“Have you spoken with her about it?” Fiona asked.
“I wrote her last week, inviting her to come, but she wrote back that she can’t leave her father, and he won’t leave his parish. She did say, though, that they aren’t seeing a tremendous amount of it in Wapping yet. She said if that changes, she’ll send James to me. You must be vigilant, too, Fiona, and send the children—at least the younger ones—if the outbreak grows.”
“I certainly will. I won’t need telling twice,” Fiona said. “You’ll have us all camped out with you. Mr. Foster, too.”
“That would be lovely,” India said, smiling. “I think the Brambles needs a butler. We could use some poshing up around here.”
The two women continued to chat as Fiona ate her meal. When she finished, she washed up her dishes, then excused herself. “I’m completely knackered,” she said. “I’m going to go up to my room, write Joe a letter, and then fall into bed. Thank you for the supper, India. It was delicious,” Fiona said. Then she impishly added, “What’s for supper tomorrow night? Pickled whelks? Cockles?”
India laughed. She’d grown up the child of very wealthy parents. They had been served fancy dishes at every meal, she’d once told Fiona, but—being a well-bred young lady—she’d never been expected to learn to cook any of them. She’d only learned her way around a kitchen after she’d married Sid—an East Londoner who liked his native dishes. She could not cook bifteck au poivre, or Dover sole in cream sauce, but she could turn out a perfectly cooked sausage, a wonderful steak and kidney pie, and the most delicious fish and chips Fiona had ever tasted.
“I’ll make you eel and mash tomorrow,” she said now.
Fiona made a face. “My brother doesn’t actually eat that, does he?” she said.
“I’m afraid he does.”
Fiona kissed India good night. “It’s late,” she said. “You should get some sleep, too. He’ll be home soon. Don’t worry.”
India smiled and nodded. “Good night,” she said. “Sleep well. Send our love to Joe.”
As soon as Fiona left the kitchen, India’s smile faded. She reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a small jade Buddha, about two inches long. She’d found it in the pocket of one of Sid’s jackets earlier today, when she’d picked the jacket up off the back of a chair to hang it, and could not imagine where he’d got it or what he was doing with it. She stared at it for a bit longer, then put it back in her pocket. For some reason, she hated the sight of it. It frightened her. It seemed like a bad omen.
Desperate to busy herself, and so distract herself from her anxious thoughts, India rose from the table, put her newspapers away, wiped down the sink, and then went out the back door to shake out the tablecloth.
The night air was chilly, but she lingered for a few minutes, peering into the darkness, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sid coming up the drive. Trying to follow Fiona’s advice. Trying not to worry.
Chapter Seventy-Six
“Oh, Max! I don’t know what to say! It’s beautiful, and you shouldn’t have, but I’m ever so glad that you did,” Willa said happily.
“I’m so pleased you like it,” Max said, smiling. “It’s time you had something to wear other than a hospital gown.”
Willa sat in her bed, amid pink ribbons and tissue paper. Max sat in a chair close by. Moments ago, he had appeared in her doorway carrying an armful of boxes. Inside them were a pair of calfskin shoes, silk stockings, lacy underthings, and a beautifully made lawn dress—all in ivory.
“How did you have time to get to Paris and back? I saw you only two days ago!” Willa said, teasing him.
Max grinned. “The seamstresses here are astonishing. They can copy anything. And some of the shops carry very fine goods from Europe.”
“Thank you, Max. Really. You are far too good to me,” Willa said. “Shall I change into it? Are we going for another outing?”
Two days ago, Max had come for her with a wheelchair and had taken her for an hour-long ride around the streets of Damascus. They’d gone to the souk, where he’d bought her a lovely necklace, and then they’d had lunch in a cafe. And then Willa’s strength had faded and Max had brought her back to the hospital.
“As much as I’d love to take you for a jaunt this instant,” he said now, “I can’t. I have a meeting with Jamal Pasha in an hour …”
Willa knew the name. Jamal Pasha was the Turkish governor of Damascus.
