Regret Not a Moment

by Nicole McGehee

  “I can’t give sixteen and a half,” Grace said ambivalently.

  “You arr verrry deefeecult, madam. I offerrr you for seexteen pound. No less.”

  Now it was Grace’s turn to sigh. “I’m sorry,” she said shaking her head, “we’ll just have to look elsewhere.”

  “You weel not find betterrr!” the man prophesied.

  Grace simply smiled and, taking Devon’s arm, slowly turned to go. Devon did not dare say a word, but she glared at her sister in disgust. A moment later, however, her glare turned into a smile as she heard, “Leddeez, pleez!”

  Grace and Devon turned back and waited to hear the man’s offer.

  “Look how the cloth falls, so supple, so fine,” he said, holding it against his pudgy stomach and letting it hang to his knees in the approximate shape of a skirt. “And thees beautifool caftan, I geev you for fifteen pound. I mek no money,” he declared, “but thees caftan eez med forr thees beautifool leddy.” He smiled and held the cloth in the air in front of Devon so that Grace could admire the color against her sister’s skin.

  “Well… it is lovely,” Grace admitted. She put one index finger to her mouth, as though thinking the matter over. “I’ll raise my offer to seven pounds.”

  “Rez yourrr offerrr! Thet eez nothing. I cannot tek only seven pound!” The man looked apoplectic.

  “I’m sorry, it’s the best I can do,” Grace said.

  The man and woman stared at each other in silence, each trying to assess the other’s breaking point. The attractive chestnut-haired woman had a firm, bold stare. She knew how the game was played, the man thought, and he respected her for it.

  “Okay,” he conceded, the expression a favorite one picked up from the Americans, “I geev you food frrom my mouth. I geev you cloth frrom my back. You tek forrr seven pound.”

  Grace and Devon beamed at the man with such gratitude that he almost forgot that he had let them have the caftan for only one pound more than he would have been willing to sell it for.

  “Well done, ladies,” The unmistakable accent of a British aristocrat confronted the sisters as they turned to leave the booth. They looked in confusion at the crowd swarming about them until Grace spotted a familiar face.

  “Roland!” Grace cried.

  Roland Somerset-Smith, handsome in his Royal Air Force uniform, lifted his cap and bowed to the women. The Earl of Abersham looked like a cinema ideal of a British officer with his slightly receding dark hair, twinkling brown eyes, and classically modeled features.

  “I didn’t know you were back in town,” Grace chided him. The circle to which Grace and Roland belonged in Cairo was small enough that the comings and goings of its members were known to one and all. Cairene society was in some ways a rather democratic one. Prejudices against other nationalities, religions, and races were largely forgotten as the most sophisticated segment of the population congregated in enclaves separate from the great mass that made up the majority of Egypt. Europeans, Americans, Africans, and Cairenes mingled freely so long as they came from a background of wealth and family connections. Aristocratic rank was of little importance as the war had lent an informality to the group of socialites. The privileged classes gathered at Groppi’s for tea and pastries, the Mena House for dinner and dancing, and the Gezira Sporting Club or the Turf Club for cocktails, athletics, and gambling. They summered in Alexandria, ordered custom-made clothes from skilled craftsmen who perfectly copied the latest European fashions, and sent their offspring to the American University in Cairo, the Sorbonne in Paris, or Oxford in England. They spoke French and English with equal fluency. Arabic was hardly needed. Most business transactions were performed in French, and that was the primary language taught in schools, even more commonly than Arabic. Arabic was useful, though certainly not necessary, for bargaining in the souk.

  “I’m permanently stationed here now,” Roland said, his eyes irresistibly pulled to Devon, despite the fact that he was addressing Grace. “No more shuttling back and forth to London for me. At least not for a while.” He was a squadron leader—the equivalent of a U.S. major—in the Desert Air Force, a special section of the Royal Air Force assigned to North Africa.

  “Devon, this is Roland Somerset-Smith, the Earl of Abersham, a good friend of ours. Roland, this is my sister, Devon Alexander.”

