by Anne Mather
‘Thank you.’ Ashley’s tongue probed her upper lip. ‘But couldn’t I—I mean, isn’t it possible for me to speak to Andrew tonight?’
‘Hussein will await your presence at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,’ Alain repeated, his expression unyielding, and withdrawing his hand, he gave her a stiff bow. ‘Au revoir, mademoiselle,’ he intoned politely, and she covered her ears with her hands as his booted feet rang across the tiled floor of the room beyond.
Almost instantly, Nuzab reappeared, inspiring in Ashley the certain belief that the girl had been listening to their exchange. Had Alain known that? Was he used to the familiarities of his servants? Or was Nuzab in the pay of Prince Ahmed, a willing spy, in the camp of the enemy? At a time when Ashley was already feeling sick and vulnerable, and desperate for solitude to lick her gaping wounds, the Arab girl’s smiling deference was abrasive, and she had to fight back the desire to strike the complacent expression from Nuzab’s face.
‘Lady like to take bath now, please?’ the girl enquired, her deft hands already darting towards Ashley’s clothes, and Ashley stepped backward, quelling Nuzab’s eager ministry with a shake of her head.
‘Thank you, if I want a bath, I’ll take one,’ she declared, only wanting Nuzab to go, and then knew a sudden pang when the Arab girl assumed a wounded expression. ‘Honestly,’ she added, feeling obliged to make some explanation, ‘we don’t have—servants, where I come from. It—it’s very kind of you to offer your assistance, and I appreciate it, but believe me, it’s not necessary.’
Nuzab gazed at her, as if she had suddenly raised the sword of Damocles above her. If the girl’s face was anything to go by, she was innocent of anything except a desire to please her mistress, and although Ashley wanted to be rid of her, she was beginning to realise it was not going to be that simple.
‘You do not like Nuzab?’ she asked suddenly, linking her fingers together and pressing her thumbs to her lips, almost in a gesture of supplication. ‘Nuzab not please you?’ She gazed at Ashley, her calf-like brown eyes filled with tears. ‘Muhammed will beat Nuzab if she displeases you, lady.’
‘Oh, no!’ Ashley stared at her in total disbelief. ‘You can’t be serious!’
‘Master bid Nuzab care for you, lady,’ she insisted, with downbent head. ‘If lady not find Nuzab pleasing—’
‘This is the twentieth century, Nuzab, not the twelfth,’ Ashley exclaimed impatiently. ‘You’re talking nonsense! No one’s going to beat you. Believe me, you have nothing to fear.’
‘You let Nuzab help you, lady?’ Nuzab’s dark eyes darted upward again, and Ashley knew a helpless sense of frustration. She couldn’t honestly accept that Muhammed still took a whip to his minions, but remembering the hawklike countenance and steely gaze of the man who had escorted her from Prince Ahmed’s apartments, she did not doubt he put the fear of Allah into these girls.
‘All right,’ she conceded now, with resignation. ‘Yes, you’d better run my bath, as you suggested. We can’t have Muhammed making mincemeat of you.’
Nuzab looked slightly perplexed at her choice of expression, but her delight that her services were apparently not being dismissed was genuine enough, Ashley decided. With a little bob, the Arab girl scurried out of the room, and by the time Ashley had followed her into the bedroom, there was the sound of running water emanating from the bathroom next door.
Seconds later Nuzab appeared again, carrying a cream silk robe, exquisitely embroidered in threads of gold and scarlet. Ashley, who could see her suitcases still unpacked at the foot of the bed, and who knew in any case that she possessed no such garment, gazed in some bewilderment at the exotic creation, and was scarcely aware of what Nuzab was doing until the cooler air of evening brushed featherlike across her breasts.
‘Nuzab!’ she exclaimed then, gathering the unbuttoned sides of her shirt together, and drawing back from the girl in automatic revulsion, but the Arab girl was not deterred.
‘Come,’ she invited, holding up the robe. ‘Take off the shirt and put on the robe. Then Nuzab help you to undress.’
She smiled encouragingly, but Ashley was uneasy. ‘That’s not my robe, Nuzab,’ she pointed out briefly, making no move to obey her. ‘And I’m perfectly capable of taking off my own clothes. I’m not a child, Nuzab. I can perform simple functions.’