“… but I was wondering if you would do me the great honor of joining me for dinner at my quarters this evening. If, and only if, you feel up to it.”
“I would be delighted to,” Willa said.
“Wonderful. I will call for you at eight.”
Willa suddenly looked down at her dress, not meeting Max’s eyes.
“Is something wrong? Is eight too late?” he asked, concern in his voice.
Willa smiled ruefully. “Nothing’s wrong. Nothing at all. It’s just that it’s so nice to have something to look forward to,” she said. “It’s been so long since I’ve had that.”
Max rose from his chair and sat on the edge of her bed. He hooked a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. “You have the rest of your life to look forward to Willa Alden,” he said, kissing her mouth. “With me.”
Willa kissed him back. He put his arms around her and held her close, releasing her only when he heard footsteps in the hall.
“Sister Anna will scold me,” he whispered. “She’ll say I’m tiring you.”
“I hope you will. Tire me, that is,” Willa whispered. “Later.”
Max feigned shock at her words. Then, as Sister Anna came into the room, he said, “Until this evening, Miss Alden.”
“Until this evening, Mr. von Brandt,” Willa said.
“And how is our patient this afternoon?” Sister Anna asked. She had just started her shift.
“Very well, Sister Anna,” Willa said, as Max left the room. “I’ve been invited to Mr. von Brandt’s for supper this evening.”
“So soon?” Sister Anna asked. “Are you certain you are up to it? You are still taking three doses of morphine daily.”
“I will manage. One cannot always give in to pain and weakness. That is no way to win a war, is it? And Mr. von Brandt and I have much to discuss concerning the war.”
“Yes, of course,” Sister Anna said. “Is there anything I can get for you? Anything that you require?”
Willa looked at her beautiful new clothes, then said, “Yes, there is. A bath.”
Sister Anna smiled. “Of course. I’ll run one for you,” she said. “I’ll fetch you in about fifteen minutes.”
Willa nodded and Sister Anna left the room. As soon as she had, Willa’s smile faded and her jaw took on a grim and determined set.
So soon, she thought.
She’d hoped she would have a few more days. Her side still hurt. She was still weak from the typhus. She would have to overcome both, for Max was bringing her to his house tonight. Once she was there, it would be now or never. She would do her best to look as good as she possibly could. And she would hope like hell that he had wine to drink. A lot of it.
She suddenly felt terrified. It was such a hopeless long shot, her plan. Most likely it would all go horribly wrong, and then it would be her in the yard of the prison, blindfolded and awaiting the firing squad.
She thought of Lawrence and how he had endured years of hardship and privation in the desert to further the cause of Arab independence. She thought of Khalaf and Fatima and their little son. She thought of Auda and of all the wild, indomitable Bedouin. She heard Auda’s voice in her head. “Dwell not upon thy weariness, thy strength shall be according to the measure of thy desire,” he told her now, just as he had so many times before in the desert. Willa snaked her hand down under her mattress and felt for the pills she’d hidden.
“Tonight, then,” she whispered in the silence of her room. “Inshallah.”
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Willa was ready.
It was a
few minutes before eight. She was washed, combed, and dressed. The gown Max had bought had been made for her. It caressed her slim body beautifully and set off her dramatic coloring—her pale skin and dark hair, her luminous green eyes. She was wearing the necklace he’d bought for her in the souk. One of the younger nurses had put her hair up in a soft, fetching twist and loaned her a tube of lipstick.
“My goodness, Miss Alden,” Max said when he came for her. “You are absolutely beautiful.”
Willa smiled. She was standing by the foot of her bed. Dr. Meyers had gotten her a new leg, to replace the one battered in the plane crash. It fit her well and allowed her to walk relatively easily—though no one knew that but her.
“Why, thank you, Mr. von Brandt,” she said. “You look very handsome yourself.”
Max bowed his head at the compliment. Willa took a few slow steps toward him, reaching for his arm.
Max frowned. “I’m going to get you a wheelchair. I saw one downstairs.”
“It’s not necessary, Max,” Willa protested. “I can walk. I should walk.”