  “Grace, I didn’t think it possible that there could be another woman in this world as entrancing as you,” he said, bowing over Devon’s hand. “I hope you intend to stay in Cairo for some time.” The expression in his eyes told Devon that this was more than a platitude.

  “I do!” Devon said enthusiastically. “As long as Grace and Philip can endure the imposition.”

  “We shall have to ensure you have a wonderful time, then. Cairo is an exciting city, as you know.” Roland thoughtfully ran one finger over his jaw. “If you ladies haven’t any other plans, may I invite you to join me for lunch at the Turf Club?” Roland looked at his wristwatch. “It’s almost one o’clock now.”

  The two women readily agreed. “We’ll go and dismiss our driver then, if you can give us a lift back to the house,” Grace said.

  Lunch under the blue-and-white-striped awning was so delightful that it stretched into tea, then cocktails.

  “Why don’t you send my driver with a message for Philip to join us?” Roland asked Grace.

  “Wonderful idea!” Grace exclaimed, feeling just a bit giddy from the champagne cocktails.

  Roland signaled for their waiter while Grace scribbled a note for the driver, then she settled back quietly in her chair. She studied Roland as he talked to her sister. He was animated as she had never before seen him. It was obvious to her that he was taken with Devon.

  And Devon, she noticed, responded to his admiration, happily flirting back. She had not seen her sister so carefree since Morgan’s death, almost three years before. There was a healthy flush to her cheeks and, in the flattering pink light of early evening, she looked as though she were in her twenties.

  Indeed, Devon did find Roland attractive. The trait that was most dominant in him—the one that struck both men and women immediately—was his charm. He never seemed to say the wrong thing. He punctuated all his remarks with a dazzling smile. It was the sort of deadly charm that could have been used to ill advantage, but Roland was too kind for that.

  At one point, Roland asked Devon, “By the way, are you interested in horseracing? The tracks here in Cairo are quite something.”

  Devon and Grace exchanged grins before explaining the joke to Roland. And as it turned out, Roland himself had a breeding operation at his family estate in England.

  Later, she learned from Grace that Roland was a widower with no children.

  In the ensuing weeks, Devon found most of her time taken up by excursions with Roland. He was absent for almost two weeks in late August during the visit of Winston Churchill to British installations near Cairo. Churchill, Roland told Devon, had been very impressed with what he had seen, though on one humorous occasion he had complained privately about a soup made of tinned oysters served to him by the commander of the New Zealand forces.

  Then, on August 30, shortly after Churchill’s departure, German and Italian forces attacked British positions in Egypt. The Germans were soundly repelled and finally, four days later, retreated.

  After the battle, Roland returned to Cairo. He continued to see Devon as often as his duties permitted.

  “When exactly do you work?” Devon asked teasingly on a day that had begun with beignets at the Continental Hotel, gone on to lunch at the Mena Houses pool terrace, and moved to an afternoon of horseracing at the Heliopolis Club. Now they were enjoying martinis in the shade of the terrace.

  “This is my life’s mission, don’t you know?” Roland took Devon’s hand and kissed it, unmindful of the benign stares of those near them. Suddenly his gaze turned serious. “I’d like it to be, you know,” he said, searching Devon’s eyes for her response.

  Devon looked down at her drink, confused.<
br />
  “Devon,” he said, his voice grave, “I’m not permitted to elaborate any further… but there will come a time, quite soon now I think, when I will have to leave Cairo.”

  Devon was surprised by how much she dreaded the thought. “You’ll be here for my birthday, won’t you?” It’s only a little over a month away.” Devon could hardly believe that it was already early October. The days were still as hot as midsummer in Virginia.

  Roland looked sad. “I would love to be more than anything on earth, but I don’t think I can.” His expression changed to one of concern. “And I wish you’d consider going elsewhere for a bit.”

  Devon searched his face. “What do you mean?”

  “The war is rather close, isn’t it?”

  “The war is close anywhere you go in the world nowadays,” Devon pointed out.

  “Not Virginia,” Roland countered.

