. ‘You can imagine our astonishment when he returned home with the news that he had changed his mind, and that he had contracted to employ an English governess for the boy.’
Ashley shifted a little uncomfortably. ‘I suppose it was quite a—surprise,’ she conceded.
Tariq regarded her curiously. ‘You do not object to leaving London? The prospect of working in a country where women have but a secondary role does not alarm you?’
‘No.’ Ashley shook her head. ‘Why should it? I—I shall only be working here, after all.’
‘This is true,’ Tariq acknowledged her reply. ‘But no doubt my stepmother, the Princess Hélène, will welcome your presence in the palace. My father’s second wife is a Frenchwoman,’ he explained, and Ashley’s nails dug into her palms, as she realised he was referring to Alain’s mother.
Darkness was falling as they reached the outskirts of Khadesh, and Ashley stared through the windows of the limousine as they ran through the poorer district of the city. There was still poverty, in spite of the country’s reserves of wealth, but efforts were being made to rehouse the inhabitants of these crowded back streets. Here and there were new buildings, residential as well as commercial, with the palm-fringed walls of a modern hospital facing the ruins of a demolition site.
Yet, in spite of this evidence of contemporary architecture, the main streets of the city were lined with much older buildings. The tall spires of the minarets that marked the city’s mosques towered above stately houses and museums, with shops and stores set behind avenues of trees, and close by shady parks. Even in the artificial light that streamed from its floodlit buildings, Ashley could see the city was quite beautiful, and totally different from what she had expected. In truth, she didn’t quite know what she had expected, but nothing like the grace and symmetry that marked this charming propitiation to Islam.
‘This is Mahel al Mansur,’ Tariq advised, leaning past her to point out the university buildings. His nearness was not unpleasant, the sweet odour of some perfume that scented his clothes drifting to her nostrils as he moved, but when he turned his head and looked at her, she was slightly alarmed by the liquid softness of his gaze. He was obviously more aware of her than she was of him, and it was not a situation she had any intention of promoting. In consequence she drew back from him perceptibly, adopting a cool indifference, and to her relief he relaxed in his seat once more.
‘You are a very attractive woman, Miss Conway,’ he remarked unexpectedly, obviously in no way inhibited by the presence of an audience. ‘You must forgive me if I find the combination of gold silk and pure alabaster fascinating.’ He touched her cheek with a careless finger. ‘Your skin is quite exquisite.’
Ashley flinched from his familiar touch, shrinking back into her corner with scarcely concealed dismay. Evidently the young Prince Tariq considered himself equally fascinating, and no doubt regarded a comparatively impoverished English governess as fair play.
When she made no response to his overtures, Tariq’s dark brows arched in interrogation. ‘Are you not pleased that I find your appearance appealing, Miss Conway?’ he suggested. ‘I assure you, I am not without discrimination. I have known some of the most beautiful women in the world.’
Ashley half smiled. She supposed that were she a raw governess, meeting one of the Gauthier brothers for the first time, she might be flattered by his attentions. As it was, his almost arrogant approach seemed somehow immature, and compared to Alain’s hard features, his face was almost effeminate.
‘How old are you, Prince Tariq?’ she asked, and was rewarded by an angry g
lare.
‘Old enough,’ he retorted, fixing the servants in front of them with a baleful eye, and Ashley turned to the window again, hoping she had not made another enemy.
The squares and formal gardens of the city had given way to suburbs of residential villas with wrought iron gates and screened terraces. Cultivated greenery had a lushness that hinted at the fertility of the soil once the dry earth was irrigated. Palm trees, those most ubiquitous of plants, flourished in great profusion, between luscious flame trees and exotic oleander. The smells of the city were overlaid with the perfumes of the flowers, and it was all new and alien, and disturbingly unfamiliar.
Gradually the houses became more thinly spread, and at last they arrived at sturdy wooden gates set in a high stone wall. Unlike the houses they had passed, the Askar Palace was not visible from the road, and after a white-turbanned servant had flung the gates wide, they drove for some distance between heavily foliaged gardens. The scent of cedar and juniper, of mimosa and eucalyptus, was a potent stimulant, and by the time they passed beneath a stone archway which gave access to a paved courtyard, Ashley’s senses were spinning.
It was difficult to assess the size of the house at night, even though the entrance was floodlit. A series of arches seemed to curve away on either side, while ahead of them, one larger than the others gave on to an inner patio. There was the sound of falling water from half a dozen fountains set about the courtyard, and the breeze Tariq had spoken of fanned Ashley’s hot cheeks as she descended from the car.
One of the servants had helped her alight, and Tariq walked round the vehicle to join her, flinging one end of his flowing robe over his shoulder. ‘Please come with me,’ he said, with none of the tolerant good humour he had shown at their meeting, and Ashley, still bemused by the swarm of white-robed servants who had appeared to attend to her luggage, could only nod and follow in his wake.
Lamps swung from every pillar as they traversed the inner court and entered the palace through arched doors, that opened almost miraculously at their approach. It was only as Ashley looked back and saw the servants bowing behind them that she realised their sole purpose was to guard the entrance, and she had her first experience of feeling herself a prisoner without bars.
The inner corridor of the palace was also illuminated by lamps, set in intricately-carved sconces at intervals along the white marble walls. Adorning the walls were exquisitely worked scrolls and tapestries, depicting the history of the area, and ancient weapons in copper and brass, preserved for future generations. Her heels echoed loudly in the vaulted hall, but Tariq’s sandalled feet scarcely made a sound, and only the swish of his garments disturbed the cloistered stillness.