“We’ll only use it to get you to my house. Once you’re there, you can walk all you like.”
Willa sighed. “If you insist,” she said.
As Max pushed her through the city streets, Willa commented on the number of animals in the streets and asked many questions. Who lived in the splendid stone house? The whitewashed one? The tiled one? Where did Jamal Pasha live? What was Max’s house like?
“You can see for yourself,” he replied to her last question. “It’s right there.”
He wheeled her up to a beautiful whitewashed house, one of a row of houses about a half mile from the city square. Its arched windows were framed by intricately painted Arabic designs. The entrance—which was set back slightly from the street—was tiled in squares of blue, green, orange, and yellow. Lush red roses climbed the pillars flanking the door, and a stained-glass lantern hung over it, casting a warm glow.
“Max, it’s lovely!” Willa exclaimed.
“I’m glad you like it. I’m renting it from a wealthy Turkish merchant. He and his family decamped to Aleppo.”
“Are we close to the souk here?” Willa asked. “I’m afraid I haven’t got my bearings yet.”
“The souk is about four streets west of us. Southwest, actually. Over that way,” Max said, pointing.
“Ah, that explains all the animals in the streets,” Willa said.
“Yes, they’re sold there on Sundays and Wednesdays. But the traders bring them in the night before, which is why there were so many of them in the streets just now. Tomorrow’s Wednesday of course.”
Willa knew that already. Sister Anna had told her about the animal markets. But she did not let on. The Wednesday animal market was the reason she had said yes to Max’s invitation tonight. Had his offer been made for another night, one that did not precede an animal market, she would have begged off, pleading fatigue.
Max’s butler, a tall Damascan in an embroidered robe and silk turban, welcomed them. He told Max that the cook had made a most divine meal and that it would be ready shortly.
“Will you show me the house before we dine?” Willa asked, getting out of the wheelchair and taking Max’s arm.
Max said he would be delighted to and began to take her around, walking her from room to room.
They started in the sitting room. Willa marveled at the ornately carved chairs and settees, all upholstered in heavy silks, and the thick, patterned Persian rugs on the floor.
“Did the merchant let the house to you furnished?” she asked.
Max nodded. “He left everything in the house. Furniture, rugs, books, kitchenware. He even left some of his robes in the closet. In case I get the urge to go native, I guess.”
In the billiards room, there were zebra rugs underfoot and lion and tiger heads on the walls. Antique swords and pistols were also displayed on the walls, many with jeweled hilts and handles.
“Toys for boys,” Willa said, running her hand over one heavily crusted sword handle.
Max laughed. He led her into the study, where the walls were lined with books, some in English, some in Turkish and Arabic. They were all beautifully bound in leather. More books, and magazines and newspapers, were piled haphazardly on tables and chairs. A pair of Max’s boots and a riding crop lay on the rug by a settee. His desk was covered by maps and memos, some of which had fallen to the floor. Willa glanced casually at the desk as she passed by it, then turned to Max and said, “Very sloppy, Mr. von Brandt. I think you need a wife.”
Max walked to the desk. He shuffled the memos into a pile, then turned them over.
“Any candidates in mind?” he asked her, as he rolled the maps up.
“Let me think about it,” Willa said. “Perhaps I can come up with one.”
Just then, Max’s butler came into the room, bowed, and informed them that dinner was served.
“Are you hungry?” Max asked Willa.
Willa reshelved a book she’d been looking at and turned to him. “Desperately,” she said. She took his arm again, then added, “Hungry for good food, good wine, and good company. After years in the desert, I feel like I’ve suddenly stumbled into Paradise.”
“Come,” Max said, leading her out of the study and to the dining room. “Let’s see what the cook has made for us.”
The dining room was beautiful and romantic. Candles in silver holders had been set on the table. They cast a soft glow over the room. Roses in vases perfumed the air. Max seated her on the left of one of the short ends of the dining table—a long, ornate affair, made of ebony and inlaid with ivory, malachite, and lapis lazuli. He took the end seat himself, so they would be close together.