She doubted if Nuzab understood half of this, as her smile remained in place. ‘Put on the robe, lady,’ she persisted, holding it in readiness, and realising she was being unnecessarily coy, Ashley turned her back, took off the shirt, and hastily slid her arms into the sleeves of the cream gown.
‘Who does it belong to, Nuzab?’ she exclaimed, after it was secured about her, and the Arab girl smiled her satisfaction.
‘My lady, the Princess Hélène, she sent it for you,’ she replied, gesturing towards the bathroom. ‘The bath is almost ready, lady. Please to come with me.’
The bathroom was the most opulent apartment Ashley had ever seen. The sunken bath was deep and round, and presently filled with soapy water, bubbling up the sides and fragrant with attar of roses. The taps and fittings were all gold, there was a gold rim to the bath and the basin, and the shower cubicle was almost completely made of gold-tinted glass. The floor was marble, and the walls were mirror-lined, and in the area surrounding the bath itself there was laid out an assortment of coloured jars and flagons containing oils and lotions and other cosmetic preparations.
Nuzab attended to the taps as Ashley bent to examine the bottles, sniffing their contents and inhaling their sweetness with a sense of having stepped back in time. In just such a way must Scheherazade have prepared herself for the Sultan, and Ashley by no means liked the accompanying connotation.
Straightening, she found Nuzab waiting to attend her, and exasperation overwhelmed compassion. ‘Thank you, Nuzab, I can cope from now on,’ she assured her shortly, and walking to the door, she stood beside it, her meaning plain. Nuzab looked as if she was about to argue, but then made a little gesture of assent. With another bow, she returned to the bedroom, and with some relief Ashley closed the bathroom door.
There was no way of locking it, she found, and once more uncertainty frustrated her. But her own weariness and the deliciously-perfumed steam from the tub were persuasive, and eschewing her inhibitions, she took off the rest of her clothes. The robe she removed last of all, folding it neatly and laying it on a clothes basket woven of reeds. It was quite the most beautiful garment she had ever possessed, and now that she could view it objectively, she determined that she must thank Alain’s mother for it at the earliest possible opportunity. Alain’s mother! She quivered for a moment as she stepped down into the scented suds. Who would have imagined she would meet her husband’s stepmother in such strange and unreal circumstances?
The water was soft and soothing, and came up almost to her shoulders, concealing her body beneath a veil of soapy bubbles. It was hot, too, but not excessively so, just enough to relax her muscles and induce a dreamy sense of inertia. She wondered sleepily whether there was some kind of narcotic in the water, put there to create this state of lethargy. But the computations of these thoughts were too great for her to consider, and she gave herself up to the insidious delights of sensual indulgence.
Nuzab’s reappearance a few moments later aroused no more than a mild irritation, and when the Arab girl knelt beside the bath and began to soap her arms and shoulders, Ashley made no real protest. She felt too languid, too quiescent, and why should she object, when Nuzab’s agile fingers did the job so much more satisfactorily?
By the time Nuzab helped her out of the bath, Ashley’s whole body felt suffused with warmth and relaxation. Her hair, had been washed, and gleamed dully, a cause for admiration in the Arab girl, who had exclaimed over its blonde softness. Her own hair was black, and oiled, and confined in a thick braid, but when Ashley’s was loosened, it hung straight and shining, and soft as silk.
Nuzab towelled her body dry with soft fluffy towels, and after perfuming her skin w
ith a scented lotion, replaced the cream silk robe. Then, inviting Ashley to follow her, she went back into the bedroom and produced a modern hair-dryer, settling her mistress on a cushioned ottoman, before proceeding with her task.
By this time, the sense of well-being Ashley had experienced in the bath was dispersing, and the memory of Nuzab’s ministrations filled her with distaste. How could she have allowed the girl to bathe her and oil her skin? She wasn’t an Arab, she was English, and she couldn’t believe she had permitted the girl such liberties. There must have been some mild intoxicant in the water, there was no other explanation, and with an impatient lunge she snatched the hair-dryer out of Nuzab’s hands and continued with the task herself.