  “Granted,” Devon said with a smile, “but at this point in my life, I’m more disturbed by my ghosts in the United States than by physical danger here.” She shrugged her shoulders and went on breezily, “Besides, didn’t Mr. Churchill order that every one of your office workers in Cairo be issued a rifle? And what about all the reinforcements he’s surrounded the city with? I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

  Roland stared at her for a moment, and it was obvious that he was holding something back.

  “What?” Devon asked.

  Roland’s face reflected his internal conflict. He reached across the table again for her hands and enfolded them in his. “I have no right to tell you what to do, though God knows I wish I did,” Roland said. “If I had that privilege, however, I would insist that you leave Cairo just now.”

  Devon smiled gently. “I know it’s what you think best, but I’m just not ready to go home.” Although Devon still loved Willowbrook, Morgan’s death had created a terrible emptiness in the place. Her divorce from John had exacerbated her feeling of loneliness.

  It was not that John had completely disappeared from her life. Shortly after the United States joined the war, in 1941, John had phoned Devon to tell her that he had been selected for a special government mission overseas. He did not supply her with any details about the mission, making it clear that such questions were unwelcome. She assumed that his duties involved espionage, but did not know for sure.

  Then in February 1942, John telephoned her with news she found much more disturbing: he had become engaged to Bebe Henley. As soon as she had politely congratulated him and hung up the telephone, she scurried to the bathroom and became sick to her stomach. She was not sure if the nausea was due to jealousy or simple disgust at the idea that John should marry such a contemptible creature. She only knew that she was downcast for days after she heard the news. And after hearing it, she knew she had to escape.

  Devon’s beloved Willowbrook—the place she had fought so hard for and about with John—simply was not able to fill the void in her heart. She knew it was being well cared for and was not worried about it in her absence.

  Roland shook his head with a smile of resignation at her refusal to return to the United States. “You’re an obstinate woman, Devon Alexander.”

  “Yes,” she said dryly, “so I’ve been told.”

  A few weeks later Devon discovered the reason for Roland’s concern when British and U.S. forces launched a surprise attack against the Germans and Italians in North Africa. The date was October 23, 1942.

  The German forces were at an extreme disadvantage in terms of personnel and firepower and, perhaps most important, due to the fact that their able commander, General Rommel, had gone to a hospital in Germany at the end of September. General Stumme, who took his place, died in battle of a heart attack on October 24, whereupon Hitler cut short Rommel’s convalescence and immediately dispatched him to the battle front.

  Just two days after Rommel’s arrival, on October 27, there was a decisive turn in the fighting. The Germans launched a full-scale counterattack on Allied troops, and the Royal Air Force responded with two and a half hours of bombing sorties, during which eighty tons of bombs were concentrated in an enemy area measuring three by two miles. The enemy attack was quelled almost before it could begin. By November 8, Allied troops had taken thirty thousand prisoners from the Battle of Alamein.

  The battle marked a turning point for the Allies in World War II. Churchill afterward said, “Before Alamein we never had a victory. After Alamein we never had a defeat.”

  CHAPTER 39

  “I’M grateful I was able to be here after all,” Roland whispered into Devon’s ear, mindful of the other guests standing near them. Philip and Grace were hosting the elegant party in honor of Devon’s birthday.

  Devon raised her flute of champagne to her lips and looked over the rim at Roland as she took a sip. “It makes my birthday much happier, having you here.” Devon lowered her glass and looked up at Roland, dimples showing at either side of her smile. She thought he looked resplendent in his Royal Air Force uniform, new medals shining from his already overladen breast pocket.

  Devon wore an elegant black gown, strapless and completely plain but cut beautifully to show every curve of her body without quite clinging to them. With the gown, she wore a choker of diamonds and earrings to match. Her hair, tightly pulled into a chignon at the nape of her neck, set off her high cheek bones. At age thirty-seven, she was more beautiful than she had been ten years earlier. Her skin, always flawless, remained so, but she was slimmer, making her features more strikingly angular, and the headlong exuberance that had characterized her a decade earlier had matured into a quiet confidence that often intimidated those who were less sure of themselves.