As Willa laid her napkin in her lap, he filled her glass and then his own with wine—again a rare Bordeaux.
“To you,” he said, lifting his glass.
Willa shook her head. “No, Max, to us,” she said.
Their meal began with mezze—a tantalizing array of appetizers. There were grape leaves stuffed with lamb and rice, chickpea patties, hummus, and a dish of grilled eggplant, sesame seed paste, olive oil, lemon, and garlic that Willa could not get enough of.
“This is so good, Max,” she said, savoring a bite of stuffed grape leaf. “I’ve never had such wonderful food. Your cook is amazing.”
Max sat back in his chair, watching her eat and smiling, enjoying her enjoyment of the meal. The mezze was followed by fattoush, a peasant salad made of toasted bits of bread, cucumbers, tomatoes, and mint. Then the butler brought out chicken kabobs and kibbeh—minced lamb balls, stuffed with rice and spices. To go with the meat dishes, there were lentils cooked with rice and garnished with fried onions, a dish of stuffed squash, and another of spiced potatoes.
“Max, did your other dinner guests cancel?” Willa asked halfway through the feast. “Your cook made enough for twenty people!”
Max laughed. He leaned forward and refilled Willa’s wineglass and then his own. “It’s all for you, Willa,” he said. “I want to fatten you up. Make you healthy and hearty and happy again.”
As they ate, Max asked her about Lawrence, about the sort of man he was. Willa told him, admiringly, about Lawrence’s bravery, his intelligence, and his enormous charisma.
“Were you lovers?” Max asked suddenly.
She looked at him over the top of her wineglass, then teasingly said, “Why? Would you be jealous if we were? I should like you to be.”
“Yes, I would,” Max admitted.
“We were not,” she said. “Lawrence has only one mistress—and it’s not me.”
“Who is it, then?” Max asked.
“Arabia,” Willa replied.
Max nodded. “Well,” he said at length, “I fear Lawrence is going to have to learn to get along without his mistress, because she won’t be his for very much longer.”
Willa forced herself to smile. She asked Max to pass her another chicken kabob. She wanted to eat as much as she could. She did not kno
w when she would find food again after tonight.
“Let’s not talk about Lawrence or the war,” she said. “Not tonight. Let’s talk about Everest instead.”
They did. Max told her that as soon as he was finished here at Damascus, he would return to Germany and he would take her with him. He would be needed in Berlin until the war was over, but as soon as he could get away, they would travel east again. They talked about plans for their future for quite some time. Until the bottle of wine had been emptied, and another brought. Until the supper dishes were cleared, and a platter of fresh fruit, dates, and honey pastries had been served. Until the candles burned down and Max had dismissed the servants.
As they sat together in the candlelight, reminiscing about Rongbuk, Max suddenly reached across the table and covered Willa’s hand with his own. “I want you, Willa Alden,” Max said. “I’ve wanted you all night. All during the trip from the hospital. All through supper. I want you so much I can’t bear it.”
“What about dessert?” Willa coyly asked, biting into a date. “Don’t you want any?”
“You are dessert,” Max said. He rose from his chair then, picked her up, and carried her to his bedroom.
He put her down, kissed her, and gently unbuttoned the back of her dress. It slipped off her arms, down her slender body, to the floor, where it lay—a shimmering silk puddle at her feet. As she stood in her camisole, petticoat, and stockings, he took off his jacket and shirt. Then he stretched out on his bed, took her hand, and pulled her down to him. He kissed her mouth, her throat, the delicate bones of her neck. She buried her hands in his thick blond hair and kissed him back. He was gloriously handsome. His body was hard and smooth. His face, that of a stone god.
I could have loved you, Max, she thought, if things had been different.
She remembered his warm hands, his passionate kisses. She remembered the feel and smell of him. She saw him as he had been on Everest—strong and daring, hard and fearless. He had been her lover then. Now he was her enemy. She must not forget that, not for a second. It would cost her her life if she did—hers and many more besides.
The Wild Rose Page 43