Nuzab hesitated for a moment, and then, apparently growing accustomed to the English girl’s temperamental attitude, she bowed low and declared she would go and attend to the emptying of the bath. She went away with a smug smile still resting on her delicate features, and Ashley felt like hurling the hair-dryer after her. But she didn’t. Instead, unwelcome tears pricked at the backs of her eyes, and she felt a sudden sense of misgiving. What was she doing here, she asked herself bitterly, if not destroying for ever any normal chance of life for herself?
CHAPTER SIX
BREAKFAST was brought to her at eight o’clock, and Ashley, who had had an extraordinarily good night’s sleep, looked with more enthusiasm at the food. The night before she had been too troubled and upset to feel any great enthusiasm for Egyptian caviar, or shish-kebabs, served on a bed of fluffy white rice. Even the sticky sherbet that followed was by no means to her taste, and she had ignored Nuzab’s disapproving countenance and drunk several cups of coffee, in lieu of the meal. But this morning she felt brighter, and infinitely less distraite, and even Nuzab’s benign features did not irritate her today.
The bed had been superbly comfortable, but that had not really been surprising. It was an enormous thing, hung about with a tasselled canopy and spread with sheets and coverings of purest silk. Ashley had never slept between real silk sheets before, or buried her head in real feather pillows, and the gold-patterned quilt was so wide and heavily embroidered it trailed its fringe on the Turkish carpet.
Nuzab set a tray with legs across her, after Ashley had propped herself up on her pillows. It contained a warming dish of croissants, butter, cooled with cubes of ice, and thick cherry conserve, in a cut-glass container. There was freshly-squeezed orange juice, and a pot of coffee, and thick cream in a bone china jug.
‘It is to your liking, lady?’ Nuzab ventured, standing back with hands folded as her mistress examined the meal, and Ashley gave a half rueful nod. The night before, she had been quite unkind to the Arab girl, and now she felt contrite. She had only, after all, been doing her duty, and Ashley should not criticise her if she did it rather too assiduously.
‘It looks delicious,’ Ashley said now, indicating the tray. ‘Thank you, Nuzab. I’m very grateful.’
‘Is no trouble,’ Nuzab assured her softly, her smile back in place, and after hesitating a moment to touch Ashley’s two long braids with a wondering hand, she disappeared into the salon while her mistress enjoyed her meal.
The previous evening, Nuzab had unpacked her suitcases, and after she had eaten a crisp croissant, thickly spread with cherry conserve, and drunk two cups of the aromatic French coffee, Ashley slid energetically out of bed. She paused a moment to wonder whether there might not have been a sedative in the cup of hot chocolate Nuzab had brought her just before she retired for the night, which would account for the dreamless sleep she had enjoyed, but whatever, this morning she felt rested and alert.
Passing the long cheval mirror that reflected the strengthening rays of the sun, Ashley lingered a moment to gaze at her reflection. What would Andrew—Hussein—make of her? she wondered, realising without conceit that she looked scarcely old enough to have a seven-year-old son. Had he ever pictured his mother and what she might have been like, or had he accepted that she had been some unknown Arab girl his father had briefly married? Whatever his opinion, she meant to find out for herself, if only to satisfy that ache inside her that motherhood had left.
It was already getting quite warm, and after Ashley had washed her face and cleaned her teeth, she slid back the doors of the air-conditioned wardrobes and examined their contents critically. She had thought she might wear the grey skirt and white blouse she would have worn in England, but it was obviously going to be too hot to wear anything so formal. Instead, she chose a lime-green cotton shirtwaister, with elbow-length sleeves and a swinging skirt that displayed the slender length of her legs to doubtful advantage.
She was buckling high-heeled sandals on to her feet when Nuzab reappeared, and she seemed taken aback to find her mistress had managed without her. She could not know that that was why Ashley had hurried her breakfast, so that she could be dressed and ready before the Arab girl returned.
‘You have brushed your hair, lady?’ she enquired disappointedly, touching the neatly-coiled chignon Ashley had adopted, and the English girl nodded.