  “It’s lucky that I’m to continue on here,” Roland said, giving Devon’s hand a furtive squeeze.

  She answered truthfully when she said, “I hope we’ll be able to see a lot of each other.”

  “I fully intend that we should,” he said, a sparkle in his eye.

  The butler came in to announce that dinner was served, and the guests slowly made their way into the huge dining room furnished in French antiques and Oriental carpets. Dinner was a sumptuous affair that began with a saffron-flavored seafood bisque and progressed to roast prime ribs of beef with herbed crust and Madeira sauce accompanied by broccoli timbales and potato caraway croquettes. With this was served a stellar 1924 Mouton Rothschild. The main course was followed by a salad of Boston lettuce, endive, and watercress with mustard vinaigrette; and, finally, Devon’s so-called birthday cake. The cake was actually a Grand Marnier meringue torte that with its thirty-seven candles looked like the sun blazing through a puffy white cloud. Devon had insisted that she did not mind her age being represented in candle-power. She thought it was silly to be secretive about such things.

  After dinner there was dancing to a ten-piece orchestra playing popular tunes and waltzes. As Devon and Roland danced, he led her to a secluded corner of the ballroom.

  “I’d like to have a word with you privately. Is there somewhere we can go?” he asked her.

  “Of course.” She took his hand and led him down the black and white marble corridor to the double doors of the library. She opened one door tentatively, peeked inside to ensure that it was unoccupied, then went in, closing the door behind them.

  Roland settled on a navy velvet sofa and pulled Devon down beside him.

  “I was frightened during the Battle of Alamein,” he said without preamble.

  Devon was surprised at the admission. Roland was a person who always tried to smooth things over. He did not like to reveal unpleasant emotions, though he was open with his happier ones. Devon silently waited for him to continue.

  “I wasn’t exactly afraid of death, mind you, though I shouldn’t like it to occur anytime soon,” Roland said with a half smile.

  Devon was fascinated by this revelation of his inner self. She dared not speak for fear of interrupting his train of thought.

  “I was afraid”—he took a deep breath before conti
nuing—“of dying before I should have the chance of marrying you.”

  Devon’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. The proposal was not completely unexpected, but the beginning of his speech had not led her to believe that this would be its end. “I… I’m not certain what to say.”

  “Say yes,” said Roland, in a blunter command than she had ever heard him utter. Even when he spoke to subordinates, it was always with the utmost politeness, always couched with a “please” and a “thank you.”

  Devon looked directly into his eyes. “I won’t insult you by being coy. I’ve known for some time how you felt, though I wasn’t quite sure of the extent of it.”

  “Well, now you know. But the more important question is, How do you feel?” Roland took her hands in his and stared intently into her eyes, trying to read an answer in her expression.

  “I… I enjoy the time we spend together. I feel sad when you’re not here. I feel happy when you are.… I… I don’t know if that’s love.” Devon shook her head in befuddlement. Where was the nerve-shattering anticipation, the tingling excitement she had felt for John? Was she no longer capable of such feelings? When Roland touched her, it was pleasant… terribly pleasant. When he kissed her, her body stirred. She could easily envision making love with him, enjoying it. But where was the mad, hot desire she had felt for John?

  “You’re making comparisons, aren’t you?” Roland asked sadly.

  Devon flushed guiltily. “I’m ashamed, Roland. You don’t deserve that.”

  “No, no, you’re perfectly right. Let’s discuss it openly, shall we?” he said with that cool civility that was so British. “Alexander, I assume, was your first love, yes?”

  Devon nodded confirmation.

  “Well, then, that’s always something special, isn’t it?” Roland didn’t want to frighten Devon by confessing that the passion he felt for her was far stronger than any he had ever felt before. He continued, “You needn’t feel ashamed of such feelings. They’re normal, perhaps universal.”

  But Devon thought of Sydney, so madly in love with her new husband, Douglas. So in love that she had virtually become a rural hermit. So in love that she had been transformed from a cynical, witty sophisticate into a blushing bride. Hadn’t Sydney loved Bart just as passionately at one time? Devon didn’t know, and there was no way to find out at the moment.