It was full dark by this time, and beyond the carved shutters, narrow windows looked out on to the perfumed garden. Only occasionally did she glimpse another human being, guards most likely, patrolling the grounds, and as her initial bemusement fled, she was left with the uneasy awareness of where Tariq was taking her. To see his father, he had said, and her nerves tightened at the prospect of meeting Prince Ahmed.
Tariq halted before heavy doors, guarded once again by servants, and this time they were not swung open at his appearance. The guards came to attention when he reached the doors, but it was he, and not they, who knocked for admittance. As his knuckles struck the panels, he looked at Ashley once more, examining her face closely, as if seeking some evidence of apprehension. It took all her powers of self-discipline to sustain that half resentful appraisal, and presently Tariq was diverted by the summons from within.
The double doors were opened, and a turbanned man, with a short beard and moustache, bade them enter. Although his baggy pants and short smock, secured by a sash, were different from the robes she was beginning to get used to, Ashley sensed this was not Prince Ahmed. He would hardly open his own doors, for one thing, she decided half cynically, and for all his air of authority, the man bowed his head to her companion.
‘Your father is waiting, Prince Tariq,’ he informed the younger man politely, scarcely registering Ashley’s presence. ‘You are late. The flight was delayed, perhaps.’ Now he flicked a vaguely hostile glance in her direction. ‘Come, Prince Ahmed is in the salon.’
‘The traffic was heavy,’ Tariq conceded, as they crossed a wide mosaic-tiled floor, and Ashley’s relief at being absolved of blame for their delay was overtaken by awe at her surroundings. They were in a high-ceilinged reception room, an enormous apartment, empty now, but set about with cushioned seats and low tables. There were flowers everywhere, huge bowls and vases, spilling their petals on to carved marble plinths, filling the air with their sweetness. The walls consisted of panels of glazed tiles, set into the marble, inscribed with Arabic lettering, and from the centre of the ceiling hung a silver candelabrum, spreading the light from countless branches.
Beyond the reception room was the salon, entered by more doors, this time framed in brass, and inlaid with gold and silver. Ashley had never seen such wealth or beauty, and her bewilderment helped to keep her fears at bay. Her eyes were raised to the ceiling as she crossed the salon’s threshold, but they hastily focussed on the room’s occupants when Tariq made his obeisance.
Across a delicately-woven Turkish carpet, two men awaited their arrival. One, the older man, was seated on cushions, his robes folded about him. He wore a haik, secured in place by a plaited rope, and the eyes set in a brown, weathered countenance were sharp and intelligent. Gnarled fingers plucked a handful of grapes from a bowl at his elbow, and he ate them reflectively as he studied their approach. He acknowledged his son with cool consideration, but it was Ashley who held his gaze, whose appearance aroused most interest.
For her part, Ashley scarcely noticed the older man after a compulsory glance. Her attention was riveted by the man beside Prince Ahmed, and she had to steel herself absolutely to meet his objective stare. Alain stood to one side of his father, and much to her surprise, was not wearing Arab attire. However, his wide-sleeved shirt and black velvet pants, thrust into knee-length leather boots, were not entirely European either, and above the open neck of his shirt Ashley could see the dark shadow of his body hair. He looked powerful, and alien, and remote: and Ashley’s determination faltered in the face of his.
‘Miss Conway, Father,’ Tariq announced formally, and Ashley, dragging her eyes from Alain, wondered rather hysterically whether she was expected to make some obeisance. But she stood her ground, and after a minute’s silent consideration Prince Ahmed held out his hand, gesturing her to take a seat.
Ashley sank down on to a pile of cushions, glad, for the first time since her arrival, that she was wearing trousers. At least she did not have to worry about wrapping her skirts around her legs, and she was able to retain a certain degree of modesty.
‘You may go, Tariq,’ his father said then, clearly disconcerting the younger man, who had obviously expected to remain. ‘Alain!’ He glanced up at his older son. ‘You may leave us also. I wish to speak privately with our new employee.’
‘As you wish, Father.’
Alain seemed to accept Prince Ahmed’s command without rancour. With a faintly mocking expression marring his lean features, he compelled his brother to walk ahead of him out of the room, and Tariq’s indignant features suffused with indignant colour. The man who had let them in did not leave them however. Instead, he stationed himself with his back to the now closed doors, and Ashley was left with the disturbing feeling of being in the presence of an inquisitor.
‘Some grapes?’
Prince Ahmed proffered the bowl, but Ashley shook her head. ‘Thank you, no,’ she refused politely, and he shrugged rather indifferently as he replaced the dish.
‘So,’ he said, his dark eyes narrowed and intent. ‘My son tells me you are a qualified teacher.’
‘Yes—er—’ Ashley didn’t know quite how to address him, and the man who was her son’s grandfather inclined his head.
‘You may call me Prince Ahmed,’ he advised her smoothly. ‘And when we a
re alone together, as now, I shall call you Miss Gilbert.’
Ashley’s lips parted. ‘My—name—’
‘Your name is Ashley Gilbert,’ he informed her brusquely. ‘Or more precisely Ashley Gauthier. Oh, yes,’ this as she gazed at him aghast, ‘my son told me who you were. He was obliged to do so. He knew there was no other way I would permit some strange Englishwoman to teach my grandson.’
CHAPTER FIVE
ASHLEY’S apartments were in the women’s section of the palace. The seraglio, she supposed it was called, or more descriptively, the harem, although these days there were only two wives to occupy these quarters. Nevertheless, the very fact of their existence filled Ashley with a sense of indignation out of all proportion to their importance, and she bitterly resented being treated as little more than a concubine. Alain’s father had made it clear that he regarded a woman with brains to be of rather less standing than one without, and his stubborn resistance to any kind of emancipation for the women of his house was both arrogant and infuriating.