‘Yes, thank you. It’s cooler worn this way. Now perhaps you will show me the way to the schoolroom.’
Nuzab shrugged, but she had no option, and after a swift glance at her wrist watch had assured Ashley it was only a quarter to nine, they left the apartments. The corridors Muhammed had hurried her along the night before were now bright and sunlit, with shafts of gold across the veined marble floor. There was the hum of activity as the servants went about their work, keeping the palace in its immaculate condition, and the warmth of a heightening temperature to bring a film of perspiration out all over Ashley’s body. Through the narrow windows she glimpsed the gardens which the night before had been bathed in shadow. Now their lushness and colour seemed almost painful to the eye, a fitting setting for so much magnificence. She realised that if she had given any thought to her son’s whereabouts, she had pictured nothing like this, and she could not help recognising that nothing she could give him could aspire to his father’s inheritance.
It was impossible to decide where the woman’s apartments ended and her son’s began. But presently they approached double doors that led into a sunlit apartment, with murals of birds and animals adorning the walls. Beyond this room was another, and another, and Ashley’s preconceptions of her son’s enforced confinement gave way to the reality.
He had almost a whole wing of the palace to himself, and as they progressed through reception rooms and salons, playrooms and nurseries, Ashley began to appreciate how limited her ideas had been. The boy had every material thing a child could wish for, from toys of every kind to his own private cinema, with a library of films to rival a television station. He had his own small library of books, his bedroom was as opulent as hers, but as she followed Nuzab from one luxurious apartment to another, she couldn’t help wondering who he shared it all with. Was he alone here? Did he have playmates? Or, as Hassan was dead and Alain had not married, was he guarded as the heir to his grandfather’s wealth would be guarded?
And there were guards about, surreptitiously to be sure, but stationed at intervals, ostensibly to guard the doors. Their expressions were enigmatic as they permitted the two girls to pass, but Ashley could imagine their reaction if she, or anyone else, attempted to harm the boy.
Just when Ashley was beginning to wonder where the child was, they emerged from the palace into a pergola-hung court, where her son was seated in the sunlight, on the rim of a tiled fountain, tossing crumbs to a flock of white doves that fluttered down from the roof. He was not alone. The man Muhammed stood to one side, in the shadows, and Nuzab bowed low as she spoke to him in their own tongue. Evidently she was excusing herself now that her task was completed, and the tall Arab inclined his head briefly and gave her permission to leave them.
The boy had jumped down from his perch at their appearance, and Ashley saw to her relief that he was wearing the shirt and shorts of the suit he had worn to come to the school. He now stood staring at her wi
th intelligent eyes. ‘You are the lady we saw in London!’ he exclaimed, reminding her of the first occasion she had seen him, and a lump filled Ashley’s throat as she struggled to reply.
‘Yes,’ was all she could manage as he came eagerly towards her, and he smiled his friendly smile, that was so absurdly like his father’s.
‘I am most happy to meet you, mademoiselle,’ he greeted her politely, and Ashley took the hand he offered with a feeling of utter helplessness. His skin was so soft, she thought tremulously, wanting to raise his hand to her face and press her lips against those small knuckles. But all that was permitted was the briefest of salutations before Muhammed came to stand beside them, and the boy turned eagerly to address him.
‘You have met Mademoiselle Conway, Muhammed?’ he asked, his English as good as Alain’s, with only the faintest trace of an accent, and the tall Arab gave a brief nod of assent. ‘She is going to teach me,’ Hussein continued with enthusiasm. ‘Uncle Alain told me so.’ He turned back to Ashley, to include her in his conversation. ‘Muhammed teaches me how to use a sword.’
‘Does he?’
Ashley struggled to contain her emotions. The idea of her small son crossing weapons with the tall, hawklike Muhammed was another thong to beat herself with. But she managed to suppress her consternation, and Muhammed suggested, in heavily-accented English, that Hussein should show his new tutor where they were to work.
The schoolroom adjoined one of the many playrooms, and was furnished, like the rest of his apartments, with great attention to detail. As well as desks for Hussein and herself, there were various aids to teaching, like the computerised blackboard, that never needed wiping, and the video-cassette recorder, with its comprehensive store of tapes.